‘I wasn’t walking really,’ he said. ‘I took the bus to Hedleston to see Father.’
‘And did you?’ He felt her body tighten, then, as he shook his head, suddenly relax.
‘He’s gone to London. Quite unexpectedly.’
‘To London.’ She said this slowly, then her expression lifted, warmed with a hopefulness he had not seen for days. ‘ Oh, David, I’m so pleased. I trust your father. Don’t you ask me anything, not now, David … but I feel this will be good for us.’
Chapter Eleven
Earlier that morning – to be exact, at quarter past six – Henry Page arrived at King’s Cross. His train, delayed at York, was very late and the express from Leeds, pulling in five minutes earlier, had taken most of the taxis off the rank. After a considerable wait in the cold semi-darkness of the station, Henry managed to secure a cab. He was not often in London, and on these infrequent visits he put up at a quiet hotel near the British Museum, the Esmond. Here the night porter recognized him and, although he had no luggage, he was given a room without question.
‘Can I have breakfast?’ he asked the man.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Page. There’s no one in the kitchen until seven. Shall I leave your order before I go off duty?’
‘No, I’ll ring,’ Henry said, thinking that he would first try to get some rest. During the journey, huddled in the corner of his compartment, he had slept little, and now, as the grey dawn crept over the grimed roofs and soot-encrusted chimneys and filtered into the narrow, inhospitable room, he lay down on the bed fully dressed and closed his eyes. But his mind was still too charged with active and agitating thoughts to permit of sleep. He simply lay there, feeling so unlike himself it seemed as if he had become the disembodied witness of some unhappy stranger stretched motionless upon the bed.
At seven o’clock he rang for strong black coffee, which, although he had been forbidden it, in his present state he could not do without They were a long time bringing it and when it did come it was the usual insipid brew, but after three cups and a slice of toast he felt somewhat revived. He washed, then went out to an adjoining barber’s and was shaved. From force of habit he bought the morning papers, but could do no more than glance through them, and that with a queer irrational dread that news of his misfortune might already be in print.
It was still too early to give effect to his purpose – Somerville would assuredly not be at his office until ten – but Henry could not bear to delay. He took a bus to the Strand, then walked down Whitehall to Hercules House. So different from his own establishment, the Gazette offices, dominating the Embankment, presented to the ancient river, which this morning flowed almost wearily between its bridges, a glittering facade of glass and steel-ribbed cement, cold, impersonal, suggestive of power. In the foyer, with its Corinthian columns and chequered marble floor, one of a group of uniformed commissionaires took Henry’s name, transmitted it to the reception desk, then, after some delay, directed him to the express lift. On the topmost floor, at the end of a long corridor, he was received, or rather intercepted, by Somerville’s private secretary, a young man in a cutaway and striped trousers who, considering Henry with an air of polite misgiving, remarked:
‘Actually, Mr Page, the man you ought to see is Mr Greeley. Unfortunately he is on leave. I suggest you have a talk with his deputy, Mr Challoner.’
‘No,’ Henry said firmly. ‘My business is with Mr Somerville personally.’
‘Yes, of course,’ the other agreed thoughtfully. ‘I’m afraid, however, that he is engaged most of the morning. And he hasn’t actually come in yet. Still … if you care to …’
‘I’ll wait,’ Henry said.
‘This way, then, please.’
Of set purpose, Henry had made no appointment, since he judged there would be less chance of a rebuff if he presented himself without notice. He knew he would have to wait – if, indeed, Somerville consented to see him at all – and he did wait, in the small red-carpeted anteroom, furnished with leather armchairs, a cocktail cabinet, and some eighteenth-century English sporting pictures. Here, for more than an hour, he sat gazing dully at a large canvas by John Fernley depicting a meet of the Quorn, which hung on the opposite wall, not seeing the painting at all, but trying to piece together the little he knew of Vernon Somerville.
Unlike two of his competitors, Jotham and Mighill, who had emerged respectively from the back streets of Aberdeen and the wilds of Ulster, he had pursued a more conventional path, by way of Dulwich and the City. After a short spell in Throgmorton Street, his first venture in publishing, the purchase of the expiring Gazette, then run down to the verge of extinction, had proved a spectacular success. A fixed determination to succeed, allied to an extraordinary capacity for gauging the popular taste, had enabled him to transform the paper. As sales multiplied and soared, his confidence and natural assertiveness increased. Urged on by a presentiment of further triumphs, he started a smart weekly, Town Topics, then, quickly, the Sunday Argus. At first these new and hazardous ventures went well. Tasting power, Somerville began prematurely to play the role of the great press lord. A yacht appeared; there were contributions to charity, which, though they fell far short of Mighill’s princely benefactions, were nevertheless more fully publicized; a group of four Cotmans, not to be compared with the unique Giorgiones given to the nation by Jotham or the pendant of superb Canalettos donated by Sir Ithiel, still, good sound British paintings, was presented to the Dulwich Gallery. Then came marriage to Blanche Gilliflower, the darling of the gossip columns, Lord Jotham’s niece.
Here, the first hint of failure crept in. Apparently the marriage had been unfortunate. Vaguely Henry recollected some gossip of Alice’s: that in the year following the wedding Somerville’s wife had divorced him to become – after a brief period as a photographer’s model advertising shampoos and face cream, and a near marriage to an Austrian baron – fashion editor of the Globe, where she now functioned with such success that Mighill, who gave his paper a certain cachet by employing ‘society lovelies,’ had become paternally attached to her.
By this time the stimulating effects of the coffee had passed; a sick torpor began to settle upon Henry, so that when at last the young man reappeared and with a confidential air summoned him to the inner office, he forgot to swallow the two pills he had promised himself immediately before the interview.
Somerville, wearing carelessly a loose dark grey flannel suit with a red tie and a dark carnation in his buttonhole, was seated at his desk signing letters as Page entered. He continued for a full minute without looking up, then he swivelled his chair, half rose, and held out his hand. Of middle stature, with a short neck and heavy shoulders, the owner of the Gazette seemed older than his forty-five years. His complexion was plethoric, accentuated by the tie, the carnation, and by a small but noticeable portwine birthmark on his neck just under the left ear. An injected eye gave indication of the pressures within, and his manner, charged with a restive impatience, was that of a man fully occupied with his affairs, who would not suffer at any price stupidity, incompetence, or interference. Having resumed his seat, he crossed his legs, lay back, and openly studied Page.
Henry, accepting the chair beside the Chippendale desk, found nothing to reassure him in this reception. Somerville seemed waiting for him to begin, then, as though sensing the difficulty of Page’s position, he said, driving straight to the point:
‘You should have let me know you were coming. We might have lunched together. As it is, may I congratulate you on the excellent fight you’ve given us. I thought at one time you were going to knock us out. But now I understand we see eye to eye in the matter.’
‘No, not quite.’ Henry was painfully ill at ease. He could actually feel his legs trembling as he sat there, but the very act of speech helped to restore his courage. ‘It’s almost two years now since you bought the Chronicle. I admit that my attitude then was resentful and prejudiced. You had every right to come to Hedleston and to set up your paper in competition with
mine. Since there wasn’t room for two of us, it was for the people of the town to choose between us. Well, they’ve chosen … and I’m here to ask you to let that choice stand.’
Somerville did not immediately reply. Then he said:
‘Public favour is a variable quantity. It may change overnight. We are still selling the Chronicle. We will continue to do so.’
‘No.’ Henry shook his head. ‘Let’s be open with one another. You’ve tried to put me out of business and you’ve failed. Now, for God’s sake, leave the Northern Light alone.’
‘I don’t follow you,’ Somerville said curtly. ‘After all the work and sweat we’ve put into Hedleston, are you asking us to walk out with our tails between our legs?’
‘I am asking you to suppress a certain item of news.’
‘Suppress news! My dear sir, you amaze me. Our first principle, our moral obligation to the public, is never to suppress the news.’
‘This is not an important item. It merely concerns my family and myself.’
‘My dear sir, I have no knowledge of the matter. I scarcely know what you are talking about. Still, in Hedleston, surely anything that concerns you is important. I imagine my editor up there would take that view.’
Henry felt his lips dry and tighten.
‘This is a pitiful story raked up from the past which can only hurt a number of innocent persons.’
‘Good God,’ Somerville said with sudden roughness, ‘what sort of line are you giving me? We’re in the middle of the twentieth century. You can’t be thin-skinned nowadays. In the rough and tumble of our business there’s always some abuse given and received. I cannot personally vet every word that goes into the Chronicle. I’ve every confidence in my editor. I leave it entirely to him.’
Page could not repress a spasm of bitterness.
‘And he, of course, proposes to publish this story on moral grounds.’
Somerville made a restive movement, glanced impatiently at his watch as though to terminate the interview.
‘My dear sir,’ he said, ‘why do you come bleating to me? The affair is out of my hands. I’ve given my people in Hedleston complete authority and must abide by their decisions. This is obviously a purely local thing within the competence of the local staff. You can’t expect me to know about it, or to concern myself with it.’
His manner ruthlessly set aside the matter. Page saw that, while he was without scruple, he would never personally descend to the sordid; it would all be done for him. A dark, nervous anger began to kindle in him, a determination not to be disposed of so easily.
‘Why do you want the Northern Light?’
Somerville, who had begun to arrange some papers on his desk, looked up sharply, suspecting a motive behind the question. Did this little provincial nonentity guess what he was up against … fighting pyramiding costs, mounting wage spirals, and powerful amalgamations who would like nothing better than to put him out of business? Jotham and Mighill about to merge … in that field practically a monopoly … Fleet Street chuckling for weeks over his failure to absorb the Light, the Argus losing money, Town Topics almost moribund … he had to expand or go under. Watching Page carefully, he answered:
‘For a very simple reason. I need more circulation.’
‘You already have a large circulation. The Gazette sells at least a million and a quarter.’
‘In these days of competition if you don’t go forward you go back.’
‘And your idea of going forward is to multiply the Gazette or its counterpart, the Chronicle?’ Page, beyond caution and resolved at whatever cost to speak his mind, took a sharp, painful breath. ‘In a recent issue of Survey there was an article on the press. Did you see it?’
‘Survey is an excellent publication; I seldom read it.’
‘This was a thorough and impartial report. The conclusion reached was that our intelligent and high-principled newspapers are being swamped by the lowest segment of our popular press … papers run, not as a public service, but purely as a financial investment, and which had become the trashiest, silliest, most objectionable, most vulgar in the world. The Gazette was singled out as the worst.’
Somerville barely smiled, quite unperturbed.
‘We have our detractors. A pity. After all, we only try to please the masses … to envelop them in … shall I say … a soothing ambiance.’
‘By feeding them the garbage of the news?’
‘We give them exactly what they want.’
‘No.’ Page shook his head with nervous violence. ‘Humanity is not always as stupid as it seems. You can’t write our people off like that. They have great qualities – courage, cheerfulness, warmth of heart, humour – yet because three-quarters of the population are under-educated, they aren’t equipped to resist your blandishments. I won’t repeat the obvious. It’s not just sex, crime, and sensation, nor yet the stupid trivialities that fill your paper that makes it so pernicious; it’s the manner in which the grossest prejudices and appetites are artfully stimulated, while contempt is heaped cynically on all who oppose you. Don’t you remember what Balfour said: ‘I’d rather sell gin to the poor than poison them that way”? Another fifty years in this direction, with your zymotic bilge, and you will have reduced the masses almost to illiteracy. No one knows better than you what an immensely powerful instrument you have in your hands. Why don’t you use it to create? God knows, there never was a time when the country had more need of an intelligent, high-principled press. We were magnificent in the war when we lived in easy intimacy with death. But since then we’ve suffered a relapse politically, economically, and morally. It’s only temporary, I’m convinced, but we’ve got to shake ourselves out of it. If we don’t …’
A wave of physical weakness came over Page as he broke off, aware that he had made not the slightest impression on Somerville, realizing, too, the terrifying danger of power without a comparable sense of responsibility. His tongue was thick, his mouth dry. He could find nothing more to say. Somerville, who had been observing Henry with a hard expression in which contempt predominated, was quick to profit by the sudden hopelessness that showed in Page’s face.
‘My dear fellow,’ he said soothingly, ‘I understand your feelings. But time grows short; let us keep to the point. We are making you a reasonable offer. You are under no compulsion. Simply tell us if you wish to accept it. Perhaps,’ he went on, ‘if you decide to sell – and I’m sure you will – you might care to continue on the staff. Your editorials … they have an impressive Edwardian quality.’
‘No,’ Page said heavily. ‘I couldn’t. It must be all or nothing.’
‘Is it to be all, then?’
Henry could not look at him, could not raise his head. He felt beaten down, defeated.
‘I’ll think it over … for a few hours. I’ll telephone you this afternoon.’
‘Good.’ Somerville rose. ‘ I look forward to hearing from you.’
Somehow Page got out of the room.
A fine, drizzling rain was falling as he left the building and turned slowly up from the river towards Victoria Street. Through his despondency an increasing faintness warned him that he ought quickly to find some refreshment – since noon the day before he had eaten practically nothing. Across the way he saw an A. B.C., but as he made to cross the street, the volume of traffic, with its rush and roar, suddenly struck at him and set his heart beating with incredible rapidity. He hesitated, quite breathless, realizing that he could not trust himself to make the passage. Dizzily, he continued on his own side, looking for another lunch room. At the corner of Ashley Gardens, just by Westminster Cathedral, the pain began. In recent months he had experienced certain symptoms of cardiac spasm, mainly in the nature of shooting pains down his left arm, but this pain was different, covering the entire area of his chest, and of such intensity that his ribs seemed imprisoned and crushed by a colossal vice. Breathing, movement even, was impossible, and with this came a deathly sickness that drew beads of cold perspiration from his brow.
The anguish was inhuman, and through it all ran the silly, childish dread that if he did not find some refuge he would make a fool of himself and fall down in the public street. With a great effort he managed to drag himself across the pavement into the adjoining cathedral, where, collapsed upon a row of seats, he lay struggling to regain breath.
At last the agonizing grip began to slacken; he took, with difficulty, a few shallow gasps, managed to fumble in his waistcoat pocket, crushed and inhaled two of the capsules Bard had given him. Then he swallowed a heart pill. Presently his respirations strengthened, and after about twenty minutes he was able to draw himself up to a seated position, bent forward and leaning on the chair in front. The thing had passed, leaving him spent and bruised as though by stones, but it was gone. The miracle seemed to him that he was alive.
The cathedral was empty except for a black-clad, solitary woman, perhaps a nun, immobile before the altar. Something in her attitude of entreatry, seen dimly in the dank, raw brick interior, brought Cora to his mind, in a quick flood of feeling. Quite distinctly, as though close to him, he saw the image of her face, the brow contracted as though troubled, the veined cheeks slightly hollowed, her dark eyes filled with confiding sadness. Well … she need no longer be sad and troubled, she would be safe now, would again know happiness and security. At least, out of his defeat he could draw that one deep consolation. Never before had he experienced such an emotion. It was as if, all his life, he had vainly sought an unattainable joy, trying to satisfy needs, yearnings, and aspirations which he could not even put in words, and which now were realized, not in ravishment, but as something close to pain, something, at least, that tasted bitter-sweet.
At last he felt himself sufficiently recovered to get up. With caution, yet fairly surely again, he went out to the street. A taxi took him to the hotel, where he had a tray sent to his room. After he had eaten and rested for half an hour he telephoned Somerville. He was out, but Henry gave the message to his secretary: that he was returning to Hedleston by the night train and would sign the documents in the morning.