The Northern Light

by A. J. Cronin

  ‘The Greeks,’ David smiled, ‘ never proffered any good things to the Trojans without wishing part for themselves. Give the child another pancake, Cora.’

  ‘No, really,’ Dorothy protested, ‘I was just thinking of you.’

  ‘Yes, do have one, David,’ Cora said. ‘You ate so little lunch.’ She put a pancake on a plate and offered it to him.

  ‘Go on, David,’ Dorothy urged.

  ‘The comedy of a pancake.’ He raised his brows amiably. ‘ To eat or not to eat … that is the question. Still … thank you my dear.’

  In a polite manner he accepted the plate, but placed it on the mantelpiece behind him and, continuing to sip his tea, began to discuss the programme of the forthcoming concert which he criticized at length for failing to include Mahler and Hindemith.

  It’s always the same, Dorothy thought, watching her brother indignantly. Why must he be so up in the air? It made one feel like kicking him. She noticed, too, that when he finally went off to his room, the pancake remained untouched upon the mantlepiece. Without a word, Cora replaced it with the others, wrapped them in a napkin, and put them in the cupboard. Again she seemed to have something on her mind, but when Dorothy had helped her wash the tea things – a task which Dorrie never dreamed of performing at home – she had succeeded in throwing this off.

  ‘Now,’ she said cheerfully, ‘we’ll pick some flowers for your mother.’

  They went into the garden, where Cora cut a great bunch of asters. She wrapped them in brown paper and tied them on to the carrier with string.

  ‘I have enjoyed myself, Cora. Thanks for everything. See you at the concert.’

  Dorothy would not for the world have allowed herself the faintest demonstration of emotion and, having thus briefly said goodbye, she coasted down the cliff road and pedalled off for home.

  Chapter Three

  On Sunday afternoon, at five minutes to three, Harold Smith, manager of the Chronicle, and his editor, Leonard Nye, left the Red Lion together.

  ‘I don’t see why we’re doing this,’ Smith worried, as they came down the steps of the hotel. ‘I still think we oughtn’t to go.’

  ‘What!’ Leonard said. ‘When we’re all dressed up!’

  His humour was more than usually acid. For the past four days all sorts of confused notions had been hammering at him but never quite ringing the bell, yet in spite of his own uncertainty and Smith’s last-minute protests, they were on their way to the concert.

  Fred and the car were no longer with them, so they walked, and at the corner of Park Street joined the stream converging on the Town Hall. Presently they were inside. They had timed things well. Already the orchestra was tuning up; the auditorium was full; and in the reserved seats most of the local notables were assembled with their wives, in their best attire. The Wellsby family had turned out in force; Dr Bard was there with Mrs Bard and her aunt, beside Gilmore, the vicar of St Mark’s, Paton, the lawyer, Major Seaton, and Harrington of the Machine Company, who was next to Mr and Mrs Frank Holden. Some had come because the proceeds were for a ‘worthy cause,’ others because they had been obliged to suffer the philanthropic nuisance of buying a tickets, others, again, because these Autumn Philharmonic Concerts were now a recognized social occasion in Hedleston. Yet many were there purely because Henry’s quiet persistence year after year had raised the standard of taste in the borough and taught a fair proportion of its honest burghers to appreciate good music.

  Nye, however, had no such opinion.

  ‘What crap,’ he said to Smith, after surveying the audience. ‘They’re all trying to look like grand opera was their lifelong passion. I’ll give you ten to one they don’t know Chopin from Chinese Chopsticks.’

  He broke off sharply – at that moment, acknowledged by, a murmur of applause, Page came in with his wife and daughter, followed by David and her. Nye watched them take their places in the centre of the first row, only a couple of rows ahead and directly in front. At least Smith had done well on the tickets: actually it turned out that he had got them as a favour from Page.

  At the last minute Nye had, in fact, almost given way to Smith and backed down. In the past two days he had made some inquiries locally, in addition to his interview with Dorothy, and in his own words, he had got nowhere. He had felt it idiotic to be here, making a show of themselves when everybody knew they were licked, and Smith was obviously of the same opinion – staring at his programme, he looked as uncomfortable as any man could be. But whenever Nye set eyes on her again he knew he had done well to come. There was something … something about her . . that hit him again, and hard.

  At first she was smiling; she seemed shy, talking in low tones with her husband, but apparently looking forward to the event. She had on a dark red dress, not new or fancy, but it did something for her – red was certainly her colour. She wore no lipstick and with her pale face, dark hair and eyes, she looked unusual, and damned attractive. She was turning round to talk to someone when suddenly she saw Leonard. Immediately, her expression changed, stiffened a little, and her smile died. Then she removed her eyes quickly, in a put-out manner. He had stared at her hard; it was natural she should look away; yet he could have sworn she was disconcerted at the sight of him.

  The concert began. There was an overture, then a little stout woman with a bust came on to sing, beautifully, one of Schumann’s lieder. Next, another performer, a man, appeared and began a violin solo. Distantly, Nye recognized it as Kreisler’s Schön’ Rosmarin, but he wasn’t listening; he was thinking, thinking and studying young Page’s wife, quite convinced now that Dorothy, the little rat, had deliberately misled him.

  She must have sensed that he was watching her; as the concert went on, she grew more and more restless and uneasy. That didn’t surprise him: naturally she would know him as one of the group who had been fighting Page. She wouldn’t exactly be prepared to like him. Yet there was more to it than that. Once or twice he felt that she was on the point of turning round again, but she checked herself. At last, David began to notice that she was not attentive to the music. He bent towards her and whispered:

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’

  Nye couldn’t hear her answer, but apparently she reassured her husband, who glanced at her once or twice, then back at the stage, where the orchestra was tuning up for the main item on the programme, Tschaikowsky’s Sixth Symphony in B minor. For the next few minutes nothing happened, then, to discover if Nye was still watching her, very slowly and guardedly, so as not to attract the notice of the others, she turned her head. They stared straight into each other’s eyes. Now Leonard was sure that she was scared – yes scared stiff. She went white and gave so perceptible a start that David swung round and saw Nye. He threw him an angry look, bent close to her, and took her arm.

  ‘Is anything the matter?’ Nye heard him say.

  ‘No … nothing.’

  ‘No one is annoying you?’

  ‘No … it’s very warm in here … I felt a little faint.’

  ‘Would you like to go out for a bit?’

  Nye saw that she wanted to leave but was afraid to admit it. She lowered her head, took a handkerchief from her bag and put it to her nose. He could smell the eau-de-cologne. It didn’t seem to help. She whispered:

  ‘Perhaps if I had a glass of water.’

  ‘Yes, dear.’ David was worried. He half rose from his seat but, finding himself blocked, leaned over to his sister at the end of the row. He had to speak louder; Nye heard him distinctly.

  ‘Go out quickly,’ he said, ‘ and get a glass of water for Cora.’

  Cora! The name hit Nye like a bullet. By God, that was it! All afternoon he’d been getting nearer and nearer. And now he was there. Cora Bates … Blackpool … that summer three years ago.

  He didn’t wait to observe the restorative effects of the water. He reached under the seat for his hat.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said to Smith.

  ‘What … already?’ Smith was sunk down, with half-closed
eyes, in a kind of doze. ‘We can’t move while they’re playing.’

  ‘Never mind. Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Can’t you see it’s important?’

  He got up and, followed awkwardly by Smith, squeezed his way into the aisle, to the obvious annoyance of their neighbours. Cora, very pale, was acutely conscious of their departure, and Page himself gave them an indignant glance. Not that Nye cared … not now.

  On the way back to the hotel Nye maintained a complete and almost brooding silence, refusing to answer Smith’s persistent questions, but when they arrived he preceded him into the bar, ordered a drink, and began to speak.

  At first Smith did not fully grasp the implications of what Nye told him. His mind was slower, grooved in altogether different channels. He looked amazed, incredulous, and somewhat at a loss, yet from Leonard’s manner he realized that there was more in this than met the eye.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said at last, in a startled fashion.

  ‘No?’

  Nye wasn’t going to argue; the certainty of his conviction made it a waste of breath. The waiter brought his pint. He took a long pull. Beer had never tasted better.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Smith said again, all on edge.

  ‘As sure as I’m sitting here. One thing about me, I never forget a face.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you recognize her at once?’

  ‘I only saw her for a minute at Blackpool. It was three years ago. And I wasn’t interested … not then.’

  ‘But … only for a minute. You must be making a mistake.’

  ‘Look,’ Nye said, ‘I’m a reporter. It’s my job to remember. I’d just come back from Paris after that Lanson affair. Vernon suggested I go up and do a feature on the Wakes. Blackpool in August isn’t exactly my line, but I thought it would give me a rest. It wasn’t that bad. I knocked around a lot with a fellow called Haines, who was working for the Mighill group. He was the one on the case. I told you I wasn’t interested. But I happened to be picking him up that afternoon … just got a glimpse of her. And it registered.’

  ‘She looks the last person in the world …’

  He was so hard to convince that for an instant he almost shook Leonard, who burst out angrily:

  ‘Couldn’t you see how worried she was at the concert? She’s got something to hide.’

  ‘I noticed nothing.’

  ‘Then you’re blind.’

  ‘They’re all such decent people.’

  ‘There’s a skeleton in every cupboard, Smith.’

  ‘You think the Pages know?’

  ‘I’m damned sure they don’t. That’s just where we’re on velvet.’

  At last Smith knew what was in Nye’s mind.

  ‘No, no,’ he protested hurriedly. ‘I can’t see it that way. Even if you’re right, we couldn’t …’ He stopped short. The perspiration which afflicted him in moments of stress broke out all over him. He wiped his big, sappy hands on the seams of his trousers. There was a brief silence, during which Nye watched him satirically, then hesitantly he temporized. ‘It would be fatal if you were wrong. It … it would be criminal libel.’

  ‘Relax, Smith,’ Nye said easily. ‘Have a drink. I know what you’ve been up against lately. You need a stiffener.’

  ‘No, Len, I daren’t touch it.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I need all my wits about me. For if you’re right it might … in a way … alter our position.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Nye gave a short, explosive laugh which caused the others in the bar to look at him. ‘We were sunk. And now, with a bit of luck, we’re home.’

  ‘No, no … not so fast. I won’t be rushed. First you must do one thing for me. Go out right away to see the girl, in Sleedon. If we can only get an admission, then we’d … we’d … well, we’d know where we were.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll see her,’ Nye said. ‘But first I’m going to get on to head office. I’ll tell them nothing … they don’t have to know a thing about this … I’ll simply swear to them that if they give us another three weeks grace we’ll hand them the Light on a platter.’

  He finished his drink, got up and started out for the office.

  Chapter Four

  When David and Cora arrived home that same evening David was still brooding on the strangeness of his wife’s behaviour at the concert. Her attack of faintness was in itself unprecedented, and although the hall was stuffy, this explanation had for him the appearance of an excuse. During the performance, with that exaggerated sensibility which was his curse, he had felt Cora’s distress was caused by the presence, immediately behind them, of the editor of the Chronicle. Now, Cora seemed unusually dull. As she prepared their simple supper he made no reference to the events of the afternoon, yet he hoped that she would do so. Her silence, an unnatural abstraction which indicated that her thoughts were elsewhere, confirmed his suspicion. Presently she said she had a headache and went upstairs. He attempted work for an hour, less for what he might accomplish than to give the aspirin tablets, which he had told her to swallow, the opportunity to take effect. But she was still restless and awake when he came to bed, and presently she put her arms round him and whispered, with a troubled intensity which, in the context of the afternoon’s events, heightened his uneasiness:

  ‘You still care for me, don’t you, David?’

  ‘You know I care for you.’

  She pressed her body hard against his.

  ‘You never show me that you do now.’

  He saw that she wanted him to make love to her – he could feel her heart beating like an imprisoned bird – and he wanted her, too, but he would not yield. He said patiently:

  ‘You know what I keep explaining to you, Cora. I have to try and strengthen my will in every way. Besides, by doing without, we get to love each other more.’

  ‘But it isn’t right. It’s bad for both of us.’

  ‘No, no, it only sublimates and preserves our love.’

  ‘I don’t understand … I need it … tonight especially.’

  ‘Try, Cora, dear.… We should have more to offer each other than our bodies. We must raise our physical desire to a spiritual plane.’

  ‘You don’t really need me’ – she spoke almost with bitterness – ‘not any more, you don’t.’

  ‘But I do, that’s the whole point. Remember when I wouldn’t eat those pancakes you made the other day? Afterwards I wanted them more than ever.’

  She kept silent for a long time, then gradually withdrew to her side of the bed. At last, in a different tone, she said:

  ‘I’ve been thinking on what you said about getting a bit stale on your book … and wondering if you wouldn’t like us to go away for a while. A change might be good for us.’

  Surprise silenced him for a moment.

  ‘I thought you liked Sleedon.’

  ‘Oh, I do. But it might be nice to have a break.’

  ‘Where would you want to go?’

  ‘Anywhere. You’ve always said you’d take me to France some time. I’d like to go with you to some quiet little French village …’

  While his anxiety increased, the strained note in her voice touched him, as did the simplicity, the lack of guile with which she had exposed herself. He saw now, with a sinking dismay, that the encounter with Nye had been serious enough to arose in her the instinct of flight.

  He scarcely knew how he answered, except that he left the matter indefinite. She did not persist and, after a while, fell into a restless sleep. Listening to her breathing in the darkness, he began to seek for the cause of her distress and to torment himself by assuming it the worst. Obviously, before he met her, she had known Nye. But in what capacity? Had he been her employer, her associate, her friend? A stab of pain ran through his nerves. Of all the men he would have wished her not to know, this fellow was the prime example. From the first glance he had felt an instinctive antipathy towards him, not only because of his hostility towards the Light, but because of something in the
man himself. Dwelling upon this, David was conscious of a tightness binding his forehead. He well knew the danger of such a train of thought and tried to close his mind to it, as he had been taught at the clinic. But peaceful, impersonal images would not focus on the screen of his sight, so there he lay, rigidly immobilized, harassed by doubt, suspicion, jealousy, and, above all, by fear for himself, that recurrent fear which drove him to extremes of self-denial in the hope of hardening himself against it, and which, alternating with brief periods of exaltation, made up the persistent cycle of his psychosis.

  Just over two years ago he had suffered what was politely termed a nervous breakdown. It had begun as a general lassitude, a strange torpor of the mind, and was succeeded by a depression of frightful intensity. In this darkness of the spirit he became the prey of his fear, not only that he might go out of his senses, but that he had been marked as the victim of some dreadful calamity. As this developed, it shaped into a complex of persecution and, since he was still at home, he took to concealing his service revolver beneath his pillow, to be prepared for the materialization of his unknown enemy.

  At first he had been treated by Dr Bard, then he was removed to a private institution on the cliffs at Scarborough. Here a total blank supervened, a period of which he recollected absolutely nothing. They must have put him to basket-making, which he accomplished in a state of stupor. He remembered his surprise when, six weeks later, as the opacity began to lift, he discovered that he had made with his own hands more than two dozen wicker trugs, all of a close and intricate design, something he could never have accomplished in his normal state.

  The institution doctor, Evans, a plump, breathless little man, with a jolly, rather worldly air, told him, with a cheerful smile, that he was breaking through. ‘You’re out of the woods, my boy, and into the underbrush.’ Yet if he had come that far, it seemed that he could go no further: he still slept badly, was still frightened, silently depressed, withdrawn from life.

  At this point Evans, in an effort to restore his confidence, gave him permission to leave the institution ground for an hour every evening, advising him to stroll on the promenade and mingle with the people there. David had no wish to go, but, since he liked the doctor and had indeed acquired a sort of automatic obedience to him, he went – not to the crowded esplanade, from which he shrank instinctively, but to the comparative solitude of the old fishing harbour, where he sat watching the slow, slaty surge and recession of the sea.