by Jean Stubbs
William Howarth smiled and said, ‘So Jack is better than his masters? He sounds a likely candidate. Tell him that if he is interested in editing The Advertiser, and we suit each other, I will offer him double his present salary.’
Sam Pickering was typical of many a poor and clever man who has been at the mercy of those less able than himself — he bore life a grudge. But he also possessed a shrewd head and all the energy accumulated in years of frustrated ambition, which made him a formidable prospect.
A bachelor of eight-and-thirty, he was not ill looking, though somewhat stooped and cadaverous. There was a threadbare quality about his cuffs and elbows, a melancholy droop to his long moustache, but his eyes were sharp and green and missed nothing.
For a long time he had felt that recognition of his talents was overdue, yet William Howarth’s offer took him by surprise. He was by nature suspicious of grand gestures, and decided to keep his counsel until he had met the ironmaster and satisfied himself that the man was genuine. And since he did not intend to jeopardise his present job, he arranged his appointment so that no one would know what he was about.
The following Sunday being his day off, and he known as a keen botanist, Sam Pickering set out to walk the thirteen miles which lay between him and Kingswood Hall. The October morning was crisp and fine. He preferred his own company to that of anyone else. And some sort of adventure was afoot, whatever the outcome. He arrived on the ironmaster’s doorstep in high spirits, which he hid behind a sober mask, believing them to be bad for business.
His caution and the ironmaster’s impassiveness were well matched. They lunched casually and alone in the ironmaster’s study, dispensed with compliments and empty assurances, and dealt in plain facts. By the end of the meal, Sam Pickering had accepted the job on terms which suited them both. The ironmaster crossed his legs, drank coffee and spoke in a conversational tone.
‘With regard to other local newspapers,’ he began, ‘only a couple need concern you. One is The Wyndendale Post, long-established in the valley, which Lord Kersall and his circle use for their own ends. The other, The Clarion, calls itself independent but has radical proclivities. It is run by my nephew.’
He read a question on Sam Pickering’s face and answered, ‘That is of no importance. He and I are not close.’
Some instinct made him refrain from saying just how far apart they were. He contented himself by observing that even relatives must take care of themselves, that business was business, and honest competition the order of the day.
‘I am not asking you to join in the squabbling and backbiting that goes on between The Clarion and The Post. I want this newspaper of ours to stand head and shoulders above the fray. It must have quality. It must be the best, Mr Pickering.’
Sam fingered his moustache carefully.
‘The best in Millbridge?’
‘The best in this valley. For now.’
‘What about later on, then?’
The ironmaster looked at him meaningfully.
‘That depends how good you are at your job, Mr Pickering. My money will always be good.’
‘I’m good,’ said Sam quietly. ‘Given half a chance, I can be even better.’
The ironmaster smiled on him.
‘Then we can both look forward to a great newspaper.’
‘But I’d be less than straight if I didn’t tell you there was an element of luck in it, Mr Howarth. A newspaper has to find its way and take its own chances, just like a man does. And while I can promise you that The Advertiser will never get less than one hundred per cent from me, I can’t promise aught else, and that’s the truth.’
‘Good enough!’ cried William heartily, and settled down to details. ‘Now we need a new name which will express our intention of becoming widely known. I like the idea of using Lancashire in the title, and then a fine ringing noun to follow. How do you fancy being a Herald, Mr Pickering?’
Joking. Serious.
‘The Lancashire Herald?’ said Sam, pulling his whiskers thoughtfully. ‘There’s only one objection that I can see. Don’t you think that Herald sounds a bit like Clarion?’
‘Do you think so?’ William replied blandly. ‘Oh, but the name of the county gives it far more weight, don’t you think?’
‘Aye, it’s a grand name, for sure. And it’s your newspaper, Mr Howarth. You’re entitled to call it what you like.’
‘I should like you to be satisfied with it, too,’ said William graciously. ‘Of course, we must use the old name along with the new one for a while, because I want to keep The Advertiser’s business. But that side of the paper will be a secondary concern. Dickie Thoroughgood’s journeymen should be able to look after it. So we shall be known as The Lancashire Herald and Advertiser for a twelvemonth or so, and then we can emerge in our true colours.’
The ironmaster poured out a measure of brandy, observing that it would warm Sam for the road.
‘Now, Mr Pickering, everything is ready at thirty-eight Cornmarket, including the living quarters. We can engage a servant to look after you. All you need do now is to name the hour that you arrive by coach, and someone will meet you. So how soon can you take up the post?’
‘Well, I should give reasonable notice to the Keighley Chronicle, Mr Howarth. Suppose we say a week tomorrow?’
‘Why give them a week?’ asked the ironmaster, astonished. ‘They have treated you shabbily for upwards of fourteen years. I will employ you as from today. Tell them to go to the devil, and come straight back. If it is a question of money, I will advance you whatever you need. In any case, take this to cover your expenses.’
Seldom had a sovereign been accepted so reluctantly.
‘Thank you, Mr Howarth, but if it’s all the same to you I’ll work my week out on the Chronicle.’
‘Why, man? For heaven’s sake. You owe them nothing.’
‘I owe myself something,’ said Sam Pickering judiciously. ‘I’ve got the reputation of being trustworthy, Mr Howarth. I shouldn’t like to mar it for the sake of a week’s notice.’
The matter was settled.
‘Well, I’d best be off if it’s all the same to you,’ said Sam. ‘The light wanes early this time of the year.’ He added awkwardly, ‘It’s been a champion day, Mr Howarth, and I thank you for it.’
That same month the cholera reached Hamburg, only thirty-six hours’ steaming-time away, giving rise to an urgent question in the House of Commons. At British ports all incoming ships were quarantined for fourteen days, and the Central Board of Health produced its first cholera circular, in a shrill command for national vigilance.
Only a few days later, the Wyndendale Board of Health was formed. The list of its members read like a roll of honour, being composed of all the town’s magistrates, the four most important men in the district — including Lord Kersall and the ironmaster — three physicians, Mr Bailey the surgeon, and leading representatives of Church, Chapel and Quaker meeting house.
Led by Dr Jamie Standish, they went to work immediately. A small fortune was spent on chloride of lime and its application. They composed a brief and simple printed notice, giving details of cholera symptoms and whom to contact, and issued a copy to every family in the valley. Charity committees were set up, organised by wives of the Board, to receive and distribute gifts of food and clothing.
Before the second circular was published on November 14th, the Wyndendale Board had taken possession of an old disused poorhouse on the outskirts of Millbridge and were rapidly throwing up two temporary buildings near it, to form a complete cholera unit: hospital, isolation house and convalescent ward. With a little difficulty, owing to his lack of medical status, Mr Bailey was put in charge of this. And with even more difficulty, the town council were persuaded to pay for it out of the public rates.
The ironmaster, who was known to be a staunch admirer of the new London Peelers, organised a voluntary police force to guard the unit. Up at Millbridge Hospital, Mr Bailey interviewed poor men who would be paid to take the ri
sk of fetching, carrying and burying cholera victims; and poor women who would be prepared to nurse the sick and to care for those who recovered. Wyndendale was ready. So it was highly infuriating to find someone out of step with the crisis, and Jamie Standish stalked into The Clarion’s printing-shop one late November morning brandishing the latest edition, and shouting over the noise of the old Koenig printing-press.
‘Have you gone quite mad, Mr Longe?’
He pointed with theatrical emphasis to a headline which said:
NO CHOLERA! JUST ANOTHER TORY PLOT!
He rapped the leading article which informed its readers that the usual intestinal disorders, due to poor sanitation, were being used as a means to divert public attention from the Reform Bill.
Ambrose transferred printing ink from his hands to his apron, ready but wary. He had been annoying people for fifteen years and was prepared for any reaction from hard words to hard blows.
Cheerfully, he shouted back, ‘Not mad, Dr Standish. Just tired of being hoodwinked by a panic-stricken opposition!’
‘What is this nonsense about plots?’ cried Jamie, shaking the newspaper at him furiously. ‘You cannot be serious! And how can I make myself heard over this damnable racket?’
Ambrose motioned him to come outside into the passage, and closed the door. They were old acquaintances, connected through Ambrose’s mother and Jamie’s uncle, and through Mary Vivian whom Jamie had once hoped to marry. It was not a friendship but they respected each other, even liked each other in a cautious fashion.
‘Your attitude, sir, is nothing less than irresponsible!’ said Jamie, now quiet and emphatic. ‘The new Board of Health in London is composed of men noted for their medical ability and experience, and this second circular is based on a five-month study of cholera in European conditions. Surely a reputable newspaper like The Clarion cannot discount such a document? The Post and the new Advertiser have printed it upon their front pages in full!’
Despite his concern and anger, he described Ambrose’s latest rival as delicately as he could, though even in so short a time people were forgetting Dickie’s homely paper and referring to its sophisticated replacement as The Herald, a good resounding name which tripped off the tongue much as The Clarion had done in its early days.
‘Damn the other papers,’ said Ambrose deliberately. ‘The Clarion thinks for itself. Oh yes, the government sent me copies of both documents to print, as they always do. It is the only bonus provincial newspapers can expect! I printed the first circular and I trounced it for reading like a leper’s charter — all that talk of shutting cholera victims up in their houses, and daubing SICK upon the door, as though we lived in the days of the Great Plague, and threatening to use troops and police cordons to enforce such measures. To me, that smacks of civil war. You did not, I notice, object to that.’
‘You were criticising the tone, not the truth, of the document.’
‘Well, I grant you that this second circular is cooler in tone, but I cannot help noticing how the epidemic flares up afresh whenever the Whigs present their Reform Bill! I am not alone in my opinion, I do assure you. The radical press is quite convinced that this is a political plot. And I shall continue to urge my readers to ignore the hysteria, and to question this sudden interest in their health and welfare! You can have me put in prison for it if you wish. I am not unacquainted with the inside of Millbridge Jail! And there, Dr Standish, I rest my case.’
‘You’re dafter than I thought, man!’ said Jamie more kindly, realising that Ambrose was wholly sincere. ‘Have you not heard rumours from the North?’
‘I am suspicious of rumours,’ said Ambrose, smiling slightly.
‘Then I’ll tell you the truth, and I can quote you names, dates and places. But this is only for your private ear. No printing, mind! The authorities are hoping to contain the disease, and they don’t want to cause a panic. The news came to my chief surgeon, Mr Bailey, in a letter from an old friend up in County Durham.
‘Three weeks ago, a keelman by the name of William Sproat was taken desperately ill. His own surgeon could do nothing for him and advised a second consultation. Dr Clanny, a leading physician thereabouts, was called in and professed himself to be suspicious but uncertain. Then they asked Mr Kell, who is the person known to Mr Bailey, to take a look at the patient. Mr Kell is surgeon to the reserve units of the eighty-second regiment, now stationed at Sunderland barracks, and has served in Mauritius. He had no doubts at all. He diagnosed Asiatic cholera.
‘The keelman died on the twenty-sixth of October — the first confirmed case in the country, but not necessarily the first case. Cholera has probably been with us for some time — thriving on the ignorance of doctors who have not the experience to recognise it, and the fears of those who know and dare not name it.’
He struck The Clarion with the back of his hand.
‘That is why I cannot let you use your influence in this manner, Mr Longe. You must think in terms of saving lives, not votes. Cholera has nothing to do with Tory politics. It is an evil of nature beyond human control with which we must deal as best we can.’
After a little silence Ambrose said, ‘I thank you for telling me, sir. I am sorrier than I can say for my part in this — though it was the result of honest conviction…’
He had suffered a body blow. The truth revealed a narrowness of view, a lack of political judgement in him, which worried him deeply. Sam Pickering and The Herald had shown more wisdom and infinitely more common-sense. He discounted Arnold Thwaites on The Post, who had probably also believed the cholera to be a Tory plot and gleefully covered up for his masters.
‘I shall retract my allegations,’ said Ambrose stiffly, ‘but without betraying your confidence, of course. Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me how The Clarion can make amends.’
Now Jamie turned away, a little sorry but much more relieved, saying, ‘You could reprint and distribute our own cholera circular, if you would, Mr Longe. I believe that order was given to The Post last time, but I doubt they made sure all the poor folk had a copy! I understand that you have your own lines of communication, which reach all those in most need of help!’
He said this with a twinkle, so that Ambrose might know he referred to The Recorder, and had quite forgiven him.
FOUR: TWO FRIENDS
Once she was established in Millbridge, Naomi Blüm proved to be a curious mixture of the sociable and the solitary. She seemed eager to be accepted, as was only proper, and when Mrs Warburton informed her that Tuesday used to be Calling Day at Thornton House before Charlotte Longe became ‘odd’, Naomi reinstated that afternoon ceremony of teacups and talk. But she proved socially difficult in ways they would never have imagined, and her only friend seemed to be that sly cat, Mary Vivian.
It was not Naomi’s wealth they minded. They expected her clothes to be more fashionable, her possessions newer and costlier, her food richer, her wine older, her servants softer-spoken and softer-footed than their own. It was her intellect to which they objected. Her purse of conversation lacked the common currency of small talk, while abounding in the silver of perception and wit, the gold of integrity. In short, they found her heavy-going. Sometimes even her wealth was not sufficient to excuse her.
The Warburton family were noted for their musical soirees. Indeed these evenings could be said, like Atlas, to support the cultural world of Millbridge, and were regularly reported in the society columns of the local press. Only a philistine such as Ambrose Longe would have described their rendering of Haydn’s Trio in F Major as ‘the battle of three blind mice’. But then, he could not afford to pay a reporter and had to act as his own music critic, so very likely he knew nothing about it. The reporter from The Post always wrote lovely notices. The old Advertiser had never come, of course, but the new Herald did and was courteous if non-committal. Consequently they stopped sending invitations to The Clarion, which everyone said served it right.
There were obviously fine folk in the valley who did not move
in the same circle as the Warburtons and therefore made do by hiring musicians or attending concerts in Manchester. This was tacitly understood. But genteel members of the middle class felt privileged to spend an evening at ‘The Elms’: yawning behind their hands and fans, dozing off lightly, being nudged if they snored or their feathered headdresses nodded forward and tickled the person in front, and finally waking up in time to clap and say quite truthfully that they had never heard anything like it.
So Mrs Warburton, as a leading light of Millbridge society, was among the first to leave her calling card at Thornton House. And when she heard that Naomi had stayed with relatives in Germany who held regular musical assemblies and that as a child she had seen and heard the late Ludwig van Beethoven perform his own work, the lady was overjoyed. At last, she thought but did not say, someone capable of appreciating us. Her invitation cards, issued judiciously but widely in the New Year of 1832, read ‘To meet Miss Naomi Blüm, and enjoy a little music.’
On that January evening, Mrs Warburton stood proudly in her entrance hall and received her guest like royalty. And very regal Naomi looked in her Chinese green silk gown with sleeves à la Medici, and the cuffs of dark green velvet. Her blue-black hair was dressed in full curls high on her head and encircled with a chaperon of artificial roses. The other ladies present were also very dressed and curled, but they had to share the services of Miss Barlow the seamstress and Mr Babbage the hairdresser, whereas Naomi’s gown had been bought in Paris and she was fortunate in her personal maid.
So far so good. Millbridge was delighting in the double spectacle of Miss Blüm and the gifted Warburtons together, and a great many compliments were exchanged by those present, but the most delicate flattery of all was paid by the Warburtons to Naomi. In deference to her foreign origins, they had devoted the evening to the work of German and Viennese composers.