The Northern Correspondent

by Jean Stubbs

  ‘Yes, Mrs Vivian was writing the fair copy at our house yesterday afternoon… Good God, Frank, this business has been going on since last night. Isn’t that time enough?’

  Frank Ormerod sat down, unbidden, and spoke kindly.

  ‘I’ve had seven little ’uns so far, Mr Longe, and the first is always the hardest on both parents. After that, you take ’em in your stride, like. Now, sir, you’ve been up all night and come out without breakfast. You didn’t eat above a spoonful of hotpot at dinnertime, and you might not be here for supper — supposing I was to send out for a jug of hot coffee and a pork-pie?’

  ‘You’re very good. Just the coffee, Frank, if you please.’

  The head printer rose from his chair. He was sympathetic.

  ‘If there’s anything any of us can do for you, Mr Longe, you know you’ve only got to ask. It might sound funny for me to say so — being teetotal — but why not try a nip of brandy with the coffee?’

  Ambrose smiled and said, ‘If I started nipping brandy, I’d end up drinking the bottle, Frank!’

  ‘Ah, there is that! I’ll be off, then. If you could let me have the editorial in the next hour…?’

  ‘I’ll see to it in no time at all. Thank you, Frank. And, Frank?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Longe?’

  ‘If the baby had come on Wednesday, I could have stayed at home!’

  The head printer spoke soothingly.

  ‘Nay, you’d only fret yourself and them at home, Mr Longe. You’re best off here with us!’

  ‘Still,’ said Ambrose to the closed door, ‘a Wednesday would have been more convenient!’

  They had been married on a Wednesday the previous year. Their wedding, like their engagement, was originally intended to be a private affair but had become a public event.

  They began with an idea most beautiful in its simplicity: an intimate ceremony at St Mark’s church in early April, their four closest friends as witnesses, and a small wedding breakfast at the Royal George. They ended as chief actors in the smartest social event of the season, entertaining over two hundred guests, ordering Naomi’s gown from Paris and postponing the date to late July in order to fit everything and everyone in.

  It was not the fault of the ironmaster that his wife graciously improved on the original plan. Indeed, he protested with his usual vehemence. But Zelah said that Naomi had only come to Millbridge at his instigation; that she had no relatives in England and needed some fatherly friend to give her away; and that the gesture would have pleased Charlotte. At this the ironmaster knuckled under and offered to hold the wedding at Kingswood Hall.

  Ambrose was all for declining the offer outright but had his mind changed by Naomi, who pointed out that the ironmaster had given her help and advice when her father died and must not be snubbed; that such a public family reconciliation could harm no one and possibly benefit all of them; and that a refusal would hurt Zelah.

  So on a fine day in late July, Ambrose found himself in the position of many a man before him. He was dressed in an expensive suit of clothes which would serve him only for rare occasions. He had become a necessary but unimportant part of a religious and social ceremony for which he had no patience. And he had to be polite to people whom he detested or despised.

  Their early guest list had been composed of Hal and Mary Vivian, and Jamie and Dorcas Standish. The final invitations fetched a host of German Blüms from Berlin, all of whom wandered round England for an interminable time before going home again; an army of the ironmaster’s daughters and their progeny, who stayed at Kingswood Hall for weeks and kept calling on them; the Howarths of Kit’s Hill, who were deeply discomfited but dared not refuse, and arrived bearing unwanted gifts; the chief staff of both The Northern Correspondent and The Lancashire Herald; and a number of local dignitaries who had to be asked because somebody else was, and whom, in consequence, Ambrose would not be able to hound or insult for at least a month.

  He saw the ironies of the situation, he believed that in years to come he would relish its humour, but there were times in those long months of preparation when he thought the price of marriage came too high. The fact that he had none of his own way made him mutinous, and though he could have left The Correspondent in the hands of his deputies for a week, he decided he was indispensable and would only take time off between the Tuesday and Saturday editions. In fact, the wedding spoiled their engagement. They managed not to quarrel, but as far as Ambrose was concerned he had lost the glory of that cold March evening, when all the stars were out and he waltzed with the High Street lamp-posts.

  This time the knock on his door heralded George Howarth, carrying a can of hot coffee.

  ‘Hello there, George!’ cried Ambrose, with false heartiness.

  You would have thought that George was a perpetually expectant father, the way that Ambrose and every member of staff on The Correspondent treated him. He responded in his usual fashion, a tone both awkward and laconic.

  ‘How do you find yourself then, cousin?’

  ‘Not too bad, George. And yourself?’

  ‘Fair to middling,’ said George, as he always did.

  Very deliberately he set the coffee down on the carpet near the door, picked up a sheet of old paper, folded it in eight so that it formed a thick pad, laid it on Ambrose’s desk, and stood the can triumphantly on top of it. Then he took a clean cup, saucer and plate from the small corner cupboard and placed them by Ambrose’s right elbow. He found a sugar-bowl and a spoon, and two biscuits at the bottom of a blue Wedgwood barrel, which he also placed within reach. Finally, he stepped back and eyed the arrangements to make sure they were as they should be.

  ‘The milk’s in the coffee!’ George said, quite unnecessarily.

  Ambrose thanked him and waited. Everyone always waited after George had spoken, because more information might be forthcoming.

  The assault in Prospect Mine, nearly two years ago, had not broken his spirit or impaired his faculties, but it had robbed him of speed. The old George was down there, fathoms deep in the mine of his understanding; he simply took time to surface.

  He had been brought up for dead in a leafless February. By the time Ambrose fetched him out of hospital the horse-chestnuts were flowering, so long had it taken him to heal. He had walked unassisted to the hackney-carriage on that fine May morning. True, he could not hear or see as well as he had done. He had a slight limp, his smile was somewhat gap-toothed, his mended bones would always plague him in cold weather. But his gaze was as straight and blue, his handshake as firm as ever.

  ‘Well, cousin,’ George had said, very matter-of-fact. ‘I’m back!’

  There was little enough to come back to, since his injuries prevented him from doing manual labour and he had no settled home, but Naomi found a solution which pleased all of them. Having surveyed Ambrose’s bachelor apartment at 21 Middleton Street, she suggested that the maimed hero might occupy the rooms rent free for as long as he liked. This solved the problem of George, who needed time and space to come to terms with life; and that of the furniture, which was unsuitable for Thornton House.

  So, with Ambrose’s help and encouragement, George began to educate himself. He found study far easier than human communication. He rose as soon as it was light and worked until dusk. He learned as though learning were food and he ravenous, but he would not accept total charity; he insisted on earning some sort of living. He was too old for an apprenticeship of any kind, so Ambrose employed him as an odd-job man for The Correspondent. Within a year, George made a unique place for himself on the newspaper.

  He was still learning, still adjusting, still slow in his responses, but sometimes Ambrose felt that George was simply coasting along while he thought the next step out. Then, when the time came to change course, he would cast everything and everyone aside and go his own way, whatever that way might be.

  So now Ambrose waited for his next remark, which turned out to be in praise of Naomi.

  ‘That,’ said George, regarding his presentation
of the coffee and biscuits, ‘is how Mrs Longe would like it to be done!’

  He burrowed a little deeper into his mind, and produced a richer gem.

  ‘And if that’s how Mrs Longe likes it, then that’s how it ought to be done!’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more!’ said Ambrose, and his memory wounded him.

  He had behaved well during and after the marriage ceremony for Naomi’s sake, and she was radiant. Not young and innocent as brides were supposed to be, but without doubt the queen of her occasion. But paradoxes seemed to be part of their lives, and the incident which gave meaning to Ambrose’s wedding day marred it for her.

  It had happened late in the afternoon, when they escaped the reception for a few minutes to walk together in Zelah’s rose garden. Unaware, or careless of the fact that they could be overheard on the other side of the tall hedge, two strangers were discussing them.

  ‘Well, I should say that the Longe fellow has done pretty well for himself,’ drawled the man. ‘He must have more common sense than I gave him credit for — and she far less! I wish I could persuade my chief creditor to marry me and cancel the debt, I can tell you!’

  The woman’s reply was impish, delicately malicious.

  ‘Ah! But the lady is a thought past her youth, and ready to pay any price for a husband!’

  There was a pause, as though the man drew on his cigar. Then he spoke again wryly, with a curious distaste.

  ‘Aye, she’s handsome enough now, but these daughters of Judah soon run to seed — and he always liked his freedom. When he’s finished spending her shekels, he’ll leave her flat!’

  Rarely did Naomi seem other than content with her world and herself, but in that moment Ambrose saw her stripped of all defence. Stricken, she let go of his arm as if he had said the words, and walked rapidly away from him. Angrily, helplessly, cursing them and her and the whole ridiculous business, he hurried after.

  The day was hot, her stays were tightly laced. He caught her up without much difficulty, grasped her firmly by the arm, and steered her towards a rustic seat in the Long Walk, but there he could not help feeling sorry. However unimportant the incident was to him, it mattered very much to Naomi. She was taking short, harsh breaths to prevent herself from crying. Her hands were shaking, and she clasped them together in an effort to control herself. Gently, Ambrose took them in his own, and rubbed them gently.

  A group of sauntering wedding guests, also in search of air and space, fluttered towards them, uttering bird-like cries of astonishment and concern.

  ‘My wife is slightly distressed by the heat!’ Ambrose said factually, motioning them to keep their distance. ‘I wonder if you would be so kind as to fetch a glass of iced water for her?’ And softly to her, ‘Steady, Nim! Must keep up appearances!’

  Immediately, the flock wheeled and swept off in search of servants, leaving them in momentary peace.

  ‘Come on!’ said Ambrose, coaxing his bride to her feet. ‘There’s a disused summer-house in the wood — unless they’ve repaired it in the last few years. We’ll hide in there.’

  She went with him passively, all beauty and majesty gone. The summer-house had been locked, was falling into decay. She waited in dumb submission while he put his shoulder to the door and forced it open. He found a clean old handkerchief in his coat-pocket and spread it over the mossy seat within. There she sat down, careless of her finery. Her satin gown gleamed in the dim light. Her eyes were fathomless, wells of sorrow.

  ‘Now, what’s all this nonsense over a bit of spiteful gossip?’ Ambrose asked her outright. Adding, ‘Yes, you can cry if you want to, but I should like you to explain such extreme behaviour!’

  He spoke in a stern and deliberate way, to steady her. Some colour crept into her cheeks. She ceased to shake and gasp. She tried to speak. Then a cataract of tears fell, a tempest of sobs shook her.

  He had never seen her cry before, and the spectacle filled him with amused tenderness. She wept like a child, in total abandon, in dark despair. He took a fine white handkerchief from his breast-pocket and proffered it with a grin.

  ‘This is positively the last one I have!’ he said firmly.

  In a minute or two she dried her eyes, blew her nose, took a deep breath, and composed herself. She sat on in silence, head averted, and examined the border of his handkerchief as if it were a thing of great importance.

  ‘Well, what a storm in a summer-house!’ Ambrose said lightly, trying to make her smile. ‘If you’re going to take that much notice of every envious remark we overhear, we shall spend most of our married life mopping you up! You can’t be a leading social light and marry a newspaperman without becoming public property, Mrs Longe!’

  Her lips quivered, but he was glad to see that their corners promised to turn up rather than down.

  ‘I suppose you’re going to leave all the talking to me, as upon another notable occasion?’ he continued.

  She shook her head and swallowed.

  ‘Surely you don’t take such contemptible creatures seriously?’

  ‘I am no longer sure!’ said Naomi in truth.

  His face changed. He paled in his turn. He spoke gravely.

  ‘Go on, if you please.’

  She smoothed the border of his handkerchief as though her life depended on every crease.

  ‘At first, I do not think you marry me for convenience. I believe you care for me. But since we are engaged, you turn from me. You are unkind in many ways. Now I wonder whether they speak the truth.’

  He was amazed. He was deeply hurt.

  ‘I, unkind?’ he cried indignantly. ‘What? After agreeing to all this nonsense and flummery? After betraying every principle I ever stood for? I, unkind? I am the kindest idiot on earth!’

  She gave one last dry sob and sat up straight. She was recovering.

  ‘Two days’ honeymoon!’ she cried accusingly. ‘You give us only two days! No time to go away. No wedding tour. No nothing. Then pf! back to work. That is the extent of your affection!’

  She was ceasing to be sorry and becoming angry. She spoke with tremendous sarcasm.

  ‘Why do you not marry your newspaper instead of me?’

  ‘Ah!’ he said, and was silent.

  Naomi looked sideways at him. His expression admitted everything, and regretted it.

  He said equally truthfully, ‘Very well, I have behaved less than generously in this, but I should have liked our wedding to belong to us rather than to be a party for everyone else.’

  It was her turn to question her judgement, and she did this honestly.

  ‘Then I, too, made a mistake, but I thought that this would help you — with your uncle the ironmaster, with your newspaper. And I do love the Aunt Zelah, and also I like the idea of my grand wedding! But I would rather have a little wedding and not quarrel!’

  ‘My dearest girl, it was not your fault. We should have talked this out. Heaven knows why we did not!’

  ‘We listened to everyone but ourselves,’ said Naomi wisely, ‘and that is why we did not!’

  He nodded. She smiled.

  She said, ‘Next time we are married, Mr Longe, we shall discuss the matter at great length!’

  Gracefully she rose and shook out her gleaming gown, smoothed her coronet of hair. She was herself again. Her eyes demanded compliments. He answered her unspoken question.

  ‘Yes, you are beautiful, and I love you very much.’ Then, in his own defence, ‘I would not have been so inconvenienced, else.’

  Her upraised hands called on her usual witness.

  ‘He is inconvenienced!’ cried Naomi to the god of her fathers.

  She was not serious, and he knew it. The decayed summerhouse became a place of understanding, of reconciliation.

  ‘I daresay they could manage without me for a week. Yes, I shall take a week off as soon as I can arrange it, and we will have a late honeymoon,’ said Ambrose, thinking.

  He jumped up, dusted himself down, and asked, ‘Where would you like to go? Name your pla
ce, madame!’

  He was thinking of Blackpool, of Southport, of Lytham St Anne’s.

  She replied instantly, ‘Oh, Paris, of course!’

  His face fell.

  He said, ‘That will take a fortnight! Well, it can’t be helped.’

  She laid her problem before heaven again, piteously.

  ‘Why is he so cruel to me?’ Then, as he caught her hands and turned her to face him, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I am trying to kiss you,’ Ambrose said reasonably, ‘and you will keep talking to someone else!’

  She laughed. She left heaven to its own devices.

  ‘I give you back your kiss!’ she cried, doing so. Then gave him another, and said, ‘That is interest, Mr Longe!’

  ‘What? Seven and one-eighth per cent?’

  ‘Do not be impudent. Please to kiss me again.’

  In a while he said hopefully, ‘I say, Nim, would they mind if we went home now? We haven’t got much of this honeymoon left!’

  She shook her head, and then nodded, between kisses.

  St Stephen’s clock struck seven. Ambrose’s coffee had long since grown cold. He stared at his unfinished editorial without seeing it. He saw, instead, two Naomis.

  The one slept deeply, splendidly, after love-making. Beneath the mantle of black hair her flesh glowed, luminous as pearl. The other was heavy and unbeautiful with child. She frowned and gasped over each pain, humble in the face of her torment.

  He had never understood why the love of man should cause woman so much suffering. Such a chasm yawned between the bride-goddess on her pedestal and the breeding animal crouched in its trouble. Yet Naomi accepted both images, having inner knowledge of the mystery. It was he who questioned and fretted, he who wanted to know what could not be explained.

  Bob Bullock knocked at the door this time, and Ambrose reached guiltily for his pen. Then he put it down again, tired of pretence.

  ‘I don’t seem able to finish this, Bob.’

  ‘Here, let me have a look at it, Mr Longe.’

  The overseer read it through, illustrating its effect on him with nods and chuckles, and laid it on the desk.