The need of support threw him back on Nye. Leonard had said that he would be at the office, and as they approached the outskirts of the town, Smith asked the driver to take him to the Prudential Building. A deluge of rain was now falling and a high wind had sprung up which lashed torrents of water against the windscreen. The streets were almost empty except for a few people hurrying for shelter, bent forward under their umbrellas. But suddenly, as they swung out of Victoria Street into the Cornmarket, they ran into a thick traffic jam. Smith lowered the window and looked out. The narrow street was solidly blocked – mainly with those trucks and lorries that dealt with the produce from the central market. He thought a water main had burst, or that the street was flooded. He couldn’t wait, it wasn’t far to the office. He pushed some notes into the driver’s hand and got out.
Then, as he turned the corner and hurried up Park Street, he became aware of a big crowd of people on the pavement. In spite of the rain, there they were, standing tightly packed, craning their necks, swaying this way and that as they pressed towards the doorway of a building. Smith’s heart missed a beat as he saw that it was the entrance of the Prudential offices. There’s been trouble, he thought, they’ve smashed up our office. He was afraid, but he had to find out. He ran forward. At that instant, he heard the wail of a siren and in the gardens across the way, coming along the beach avenue that was normally closed to cars, he made out the white blur of an ambulance.
A sick terror took hold of Smith as he pushed and elbowed his way through the crowd. He kept repeating who he was, that they must let him pass. When he got to the entrance the policeman recognized him and allowed him to go in. He stood in the hallway, breathing heavily, afraid to go further. He made himself press the lift button. Nothing happened. It was not working, the indicator showed that it was stationary on the third floor. Suddenly he heard someone running down the stairs. He turned. It was Peter, the telephone boy. He saw Smith, and flung himself against him, gripping hold of his arm.
‘Mr Smith … oh, sir … sir.’
‘What’s the matter?’
He clutched at Smith hysterically, moaning to himself.
‘I want to go home. It’s terrible, terrible … and I saw it.’
‘What?’ Smith shook him hard. ‘For God’s sake … what?’
Peter looked up, his head fallen slackly back. His voice rose shrilly.
‘Young Mr Page … he shot at Mr Nye … Mr Nye fell down … then he shot himself.’ He choked for breath, his voice rose higher. ‘The doctor says he’s dead.’
‘Who?’ Smith faltered.
‘David … young Mr Page.’
Smith leaned against the wall, drained of everything but a hollow nausea. Behind him, he heard the whine of the descending lift. A moment later, Nye stepped out, accompanied by the office doctor. Nye looked shaken, and under his coat, which was draped over his shoulders, a wad of bandage bound up his left arm, but stuck in the corner of his pale lips there was a cigarette.
‘Crazy young bastard,’ he said to Smith, in passing.
In a daze Smith saw the two get into the front compartment of the ambulance. Summoning all his forces, he was about to move when from the back of the lift two attendants edged their way out, carrying between them a sheeted stretcher. Smith tried to close his eyes. He could not. He watched it go past. They slid it into the body of the ambulance. Through the open doorway, against the background of the silent, gaping crowd. Smith saw, bent on one knee in a professional attitude, a man with a camera, taking pictures.
Chapter Fourteen
These last four days, after the thunderstorm of Thursday, had brought a spell of unusually fine weather, a real Indian summer. Malcolm Maitland, walking sombrely through the Cornmarket to the Light building, felt it right warm, the more so as the dark suit he’d put on had got a bit tight for him. At the inquest the Town Hall had been stifling, he had never known it so crowded – it was at least a relief to be out in the air. His seat near the side exit had allowed him to get away early, and as he came up the stairs to his office he thought he would be the first back. But Moffatt was before him. Through the open door of her room he saw her pushing up her window. He stopped.
‘Well, it’s over,’ he said.
She did not immediately answer. Then, grimly, she agreed.
‘Yes … it’s over.’
Dressed entirely in black, her face grey from the heat, Moffatt looked thoroughly exhausted, and her expression was particularly forbidding, but the need to talk drew Malcolm in.
‘Henry came through it not too badly,’ he said, after a pause.
‘Better than I expected,’ she admitted. ‘The Coroner helped … for once he was half human. But, oh’ – she took off her hat, stabbed it with her hatpins, and hooked it forcibly on the back of the door – ‘these poor young people. What a waste, what a pitiful waste! If that poor crazed fellow had only done what he meant to, it all wouldn’t have been so useless. When I saw Nye in the box, bold as brass, I could have done for him myself. But it was just like David to bungle it.’
‘Better that he did,’ Maitland said slowly, ‘for Henry’s sake. I’m sure that’s the general opinion. The town is still with him. When all’s said and done, the Light has come out of the mess better than we could have hoped.’
‘Maybe,’ she said, frowning. ‘But it took … well, what it took … to do it. Believe me, if it hadn’t happened this way our name would still be in the mud. I’ve no doubt Henry’ll put it all down to the milk of human kindness.’ Her tone sharpened. ‘ What it really means is that one sensation has been knocked out by a bigger one.’ She turned, and with a jab, plugged in her electric kettle. ‘I’m going to make a cup of tea. It’s the only thing on a day like this. And what a day! Will you have one?’
‘I could do with it,’ Maitland said, watching her as she rattled down the cups from behind the filing cabinet and took out the lump sugar and the tin canister of tea she kept in her desk drawer. Then, from its resting-place on the cold-water pipe, she produced a half-bottle of milk. This she inspected doubtfully, murmuring fretfully to herself, ‘It’s not today’s, but we’ll have to put up with it.’
‘Of course,’ she went on, her mind still dwelling on the inquest, ‘Smith was the one who really turned me. When he said he ought to have stayed with Cora in the cottage and not left her alone, then broke down, it was abject. Even before that he’d begun to look mealy-eyed … when the woman in the store, Mrs Dale, was telling how she saw Cora run down the pier, and called out to stop her and couldn’t. To think of the likes of him blubbering over Cora – I could have hit him.’
‘Poor devil,’ Malcolm said. ‘ He tried to blame himself for everything. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.’
‘You needn’t be,’ she said, with that tightening of the lips Maitland knew so well. ‘I’ve a bit of news for you on Smith.’
‘Yes?’
‘Henry’s given him a job.’
‘What!’
‘Balmer’s. He’s on the staff. Our new advertising manager.’
‘Good Lord.’ Malcolm thought for a bit, then he said, ‘You may say what you like. Page is the nearest thing to a good man I’ve ever met up with in this most ungodly world.’
She shook her head and began to infuse the tea.
‘He’s soft-hearted, that’s all. His father would never have done such a thing. He’d have thrown Smith out of his office the minute he set eyes on him.’
‘You’re much too hard on Henry. You always are.’ He took the cup she offered him. ‘Look what he’s come through these last couple of years … with his bad heart and all. Then this, on top of everything. You know how bound up he was in David.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed gloomily. ‘ My dear David.’ Then, sipping her tea, she shot a dark glance at Maitland over the rim of the cup. ‘But Cora’s the one he’ll really miss.’
Before Malcolm could interpose, she went on. ‘He mayn’t have known it, but he was in love with her. Oh, I don’t blame h
im for it. In fact it’s one of the few things about him I could admire. Cora was a real woman, warm and human. She needed to be loved and David didn’t quite fill the bill. Especially when he began to go queer again, making her read those highbrow books, treating her like something in a glass case. She never said a word of it to me, but I could tell. I understood her through and through. I admit she was fond of David, devoted to him, sorry for him … but it wasn’t enough.’
‘You’re talking nonsense,’ Maitland interrupted curtly. ‘And this isn’t the time for it.’
‘Perhaps not. But I’ve known it for long enough. Henry liked Sleedon, but he never liked it so much, or went there so often, until Cora was there. He would have done anything for her … even have given up the Light. I was with him in the office yesterday when Bob Lewis brought word that they’d found her body washed up on the North Shore. I wish you’d seen his face. And do you know what he said? “Was she harmed?” he said. “Disfigured in any way?” And when Bob said, “ No, sir, not at all,” he said, “ Thank God … thank God for that.”’
Malcolm stared at her, between annoyance and a kind of irritated curiosity, and suddenly he found himself saying:
‘Moffatt, why are you so against Henry? And always by comparison with his father.’
She did not answer immediately.
‘I’m not really against him,’ she said at last. ‘He’s just not my idea of the editor of the Light. Too gentle, too inclined to put up with things instead of driving right through them. His father wasn’t that way. He was a real man.’
‘You admired him?’
‘Yes, I did.’ She spoke with sudden defiance. ‘Not only for what he was, but for what he did for me. I suppose they’ve told you that he bought me my little house.’
‘I did hear something,’ Maitland said temperately.
But Moffatt, lifted out of herself by the events of the day, was not to be deterred.
‘Yes,’ she continued, ‘ he knew I liked to be out of the town, with a bit of a garden, and one day … I’ll never forget it … he just handed me the title deeds. When I offered to pay him out of my wages, all he did was laugh and say, “ Bring me a bunch of flowers occasionally.” That’s why I still bring them.’ She paused, forgetful of Maitland’s presence. ‘And after his wife died, he’d drop over of a Saturday afternoon and smoke a pipe and drink a glass of ale. Burton he favoured; I always kept it for him.’ She broke off and, suddenly conscious of Malcolm’s gaze upon her, coloured deeply. It was the only time he had ever seen her flush.
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. The silence was becoming awkward, when Maitland rose to his feet.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose we ought to be getting on. No slacking while the boss is away. What we all need now is work, and plenty of it. We’ll have the staff meeting at noon today. Tell the others. Thanks for the tea.’
He went to his own room, sat down, and began to think over his plans for the next three months, when, in Henry’s absence, much of the responsibility must fall on him. Presently there was a knock on the door, and Fenwick appeared, with a teletype strip.
‘Here’s an item that just came in on the A.P.’
‘Yes?’ Maitland looked up inquiringly.
‘They seem to have changed their minds about the atomic site on Utley.’
‘What!’ Malcolm exclaimed, in sharp surprise. ‘You mean … they’re not coming here after all?’
‘Apparently not. They’re considering the Highlands now … Sutherlandshire. The Under-Secretary made an announcement in the House yesterday.’
He handed over the strip.
‘Can you beat that?’ Malcolm said, when he’d read it. ‘I hope to heaven he’ll stick to it.’
‘It seems likely. He indicated that Sutherland is a much more suitable site.’
‘Thank goodness!’ Maitland exclaimed, with emphasis, showing signs of satisfaction. ‘It means we’ll be left alone … down here.’ Under his breath, he added, ‘At least for a bit longer.’
When Fenwick had gone Malcolm sat thinking on all that had happened simply because a government department, had, in the first instance, been unable to make up its mind. But for the abortive Utley project they would never have known these two years of useless strife and the tragedy that had ended it.
With an effort he turned his mind towards the future and began to jot down the agenda for the staff meeting. He had worked steadily for about half an hour when, from the corridor, a familiar sound caused him to raise his head. He remained motionless and uncertain, telling himself that he could not have recognized Henry’s footstep, then, to his surprise, the door opened and Page came in.
Maitland immediately got up.
‘Why, Henry,’ he exclaimed, as lightly as he could, ‘I thought you were supposed to go straight to bed.’
‘I’m only here for a few minutes … the car’s waiting outside,’ Page said, bracing himself against the edge of the desk. He was paler than usual and there was a fixed look of endurance on his face, yet the change in him over the past few days, while marked, was less annihilating than Maitland had feared. What was it, Malcolm asked himself, that enabled this little man to stand fast, despite his physical handicap, without the show and symbols of courage? A lifetime of faithfulness and honour, regard for his neighbour and respect for the pledged word – these insistent, inescapable, exemplary values of upright behaviour were the things that held him together when another stronger in body, would have crumbled.
‘I shan’t see you for quite a while, Malcolm,’ Page went on, when he had recovered his breath. ‘Apparently, when they let me up, I’m to have a long sea voyage. Alice has always wanted to visit Hawaii, so we shall go there.… But first, I want you to know that I am taking you in with me on the Northern Light. I’ve asked Paton to draw up the deeds of partnership. I’ll sign them before I leave.’
Maitland remained perfectly still, but his homely face lost its ruddiness momentarily, then was slowly flooded by a deeper colour. After all the years of steady unrewarded plodding, this offer, quite unlooked for, was so overwhelming he could not completely master himself. In a voice which, despite the grip he kept upon himself, shook slightly, he said:
‘There’s precious little I can say, Henry … only … thank you.’
‘That’s settled, then,’ Page said, then continued seriously, ‘There’s just one thing more on my mind. It may surprise you – I shouldn’t perhaps speak of it – but in these last four days, well, the sympathy and kindness shown me, not only completely unexpected, but unmerited … it has been just another example of the fundamental charity of our people here.’
If Maitland was reminded of Moffatt’s recent sarcastic prediction, he gave no sign of it. He waited, as Page went on.
‘I wondered if I could break my rule and do something personal, just this once. You may know what’s in my mind. A message from myself to our readers … a reaffirmation of my personal faith … an appreciation of their loyalty and support, an assurance that in spite of all that’s happened to us, the paper will go on.’ He paused, searching Maitland’s face. ‘Do you think I might write something along these lines? Or would it be in bad taste?’
‘Write it, Henry,’ Maitland said firmly, permitting himself not the slightest hesitation. ‘It’ll do you good. And everybody else.’
Almost imperceptibly Page’s expression lightened.
‘I will, then,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Malcolm.’
When he had gone Maitland waited a few minutes, then he moved off to go to the copy room. As he walked along the corridor past Henry’s open door he saw him, already at his desk, bowed a little, his head supported by one hand, but writing, writing steadily, writing his personal message for tomorrow’s Northern Light.
Copyright
First published in 1958 by Gollancz
This edition published 2013 by Bello
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