by Jean Stubbs
How Mary’s sobs would have touched him, and the Cornishman’s remorse moved him. How the water would have sprung to his own eyes at the sight of brother Dick, hayfork in hand, quite unable to speak, tears coursing down his rough, red cheeks.
How deeply he would have appreciated the epitaph from one of his oldest workers, a retired puddler living in Gun Street, Snape.
‘Eh! There’s never been a master like him. Whatever shall us do without him? It don’t bear thinking about!’
But in this ultimate event of his life, the ironmaster could see and hear nothing. He lay cold and composed in his coffin, in the house at Queen Anne’s Gate, hands folded in prayer upon his breast: a crusader borne home from victorious wars.
Five and forty years had William Howarth wielded dominion over an ever-growing kingdom, having a finger in every industrial pie in the valley, playing a major role in local politics, forming and heading important committees, supporting charities, founding two ironworks and a newspaper of some distinction, instigating a railway, creating the entire district of Wroughton, gaining industrial medals and awards in his own country and abroad. Finally, at the peak and pinnacle of his public life, representing Wyndendale in Parliament.
Only one honour was missing, folk would say. Why had he not been given a title? Why was he not Sir William Howarth, or Baron Kingswood, or something of that sort?
The answer lay locked in the ironmaster’s still heart. No one would ever know whether this was a matter of personal choice or the machinations of powerful enemies — and he had many. Yet it must be said that he had never mentioned the seeming omission, let alone fretted over it.
Mindful that he practised what he preached, Ambrose dealt fairly with his employees. A twelve-hour day was considered reasonable, but twice a week their hours were considerably extended and their days distorted by printing the newspaper. So once the Saturday Correspondent was off the premises, he gave them the rest of the weekend to make amends. This long break also saved fuel. The boiler fires, which produced steam to drive the presses, could be let out for thirty-six hours. Consequently, everyone was satisfied.
Today, those cooling boilers and tired workers were foremost in Ambrose’s mind, but he could not turn aside for them. He felt that he must be the first to break the news to Mary and Hal, to Dick Howarth of Kit’s Hill, to the manager of Snape Ironworks, and to the butler and housekeeper at Kingswood Hall. He could not have borne them to hear by default, or from the mouth of someone to whom the news was mere sensation. So he rode post-haste down to Middleton Street, and sounded the front door knocker like doom.
George Howarth was already up and about, despite the fact that he was not abed until four o’clock. Since the assault in Prospect Mine, he had suffered cruelly from insomnia and could rarely count on more than two or three hours’ sleep a night. But he had learned how to turn this curse into a blessing, and much of his studying took place while others slept. So he was wide awake and limping downstairs in an instant to open the door.
For some time now, Ambrose had taken the precaution of keeping notes on all his uncle’s past and present activities, so that an obituary notice could be set up quickly.
‘George,’ said Ambrose, bringing out his news in a rush. ‘The ironmaster is dead. I’ll give you all the details later. I’m off to tell the Vivians and the Howarths and his people.
‘I want you to get hold of Frank Ormerod and Bob Bullock. Tell them to fetch in just enough workers to set up and print a news-sheet such as we did when King William died and Queen Victoria came to the throne. Right?’
Even as he was speaking, he thought, By God, the old boy is going out in style, like another King William!
But he had to hurry on.
‘Tell Bob they’ll be paid extra time. Then find the ironmaster’s file, and arrange the papers on my desk to form an outline of his life and works. Ask Charlie Ainsworth to rough it out. Open up the printing shop, order a firkin of beer from the Ship, and buy some bread and cheese and pickled onions. I’ll be back in two or three hours.
‘Oh! And, George, you’d best walk over the road and knock up Sam Pickering. I doubt he’ll have heard, and The Herald is even more concerned in this than we are, with my uncle being the owner. He’ll want to mark the event. Oh, and you can tell Sam what I’m planning to do. No need to cut each other’s throats over a public matter like this. And tell him … tell him I’m sorry!’
‘Right!’ said George. He added, ‘I’ll have a bit of breakfast ready for you when you get back, cousin.’
Ambrose remounted the hired horse, and looked down at him abstractedly from the saddle.
‘Where does Bellamy the boilerman live, George?’
‘I don’t know, offhand. He changed his lodgings not long since. Harry Pycroft’ll know. The new office-lad. Bellamy’s his uncle. Harry lives at number forty-five, The Doles, just off Newmarket Street.’
For Jimmy, The Correspondent’s first office-boy, had recently been promoted to a seven-year apprenticeship as a letterpress printer. His rival was similarly occupied at The Herald. And now a new pair of small urchins stoned or snowballed each other from opposite sides of the cross-roads.
‘How’s Mrs Longe taking it?’ George asked.
‘She’s crying,’ said Ambrose, turning the horse’s head towards Lower Town. ‘Crying her eyes out, George.’
Ambrose interrupted the Pycrofts just as the family was about to partake of breakfast, but they felt deeply flattered by his presence.
They were a very large family for such a small terraced house, so many that Mrs Pycroft was forced to arrange their meals in shifts. And though, on such short acquaintance, she would be unlikely to tell Ambrose where The Doles’ communal privy was situated, his nose needed no information. Its stench, on that warm summer morning, was quite penetrating.
Mr Pycroft had already departed for Green Lane cotton-mill, but the rest of them were there. A baby sucked vigorously at Mrs Pycroft’s breast, four children sat at the table eating, four others stood round awaiting their turn, and the rest lay abed until they were called: six-year-old Harry being among them. But Mrs Pycroft knew what was due to a person of Ambrose’s importance. With the baby still clinging limpet-fashion to her bodice, she screamed Harry’s name up the steep staircase which divided one room from another. The boy tumbled down in seconds, and stood in awe before his master, wondering what crime he could have committed which warranted a personal visit.
However, on being told his errand and given a penny, Harry was greatly reassured. Furthermore, Mrs Pycroft put his breakfast into his hand and threatened to box his ears if he wasn’t quick, to show Ambrose that nothing in the way of nourishment or good manners was wanting in her establishment. And, since the lad slept in the vest and shirt he wore by day, and owned no shoes at the moment, he needed only to put on a pair of patched trousers.
The whole family assembled on the doorstep to watch Ambrose ride away, and to show their neighbours what sort of company they kept. Then Mrs Pycroft gave Harry a push, and the lad trotted off barefoot down the narrow street, holding a slice of bread and dripping in one small dirty hand, and snatching large and delectable bites from it as he ran.
The mayor and council were in active disarray. They had held an emergency meeting in the panic of the moment, without being in full possession of the facts. This was not unusual, and they had overcome any embarrassment by falling immediately into argument over the question of precedence in the ironmaster’s funeral procession.
Until an alderman said, ‘But suppose the family wants a private funeral? And they might bury him in London, come to that! It’s no use talking about beadles on ’orseback, Fred, if he’s not coming here!’
‘Nay, he must lay in Garth churchyard with the other Howarths,’ said Dick firmly, wiping his cheeks with his shirt sleeve. ‘There’s no question of that. There’s generations of us there already. That’s where Mother and Father lay, and where I’ll lay when my time comes. And that’s where our William bel
ongs.’
‘I think,’ said Ambrose gently, ‘we must wait to hear his wife’s wishes on the matter, and even perhaps his own. The ironmaster may have left particular instructions.’
But Dick would have none of it. His tears welled up again and again, however often he wiped them away. No, he shook his head from side to side like a beleaguered bull, and would have none of it.
‘Nay, our William must lay in Garth churchyard, our Ambrose. Along with the rest of the Howarths.’
Back up the valley Ambrose rode, leaving the ironmaster’s kingdom in disarray. The vastness of his uncle’s empire, the complicated procedures which would be required to dismantle it, the ramifications of legal and personal detail, even that first question of his funeral, were assuming nightmarish proportions. One man had died, and a little world shuddered to its foundations.
To act as family messenger had been natural and right, but as the morning progressed Ambrose realised that he was being regarded as the family’s chief representative. Of course, William’s children by Zelah were all daughters, his natural son Hal Vivian could not be publicly acknowledged, and Dick Howarth didn’t count. Poor Dick. So people were bound to turn to someone, though, God knows, he had never coveted or courted the position. He wondered how on earth his aunt was managing all by herself in London, needing to make great decisions when her strength had been sapped and her judgement possibly shaken by events. Should he not go to her? But how could he, without knowing what she planned to do?
My God, Ambrose thought, I hadn’t realised how much we relied on the old boy to lead the band. Now I’m leading the band, instead!
Sam Pickering was waiting for him when he got back, standing with his hands in his trouser pockets, staring down from the window into the hurly-burly of Middleton Street. On him, too, a portion of the ironmaster’s empire was resting, and proving to be as heavy and uncomfortable as the weight upon Ambrose’s shoulders. His green eyes had lost their cool complacency. His hair seemed to be thinner, his drooping moustache greyer. Even his greeting had lost its bite.
Ambrose told young Harry to fetch them a glass of beer apiece.
‘How are you doing, Sam?’ he asked.
‘Badly,’ Sam replied, with the utmost honesty.
‘What’s your position with The Herald?’
‘I don’t know. He always said he’d see me right. But what does that mean?’
Ambrose shrugged.
‘Are they fetching him home?’ Sam asked.
‘You’re about the hundredth person to ask me that this morning, and I still don’t know. I called in at the Old Hall again on the way back, to see if Hal Vivian had heard from my aunt, but he hadn’t. So until I have some hard news, we’re stuck.’
‘Mrs Howarth will have written to you, surely?’
‘Not necessarily. Hal is his son, after all. Mary says she’ll ride up here at once if they have news.’
‘Ah, Mrs Vivian’s quick off the mark!’ said Sam, smoothing the ends of his moustache. ‘She’ll let you know.’
‘Can I help you in any way, Sam?’
‘Not really. We’re putting out a special edition, like you. I daresay we’ve got the same information as each other. I just came over to … well, I just came over. I’d best be off back.’
‘As soon as I hear anything…’
‘Aye. Thankee. I’ll do the same for you if I hear anything. How’s Mrs Longe keeping, by the way?’
‘Very well — apart from this news, of course.’
He recognised a solitary carelessness about Sam Pickering which had once been a mark of his own bachelorhood.
‘You should get married, Sam!’ he remarked, with dry humour.
The beginnings of a smile glinted in Sam Pickering’s eyes.
‘Why?’ he answered, equally dry. ‘Do you think I haven’t got troubles enough?’
The Manchester Mail brought Zelah’s letter at teatime. In the first hours of shock and grief she had managed to compose herself, to sit down at her desk, and write to Ambrose as the official head of the family, to ask if he would take responsibility for his uncle’s funeral. She recommended Tom Hadley, the ironmaster’s secretary at Kingswood Hall, as being the person best able to assist him.
Zelah was bringing the body home on Sunday by private carriage, and hoped to arrive sometime on Monday evening — please to tell the housekeeper. The ironmaster was to be buried in Wroughton, among his people. The funeral would be a public occasion. And would Ambrose fix a day, late the following week, which would fit in with his own commitments and give everyone time to prepare?
On that day, Zelah wrote, all industries, shops and schools in the district were to be closed so that the ironmaster’s people would be free to mourn him, and public refreshments should be provided. These were the main stipulations. Otherwise, Ambrose was to conduct the proceedings as he thought fit and proper.
She apologised for all the trouble this was bound to cause him, but expressed herself as being fully confident in his abilities and sure of his compassion. She added a postscript for Tom Hadley which read like shorthand — something to do with an invitation list — and another which said she was writing to Hal Vivian, to Dick Howarth, and to Sam Pickering.
She signed herself simply, Thy friend, Zelah Howarth.
Ambrose went to the top of the stairs and shouted for Harry, who took them two at a time, shining with willingness.
‘Harry, I want you to run up to my house and give this letter to Mrs Longe. Tell her I’ll be home late, and not to delay dinner for me. And ask Mr Bullock if he’d be good enough to step up here, as I’d like a word with him.’
Frank Ormerod came in at that moment, carrying the proofs of the special edition. Ambrose sat down and checked them through. Bob Bullock appeared soon after, and stood talking quietly to Frank for a few minutes while they waited.
‘Good!’ Ambrose said finally. ‘I don’t know what The Herald have in mind, but they won’t better this!’
The news-sheet was bordered in black, like a giant mourning card, and headed: WILLIAM HOWARTH. M.P. — A MAN OF THE PEOPLE.
The opening line of the paragraph proclaimed: A King is Dead.
‘See this through for me, will you, Bob?’ said Ambrose. ‘Then you can pay the men and shut up shop. I’m off down to Kingswood Hall again. Tell George…’
I’ve spent all day, he thought wearily, telling somebody to tell somebody else to do something.
But the weight of responsibility was being lifted at the prospect of action. He had always responded well to crises.
More cheerfully than at any time on that strange day, he said, ‘And tell George to fetch round that miserable piece of horseflesh I hired from the Royal George — if it’s still breathing!’
At first it might seem that the ironmaster, in dying, had robbed himself of the honours due to him, for no one else was half so good as he at organising state occasions. But a breath of his genius was infusing Ambrose, as that gentleman rode thoughtfully down the Black Road to Wroughton. He was remembering William’s public celebration of the victory at Waterloo, on the day that Charlotte’s Will was read. At that time, Ambrose had been too sad and confused to enjoy himself, but nevertheless his reporter’s mind had recorded the event faithfully and in surprising detail.
Of course, he thought, we can hardly hold such frivolities as a fairground, and have wrestling matches and so on. Still, the roast ox would be quite appropriate for the crowd. We’ve got to feed them something. And Wroughton Brass Band could play sacred music. Wait a bit! Wasn’t there some sort of a choir? And didn’t a giant of a fellow from the foundry sing a solo, and my uncle asked him to sing again?
‘Isaac Lawler!’ said Tom Hadley triumphantly, remembering. ‘That was Isaac Lawler! He must be all of fifty now. Well, that applies to a good few of us, Mr Longe!’ Passing a hand over his thin hair. ‘But he’s still in voice as you might say. Wonderful bass! Never heard such a bass in all my life! Of course, Wroughton Choral Society was in its infa
ncy then. They’ve made a big name for themselves since. They sing Handel’s Messiah every year, just before Christmas, in our biggest church. St Luke’s at Kingswood…’
He went off on a tangent, saying, ‘…that’s where Mr Howarth will be buried, of course. Oh yes, he had a mausoleum made ready there, years ago. A family vault. But, bless you, sir, who’s to use it? Excuse me putting it that way, Mr Longe. No offence meant. But who’s to use it? His daughters will be buried with their husbands! His line has died out.’
The thought of Hal Vivian hung between them, but was not voiced.
‘Anyhow, I seem to have got off the point,’ said Tom. ‘Where was I? Oh yes, Wroughton Choral Society and the Messiah. People come from twenty miles round to hear them, you know. Of course, hymns are more usual at a funeral. Still, it’s sacred music, isn’t it? And Mr Howarth always liked a good choral work. It seems only right.’
A festive air was beginning to invade the solemnities. Tom Hadley re-read Zelah’s message to him and pursed his mouth.
‘Now, Mrs Howarth is asking quite a lot of us with regard to the invitation list — which you might say is our Number One Guest List. Some of them will never get here on time. However, I’ll do my best. What day were you thinking of, Mr Longe?’
‘I’m prepared to go as far as Friday morning, but no later,’ said Ambrose firmly, mindful of his weekend edition.
‘Then should we say Thursday, which is time enough, and gives you just that little bit of leeway?’
‘Thursday it is!’ said Ambrose, satisfied.
‘Now, should you like a bite of supper, Mr Longe? It’s past nine o’clock. We could lay you a place in the dining room, and I’ll have mine here in the library and carry on with the arrangements.’
