The Northern Correspondent

by Jean Stubbs

  ‘Well, I don’t want to sit by myself at the head of twenty feet of polished mahogany,’ said Ambrose sensibly. ‘Suppose we both work over supper in here? There’s plenty for us to do.’

  Tom Hadley’s face brightened.

  ‘If you’re agreeable, sir, nothing would please me more.’

  He shuffled the pages of the guest list neatly together, with hands which shook slightly.

  ‘Mr Howarth and I often have a working supper together at the end of the day, when he’s here,’ he remarked. ‘I always look forward to him coming back from London.’

  Then he remembered that there would be no more working suppers with the ironmaster, and fell silent.

  The task Zelah had set them was prodigious, especially as so much had to be accomplished in so short a time.

  ‘I shall just have to stay here until I know we’ve sorted it out!’ said Ambrose. ‘Can someone take a message to my wife?’

  That evening, and for two days afterwards, a stable-lad rode to and fro between Wroughton and Millbridge, keeping all parties in touch with progress. Ambrose and Tom Hadley went to bed late and rose early the following morning. By suppertime on Sunday, they had structured the occasion and sent their orders to The Herald and The Correspondent, who worked through the night printing invitations, travel directions, hymn sheets and schedules. By seven o’clock on Monday morning the Carlisle Flyer had borne their mail away, and another day’s work began at Kingswood Hall. But they had so much help and sympathy. Everyone was eager to be part of the ironmaster’s final public appearance, anxious that it should be his best.

  On Monday evening, a private carriage arrived in the cool subdued twilight. Down stepped Zelah, white of hair and face against her inky mourning, but composed and tranquil. Then four of the workmen from the estate lifted the huge coffin carefully, and carried it reverently. A bier was standing in the middle of the entrance hall, at each corner of which stood an immense church candle in a silver sconce.

  Zelah followed the coffin, taking off her gloves, having a word and a handshake for everyone, a kiss on the cheek and a smile of thanks for Ambrose. Then the lid was removed, and they stood together arm-in-arm in silence.

  Like a king in state, thought Ambrose. Like a king in state.

  William looked amazingly dignified. The art and craft of the best embalmers in London had made sure that he was presentable, though his head had been turned a little to one side on the satin pillow to hide the splintered bone, and there were faint shadows on his hands and face, suggesting bruises cunningly concealed. But his expression was proud and valiant still, his mouth firm and unafraid.

  When Zelah had looked her fill, she turned to Ambrose and spoke in a practical way, without self-pity.

  ‘Now, my dear, though it is growing late and supper is ready, I cannot sleep or eat. So wilt thee tell me what thou hast done so far? Poor Dick and our dear Hal have been much in my thoughts.’

  Dick Howarth and Hal Vivian were only two of many delicate but important details which concerned them. For it should have been one of them, and not Ambrose, who took the ironmaster’s place and gave help and comfort to his widow, but this was not possible. So they had to find a way to honour the family relationships without embarrassment on either side. In the end, Ambrose hit upon a neat solution. He and Dick would escort Zelah between them, to and from the church. Hal and Mary Vivian, with Naomi, should lead the procession of relatives. Then as coffin-bearers, he and Dick would be at the head, Hal Vivian and Sam Pickering at the foot.

  ‘And at the reception?’ Zelah asked.

  ‘You receive the guests and shake them by the hand. Dick and Naomi and myself, and Hal and Mary, stand just behind you and bow.’

  Then Zelah smiled and touched his cheek and said, ‘I have always loved and admired thee, Ambrose, and I knew thee would help me.’

  For the whole of Tuesday, the ironmaster lay in state while his people filed silently round him, holding their children up that they might see the great man. Then at ten o’clock, the front doors of Kingswood Hall were closed on the last of his viewers, to be opened again for the first of his daughters and their families.

  There had not been such an assembly in Wyndendale since Ambrose’s own wedding, six years previously. Despite Tom Hadley’s doubts, the response to invitations was astonishing.

  Every available room in houses belonging to the family, and in every decent hostelry from the Royal George in Millbridge down to the Iron Duke at Kingswood, was occupied by distinguished mourners.

  Thursday morning’s mist heralded a fine, hot day. A concourse of carriages moved off towards Wroughton and jammed the main road for miles. At the Hall, they nailed down the lid of the coffin and placed it in a fine glass coach and heaped it with flowers.

  Even the time of year is right, thought Ambrose. He couldn’t have planned it better!

  And Zelah, smiling, looked up at the cloudless sky.

  ‘Well, thou hast a fine day, my love!’ she said to herself.

  The procession was waiting for her. Gracefully she veiled herself and accepted Ambrose’s proffered arm. Gracefully ascended into the waiting carriage. Gracefully bowed her head to indicate that the procession should start. And the ritual began.

  Ambrose had always hated funerals, but the sombre magnificence and dignity of this one enthralled him. The ebony gloss of the horses’ coats. The silver harness and sable feathers. The rhythmic pace and grace of carriages and walking mourners. He had not realised there were so many shades of black, or that materials could produce such a range of lights within them. The coal-black brilliance of silk, the thick, soft, sooty black of velvet. The hard, bright black of jet necklaces and earrings. The lace and lacquer black of fans. A nocturne of black as far as you could see, with only the sad pallor of faces to relieve it. The hushed trot of hooves, the hushed roll of wheels. And all along the route the silent people, each wearing a symbol of loss, even if it were no more than a mourning band of dark ribbon, holding their children shoulder-high.

  Then Wroughton Brass Band struck up the Dead March from Saul, with a weight of experience and authority far beyond that first thin sound twenty-five years ago. Pomp was in the brass. Pomp and power. How the ironmaster would have loved it. How he would have hummed the tune in the back of his throat, and tapped his knee in time, and wiped his eyes and shaken his head at the splendour of it all.

  And it is for you, Ambrose thought. It is all for you. We have done our best. For you.

  The pageant unfolded effortlessly, as though the occasion were pre-ordained. No amount of rehearsal, had rehearsal been possible, could have guaranteed this. Perfection is not to be achieved, but can be bestowed.

  St Luke’s Church was so large and splendid as to resemble a cathedral. Surely any sound would be lost up there among the timbers? But, no. The acoustics were excellent. And the vicar’s voice, which was light and clear, came over like some angelic message, bringing them the promise of a new heaven and a new earth.

  Then Wroughton Choral Society began very softly and gravely to sing ‘Since by man came death’, and Isaac Lawler followed them, also very grave and soft. For behold, he would tell them a mystery. They should not all sleep, but they should all be changed.

  The great bass voice gathered power and momentum. It swelled forth. ‘In a moment. In the twinkling of an eye.’

  And fairly thundered to the rafters. ‘At the last trumpet!’

  Up went the silver trumpet of Eli Hardwick, and he and Isaac Lawler poured out their message of hope, the one complementing the other, until the wrought-iron chandeliers hanging down the middle of the church gave forth a faint resonance. And the eyes of the congregation were wet, and their hearts were exalted. For they knew that the corruptible had put on incorruption, and the mortal had put on immortality.

  Naomi was silent on the way home. Her emotions had been spent. Her vitality had drained away and left her clothes to mourn for her. She sat pensively in their private carriage and clasped her husband’s ar
m, and would have liked to put her head on his shoulder, but the streets were full of people and everybody was looking at them.

  Ambrose, though his body touched hers sympathetically, though his heart was warm and strong for her, had his mind elsewhere. His spirit rejoiced. He had achieved a triumph that day, for himself and the ironmaster, something which turned grief into glory. And the music had reached deeper still, spoken to him without words, enabled him to understand something which could not be put into words. Still, he tried to express what he felt, because words were his tools.

  ‘I can’t possibly respect that abominable old Jehovah of yours, Nim!’ said Ambrose lightly. ‘And Christ was a good man wasted. Why hang on a cross for such a pack of wolves and fools as we are? But I suppose Handel knew something that I don’t.’

  Her sombre eyes looked through and beyond him. Her mouth moved as if about to defend that God of her people, whose mercy was infinite, whose justice was terrible, whose strength was her shield and buckler. Then she remembered that this was Ambrose, who understood more than he knew. So she squeezed his arm and smiled and said nothing.

  He looked at her sideways and decided she needed cheering up.

  ‘I simply can’t believe in God!’ said Ambrose provocatively. But Naomi had no energy to bandy words and ideas with a man who used them so much more cleverly than she did. Unwittingly, out of fatigue and loving kindness, she delivered a coup de grâce.

  ‘Never mind, my love,’ said Naomi soothingly. ‘After today, He believes in you.’

  TWENTY-ONE: A DOMESTIC INTERLUDE

  March, 1842

  ‘The good that men do lives after them,’ Ambrose quoted sarcastically, over his weekend edition of The Lancashire Herald. ‘The evil is oft interred with their bones!’

  ‘Now what is wrong?’ Naomi asked, somewhat impatiently, for Ambrose in off-duty hours could be infuriating.

  He had left home at eight o’clock on Friday morning, returned and crept into bed just before daylight on Saturday, slept until the middle of the afternoon, and was partway through a meal which could neither be called breakfast nor luncheon, and would certainly spoil his appetite for dinner. His tasks were over until the morrow. Hers were not, and the household routine had been dislocated. This did not occur to him. Long ago, she had said she did not mind what hours he kept. He presumed she still felt the same way. Even his state of dress was relaxed. His tasselled cap matched his ruby velvet smoking jacket. He wriggled his toes contentedly in leather Turkish slippers.

  On a small round table by his elbow was laid a plateful of cold roast beef, a saucer of pickles, two rounds of hot buttered toast and one of the children’s rice puddings from their midday meal, garnished with a tempting spoonful of strawberry jam.

  Meanwhile, Naomi presided over the tea-things by the hearth, endeavouring to turn the frayed edges of her temper. She had miscarried a baby two months since, and the physical and emotional misery of the experience still plagued her.

  ‘My dear Nim,’ said Ambrose heartily, unmindful of the way her brows were drawn darkly together, ‘you had best put in your bid for a Millbridge Concert Hall before the ironmaster’s public bequests are squandered on a new council chamber and half a dozen civic banquets! Oh, I know what you are going to say!’ Waving his hand to still her protests. ‘The bequest is legally tied up, and no one can touch it except to fulfil the purpose for which it was intended! Balderdash! You know as well as I do that if it were tied in a dozen Gordian knots, those scoundrels on the Council would find a way to cut them!’

  Whereupon he held out his cup for a fresh infusion, without either looking at her or asking her, and continued to amuse himself.

  ‘Cast your vote, my dear, cast your vote, ere the Howarth Foundation is frittered away!’

  Instead, she cast the sugar tongs back into their basin and folded her arms. After a while Ambrose became aware that nothing was happening, laid down both cup and newspaper, and peered at her over his reading spectacles.

  ‘Now what ails you?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing, of course!’ she replied, implying everything.

  His own nerves being in excellent condition, he was puzzled to know what he could have said to annoy her.

  ‘Surely you’re not fretting about the Millbridge Concert Hall?’ he asked, amazed.

  ‘No, no!’ she cried sarcastically. ‘Why should I care? Have I not been music critic on The Correspondent for years of donkeys…?’

  ‘The phrase is for donkeys’ years, Nim…’

  ‘Do not interrupt! Have I not looked over properties and tried to find suitable sites? Have I not said I will raise money, and make a generous personal contribution, if only they will meet me halfway, if only they will help me just a little — with a grant, with a building? Even just to show enthusiasms? And why did your uncle not consult with me, if he was going to leave money for cultural purposes? Why did he mention a theatre?’

  ‘What’s wrong with a theatre?’ Ambrose cried. ‘If we have a theatre in Millbridge, we can attract some decent companies here instead of making expeditions to Manchester.’

  ‘No, no. Do you not understand? It is easier to move mountains than to move these councillors. If they build a theatre with your uncle’s money, they will never help to build a concert hall. They will think they have done enough!’

  Her tone was high but gave no warning of the tears which suddenly ran down her face.

  She began to sob, saying, ‘I am sorry. I am so sorry. But I cannot help it. I cannot help it.’

  Ambrose sighed, and came over to comfort her. He was growing a little tired of these scenes.

  ‘I was only teasing, Nim. There’s not the slightest reason why Millbridge shouldn’t have both. Besides, why not raise all the money yourself, own the theatre, and pay yourself back from the profits?’

  It was an unwise suggestion.

  ‘Why not? Why not? For a thousand reasons why not!’

  ‘Just give me one of them!’ he said, speaking more sharply.

  ‘Because for one reason I have just invested a great deal of capital in new type and new machinery for your newspaper!’

  ‘Now that is an unfair statement,’ said Ambrose, pointing his finger at her. ‘There was no other way. We have doubled the reading-matter and the number of advertisements — and with that blasted stamp-duty sitting on top of us, we can only fit it all in with smaller print and closer columns. Our circulation has doubled again, so we need bigger and faster printing presses. I explained it all to you, and you offered to lend us the money. If you couldn’t afford it, we should have borrowed capital elsewhere. Besides, you’ll get it back in no time. Last year we cleared Lord knows how many thousand pounds of profit!’

  ‘Five thousand, eight hundred and thirty-six pounds, thirteen shillings and fourpence three farthings,’ she replied automatically.

  He started to laugh.

  ‘It is not funny!’ she cried.

  ‘Yes, it is, Nim. Very funny. Lord, fancy remembering a sum down to the last farthing! Anyhow,’ sobering down as he saw she was now doubly wounded, ‘we’ve made a profit. As far as I’m concerned, you can spend every penny of it on a concert hall. I know what this means to you, and I approve. I’ll sign whatever I have to, to make it legal.’

  ‘Oh! Oh! Oh! You are impossible. You understand nothing. Profit is not pocket-money. We have shareholders. We have…’

  ‘Oh, go your own way then,’ he said, annoyed, returning to his chair and picking up his discarded newspaper. ‘If I don’t understand anything, I may as well not try to help.’

  Naomi smoothed her skirt with trembling hands. The silk squeaked softly beneath her wet fingers. She could not stop.

  ‘And why did your uncle leave money to Mary, and not to you?’

  ‘He left money in trust for our children, damn it!’

  ‘And have you heard how Mary proposes to spend her legacy? I could not believe, when she told me. Such a ridiculous notion!’

  Ambrose lowered the new
spaper.

  ‘I think it’s an excellent idea.’

  ‘What? A ladies’ magazine? Who will buy it?’

  ‘Mary has actually knocked on the door of every lady in the valley who is able to afford such a luxury, and found sufficient numbers willing to subscribe to such a project.’

  ‘Yes, at first! But what then? Supposing it fails?’

  ‘Then she’s spent her legacy on something she enjoyed doing. Hang the consequences! I admire her for it. I’ll tell you something else. Mary may not be a financial expert, but she’s a shrewd business woman and a damned good journalist. She’ll make it pay. You’ll see.’

  Then he vanished behind The Herald again. Naomi looked at him sorrowfully. She dried her eyes and cheeks. She wiped her fingers. Her nerves had betrayed her into unwonted peevishness.

  Trying to make amends, she asked, ‘What of her work on The Correspondent? It will be difficult to replace her. Must she not give up Page Seven?’

  He took this as an implied criticism.

  ‘Oh, it will be a long while before we need think of that, and she won’t let us down. Never underrate Mary!’

  Naomi answered quietly, ‘I do not underrate her. She is my friend. I only ask.’

  Then she rose and went out of the room to cry in peace.

  Left by himself, Ambrose threw the paper down. He poured himself a cup of cold tea and drank it and grumbled at it. What was a fellow to do at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon in Millbridge?

  Dollie knocked on the door to see if he wanted anything else. A muffin bell sounded beneath the window. Ambrose put the two facts together and his face brightened.

  ‘Have the boys gone out to Kersall Park, Dollie?’

  ‘No, sir. It was too windy today. They’re in the nursery with Mrs Purdom. I’ll be taking their teas up shortly.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Longe is resting, and I haven’t seen them for a couple of days. Why can’t they come down here and have tea with me? Then Mrs Purdom can have hers with you in the kitchen.’