by Jean Stubbs
THE NORTHERN CORRESPONDENT
The Brief Chronicles
Book Four
Jean Stubbs
To first impressions and final proofs
‘It may be desirable that some journals should be tools and instruments; and, if they refuse to obey the word of command, of course they do violate the contract … but we object to be judged by the rules applicable in such cases. We have not undertaken to obey, and we will not obey, any man or set of men whatever…’
—Manchester Guardian, 3 May, 1848, in answer to Manchester Examiner, 2 May, 1848
Table of Contents
PART ONE: STOP-PRESS NEWS, 1831-1833
ONE: THUNDERSTORM
TWO: NAOMI BLÜM
THREE: NEWSPAPERMEN
FOUR: TWO FRIENDS
FIVE: A GIFT FROM A STRANGER
SIX: A LADY FINANCIER
SEVEN: GRIM HARVEST
PART TWO: IN CIRCULATION, 1833-1834
EIGHT: THE OPENING ROUND
NINE: A SHREWD ASSESSMENT
TEN: ONE OF THOSE GOLDEN DAYS
ELEVEN: AT THE VIVIANS’
TWELVE: PAGE SEVEN
THIRTEEN: FLESH AND BLOOD
FOURTEEN: UGLY DAYS
FIFTEEN: HELP! MURDER! THIEVES!
SIXTEEN: A TREE FULL OF STARS AND BIRDS
PART THREE: NEW EDITIONS, 1835-1843
SEVENTEEN: REAL FINGERS
EIGHTEEN: A NEW ERA
NINETEEN: WHO GOES HOME?
TWENTY: A KING IS DEAD
TWENTY-ONE: A DOMESTIC INTERLUDE
TWENTY-TWO: A MAN OF THE PEOPLE
TWENTY-THREE: GIFTS AND LITTLE VOICES
PART FOUR: BY-LINES, 1847-1850
TWENTY-FOUR: THREATS AND PROMISES
TWENTY-FIVE: AN HOUR WITH THE LADIES
TWENTY-SIX: KNIGHTS ERRANT
TWENTY-SEVEN: A CRUEL TASKMASTER
TWENTY-EIGHT: LEPER’S CHARTER
PART FIVE: POSTSCRIPT, 1851
TWENTY-NINE: A GREAT EXCURSION
THIRTY: WINDOW ON A FUTURE WORLD
MORE BOOKS BY JEAN STUBBS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PART ONE: STOP-PRESS NEWS, 1831-1833
ONE: THUNDERSTORM
17 August, 1831
The August day turned so livid and sultry as to make folk wonder whether the Hour of Judgement was at hand. Air became taut silk which could suddenly rip, earth and sky bronze cymbals which could shortly clash. Women sensed oncoming headaches, men lost their tempers, children threw tantrums, and plans both humble and great went awry.
In the north-country town of Millbridge, Lancashire, Ambrose Longe, editor and owner of The Clarion, had chosen this particular Wednesday to move from his old home to the rooms over the printing shop. It should have been a simple matter. The paper had gone to press on Monday evening, leaving a modicum of leisure in its wake. Thornton House was no more than a few hundred yards away down the High Street, and his possessions were few. But first the lad with the handcart was late, then a chest of drawers got stuck on the turn of The Clarion’s stairs, and finally the woman whom he had hired to cook and scrub for him sent word that she was ill abed.
By six o’clock in the evening, Ambrose decided that evil had been more than sufficient unto the day. So he sent out for a mutton pie from the bakehouse and a jug of beer from the Royal George, and set up camp for the night. In this fashion his uncle, the ironmaster, found him: an apron protecting his trousers, coat and waistcoat dangling from a peg, shirt sleeves rolled up, composing next week’s leader on Parliamentary Reform.
Ambrose wrote as he had done from the age of six, with rapt dedication, rumpling his hair as he sought for an especially neat phrase and twining one leg round the other in ecstasy as he found it. His thin brown face expressed a range of emotions. A glint in his light-brown eyes approved the fighting qualities of those who were shunting their Reform Bill through the Commons. His jaw lengthened as he feared obstruction from the Lords. His pursed lips reminded readers that nothing less than their say in the country’s government was at stake. His grin marked the end of fourteen generations of feudal despotism in the Wyndendale valley. His short laugh promised victory, though his frown admitted that the battle was not yet won.
So deeply did he concentrate that his uncle was able to stand for several moments in the open doorway, observing and unobserved. A smile sat ready on his mouth, but his bright black eyes missed nothing and disapproved of all they saw. In particular, they despised this slim brown fellow intent upon his task, his careless pose, his shabby elegance. Above all they misliked the grin with which Ambrose tackled his inky revolution.
The ironmaster drummed a short tattoo on the doorpost with the silver head of his cane and cried heartily, ‘Am I intruding?’
Not caring tuppence whether he did or not. Catching the fellow short and sharp. Fetching him down to earth.
Once more aware of reality, Ambrose found that it had not improved and some further demand was being made of him.
‘By no means, sir,’ he replied courteously, trapped, and pulled out a ladder-back chair and dusted it with the skirt of his apron.
William Howarth was used to better thrones, but sat down grandly. He had been the handsomest of men, was still handsome at sixty-seven, still held himself tall and splendidly. His hair grew white and thick, his countenance was ruddy, his smile wide and youthful owing to the teeth he bought and had fixed when his own failed him. He gave an impression of powerful benevolence, but Ambrose knew that power came first and benevolence could go hang when business was in question. Then the narrow black eyes became pinpoints of insistence, and you looked to your own interests as best you could.
‘I have an excellent proposition to put to you,’ the ironmaster began in an engaging tone.
Then he wiped his forehead and the inside of his top hat with a peerless handkerchief, and muttered something about heavy weather.
Ambrose remained standing by the printing-press. He took a bite of pie and a swallow of beer, and waited.
‘Which I think should please and certainly astonish you.’
Unmoved, the younger man stood at his ease, and did not answer.
‘It concerns our bye-election, in part. You know, of course, that Lord Kersall is putting up his second son Humphrey as Tory candidate?’
Candidates were not only put up by the Kersalls, they were inevitably accepted, and any Kersall would do. But in these perilous days when Whigs were capturing Tory seats, and the second Reform Bill was being prepared for its second reading, the Tory party needed fighters, not leeches, in Parliament.
‘Silly old fool! He must be in his dotage!’ said the ironmaster contemptuously, though Lord Kersall was the same age as himself. ‘None of that family knows anything about politics. All snobbery and inter-marriage, microscopes, gardens and balloons — and Ralph Kersall was a rotten balloonist, too. Can’t let him get away with this nonsense any longer!’
‘Have you ever thought of offering yourself as Tory candidate, sir?’ Ambrose asked, straight-faced.
The ironmaster shook his cane roguishly at his nephew.
‘Not thought, my boy. I’ve done it! And I don’t think we need doubt the outcome. Well, why not? That tribe of stuffed puppets has had a stranglehold on this borough long enough.’
‘I couldn’t agree with you more, sir,’ said Ambrose heartily. And he smiled.
The ironmaster missed the significance of that smile, saying under his breath, ‘William Howarth M.P.’
‘Yes,’ he continued aloud, ‘we could all do with a change. I’m not speaking of the Reform Bill, mind you.’ Threatening. ‘No, no. Too sweeping by far. But the aristocracy are out of touch with the people. I shall represent W
yndendale better than any Kersall ever did. So let us root these old-fashioned squires out of the House of Commons, say I, and replace ’em with men of business, men of sense.’ He paused and wiped his forehead again. ‘Your ordinary workman don’t want to think for himself. He wants his master to think for him, and to tell him what to do. I know this valley, and I know what’s best for it.’
‘I daresay the Kersalls thought that, too, sir!’ said Ambrose with fine sarcasm.
The ironmaster’s colour rose in a way which would have alarmed his personal physician.
‘What do you mean by that impudence, sir? The Kersalls think that God invested them with some divine right to rule. I know that a man has to be a good servant, and to learn how to make his way in the world, before he can become a good master. And that’s what I am, and intend to be — a good, straightforward, honest Master!’
Though Ambrose still smiled, he was oppressed by more than the heat. His beer had gone flat. His pie tasted sour. Still, he spoke with courtesy and detachment.
‘Your intentions sound excellent, sir, but I don’t quite see how I can serve you.’
The ironmaster’s expression belied his tone, which was amiable.
‘Oh, I know we have had our political disagreements in the past, Ambrose, but it is a narrow mind that never changes its opinions. I flatter myself that mine has always been open. And then, I thought a great deal of your mother. I loved and respected Charlotte. I should like to think that her son and I did not quarrel. For her sake.’
His nephew’s brown skin lost its warmth. His eyes flickered.
‘Are you asking me to refrain from exposing your more unpleasant business deals in my newspaper, sir?’ he asked coolly.
‘More than that,’ said the ironmaster curtly, keeping his notorious temper under control. ‘Much more than that. I want your unqualified support. Wait a minute!’ Silencing Ambrose with a peremptory gesture. ‘Hear me out before you answer!’
There was a pause, and he spoke again in another tone.
‘I happen to know that you’re short of capital.’
‘I am short of cash, sir,’ Ambrose replied lightly. ‘Capital is a luxury to which I have never aspired.’
‘I should advise you to save your wit for a more suitable occasion. Your present position scarcely gives reason for humour.’
The ironmaster slid one hand inside the breast of his coat as if to soothe a savage heart, and drew out a sheet of paper on which was written the brief, sad tale of Ambrose’s financial situation. He hooked on his spectacles, held the document out at arms’ length, and began to read its contents aloud with great deliberation.
‘As far as general printing goes, your rival The Wyndendale Post still gets the best orders in the valley. Old habits die hard, as you have no doubt discovered, and established society pays better than any of your liberal-minded Johnnies. The rent on this place is not much, but then you have such limited space that you cannot expand even if you could afford to. Your mother, Charlotte, left you an income which prevents you from starving but will do little else, and is tied up so that you cannot realise the capital — I daresay Nick Hurst advised her on that point, and very wise too. You was always a spendthrift, Ambrose! So that leaves The Clarion to make you rich.’
He cleared his throat and recited the facts with relish.
‘You have at present one old Koenig and Bauer steam-driven press which prints a thousand sheets an hour. You publish the paper, classed as Independent, price seven pence a copy, once a week. Your circulation is around a thousand, which is quite good for a local journal. Still, you will not make your fortune that way!’ His voice thickened. ‘And you also waste time and make no profit from printing that damned radical rag The Recorder, which dodges stamp duty by selling a straw for tuppence and giving the paper away with the straw! That sort of nonsense will have to stop.’
‘One moment, sir,’ said Ambrose lightly, though somewhat pinched of countenance. ‘We appear not to understand each other. Neither The Clarion nor The Recorder will give you any support whatsoever. If you are looking for a newspaper to sing to your tune, then try Arnold Thwaites of The Wyndendale Post. They say that his coat has two linings, one for Kersall and the other for Howarth. I am sure he won’t mind turning it again!’
But the ironmaster could not now be deterred.
‘Fine words, sir, fine words. Listen to my proposition. I am prepared to buy you a new Napier double-cylinder printing-press which will produce over two thousand sheets an hour. I will pay for a reporter’s wages, so that you don’t have to double up for both jobs. You can publish twice a week. Once on Tuesdays, as at present, and again on Saturdays, which means that you can report the Thursday debate in Parliament. All my business houses, here and overseas, will be alerted to send you foreign news — your foreign coverage is paltry! I can engage agents in Liverpool, Bolton, Preston, Blackburn, Clitheroe, Wigan — anywhere you name — to sell copies of The Clarion outside this valley. Furthermore, I can bring you any amount of advertising revenue. All you need to do, my boy, is to expand and flourish!’ And in the same breath he added, ‘By Jove, this room is too damned hot and close for my liking!’
Ambrose jerked up the lower half of the window and stood moodily by it, looking out onto the deadly languor of the market square. An odour both rank and sickly assailed their nostrils.
‘Fo! What a stink!’ cried William. ‘Why won’t the council do something about those cesspools? Now, there’s an issue on which you and I agree, my boy. Sanitation! That one-time partner of yours, the cartoonist fellow, what’s-is-name Topp. Johnny Topp…’
‘Tripp, sir, if you please,’ said Ambrose through his teeth. ‘His name was Jeremy Tripp.’
‘Aye, aye. Poor talented fellow!’ cried the ironmaster, who had detested him. ‘Well, he might not have died of typhoid fever if Millbridge council had paid more attention to the drains. I warned them about those wooden pipes thirty years since. Gave them a fair estimate to provide iron pipes in their stead. We must take it up again. Fight for improvement. Stand together. What do you say?’
‘Our opinion on that issue may be the same, but our interests differ, even so, sir,’ Ambrose replied drily, ‘since your company stands to profit by the sale of the drainpipes, and my objection is purely on grounds of public health.’
‘Well, I can’t sit here bandying words all day,’ said the ironmaster testily. ‘Are you willing to bury the hatchet for Charlotte’s sake, or not?’
Ambrose threw the rest of his pie through the open window into the street, where it was gobbled by a passing cur.
‘I must tell you, sir, that when the next election comes, I shall actively encourage Wyndendale to choose a man with a social conscience — a title which hardly applies either to you or any Kersall.’
The decision was harder to make than he would have believed possible. He saw the newspaper of his dreams float out of that window into the lurid evening light. But he spoke on sturdily.
‘My mother and father were radicals and risked their lives for their beliefs. I have been in Millbridge jail half a dozen times for printing and distributing The Recorder. And The Clarion is rightly called an Independent newspaper, since that means it is at liberty to throw stones or shower praises on the decisions made by any party whatsoever. You and I are not the same political animals, sir.’
‘Gently, gently!’ soothed the ironmaster. ‘I am not holding your past against you. Yes, you have suffered for your beliefs, mistaken though they were — and poor, brave Charlotte suffered most. Whereas the sensible thing to do in life is to look about you, weigh matters up, use your head instead of your heart, and get your own way in the end. Just look at my past record.
‘I began life as the son of a yeoman farmer on Garth Fells — your grandfather Ned Howarth. A better fellow never breathed, God rest his honest bones, but I’ve worked my way up to become one of the richest and most powerful men in this valley. I haven’t reached my present position without knowing all the ropes a
nd how to pull them. I’m not against social improvement — like the sanitation we were talking about — and I run a model ironworks down at Snape. Nobody can point a finger at me there. And I can promise you this, lad. When I am elected, you can be sure they’ll take notice of me in Parliament. And if you back me, Lancashire will take just as much notice of The Clarion!’
Ambrose said bitterly, ‘Oh, I don’t doubt you will make all your wishes and opinions known, sir — and put them to profitable use.’
‘I thought you would see my point of view,’ said the ironmaster, satisfied. ‘And another thing, my boy. We must look about us for bigger premises. Give The Clarion a new name. Make a fresh start altogether. Find you proper lodgings and a decent landlady to look after you. None of this gimcrack rubbish.’
He lifted a very fine old silver watch from his waistcoat pocket, and consulted the time.
‘Too late to go home for dinner,’ he observed. ‘Nor do I fancy riding down the valley with this storm threatening. There will be the very deuce of a cloudburst, by and by. No, I shall send a message to Zelah and put up at the Royal George for the night. Ah! I have an excellent notion. Let us dine there together and discuss details.’
Ambrose spoke composedly, but a muscle twitched in his brown cheek.
‘Sir, I cannot compromise either myself or my newspaper — unimportant though we may seem to you — on a matter of principle.’
The ironmaster was amazed, incredulous.
‘Stuff and nonsense! What have principles to do with business? It’s all money, whichever way you look at it. The newspaper will benefit. You will benefit. I shall benefit. Where is your difficulty?’
Ambrose made a gesture of amusement and despair.
‘The difficulty, sir, is that you do not see the difficulty.’
The ironmaster’s face became as thunderous as the evening sky.
‘Never mind your coffee-house parlance, sir. Yes or no? I am a plain man. Give me a plain answer.’