‘Don’t go off the deep end there either, Henry. Remember what I told you: there’s always the danger of a recurrence.’
‘But why?’ Page said, put out by his insistence. ‘He had his breakdown and got over it.’
‘Yes, but the primary disability remains.’
‘What disability?’
Edward Bard hesitated, looked at his friend, then looked away. Plainly he had in mind the opinion he had hinted at before and over which, they had almost fallen out. Now, however, Henry had no wish to debate the matter. He said briefly:
‘You’re a regular Jonah, Ed. If you saw the boy … he’s really fit’
‘Well …’ Bard paused ‘I’m glad to hear it.’
There was a silence, then they said goodnight and parted, the doctor going one way to his evening surgery in Victoria Street and Henry the other towards Hanley Drive.
Chapter Eight
Summer, that year, was wet and cold. Both at the office and at home Page’s life was as cheerless as the weather. In his overworked and worried state the attitude of afflicted reasonableness which Alice was now adopting began to wear him down. The childish strain in her nature, resenting his failure to fall in with her wishes, had made her feel, quite genuinely, that she was a woman both misunderstood and misused. Towards the end of June, when he told her that a holiday would be impossible for him this year and suggested she take Dorothy to her favourite Torquay, she shook her head with a reproachful smile.
‘No, dear. If we cannot go together, properly, I’d rather not go at all.’
Dorothy’s resentment was more overt and she would bounce past Henry on the stairs with no more than a mumbled word. He had no wish to bathe in family sentiment, yet he felt acutely this lack of affection and support. And as the weeks went on, was it merely his fancy, or did his acquaintances in the town suddenly become embarrassed when he met them? During the first week of August an encounter with the Reverend Gilmore in Victoria Street brought this to a head. The rector saw Henry too late to avoid him and, caught in an obvious desire to cross the street, covered this with an excess of cordiality.
‘Ah, Henry, my friend, how are you?’
For some time Page had brooded on Gilmore’s action in seconding Smith for the Club, and now he decided to speak out to him.
‘I’m having a difficult time,’ he said bluntly. ‘ So difficult that I’d be glad of your moral support.’
‘In what way?’ Gilmore asked cautiously, shaking the raindrops from his umbrella.
‘By taking my part against this Chronicle rag. I’ve helped you in the past … why don’t you help me now?’
The rector, having dried the umbrella and inspected the sky to ensure that it had cleared, looked at Page sideways.
‘Well, now, Henry, the Church doesn’t mix in politics – you know we’re not allowed to – and I should be in all sorts of trouble with the Bishop if I did. Besides, don’t you think that you are a trifle prejudiced? Nowadays we should be somewhat more liberal in our views. I admit that sometimes our Chronicle friends do go a little over the score, but these are modern times. Their Mr Smith is a thoroughly well-meaning fellow. He called on me just after his arrival and we had a most interesting talk on his Y.M.C. A. work in Australia. I see him at St Mark’s regularly every Sunday. And did you know … they’ve sent me a most handsome contribution to the steeple fund?’
‘I see,’ Page said stiffly.
‘Naturally we are all with you, Henry, But we must be fair. There is some balm in Gilead. Lately” – he glanced at Page shyly – ‘they’ve printed quite a few of my little inspirational pieces. And with success, yes, with success. I have a letter from Mr Nye in which he actually uses the words “ a smash hit”.’
Henry went on to the office, raging inwardly. Only Maitland seemed near to him, but Malcolm’s taciturn, hardheaded staunchness, though he valued it, held nothing of sympathy.
A dismal autumn dragged into winter. Rain, hail and in February a heavy fall of snow that for weeks after covered the streets with dirty slush did little to maintain the morale of the staff of the Northern Light. Page had never worked so hard in his life, devising and planning, encouraging the others, striving for economies that would not show yet might cut costs, coming first to the office and leaving last, getting up in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep to prepare and polish his editorials, straining every nerve to bring out each edition at the highest peak of perfection. And still the deadly and monotonous struggle went on. He had told Smith at the outset that there was no room for two papers in Hedleston. For months he had been losing money rapidly, and although he believed the Chronicle’s losses to be much greater, his own had in the past five weeks accelerated at an alarming rate.
Page’s first objective with the Light, indeed his whole family tradition, had always been that of public service, never the mere accumulation of wealth. He sold the paper at the basic price, used high-grade materials, and was generous with his staff, especially in the matter of pension settlements upon old employees. He himself drew a minimum salary of fifteen hundred pounds and, beyond the house in Hanley Drive, which was in his wife’s name, he had no private fortune. Apart from goodwill, which he rated high, all the assets of the firm – following a patriotic decision of his father’s after World War I – were invested in a War Loan, to the extent of one hundred thousand pounds. This he had always regarded as a suitable and satisfactory reserve.
But now, on this morning of March 1st, as Henry studied the Light’s latest balance sheet, it was only too apparent how deeply he had drawn upon this fund. He thought things over a long time, then, with a suppressed sigh, taking advantage of a moment when Moffatt was out of her room, he picked up the telephone and made an appointment with Frank Holden manager of the Northern Boroughs Bank.
At eleven o’clock that same morning he was in Holden’s office, a small cabinet behind the cashier’s desk, darkly enclosed by mahogany panels and frosted glass, its hair carpet worn smooth by the feet of solid and thrifty Northumbrians. As he entered, the manager dismissed the clerk with whom he was conferring, shook hands cordially, and offered him a chair. Tall and spare, with horn-rimmed glasses and a close-cropped moustache, Holden had the keen and engaging air of a man anxious both to please and to get on. Twelve years younger than Henry, he came of an old Hedleston family and shared the same sort of background – indeed, his father, Robert Holden, had been Page’s father’s most intimate friend, and with him and Robert Harbottle, had formed a close companionship which caused them to be colloquially referred to as ‘the three Bobs.’
Because of this, Henry had less embarrassment in broaching the subject on his mind, and after a few introductory remarks he said:
‘Frank, I’ve come to see you about a loan.’
‘Yes?’ Holden said. ‘As a matter of fact, I was hoping you’d drop in for a bit of a chat.’
There was a pause, then, as Page did not speak, the manager half smiled, as though to soften what he was about to say.
‘You know, Mr Page, you’ve been drawing pretty heavily on us lately. I happened to glance through your account on Monday. It’s… well, I suppose you know how much you’re overdrawn.’
‘Of course,’ Henry nodded. ‘I have let things run on a bit. But you’ve got my War Loan as security.’
‘Yes, the War Loan.’ Holden appeared to consider. ‘What was that bought at … something like one hundred and four, wasn’t it?’
‘I believe that was the figure.’
‘And now it’s down to below sixty-five … sixty-three and one half, to be exact. And I believe it will go lower. Why didn’t you sell when I told you?’
‘Because, as a good citizen, I considered it my duty to hold.’
Holden gave Page an odd glance.
‘A good citizen looks after himself these days. Don’t you realize that our failure to control inflation is impoverishing every holder of these government issues? Gilt-edged, indeed … trusting patriots like yourself are bein
g ruined.’
As Henry was about to protest he went on.
‘Anyhow, you’ve lost more than thirty-nine thousand pounds of your capital and if I’m any judge of the money market you may lose more. At the rate your debit balance is growing, in another seven or eight weeks your collateral won’t cover it.’
‘I’m perfectly aware of that,’ Henry said. ‘That’s why I’m here to arrange a loan.’
‘On what?’
‘Why, naturally, on the Northern Light … buildings, plant, and goodwill.’
Holden took up the ebony ruler from his blotting pad and, after viewing it with apparent interest, began to turn it between his fingers. There was an appreciable silence, then, not looking at Henry, he said:
‘I’m sorry, Mr Page, I’d like more than anything to help you. But it just can’t be done.’
Henry was shocked. He had never for a moment entertained the thought of a refusal.
‘But why?’ he exclaimed, almost incoherently. ‘You know me … the Light … there’s our name … we have assets. You’ve had our account all those years …’
‘I know, I know … it’s hard to turn you down. But money is extremely tight these day. We’re caught up in a credit squeeze that practically prohibits bank advances. The Government just doesn’t want us to make any loans.’
‘But this is a local, almost a personal, matter,’ Henry protested. ‘At least let us discuss it.’
‘It would be pointless.’ He looked at Henry apologetically. ‘ I haven’t the authority to commit the bank. You would have to put it up to my directors.’ He paused, inspecting the ruler again. ‘Why don’t you go along and see the chairman of the board?’
‘Wellsby?’
‘Yes. You know him pretty well. He’ll be at the factory now. Shall I give him a ring and say you’re coming?’
Henry was silent. He had the depressed feeling that, in the nicest possible way, Holden wanted to get rid of him. He got slowly to his feet, thinking: Wellsby … perhaps the last man before whom he would have wished to expose his necessity. Yet there was nothing else for it – he would need the loan and must have it.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll be obliged if you’d telephone him.’
Twenty minutes later he reached Wellsby’s office in the tall administrative building recently erected on a neck of wasteland adjacent to the factory. This strip, long known in Hedleston as the Cowp, had been acquired through a particularly astute deal on the part of the boot manufacturer and, as the result of a street diversion from Victoria Square, had appreciated to many times its original value. As Henry entered, Wellsby was standing at the big plate-glass window which fronted Victoria Street, chuckling to himself and choking over his cigar.
‘Come here, Page, and take a look at this.’
Outside, holding up the traffic and moving slowly round the square, was a long line of women pushing perambulators, go-carts, every variety of vehicle capable of containing an infant, the procession headed by a blaring sound truck with a double banner:
GRAND PERAMBULATOR PARADE
BONNIEST BABY COMPETITION
TODAY
IN THE TOWN HALL
READ THE DAILY CHRONICLE
‘Not bad, eh?’ He clapped Henry on the back. He was wearing plus fours and red and yellow chequered stockings, which magnified his enormous calves. He looked redder, shorter, and balder, also more jovial, than ever, glowing with that self-satisfaction which wealth acquired by business imparts to successful tradesmen. ‘ What d’you think of it?’
Page forced a smile.
‘Enterprising, no doubt. Not particularly dignified.’
‘Why, hang it all, man, what’s wrong with it? It’s a damn smart selling idea. Get hold of the mothers. They’re only trying to push their product, the way I do mine. Look, there’s that chap Nye. He’s the brains behind all this. The other one – Smith – is a bit of a nonentity. But Nye really has something. My Charlie ran him up to Tynecastle in the Jag last weekend and came home full of him.’
‘Did he?’ said Page stiffly, finding it highly probable that Charlie Wellsby, the town’s leading blood, should find Nye congenial.
‘Certainly he did. They had a rare time together. So keep your eye on him,’ Wellsby added facetiously. Turning from the window, he sank into his revolving chair and, with an effort, crossed his short legs. ‘ Well, what can I do for you? I’m in the market for some golf this afternoon, so let’s come to the point.’
Henry came to the point, briefly and with all the persuasive force he could command. Yet while he spoke he sensed that Wellsby had already been advised of the purpose of his visit and, in fact, knew almost as much of his affairs as he did himself. Beneath that open geniality of manner his deep-set eyes were examining and alert. When Page finished he removed his cigar and slanted his gaze towards the glowing end.
‘You’re on a sticky wicket, Henry. You’ve listed your assets. But suppose you go under … what are they worth? Your offices are out of date; all that old Adam terrace ought to be pulled down, you couldn’t raise a stiver on it. Your printing premises have some value, I admit, but that’s the Harbottle property, you only rent it. So nothing much doing there. As for your goodwill, who would give a brass farthing for it if the Chronicle puts you out of business?’
‘They won’t.’
‘So you say. But how have you made out so far? These fellows may not be very dignified, but they’re on the ball. And their paper isn’t altogether a rag. Doesn’t compare with the Light, of course.’ He inserted this hurriedly. ‘ But it gives … well … a different slant to the news.’ A reminiscent smile twitched his lips. ‘Yesterday there was a damn good report, juicy, of course, but amusing, on that libel case … you know, where that Italian count who’d been smuggling heroin and his lady-friend were caught naked in the bath.’
‘Yes,’ Page said bitterly. ‘They thrive on that … fraud and fornication … and libel. Good God, man, journalism is an honourable profession. There have been great men in it and there still are … men of intelligence and principle, with a real sense of their vocation and their duty to the public. But this fellow Nye … Can’t you see, to have this kind of paper running the town would be an abomination.’
‘Come, come, now, Henry. That’s putting it rather too strong. I’m only trying to show you what you’re up against. We saw Somerville’s yacht at Cannes last year, the missus and I, ocean-going, a tremendous affair.…’ His voice dropped to a lower register, turned conciliatory. ‘As a friend and neighbour I don’t like to see you cut your own throat. Why don’t you give up while there’s time? Be wise. Get out while you can. If you wish I’ll take a hand and see you still get your price.’
Henry saw that he meant to be helpful, that he spoke with the conviction that reason was on his side. But all the logic would not move him now. He was beyond it.
‘No. My mind is made up.’
Wellsby removed his cigar, curling a loose, moist leaf with his forefinger, but looking at Page from time to time, reviewing his opinion of him and apparently being forced to revise it in a light which, if one could judge by his expression, was perhaps more favourable. Could it be that he was softening? Henry’s anxiety, all the doubts, uncertainties, and humiliations he had recently experienced, became concentrated, grew suddenly to such a pitch that he was unable to speak. He waited, scarcely able to breathe. At last Wellsby said:
‘I always took you for a clever man, Henry, though, if you’ll forgive me, a bit of a milksop. Now I think you’re a damn fool, but at least you have guts. Let me say, off the record, that I admire you.’
‘Then let me have the loan. Twenty thousand pounds. From the beginning of next month.’
‘No, no. I can’t promise. I may talk it over with Holden and the others. We’ll let you know.’
‘When?’
‘Later … later.’
Wellsby got up from his chair, made a vague gesture with his hand, indefinitely waving Henry away. The boot manufacture
r had, in truth, been considering his own position in the matter. For some time now, feeling himself a very big fish in the backwaters of Hedleston, he had been moved by the urge to swim in wider oceans, or, to be more explicit, to stand for Parliament and become known to the nation as Sir Archibald Wellsby, M.P. Resolved to run at the next election, he was well aware of the need of the local paper’s support. But would this be the Light or the Chronicle? Almost certainly the latter. Why then let sentiment interfere? A loan under such circumstances would be preposterous.
Though it was well concealed, something of this train of thought showed in Wellsby’s face, and the hope which Henry had begun to entertain died coldly. He saw refusal in Wellsby’s eyes, an impression confirmed by the excessive cordiality with which the other patted him on the shoulder, squeezed his elbow, inquired solicitously after Alice, and showed him to the door.
Useless to deny that this rebuff had set a heavy oppression on Page. At the same time, by some strange counterbalance of the spirit, his mood became more stubbornly set, his mind more determinedly active in seeking ways and means of carrying on the struggle. He would go on, on, on. Even if the bank would not advance on the Light offices, the Hedleston Building Society must surely prove more amenable and offer something on the freehold. But, as this would take time, he must first of all ask Alice to raise a mortgage on the house. It was something he shrank from, but he would do it. The more opposition he met, the more his resolution strengthened, the more there persisted in him the extraordinary faith that he would win.
God knows he had need of it. He had not been back in his room five minutes before Maitland came in.
‘It appears,’ he said, ‘we’ll be one short for the conference from today. Balmer has gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘Left … quit … skedaddled … whichever you prefer. Here is his resignation.’
Henry stared blankly at the envelope Maitland threw on the desk. Yet he should not have been surprised. Balmer had been increasingly difficult lately; he had not been getting on well with him.