The Northern Light

by A. J. Cronin

  Abruptly, Henry turned to the news items, where the invention of a mechanical brassière was chronicled under the caption: GIRLS, HAVE YOU TRIED THE PNEUAMTIC BRA – IT’S BOUND TO INFLATE YOUR EGO. Below, he noted, without much enthusiasm, that a man in Bradford, in thirty years of marriage, had kissed his wife 52,000 times, and that a Mexican woman had given birth to an infant with two heads, when there came a tap on the door and Horace Balmer entered the room. From his expression Henry deduced that he had something unpleasant to communicate and, as Henry’s mood was already not good, perhaps he viewed him more critically than usual. Balmer was one of those sonorous men who at first sight impress, a notable mixer and Rotarian who ‘ belonged’ to most things in Hedleston, from the Masons to the Loyal Order of Noble Dalesmen. Inclined to corpulence and double-breasted suits of a blue lighter than normal, he had an oddly consequential kind of walk, gliding along on his heels with one shoulder raised, and balancing himself it seemed, by sweeping movements of the opposite arm, from which his hand, the little finger weighted with a heavy signet, depended like a white fin. No one could grip a hand more effusively or utter gusty commonplaces with a greater flourish.

  ‘I’m in trouble, Henry,’ he began, with his usual camaraderie. ‘I can’t sell our advertising at the price.’

  As Page remained silent he went on.

  ‘They are undercutting our rates at every turn. I believe in some cases simply giving space away.’

  ‘That’s rather stupid, surely.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t agree. In my opinion they’re a very smart lot. They go around saying they’ll soon be the only paper in town, offering long-term contracts at favourable rates. We lost Henderson and Byles last week. Some of our oldest accounts are beginning to look shaky. When I went into Wellsby’s this morning, and you know how important they are to us, I got the order but Halliday gave me a queer sort of look. I’m afraid there’s only one thing to do.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We must come down a bit ourselves.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘It’s unethical. And it doesn’t make sense. If we cut, they’ll cut further. We’ve given our advertisers solid value for a hundred and fifty years. We have our standards. I won’t lower them by engaging in a cut-throat price war.’

  Balmer’s expression had become pained.

  ‘I think you’re making a mistake. But of course it’s your responsibility. I’m only warning you. I happened to run into their Mr Smith the other day – he’s a fellow Rotarian, you know – and I assure you he’s got a real business head on him.

  ‘I’m glad to know that, Horace. But you’re a good business man yourself. Now you go and do your best at our standard rates.’

  Their Mr Smith … and fellow Rotarian, Henry thought, when Balmer had departed – the chummy phrases had ominous overtones. Once or twice he had passed Smith in the High Street near the office the Chronicle had rented in the Prudential Building, and the other had saluted him with a mixture of primness and deference that seemed to indicate a desire for amity. But it was another matter for Smith to become friendly with his staff. The interview with Balmer was, in fact, the beginning of a bad day for Henry in which nothing seemed to go right Moffatt was very trying, sales were down another couple of hundred, and his confounded heart kept troubling him with sudden changes of rhythm, bumping along heavily at one time, then dashing off like a sprinter in the hundred-yard race. He didn’t care to rely too heavily on the nitroglycerine pills Dr Bard had given him and he managed to do without one. But towards five o’clock he decided to call it quits and try to find some peace at home.

  Unfortunately, the domestic climate during these recent months had changed. Henry, not long after his marriage, realizing that he had made a mistake and must live with it, that Alice was unsuited to him both in mind and body, had set out philosophically, in his own phrase, ‘to make the best of things.’ If Alice did not come up to his dreams, what in life did? And through the years he had managed, by the exercise of tact and self-restraint, by tolerating Alice’s whims, her inconsequential giddiness, and occasional outbursts of hysteria, to preserve an amicable relationship with her and to maintain a fairly equable home life. Now, however, in his wife’s manner and, indeed, in Dorothy’s – for, in Hannah’s phrase. Dorrie took after her mother – there could be sensed an air of hostility expressed by a chilliness of tone when they addressed him and by occasional meaningful glances interchanged between themselves. Thus, when he entered the house this evening it was surprising to be greeted with a note of animation. They were in the sitting room, having tea, and as he appeared Alice actually smiled.

  ‘Come and have a cup, Henry. It’s nice you’re back early, We’ve such capital news.’

  ‘Good,’ Henry said, ‘ I can do with it.’

  Accepting his cup, he sat down and stirred it.

  ‘Well, what do you think, but you’ll never guess, never.’ Alice drew a long breath. ‘Dorrie has won twenty guineas.’

  ‘Wasn’t I lucky!’ Dorothy exclaimed. ‘And bright.’

  Henry was tired; his brain was not working properly; he wondered if by some wild freak of chance this was some prize she had won at the art school.

  ‘Well done,’ he said absently. Then he knew it couldn’t possibly be that. He looked up at Dorothy. ‘What for?’

  ‘It was like this. I was walking back from the station as usual. When I came to our road I noticed a couple of chaps at the corner, strangers, you know, talking together as if they’d lost their way. Sure enough, as I came up the one with a little black bag said to me, “Excuse me, miss, is this Hanley Drive?” “Yes, it is,” I said, then I noticed a red, white, and blue ribbon in his buttonhole and like a flash I said, “And you’re the Treasure Man!” He gave me such a nice smile. “Sure,” he said, “ and you’re a very clever young lady to spot me.”’

  ‘Wasn’t that exciting, Henry?’ While he sat, stunned, Alice, unable to resist being a party to the narration, took it away from Dorothy. ‘What’s more, the man said to her, “Since nobody’s spotted me for four days, you don’t get five guineas, you get twenty.” And he opened his little bag and counted out twenty-one brand-new Treasury notes into Dorrie’s hand.’

  ‘It was a thrill, all right,’ Dorothy broke in. ‘Then we got talking. The other chap was even nicer than the first. Really good-looking … sort of cool and casual, with a kind of American accent. They took my picture, too. Why, what’s the matter …’

  ‘How could you get the money …?’ Henry’s voice came unnatural and stiff. ‘To win it you must be carrying a copy of the Chronicle.’

  ‘Well, I was.’

  ‘Do you mean to tell me you actually bought their paper?’

  Alice’s expression changed slightly, and a faint colour crept into her face.

  ‘Now, Henry,’ she said. ‘Don’t get on your high horse. I like to know what’s going on.’

  ‘So Dorothy buys the paper for you?’

  ‘Why not?’ Her flush had now deepened, but she defended herself, calling up her most ladylike manner. ‘I enjoy their society news. Goodness knows I get little enough from you. And Tina Tingle is amusing. So where’s the harm?’

  ‘Harm!’ Although he knew that frustrated social ambition led her to the gossip columns, Henry could barely speak. ‘These people are out to destroy us and you calmly support their paper. I never heard of such disloyalty. While you’ – he turned to Dorothy – ‘gushing about your luck like a little idiot … don’t you realize they were waiting for you? The whole thing was a plant. Such a nice talk! I shudder to think what they got out of you. But we shall know for certain tomorrow. If only it wouldn’t give them more damaging copy I’d make you send their wretched money back.’

  As he got up and, choked with bitterness, moved towards the door, Dorothy began to cry.

  ‘You’re very unkind. You spoil everything.’

  For once, Alice, who looked subdued and put out, did not support
her.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, as though reasoning with herself, ‘how … if they’re so much against you … I mean, why should they give Dorothy twenty guineas?’

  Useless to take the matter further; already Henry blamed himself for giving way, thinking with bitterness that this miserable conflict, though not of his seeking, must envenom and demoralize everyone it touched. He knew what to expect of the recent incident and next morning his fears were amply realized.

  On the middle page of the Chronicle a full-length photograph of his daughter carried the caption DOROTHY PAGE WINS OUR JUMBO JACKPOT. She was smiling, ostentatiously displaying a copy of the paper and accepting, with her other hand, a fan of Treasury notes. Bracing himself, he read what followed:

  Seventeen-year-old Dorothy Page, charming, vivacious and pretty brunette (why did you not enter our beauty contest, naughty girl, you might have hit that jackpot, too?), yesterday successfully spotted our Mystery Treasure Man and romped home with the bacon to the tune of twenty golden guineas. Our heartiest congrats, Dorothy!

  Miss Page, known to her intimates as Dorrie and daughter, incidentally, of Mr H. Page, Editor of our friendly rival the Northern Light, had some interesting comments for our reporter. Both she and her mother – we thank you, Mrs Page – are regular and devoted readers of the Chronicle, which, they both feel, brings much-needed new blood to Hedleston and district. One of the younger set, Dorrie, art-school student and no slouch on the dance floor, enjoys a good movie, Jackie Dibbs’ records and, pardon us again, the Chronicle. Like so many others, impatient with slow-motion living, she has no time for that dull spirit of old-fogeyism which for years has been stifling all that is go-ahead and progressive in the town. ‘After all,’ Dorothy smiled, ‘we’re in the atomic, not the stone, age. We ought to live a little faster than in the days of ye old stage coach. I’m all for rock an’ roll. I believe the Chronicle helps.’ Well spoken, Dorrie! We value your words, coming as they do from the daughter of Henry Page. We hope our readers will agree that they are high praise indeed.

  When Henry went into the conference room a sense of oppression was in the air. Maitland, without raising his head, gave him a quick glance from beneath his brows. Poole, fidgeting with his moustache, had his eyes fixed studiously on the ceiling, while Hadley seemed trying to appear as though he were not there at all. Balmer alone, sitting erect, looked vaguely justified. Page felt grateful to Maitland when he broke the general constraint.

  ‘Well, Henry, it’s unfortunate. But there’s no good crying over spilled milk. They did a very neat job on poor Dorothy.’

  ‘She was partly to blame.’

  ‘Yes, but naturally she didn’t guess what it was all about.’

  ‘At least they didn’t slander us, merely suggested we were out of date.’

  Surly, Balmer put in his word.

  ‘In my view that’s more damaging than abuse.’

  It’s this fellow Nye,’ Poole said. ‘He’s master-minding the whole issue. I saw him playing billiards at the Lion the other light. He’s a smooth devil.’

  ‘We’ll just have to laugh it off,’ Maitland said.

  ‘How can we laugh it off,’ Poole fumed, ‘if we’re supposed to ignore their existence? When I think that I sweated my, guts out in North Africa while that spiv was living cushy in New York, pretending to work for the Information Services, I could knock his block off.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ Maitland smiled. ‘Anyone second that?’

  ‘Not me,’ Balmer said sourly. ‘ If they’re clever enough to think up these things, we ought to think of something better. Violence is no good.’

  Henry felt he must end the discussion before they started disagreeing amongst themselves.

  ‘It’s natural to want to hit back,’ he said, ‘and I’ve no doubt these attacks against us will hurt us for a while. But I’m convinced that a policy of restraint will pay dividends in the end. The town will respect us for it. And that’s the one thing that will enable us to survive against all the jibes, cheap sneers, all the mud they can throw at us – the respect of the people.’

  ‘The people!’ Poole exploded, throwing back his head.

  ‘Don’t write them off,’ Maitland said quietly. ‘ I believe they’ll stand by us in a pinch. And I agree with Henry, we must just all of us put all we’ve got into the paper and wait things out.’

  ‘I hope to God you’re right,’ Poole said. ‘But if we go on losing circulation we may find we’ve waited too long.’

  A rather grim silence followed; then, without further argument, they got down to business.

  Yet all day the rankling conviction remained with Henry that he had been not only scored against, but made to look ridiculous in the eyes of all who knew him. Because of this, when he left the office at six o’clock, he made a point of stopping in at the Northern Counties Club. Lately, he had fallen into the habit of avoiding unnecessary personal contacts. Averse to discussing his worries, he wanted neither encouragement nor condolences – but now, in the interests of the paper, he felt the necessity of publicly displaying an attitude of indifference to this recent incident.

  The Northern Counties, known in Hedleston simply as the Club, was an ancient and honourable institution, with a faintly Liberal flavour, the recognized meeting place of the royal borough’s leading citizens. Built of cut grey stone, with a flat roof, the central portico supported by a pair of massive caryatids, its outward look was that of a mausoleum; indeed, acting there as air-raid warden during the war, Henry had often felt, as the bombs came crashing down, that it might end by justifying its appearance. Within, however, there were light, warmth, and the comforting aroma of good tobacco. Nodding to Duncan, the porter, Henry paused from habit at the bulletin board, and there, among the assortment of dog-eared notices, his eye, quite unprepared, was caught and held by the name Harold Smith. Yes, it was the manager of the Chronicle, proposed for membership by Herbert Rickaby, seconded by, of all people, the rector of St Mark’s. For a moment Henry stood immobile completely taken aback. That Smith should secure so early this acceptance by the more responsible members of the community was another, and an unforeseen, blow. However, with an effort he pulled himself together and, resolved to make no comment on the matter, walked towards the main lounge. Not many members were about when he entered, although he sensed that his appearance had caused a slight stir. Then, between the Pompeian pillars of imitation marble that supported the ornate Victorian ceiling, he saw Sir Archibald Wellsby and Dr Bard standing together by the fire. He went towards them.

  ‘Well!’ Wellsby saluted him with a hearty back slap. ‘Here’s the proud papa, himself.’

  Short, heavy, bald, and ruddy, with a small, good-natured, and humorously lewd red eye, Archibald Wellsby, or, as he preferred to be called, Sir Archie, exuded a persistent sporty joviality belied by the keenness of a business acumen that had made a fortune for him in the boot trade, and which he confidentially believed would carry him still further.

  ‘I hear you’ve got these Chronicle fellows really scared, Henry. Not three months in town and they’re pouring guineas into your lap. How’d you do it, man?’

  ‘Better ask Dorothy.’ Henry smiled.

  ‘She was pretty sharp to spot the fellow,’ Bard intervened pleasantly.

  ‘And gave a pretty good account of herself.’ Wellsby chuckled. ‘I wish some of my lot had as much gumption.’

  Page knew, of course, that beneath the banter they were both well aware he had been hurt; their predictions of his eventual victory seemed too ready and profuse. With inherent kindness Edward Bard, who was his oldest friend, changed the subject, but several times Henry caught Wellsby’s narrowed glance upon him, weighing him up, assessing the damage to his prestige and his paper. He had always sensed that Wellsby entertained an amused contempt for him as a man who neither drank, smoked, fished, shot, nor told off-colour stores – all of which Wellsby did to excess with unsurpassable verve and gusto. Page simply wasn’t his type. Still, as th
ey talked, and later, when they were joined by a number of the other members – Major Seaton of the Civil Defence Unit, Harrington, manager of the Machine Company, lawyer Paton, and Frank Holden, the banker – Henry managed to put a good face on things, and when he left, half an hour later, he believed that the effort had been worth while. Dr Bard, leaving at the same time, came out with him. The two men stood for a moment on the pavement. Suddenly, and awkwardly, the doctor said:

  ‘We’re on your side, you know. The committee weren’t too keen on letting in Smith. But’ – Bard shrugged – ‘he seems a sound-enough citizen. And he had good letters of introduction.’ Then, quickly, in his normal manner: ‘You’re looking fairly well. See you don’t overdo things. Don’t go off the deep end.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘How is David?’

  ‘Wonderful. Completely all right again.’

  Bard looked away, tapping the pavement with the ferule of his umbrella. With his greying temples, his long, thoughtful face, fine nostrils, and pursed lips, he conveyed more than ever the suggestion of calm judgment and well-considered caution.