The Northern Correspondent

by Jean Stubbs

  William did not answer, did not look at him, drumming away with his fingers, but softly now.

  ‘I have known you to be a ruthless man these many years, sir,’ said Ambrose, shaking, ‘but I always gave you credit for being a gentleman. I had not thought you capable of ordering a poor miner to be beat almost to death because he told the truth. Still less of seeking to harm a lady whose only fault is that of helping me.’

  The ironmaster’s fingers stopped in mid-tattoo. He crimsoned. He paled. He drew his dignity like a great cloak about him.

  ‘What, sir? You name me as being the cause of these disasters? You consider me to have no more morals than the lowest criminal on the streets? Why, what would Zelah say if I stooped to such acts as these? How should I face my father and my mother in heaven with this upon my conscience? Oh, what a wrong you do me!’

  Ambrose opened his mouth and shut it again. He could not but believe him, and yet could not believe him entirely.

  ‘Well then, I am sorry. But even if you are not directly culpable, I dare swear you knew something of this,’ he said.

  The ironmaster looked down, considering his position quietly.

  ‘Let us say that I have suspicions as to where the blame can be laid. But I have no intention of confiding my business to you, sir.’

  ‘I did not expect you to do so!’

  ‘Some events get beyond one’s control. I care not a fig for your opinion,’ the ironmaster said very fiercely, looking up, ‘and I shall not shed tears over Dick’s ham-fisted fool of a son, either!’ Then he looked down again, and added, ‘But no woman of any class or kind need ever fear me.’

  ‘Then tell them to call off their dogs, for I will not have her subjected to this sort of ugliness!’ cried Ambrose.

  ‘It is different in business, of course,’ said William, thinking aloud. ‘She adopts the role of the man in that capacity. She must take her chances with me, there.’

  ‘I would back her against the world, in any quarter, any day!’ cried Ambrose with the utmost conviction.

  The ironmaster looked up again, surprised.

  ‘I intend to marry Naomi Bloom!’ said Ambrose.

  He heard this decision with tremendous astonishment, and inwardly bowed before it.

  ‘To marry her? Why should she have you? She is worth ten of you!’ said William Howarth contemptuously.

  ‘I know,’ said Ambrose with humility. ‘Most women are worth ten of most men, but that is a peculiar misfortune on their part, and I cannot think it an accident of fate — rather a design.’

  ‘Well,’ growled the ironmaster, who was not worth his wife’s shoestrings, ‘you may have a point there.’ And he considered it before putting his next question. ‘Will she accept you, do you think?’

  ‘She will have no choice, in the end.’

  ‘God help her!’ said the ironmaster. ‘What a waste! She could have played consort to a king.’

  ‘There were no kings available,’ said Ambrose. ‘Only one fool.’

  William Howarth dismissed the situation as hopeless. He returned to their original subject of discussion.

  ‘What I say now I say only to you. The situation slipped out of my control. Temporarily, that is. I hold a great many horses in check — now and again one will bolt! But I have not got to my present position without knowing how to rein them all in. Neither Naomi nor anyone else will be troubled further. You have my word upon it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ambrose said. ‘I shall respect your confidence.’

  Curiosity overcame him. He leaned forward.

  ‘Did you see the conditions at Swarth Moor for yourself?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The look Ambrose gave him was eloquent. The ironmaster shrugged.

  ‘They were bad. Very bad. As are industrial conditions everywhere — except in show-places like Snape.’

  ‘Well? Is that all you can say? Is that all you care?’

  ‘I can speak as charitably as you please, and feel as deeply, but it won’t alter the fact that a great deal of money is involved in modern industry, and those who make it are not going to relinquish it.’

  ‘Good God!’ cried Ambrose in disgust.

  ‘I’ll tell you this much more. I shall see to it that my collieries are cleaned up sufficiently to pass inspection. But I doubt they will be inspected for a long while. Our local council won’t be in any hurry to investigate, and you’ll wait a good few years for a Royal Commission. And don’t expect anyone else on my committee to lift a finger until they are threatened with a court of justice!’

  ‘How can you live with such a philosophy?’ said Ambrose in sheer disbelief.

  ‘Very comfortably,’ said the ironmaster. ‘You see, I accept life for what it is. You imagine you know what’s best for everybody. That’s nonsense. Of course things change, but they change at their own pace and time. Anyway, I can’t spend all morning on you, so I’ll be brief! I reiterate that I have complete faith in myself and my politics, and in Sam Pickering and The Herald, and we shall continue to fight you with all the strength of our convictions. But there will be no more ugly days — such as these last have been. So tell Naomi that there is nothing to fear. I have everything in hand.’

  But you are old, thought Ambrose, and the time of your greatness is passing.

  Still, he did not say this, waiting for leave to go.

  ‘Funny thing! Your father and I got on well together,’ said William, remembering. ‘Of course, I only met him once and we were both young then. I don’t know how the friendship would have worn if we’d been under one another’s noses all the time! Yes, I travelled down to London on one of the first Royal Mail coaches to find out how Charlotte was keeping. We hadn’t seen hide or hair of them since they eloped the previous year, and my mother worried about her being so far away.’ He shook his head, smiling. ‘I stayed with them at that pig’s muddle of a place off Fleet Street. And — bless my soul! — you were born, just a few days before I went back. The damned doctor was in a drunken stupor, and Toby and I ran in different directions to find a midwife. Poor Charlotte! Poor Toby! Well, well!’ He frowned. ‘Of course, Toby’s politics were anathema to me, even then. You take after him in that way. And you’re the dead spit of him to look at.’ His expression softened. ‘But now and again you remind me of Charlotte. And I loved Charlotte.’ He held out his hand. ‘So goodbye to you, Ambrose. You’ve faced up to me at last, instead of sniggering behind my back with that Johnny Topp fellow. I don’t intend to get any closer to you. I wish you well, and I wish you well away!’

  He considered another possibility.

  ‘I daresay — if Naomi will have you, that is! — that Zelah will insist on entertaining you both. Pity! Still, we must make the best of it. By the by, Zelah would like to see you before you go. Yes, she was always fond of you. But then, she is an astonishing woman, and could find good points in the devil himself.’

  In spite of this statement, they shook hands firmly.

  ‘Goodbye, sir. I’m … goodbye and God bless,’ said Ambrose in confusion.

  The shade of Charlotte approved of them, was amused by them.

  The ironmaster pulled the bell-rope, clasped his hands behind his back, and watched his nephew limp gingerly from the room.

  ‘Good God!’ Ambrose whispered to himself, as Joseph turned the carriage round and headed towards Millbridge. ‘I’ve got to propose to Naomi! How on earth shall I do that?’

  SIXTEEN: A TREE FULL OF STARS AND BIRDS

  Excitement and tension had kept Ambrose on his feet so far, but in the carriage he felt suddenly drained of energy and arrived at Middleton Street in a poor state. On consulting with Joseph as to the wisdom of telling Naomi a part-truth, he found, as he had suspected, a mutual masculine sympathy. The message was worded carefully.

  My dear Naomi,

  I have just received Information from a Reliable Source that there will be no more Attacks on The Correspondent nor on Anyone connected with it. You will be quite Safe, hen
ceforth. I do apologise for sending Joseph back so Late, but I had this Business to transact, and thought it Best he should Wait to bring you the good news.

  You will be delighted to hear that I am Fit for Nothing and shall spend today in bed! One of my staff will stay here at Night until I am safely on the Mend. I shall send you a daily Bulletin of my Health, so please don’t Worry!

  I shall be Better by the weekend and we have something to Celebrate, so may I take you out to Dinner at the Royal George on Saturday evening? I can call for you at seven o’clock, if that is convenient.

  Your friend, Ambrose.

  Then he let the world take care of itself while Frank Ormerod and Bob Bullock took over his work.

  News is not spread by newspapers alone. Throughout the day the tale was embroidered as it passed from one gossip to the other. In the end folk were saying that the editor of The Northern Correspondent lay at death’s door, having been attacked by twenty desperate villains in Millbridge High Street while preserving the honour of Miss Naomi Blüm. Still, this did no harm to the reputation of either him or the paper.

  A letter of sympathy and dry good wishes, written by Sam Pickering and accompanied by a bottle of claret, arrived from The Herald. From the Ship tavern came a bottle of port. At lunchtime, two lads arrived with trays: one a goodwill tripe-and-onions and apple pie from Pendleton’s, the other a roast fowl with bread sauce and a tansy pudding ordered by Naomi from the Royal George.

  In the afternoon the ironmaster’s personal physician called, and almost bumped into Jamie Standish who had dropped by on his own account. Each of them pronounced Ambrose to be in no immediate danger of extinction but advised him to stay abed. Throughout the day, his staff kept one eye on him and the other on the Tuesday edition, and dozens of people left messages of goodwill and even little gifts of eggs and cream and homemade cakes. He had not known he was so popular.

  At six o’clock, a full-scale dinner was sent from the Royal George with a brief note:

  My Friend, I should like very much to see you on Saturday, and I accept your Invitation with much Pleasure. Yours, Naomi.

  Ambrose was relieved, delighted and perturbed. He asked if Charlie Ainsworth would be kind enough to step upstairs for a few minutes. Though now poorer — and richer — for the birth of his first infant, the young man was still something of a dandy, and Ambrose needed a sartorial adviser. He explained as casually as he could that he was taking Miss Blüm out to dinner at the George, and wanted to make a good impression for the sake of the newspaper. He did his best to indicate that this was coldblooded business, but by now every member of his staff was nourishing most pleasurable suspicions.

  ‘So if you’d be good enough to glance over that cupboardful of clothes, Charlie,’ Ambrose said nonchalantly, ‘and give me your opinion as to what I should wear, I’d be uncommonly obliged!’

  The reporter’s face brightened. He had expected to be sent down a coal mine at the risk of life and limb, not treated as a confidant. He rubbed his hands and opened the cupboard smartly, which was unwise since it lacked one hinge and the other was rusty.

  ‘I meant to warn you,’ said Ambrose, as Charlie staggered back holding the door, ‘but you were a bit too quick for me. Are you hurt?’

  ‘Not me, Mr Longe,’ said Charlie, ‘but I think I’d best lean it against this wall. There! No harm done. Now, what have we here?’

  Diplomacy and natural good manners forbade him to be honest. He fetched out old coats and examined them judiciously. He went through Ambrose’s collection of mended and unmended shirts. He inspected boots whose polish barely concealed their defects. He lost hope over the cravats. He approached the problem obliquely.

  ‘I can tell you’ve been quite a dresser in your day, Mr Longe — and you’ve still got the figure for it, too.’

  ‘As bad as that, eh?’ said Ambrose, trying to sound unconcerned.

  ‘Oh, they’re good enough for every day,’ Charlie hastened to add, ‘but if you’re taking such a fashionable lady as Miss Bloom to such a fashionable place as the Royal George … well — none of it will do, Mr Longe, and that’s a fact!’

  Ambrose stared at him helplessly.

  ‘But even if I could afford a whole lot of new clothes — which I can’t, Charlie — how on earth would I get them before Saturday night?’

  ‘I tell you what, Mr Longe,’ said Charlie confidentially, ‘we’re much of a size, you and me. I’ll lend you my wedding outfit!’

  ‘Your wedding outfit?’ Suspiciously. ‘What’s that like?’

  ‘Oh, not one of your formal rigs, Mr Longe. I couldn’t run to that. But it’s a right bobby-dazzler. Black silk topper. Tobacco brown tail-coat with black velvet collar. White double-breasted waistcoat with mother-of-pearl buttons. Fawn strapped trousers cut in the peg-top style. White stock.’ He measured the sole of one of Ambrose’s scuffed boots against his own, adding, ‘and we’re even in luck with the footwear!’

  Dollie the parlour-maid said demurely, ‘Mr Longe, madam!’ and did not smile until she had closed the door behind her.

  Naomi also looked splendid, but then she usually did, and Ambrose had seen that Chinese green gown on other occasions, whereas the impression he created was downright spectacular.

  ‘Oh, but how changed you are!’ cried Naomi, throwing up her hands in admiration.

  Quixotically, he felt piqued. Why should his borrowed finery make such a difference?

  Naomi descried the shadow on his face and hastened to dispel it.

  ‘Ah, but I have always said you were the most elegant man in Millbridge. How well they suit you, these beautiful new clothes! Why did you not warn me, Ambrose? I would have matched you, new for new! Oh, turn around. This is the first time I have seen them!’

  He reflected that it was likely to be the last, and basked in her praises while he could.

  He said airily, ‘Oh, I really had to cut a dash when I was taking such a fine lady out to dinner —’

  In her old relaxed fashion, friend to friend, she had caught his sleeve and turned him about. He tipped his hat over his eyes, spread his arms and pirouetted. She laughed aloud and clapped her hands, and he caught them in his own, laughing with her.

  She stopped, afraid and shy at once. She moved away from him.

  ‘Why! Look at the time!’ she cried, pointing to the clock on the mantelpiece, and examined her image in the looking-glass.

  Ambrose, mirrored behind her, echoed her change of mood.

  ‘By Jove! We must be setting off!’

  Outside, the evening was cold but dry. The parlour-maid enveloped her mistress in furs. Joseph appeared, trimming a lantern, to escort them all three hundred yards of the way to the Royal George. Ambrose offered Naomi his arm, and she accepted it gracefully. Together they strolled up the High Street and across the market square: a most distinguished couple.

  The evening was a paradox. Though Ambrose intended it to be a private occasion, their entrance caused a public sensation.

  Heads turned, conversations were suspended, waiters smiled and bowed. Old Benjamin Tyler, the landlord, hurried to welcome them. Then one gentleman, warming himself by the fire, strode forward to bow to Naomi, to shake Ambrose by the hand, speaking loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room.

  ‘Your servant, ma’am. Good evening, Mr Longe. Anthony Clerk, at your service. My name will mean nothing to you, sir, but I am one of your many admiring readers. May I congratulate you on the courageous stance of The Northern Correspondent with regard to certain local evils, and on your own gallantry in defending this lady last Monday against a crowd of ruffians? I trust, ma’am, that you have recovered from such a shocking fright — and that you, sir, are feeling pretty much yourself again? I shall not trouble you further, Mr Longe. I simply wanted to shake you by the hand!’

  Naomi smiled and inclined her head. Ambrose murmured a polite response. Pleased, confused, they began to make their way to the George’s private parlour, but Mr Clerk’s statement had dissolved the us
ual diffidence of collected strangers. To their astonishment, everyone in the room stood up and applauded, and those nearest to them stretched out their hands to be shaken likewise. Astonished, they acknowledged as many as they could, and heard the door of the parlour close behind them with a profound sense of relief.

  ‘I did not know you were so famous, Mr Longe!’ cried Naomi, smiling, laughing.

  ‘It is not fame, Miss Bloom, merely notoriety!’ he replied.

  The foreign habit of an aperitif had become fashionable of late, and they sipped little glasses of aquavit. For several minutes they were able to make fun of their reception, to consider the menu and consult the waiter and choose their food and wine with care. Then silence and shyness stole upon them. The joy of celebration was shadowed by thoughts of a more serious nature.

  They both began to speak of some triviality at once. They stopped. They excused themselves.

  ‘Pray do continue,’ said Ambrose courteously.

  ‘It was nothing,’ Naomi said, which was no more than the truth.

  They were rescued by the entrance of two waiters, who came in at that moment trundling a trolley full of good things.

  Reprieved, they discussed the soup, brown and creamy, flavoured with Madeira, and consumed it fairly rapidly in order to talk of the oysters which followed. They drank Chablis in a manner suggestive of desperation rather than delight. Between courses they used the parlour as a topic, praising the comfort bestowed by red velvet curtains, a Turkish carpet, and a generous fire.

  A dish of veal cutlets found them more relaxed. Roast beef and potatoes with a rich, dark claret persuaded them to joke again. An apricot tart made with bottled fruit caused them to speculate on the future of canned foods, which were both a novelty and a luxury. Naomi said that at that moment her larder held a tin of genuine truffled hare pâté from the Périgord, but she was half-afraid to try it. Ambrose promised to act as guinea-pig when it was opened.

  They toyed with the savoury. They ate a morsel of Stilton, for appearance’s sake. In a warm and leisurely mood, they drank coffee.