The Northern Correspondent

by Jean Stubbs

  It was one of those golden days, rare but precious in any man’s life, when everything conspires to please him. A box of fine cigars was waiting for him on his desk when he returned, delivered by special messenger. An accompanying note, written in an elegant cursive script, read: To the Editor of The Northern Correspondent, on his first working day. It was signed, Naomi Blüm.

  How long had it been since he smoked a cigar? He thought back and reckoned that the last one had been given to him by the ironmaster one Christmas Eve, seven years ago. He could never remember buying, or being given, an entire boxful. Obscurely gratified, he put them into an empty drawer of the desk and locked it.

  Then, as he was penning a note of thanks, the two o’clock Leeds Mail rattled up from the turnpike road and stopped at the crossroads. Here an office-boy from each newspaper waited on opposite pavements, pulling terrible faces at each other and shying the occasional stone. And when the lad scampered up the stairs, he held letters from four of The Correspondent’s agents, each increasing the order for Saturday’s edition. So Ambrose added the good news to his thanks.

  The early dusk descended. Gas lamps were lit in streets and offices. Mail came in by the Manchester coach at five o’clock. Charlie Ainsworth delivered his first local report. Ambrose read and marked the London and provincial papers, sorting out material for his articles into separate piles, sketching out ideas for the inside pages. A rough outline of the first Correspondent was emerging.

  At half-past five, iron hooves and iron wheels proclaimed that the kings of industry were driving home to dine in comfort. At six o’clock the factory whistles blew, and the cobbles rang to the tune of a few thousand clog-irons as their workers hurried back to cold poverty. The printing-presses completed their labours. The staff bade Ambrose and each other goodnight. Ambrose worked on.

  This was his best and most peaceful time of day: the hour of assessment, correlation and creation. The office clock ticked on the wall, unheeded. Darkness fell. Lower Millbridge prepared to enjoy the delights of evening. And before the first thought of food or drink could cross his busy mind, there came a small boy from the Royal George delivering a tray of hot dishes under metal lids, covered with a clean white cloth.

  ‘All ordered and paid for, Mr Longe,’ said the lad, looking hopeful, and was dazzled by the three-penny bit which Ambrose bestowed upon him. ‘I can collect the tray when the Preston coach goes out at nine o’clock, if convenient.’

  Another note was tucked between the Davenport fowl and the orange trifle. He broke the seal. Her three sentences conveyed three different messages from three sides of her character.

  First, the woman.

  I know you will work too late today and forget to eat.

  Second, the friend.

  Pray do not regard this as a form of intrusion, but as a sincere concern for your wellbeing.

  Third, the financier.

  If the promise of future sales is fulfilled, I will consider a further loan — and at seven per cent instead of seven-and-one-eighth per cent. Yours, Naomi Blüm.

  Across Ambrose’s face flitted alarm, appreciation and finally amusement. He read the note again. This time, he chuckled and shook his head. Then he poured himself a glass of chilled white wine and proceeded to do full justice to the Royal George’s supper.

  The day was not yet over, nor did he want it to depart. In a new and delightful ritual he unlocked the cigar drawer, selected a fine specimen, shook and listened to it, smelled it, cut it, lit it and finally smoked it at his leisure.

  At nine o’clock, the lad came for his tray. At ten, Ambrose buttoned up his mulberry great-coat, cocked his beaver hat at a fashionable angle and sallied forth, swinging his cane.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Longe,’ said a familiar voice.

  He had descended from his own bachelor apartment on the top floor of his own office probably for the same reason as Ambrose: a breath of fresh air and a look round the town after a long day’s work.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Pickering.’

  They were both at a loss for a moment.

  Then Ambrose said, ‘If you’re not going anywhere in particular, would you like to come to the Ship for a drink?’

  He was aware that Naomi would have disapproved of this move and privately resolved not to tell her. Privately, he also wondered why he must resort to subterfuge.

  ‘I don’t mind if I do,’ said Sam laconically.

  They walked side by side, and Ambrose sought some topic of conversation which did not pertain to newspapers.

  ‘Strange to think that this was part of a Roman road which connected Lancashire and Yorkshire once,’ he said, striking the cobbles of Middleton Street lightly with his cane. ‘What astonishing fellows they were! Building and marching their way across the Pennines in the mist and wet. Millbridge didn’t exist then, except as a corn mill and a packhorse bridge. The town evolved a thousand years later. A thousand years!’ He swung his cane up at the stars, as if to call them to witness. ‘Later on, the local farmers called this road Ship Street, because they drove their sheep along it to market. And here is an example of how the past stays with us, but in a slightly misunderstood form…’

  He pointed to the swinging sign above the Ship tavern, which depicted a galleon in full sail.

  ‘Fond of history, are you?’ Sam asked, as they crossed the threshold and entered a low room full of light and noise.

  ‘Yes, when I am in a philosophical frame of mind. It puts time and ourselves into perspective,’ said Ambrose.

  The green eyes regarded him impassively.

  ‘I study botany,’ said Sam. ‘I get that from my father. He’d walk miles to find a particular flower.’

  ‘Ah, you have the advantage of me there. I am no countryman, either by birth or inclination. I was born in London, just off Fleet Street, and lived there until I was seven. I went back again as a young man, to be trained on The Morning Post. I like the main stream of life.’ He ordered a bottle of claret, saying, ‘My treat, this time. Shall we sit over here out of the general fray?’

  ‘I’m not a domestic man, myself,’ said Sam. ‘This is my sort of parlour.’ Nodding round at the crowded tavern. ‘I saw enough of cottage poverty when I was a lad not to inflict it on anybody else.’

  ‘So the fair sex have no hold on you at all?’

  ‘I don’t mind a pair of arms in Flawnes Gardens,’ said Sam, with a twinkle of humour. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I come into the same category,’ Ambrose admitted.

  ‘So do a lot of married men, and all,’ Sam remarked. ‘Which makes me wonder why they bother to saddle themselves with a wife and children in the first place.’

  They finished their wine and took to the night again.

  ‘When I was a lad,’ said Ambrose, ‘Lower Town was mostly fields.’

  Now, offices and tenement houses shouldered the ancient corn market, once a centre of rural commerce. The High Street, so broad and fine in the Old Town, narrowed and darkened into a busy thoroughfare. Taverns proliferated. Mill chimneys mushroomed. To their left, the new railway line ran into the new station. To the right loomed the new gasworks. Millbridge Hospital stood on the hill above.

  For an hour they explored side-streets, looked into shop windows, talking of everything but newspapers, until at last they came to a halt. Here, round the foot of the whole town, curled the great grey River Wynden — crowded by warehouses, jammed with barges, floating with a variety of refuse and the occasional drowned cat. On its opposite bank, the turnpike road connected Millbridge with the outside world.

  ‘Progress!’ said Sam, in his driest tone, surveying their miniature metropolis. ‘I suppose we know what we’re doing!’

  ‘Oh, I doubt that exceedingly,’ Ambrose answered. ‘With rare exceptions, people are either opportunists or sheep. One lot grab what they can from life, the rest do as they are told. Neither group ever stops to consider the consequences.’

  Sam smiled unwillingly and said, ‘That’s a good line, Mr L
onge.’

  ‘My line, Mr Pickering,’ Ambrose replied, smiling back.

  They parted at the crossroads, lifting top hats, expressing thanks for each other’s company.

  It was almost midnight. Ambrose stood back in Middleton Street to savour the full beauty of the offices of The Northern Correspondent by moonlight.

  ‘And that, Sam Pickering,’ said Ambrose to himself, ‘is our first score settled!’

  He was tired, but still he lingered, under pretence of finding his keys. Then the clock in the black church tower of St Stephen’s struck twelve, to indicate that this dog had had his day.

  Ambrose unlocked and opened his own front door.

  ELEVEN: AT THE VIVIANS’

  August, 1833

  You could not wish for a more delightful house than the Old Hall at Brigge, nor a more delightful couple than Mr and Mrs Henry Vivian. Had an artist been painting that family group as they sat on their front lawn, he could have named his picture Idyll.

  Pregnancy always suited Mary. She ripened and bloomed. Her blue and white sprigged muslin gown complimented rather than concealed her state. Her copper side-curls were caught up with matching blue ribbons. Shaded by a parasol tied to the back of her chair, she was engaged in writing her contribution to The Correspondent, but from time to time she glanced up at her husband and children, partly to make sure that all was well and partly to share their enjoyment.

  Hal Vivian, chief engineer and architect of the Wyndendale railway, had spent much of that summer Sunday afternoon trying out another kind of railway. In his brief hours of leisure, this gifted man had made a scale model of his steam-engine Pioneer and had ordered an ironworker at Snape to fashion ten feet of metal track to the same specifications. Supported by a series of wooden bricks, which could be removed or raised to form different heights, the track sloped sufficiently to allow the engine to trundle downwards in a highly realistic manner. The Cornishman’s alleged purpose was to show his children how to play with this new toy, but as the afternoon waned, they began to realise that all railways were their father’s province. They stood by his side, watching him experiment.

  Philomena, a solemn child of nine, had Mary’s fine-boned face but her hair was as black as that of the Cornishman. Strangers took her to be their daughter, though in reality she was Mary’s adopted sister. She fell victim to every minor ailment, clung to her childhood, and needed much affection and coddling; whereas three-year-old Santo was a vigorous and sociable little fellow who longed to grow up. At this moment, Philomena was contenting herself with wistful observation. But Santo clutched his hands so that they should not be tempted to touch the track and stamped his feet softly from time to time like an impatient little pony.

  Two maids now came from the house, bearing trays, and Mary put her pen and paper away and called her family to the table. Hal Vivian strode over to sit in a wicker chair at his wife’s side and accept a cup of tea, but the children soon ran back, gulping milk and nibbling bread and butter, to enjoy the railway undisturbed.

  The Cornishman was brooding about something, looking uncommonly like his father the ironmaster. Mary’s smile vanished. She loved him to excess and could be excessively hurt in consequence. He loved her too, but lived far more in a world of visions than in the world about him. They never quarrelled nowadays. There was nothing new to quarrel about. He went his way, and Mary occupied herself in trying to interest and please him.

  ‘Is something troubling you?’ she asked, wondering which thorn in his crown was pricking him at the moment.

  ‘No, no,’ he answered quickly, for he had to respect her condition. Then, as the condition came uppermost in his mind, he said with some apprehension, ‘Do you think it might be twins again?’

  ‘Pray heaven not!’ Her mock horror was not all mockery. ‘No, no. For I’m not half as big as I was with Santo and Hannah. Goodness me, I was as big as a house with them. As big as the Old Hall itself!’

  The Cornishman smiled. Her extravagance amused him.

  Her chatter usually provided a cover beneath which he could think of something else, but her next remark brought him back to attention.

  ‘I should so like another daughter,’ said Mary quietly.

  Cholera had taken its toll on their household, and a headstone in Brigge churchyard marked the worst passage in their lives so far.

  Here lies Hannah Charlotte Alice,

  Daughter of Henry and Mary Vivian,

  Died 15 August, 1832, Aged 2 years, 7 months.

  Also her infant brother, Richard Edward,

  Stillborn, 17 August, 1832.

  ‘The Lord Giveth, the Lord Taketh Away.

  Blessed be the Name of the Lord.’

  Also Polly Slack, Servant and Friend,

  Died 20 August, 1832. Aged 70 years.

  ‘Thy Will be Done.’

  For a few moments, sorrow joined them.

  ‘How Naomi wept!’ said Mary. ‘I was past tears by that time. I could feel nothing. First, poor little Hannah, then my baby, and at last my dear old Polly who had nursed us all so faithfully.’

  Hal Vivian put his hand over hers, saying, ‘No more sad thoughts, love. The rest of us were spared, thank God. Drink your tea.’

  She wiped her eyes with a little handkerchief, sipped and said, ‘Oh, it is cold. Let us have a fresh cup.’

  ‘Have you thought of names for the infant?’ he asked, concerned to distract her.

  She glanced at him shyly, sadly, because they had discussed this already, and she suspected that he never listened.

  ‘A daughter would be Alice, of course, after my mother. And a son — well, I could not bear to call him Richard or Edward…’

  Her lower lip trembled.

  ‘My dear love, there is no need. There is many a Richard and an Edward among your father’s family. Neither name will die out among the Howarths, at least!’

  ‘You would not consider — since Uncle William is always so good to us…?’

  ‘No, I would not. Besides, “William Vivian” is an awful mouthful. And there is another reason, with which I don’t want to trouble you.’

  But she knew she had to hear it. She begged him to tell her.

  ‘The tunnel will not be finished. He has postponed the project indefinitely. Apparently he is finding politics a costly business. He himself has no money to spare, and so far he has not been able to interest other investors.’ He added reluctantly, ‘And I have not enough to carry the venture through, even if I dared spend more.’

  ‘Lord, no. We have spent enough already!’ Mary cried, aghast. ‘The tunnel is worse than this house for wanting money spent upon it!’

  She heard a lack of sympathy in her tone, and softened it.

  ‘Still, I should have thought Uncle William would want to finish it, after all the work you have done already.’

  He was silent for so long that she feared she had offended him. Then she realised, with a familiar pang, that he was not disturbed by her reaction but by his own thoughts.

  ‘Mary, I have something to tell you. To ask you. To discuss with you. We need not be hasty in our conclusions, but I have been thinking of the future. There will not be enough work for me here now.’

  ‘Do you want us to go abroad?’ she asked, afraid.

  ‘No, no, but I must do something. I have to earn a living. I have ideas to realise, plans to fulfil. I must work.’

  ‘Has Uncle William offered nothing to keep you here?’

  ‘What reason has he for keeping me in Wyndendale when he lives in London for most of the year? He has offered me introductions down there, certainly.’

  Her spirits rose a little.

  ‘Are we to move to London, Hal?’

  ‘No, I do not choose to be at his beck and call, either there or here. I shall go back to Manchester. I shall resume my old position in the firm of Vivian & Son, instead of being a sleeping partner.’

  ‘You want us all to live in Manchester?’ she asked miserably.

  ‘I want
to decide what is best for us all. We need not live in Manchester itself. There are charming properties only a few miles outside Manchester, in the countryside. When I was a boy we lived in Ardwick Green, and you could not have had a prettier prospect.’

  He studied her downcast face and tried an alternative proposal.

  ‘Or I can live above the office in Manchester during the week, and come home at the weekend, while you and the children stay here. I know you love this house, and value your family and friends.’

  ‘Papa!’ called Philomena. ‘Papa! It’s all Santo’s fault!’

  The engine, sent off with a strong push down a steeper incline, had tumbled over. Its wheels threshed in the grass.

  Santo shouted, ‘Papa! Papa! It wasn’t my fault!’

  ‘Oh, yes, it was!’ said Philomena indignantly. ‘Who put the bricks up too high, and didn’t listen when I told him to be careful?’

  Santo clutched his head in anguish as he bent to inspect the engine, then shouted with relief, ‘His chimney’s not bent, Papa! He’s just spinning his wheels a little bit, as if he’s cross.’

  ‘No harm done!’ cried the Cornishman cheerfully, jumping up.

  He was reprieved. He kissed Mary’s hand in contrition.

  ‘Think it over, my love, and do what you think best,’ he said. Then to the children, ‘All right, I’m coming.’

  She was glad not to have to answer him straight away, for her response would have been unwise and bitter. To cover and soothe her feelings, she set the portable writing case on her knees and began to scribble and erase industriously. At first she crossed out more than she wrote, then her face and forehead relaxed, her interest was recaptured, and a calmer spirit ruled her.

  Her husband, whose glances had been frequent and guilty, now settled down to the toy railway in earnest. This time, as though made aware that he did not consider others sufficiently, he allowed his children to take part. Certainly he was soon off in a realm beyond them, explaining about impetus and momentum, but they were happy to let him talk so long as they could play.