The Northern Correspondent

by Jean Stubbs

  ‘Oh, my dear, don’t fret,’ said Mary kindly. ‘Truly, it looks worse than it is. Is Jamie here?’

  ‘He came and went,’ cried Ambrose indignantly, ‘saying he would be back this afternoon. What sort of medical attendance is that?’

  Mary concealed a smile.

  ‘He knows it will be hours yet. Had you not better go to work?’

  ‘I was working until three o’clock yesterday morning, getting the Tuesday paper out,’ he replied, in some exasperation. ‘I arranged to stay at home today, so I could take Naomi for a drive. Why are babies so inconvenient, Mary?’

  ‘Because Eve listened to the serpent! Now, Ambrose,’ in a brisk voice which reminded him of Charlotte, ‘you will only distress yourself and us if you stay here. Go to the office. I’m sure you will find something to do, and we shall send news as soon as there is any.’ He hesitated, and she gave him a friendly little push. ‘Go now. Do as I say. You know it is sensible advice.’

  He took his top hat from the hall table and clapped it absentmindedly on the side of his head. Still he lingered, grumbling out of fear.

  ‘And then there is King William, dying or dead. We waited until the last possible minute before printing, in case a message came through. At least The Herald hasn’t got it this morning, but if he dies now the damned Post will scoop it for Thursday. I tell you, there’s no justice in the world, Mary.’

  ‘Dying or dead, indeed!’ she said contemptuously. ‘The King has been ill before and lived. He is an old man who suffers from asthma. I used to have that, and believe me I thought I would die of it every time. Besides, nobody wants a young girl on the throne who can’t say boo to a goose. Don’t you worry, Ambrose. The doctors will keep him alive as long as they possibly can. Go to your office.’

  He passed one hand over his face. His voice and manner changed.

  ‘I don’t give a damn about King William and the news,’ he said. ‘I’m just sick with fright over Naomi.’

  Mary patted his arm and kissed his cheek.

  ‘You’re a good girl,’ said Ambrose.

  He took his top hat off again, and put it back on the hall table.

  ‘I’ll come with you and say goodbye to her first.’

  He followed Mary up the broad staircase, saying plaintively, ‘Why didn’t they arrange it so that childbirth was painless? Why let a woman suffer so? I don’t believe all that nonsense about Eve…’

  Millbridge borough council, in its new form, seemed pretty much like the old one. They were still mean with the Poor Rate, still liberal with civic banquets and pageants, still concerned with private profit rather than social improvement and still obstinate over the question of public hygiene. Jamie Standish, six years older and shrewder and tougher than at the time of the cholera epidemic, waged constant war on them. He would have preferred quicker results, but since he could not galvanise them into action he intended to wear them down to submission.

  He was concerned with a far more urgent medical matter that June morning than the coming birth at Thornton House, though he left Naomi as comfortable in mind and body as he could. He had bullied an immediate appointment out of the council, to report a bad outbreak of fever in that part of Millbridge known as ‘Back o’ Beyond’. Now he sat in the outer chamber, waiting while they discussed important business.

  ‘But we don’t know for sure that the King’s dead yet. There’s a lot of difference between hard news and rumour,’ said one councillor.

  ‘No, but it’s best to be prepared, ain’t it?’ replied another.

  ‘Only, we don’t want to be in any way disrespectful to his sick majesty, do we?’ asked a third.

  ‘Ah, but preparation ain’t disrespect, and how does that saying go? The King is dead, long live the King!’

  ‘Only it won’t be a king, will it? It’ll be a queen!’

  ‘Nay, never. They’re not going to let a chit of a girl rule a big country like this.’

  ‘She’s the heir to the throne, and who else have we got?’

  ‘Besides, it wouldn’t be her as ruled. It’d be that mother of hers, and that Conroy. We’d have civil war in a month!’

  The Lord Mayor said, ‘Let’s stick to the point, shall we? Other matters are pending.’

  ‘Aye, we’re in for a dose of Dr Standish!’

  ‘He’s a right bulldog, that one. He never lets go.’

  ‘I wonder what bee he’s got in his bonnet this time?’

  The Lord Mayor cleared his throat, called for attention, and began to read his notes aloud.

  ‘The question before us is that of our beloved King William’s illness, which if it should prove fatal, though we hope he will be with us for many years yet, would give rise to us having a Proclamation Ceremony for the new monarch. This requires a good deal of planning and considerable expenditure of public money, and in the event of good King William’s demise we don’t want to find ourselves in a mess because we haven’t worked it all out.’

  ‘Quite right!’ cried an alderman. Then added, ‘How long will he have been on the throne, now…’

  A mottled hand was raised, followed by a mottled countenance.

  ‘Two questions, Mr Mayor. When King William was proclaimed, we held a civic banquet at the Royal George. First, are we having the dinner at the Royal George again?’

  ‘Where else is there that’s half as good?’

  ‘What about t’Fox and Grapes at Medlar? That’s a grand place.’

  ‘Nay, why not try the Iron Duke at Kingswood?’

  ‘Eh, don’t talk so daft. If it’s a Millbridge ceremony, we stop here. We’re not piking off down the valley for us roast beef!’

  The mottled man cried indignantly, ‘I haven’t asked my second question yet! Last time, Mr Mayor, the ceremony was proclaimed in six different parts of the town in front of six different inns, which gave the landlords a lot of extra custom. Now, isn’t it only fair that the procession takes a different route this time?’

  ‘What, round by six of your beer-taverns, Dan?’

  A shout of laughter interrupted the proceedings.

  An alderman said, ‘I vote we ask the Bard of Coldcote to write a coronation poem! He writes grand verse, does Harry Ramsbottom.’

  ‘Oh, there’s plenty of time for that. They won’t hold the coronation for above a twelvemonth.’

  ‘Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor! Last time the ribbons and favours were all purchased from Buckley’s, which caused quite a bit of bad feeling among other haberdashers in the town. Wouldn’t it be better if…’

  ‘Let’s sort out the procession first, shall we?’ said the Mayor, beginning to lose track of the discussion. ‘We can talk about the rest of it later.’

  He found the right place in his notes, adjusted his spectacles, cleared his throat again and read in a tone of hushed importance.

  ‘Now, first of all, there’ll be the Beadle — on ’orseback. Then a company of Javelin Men. Followed by New Town Brass Band…’

  ‘Why are you having New Town? Wroughton’s the best band in the valley. You should ask them!’

  ‘And what’s wrong with Field Mill Brass Band, I’d like to know?’

  ‘Eh, I thought you were supposed to be at home, Mr Longe!’ said Frank Ormerod, coming into the office with a paper in his hand.

  ‘I thought you told me that I would only worry about the first child!’ Ambrose replied, turning the joke on himself.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re here. I was going to send you this!’

  And he put a scribbled message on the desk.

  ‘How reliable is this information?’ Ambrose asked, alerted.

  ‘It’s reliable. Come through last night from one of our business contacts who was in London yesterday. He says the King died early on Tuesday morning, and the little lass was Queen before breakfast. But that’d be too late for the morning papers.’

  ‘But not for special editions, and not for evening papers, eh?’

  ‘No. Mind you, they’d miss the express mail to Manchester, a
nd we don’t know when they’d catch the next coaches coming north, or which routes they’d be on.’

  ‘Frank, get Bob and Charlie and George up here. We’re going to set up a single-page special edition!’

  The four men sat round Ambrose’s desk, firing off ideas.

  ‘Headline — KING WILLIAM IV IS DEAD! and a summary of the monarch and his reign…’

  ‘On the other side, LONG LIVE QUEEN VICTORIA! and a general portrait of the new monarch…’

  ‘A black border, all the way round the front page…’

  ‘Play the idea of a girl queen for all we’re worth!’

  ‘Aye, but tell them she’s got an old head on young shoulders, though. Wise for her years, and that!’

  ‘Yes, and keep her mother and Conroy out of it. No politics.’

  ‘We can set up the whole thing now, short of putting the date in. Then, whenever the official news comes, we can print it!’

  ‘Aye, and unless Sam Pickering knows as much as we do, and is as quick off the mark, we’ll beat The Herald to it and stop The Post from stealing a march on us!’

  ‘And tell Jimmy from me,’ said Ambrose grimly, ‘that if he isn’t waiting on that pavement for every blessed mail-coach that comes through from anywhere, I’ll box both his ears!’

  Naomi had been up since six o’clock, trying to creep from their bed without rousing Ambrose, but bulk and weight made her clumsy and he was awake in an instant. Unlike the first birth which had been protracted, her pains were quite strong and came every few minutes. She would have liked to concentrate on them by herself in peace, because the slightest gasp or grimace troubled her husband so much, but he would neither leave her nor go back to sleep. So she kept him occupied as best she could in giving orders to the servants who were already up and about, and in writing messages to Joseph to deliver to Jamie and Dorcas Standish and Mary Vivian.

  At eight o’clock Nathan was brought to her, as usual. She supervised his breakfast of bread and milk and played with him for a while, managing to conceal the fact that she was in some discomfort. At nine o’clock, Joseph took the boy and his nurse down to Beech Grove. Dr Jamie came and went. By the time the hall clock chimed the three quarters before ten Ambrose was in total disarray, and Mary’s arrival and decision came as a godsend to himself and everyone.

  The front door closed behind him. The household became quieter. The two women smiled at each other in mutual understanding.

  ‘He is so good and so loving,’ Naomi said ruefully, ‘and he suffers so for me and so much wants to help me.’

  ‘You have missed the next word out,’ said Mary mischievously, untying her bonnet strings. ‘It is but, followed by a long pause!’

  ‘Ah! You are a naughty one!’

  Then Naomi turned to the parlour-maid, saying, ‘Dollie, I am very well, and Mrs Vivian will stay with me. Go downstairs and say that I wish everyone to continue their normal duties until Dr Standish comes this afternoon. If Cook would step upstairs in half an hour, I will discuss the day’s menus with her. In the meantime, Mrs Vivian and I should like some tea.’

  The maid bobbed a curtsey and departed, taking Mary’s bonnet and summer mantle with her.

  ‘Now tell me truly, how are you feeling, my dear?’ Mary asked.

  ‘I tell you the truth. I think this one will be much quicker than the last. I think that Jamie has much on his mind this morning and does not believe me how strong the pains are.’ She stopped and gasped and rubbed her back. ‘Oof! That was such a one!’

  ‘Gracious me!’ said Mary, both fascinated and disturbed. ‘Ought we to send for Jamie to come early, do you think?’

  ‘But I do not know where he is!’ Naomi cried dramatically. Then she shrugged and smiled. ‘And I do not care a tuppence, either!’

  ‘Lord above, Naomi! Should you like to lie down?’

  ‘No, I wish to walk around. It takes my mind off the pain. When I lie down, I must give myself up to it.’

  Mary took her arm and they sauntered sedately round the room, stopping whenever Naomi had a contraction.

  The morning routine of Thornton House rolled peacefully on. The scullery-maid scrubbed and whitened the front doorsteps. The boot-boy whistled over his daily tasks in the yard. Dollie brought a tray of tea-things, set her mistress and the room to rights, and then retired to the linen room to sew. Mrs Bagnall, the cook-housekeeper, mounted the stairs full of helpful suggestions and went down again prepared for any culinary emergency. Joseph took the carriage and horses back to the George, and afterwards cleaned silver in the kitchen. The long clock in the hall marked the passage of time. The two women were very quiet and tranquil together. The luncheon hour passed.

  Then Naomi’s face changed. She cried, ‘Oh, I must lie down!’

  And this time she crouched and panted over the pain like a dog that is short of water.

  ‘Lor!’ cried Mary, turning pale. She sat Naomi carefully in a chair, ran to the door and called the maids. ‘Dollie! Quick!’

  Naomi pressed her hands down on the arms of the chair and held her breath. A fine film of moisture gleamed on her skin. She groaned and panted and groaned again.

  Mary found herself suddenly in charge of a situation of which she had expected to be an onlooker. The maid removed the warming pan and turned back the sheets. Together they helped Naomi into bed.

  ‘Dollie, where can we find Dr Standish?’

  ‘Mary, hold my hands! Hold my hands!’ Naomi cried.

  She hauled on Mary’s wrists without mercy, forehead furrowed with effort, bowing over her travail, then lay back on the pillows. The roots of her hair were wet with sweat.

  ‘Don’t worry, Naomi, I’m here!’ Mary told her, with tremendous misgivings. And to the maid, ‘Dollie! Run downstairs and fetch hot water and towels. Tell Joseph to find Dr Standish — or any doctor — or any midwife — or anybody! Oh, and ask Mrs Bagnall if she knows anything about babies being born!’

  Naomi laughed weakly, and two tears trickled down either side of her nose. She was taking short, timid breaths, as if afraid the pain would catch her on a long one.

  ‘Oh, my poor Mary. I am so sorry.’

  ‘I don’t mind really,’ said Mary, rubbing the places where Naomi had gripped her. ‘In fact, I’m quite enjoying it. Only I should like Jamie to come fairly soon.’

  ‘Again!’ cried Naomi, signalling the onslaught of pain. ‘Your hands. Give me your hands.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh Lor! Where is everybody?’

  ‘Madam,’ said Dollie softly at her side, concerned but never forgetting her manners, ‘Cook says she’s the eldest of fourteen, and though she’s no expert she can help.’

  Naomi’s latest groan took more breath than she had got, and still the pain demanded more. She breathed in and screamed out.

  ‘Fetch her!’ Mary said peremptorily.

  Cook arrived very quickly for such a fat, short woman, bearing the kitchen scissors and a length of twine. She brought her face down close to Naomi’s and spoke with the utmost consideration.

  ‘Excuse me, madam, but I’ll have to take a few liberties.’

  ‘Oh, never mind that, Mrs Bagnall!’ cried Mary impatiently. ‘Having a baby takes every liberty a woman can put up with!’

  ‘I’ll be outside if you want me, madam,’ said Dollie, retreating.

  ‘It is here again!’ cried Naomi. ‘Oh, and again!’

  ‘Lie on your back, madam, and fetch your knees apart,’ said Mrs Bagnall. She threw back the sheets. ‘Ah! We’ll have somebody else with us in another minute or two. See, the head’s crowned, Mrs Vivian.’

  Mary stared open-mouthed at Naomi’s splendid ivory thighs and the wet, dark head between them. The soreness of her wrists was forgotten. She had never seen a birth before and, though she felt she should have been disgusted, she was not. Perhaps too many generations of farmer’s wives lay behind her for her to play the lady.

  ‘Now, madam, we’re nearly there,’ said Cook to Naomi, ‘and I don’t want you to push no
more. Nature’ll do the rest on her own. You hold back as long as you can, and screech out when you have to. Now, Mrs Vivian, when madam pulls on you, you pull on her to take her mind off what’s happening.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Mary resolutely.

  So she and Naomi hauled that little life on shore together with Mrs Bagnall directing them like some ancient mariner.

  Naomi gave three loud, short screams. Mary saw the dark head convulse, the shoulders squeeze through, the body slither and leap like a fish, and Mrs Bagnall received a fine, large boy. The infant waved his fists, made water and yelled with shock.

  ‘Another son, Naomi. Another son,’ cried Mary, shaking her hands and kissing them.

  They heard voices and footsteps on the stairs.

  ‘Too late!’ Mary shouted joyfully. ‘We’ve done it without you!’

  As Jamie Standish hurried into the room, full of apologies.

  Naomi said, ‘This one I should like to call Tobias, and again I ask you to be the godmother, my dearest Mary, because he was born by you. And I love you and thank you a thousand times, for what should I have done without you?’

  Mary felt her eyes smart, knew she was near tears and laughed them away. Reverently she held the newly-washed and shawled infant in her arms: light-heartedly she shook his scarlet fist.

  ‘Hello, Toby!’ said Mary. ‘Welcome to the world!’

  If it was any of them now, it was the two o’clock Leeds Mail en route from Liverpool. Jimmy was hopping up and down on the Middleton Street corner, waiting for the incoming coach and exchanging appalling threats and insults with the office-boy from The Herald, who was obviously on the same mission.

  Then Ambrose Longe appeared, fresh from overlooking the special edition. The two lads quietened down and greeted him in subdued and civil tones. With everything done that could be done, with the prospect of confirmation only minutes away, Ambrose could not have stayed inside if they paid him. He stood with Jimmy on the corner, arms akimbo, in his shirtsleeves. His only concession to street-dress was to clap his top hat on one side of his head.