The Northern Light

by A. J. Cronin

  ‘But … he must give a month’s notice.’

  ‘Not likely … when he’s walking straight into another job.’

  ‘Not … with the Chronicle?’

  ‘That’s about it.’ Maitland paused. ‘I suppose he hadn’t the gall to tell you, so he’s written you a nice, polite letter of regret. I’ve seen it coming. You know he’s been chumming with their Mr Smith … Balmer’ll go wherever there’s more money. And there is more, apparently.’

  As Page remained silent he went on.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s another spot of bad news, Henry. Two of the compositors, Perkins and Dodds, have gone over as well.’

  This, at least, was something Page could not fully grasp.

  ‘What’s the meaning of it? Are they so sure we’re going under?’

  ‘No … I hardly think so … although they know we’re up against it. It’s probably the money … and the offer of long-term contracts … backed by the Gazette. I suppose they feel they can’t lose.’

  Henry bit his lip hard, trying to keep a grip on himself. If there was one thing he had counted on, it was the loyalty of his work people. Even at the best of times the Light was not overstaffed and good men were difficult to find.

  ‘We’ll need to get on to the exchanges straight away,’ he said at last.

  Maitland, who had been standing by, rubbing his chin reflectively, moved towards the door.

  ‘I’ll send out an S.O. S. to Tynecastle.’

  ‘Try Liverpool and Manchester, too.’

  He nodded. ‘We’ll worry through. See you later.’

  All that day they struggled for replacements and by good fortune secured a typesetter from Liverpool with the promise of another from Tynecastle at the beginning of next week. It cheered Henry when young Lewis came in to see him, offering to work overtime, saying he’d do anything to help. And Poole, despite his uncertain temper and sultry humours, could, Henry reflected, certainly be depended on for something extra – he had declared a vendetta against Nye, and went about with a scowl, looking for a chance to corner him. Hadley, too, though he wore the worried look of a man with three children to support, was thoroughly reliable, and could be sent out to call on the local advertisers. As for the layout work, he himself would have to take care of that for the next few weeks. These readjustments eased the situation, but they were still too thinly spread, and in the end, thinking it over, Henry decided the time had come to call on his son. He had no other choice. David must leave Sleedon, temporarily at least, and fill the breach.

  Chapter Nine

  At five o’clock Henry cut short his work and set off for Sleedon. The events of the morning had given him a bad headache which had persisted all afternoon, but now the refreshing cool of the sea marshes brought him some relief. As he drove up the familiar cliff road the first stirrings of the evening breeze had begun to ruffle the soft grasses of the dunes. Since he had given no notice of his visit Cora was not at the gate to meet him. The cottage had, indeed, an air of unusual quiet. Then he saw her, seated at the window, bent over some work. At the sound of his approach she raised her head, and her expression, absorbed and strangely pensive, brightened with pleased surprise. She started up and the next instant was at the door. Now, more than ever, it did Henry good to see her. For the first time in many days he felt a lifting of his spirits.

  ‘I thought I’d run down for an hour. Am I a nuisance?’

  ‘Never.’ She took both his hands. ‘ It’s a treat to see you. I was just setting down to a proper dull evening.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. You’re never dull.’

  ‘Well, I was. But not now I’m not. Come in.’

  ‘Where’s David?’ Henry asked, beginning to take off his overcoat.

  He expected her to say that he was working. Instead she looked at him and hesitated.

  ‘He’s gone to Scarborough – left this morning, he did – to see Dr Evans.’

  This news was so unexpected that Henry drew up in the narrow little hall.

  ‘Is he not so well?’ he asked after a moment.

  ‘No. At least, he is pretty well. But he’s been worrying a bit lately.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Himself. Just worrying and worrying.’

  ‘That he won’t stay well?’ Henry asked. ‘I mean, that he’ll have a relapse?’

  ‘That’s part of it.’ She spoke slowly, and with difficulty, yet as though it eased her to unburden herself. ‘ It came on quite gradual like, about two weeks ago. First he lost interest in his book. Then he began to tell me what a bad time he’d had before we met. I tried to get his mind off it; I knew it wasn’t good for him. But he went on – “ if ever I got that way again, Cora” – that sort of thing. Then last Monday he came down from the attic. “ Who were you talking to?” he asked me. I told him no one. “But I heard someone, I’m sure I did,” he says. “You weren’t talking to yourself?” I said of course not and tried to make a joke of it. But he wasn’t satisfied; he started to search every corner of the house, all the cupboards and everything, trying to find out if somebody was there. Of course there wasn’t … no one at all. Then he looked at me sort of dazed. “Cora,” he said, “I’m hearing things.” I told him it was just a mistake. But that afternoon he said he must see the doctor. He wouldn’t let me tell you. He wouldn’t even let me go with him. I wanted to … but he wouldn’t. He must do things himself, he said, and not depend on other people, or he’ll never get over it.’

  There was a pause during which Henry tried to adjust himself to this reversal of his hopes. He had come for help, only to find that he must give it. Then he saw that her eyes were bright with tears and at once suspected that something had gone wrong between David and her, something more than she had revealed in that brief and halting explanation. Abruptly he took her arm.

  ‘Come on. We’ll have a walk. A breath of air will do us good.’

  They took their usual walk along the pier, and although scarcely a word passed between them it helped them both. Out by the lighthouse the breeze had fallen, the twilight air was luminous and tranquil. A faint mist masked the horizon, so that the sea, undulant, yet smooth as glass, reached to infinity. Through the stillness, there came faintly the sweet, haunting echo of a conch, sounding out of the mist from an unseen fishing coble. More than ever, as he stood in silence with Cora, Henry felt that they were near to one another. As they came back to the cottage she gave him a direct look in which there was both affection and gratitude.

  ‘It’s not fair on you, it isn’t,’ she said. ‘You have enough troubles of your own.

  ‘I can stand them.’ He stopped at the door and made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Well … I suppose I’ll be off now.’

  ‘No, you shan’t, or I’ll never forgive myself.’ She spoke firmly. ‘You shall come in and have a bite to eat.’

  She would take no refusal – indeed, Henry’s protestations were far from emphatic. He did not wish to leave so early and her offer of food made him realize his need of it. Inside the hall, she shut the door with decision, as though to exclude all possibility of his departure.

  ‘You take a seat in the room while I make things ready.’

  ‘No, I’ll sit in the kitchen where I can watch you.’

  This was a pleasure which relieved in part the depression occasioned by the bad news of his son. Her movements, competent and graceful, were infinitely soothing to the eye. The tension under which he had been labouring for weeks was relaxed by some mysterious force emanating from her. And suddenly, out of all reason, he beard himself say:

  ‘Cora … you make me feel young again.’

  ‘Good gracious.’ She smiled back at him. ‘You’re not old. Nothing like it. I never think of you that way … no … never.’

  The meal she prepared was simple – repeatedly, with expressions of regret, she blamed herself for ‘ having nothing in the house’ – and consisted of bacon and eggs with tea and hot buttered toast, followed by a dish of stewed rhubarb fr
om the garden. Often, as a boy, passing the summer at Sleedon, and after a day spent fishing from the pier end, just such a supper had been put before him. And with more than a trace of that youthful appetite, sustained by a flood of memories, he sat down to it.

  He made Cora share with him, having long ago recognized in her the capacity to give all and take nothing, realizing, too, that, but for his visit, she would certainly have eaten nothing but that stale-looking bun and the glass of milk which, as they entered the kitchen, she removed from the table. In an effort to cheer her, he kept the conversation away from these anxieties which weighed on both of them. He had made up his mind to telephone Dr Evans in the morning, and until then the matter must rest. As for his own problems, this hour of escape, stolen, it seemed, from another world, was too precious to waste in brooding upon them. He did not pause to ask himself how such a respite could come about. It was enough to unload the burden he had been carrying for months and to forget that he must shoulder it again whenever he left this house.

  As they were talking, a book, Carlyle’s Sartor Resartus, half open beside the window seat Cora usually occupied, caught his eye. She saw him looking at it and coloured a trifle guiltily.

  ‘I haven’t done my chapter today,’ she said. ‘David would be cross. It’s silly, but I just can’t get myself to read.’

  He gazed at her in surprise. Had David actually imposed this task upon her in the effort to improve her mind? Apparently so, for she continued to explain sadly:

  ‘It just doesn’t seem to concern me. I only enjoy doing things. I’ll never get educated.’

  Pity melted his heart.

  ‘You have lots of good sense, Cora, which is more important. And that book would bore anyone.’

  She did not answer, but when they had finished she rose and put a light to the driftwood in the fireplace.

  ‘It turns cold these March evenings,’ she said. ‘I love a fire. It’s cosy. The smell of it, too. When I think on all the little rooms I been in … with only a rusty gas ring. David don’t care for it, though. At least he makes himself do without. It’s all part of this new idea of his.’

  ‘What idea?’

  She was silent, her eyes lowered, for a long time, then, hesitantly, as if forcing herself to speak, she said:

  ‘It’s something that’s come over him. Trying to, what he calls, abstain. I wish he wouldn’t. Surely we’re not meant to deny ourselves everything. If only he’d give way a little and take life sort of natural … it’s not good for any of us to go against nature … not for him, nor for me neither.’ She broke off, giving Henry a quick, troubled look, as though she’d said too much. He saw, of course, what she had unconsciously implied and it caused him a strange, sharp pang. Hitherto he had thought only of this marriage in terms of its benefit to his son. But now he thought of Cora, and suddenly he said:

  ‘Are you happy, Cora?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, slowly. ‘At least if David is. I do my best for him. But sometimes he doesn’t act as if he really wanted me …’

  ‘It’s just his way. I’m sure he cares for you.’

  ‘I hope so,’ she said.

  Again there was a pause, then with a nervous gesture, as if throwing off her thoughts, she bent and stirred the fire.

  ‘That wood could stand more drying. I gather it at high tide along the beach. It’s such a saving … and I enjoy it.’

  ‘You like to be in the open.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Sometimes I walk miles and miles along the shore … not a single soul in sight. You’d be su’prised the things I find.’

  ‘What, for instance?’

  ‘You’d never guess.’

  ‘Old sea boots?’ He ventured a feeble joke, anxious to brighten her mood.

  ‘No … this week a proper little crate of eggs.’

  ‘Nonsense, Cora.’

  ‘It’s true.… It must have been swept off a ship’s deck.’

  ‘Weren’t they all bad?’

  Her face lightened. She almost smiled, but for a trace of sadness, her slow, rare smile.

  ‘You had two for your tea tonight. Lucky I had them for you.

  It’s the tide. It runs in so strong. Everything gets washed up on that North Shore … everything.’

  All that she said was simple, open, and, like all her movements, unconsidered, perfectly natural. The flames, leaping from the hearth, made tongues of light amongst the shadows and set a warmth upon her face.

  A silence fell. For years now Page had lived without real affection in his home. Dorothy, in her adolescent egoism, her bounce and bumptiousness, her hard, brittle outlook, cared little for him. With all the flippant heartlessness of the new generation, she ignored him, or at best was prepared to tolerate him – so long as he continued unprotestingly to subsidize her attendance at the art school where she, and others of her kind, wasted their time in pretence of slinging abstract smudges on a square of millboard. One could not even say that she would grow out of it.

  With Alice, too, the pattern seemed set, unalterable, unutterably stale. Page had always despised the man who professed himself misunderstood and unappreciated by his wife. Conscious of his own shortcomings, he had done his best to keep his relationship with Alice on an even and amiable footing. Yet now, for some reason, in a moment of illumination, he realized how starved and sterile his marriage had been, compelling him to live for years in an absolutely false situation. How early his youthful illusion of love had died when, on a brief and dismal honeymoon in the West Highlands, during a fortnight of steady drizzle, Alice had behaved like an affronted prude, mainly concerned, through circumstances and the weather, as to whether she should wire home for thicker underwear. The marriage act had long become for her, if not an ordeal, at least what she would have called ‘ a great nuisance.’ Yet while her desire for him diminished, her possessiveness had increased. How often had he been subject to those alternating moods of self-pity and childish pique, the giddy ideas, short-lived enthusiasms, and terrifying lack of logic, the passionate preoccupation with trifles and total absence of interest in his work, the bursts of unreasonable temper that strained her nerves and his.

  How different, he thought, was this big, quiet girl, so placid, but with such capacity for feeling, seated there, gazing into the fire, her eyes troubled, yet her hands at peace. She offered affection freely, seemed to ask it for herself. In her responsive stillness there was sympathy and understanding. Under the bitter pressure of his struggle for survival there had lately come upon Henry an almost painful desire to be understood. He recognized it as a softness, a weakness in his character, yet he could not repress it – a longing for tenderness, given and received. In Cora one could find just such a compensation, something rare and precious, something he had deeply missed.

  At last, Page felt that he must be off. She came with him to the car in silence. Under a cold indigo sky, bright with stars, the surf was pounding on the beach. They listened to the surge and sound of it, followed by the slow drag of the shingle. Streaks of moonlight made the Eldon Hills blue. Her breath came faintly vaporous, her breasts rose and fell, Suddenly she murmured:

  ‘Must you really go?’

  ‘It’s getting on,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not that late … I shall be more down than ever when you’ve left.’

  A sudden agitation seemed all at once to have come upon her. She shivered. Her hand, still holding his, was soft and cold.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Henry asked her. ‘Your fingers are like ice.’

  She let out a choked, uncertain little laugh.

  ‘Sign of a warm heart, they say. What a night! It’s a shame to be in. Couldn’t we go along the beach for a bit?’

  ‘But we’ve had our walk, my dear.’

  ‘Yes … it’s so nice and bright, though.’ Her voice was unsteady. ‘There’s a little hut at the end … with nets in it. I could show you. It’s away from everybody … quite dry … we could sit and watch the waves.’

&nb
sp; She looked at him hurriedly, nervously, with a strange, restless questioning in her gaze. When he shook his head her eyes fell.

  ‘It really is late, Cora dear … not far off ten. I’m afraid I have to get back. We’ll go another day.’

  ‘Will we?’

  ‘Cheer up, now. Everything’s going to be all right … for you and David … all of us.’

  Had she heard him? She did not answer. She took his hand, which was still in hers, and pressed it against her side. Then she said:

  ‘You’re nice … you are.’ And again: ‘Come back soon … please.’

  It went straight to his heart. He gently kissed her hair.

  Standing motionless, she watched him as he started the car and moved off.

  For perhaps five minutes Henry drove ahead through the liquid moonlight which turned the long, straight country road into a river of milk, then all at once he braked and drew up with a jerk that stopped the engine.

  The thought of Cora, of her look, sad and lingering, as she stood alone by the gate, pierced him to the heart. Why had he left her? He had not done enough to help her. A wild impulse took hold of him to turn the car and go back to comfort her. But no, no, that was impossible, beyond the bounds of reason, an action that would be misunderstood, which must surely compromise her. His throat turned tight and dry as he fought against the need to be with her again, if only to exchange a single word. Then he sighed and, after a long and heavy pause, started up the engine, pushed the lever into gear, and continued on his way to Hedleston.

  Chapter Ten

  All that evening Mrs Page had been sitting in the library at Hanley Drive, unable to dispel the tedium of solitude. It was Hannah’s night off, Dorothy had a cold and had gone to bed early, and Catharine Bard, the doctor’s wife, whom she had asked round after supper for coffee and a game of two-handed bridge, had at the last minute been unable to come, offering the suspiciously feeble excuse that her aunt had unexpectedly arrived from Tynecastle.

  Alice was a person who enjoyed company and never found it pleasant to be left alone. Under the circumstances her mood was not particularly propitious – she felt herself overlooked and disregarded – and in default of someone better, she kept wishing that Henry would come in. Where, she asked herself, was he? His movements had been most erratic lately. He was not at the office when she called up just after seven. Occasionally, on the servant’s day out, he had his evening meal at the Club, but at eight o’clock, when she telephoned the porter, he was not there either. Only one possibility, or perhaps she should have said certainty, remained – Sleedon. He must be there again. Really, it was too bad, the way he neglected her to rush out to the cottage at every possible opportunity.