The Northern Correspondent

by Jean Stubbs

‘No, I am not — for what my opinion is worth!’ Jamie replied modestly. ‘I favour the theory of contagion. I think it more likely that cholera is bred in dirt, and we pass it from one to another.’

  ‘I have, as yet, reached no fixed conclusion,’ said Mr Bailey soberly, ‘but if the miasmatists are right — this wild storm might well bear cholera upon its wings.’

  TWO: NAOMI BLÜM

  Over the rectory tea-table in Millbridge that September afternoon, all talk was of a foreign Jewess who was shortly coming to live in the Old Town, for such a thing had never been known before.

  ‘Of course, one expects to find such people in Trade or in the big cities like Manchester,’ said Mrs Warburton, smoothing the skirt of her second-best grey silk, ‘but not to meet them socially. And I believe I speak for all respectable and right-minded folk.’

  The rector’s wife, Cicely Pole, was divided as usual between what she felt and what was required of her. She compromised.

  ‘Surely we are all equal in the sight of God?’ she suggested.

  And would have liked to remind them that the Jews were God’s chosen people.

  Mrs Warburton disposed of her at once, in a tone both firm and jocular. For one should not forget that Cicely Pole, however respectable, was sister to Ambrose Longe and daughter of the late revolutionary Charlotte, and blood will out.

  ‘I think we must draw the line at heathens!’ Mrs Warburton said.

  Mentally, the rector’s wife counted the cakes and biscuits and divided them by six, wondering whether she should order more. She had noticed that controversy sharpened the appetite.

  Plied with hot tea and gossip, conversation flowed. Cap ribbons wagged beneath plump chins. Cashmere shawls slithered from buxom shoulders. Faces became flushed and intent. Only Mrs Wheeler, the bank manager’s wife, was inclined to listen rather than talk.

  ‘Well, I must say, Cicely, I was horrified to hear that Thornton House was being sold at all,’ Mrs Beardsall began, ‘since it has been in your family for four generations!’

  ‘…and was your childhood home,’ added Mrs Hurst. ‘Why ever did dear Charlotte leave it to Mary Vivian, who was only a niece, after all? Surely you or Mr Ambrose should have inherited?’

  ‘The Will was fair and just,’ said Cicely, who would have liked to give her mind either to the tea or the conversation, but was not being allowed to do so. ‘When my mother adopted Mary, she felt she must provide for her as for a daughter. Ambrose and I approved the decision.’

  ‘Dear Cicely. So understanding, always,’ murmured Miss Glossop. ‘Such a forgiving nature. Did Mr Ambrose not mind Mary turning him out of Thornton House?’

  ‘Again, that was a matter of mutual agreement and arrangement,’ said Cicely firmly, closing that avenue of attack. ‘A large family house is not suitable for a bachelor.’

  ‘I heard, though of course I do not know how true it is, that poor Mr Vivian was in serious financial difficulties,’ said Mrs Hurst, ‘and that is why Mary needed to sell.’

  ‘You will excuse me a moment?’ Cicely said, as though she had not caught the remark. ‘I have something to see to in the kitchen…’

  Behind her back, the conversation leaped into ferocious life.

  ‘I am surprised that the Vivians did not borrow from the ironmaster. After all, Mary is his niece and Mr Vivian his natural son. Pray don’t nudge and shush me, Evelyn, everyone knows that!’

  ‘I heard that the ironmaster would be only too pleased to help, but Mr Vivian prefers to remain independent of him. Not so Miss Mary, who is very thick with her uncle, and tucks many a secret banknote into her purse! Well, she was never one to throw away an opportunity. Look how well she has done for herself! To start life as the daughter of poor Dick Howarth in that windy farm on Garth Fells, and to end up as mistress of the Old Hall and owner of Thornton House takes a great deal of cunning, my dears!’

  ‘But why did she sell to a Jewess?’

  ‘Because,’ said Mrs Hurst, ‘she wanted a high price quickly. And the Jewess — being a foreigner and not knowing any better! — paid what she asked without argument, and bought all the furniture, too. For she seems to have nothing of her own. Mr Hurst declares that her troubles have only just begun, for Thornton House is in a shocking state and will cost more to put to rights than it did to buy. Sure enough, it is swarming with workmen already!’

  ‘Who is this person? Has anyone met her?’ Mrs Warburton asked.

  ‘She is called Miss Naomi Bloom,’ Mrs Wheeler offered. ‘The surname is not, of course, spelled as we pronounce it. But I thought it rather a pretty name.’

  It did not appeal to the other ladies.

  ‘What age might she be?’ asked Miss Glossop.

  Here Mrs Beardsall broke in.

  ‘Oh, she is not in her first youth! My husband saw her when she came to Millbridge to consult the painters and carpenters, and apparently she stayed overnight at the Royal George with her maid!’

  This caused a small commotion. The Jewess had been made manifest.

  ‘Oh, what is she like?’

  ‘How was she dressed?’

  ‘How did she speak?’

  ‘He did not speak with her, naturally. Not being acquainted. She was dining alone — which seems rather outré. Would you not have thought she would stay at the Old Hall with Mary Vivian? Anyway, Mr Beardsall said that she was uncommonly dark, heavy-featured, and shockingly overdressed. False curls and bare shoulders, and the most trumped-up jewellery he had ever seen!’

  ‘Poor thing. She will be quite a wallflower!’ cried Miss Glossop, who had first-hand experience of such a state.

  The bank manager’s wife waited for them all to finish before she delivered the coup de grâce. She spoke in a die-away voice, as though she regretted a subject so vulgar as wealth.

  ‘I heard — Mr Wheeler happened to say — that Miss Bloom had been highly educated both here and abroad and spoke several languages fluently. And I believe that she has refused many offers of marriage so far — one of them being from a German baron. Nor is she quite the stranger we imagine, for her late father was a business connection of our ironmaster. It was Mr Howarth who advised the lady to look at Thornton House and suggested that she might find Millbridge a salubrious place to live in.’

  This unexpected revelation caused instant silence.

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Wheeler continued, in the same cool, pale voice, ‘Miss Bloom could have lived anywhere she chose — London, Paris, Berlin — but apparently she took quite a fancy to the property and the place. Oh, I know that Thornton House has been neglected, but it is by no means as bad as Mr Hurst says. Miss Bloom is simply sparing no expense in restoring it to her satisfaction. Oh, certainly she bought some of the furniture, but only the best pieces. She has never had a settled home, you see. Always travelling! And, far from being trumped-up, Mrs Beardsall, her jewels are worth a fortune in themselves. You see, her late father was an expert in the buying and selling of precious stones. But then, Mr Beardsall would naturally think they were paste, wouldn’t he?’

  Here she flung up her hands and gave an arch little laugh.

  ‘Oh yes, my dears, Miss Bloom can afford to indulge her every whim! When her father died, she inherited a most substantial fortune.’

  Another short silence followed.

  ‘Oh, money, money, money!’ cried Mrs Hurst, fanning herself vigorously. ‘What difference does money make?’

  She wondered whether it was tens or hundreds of thousands.

  ‘Would you say she was very rich?’ whispered Miss Glossop.

  The bank manager’s wife shut her eyes and fluttered her fingers, as if to answer that this was the poorest of descriptions.

  ‘All I can tell you, my dears, is that Mr Wheeler is most grateful to Mr Howarth for introducing him to Miss Bloom. In fact, Mr Wheeler says that Millbridge is most fortunate to have such a distinguished personage in its midst!’

  They realised at once that Miss Blüm must have lodged a mighty sum in Mr Wheeler’s ba
nk, and thought it incredibly sly that all this information had not been confided earlier. Cicely Pole, returning to the fray, found the ladies unusually quiet. She had refreshed herself by consulting her husband Jarvis, who was hiding in his study writing Sunday’s sermon, which would fall upon deaf ears.

  ‘I have just discussed the subject of our conversation with Mr Pole,’ said Cicely resolutely, ‘and I must tell you that both he and I are of one mind upon this matter. As soon as Miss Bloom moves into Thornton House, we shall be leaving our cards, welcoming her to our social circle, even though she cannot join our religious community.’

  Their response amazed her.

  ‘Dear Cicely!’ cried Miss Glossop, patting her hand. ‘You are a true Christian. Did you say the poor lady was alone in the world?’ Looking round at the relieved and expectant company. ‘Ah! I have trod that thorny path myself!’ And seemed likely to continue to do so. ‘I, too, shall follow your charitable example and call upon her!’

  ‘We must all call upon her!’ cried Mrs Hurst generously.

  ‘You know how narrow in their views our good townsfolk can be,’ added Mrs Beardsall. ‘It is up to us to set a good example.’

  ‘Cicely,’ said Mrs Warburton curiously, ‘did Mary not tell you that this person … that Miss Bloom was very rich?’

  Then Cicely Pole understood the reason for their change of attitude, and regretted it.

  ‘I see very little of Mary these days, living out at Brigge as she does, and busy with her children. So we have not discussed the matter,’ she replied, somewhat wearily. ‘Does money make such a difference?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ cried Mrs Hurst, who knew what was due to a rector’s wife. ‘It is what we are that matters, not what we have.’

  The others concurred automatically.

  ‘And as Mr Pole said last Sunday, we must love our neighbours as ourselves!’ added Mrs Beardsall.

  To show she had not been asleep at the time.

  ‘And if some of us did not extend the hand of friendship,’ murmured Miss Glossop, now on safe ground, ‘Miss Bloom might find herself ignored by society.’

  Then Cicely Pole spoke drily and composedly, as her late mother would have done.

  ‘Oh, not since she is so rich, surely?’

  On one point at least their charity was unfounded, and Cicely uninformed. They were not taking pity on a heathen. Naomi Blüm had been received into the Church of England at birth, and so would attend Sunday morning services in St Mark’s church with the rest of them. And the elegance of her dress, the magnificence of her jewels, would capture and hold the attention of his flock as the Reverend Jarvis could never hope to do.

  Her grandfather, Daniel Blüm, had been born in a German ghetto at a time when a highly intelligent boy could hope to escape the consequences of being born a Jew. Life behind the pale was poor and narrow, rigidly orthodox. Outside lay a broad, fair Christian world of freedom and opportunity. By means of good patrons, good luck and hard work, Daniel became a distinguished member of the intelligentsia, who accepted him in spite of his origins. Only the cleverest Jews gained entrance to these charmed circles, and once there they made the most of this new freedom. By the time Daniel Blüm’s sons came to manhood, the Jewish salons of Berlin were the brightest stars in Germany’s social firmament.

  These sons were raised as Jews in a Christian society, an exhilarating and uneasy position which made them unsure of their identity. The burden of his religion lay most heavily upon the second son, Nathan. He was a dark and secretive young man, forever seeking to escape himself and his origins. He could have been a scholar like his father, but money gave him a greater sense of security. He became a dealer in precious stones. He travelled widely. He lost touch with his family deliberately. He was drawn first to Holland and then to England, whose attitude towards Jews was more emancipated. Here, he prospered exceedingly and was highly respected.

  For the first time in his life, he found sufficient confidence to think of someone beside himself, and in this state of contentment fell in love with Jessica Samuels, the daughter of a London merchant. He was then nearly forty, a powerful, complex and sophisticated man, whilst Jessica was an innocent eighteen, bred solely to be the queen of a Jewish hearth. They married in the summer of 1804.

  Within months, the dream had faded. Nathan was not by nature a family man, and the Samuels insisted upon family closeness. Moreover, they were strictly orthodox. The nervous brilliance of German Jewish salons, their fine food unhampered by Kosher restrictions, their wide and ever-changing spectrum of ideas, were delights unknown to and unwanted by the Samuels. They clung to the Judaic rules. To him, his marriage proved to be another kind of trap, and Nathan made his final escape. It was ruthless and brilliant, and so obvious a solution to all his inner difficulties that he wondered why he had not thought of it before. He became a Christian.

  He was quite prepared to be generous with his young wife if she should decide to leave him, but despite her inner turmoil the girl remained loyal to her husband, and the Samuels cast them both forth in ritual fashion.

  Jessica had sacrificed her family and her religion for him, but she refused to share his Christian state. A deeply devout Jewess, she remained in limbo to the end of her days, observing the festivals alone. In the autumn of 1805 Naomi was born, a child of a divided house. Thereafter, no other infant survived and a few years later Jessica gave up trying to atone for her sins.

  When the war with France was just over, Nathan Blüm felt able to visit his family again, taking his nine-year-old daughter with him. The Blüms were not orthodox Jews, and some of their Jewish friends had been converted to Christianity, so they received Nathan without reproach. To the motherless Naomi they extended such a welcome, and the child reciprocated with such warmth, that he left her in their care for a few months.

  Naomi’s need to live fully, to love and be loved, had so far remained unsatisfied. She hardly knew her father and her mother’s affection had been constricting, but in the vast galaxy of the German Blüms she shone bright. Nathan returned and saw his daughter for the first time. He had not realised what a quick and vivid little girl she was. In the sombre mirrors of her eyes, he saw an intelligence and self-awareness which Jessica had lacked. Secretly he claimed her for his own but knew that only his family could give her a stable childhood. So for the next eight years, Naomi lived in Berlin until her father could take her over.

  She was an eager pupil in this worldly education and, whatever his faults as husband and father, Nathan was an excellent teacher. He made a companion of her. In his strange possessive way, he loved her. Whilst she, given permission as it were to love him, loved without reservation.

  He never said that he did not want her to marry, but he spoke bitterly about the narrowness and mediocrity of the married state. He regretted the waste of intellect in a woman, of adventure in a man. He described procreation as the subjection of the woman to a gross indignity, and childbirth as a passport to ugliness, agony and death. His singular views made a strong impression on the girl’s mind. In delivering himself of them, Nathan seemed to become a dark priest condemning the sins of the world.

  Naomi was also made subtly aware of his deep displeasure when she became interested in anyone of either sex. The painful outcome of one early attachment dissuaded her from trying again. She must have no friend but him. Gradually, she shaped herself to his requirements. They travelled much abroad. He even taught her something of his business. Few people were so close. But the price of the relationship was high, and she could not escape it.

  She was twenty-five years old when her father suffered a massive heart attack and died before a physician could be summoned. Naomi knelt beside his body, thoughts and feelings in conflict.

  ‘Thank God he knew I was with him!’

  ‘I can finish this business in Amsterdam for him.’

  ‘He would hate a great family funeral. I think he would have liked to be buried here, quietly. I can go to Berlin afterwards and tell t
he Blüms myself. Yes, that would be best.’

  ‘I must ask Mr Feinberg about investments.’

  ‘My wanderings are over. I can find my own place in the world.’

  But her recurrent thought would have struck a central chord in Nathan, however cruelly.

  ‘Free! I am free!’

  THREE: NEWSPAPERMEN

  The ironmaster wasted no time at all. The day after his ultimatum to Ambrose Longe, he cast a wide net and within the month came up with a couple of very interesting catches.

  The Millbridge Advertiser, instituted in 1792, was exactly what its name implied. It had known only one owner and editor — Dickie Thoroughgood — and only one home, which was his home, 38 Cornmarket. Newspaper and man alike were popular, reliable and unpretentious. In their fortieth year of partnership, they seemed likely to go on forever. Then early one evening, Dickie Thoroughgood was found slumped at his desk, face awry, staring at the pen which he could not grasp.

  His physician ordered him to bed and refused to say how long he might stay there. He forbade him to have anything to do with his newspaper for the present and to be prepared to delegate most of its work in future. But Dickie’s love for The Advertiser had been a jealous one, and no one but he was capable of taking charge. The paper lingered, like her master, on the verge of extinction.

  While he lay helpless over his shop, and The Advertiser came out late and lacking — with the aid of old journeymen and raw apprentices — the ironmaster approached Mrs Thoroughgood benevolently behind her husband’s back.

  Between them, they reached the decision Dickie could not make on his own. A sum of one thousand pounds, in the shape of five hundred pounds down and five annual instalments, was just that much more than the newspaper could have fetched in the open market. It would have been stupid to refuse. So Dickie accepted, and died a week later.

  Then rumour had it that a certain reporter, on a Yorkshire newspaper of Tory persuasion, deserved better opportunities than he could ever hope to get. Whereupon the ironmaster’s private secretary made discreet enquiries, reduced the reporter to three pages of personal and professional information and served him up with the ironmaster’s breakfast.