by Jean Stubbs
In another moment or two, caressing the ends of his moustache, looking sideways out of his sharp green eyes, came Sam Pickering, equally curious, to stand on the opposite corner and nod at his rival.
They heard the hooves and wheels of the Liverpool coach long before it reached the crossroads. They heard the ecstatic whine of the horn. The Leeds Mail drew rein only sufficiently to slow down and make sure nothing was coming the other way. Then as the guard threw two bundles of London newspapers onto the pavement, he bawled his news as he had bawled it at every passing stage over the last sixty miles, and would bawl it across Yorkshire.
‘He’s dead! The King’s dead! God save the Queen!’
It was as though Cornmarket had been frozen in mid-action and rendered dumb, but only for a few shocked seconds.
Then Ambrose whipped off his top hat and waved it in the air, shouting, ‘Long live Queen Victoria!’
The cry was taken up by those around him, and people began to run up and down the street and into shops, passing the news from mouth to mouth. The driver of the Mail never took his eyes from the road. Dedicated, a master of his moment, he flicked up the lathered team and rattled off to the Royal George with the message of a lifetime.
Sam Pickering saluted the passing of the old monarch and the accession of the new one with the rest of them, and disappeared quickly into The Herald building. Clearly he had been as well informed as The Correspondent and had reached a similar decision.
Ambrose, about to follow his example, was transfixed by the sight of Joseph driving the carriage towards Middleton Street at a stately trot. Filled with hope and fear, completely forgetting the exaltation of a moment ago, Ambrose began to run towards him.
At the same time, Joseph’s attention was diverted by the guard of the Leeds coach yelling his news as they passed each other. So he did not see his master until Ambrose was alongside, calling, ‘News! What news?’
The manservant smiled. There was so much news. He was strangely stirred and moved by all of it. He replied heartily, frankly.
‘No need for alarm, sir. All safe and well. Master Tobias Longe, sir, was born a little after one o’clock this afternoon.’ He could not help adding, ‘So we’ve got a new queen, sir?’
‘So we have!’ Ambrose said. ‘So we have.’
He rested his hand on the horse’s harness. All about them was chaos, but in his centre he was still and smiling.
‘Toby, eh?’ he said. ‘Well, God bless me. And my wife is well?’
‘Very well, sir. Sitting up drinking tea with Mrs Vivian when I left, sir. Right as ninepence.’
Ambrose looked around him. Jimmy hung about on the pavement, reluctant to leave the scenes of triumph. He beckoned the boy.
‘Fetch my coat from the office, Jim. And, Jim, tell them that my new son is called Toby Longe — that’ll mean something to one or two newspapermen among ’em. And, Jim, tell them to get on with that special edition and send a copy up to me at Thornton House this afternoon. You’ve done very well, Jim. Here’s sixpence for you. Now run as fast as you can because I want to go home.’
‘Yessir. Thankee, sir. Congratulations, sir!’
Ambrose clambered into the carriage with legs of lead. Joseph walked the horses down to the crossroads and turned. Out from the office ran Jim, followed by most of The Correspondent’s staff, all smiling and waving and shouting good wishes across the street.
In both buildings, the presses began to print out their tidings of national sorrow, and national joy.
NINETEEN: WHO GOES HOME?
Much had happened in the past three years, and this meeting, held regularly every Thursday evening in a room above Pendleton’s in Croft Street, was one such phenomenon.
The Oddities Club was a group of local professional and business men which had begun with less than half a dozen members and still scarcely numbered twenty. Once a month, each member was allowed to bring a guest at his own discretion. Mostly these passing visitors caused no particular stir and were ushered gently forth from the magic circle. Occasionally, a sparkling choice would prove to be a future Oddity. But woe betide the member whose guest proved to be a bad mistake, for his power of invitation could be temporarily suspended.
The club’s rules were entirely those of sociability and style. A fellow had to be out of the ordinary and to contribute something of value to the general conversation. There was no chairman, no committee, no annual fee, no accounting. Their evening’s food and drink amounted to less than two shillings per head. And since most of them were family men, they met at seven o’clock sharp and departed no later than eleven.
Pendleton’s had been chosen partly for its convenience and largely for its own originality. Old Walter had departed this life soon after the club was formed, but Pendleton’s did not change a jot. The patron’s eldest son, known as Young Walter though he was close on fifty, saw to their comforts personally. And since club members were never drunk or rowdy, though often high-voiced and heated in argument, the old chop-house cherished them and was proud of this connection.
Ambrose Longe and Sam Pickering were the only newspaper editors so far and, though Arnold Thwaites yearned to be one of them, he knew he would not be asked.
George Howarth was there in his radical coat, introducing radical friends. So sound was his judgement that none of these self-taught and articulate working men had failed to gain their admiration, if not their complete acceptance and agreement.
Jamie Standish and Harold Bailey were the medical experts, and they too could dig up some extraordinary acquaintances, including one gentleman who swore by the healing powers of electric shocks and had them jumping all over the place.
Hal Vivian was there tonight, as Ambrose’s guest. He had been present on other occasions, was regarded as an honorary member and would have been elected long since except that his frequent absences forbade this. But when he did turn up he was always worth waiting for, because he treated his audience as though its knowledge was as great, its visions as wild and brilliant as his own.
That evening they had demolished a saddle of mutton between them, with redcurrant jelly and boiled potatoes, and done justice to a currant pudding with custard sauce. Now bottles of claret were set on the table and clay pipes brought for those who wanted them, and conversation of a sociable sort was in order before they began serious discussion.
Ambrose fetched out a fine cigar case and offered it round. Time had been kind to him, marriage suited him. He still looked remarkably young for his age. He still wore his top hat at a dashing angle. He was still slim and elegant. Like many of the male Howarths, he did not go bald and his hair grew as thick as ever, though its nut-brown warmth was giving way to steel. But his shabby inconsequence had gone. He was an advertisement for his tailor’s excellence. His wit had matured. His opinion carried weight. His judgement was respected.
Mind you, as a father of three sons, and the husband of a lady financier with a will of her own, he had learned a thing or two in the past few years, and often with difficulty. Yet he had no quarrel with life on this midsummer evening, with the last of the day’s sun coming through the thick glass window panes, and the first spirals of convivial smoke rising.
‘Is Mrs Longe keeping well?’ Sam Pickering asked politely.
For Naomi, newly-risen from childbed, had to be accorded their first respects.
‘Never better, Sam. I was brought to book this morning, in both senses, for failing to pay the butcher’s bill. Well, Lord knows,’ said Ambrose, deliberately courting their amusement, ‘I suffered enough when young Jack was born, without bothering about bills. But at any rate, I knew Naomi was completely recovered when she came down to breakfast for the first time in six weeks, and straight away pitched into me about the butcher!’
They all laughed.
‘And how is young Jack?’ asked Sam, with a dry smile.
‘A pestilential young rogue like the other two. I shall never be able to discipline them. Naomi won’t allow it for a moment.’
‘Is Jack a family name?’ asked Hal Vivian, who had already been told several times by his wife, but never listened.
‘Aye, in a manner of speaking,’ said Ambrose. ‘I named the lad after my old teacher and first mentor, Dr Jack Ackroyd, who was headmaster of Millbridge Grammar School in my day, and one of the noblest and bravest men I have ever known.’
‘Hanged, drawn and quartered at Lancaster Jail in 1812 for Luddite activities,’ said Sam Pickering provocatively.
‘Aye, well, he was not the only honourable man to be hanged,’ Ambrose replied, firm and easy. ‘The gallows, like every other institution, has its aristocracy.’ He declined to be drawn on the Luddite question, and turned the conversation to his guest. ‘By the by, what does your boy think of the old grammar school, Hal?’
The Cornishman smiled and said, ‘What most boys of eleven think of school — he wants to leave it!’
‘Nay, he must stick to his learning!’ said George Howarth.
The Cornishman’s handsome face, usually withdrawn, was lit with pleasure. He loved his son, and Santo worshipped him.
‘Oh, he knows that well enough. I shall apprentice him to my firm in another three years, and then we can be engineers together.’
‘I hear your elder girl is off governessing in the Lake District,’ said Sam Pickering, curious.
The Cornishman was fond of his daughters, but they did not interest him. He had to think about this.
‘Oh yes. Philomena. Well, not exactly. She is staying with the family of a former client, and teaching three young children. They pay her pocket-money, but of course she is treated like one of themselves.’
Since further explanation seemed necessary, he added reluctantly, ‘She is only sixteen. Too young to go out into the world, and yet wanting a little adventure. So Mary and I thought of this idea. She went off last month, as cheerful as you please, and writes to us twice a week. She seems to keep pretty well, but complains about the damp.’
No one commented. Everyone thought privately that the damp would prove to be stronger than Philomena’s sense of adventure, though Lord knows Lancashire was wet enough.
‘I see that Alice is ruling the children’s roost these days,’ said Ambrose. ‘I took it upon myself to deliver Nat and Toby to Beech Grove yesterday, having the morning off, and by Jove she had them organised in less than half a minute. They were lions with me on the way there, and lambs as soon as they caught sight of Alice!’
They all laughed again. Ambrose’s face softened.
He said to Jamie Standish, ‘I like your little Cicely. Lord, how she reminds me of my sister at that age. She even has a look of her. A quiet, pretty face, a docile demeanour — but she can handle people and situations like an adult, and misses nothing that goes on.’
‘Aye. Aye,’ said Jamie, well pleased. ‘She’s a dear lassie, and she and Alice are as close as finger and thumb. Which is a good thing, because your lads and mine all stick together.’
‘What a trio of villains they are!’ said Ambrose, grinning. ‘And in a year or two, young Jack will be as bad!’
The other married members then gave proud evidence that their wives were women to be reckoned with, their daughters sweet-natured and beautiful, and their sons limbs of Satan. Meanwhile, the bachelors, having no family to boast about, looked knowing, as if to say, ‘Ah! You don’t catch us so easily!’ — an opinion once held by every husband present, and long since extinguished.
A slight pause ensued.
Ambrose cleared his throat and said, ‘We are able to have our friend Hal Vivian with us this evening for two important reasons. The first, as you will have guessed, was the opening of the railway between Preston and Lancaster. The second is his latest news, which concerns us closely, both as residents of this valley and members of this club.’
The glow roused by talk of his son had not quite left the Cornishman’s face. Now it was illumined by another passion. He spoke lightly and amusingly, but the feeling beneath the tone ran deep.
‘Sirs, I am uncommonly delighted that such odd news as this should first be shared with the Oddities! Indeed, apart from my own family — who have some natural curiosity in my future activities — no one else has yet heard of my latest project!’
He then asked whether all their glasses might be filled, and begged permission to give a toast. When this was done, he stood up and raised his own glass. His build and stance, his dynamism, and a certain arrogant tilt of the head reminded them of the ironmaster. Sam Pickering fingered his moustache. The shadow of a smile lay on his mouth. He had already heard the news, not from the son but from the father. But would keep his mouth shut.
‘Gentlemen! We are on the eve of commencing work on the greatest single industrial and social development that Wyndendale has attempted so far. A network of lines and stations which will radiate from Millbridge into Yorkshire, Lancashire and Cheshire and connect us to London itself. I give you — The Pennine Railway!’
The effect on the assembled company was tremendous. They had been expecting something in the nature of a new, fast steam-locomotive. The idea of a railway network on such a grand scale, with Millbridge as its centre, was staggering.
As one man, they jumped to their feet, crying, ‘To The Pennine Railway!’ And downed their claret as if it were water.
For a second time, Hal Vivian asked that their glasses be charged.
‘And I should like you to drink also to the man whose vision, experience, courage and generosity have made this possible. Gentlemen, I give you The Ironmaster!’
‘To The Ironmaster!’
‘Good health and long life to him!’ said Hal Vivian sincerely, and drank his wine with reverence.
Everyone realised that father and son must have made up their differences to some considerable degree, and they exchanged covert winks and smiles as they toasted William Howarth.
Then they sat down again, silent and slightly stunned by the news, and as no one offered to speak Ambrose stepped into the breach.
‘Would you like to tell us a little more about this project, Hal?’ he asked. ‘Does this mean that you will be directing operations from the valley? If so, what happens to your Manchester business? And have you brought any maps or plans to show us? I know we should all like you to flesh the idea out.’
‘Hear, hear!’
‘We’d best have another bottle or two to help us on!’
‘I have no maps or plans with me,’ said the Cornishman, smiling, ‘but I can draw you as many as you please, if someone would be good enough to fetch me pencil and paper.’
These being brought, and a space cleared before him, he sketched a rough triangle, saying simply, ‘Our country, gentlemen!’ Then he marked the main cities and towns, and indicated railways already built or in progress by means of hatched lines. This done, he circled Millbridge and drew arrows darting from it in all directions.
‘These are our intended railway lines. Some connect us to other lines. Others simply break new ground. It is an immense project which will cost a vast amount of time and money. But do you see, gentlemen? York, Leeds, Liverpool, Manchester, Chester are within our grasp for purposes of business and pleasure. London is already making sure that she can reach and be reached, so quick and easy access to the capital city — and all its advantages — is only a matter of time. Coastal resorts and ports will be mere hours away.
‘And we are only part of this enterprise. Railways will cover the entire country. Taking a long view, gentlemen, the British Isles could be in everybody’s reach within the next decade! Northumberland here. The Lake District there. Scotland and Ireland. The giants of the age are at work. George Stephenson, chief engineer of the London to Birmingham line. Isambard Kingdom Brunel, chief engineer to the Great Western Railway. Gentlemen, the Age of the Railway is upon us — and let me assure you that Wyndendale is holding a first-class ticket!’
George Howarth leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees, half-smiling and half-frowning.
/> ‘Then we’ve seen the last of the stagecoaches!’ he remarked.
That gave them pause. They had been brought up with coaches. Even nine miles of railway line through the valley had not superseded this method of transport in their minds. To imagine the highways without their swaying cargos of passengers, luggage and mail was unthinkable.
Every man present had known the excitement of drumming hooves and rumbling wheels on a fine or frosty morning, the wild halloo of the horn, and the road to adventure opening out before them. Had they not entrusted their goods and their lives to the coach-drivers? Those kings of the highway, who kept solitary vigil on the box in hours when even the guard dozed, who took a surreptitious swig of brandy to wake them, who knew every valley and hill and pothole in the road between London and Carlisle.
How would folk correct the High Street clocks when they could no longer hear the Royal Mail rattle by, proudly on time? What would become of that noble hostelry, the Royal George, without its rambling stables full of horses, its ostlers able to unhitch a lathered team and fetch out a fresh one in a matter of minutes, its bountiful tables and bustling maids by means of which twenty travellers could be refreshed and back on the road in less than half an hour? What of the coaches themselves? The Mercuries, Diligences, Dreadnoughts and Flyers, rolling under the massive arch into the courtyard, bringing with them the air of great events.
Gone, all gone. Set the old driver in the chimney-corner, let him smoke his pipe and drink and dream. Break the coaches up for firewood. Turn the horses out to grass. The age of the railway train is upon us, and Millbridge is holding a first-class ticket.
‘We shan’t need horses, either!’ said someone else, awestruck.
And if horses were redundant then so were farriers, saddlers, harness-makers and so on, down to the farmer selling hay for fodder.
‘And if the railways can carry goods faster and cheaper, they’ll take trade from the canals…’
‘And who’ll pay turnpike tolls when they can travel by rail?’
