by A. J. Cronin
‘What nonsense are you talking?’ Greeley said. ‘Show me your copy of the lease.’
Nye produced it and waited while Greeley looked it over. It wasn’t long before he removed his glasses and gave a snort of contempt.
‘This is a perfectly valid annual lease. Renewal doesn’t fall due for another four months. And even admitting that rent restriction does not apply to business premises, the freeholder is obligated to give a quarter’s notice. Seven full months altogether. Your idea is worthless.’
‘Wait a bit,’ Nye said. ‘There’s a little matter of the Factory Act of 1901.’
Greeley looked surprised, as Nye hoped he would, and finally said:
‘Well?’
‘I told you the hall was an old building. And I mean old. I’ve gone into this thoroughly and you may take what I’m saying now as gospel. On three separate counts that printing hall contravenes the statutory provisions of the Factory Act. One, the windows do not amount to ten per cent of the floor space. Two, there are not two separate exits to the building – inadequate escape in case of fire. Three, the inside walls and passages have not been lime-washed within the past fourteen months. Now,’ Nye went on quickly before Greeley could intervene, ‘having bought the hall, we, the owners, are immediately responsible to effect the alterations to comply with the Act. We go to the Borough Engineer, whom I’ve already threatened to expose for laxity in letting this thing run on, and get the premises immediately condemned. He must do it, and he will. It’s the law. Until we carry out the improvements – at our leisure – the hall is closed down. The Light’s off the streets, just like that, and Page is faced with the impossible job of finding new premises, moving his presses – in a word, he’s out of business.’
There was a silence, then Smith let out a long, gasping breath.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘You’ve got it this time. And all dead legal.’
Greeley was looking at Nye questioningly. Impressed, in spite of himself, he didn’t want to show it.
‘He could find other premises … move his machines.’
‘Without a bean … and in debt all round?’
‘No, no,’ Smith urged eagerly. ‘He’d never get back in circulation. Never.’
‘It is not a very ethical procedure.’
‘It’s perfectly legal. And more,’ Nye added innocently. ‘We’ll be the ones complying with the Act.’
Greeley shook his head disapprovingly, but continued stroking his chin, still thinking it over, thinking too of those high-pressure instructions given him by Somerville before his departure.
‘Can you supply a rough estimate for the alterations?’
‘Around fifteen hundred pounds, perhaps even less. Then the hall will be as good as new … ready for us to move into.’
Another pause. Greeley was looking very searchingly at Nye.
‘What price does this person ask for the property?’
Nye met his eye. He was ready for him.
‘Naturally I secured an independent valuation. The figure was placed at just under four thousand pounds. Mrs Harbottle has agreed to accept three thousand five hundred pounds. And she’s prepared to sign a bill of sale this afternoon.’
Again, Greeley, stretching his neck, went through the motions of careful cogitation. He had been one of the earliest sponsors of the scheme to buy the Northern Light. To see it fail was against his interest. With a cautious clearing of his throat, he said:
‘I can’t say I altogether approve. Although, if the position is as you state, there would seem to be no legal objections, it’s an irregular proposal.’ His face contorted suddenly into a death’s-head smile. He rose to his feet. ‘ I don’t in any way associate myself with any subsequent action you may take, but in the circumstances I think we ought to go and look into it.’
He put on the coat and gloves, in methodical slow motion, and led the way out. As they followed, Smith surreptitiously seized Nye’s hand and pressed it with clammy intensity.
‘You’ve saved us, Len,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘By God, you’ve a head on you.’
Nye, with a withering glance, withdrew his hand sharply.
Chapter Twelve
On the morning of July 1st Page came to the office earlier than usual. The day was fine and promised to be hot – recently the weather had turned sultry, bursts of torrid sunshine alternating with brief warm showers. His first action, rapid and involuntary, was to look at the returns. Then he drew a sharp breath of satisfaction. Again sales showed a definite increase, only nine hundred copies, to be sure, nevertheless a continuation of that positive upturn which had sustained and encouraged him during the past month. He felt, with a surge of anxious hope, that there could be no doubt about it – the trend was unmistakable. If only he could hold out a little longer he was saved.
Yet no one knew better than he how hard it was to keep going. These last four weeks had been a nightmare. How had he come through them? Even with the most rigid economy, by stretching his credit to the limit, using every means to stave off mounting demands for payment; existing from hand to mouth, on promises, postponements, and the goodwill of his staff, relying more and more on Maitland’s dogged support, he was almost at the end of his tether. What a situation, he thought, with a sudden painful tightening of his nerves – this balance of hope and uncertainty was almost insupportable.
Moffatt had not yet appeared; he could hear her taking off her hat and coat in the next room. Without waiting, Henry collected the unopened mail from her desk, pushed aside the obvious bills, slit the first solid envelope, which bore a Manchester postmark. Then he winced, as though he had been stung. The letter was from the Northern Mills Pulp and Paper Company, which, for the past twenty years, had supplied the Light’s newsprint. It expressed regret that his order of 25th June could not be executed.
While he sat staring fixedly at the letter, Moffatt came in. As a matter of routine it was she who saw to this business of supplies, every month, after receiving from Fenwick a note of the amount required, sending an order which was delivered the following week. Not looking up, Henry said:
‘Get on to Mr Spencer at the Northern Mills.’
‘I tried him late yesterday when our order didn’t come through … they say he’s not available.’
‘Not available? Is he on holiday?’
‘I doubt it.’
Her tone made Henry raise his head sharply.
‘Get me the number.’
In a few minutes he was through to Manchester. Spencer could not, apparently, be found, and he was obliged to speak with the head clerk, who, while disclaiming all responsibility, insisted in the face of every argument that the delivery could not be made.
Henry put down the receiver, thoroughly alarmed. Paper … he must have paper … without it he could not print a word. Moffatt was still there, tapping a pencil on her shorthand pad, her gaze consciously averted, awaiting his next move with pained resignation. The strain had told on her; she looked thinner, dried up, more forbidding than ever. While she drove herself on with unflagging energy and heroic devotion, her temper had worn threadbare and her attitude towards Page had become so critical as to verge at times on open hostility.
‘You realize it’s their money they want,’ she said, in a detached manner, as though reminding him of an elementary fact.
‘When did we pay them?’
‘Not since the end of April. They’ve written several times. It’s a large amount.’
‘How much?’
‘I gave you the exact figure last week.’
‘I know you did. But I cant’ carry everything in my head.’
‘It’s nineteen hundred and sixty-five pounds, ten shillings. Shall I get the invoice from the file.’
‘Never mind.’
He didn’t have to look at his passbook to learn that the Light’s balance at the bank was precisely seven hundred and nine pounds and fivepence. On top of this the printer’s wages were a week overdue, and some of the delivery staff had
n’t been paid for a fortnight. Both Poole and Lewis had volunteered to go without salary until further notice and Maitland, besides advancing two hundred pounds, had not drawn his cheque for the past four months.
‘Find out from Fenwick how much paper we have on hand.’
She came back almost at once.
‘Just enough for eight days. Not more. We’re practically out.’
‘Impossible. Why wasn’t I told?’
‘You said to cut costs to the bone … to run on a three weeks’ margin. That’s why we’ve so little left.’
It was true; he had been forced into this situation through sheer lack of ready money. Henry bit his lip hard to suppress a groan, then sat racking his brain for the best thing to do. Although rationing of newsprint had been removed and the pool system substituted, the situation was still difficult. Even if he had the cash it would take weeks to establish connection with another firm. He must go to Spencer himself.’
‘Look up the next train for Manchester.’
‘You can’t go. The chapel leader’s coming this morning to see you about the men’s back wages.’
‘Put him off somehow … at least till next week.’
‘He may bring out the men.’
‘Not if you tell him I’ll see him on Monday.’
‘And what’s going to happen on Monday?’ She threw the question at him.
With a great effort Henry saved himself from shouting at her.
‘Please hand me the timetable.’
The morning express had gone and, since there was nothing fast until the evening, he was obliged to take a local. At half past one, after a journey of exasperating slowness, he got into Manchester and went direct to the mills in Rose Street.
Here he was known to most of the staff and usually passed directly into the manager’s office. Today he was asked to wait in the samples room. For fifteen minutes he sat there before the door opened and Spencer came in.
‘I hoped you’d not come, Henry.’
‘What’s all this about …?’
‘Let’s try and keep calm. Sit down.’
He took a chair at the table beside Page. A heavily-built man, nearing the retirement age, deliberate in his movements, plain and slow-spoken, he seemed at an unusual loss for words. His expression lay between concern and embarrassment.
‘I shirked seeing you. That’s why I told them not to let you up.’
‘Why not?’
He brushed a non-existent dust from the table.
‘It’s a hard thing for a man like me to tell a man like you, Henry. Must I say it?’
‘I know I’m a bit behind.’ Page coloured. ‘But surely my name is good. Many a time you’ve let me have six months’ credit.’
‘Things are different now.’
‘I don’t see why. You know you’ll get your money.’
‘Do we?’
Henry felt the hot blood of humiliation mounting higher on his forehead.
‘I admit we’ve had some temporary difficulties, but we’re on the upgrade again. You must give us a little latitude. We’re one of your oldest customers.’
‘We’re aware of that. We don’t like the situation any more than you. But in these hard times business is business. And rules are rules. Under the pool, we can’t continue to supply over a bad debt. These are my orders from the board, and I can’t overrule them. There’s no use arguing, Henry, it’s absolutely final.’
Henry stared at him in silence, trying to master his emotion, to marshal and direct his thoughts. But for the moment it was beyond him. At last he said:
‘I must have paper. Enough to tide me over till I can settle your account. Where am I to get it?’
Spencer shrugged. ‘Where indeed? Though you know I’d like to help you.’ He reflected for a moment, then said, without conviction, ‘There’s a couple of places in the city you might try. Jobbers they are, actually. I’ll give you a note of them.’
Taking a stub of pencil from his waistcoat pocket, he wrote out two names and addresses.
‘Sorry the way things have turned out,’ he said. ‘I hope there’s no hard feelings between us.’
He stood up, offered his hand, and, after a brief goodbye, Page went out to the street.
And now there began for Henry an afternoon such as, in his wildest imaginings, he could never have foreseen. The interview with Spencer had brought him to a state of nervous excitement which increased as the day went on. All his other worries became insignificant in the face of the hard fact that unless something were done, the Light would be out of circulation within ten days. Burning in his mind was the need to find, here and now, a sufficiency of newsprint to carry him over this last emergency. Other arrangements might be made later on. But these, in his unsettled state, seemed distant and illusory. What mattered most was immediate certainty.
He went to the first address Spencer had given him – it was a long way off at the east end of the city – and found there a quite reputable firm of jobbers. Unfortunately, they had cleared their stock at the beginning of the previous week and could give no promise of delivery. He therefore set out for the second address, and after much difficulty came upon a large dilapidated warehouse in Hassocks Lane. One look at the premises and its proprietor was enough – both smelled strongly of the black market. But the man had paper, and in this extremity nothing else mattered. After interminable haggling and a visit to the dealer’s bank, where Henry telephoned Holden to send out a certified cheque for six hundred and fifty pounds, he procured twelve tons of newsprint with delivery guaranteed in two days’ time.
It was almost three o’clock when the affair was completed, and as he could not find a taxi he had to hurry to the station to catch the three-ten express. He boarded the train just as it had begun to move from the platform and, completely out of breath, found a corner seat in one of the compartments.
He felt exhausted and degraded, but at least he had accomplished his objective. He took off his hat, wiped his brow, and tried to relax. For some minutes all went well, then he began to feel most unlike himself. His breathing had returned to normal, but he suddenly felt giddy, and inside his left arm, extending to the tips of his fourth and little fingers, a strange pain started to plague him. It had the stabbing quality and nagging intensity of toothache. At first he fancied he had wrenched his shoulder and that this neuralgia was the result, but as his giddiness increased, accompanied by an attack of palpitation, he realized that in the course of this hectic afternoon he had overtaxed his heart. Instinctively he felt for his nitroglycerine pills, only to discover that in his haste that morning he had come away without them. There was nothing for it but to lie back, close his eyes, and, since he was conscious of the curious glances of his fellow passengers, try not to make a fool of himself.
Somehow he got through the journey. At Hedleston Station, once he was out of the train, the fresh air revived him. He took a taxi to the office. He must reassure them about the paper and he felt that when he had swallowed a couple of pills he would be all right. At the Light building he climbed the stairs cautiously and opened the door of his room. Moffatt was there, filing some papers in a desultory manner.
‘Ask Mr Maitland to come and see me.’ As she did not move, he added, ‘I’ve straightened out the paper shortage.’
She turned slowly, her expression so extraordinary it drew him up short.
‘You might have saved yourself the trouble.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If you’d gone through all your mail this morning you’d have seen this.’ She came sombrely, accusingly, to the desk and pushed across a letter, went on, before he even looked at it, in that same flat, extinguished tone. ‘ They’ve bought the printing hall and had it condemned. We can’t use it for at least three months; light, water, and power are all cut off. They’ve posted an officer outside. We’re done for.’
It took a long time for this to penetrate the mist of Henry’s fatigue. When it did, all at once, his giddiness returned. Nothi
ng in the room moved, but he, in some strange manner, seemed to spin and collapse, like a top that has finally run down.
Chapter Thirteen
When Page came to he found himself on the floor with his collar undone and, for some obscure reason of Moffatt’s, a damp cloth slopping on his forehead. Both windows were open and Maitland was there, beside him on one knee, fanning him with a copy of the Light.
‘You’re all right now,’ Malcolm said. ‘Just take it easy.’
‘Oh, Lord,’ Henry muttered. ‘How did I make such an ass of myself?’
An immediate anger at his own weakness was deepened when he discovered that Moffatt had telephoned for Dr Bard.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ he said, sitting up and beginning defensively to straighten his tie and restore some order to his appearance.
Moffatt, on the point of replying, closed her lips grimly.
The doctor arrived just as Maitland helped Henry to a chair.
Bard came in quietly, nodded to Maitland and Moffatt, then, still without speaking, drew up a chair and put two fingers on Page’s wrist, observing him with that detached air of academic inquiry which made him seem less a doctor than a professor of advanced mathematics.
‘It was the heat,’ Henry said, embarrassed by the doctor’s silence.
‘Yes, it’s been rather warm today.’
‘I was in Manchester and overtaxed myself a little … that’s all.’ He could not bring himself to reveal the cause of his collapse.
‘Just so.’
Bard continued to listen, merely glancing up occasionally at Maitland, who stood, with an expression of concern, in the background.
‘I’ll take you home then,’ he said finally. ‘And we’ll stop at my place on the way.’