The Northern Light

by A. J. Cronin

  In the coffee room where the breakfasts were served he ordered porridge and a kipper. He wasn’t exactly hungry – after rinsing out his mouth several times it still felt like a garbage can – yet he fancied something tasty. Although the hotel food was good he had become tired of it. Often he had thought of moving to a private lodging where he might be more comfortable, but without Minnie, and as he had never known when a settlement with Page might be reached, he had stayed on at the Lion. Now, however, he could afford to take a house, a nice dignified property, with a good garden, a conservatory where he could grow tomatoes, and perhaps a lodge at the entrance to the drive. Minnie would be bound to like that. There ought to be something really nice out Hanley Drive way; he must look over that district next week. It might even be that Page would wish to give up his house and move to another locality. The thought of settling down in Hanley Drive gave him a bit of a lift, took the edge off his depression.

  When the waiter brought his kipper he placed the morning papers on the table as usual. Smith always ran through them before he went to the office. But at the moment he was too busy planning the day that lay ahead of him to bother with the news. Page, having taken the night train home, would be tired, might possibly have gone to bed for a few hours, so he would not disturb him too early. If he made their appointment for eleven o’clock it ought to suit him reasonably well. He had all the documents prepared and ready – very different, of course, from the original papers which he had brought with him nearly two years ago. If only Page had accepted then, Smith reflected sombrely, what an immense amount of strife, enmity and grief, to say nothing of the expense, might have been saved on both sides.

  The thought of Page began to get him down again. He was not exactly looking forward to the coming meeting. He would have to hide his feelings and harden himself, be businesslike, and abrupt – that obviously was the only way to deal with a painful situation … get it over quickly. A good stiff drink might help him through, and in the circumstances he’d be justified in taking it.

  By this time he had finished breakfast and was about to leave when George, the waiter, wandered back to the table.

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’

  ‘Fine,’ Smith said. George was a good sort, agreeable and attentive, but he was a talker and Smith was in no mood for conversation.

  ‘Can I get you another kipper?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ He was on the point of rising when George gave him a sidelong glance which somehow put him in mind of the chambermaid’s expression earlier on. Then the waiter, rocking on his heels, hands clasped behind his back, remarked:

  ‘I suppose you’ve seen the Globe, sir.’

  The Globe, which was Mighill’s paper, Smith did not normally go through very particularly, but it came in with the other three dailies and now, as he looked down, he saw that it lay on the top of the pile, folded small, no doubt by George, so as to expose a two-column, spread on the middle of the back page. He picked it up, then, stunned, as though hit by a hammer, he almost dropped it. There, before his shocked and unbelieving eyes, was the heading:

  FEMALE EX-PRISONER MAKES GOOD. The opening lines danced up and down in a jumbled maze as he tried to take them in.

  Cora Page, who, as Cora Bates, in 1954 was convicted of an unnatural and criminal offence was unexpectedly run to earth by our Northern reporter – the same who saw her sentenced to six months at the Northern Assizes …

  Smith’s stomach turned over as he skimmed sickeningly through the double column. It was all there. Written apparently as a story of regeneration, more or less the way Nye had intended, nothing had been hidden; every painful fact was revealed in a manner as damaging as if Leonard had composed the thing himself.

  Smith rose from the table. Ignoring George, who was saying something he scarcely heard, he made instinctively for Nye’s room. Leonard was up, standing half-dressed before the mirror, shaving with his electric razor.

  ‘Read that,’ he said, ‘ quick.’

  Nye threw him a nasty look, charged with a morning-after surliness, but Smith’s tone made him switch off the current. He took the Globe and sat down on the edge of his bed. Smith couldn’t contain himself.

  ‘It must be Haines,’ he said. ‘He’s used the story himself.’

  ‘Shut up.’ Nye had turned a dirty grey. In his slack singlet and drooping underpants, with one side of his face unshaven, he looked grotesque. He pressed his knuckles against his forehead.

  ‘Let me think.’

  ‘Why should Haines …?’

  ‘Can’t you see it, you infernal fool? It’s not really Haines. He was just smart enough to leak the story to the head office. This is Mighill himself. He knows how much Vernon needs this pitch. He’s got on to our scheme and gone out of his way to wreck it.’ He bit his lip hard. ‘Why didn’t I think of this? God’s truth. God’s bloody truth. He’s cut the ground from under us. What time is it?’

  ‘Just after nine.’

  ‘We’ve got to work fast’ Galvanized to action, he began pulling on his clothes, talking in quick, jerky sentences. ‘If Page sees this before he signs we’re done. But there’s a good chance he hasn’t. The night train got in at five-thirty this morning … before the papers. He’d almost certainly go straight home. Now listen to me. Get the contract and take a taxi to his house. It’s my guess he’ll be there. Lay on a line of soft soap. You wanted to make it easy for him, all very private and so forth. Get him to sign. Do you hear me? We’ve bloody well got to get his signature. I’ll check at the Light building. If he’s not at his house, call me at the office.’

  Smith hurried to his room, picked up his briefcase, and plunged downstairs. In the morning it was difficult to get a taxi, but luck favoured him: as he came through the swing doors of the hotel, one of Hedleston’s antique cabs rattled up to discharge a passenger. There was a pack of luggage that looked like stock samples to be unloaded, which made Smith fume at the delay, but within four minutes he was being driven towards Hanley Drive. As the cab edged through the traffic of the Cornmarket he noticed on the corner newsstand a row of the yellow Globe posters, far in excess of the number usually displayed. He thought: They’ve flooded the town with this edition. He must get to Page at once. Now more than ever. The possibility that, at this final moment, their plans might break down, that everything he had hoped for would be lost, made him so desperate he kept pressing on the floorboards, trying to drive the old cab on with his feet.

  Still, the chances were in his favour – as he approached Page’s villa it was not yet half-past nine. He stopped the driver some fifty yards down the road and told him to wait. Straightening his hat, which a lurch of the taxi had displaced, and with the briefcase under his arm, he entered the driver, trying not to seem in a hurry, and was immediately confronted by a gang of workmen busy erecting a large green-and-white striped tent on the front lawn. For an instant Smith stared at them, stupefied, unable to believe his eyes, then it dawned upon him that the marquee must be for the reception, the garden party he’d vaguely heard of, and the fact that everything seemed to be proceeding normally gave him a sudden spurt of hope. The front door was open and he was about to mount the steps and ring when he saw a woman come round the side of the house. He recognized her at once – Mrs Page. She wore a wide-brimmed garden hat that shaded her face and carried a wicker basket of flowers. Immediately, from her manner, condescending, yet moderately pleasant, he knew that so far nothing of the disaster had reached her.

  ‘Good mornnig,’ she began, before he could speak. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

  ‘No … not at all,’ he stammered.

  ‘I’ve been cutting chrysanthemums, as you see. Aren’t they lovely? I want them for my marquee. This is our big day, you know. I do hope it will keep up.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘ What do you think?’

  ‘I think, I hope it will be fine. But, Mrs Page …’

  Misunderstanding his confusion, she gave him a meaning, half-playful smile.

  ‘I didn’t t
hink to send you an invitation … but, perhaps … well, if you’d care to come…’

  ‘Mrs Page …’

  ‘I’m sure there’s no ill-feeling … at least not on our side. I rather liked your paper, you know. Especially at the beginning when Dorothy won the guineas. And as you’re leaving the town it would be nice if you and Mr … well, if you both joined with us and our friends that afternoon. You see …’

  ‘Forgive me, Mrs Page.’ He managed to break in at last. ‘ I must speak with your husband.’

  ‘My husband? Henry?’ Her voice lost its overtones of polite society and took on a note of asperity. ‘You will be lucky indeed to get hold of him.’

  ‘But I must see him. It’s a matter of the utmost importance.’

  ‘I dare say. There are several important matters awaiting Henry. However, two days ago he chose to run off to London’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Page,’ Smith said hurriedly, beginning to sweat, ‘but his … his business in London finished yesterday. And we’ve been assured that he took the night train home.’

  ‘He did?’ She considered Smith with a foolish expression. ‘Well, I can assure you of another thing. He’s not here.’

  ‘Not here?’ Smith repeated, then went on with a rush. ‘Listen to me, Mrs Page. The train came in at half-past five this morning. We know be was on it. Now suppose your husband didn’t want to disturb you … wake up the household at that hour … where do you think he might have gone?’

  She thought this over with a prim expression that drove him frantic.

  ‘Well,’ she said, with sudden pique, ‘he might have gone to my son’s place. At Sleedon. There’s no accounting for Henry. He has a mania for Sleedon.’

  This possibility sent Smith’s hopes up again, with a sudden lift of relief. Sleedon! … That was it. Since Page’s main concern would be to reassure Cora with the least possible delay, it was more than likely, in fact almost certain, that he would go direct to Sleedon from the station. Yes, it was evident how strong would be his desire to tell her that he had saved her. Hurriedly, Smith excused himself and retreated to the taxi. As he set off for Sleedon he told himself that in this turn of events luck was with him again – there seemed little likelihood that the news would have reached such a small, isolated community on the coast. He pressed the driver on to greater speed until the vehicle, which, like most of the local taxis, was a prewar model, creaked and bounced all over the road.

  Suddenly, when he was no more than two miles from his destination, the car took an extra swerve and, with a jarring of brakes, bumped to a stop. Even before the driver climbed out of his seat Smith knew that a tyre had gone. With, almost insupportable, impatience he waited, pacing up and down, while the man jacked up the rear axle and changed the wheel. All the while he kept grumbling that it was not his fault, that his machine had never been built to go careering across country at fifty miles an hour. He himself was not young and, hampered by an old tweed coat and elbow-length gauntlets which he did not remove, his movements were maddeningly deliberate. Smith kept looking down the road, hoping for a car that might give him a lift, but the only conveyance that passed was the local bus going in the opposite direction towards Hedleston. To make matters worse, the air had turned sultry and a thick bank of cloud, dark and threatening, had rolled up from the north. He felt sure they were in for a storm. At last the job was done and, pacified by the promise of a larger tip, the man drove off again at reduced speed.

  If Smith had looked at his watch once he’d done so a dozen times. Now it showed half-past ten as he entered the village, which, as though half asleep, wore a reassuring air of calm. He had some idea of the location of young Page’s house on the cliff walk, and it did not take long to find it. When he got out of the car he took a deep breath to clear his lungs, but his head still felt stuffy and his nerves were strung to breaking pitch as he approached the front door. The next few minutes must be decisive.

  He pulled the bell, with anxious moderation, and waited. There was no answer. Had it sounded in the house? He fancied he had heard the peal, yet in his present state he could not be certain. He pulled again, more loudly, but without result. For the third time he rang, almost dragging the bell handle from its socket, plainly hearing the loud jangling within, and still there was no, answer.

  He tried the front door, turning the handle hard, both ways, but without result. Through the windows no movement was visible. What on earth was the matter? Surely someone must be at home. Then it occurred to him that Page might be sleeping upstairs – it seemed altogether feasible. And if he were Smith could not hold back, he simply had to get to him.

  The taxi-driver at the gate was now viewing Smith with sharp suspicion, but he ignored him and took the narrow gravel path that ran round the side of the cottage. As he expected, it led him to the back door. This he found to be ajar. Quietly, he pushed it open, entered the scullery, went through to the kitchen. And there, seated at the table, was Cora.

  Even when he came close to her, she did not move; she seemed to be oblivious, or at least quite heedless, of his presence. Her eyes remained averted, as though held by some far-off, paralysing vision. The change in her outward look since he had last seen her at the concert, only a few days before, was truly fearful. She seemed aged by ten years, sunk into herself, stripped bare of all joy, of all the life that had been in her. But he had no time to pity her. He had to get hold of Page, and he told her so.

  She did not answer.

  ‘Look,’ Smith said, bending over, as though talking to a child. ‘It’s Henry Page I want. I must talk to him.’

  She was so long in replying he thought she had not heard.

  Then, slowly, she turned. Her face was of a marble pallor, almost expressionless, as though fixed by an interior anguish so deep it numbed all sensation.

  ‘He’s not here,’ she said.

  ‘But … I was told …’

  ‘He’s not here,’ she repeated, in that same frozen tone. ‘He changed his mind late last night. He wired us that he’d travel up today.’

  ‘But, we were advised …’

  ‘The telegram’s there … by the mantelpiece.’

  Smith read the telegram. It was to Cora, reassuring her, stating that he had decided to sleep in the hotel, and return the following afternoon.

  ‘Oh, no …’ Smith cried out.

  ‘What does it matter anyway?’ she said.

  All at once, looking beyond her, he saw, on the table, an open copy of the Globe. Her dead eyes, following his, rested upon it.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. You’re satisfied, I hope. The first time you only done for me. Now you’ve done for all of us.’

  Instinctively Smith started to protest. He wanted to clear himself, to say it hadn’t been his doing, then he broke off. He was in it as much as anybody, and more. Besides, she was right. It was useless now. As she had said, they were all done for, words and actions alike were useless. And at the sight of her, seated there, crushed, turned to stone, the dregs of last night churned up in his stomach; he felt deathly sick. In a sudden turn-around of feeling he saw, for the first time, the fearful thing that had been done. All the harm and hurt ever inflicted by a callous and ruthless press seemed concentrated in this broken human creature.

  ‘How did you get the paper?’ he asked her.

  ‘David … my husband.’

  ‘But where?’

  His words seemed to reach her from a long way off and her answer, delayed, travelled back an equal distance.

  ‘Every morning he takes a walk on the pier. At the newsstand … he saw the poster … they’d plastered them all over … he brought the paper home …’ A dry shudder passed over her, shaking her rigid body. ‘It’s the very thing I tried to stop. I knew what it would do to him. I never saw him look the way he did. And to leave me, without a word.’

  ‘Where did he go?’ Smith asked.

  ‘I don’t know … I can’t tell. I tried to stop him, but it wasn’t no use. I can’t do no more. I’m done for �
�� it’s the end.’

  What could he say to her? He could think of nothing, absolutely nothing. At last he said, in feeble consolation:

  ‘It won’t be as bad as you think. He’ll come back to you.’

  ‘No.’ She raised her eyes slowly to his, and in her voice there was something that chilled him. ‘Not to me, he won’t.’

  There was nothing more that he could get from her; a fresh access of despair had turned her dumb. He tried to tell himself that later, perhaps, relief might come in burst of tears. Then he turned and went out of the house.

  Back towards the cab he went – slowly – there was no need for hurry now. In the distance the storm had broken and thunder had begun among the Eldon hills. Even here the sky was like lead and the air more stifling than ever. In his shaken state there was something frightening in these detonations rolling in heavy waves like gunfire through the sultry air. As he got into the taxi a single splash of rain fell upon his hand, heavy and hot as blood.

  He told the man to return to Hedleston – there was no alternative. He had now abandoned all idea of finding Page. He was not here, he was in the train, perhaps still in London. In either case, he must have learned the worst. He would never sign now, never surrender the Light. Nothing remained for Nye and himself but to give up and get out. But logic alone did not account for this sudden desire for withdrawal that had taken hold of Smith. The situation he had created with Nye and the forces they had loosed now thoroughly alarmed him. He felt weak inside, he would have given anything for a drink. He must get away. Whether or not he lost his job had become relatively unimportant. All that mattered was that he should get out of Hedleston, without further delay.