by Jean Stubbs
The tea things were carried away. Mary finished her article for Tuesday’s Correspondent, laid down her pen and sat musing. She had come to the end of her tether with regard to Hal’s moods and absences. She had to find another way of conducting her marriage.
Think a problem through by writing it down, Aunt Charlotte would have said. Grandma Dorcas Howarth, faced with the uneasy choice of being a genteel spinster or the wife of a hill farmer, had written down the reasons for and against both states, counting the cost with cool veracity. Ambrose possessed that document now, locked away with Charlotte’s papers. She would ask him to let her read it again. For the moment, she had to give Hal his liberty and give herself time to think.
The Cornishman now dared to rise to his feet, brush the grass from the knees of his trousers and approach his wife with a hopeful smile. Mary held out her hand in truce and he kissed it tenderly. She answered his unspoken question.
‘I think it best if I stay here with the children for the time being, and you come home to us at the weekends, Hal.’
He sat down with such a sigh of relief that she knew this was what he wanted.
‘I think that is the best solution, love.’
He was anxious that she should not think his attitude cold.
‘Only for the time being, as you say!’ he added. ‘When the baby is older, and you are thoroughly recovered, you may decide to join me. We should get a good price for the Old Hall, and you can choose what you like in Cheshire. The climate there may suit you better. It is a milder county than Lancashire in every way.’
She knew that the selling of one house, the finding and buying of another, would be her responsibility. She knew that, bereft of friends and family, she would find life in a strange place even more lonely than it was at present.
‘Let us give ourselves a year of grace in which to make up our minds,’ she offered.
A slight breeze made her shiver. As he reached solicitously for her shawl, his attention was drawn to the writing case.
‘Do you find this fellow a help?’ he asked, gratified, for he had designed and made it many years ago for his own use when travelling.
‘Indeed I do. I can carry it with me and write wherever I happen to be, and that is a great advantage.’
‘Then you shall keep it for your own use, Mary.’
Her face was joyful.
‘But how will you manage, love?’
‘Oh, I shall make myself another. I shall have plenty of time,’ he added thoughtlessly, ‘when I am on my own in Manchester.’ He saw her joy vanish and hastened to say, ‘Is Ambrose pleased with your articles? You seem to spend a deal of time and trouble over them.’
Wearily she replied, ‘I believe so. At least, Naomi and I are still employed, and he does not complain.’
‘You, too, will have more time when I am gone,’ said the Cornishman humbly. ‘You spend your life on me and the children and leave nothing for yourself.’
She turned her face away, pretending to collect her papers together. She willed her tears not to fall, and they did not, though her throat hurt.
‘I know I am not the best of husbands,’ Hal Vivian continued, still humbly, ‘but I believe you knew my faults when you married me.’
‘Oh, our trouble is an old one,’ she answered, keeping her voice controlled. ‘You want too little of me, and I want too much of you. And whereas your life has hardly changed at all, mine has changed altogether, and I cannot always find my way in it.’
He looked dark and lost, unable to help her.
She said more cheerfully, ‘But that is a common problem in marriage. I shall come to terms with it, somehow.’ She took the responsibility away from him. ‘What fun it will be to look forward to each weekend! We shall have so much news!’
The need for tears had gone. Her natural good spirits rose again. She smiled upon him triumphantly, as though the idea had been hers and was good. Hal Vivian put his arm around her shoulders, drew her to him very lovingly, and kissed her upon the lips.
The indomitable engine ran down its rails for the thousandth time, heeled over onto the grass and stopped. Santo, red and belligerent, stamped with frustration. Philomena jumped up, white and fretful, and ran to Mary.
She whimpered, ‘My legs ache, Mamma. They ache and ache!’
‘The children are tired, love,’ said Mary gently. ‘Shall we take them inside?’
They made a delightful picture together: Mary and Philomena walking hand in hand, Santo riding on Hal’s shoulders against a background of the Old Hall, one evening in late summer at the Vivians’.
TWELVE: PAGE SEVEN
The Northern Correspondent did not soar to fame and fortune in the first twelve months of its life, but it did slot into place as though a place had been waiting for it. Smaller and stouter than the usual newspaper, its distinctive masthead and spacious columns persuaded the casual reader to give it a try. Moreover, the times were with it. The flat rate duty on advertisements had been reduced from three-and-sixpence to one-and-sixpence in 1833, which meant a perceptible leap in the number of advertisers, and its front page now looked lively enough even to please Charlie Ainsworth.
Politically speaking, the Whigs shared with Ambrose a distinct taste for social reform. In one year they had emancipated slaves in the British Empire, passed a Factory Act and an Education Act and were now thinking of amending the Poor Law. Mind you, The Correspondent reserved the right to argue even as it approved. So it had to point out that the slave-owners had been compensated to the tune of twenty million pounds; that the education grant in contrast was only twenty thousand pounds, and had been divided between two national societies whose system of teaching left much to be desired; and asked why Althorp’s Factory Act did not apply to silk and lace mills as well as other textile businesses. But then, it was never satisfied.
The ironmaster’s high-minded image of his Herald had vanished from the moment its rival came into being. It was all very well for Sam Pickering to cuff the ears of an impudent Clarion, but on a serious Correspondent he must wage total war. Without more ado William ordered his editor into the fray, and from this change of policy came Sam’s sardonic nickname for his rival, The Northern Weathercock, to be capped by Ambrose’s contemptuous sobriquet, The Lancashire Flunkey. Their sales went up in the valley as people scented battle. The two editors belaboured each other, but they were still far too nice for the ironmaster’s liking. Brought up on purring matches, he wanted blood to flow, to hear the kicks and watch the throttling, to know that in the end one contestant would lie on the ground without strength to get up again.
So far, the fight was clean and The Correspondent was doing well. Starting with The Clarion’s faithful thousand and moving out ever wider into the Lancashire world, its circulation had trebled, and its sales and reputation improved from week to week.
Perhaps Ambrose’s happiest notion had been the employment of female reporters, particularly as they were unpaid, for between them Naomi and Mary took the burden of Page Seven completely off his shoulders. They organised and divided the work, wrote sprightly and legible copy which he seldom had to edit, put forward new ideas and undertook all social obligations.
Unobtrusively, Naomi was laying the foundations of a future music society in Millbridge and encouraging an interest in theatre, with a view to building a municipal cultural centre. Mary had introduced four new items to the Saturday edition. ‘Household Hints’ and ‘My Favourite Recipe’ were both supplied by readers, but she wrote ‘Fashions of Today’ and ‘Health and Beauty for Ladies’.
From the moment these features were established, Saturday sales increased perceptibly and soon outdistanced those of The Herald, though that paper’s midweek edition sold far better than The Correspondent. This caused Ambrose some mild speculation. At seven pence a copy, only the prosperous bought newspapers lightly. Were Herald husbands indulgent enough to buy a Saturday Correspondent for their wives as well as a Herald for themselves, or did they give up one in favour of the o
ther? He could not tell, but he certainly set down this success to the feminine appeal of Page Seven.
Despite his championship of women, he had experienced twinges of fear — knowing Mary, not knowing Naomi — that they might fail to keep a deadline or fill their columns, and consequently have a fit of hysterics in his office or be found in a swoon on the parlour carpet at home. Nothing of the sort had ever occurred. When they could not manage some assignment, they found someone else who could.
His own niece, Dorcas Pole, now become Dorcas Standish, had been scurrying round for Mary since last September as that intrepid lady grew great with child. And late one Friday afternoon, while they awaited news of Thursday’s debate in Parliament and wondered what had happened to the fashion column of Page Seven, young Dorcas stepped down at Cornmarket from the very mail-coach which brought the London papers, smiling in triumph. She had caught an early stagecoach to Manchester that morning, taking a maidservant with her as chaperone, to view the latest collection of winter furs at Kendal, Milne and Barker in Deansgate. Since there was an hour or so to spare afterwards, she walked round Manchester’s shopping centre, filling a notebook with sketches and suggestions for family Christmas gifts. Then, as the coach jounced and rattled its way back home, she had composed her article and transcribed the result in a jerky but readable hand ready for press.
Dorcas admitted that the trip had been Mary’s inspiration, but her air of modest self-importance told Ambrose that she was quite prepared to be praised for her own efforts. So he congratulated her, smiling to himself, and being in a hurry to put the paper to bed quite forgot to mention expenses.
The girl was too shy to ask, but Naomi was not. On the following day, she presented Ambrose with a bill which he would have refused to accept from anyone else, and wrote out an official receipt which he shortly mislaid. Even so, he did insist that future expeditions should first be agreed with him, since this one had been unusually costly. Naomi’s reply was firm.
‘In the first six months of this year, Mr Ainsworth has claimed thirty pounds seventeen and eightpence in travelling expenses. I should not have thought that one pound twelve and fourpence was excessive for one special occasion. Besides, Dorcas has furnished us with sufficient material for the Christmas Feature as well as the winter fashions.’
‘I cannot afford to finance feminine whims,’ Ambrose replied, equally firmly. ‘Page Seven must first agree the necessity of such journeys with me — or I shall have Mary dashing off to report the London and Paris fashions and expecting The Correspondent to foot the bill!’
‘You pay us nothing and grudge us expenses!’ she cried, incensed. ‘Admit that your entire female staff costs less than one reporter!’
But he would not let her have the last word.
‘With regard to coach fares, ladies cost twice as much,’ he observed mischievously, knowing this would annoy her. ‘Whatever Charlie Ainsworth’s expenses may be, he doesn’t need a chaperone!’
Naomi had swept the sovereign and five half-crowns into her purse, placed two pence change smartly upon the desk and clipped her reticule shut. For the moment she had no answer, but would doubtless find one and keep it for a later occasion.
On that early January evening in 1834, Frank Ormerod gave the door a perfunctory knock and walked in, carrying a mocked-up Correspondent which he placed before Ambrose.
‘It’s looking good,’ said Ambrose briefly, appreciatively.
‘We’re just being held up by the Manchester coach — and Page Seven again!’ said Frank, slightly reproachful. ‘The ladies have taken to keeping us waiting the last few weeks — as ladies tend to do.’
‘Ah well, half of Page Seven has been lying in,’ Ambrose replied, grinning. ‘As ladies also do!’
Frank pursed his lips. He approved the childbed but not the journalism. His expression suggested that he had been right to doubt this eccentric appointment.
‘Page Seven will soon be back on its four feet again, Frank,’ said Ambrose easily. ‘What are we having from Pendleton’s tonight?’
For on Monday and Friday evenings at half-past nine o’clock, two waiters trotted up to Middleton Street with hampers of hot food and the Ship Tavern sent over a firkin of homebrewed ale. Then everyone on The Correspondent, from editor to errand boys, sat down in the lower printing office and ate a hearty supper.
‘Meat and potato pie, Mr Longe,’ said Frank. He cocked his head, listening. ‘There’s the mail!’ Then in a moment or two, ‘And this sounds like Page Seven!’
A quick, light step sounded on the uncarpeted stairs. An unusually submissive knock heralded Naomi and her copy. She entered in a flurry of fur and velvet, bringing with her a cloud of cold air and a scent of violets. Her countenance was troubled.
‘Late again, Page Seven!’ cried Ambrose sternly, keeping a straight face. ‘You have held up the entire newspaper. Frank here is at his wits’ end. We really can’t go on like this, you know.’
Naomi’s conscience was stronger than her sense of humour. She took his mockery with perfect seriousness.
‘I am so sorry. I cannot tell you how sorry. Mr Ormerod, to you I apologise a thousand times.’
‘Once is enough,’ said Ambrose briskly. ‘All right, Frank, I’ll let you have this as soon as possible.’
Frank gave him a short nod, and Naomi a deeper one, and shut the door behind him.
In his usual amiable tone Ambrose said, ‘Naomi, for heaven’s sake sit down and stop fussing. There’s plenty of time. We haven’t sorted out the parliamentary news yet!’
The office boy, out of breath and considerably powdered by Herald snowballs, slapped the newspapers down on Ambrose’s desk and received an editorial stare of disapproval.
‘Thank you, Jimmy. I hope Mr Pickering’s lad looks worse than you do. Remember that the honour of The Correspondent is at stake!’
A wink accompanied the rebuke. The lad grinned shamefacedly and ducked out apologetically, but was heard to whistle on the stairs.
‘Now, Page Seven,’ said Ambrose, skimming through the copy, ‘what do you mean by this disgraceful behaviour, eh? Have you been gadding about at the newspaper’s expense?’
His gratitude and admiration for her were undiminished, but he no longer stood in awe of Naomi. Sometimes he wished she would take life more lightly. Her wit was neat and quick, her play of humour gentle. Her smile was lovely but rare, her conversation animated but never frivolous. Her attitude towards everything, from music to investments, was one of dedication and concern. Yet, as a friend, he found no worse fault in her. He could rest in her company and rely upon her wisdom and common sense, whether she be in a worldly or womanly mood. He could tease her without mercy or compunction, and she did not mind a bit. Most of the time she did not realise that he spoke in fun, which was even better. He loved baiting her.
Now she answered, in her own defence, ‘No, no, I do assure you. I have not been out of the valley for weeks. It was a coincidence that I arrived at the same time as the Manchester mail-coach.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it,’ said Ambrose gravely. ‘I thought,’ with an enquiring glance at her ensemble, ‘that you had not only been reporting on winter furs but buying them as well!’
‘Oh no, no!’
She was horrified at the suggestion. Her gloved hands fluttered in deprecation of the pelisse she wore, to indicate that it was old and unworthy.
‘This I bought in London a long time ago, but of course you do not notice such things.’
As though he had never seen her before, Naomi came sharply into focus. She wore her mantle with the dignity of a high priestess. When she stood, it flowed from her. When she sat, it moved into graceful folds. Few women could have worn that shade of purple, fewer still possessed such amethysts. Her velvet bonnet, lined with lavender silk and trimmed with grey ostrich feathers, was in the latest fashion, but the face within was millennia old. Ambrose had seen its likeness depicted countless times on Eastern vases and tombs and tiles. He recognised the long
and noble nose, the sombre eyes lined with black lashes, the strong curve of the eyebrows, the tender and heavy mouth. Strange to see such a face tied up in lavender ribbons and set off by three white silk roses.
He failed to notice that haste had made her complexion gleam and that lack of time had prevented her from repairing the damage with a papier poudre. The mole on her left cheekbone might be considered a blemish by some, but not by Ambrose. He thought her hands shapely rather than large. He would not have sacrificed an inch of her height, though only of medium height himself. The threat of too much flesh at a later date, if she did not take care, was of no concern to him.
She was his creation of this moment, and henceforth he would see her thus. And, as the years blurred her image, he could lay this picture over it and so renew her.
He became aware of two lustrous eyes staring back at him in captivated horror.
He said at random, pointing to the silk roses inside her bonnet, ‘Those flowers are not real!’
Naomi moistened her lips and swallowed, unable to respond to such an absurd statement. Ambrose returned to the text of her copy and was unable to read it.
‘How is Mary?’ he asked, as casually as he could.
Naomi studied the tails on her ermine muff.
‘Oh, she is taking longer to recover from this confinement than from the others. She is allowed to get up in the afternoons now, but she tires easily. That is why I am late. I went over to the Old Hall to collect her copy, and found she needed me. I have been there for most of the day.’
Her voice strengthened during this recital. She was finding safety in the commonplace, after a perilous moment.
Ambrose said inwardly to himself, This cannot and must not be.
To her he replied, ‘And how is young Charlotte?’
