by Jean Stubbs
This must have happened a dozen times or more, and each time they went through the same process. To combat the pain and soothe the patient, they gave Dorcas small doses of opium. They administered the homely remedy of rhubarb and magnesia. They injected the saline solution. An apprentice to these sorcerers, the lad hovered between attending to the temperature of the blanket cave and the temperature of the solution and filled up the spirit lamp when the flame faltered.
Each time this routine occurred, Jamie checked his watch. As late morning became late afternoon, he noted that she was suffering less and lasting longer between bouts. Their ministrations were taking effect. Whereas the girl should now have been in convulsions, she was dozing, albeit restlessly. The two doctors dared to hope. Evening came, and the purging and vomiting had almost ceased. Towards midnight she lay clean and comfortable at last, and being no longer plagued fell fast asleep in her warm nest.
Now Harold Bailey and his assistant took themselves back to the cholera hospital, but Jamie Standish stayed, dozing in an armchair on one side of his patient’s bed while Sarah Pratt dozed on the other. From time to time, he got up to replenish the spirit lamp or take the temperature of Dorcas’s little cave, to feel her pulse and put a hand upon her forehead, smiling slightly as he listened to the state of her body and heard the right sounds.
November’s national figures for cholera were not a quarter as great as those of October. By the end of December only three hundred cases were reported in the British Isles, and none of these was from Wyndendale.
The spring of 1833 seemed to be the most beautiful the valley could remember, but that had little to do with the weather.
Those who had survived the cholera discovered life to be a most precious gift, and began to renew themselves. There would be an abundant crop of marriages and babies that year. A kinder harvest to reap.
In the grey light of a late March afternoon, Jamie Standish rode up Rectory Lane, showing every symptom of the most infectious and contagious disease known to man. His pallor, his dry mouth, his palpitating heart and rapid pulse and shallow breath, a certain queasiness of the stomach, and a continual movement of the lips as though he were repeating some magical phrase over and over again, bore witness to the gravity of his complaint.
Yet he had hopes of both palliative and cure: clutching, in one cold hand, a basket of primroses for the dark and lovely Dorcas Pole.
PART TWO: IN CIRCULATION, 1833-1834
EIGHT: THE OPENING ROUND
January, 1833
In Lower Millbridge, on the left-hand corner of the crossroads, you would find The Lancashire Herald at No. 38 Cornmarket. On the right-hand corner stood another building which might have been its twin. These three storeys of grimy brick, with a damp cellar and two spidery garrets, faced on to a different road and so were called No. 21 Middleton Street. At the height of the cholera epidemic Naomi Blüm cast a favourable eye upon this property, which was cheap enough, the owner being on the verge of bankruptcy and glad to sell. Still, she liked to bargain, and in the late summer of 1832 she obtained the premises and freehold very reasonably indeed.
Cleaners scrubbed and fumigated the house throughout. Carpenters and painters transformed a neglected dwelling into an efficient set of offices. The place swarmed with workmen, and Naomi inspected their progress daily. Even in the midst of uncertainty and death her nerve remained steady, her business sense unblunted. She ordered a new Napier double-cylinder printing press.
‘But we may never live long enough to open, Miss Bloom!’ cried Ambrose, aghast at such industry.
‘We act as though we shall, Mr Longe!’ Naomi replied.
Her expression was a curious compound of derision and pity.
‘How sheltered all you English are,’ she observed, ‘on your safe little island. So the cholera may strike? Well, it may not! My father’s race are born to trouble. They wake at dawn, knowing that they may not see night fall. Every joy casts a long shadow. Death can be the kindest friend, and life the worst enemy. Still, they endure. Let durance be your watchword, Mr Longe!’
Ashamed, amazed, he endured. Death passed close by, took his sister Cicely, nieces and nephews, friends and neighbours, but spared him. An unbeliever, Ambrose nevertheless attended the Service of Thanksgiving at St Mark’s on the first Sunday in the New Year, and sang as heartily and gratefully as any member of the congregation. Then, like the rest of Wyndendale, he prepared to start life anew.
On the second Tuesday in January, the final edition of The Clarion asked its readers to stay faithful, and promised them a better newspaper than ever before in The Northern Correspondent. The following day Ambrose helped to load his few possessions onto a cart, locked up the old shop for the last time, and rode with the carter to Middleton Street.
Swinging signs were long since out of fashion, but Ambrose and Naomi eschewed even brass plates in this progressive age. No. 21, being a corner building, had the advantage of two sides on which to advertise the newspaper. So just below the roof sixteen rows of brick were painted white, and upon them in huge black letters ran the legend THE NORTHERN CORRESPONDENT.
They would never have dared to commit such a vulgarity in the Old Town, but here it was new, brash and highly effective.
Sam Pickering stood at his office window on the first floor front, watching the removal and giving his moustache a meditative tug now and again. His light green eyes were thoughtful, but a little smile hovered on his lips. If the Longe fellow wanted a battle royal he should have it, and with this sort of backing they were now well matched. But what the devil was going on between him and Naomi Blüm? He was, like Sam himself, a sworn bachelor. She, apparently, liked to keep the reins in her own hands, providing the cash but making sure that it was spent well. Nor could anyone think they were in love. Not a bit of it! Very friendly, very brisk, never a word or a look wasted. Yet, in the end, they were man and woman still.
Aye, there she came, not far behind her protégé, in the private carriage she kept at the Royal George. Robed and furred against the January cold. That coat and muff had cost a pretty penny! How much was she worth? No one knew for sure. Hidden depths! She must have sunk two or three thousand into the venture already, and would need to act as banker and backer while The Correspondent found its feet and its readers. If it ever did! So she had money to spare. But she lived surprisingly modestly for a rich woman, her lifestyle being comfortable rather than extravagant.
He had hinted as much to the ironmaster, who replied by putting one finger to the side of his nose and saying, ‘Portable property, Sam! Jews don’t change their natures by wearing Christian coats. Miss Bloom comes of a race which has survived constant persecution. She is always ready to travel light, and carry her fortune in her pocket!’
Sam supposed she was handsome in her way. A fine figure of a woman. But her features were too strongly marked, her character too independent for his taste. He fancied the small, fair sort himself, with bright blue glances, winsome manners and harmless prattle. Not that he could afford such a luxury. The most innocent women tended to breed and to clamour for attention, and he couldn’t be tied up like that. No, he was married to The Herald, which meant he could fight with both hands free and his mind on the job, not be forever pulling his punches and looking over one shoulder.
Snow had fallen that morning, but only a thin covering still lay on roofs and tarpaulins and in drifts along the gutter. The rest had been trodden to grey slush. It was cold, though. He could see their breath smoking as they talked and looked up, admiring the name which ran round the top of the building. Aye, they’d got some brass to think up a cheeky idea like that. But then, they were starting behind the line. The Herald was already fifteen months ahead of them. Still, a right good idea! He expected the ironmaster would come foaming round to best them. Probably have The Lancashire Herald embossed in gold on the roof-slates of No. 38, or else in tiles down one corner! And he was none too pleased about Ambrose Longe’s change of fortune. It was a good thing that the ol
d warhorse had been elected Tory M.P. for Wyndendale. Kept him quiet for most of the time. Kept him down in London, too.
A breath of freedom filled Sam’s lungs at the thought. He pushed up a sash window and leaned out, hands planted squarely on the sill, crying, ‘Good morning, Miss Bloom! Good morning, Mr Longe!’
Naomi turned gracefully, smiled and inclined her head. Ambrose grinned and bowed very low. What a puppy the fellow was! High time he grew up. Well, The Correspondent would test his mettle all right.
‘I see we’re going to be neighbours,’ Sam remarked sarcastically, nodding at the legend as though he had only just caught sight of it.
‘Why, so we are!’ Ambrose replied in mock astonishment. ‘I didn’t notice your sign!’
‘Oh, la!’ Naomi murmured to herself, eyebrows raised.
Sam twirled one end of his moustache, unperturbed.
‘What have you done with that cubby-hole full of ironmongery in Market Place, Mr Longe?’ he asked drily. ‘Sold it for scrap?’
‘Too many pickings there for a scrap merchant,’ Ambrose replied, very cool. ‘I advised him to come down to you instead.’
‘Gentlemen!’ said Naomi pointedly, sternly. ‘I leave you to your business. Good day, Mr Pickering. Good day, Mr Longe!’
Slightly chastened, they watched her carriage return up the High Street. Sam was the first to break the silence.
‘It’s just after half-past eleven,’ he remarked, consulting his pocket watch. ‘If you’re going to get that lot sorted this afternoon, you’d best eat a good dinner first. Something as’ll stick to your ribs. How about joining me at Pendleton’s Chop-house?’
The world once more belonged to men.
‘Just give me five minutes to pay the carter and lock up!’ Ambrose replied cheerfully. ‘And I’m with you.’
Situated in Croft Street, off Cornmarket, Pendleton’s was one of those businesses which is a product of time and place. It had begun life as a modest pie-shop. Peggie Pendleton cooked, Harry served, and young Walter hawked the streets with a tray on his head. Over the years, business and the family increased. Harry bought the shop next door, enlarged the kitchen and extended the premises to take wooden tables and benches so that customers could eat there.
The shop now sold a variety of cold savoury delicacies to be taken away in paper bags. A side-window service was instituted in the kitchen, whereby poorer people could bring their plates and basins and be served directly from oven or cauldron. Finally, old Harry bought the shop on the other side, obtained a licence to sell beer, wines and spirits, and instituted a bar and a chop-house.
The little world of Millbridge was changing so rapidly that it was not a matter of swimming ahead so much as keeping abreast of a strong current. Pendleton’s coasted along with the 1830s. They were open before the factory whistles blew at six o’clock in the morning. They did not close until the last reveller had fallen in the gutter long past midnight. Though obliged through pressure of work and numbers to employ outside help, they were still a family business. Old Walter Pendleton, who had once carried a tray on his head, now carried it in his hands — and as chief waiter he ruled the staff, customers and customs of the chop-house. Daughters and nieces baked the mountains of hot and cold food. Sons and nephews acted as waiters, grandsons as errand-boys.
Pendleton’s catered for a wide circle of clients. Working men drank in the tap room while their wives fetched covered basins from the side-window. Business men dined and supped in the chop-house while their servants made purchases from the shop. Bachelors gratefully patronised all four establishments.
The two editors hung their hats and coats on a couple of pegs by the door and rubbed their hands in anticipation. After the grey cold of a January morning, the heat was a blessing. Being near the new gasworks, Pendleton’s had been among the first to install this modern form of lighting, and on that dull midday every lamp was ablaze. A mighty fire roared up the chimney-back at the far end of the room. Savoury smells, floating through the serving hatch from the kitchen, made their mouths water and their nostrils twitch.
‘If you get here before noon,’ said Sam Pickering, ‘you can choose your seat. Come half an hour later and you’ll either wait by the door or find somewhere else to have your dinner!’
The chop-house gave itself no airs, being a long, low room with a blackened ceiling and a flagged floor. Wooden tables and high-backed settles against the walls provided little hutches in which customers could eat, drink and talk with reasonable privacy. The Royal George in the Old Town might court its clientele with comely serving-maids offering handwritten menus, but Pendleton’s only employed waiters, who reeled off the day’s dishes as though they were joined together, and shouted their orders through the hatch.
The kitchen was most famous for its steak and kidney pies and puddings, but also did tasty stews of tripe and onions, succulent pig’s trotters, liverish black puddings and glutinous cow-heels. Only one vegetable was served with any dish, this being mashed potato, but you could have as much as you pleased. For dessert there was a standard choice of suet roly-poly with jam or treacle, rice pudding or apple pie, all served with cream from the Croft Street dairy.
Sam led the way to a table at the far corner of the room.
‘Quickest service here, and the coolest place,’ he explained. ‘You can run a temperature sitting atop of that blaze with one o’ Pendleton’s puddings inside you! And you can’t hear yourself talk if you’re too near the hatch!’
‘I can imagine,’ said Ambrose, fascinated. ‘I didn’t even know this place existed.’
‘No. Well. You’ve been up at the posh end of Millbridge, and that part of town is a dead duck as far as progress goes. I don’t know what reason you had for coming here, but you chose the right address. We may be a bit rough round the edges, but we’re alive and kicking. Oh yes. The Old Town’s all right for genteel folk with private incomes, but there’s no fresh blood there, and the social circles are as tight as a pig’s backside. Down here there are new people, new ideas, constant change. In short, my lad, the staple nourishment of journalism!’
A small, bald waiter stood before them, wearing old-fashioned knee breeches and buckled shoes. His shirtsleeves were rolled above the elbow. A clean, white apron was tied where his waist should have been.
‘Good morning, Walter!’ said Sam, very affable. ‘This gentleman is Mr Longe, the editor of The Northern Correspondent.’
Walter nodded and pursed his lips judiciously.
‘We’ll have a bottle of claret to start with,’ Sam continued, very easy and pleasant, ‘and what do you recommend today?’
‘Well, as the gentleman hasn’t been here before, Mr Pickering, I think he should try our steak and kidney pudding. They’re just being lifted out!’
‘Right you are, Walter. Two steak and kidney puddings it is!’
The bottle of claret and a couple of thick glasses appeared almost immediately. The noise, the heat and the activity of the chop-house were increasing with every minute. In the same easy and pleasant manner, Sam poured the wine and lifted his glass.
‘Here’s to The Northern Correspondent!’ he said. ‘Long life and health to her!’
‘That’s uncommonly generous of you,’ Ambrose replied, touched.
‘It’s all right,’ said Sam drily. ‘I’m looking forward to a good punch-up. I could hardly get going on The Clarion, now could I?’
‘You did your best,’ said Ambrose, equally dry. ‘Here’s to The Lancashire Herald, and long may we both battle!’
They clinked glasses and drank deeply.
‘Why did you refer to my newspaper as she?’ Ambrose asked.
‘The original paper was edited by a lady, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, by my mother. But as it was short-lived, and closed down forty years ago, I’m surprised you ever heard of it.’
‘I was the youngest of thirteen children,’ said Sam, ‘and my father was a weaver who taught himself to read and write. He always had som
e book open by the shuttle, so’s he could learn as he worked. He was a great radical, was Father. He belonged to one of those working-men’s groups — there were dozens of them, and they never seemed to do much but talk! Anyhow, he and seven other weavers used to club together, a farthing apiece, to buy their weekly copy of The Northern Correspondent. And Father chose to read it last because that meant he could keep it. How long did the paper run, by the way?’
‘Just over two years.’
‘Well, it had come and gone by the time I was born, but Father knew the editorials by heart. He used to quote bits to us. I was reared on The Northern Correspondent, in a manner of speaking.’
‘Well … I’m … damned!’
‘Small world, isn’t it?’ said Sam, watching him. ‘Here’s the steak and kidney pudding! Don’t let it get cold.’
There was little likelihood of that. The plates were sizzling.
‘So that’s why I always think of The Correspondent as a lady,’ Sam continued, speaking between mouthfuls. ‘Y.L.C. were the initials your mother used, if I recollect aright.’
‘You do indeed,’ said Ambrose, disarmed.
Sam wiped his mouth.
‘And now that the present newspaper is owned by another lady,’ he added, so casually that Ambrose was taken by surprise, ‘it seems to earn the female gender twice over. Whereas The Herald is a he. No doubt about that, either!’
Ambrose laid down his knife and fork. His bonhomie vanished along with his appetite.
‘Miss Bloom does not own my newspaper,’ he said coldly. ‘She has merely invested money in it, and will eventually be repaid.’
Sam’s face was expressionless, but his green eyes betrayed a twinkle and his appetite was unimpaired.
‘No need to get on your high horse about it,’ he remarked. ‘I don’t own The Herald and I never will. I don’t want to, neither. Let somebody else worry about the money side. Miss Bloom is a lady investor, then, though there’s nothing “mere” about the investment, from what I’ve heard! Still, what’s the difference? I tell you, Mr Longe, if The Herald was on the rocks, I’d take a shove from the devil to get it off again!’
