The Northern Correspondent

by Jean Stubbs

  Copies of every newspaper in the valley were spread before them, from the eighty-year-old Wyndendale Post to the two-year-old Garth Advertiser, and including the final edition of The Clarion.

  ‘With regard to layout,’ Ambrose was saying, ‘I want The Northern Correspondent to catch attention without clamouring for it. It should give the impression of being reliable and dignified, but never dull or pompous. We must interest readers outside the valley, without losing sight of the fact that we are primarily a local paper. We aim to appeal to, and cater for, intelligent and enquiring people in every walk of life — self-educated artisans, as well as professional and business men. Bearing this in mind, I welcome your suggestions and comments.’

  Frank Ormerod, the head printer, spoke first: a burly, florid fellow who looked older than his forty-two years.

  ‘I daresay I’m prejudiced, Mr Longe, but I don’t think you can beat The Exchange Herald for good looks. It’s half the size of the usual paper and twice as thick. Instead of having five or six narrow columns on each page, you’ve got three broad ones. I don’t like a crowded appearance to the print, myself. I wouldn’t like it as a reader, let alone a printer. I think it tends to put folk off. Gives them mental indigestion. This way, there’s just as much word space. And being smaller, it’s easier to hold.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ormerod,’ said Ambrose. ‘Would you like to fold this blank news-sheet into four, to show us how the paper would look compared to these others? Good. Now, who would like to speak next?’

  ‘I’m not against the size,’ said Bob Bullock, the overseer, ‘but the smaller a paper is, the more striking the masthead should be. You’ve got to shout The Northern Correspondent at them! The Observer has an eye on its masthead, as you know. I see you had a trumpet for The Clarion. Now I think the title should stand out — blackletter or condensed roman — with some such illustration either to one side or in the middle. Correspondent suggests a pen. What about a pen in an inkstand?’

  Ambrose took the dummy newspaper from Frank Ormerod, sketched three broad columns on the front page, printed the title in thick dark roman letters across the top, and drew a dummy stamp in the top righthand corner and a jaunty quill between NORTHERN and CORRESPONDENT.

  ‘Mr Ainsworth?’ he enquired of his reporter.

  ‘Well, that layout is different to the rest of the Wyndendale papers. No doubt about it!’ said young Charlie Ainsworth. ‘But it would be a deal livelier with a few woodcut blocks between the advertisements on the front page, and leaded columns.’

  Ambrose nodded. He held the dummy Correspondent and considered it at length, head on one side.

  Then he said, ‘I like this.’

  They accepted the statement in silence. He was the editor.

  He moved to other matters.

  ‘Now, the Liverpool-Leeds mail coaches go through Millbridge, so we shall get the Liverpool and the Irish papers direct. But the strength of a really good paper lies in its Parliamentary news. In Manchester, you have the advantage of an overnight express mail service from London, which means that London news arrives the following morning. I have made arrangements whereby an agent meets the express mail coach in Manchester and sends a full selection of London morning and evening papers on to us via the York Flyer. We shall thus be able to publish Thursday night’s Parliamentary debate in our Saturday morning issue. Which brings us in line with The Herald!’

  He reflected on this with some satisfaction, for The Herald had advertised itself ‘first and best’ with London and Parliamentary news from the beginning.

  ‘The usual ministerial documents and Manchester newspapers will arrive with them. So by Friday teatime, we should have all the latest intelligence. It will be our policy to acknowledge the sources of our information and to give credit to them. Political news will be reported in an unbiased and unprejudiced manner.’ He paused and added with a smile, ‘Even Mr Cobbett’s Political Register will be accorded a consideration he would not extend to any other paper!’

  They chuckled a little at that.

  ‘Foreign news!’ Ambrose announced, and they all sat forward. ‘We shall continue to use the foreign news quoted in the London press, but we now have our own sources as well. Miss Bloom, our chief investor, has family and business connections in most of the European capitals. Of course, these mails will be subject to the same delays and hazards as any other news from abroad, but they have the advantage of being personal and reliable — and The Herald cannot poach them!’

  They liked that.

  Young Charlie Ainsworth said, ‘It’s ridiculous, the way that the authorities deal — or don’t deal, I should say! — with foreign mail. The Channel crossing is a lot easier and faster than it used to be, now we’ve got steamships. If I was in power, I’d set up a public mail service between Dover and Calais that worked seven days a week. Right now, if the foreign news arrives at the weekend, you don’t get it for two or three days because there’s no delivery on Saturdays and Sundays — not unless you pay for a private express mail.’

  ‘Which we shall do,’ said Ambrose.

  ‘No expense spared, like?’ Bob Bullock asked.

  ‘Within reason, no.’

  Bullock pursed his lips and nodded. Frank Ormerod smoothed his chin and looked thoughtfully at the freshly painted ceiling. Charlie Ainsworth examined his shirt cuffs, which were a credit to his young wife’s laundering.

  ‘I like your notion of a steampacket mail service,’ Ambrose said to him. ‘I think that could well be one of The Correspondent’s personal campaigns. Which brings me to another important point. Though we give fair hearing to all parties, we are not simply a mouthpiece. We have concerns of our own. The Correspondent wants a better daily life for the majority. We shall take up cudgels for shorter working hours and better working conditions. We shall expose the inhumanities behind the Poor Law. We shall back social reform.’

  ‘Mr Longe,’ said Frank Ormerod judiciously, ‘might I make a point? Businessmen are an important part of our readership, and you’re making special provision for them — advertisements and Stock Exchange reports and so on. But they’re employers, Mr Longe, not workmen. They won’t like too much reform.’

  ‘They blooming well need it, though!’ Bob Bullock growled.

  ‘The Correspondent will assume that its business readers are good employers,’ Ambrose replied, smiling, ‘anxious for the welfare, and therefore the increased productivity, of their workers.’ But for a moment, his confidence faltered. ‘By George!’ he added. ‘It’s going to be damned difficult to strike the right balance!’

  Frank Ormerod and Bob Bullock nodded, but Charlie Ainsworth was too young to feel more than general jubilation.

  ‘I had planned to keep the same format as The Clarion,’ Ambrose went on, ‘so that our present readers would know where to find everything. But as we are adopting Mr Ormerod’s suggestion of an eight-page newspaper, we shall have to split it into smaller sections. For instance, the back page, formerly page four, is now pages seven and eight. I propose we put bankruptcies, editorial letters and sporting features on page eight and leave the social chatter to page seven. Incidentally, the social columns have, in the past, caused me more problems and grief than the rest of the newspaper put together…!’

  The three men smiled conspiratorially at him and each other.

  ‘…so I am delegating this task. Since society is the province of the ladies, I propose to put our page seven into the hands of two very competent and lively members of the female sex. I refer to our chief investor, Miss Bloom, and my cousin, Mrs Henry Vivian. They will be fully responsible for attending and reporting on all the usual events, selecting literary items, and making this page as interesting as possible to the wives of our readers.’

  The three men looked very doubtful indeed. Ambrose understood and proceeded in a brisker tone.

  ‘This is an experiment, and until they have proved themselves to be professionally reliable, their post will be a temporary one. I have impressed
upon them the necessity of their copy arriving on time and being legibly written. They know that my word upon it is final and that they will have no part or say in the rest of the newspaper. They can claim reasonable expenses, but they will not be paid a salary.’

  This made all the difference. Frank Ormerod spoke good-naturedly.

  ‘Well, to be sure, the ladies have a nice eye for detail and a neat way of expressing themselves. Their pens lack power, of course. But then — power isn’t their province. Which is right and proper.’

  ‘I knew one lady who wielded a powerful pen,’ Ambrose replied pleasantly, ‘and I wonder whether it is opportunity rather than ability which the ladies lack. We shall see. Still, I digress. So, Miss Bloom and Mrs Vivian are page seven, and will entertain our readers’ wives. We have no dearth of voluntary reporters to entertain their husbands, either! Mr Ainsworth, when his more serious duties permit him, can take his pick of boxing matches, racing meetings, eating and walking contests, field sports and the like. But in his absence, we can rely upon the services of a number of amateur enthusiasts.

  ‘Last, but not least in importance, a half column will be kept free on the back page for late news — the “Postscript”.’

  He came to the end of his notes and said, ‘I think that maps out the course and sets the character of The Northern Correspondent.’

  They contemplated its image with considerable satisfaction.

  ‘Our first copy goes to press on Friday night,’ said Ambrose, ‘so we have four clear days in which to create a damned good impression on the reading public. Meanwhile, the printing presses must earn their keep and the rest of the staff be kept busy. We already have a number of printing jobs to hand. You and I can discuss that part of the business this afternoon, Mr Ormerod. Outside work will provide our main source of income until the newspaper is established.’

  He consulted his pocket-watch.

  ‘I should like to mark this occasion by inviting you to be my guests for dinner today. It is now fifteen minutes short of noon. We should be in good time to find seats at Pendleton’s Chop-house.’

  The four newspapermen set off in double file down the narrow pavement. They formed an interesting quartet. Ambrose, slim and dandified, walked with the burly, rosy Frank Ormerod. Behind them came Bob Bullock and Charlie Ainsworth: the one truculent, the other talkative. All four of them were experiencing the euphoria of a newly formed team which promises to work well.

  The heat of Pendleton’s enveloped them. The sharp eyes and encyclopaedic memory of old Walter came to Ambrose’s assistance.

  ‘And good morning to you, sir,’ said the head waiter, bustling forward to help him take off his coat. ‘Mr Longe of The Northern Correspondent, isn’t it? I thought so. Good to see you again so soon, sir. Now, where would you like to sit?’

  As editor of The Clarion, Ambrose would instantly and impudently have chosen Sam Pickering’s favourite corner. Today he felt that such tricks, though delightful and enjoyable in themselves, were not quite in keeping with his present status as editor of The Correspondent. He shifted the responsibility on to Walter’s shoulders.

  ‘Where would you suggest?’ he replied tactfully.

  Walter’s eyelids acknowledged this piece of diplomacy with a blink of approval.

  ‘Well, sir, a gentleman in your position likes to see and be seen, as you might say. Supposing you was to take a table on the far wall? You’ve got a good view of the door from there. You’re out of the draught, near enough to the fire and not too near the hatch.’

  Within a minute, four top hats and four greatcoats hung side by side on the wooden pegs, and four pairs of cold hands rubbed themselves together in anticipation.

  ‘Should I fetch you something to drink while you order, sir?’

  ‘Yes, if you please, Walter. I shall drink wine, but these gentlemen may have what they wish.’

  ‘Beer for me, Mr Longe,’ said Bob Bullock immediately.

  ‘I’d like to join you with a glass of wine, Mr Longe,’ said Charlie Ainsworth, playing the man of the world.

  ‘I’ll have tea if you make it this early,’ said Frank Ormerod to the waiter, ‘and water if you don’t.’

  ‘Tea, sir? Certainly, sir. Milk and sugar? Very good. A bottle of claret for you, Mr Longe? A pint of home-brewed for this gentleman? Coming immediately, sir.’

  ‘I’m a teetotaller,’ said Frank Ormerod in explanation.

  The other three looked slightly dashed.

  ‘Nay, I shan’t preach!’ he said, smiling. ‘A man’s opinions and beliefs are his own business, but I never touch wine nor spirits.’

  ‘I haven’t given much thought to teetotalism,’ Ambrose confessed, ‘though it has become a very popular issue.’

  ‘It’s been going a while,’ said Frank Ormerod, ‘but it was the cholera that really persuaded folk. Heavy drinkers went down like ninepins with the cholera. I’ve not had much time to look about me as yet, but I’ve been told there’s a big teetotallers’ society in Flawnes Green.’

  ‘Ah well, there will be. Flawnes Green has been a Methodist stronghold for donkey’s years,’ Ambrose replied.

  ‘I’m a Methodist, too,’ said Frank Ormerod.

  ‘I’m an atheist,’ said Bob Bullock, defying anyone to tackle him.

  ‘I’m a Catholic,’ said Charlie self-consciously.

  Unobtrusively, Walter set down a bottle of claret, two thick glasses, a tankard of foaming beer and a mug of thick, sweet tea.

  ‘Then I consider that The Correspondent is fortunate to have such a wide range of beliefs among its staff,’ said Ambrose gracefully. ‘I can almost match you in my own family. My maternal great-grandfather was an Anglican clergyman. My father was an atheist. And we have a fair sprinkling of Low Church and Quakers.’

  A gust of cold air caused them to look up. Sam Pickering, caught off guard for once, had left the door open.

  The two editors looked at one another for a long moment.

  Then Sam shut the door, flipped his hat onto a peg and began to shrug off his overcoat with tremendous nonchalance.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Pickering,’ Ambrose called pleasantly.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Longe,’ Sam called back, equally pleasant.

  Preening the ends of his moustache, he strolled over to be introduced. His green eyes were pale and expressionless as he registered the strength of the opposition.

  ‘All Manchester newspapermen, I see,’ he commented. ‘You’ve swum out of your way a bit, haven’t you? Manchester’s a big pond! Oh, Millbridge will be, given time. But it’s a puddle as yet.’

  The three men intimated, modestly, that Ambrose had made it worth their while to come so far. Ambrose smiled. Sam Pickering, however unwillingly, was impressed.

  ‘First copy of The Correspondent comes out on Saturday, I believe?’ said Sam. ‘I shall look forward to reading it.’

  ‘I’ll send you a copy, Mr Pickering,’ Ambrose replied.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Longe. I’ll send back a copy of The Herald.’

  ‘Your usual corner, Mr Pickering?’ Walter asked, appearing at the right moment. ‘This way, sir. Any guests today, sir?’

  ‘Two unexpected guests, as it happens, Walter,’ said Sam, loud enough for them to hear. ‘Our Member of Parliament and his personal secretary will be joining me in a few minutes.’

  Oh, that’s a point to Sam! thought Ambrose. But it did not diminish the feeling that all was well with his world.

  The expression on old Walter’s face was quite indescribable. This was the first time that Pendleton’s had entertained a man of national note. He hastened to the kitchen to apprise them of the honour. In another moment the wooden tables were being given an extra polish, the fire made up quite unnecessarily, and Walter had gone down to the cellar himself to find a special bottle or two of wine, prior to bowing low before William Howarth M.P.

  Sure enough, at twenty minutes past twelve, when the chop-house was thick with smoke and noisy with feet and voices, a white-heade
d giant paused tremendously on the threshold, deigned to enter, and was followed by an unctuous shadow.

  For a couple of seconds, as the ironmaster met his nephew’s bland, brown gaze, his brow furrowed and his mouth thinned. Then he recalled the value of good public relations and strode up, holding out his hand. The palm was soft, the nails manicured, but the grip was that of a blacksmith.

  ‘How are you, my boy?’ cried William, in a voice that caught the attention of everyone within earshot.

  Ambrose responded with equal cordiality. In the background Walter waited, ready to escort the great man to the end of the room.

  ‘Good to see you!’ said William heartily.

  His false teeth smiled splendidly on all. Even those who did not recognise him stopped with their forks in mid-air, aware that they were in the presence of an august personage.

  The ironmaster nodded amiably at Ambrose’s henchmen, to indicate that he wished them well but did not want to be introduced. Then, in the bustling wake of Walter, he walked majestically to Sam Pickering’s corner table.

  Due to the ironmaster’s importance, The Correspondent’s order for four slices of jam roly-poly was slightly delayed, and accompanied by Walter’s apologies.

  ‘But I see that Mr Howarth is no stranger to you, Mr Longe,’ he remarked with some deference.

  ‘He is my uncle,’ Ambrose replied, light and brief as became one who was so well connected.

  An unexpected and unlikely foundation-stone had been laid for his reputation at Pendleton’s.

  The occupants of The Herald’s table were still eating when The Correspondent’s men prepared to leave. Once more, Walter came forward to help Ambrose with his coat, and this time stood on tiptoe to speak a confidential word in his ear.

  ‘I just thought I’d mention, Mr Longe, that Pendleton’s make one or two exceptions among their better customers — though that’s not generally known, mind you, and when we’re full up, we’re full up. But if you send me word that you’re coming in, any time before eleven o’clock of the same morning, I’ll see that your table is kept, sir!’