The Northern Light

  Alice straightened the cushion at her back and, as she had failed to get on with the crossword, picked up her needlepoint for the third time. But the stitching tried her eyes – in any case she was already tired of the design and had decided to give it to Hannah to finish in her spare time. Trying to settle her mind, she set out a game of patience. But again it was no use, the disappointments of the evening had been too upsetting, and compelled by a growing sense of self-pity, she fell into one of her dreams, filled not, tonight, with yearnings for the future, but with extravagant recollections of the past. While she sat there with the cards still in her hand, memories crowded upon her as she dwelt longingly upon those days of her girlhood when life was bright and carefree.

  How happy she had been then, at Banksholme, the little estate her father had bought in East Lothian when they moved from Morningside Terrace, so quiet and countrified, with views of the Forth and the Bass Rock, yet near to the amenities and attractions of the capital. Their circle of friends was wide and distinguished – her father, even before his promotion to the Court of Session, was one of the most popular K.C.s at the Edinburgh Bar – and although the death of her mother, when Alice was seventeen, cast a temporary shadow upon the family, Rose, her elder sister, had adapted herself capably to the duties of housekeeper and hostess. Ah, then the future was full … full of promise. Did she ever imagine that her life would turn out like this, or that her marriage, from which she had expected so much, would lapse into a humdrum provincial routine climaxed by neglect and – one could no longer doubt it – financial disaster?

  Tears smarted in Alice’s eyes as she re-enacted her first meeting – so unpredictable, yet so fateful – with Henry. At the University – which she was attending, not to take a degree, but simply because an arts course was ‘the recognized thing’ for girls of her station in life – he wasn’t in anything like her set, made up of all the nicest young people in her year. How gay they all were when, after the forenoon lecture, arm-in-arm and chattering like magpies, they would walk along Princes Street to lunch at MacVittie Guest’s, always at the same round table kept for them at the window by the waitress from Perth with the curly black hair – what was her name again? – yes, Lizzie Dewar, that was it, a nice girl if there ever was one, and knew her place, too. And afterwards there was always something interesting and exciting; she would tear around, very much in the swim, arranging the next Union Dance or the Debating Society meeting with Queen Margaret College.

  It was the debate that made her speak to Henry, then a shy, quiet, awkward youth whom nobody took much account of – although he had written one or two good pieces for the students’ magazine. Because of this she asked him to suggest a subject for discussion, and to give her a few ideas for her introductory address … goodness knew she had never pretended to be clever at that sort of thing. He did this so willingly that somehow she had wanted to take an interest in him – she had found out that he was in lodgings and very much on his own. So she asked him out to Banksholme.

  And then, of course, he was asked again and they were taking long walks together on the links at Gullane, not golfing, for he played no games at all, but just talking, often of the oddest things. Occasionally, when it showered, they would shelter in a bunker, sitting together, looking out across the Firth. He wasn’t the demonstrative kind, which pleased her, for she could never bear to be pushed about … never. And afterwards they’d have a high tea with bannocks, shortbread, and black bun at a run-down little place he liked called the Neuk, on the North Berwick road, beside the old flour mill.

  Then they’d go home and her father, back from the Court in Edinburgh, or his Highland circuit, if he’d been away longer, would smack Henry on the shoulder and joke with him: ‘Young man, isn’t it about time you told me your intentions were strictly dishonourable?’ Then they’d have long discussions, political, or about books, her father drawing Henry out, and afterwards, when Henry had gone back to his digs in Belhaven Crescent, she’d catch her father’s eye fixed on her, and he’d say, ‘There something in that young man, Alice. If you’ve any sense at all, you’ll hang on to him.’

  And she did believe in Henry, although she couldn’t but see that he wasn’t at all her style. Yet she felt she could help him socially, and in every other way, to make a name for himself, and when, quite suddenly, old Mr Page became ill and he had to leave the University to go back to Hedleston to the paper, at the last minute, just before he left, they were engaged. But oh, little did she imagine that after more than twenty years of loyalty and devotion she would find herself passed by and put aside, by a husband who at times seemed almost unaware of her existence.

  Alice was again on the verge of tears when she heard the front door open. She had barely time to compose herself, put away the cards and take up her work, before Henry came into the room.

  ‘You’re still up?’ he said, as though surprised. ‘Is Dorothy in?’

  ‘She went to bed long ago.’ Alice glanced meaningly at the clock on the mantelpiece, which showed a quarter past ten, adding, with imposed restraint, ‘ I was beginning to worry about, you.’

  ‘Didn’t they tell you from the office?’ He sat down with a tired air, shading his eyes against the light. ‘I’ve been to Sleedon.’

  ‘Indeed.’ That one word seemed sufficient – she said nothing more.

  ‘David wasn’t there. He’d gone to see Dr Evans … I don’t think it’s too serious, though. I’ll ring Scarborough in the morning. But Cora was rather down, poor girl, so I stayed with her for a bit.’

  Alice took a few quick stitches, doing them all wrong. Although she kept her head down she felt the blood run into her face. So that was how he’d spent the last five hours! She tried to keep her voice calm.

  ‘Surely you were there rather a long time.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I was. We took a walk on the pier, then she insisted on making supper. She game me a wonderful spread, too. And afterwards we sat talking by the fire.’

  The quiet, almost off-hand way he said it made Alice think he was trying to pull the wool over her eyes, and she burned inside. She’d suspected for some time that his feeling for Cora was growing out of all reason and proportion. From the first moment when she had appeared on the doorstep, with that soft, clinging look, that ‘I want to be loved’ appeal in her eye, he had always doted on her, taken her part, given her things, utterly spoiled her. But now he had really gone too far. That he had been with her, in the cottage, the two of them together all evening long, while she remained neglected at home was nothing short of scandalous. Alice made up her mind. She must speak, once and for all, and put a stop to it. But as she looked up she found his eyes fixed on her in a strange and almost humble manner. Before she could utter a word, he said:

  ‘Alice, dear … there’s something I have to talk to you about … a matter of business that’s on my mind. It’s late, but will you bear with me if I do so now?’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked instinctively, forgetting Cora for the moment.

  ‘You know’ – he hesitated – ‘that when I bought the house, I put it in your name. I wanted you to have something. Now … I’m afraid I need your help. I’ve put it off as long as I could. I’d rather do anything than ask you … but you realize what I’m up against. I must have ready money. And if you sign this document I can raise a substantial sum on mortgage.’

  Still looking at her, he took a paper from his inside pocket and smoothed it on his knee. For a full minute Alice was speechless. Then such a rush of indignation came over her she could scarcely stand it. She began to tremble all over.

  ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’ she said. ‘ Even to mention such a thing …’

  He had his head bent, supporting it with his hand.

  ‘Yes … in a way, I suppose I am. I feel very badly about it.’

  ‘And well you might. Whatever I’ve thought of you I never believed you would give a thing and then ask it back.’

  ‘But surely, Alice’ – leaning fo
rward, he spoke in a patient way that exasperated her more than ever – ‘you appreciate the position I’m in.’

  ‘I should think I do! For months past, you’ve been bringing us to rack and ruin … after refusing a marvellous offer that would have taken us out of this dreary hole for good, on the most favourable terms. But no, you had to go on in your own stubborn, selfish way. Even now, when you’re just about finished and bankrupt, you’re not content. You want to take the very roof from over our heads and land us in the street.’

  ‘No, Alice …’

  ‘The house is the one shred of security that’s left us. And you’re trying to wheedle it out of me so that you can throw it away with the rest.’

  He gave a long, difficult sigh.

  ‘It’s hard for you, Alice. But try to understand, I beg of you. How could any man let himself be coerced and bullied out of his rights? I couldn’t submit to it then. And I can’t give up now. Even if I am beaten, though I still feel I won’t be, I must go on to the end.’

  ‘To the end, indeed.’ Her voice was breaking. ‘And what about Dorothy and me?’

  He looked away and did not answer. In a different tone, as though thinking aloud, he said:

  ‘Even at the worst I can always provide for you.’ Then, after a pause: ‘I thought, as my wife, you would see it differently.’

  ‘As your wife! Do you treat me as your wife, except when you want something from me? All evening long I’ve sat here alone while you spent hours on end with that Cora creature in Sleedon.’

  He straightened up, slowly at first, as if not quite sure of what she meant, then with a sudden lifting of his head:

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. I’ve seen her looking at you with those big eyes of hers, pressing your hand when you’ve given her something, yes, mooning over you as though you were the most wonderful man in the world.’

  He looked startled, but said quickly:

  ‘That’s nonsense, Alice. But why shouldn’t she be fond of me … and I of her? She’s our daughter-in-law.’

  ‘Then you don’t deny it?’

  ‘I don’t want to deny it. I am terribly fond of Cora.’

  ‘In other words, you love her.’

  ‘If you put it that way, yes. After all, she’s one of the family.’

  ‘What an excuse!’ She could scarcely breathe, but she had to go on. ‘A child could see through it. Can’t you see you’re deluding yourself … getting more and more involved with her every day?’

  He looked at her pleadingly.

  ‘Don’t let us have a row, Alice. We have enough trouble on our hands.’

  ‘A row, you call it, when I’m only standing up for my position and trying to save you from yourself. I know how a man gets at your age …’

  ‘How can you say such a thing!’ He flushed deeply. ‘After the children, when you wanted your own room, I gave myself body and soul to the paper. I’ve never even looked at another woman. You know the moral climate we live in here, in this small town … what you suggest is unthinkable …’

  ‘Not for Cora, it isn’t.’ Alice began to shake, the words came faster and faster. ‘ You may say I’m prejudiced, I’ve never liked her, but there’s something about her … she’s a common woman and I’m not sure if she’s a good one. She’s got too much sex … I can tell, for you know how I hate that sort of thing. She’d take any man if she wanted him. If I’m not mistakes, she’d rather have you than David. And I don’t doubt that in your heart you’d rather her than me.’

  Henry’s mouth opened in a shocked fashion, then shut again. It frightened Alice to see how badly she had hurt him. His face was so white, as if this was something he’d never even thought of before, but which now he’d never get out of his head, that suddenly she couldn’t stand it any longer. She wanted to scream, knew she was going to have one of her ‘ turns,’ and wanted to have it. Her eyelids began to quiver, and her cheek to twitch. She felt herself go stiff all over, and before she could get up, her heels were drumming on the floor.

  Hurriedly, Henry crossed the room and bent over her.

  ‘Don’t, Alice, please … not so loud … you’ll wake Dorothy.’

  ‘Oh … Henry … Henry …’

  ‘Be calm, Alice … you know how these attacks distress you.’

  At the sight of his pale, worried face so close to her a change of feeling came over Alice, a reversal so characteristic and complete that she flung her arms round his neck.

  ‘I don’t care. I deserve it. I’m a jealous, thoughtless woman … but I had to … I had to speak … Forgive me, Henry. I’ll do anything for you … work for you, starve for you … go through fire and water … anything. You know what I went through having the children. You know I suffered, Henry, I’m so small. Dr Bard could tell you. What does it say … into the shadow of death? It was for you, Henry. Ever since I saw you in Professor Scott’s lecture room I knew you were the one. You remember the Neuk, don’t you, Henry, and the bannocks, and the links at Gullane? I’ll sign the paper. I want to. I want to. Give me it now … and a pen, quick … quick.’

  ‘In the morning, Alice. You’re too … too tired now.’

  Her hair had come unloosed; another paroxysm seemed imminent, but fortunately, a moment before, Hannah had returned from her day’s outing and now, without pausing to remove her things, she came into the room. Immediately, with the prudent and impassive resourcefulness distinguished her, she brought the smelling salts and some aromatic vinegar, then, in silence and without the slightest fuss, she helped Henry to restore Alice to a state of calm.

  ‘There now, Mrs Page,’ she said finally. ‘ Just lie still awhile, then you can get up to your bed.’

  ‘Thank you, Hannah. You’re very good to me,’ Alice murmured. ‘You’re all good to me.’

  She smiled up at Henry. Everything was changed now; in the soft glow of reaction she wanted with all her heart to do what he wished, to obey him in everything. She rested on the couch for some minutes, then, while Hannah went to the kitchen and heated some milk, he assisted her upstairs. When the milk was brought she was in bed. She drank it gratefully, her hand still shaking a little, so that she almost spilled some on the newly cleaned eiderdown. Afterwards she swallowed the triple bromide Henry gave her. Then, after Hannah had gone, she said, very quietly, in a low voice, almost a whisper:

  ‘The paper, Henry.’

  He looked at her in that same queer way, then, without speaking, produced the paper and uncapped his fountain pen. Lying sideways on the pillows, Alice signed her name on the line where there was a pencilled cross.

  ‘There, Henry. You see what I do for you. Goodnight, dear, and God bless you.’

  When he switched off the light and left the room she closed her eyes. She felt peaceful and relieved, purified too, knowing that she had done her duty. She fell asleep immediately, thinking, of all things, of old Miss Taggart, who kept the Neuk Tea Rooms on the North Berwick road and who wore a cairngorm brooch in the shape of a thistle.

  Chapter Eleven

  Some weeks later, just after ten o’clock on June 21st, a date which was to become important, Leonard Nye entered the executive offices of the Chronicle in the new Prudential Building. In the morning Nye was never communicative – he did not answer the greeting that Peter, the youth who operated the switchboard, gave him. As he went along the corridor, Smith, who had heard him come in, called through his open doorway.

  ‘Is that you, Leonard?’ Then louder: ‘I want to see you.’

  Nye ignored the throbbing appeal. Smith’s attempts at authority, infrequent though they had become, were best stifled at birth. If he wanted advice, or an ear into which to pour his increasing lamentations, Nye decided that he could come and find him.

  He went to his own side of the office, a pleasant, airy room overlooking Victoria Gardens, which he had made comfortable with leather armchairs, a television set, and a couch. This last, ordered in a rare moment of optim
ism, had proved a somewhat unprofitable investment.

  Nye’s manner this morning, although apparently as casual as ever, revealed a certain inner tension which seemed heightened by anticipation. In fact, even as he peeled off his wash-leather gloves, he went straight to the desk and, standing there, flipped rapidly through his mail, as though expecting a communication of particular importance. One letter, in a buff envelope, marked ‘ Office of the Borough Surveyor’ and stamped on the back with the borough arms, seemed to be the object of his search. He took it up quickly, ripped it open with his thumb. As he read it a look of satisfaction spread over his face.

  ‘Good,’ he said to himself. It was just as he’d expected; in fact, as he’d foreseen. After reading it again, more slowly, he put the letter carefully in his wallet, then lit a cigarette and, standing by the window, inhaling the smoke deeply, gave himself up to serious thought. After a few minutes he nodded, swung round, and settled himself at his desk to run through the rest of his mail, which apparently contained nothing of consequence. Finally, he turned to the newspapers, taking the Light first and leaving the Chronicle to the last – its format was now practically standard and, in any case, he knew exactly what had gone into it. He’d just got through an article by Henry on the season’s musical programme in the park, which caused him to smile ironically, when the door swung open and Smith plunged in.