The Northern Correspondent

by Jean Stubbs

  He popped a large forkful of meat and suet crust into a cavernous mouth, chewing reflectively.

  Ambrose resumed eating, but slowly and without zest. He endeavoured to match his companion’s easy flow of conversation.

  ‘So you were brought up a radical?’ he observed. ‘When did you become a Tory?’

  ‘When I got my first job on a Tory paper! Besides, radicals are forever sticking their necks out, wanting to run before they can walk. Can’t wait for things to take their natural course. Always push, push, push. Oh, times are changing. We all know that. But they won’t change overnight, nor next year neither. It’s no good knocking your head against the door because it won’t open when you want it to!’

  Again he paused. Again launched another broadside.

  ‘But then, you’re not what I’d call a full-blooded radical, are you? I’ve seen you turn against them, before now, if their ideas weren’t quite to your liking. Aye, The Clarion was a popular little paper, no doubt about it. Folk enjoyed seeing the local bigwigs slip on your banana skins. It’ll be interesting to see what you make of The Correspondent. None of my business, mind, but if you’re aiming at a wide market you need a strong line and a firm policy. They want more than a joker and a fence-sitter out there.’ Then genially, ‘Are you thinking of keeping The Recorder on?’

  ‘I hadn’t really thought about it at all,’ said Ambrose coldly, declining to be drawn on that question.

  ‘Well, no problem there. I daresay there’s plenty of likely young radicals about who wouldn’t mind taking it over, provided you printed it for ’em for nothing!’ Sam remarked casually.

  He sopped up his gravy with a bit of bread. His tone altered, became hospitable, persuasive.

  ‘Now, how about a slice of apple pie to finish, Mr Longe? Could you manage that? Walter! Apple pie for two, and a ladle of cream on each of ’em!’

  He lifted the bottle to the light and squinted at the level.

  ‘Shall we see this bottle off, then, Mr Longe? No, no! Put that brass back into your pocket! I’m doing the treating. Today is by way of being a special occasion. The opening round, as you might say.’

  NINE: A SHREWD ASSESSMENT

  ‘He was pleasant. He was frank. He was sensible,’ said Ambrose, in the parlour of Thornton House. ‘Then having called the tune, he paid the piper.’

  He had reported every remark except the one relating to herself.

  ‘In short, he bested me!’

  He leaned on the mantelshelf and stared moodily into the fire.

  Naomi had put aside the letter she was writing and listened carefully. Now she rang the bell for tea.

  ‘You were on his territory, at his invitation,’ she replied. ‘When he is on your territory, you shall best him. But he is a formidable man. If I must choose who shall be my enemy — your uncle the ironmaster or Mr Pickering — I hesitate, yes. But Mr Pickering I do not choose.’

  Whenever she was particularly disturbed or concerned, her phrases betrayed a foreign influence which made Ambrose smile.

  ‘Well, I haven’t any choice at all, my dear Miss Bloom,’ he answered lightly. ‘They are both my enemies! At least Sam Pickering plays an open game.’

  ‘No, no, he does not,’ she answered vehemently. ‘He is deep, this Mr Pickering. Very deep. And he has no vanity, like your uncle. That is a great strength. It means that he must be convinced, that he cannot be persuaded.’

  She mused, leaning back in her armchair, hands clasped in her lap. Though she had been expecting no one to call, she wore an evening gown and a full complement of jewels. Which also made him smile.

  ‘If I were in your place,’ said Naomi, at length, ‘I should wonder what reason he has for talking to you, because he would only tell you what he wished you to know.’

  ‘In other circumstances, we could have been friends,’ said Ambrose, brooding. ‘I have always disliked my uncle and everything he stands for, but somehow I cannot dislike Sam Pickering.’

  She was up in arms at once, gesticulating.

  ‘Like? Dislike? What does that matter? Friendship is based on mutuality and trust. How can you be friends? Love your enemy if you must, but know him for what he is — your enemy!’

  The maid’s knock at the door silenced her. She transferred her attention to the spirit-kettle, eyebrows drawn darkly together.

  ‘Well then, what was my enemy’s purpose today?’ said Ambrose peaceably, accepting tea. ‘Naive as it may seem to you, I thought he was being sociable. However, I appear to be ill informed on the subject of enemies, Miss Bloom. Pray do hold forth!’

  She was quiet again, reflective.

  ‘Of course, he would wish to find out what kind of man you were,’ she began. ‘Until this morning, you were only a newspaper and your uncle’s prejudice. And then, you are bound to meet. After all, your offices are on opposite sides of the road.’

  ‘Did you arrange that especially?’ he asked, grinning.

  She ignored the remark.

  ‘You say that he made you feel of no importance? Well, that would suit the purpose of a small-minded man, but for Mr Pickering it is not reason enough. How does a buyer act when he wants something?’ The expressive gestures of hands and shoulders were again in evidence. ‘Does he say, “That is a most beautiful jewel, and I must have it at any cost?” No. He purses his lips. He frowns. He shrugs.’ All mimed. ‘Then he points out a flaw — it does not matter how small — because the flaw makes it appear cheap! Remember that a flaw must be present, or there is nothing to bargain about. Remember, also, that the jewel is worth a great deal, or he would not be bargaining at all. So, Mr Longe. Find your jewel, identify your flaw, and there is his reason.’

  Ambrose set down his tea untasted. His face looked thin. His linen was as immaculate as ever, but showing signs of wear. His brown frock-coat and trousers, though elegant and well brushed, were in the fashion of a previous decade.

  ‘Deuce take it! I never had to think twice about the machinations of Arnold Thwaites!’ he remarked, only half-humorously.

  ‘Why should you think of him even once?’ she cried, taking his words literally. ‘Mr Pickering would not be afraid of him!’ She leaned forward, coaxing his appetite with a plate of delicacies. ‘Will you not eat a few little cakes? They are so very little!’

  ‘But so very rich,’ Ambrose replied, smiling. For he knew her ploys to distract him. ‘Thank you. Yes. Afraid, did you say?’

  ‘But of course afraid!’ Her tone was scornful. ‘Did he trouble to acquaint himself with the editor of The Clarion? No! “This is the editor of The Northern Correspondent,” he said to the waiter. And yet both editors are the same man. He fears what you could make of The Correspondent. Remember who employs him. What will happen to him if your newspaper does better than The Herald? That thought has certainly occurred to him, and troubles him deeply.’

  The lines on Ambrose’s forehead had not entirely vanished.

  ‘He hit me hard, you know, saying I was not a full-blooded radical. Suggesting I had no firm policy.’

  ‘He meant to hurt you. And did he speak the truth?’

  ‘I suppose he did. It depends what value you place on an open mind. Sam Pickering believes in being a Party man, which has a simpler and more popular appeal. I say what I believe to be right, whether it’s got a Party label on it or not. Sam Pickering will support Tory policy and William Howarth M.P. even if he thinks they’re both wrong! And that’s about the size of it.’

  ‘This Recorder he mentioned. What of this?’

  ‘Well, it is a newspaper for working people, simply written and produced for their benefit. No frills and straight politics. To be honest, it is somewhat old-fashioned. Sad to think that the truth — as one always believes it to be! — must conform to fashion like anything else. Sam Pickering was quite right when he said it could be taken over by any young radical, provided I printed it free! In fact, it probably needs newer blood than mine in its veins!’

  She did not answer at once, sippin
g tea and watching him. She was obscurely grateful to Sam Pickering. The subject of The Recorder had been one on which she felt she could not question him. Politically, she did not care one way or the other. Business-wise, she was anxious that The Correspondent should have the best of his time and ability, and be in no way hampered by a secondary concern.

  ‘On the other hand,’ Ambrose continued, ‘he is right in thinking The Clarion was lightweight, and that The Correspondent must be handled with authority and conviction.’

  She set the problem before him as enticingly as though it were a plate of rich little cakes.

  ‘I have no objection if you make The Correspondent a radical newspaper. I tell you, I invest money for a return. I do not mind the nature of the investment.’

  He felt uncomfortably full, as though he had eaten every crumb.

  ‘But that would narrow the field of The Correspondent as I perceive it.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Eyebrows raised.

  ‘Oh, yes. I see it on far broader lines. I see it as a newspaper which is able to be independent of all parties, reporting news from every side without fear or favour. I see it as a newspaper which will be widely respected because it does not court popular prejudice and because it can be relied upon to give a fair hearing to anyone.’

  He paused a moment, remembering, and said frankly, ‘It hit me, though, that Sam Pickering’s father used to read the original Correspondent. He was the sort of reader my mother wrote for — the self-educated working man. And then, my parents showed such courage. Their paper was written, printed and distributed at the risk of being imprisoned or transported for life. It makes my present notion of the newspaper seem like a cowardly compromise.’

  ‘How very clever of Mr Pickering!’ Naomi answered quietly.

  They were both silent then: he thinking hard, she observing him. He drank up his cold tea, rose, and returned his cup to the tray, thinking aloud.

  ‘All my life I have revered and loved my mother above all other people — had you known her, you would not wonder at that confession. Yet I fear that I take after my father, who was a likeable fellow but something of a failure at close quarters!’

  He faced her, saying, ‘Consequently, I cannot hold myself in high esteem, and in the very moment that I seem most sure of success I am most deeply afraid of failure. It was a great deal safer, my dear Miss Bloom, to starve with The Clarion than to risk running The Correspondent. There is my flaw, and no doubt Sam Pickering perceived it. For he is one of those dogged fellows who never doubts himself.’

  Naomi’s smile lit her face, but still she did not speak.

  ‘However, that is old history,’ he said more cheerfully. ‘Whether I succeed or not, I have a vision of what The Northern Correspondent could be, and I shall endeavour to realise it. Pray remember, my dear Miss Bloom, that I warned you I was a shaky investment!’

  ‘Mr Pickering and I have a belief in common,’ she answered calmly. ‘We envisage a newspaper that will outrival The Herald.’

  For a moment, his face reflected his emotions of relief and humility. The next moment, these were masked by dry amusement.

  ‘And I will hand over The Recorder to someone else!’

  Her expression changed.

  ‘For how much?’ asked Naomi, interested.

  ‘My dear Miss Bloom, no one would give me a penny for it. It is a financial and legal liability. It is not even supposed to be printed. I have lain in Millbridge jail before now, because…’

  She lifted one hand like a prophet of old.

  ‘Enough!’ she said, once more disappointed in him.

  He threw back his head and laughed as he had not laughed for a long time. She sat very upright, very handsome, frowning with incomprehension. His humour was alien to her.

  ‘Oh, do forgive me,’ Ambrose gasped, wiping his eyes, ‘but I find your attitude absolutely priceless, Miss Bloom.’

  ‘I wonder why?’ she answered, genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Well, never mind. Pray don’t be offended. You do me so much good. I am so much obliged to you in so many ways.’

  He kissed the hand that had admonished him.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ambrose said sincerely. ‘God bless you.’

  She was touched and pleased. She withdrew her hand, but smiled.

  ‘What an utter ass I am,’ Ambrose continued, striding about the parlour, shaking his head at his own stupidity. ‘Here you are, investing a small fortune in me and my newspaper, and all I can do is fetch my fears and woes to you — and eat too many cakes! I should be reassuring you that all is well and nothing can fail!’

  Naomi murmured to herself, ‘He should reassure me?’

  He stopped in front of her.

  ‘I am deeply and humbly aware of your generosity, your wisdom and your forbearance, madam.’

  ‘Such compliments!’

  ‘I shall endeavour at all times to do justice to your confidence in us — in me and my newspaper.’

  ‘Fine speeches!’

  ‘And even without the vast sum I could have procured from the sale of The Recorder…’

  ‘I knew it!’

  ‘…I say with confidence that your money shall eventually be returned to you, with interest!’

  ‘Do you know how much interest?’ Gazing intently upon him.

  ‘Doubtless it is written into the contract. What matter whether it be ten, twenty or even one hundred per cent?’

  ‘You hear him?’ Hands raised to heaven.

  ‘And until that blessed day, madam, when you will be free to help other struggling provincial editors, let us enjoy the prospect of the battle before us!’

  ‘Before you, Mr Longe. I play no part, remember, in the running of the newspaper.’

  But he could not let her get away with such a hypocrisy.

  ‘My dear Miss Bloom, what have you been doing this very evening but reviving its editor’s faith in himself, resolving the paper’s problems and helping to decide its future policy? Let us have no more of this feminine pretence. I am well versed in the ways of strong-minded women. My family has produced many a matriarch.’

  ‘I am not a matriarch!’

  ‘Not yet, madam, but you have all the makings of one. No doubt some enterprising king of industry will carry you off — but not yet, pray God, not yet. The Correspondent deserves a run for your money.’

  ‘Mr Longe!’ she cried, in warning. ‘You go too far.’

  She stood up. She twitched the stiff silk skirt of her gown into position. She pulled the bell-rope.

  ‘Deuce take it, Miss Bloom, I was only joking,’ said Ambrose, abashed. ‘Though joking in earnest, for all that.’

  ‘I shall not marry,’ cried Naomi passionately. ‘I shall never marry. Marriage is not for me.’

  He shrugged, nonplussed at such a serious rejoinder to his fun.

  ‘I thought that women always wanted to marry, no matter what.’

  ‘Then you see before you one who does not, no matter what.’

  The parlour-maid removed the tea-things and fetched his overcoat.

  In the hall he held out his hand. Naomi’s frown disappeared. She came forward and clasped the hand frankly and firmly, like a man.

  ‘Shall I tell you why I remain single, Mr Longe?’

  ‘By all means, Miss Bloom.’

  ‘Because I choose not to marry, not to change a way of life which pleases me, not to merge myself in another person, not to risk losing life itself in the bearing of more life. Most women have no choice. A woman of independent means and mind is more fortunate. I choose liberty, Mr Longe.’

  Amazed, Ambrose asked, ‘But what of love, Miss Bloom?’

  ‘Love costs too much.’

  He nodded. She had expressed his lifetime’s philosophy in a few words. He was dumb with admiration. Holding his top hat under one arm, he spoke again, as one who consults an oracle.

  ‘Why does everyone else not know that, Miss Bloom?’

  She answered darkly, ‘Because they do not think, Mr Lon
ge. They worship a graven image of love, and expect it to solve all their problems. Whereas it merely causes greater ones. And then, having made life impossible for its victims, it leaves them!’

  They were his own beliefs again, succinct and clear.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Ambrose. ‘What an astonishing woman you are!’

  ‘Besides,’ said Naomi, ‘why should I give my property to a man? Why should I let a man use my money?’

  He burst out laughing again.

  ‘I do not think money is such an amusing matter!’ she chided him.

  She saw that his great-coat had worn thin, and regretted the fact. She spoke in a different tone.

  ‘We should raise your salary, Mr Longe. I do not mean to keep you poor while my money is repaid.’

  ‘We’ll keep me exactly as I am, Miss Bloom,’ he replied grimly. ‘Remember you do not own me and my newspaper. You are an investor.’

  Surprisingly, her face softened.

  ‘Was Mr Pickering able to make you doubt me as well as yourself?’ she asked, smiling. ‘Ah! He is very clever, that one. Very subtle. You should watch him carefully. Goodnight, Mr Longe.’

  TEN: ONE OF THOSE GOLDEN DAYS

  The time when Ambrose Longe acted as general dogsbody of The Clarion was over. This Monday morning he sat at his desk in 21 Middleton Street, presiding over a meeting with his three most important members of staff: Frank Ormerod, head printer, from the Manchester Exchange Herald; Bob Bullock, overseer, formerly a compositor on the Manchester Observer; and Charlie Ainsworth, reporter, trained on the Manchester Chronicle.

  These men had been chosen not only for their ability, but also for the experience gained on three major and entirely different provincial newspapers. Each man had improved his salary and his status by coming to The Correspondent, and was as keen as Ambrose to make a success of this venture. Two of them had brought wives and children. One had brought his bride. And all had uprooted themselves to move more than sixty miles from the place in which they had been born and bred.