The Northern Correspondent

by Jean Stubbs

  ‘It is finished, Mr Longe. You’ve just got to cross out It will be interesting to see. That’s all.’

  ‘But what was interesting to see? I can’t remember. It must have been something.’

  ‘Well, it don’t matter,’ said Bob sensibly, ‘and it ain’t necessary! This’ll do us nicely. We’ll manage the rest. Charlie can check the mock-up. He’s got quite an eye for detail.’

  He looked very kindly on Ambrose’s rumpled appearance.

  ‘If I was you, Mr Longe, I’d go home now,’ said Bob.

  Ambrose consulted the clock for the thousandth time that day. Fifteen minutes past seven.

  ‘They were going to send Joseph with the carriage when anything happened,’ said Ambrose. ‘It’s a long time to wait. It’s a cruel business. You don’t think she’ll die, do you, Bob?’

  Women did die. Bob’s first wife had died ten years ago.

  ‘Nay, don’t mither yourself. Let me get Jimmy to call you a hackney-coach. There’s only one road between here and the High Street. If your man does come, you won’t miss him.’

  ‘Thank you — and the editorial is all right, is it?’

  ‘Bang up to standard, Mr Longe. It’s finished, sir. It’s finished. You can go home now.’

  Ambrose’s nerves were playing the devil with him. The phrase troubled him. It’s finished. It’s finished.

  Naomi is dead, he thought, and they’re afraid to tell me.

  As he stepped into the hackney-carriage an empty hearse passed him, jolting home to the Doles, and all the way up the High Street he imagined the knocker of Thornton House swathed in black. In his mind’s eye, he pictured Dollie drawing down the blinds. He saw himself wearing his wedding finery to the funeral.

  The sound and feel of the carriage wheels was suddenly thick and soft. His heart thundered a warning in his head. He stared down at the cobbles and up at the front of his house, afraid.

  As in the case of all serious illnesses, the servants had laid straw in the road to muffle the noise of traffic. The lion’s head knocker had been muffled too, but not in black. A yellow duster was tied round his eyes. He wore an air of forlorn dignity. People were walking more slowly as they passed by, looking up at the windows. One or two even lingered, watching, hoping to be the first to hear news of any sort.

  Ambrose paid the driver and took the steps two at a time.

  His home had been in an unusual state of noise and confusion that morning. Now it seemed unnaturally quiet, and he had forgotten his key. Reluctantly, he lifted the lion’s head.

  At that moment Joseph opened the door, wearing a greatcoat. He was merely startled to see his master, but Ambrose read the surprise as terror. He could scarcely frame his question.

  The manservant, reading his expression, took the liberty of placing a reassuring hand upon his arm and brought him safely inside.

  ‘All’s well, sir. All’s well. I was just coming to fetch you.’

  Ambrose’s lips repeated, ‘All’s well,’ but no sound came forth.

  Joseph now spoke more slowly and clearly, as though his master were deaf.

  ‘You’ve got a son, Mr Longe. Born just after seven o’clock.’

  Still Ambrose’s lips repeated the words, and no sound came.

  Joseph sat him down in a hall chair and called the maid. He brought Ambrose a glass of aquavit. He spoke to the girl in quite a different tone from the one he used with his employers.

  ‘You stay here. I’ll go and tell them he’s home, Dollie!’

  The maid now took over the task of conveying information.

  ‘Mrs Longe is pretty comfortable, sir. Mrs Vivian’s been with her all day, and doctor’s been here since luncheon.’

  Ambrose had been washed up safe, as it were, on to the shore of life. He felt perfectly calm and well, but his head and limbs were numb and he had some difficulty in comprehending the situation.

  ‘Can I get you anything, sir?’ Dollie asked.

  He shook his head. She remained standing by him as if he had to be watched. In another moment, Jamie Standish tapped him briskly on the shoulder and delivered his message intimately into one ear.

  ‘A perfectly straightforward case. No complications. Six weeks in bed. Your son is healthy and strong. You can see them both in a wee while. The girl is just tidying everything up.’

  Ambrose drank his aquavit in one swallow, and contemplated the empty glass.

  ‘I’m quite done up!’ he said, with immense astonishment.

  ‘Aye, well, you will be. I’ve always said the husband suffers most!’ said Jamie in dry amusement. And to the watchful maid, ‘Go and see if they’re ready, will you, Dollie?’

  The maid, who had smiled at the state of Ambrose in his new clothes, now smiled at the state of him in his new fatherhood, and whisked smartly upstairs.

  Ambrose tried his legs and found they would hold him. He straightened his brown coat and cream waistcoat, and adjusted his stock. Joseph reappeared and offered him a comb.

  Down the stairs came the maid, followed by Mary Vivian, who pressed his hand and kissed his cheek and nodded in a friendly fashion without speaking. They all seemed to be treating him like he treated George Howarth.

  ‘You can go up whenever you like, sir,’ said Dollie.

  Ambrose stood there, nonplussed.

  ‘I’ll call in again at ten o’clock this evening,’ Jamie said, addressing Joseph, as being the most sensible person present.

  The maid fetched two armfuls of outdoor clothes, and helped first Mary and then the doctor into them.

  ‘I’ll be taking Mrs Vivian home then, sir?’ said Joseph civilly.

  Ambrose did not hear him. He had decided to mount the stairs, counting them silently as he went, to prevent himself from stumbling.

  He opened the door of their room and saw Naomi propped up against a mound of pillows, holding their child. He closed the door on the incomprehensible world outside. He found his way to them, and sat humbly at the side of the bed. He crossed his legs and clasped his knee, in an effort to seem at ease. He could think of nothing to say that did not seem to be superfluous.

  She had been to a far place, somewhere that he would never know. Her voice came from there, deep and soft, immensely comforting.

  ‘Ah, my poor love. My dear love. Ah, my Ambrose. Come, sit closer. Come, sit here with me.’

  Then he knew that his day had been as terrible as he suspected. Cautiously, he perched on the side of the bed. Carefully he embraced her, and closed his eyes that he might sense her more completely. She felt warm and whole. She had survived. Women were surprising creatures. She might have died, and here she was discussing names for the creature that could have killed her.

  ‘You are sure you do not wish him to be called Ambrose after you?’ Naomi asked, making certain of this vexed question.

  Ambrose shook his head.

  ‘Or Tobias, after your father?’

  He shook his head again.

  Naomi sighed, but not unhappily. She smiled.

  She said, ‘Then may we call him Nathan, after my father?’

  Ambrose nodded. He did not care, so long as she was safe, so long as he could stay with her in peace. With her free hand she stroked his head. She murmured endearments to both husband and son.

  Utterly content, Ambrose opened his eyes and saw a pink and frowning face only inches from his own. One minute hand was tucked beneath its chin, the other spread out fan-wise over its shawl.

  ‘Oh, look!’ said Ambrose, amazed, entranced. ‘He’s got real fingers!’

  EIGHTEEN: A NEW ERA

  Wednesday, 21 June, 1837

  This world of three families and three houses was a magical one for the children, and each year it grew larger.

  Superiority of age set Philomena and Santo Vivian apart from the rest. She, at fourteen, was attending Miss Partridge’s School for the Daughters of Gentlefolk in Millbridge, and was full of condescension. He, well into his ninth year, took lessons at the rectory with Jarvis Pole a
nd would become a weekly boarder at Millbridge Grammar School in the autumn. But the four younger ones had arrived almost upon each other’s heels and grown up in each other’s company, so they did not mind where they congregated. Between Thornton House, Beech Grove and the Old Hall at Brigge there was daily communication. In each home there was a nursery and playroom, and the young visitors fetched their nurses with them. Should a major crisis arise, each child knew that the judgement of an aunt could be trusted as implicitly as that of a mother, and they delighted in their presiding hostesses for entirely different reasons.

  They found Dorcas Standish a soothing influence, because she was gentle and never scolded them, and each visit was exactly like the last. On the other hand it was tremendous fun to be with Mary Vivian, in spite of her quick tongue, because she lived in the middle of constant drama and anything might happen. Whilst Naomi Longe entered into the very heart of their childhood, glorying in their triumphs and sorrowing over their downfalls as though she were one of them.

  Scarcely eleven months separated Alice Vivian from Cicely. Nathan Longe appeared, and six months later Matthew Standish joined the group. Now Matthew was toddling, and the cradle in the corner of the nursery stood empty, but only for a little while.

  In the background, only available for events of staggering importance, were the heads of the three families. And, like their wives, each of them appealed to the children by reason of some special gift or idiosyncrasy.

  Jamie Standish was the most feared and respected because he presided over the issues of life and death, but he redeemed this rather sombre image by doing conjuring tricks at parties.

  Hal Vivian was the most handsome, admired by the little boys, adored by the little girls, and he created marvellous mechanical toys. His only fault, if fault it could be called, was that he never allowed any child to play with them.

  Ambrose Longe was the most fun, with his thin brown face and quizzical brown eyes, and his talent for outrageous surprises. On Nathan Longe’s first birthday the previous September, Ambrose had brought an organ-grinder right to the front door of Thornton House and fetched the children out upon the pavement for their own private concert.

  The man wore an ingratiating smile but his eyes did not smile.

  He wound out his tinkling tunes to the circle of rapt faces, and made his monkey caper for them. Afterwards, each child was allowed to put a penny in the creature’s outstretched military cap and shake its small cold paw. The monkey shuddered in his red jacket and stared at them with piteous human eyes.

  ‘Why does he shiver so?’ asked little Alice Vivian, concerned.

  ‘Because he comes from a hot country, far away,’ Naomi had replied, ‘and he feels the cold, even in his warm jacket.’

  Then Alice found a sweet in her apron pocket and held it out, but the monkey nipped her fingers in his anxiety to get it, and she was frightened of animals for a long time.

  On this first day of summer the children all met at Beech Grove, though it was actually the turn for Thornton House — as three-year-old Alice was quick to point out, when the Vivians’ carriage stopped at the beginning of the High Street.

  ‘On to the end!’ cried Alice, pointing her finger towards the upper part of the town. ‘On to the end!’

  This battle-cry being ignored, she lay on the floor of the carriage and refused to move.

  ‘Get up at once, you naughty child!’ cried Philomena. ‘I’m going to be — late — for — school!’

  She emphasised the last three words with three sharp smacks, which made Alice scream loudly and weep and kick. Whereupon Santo, who detested one sister and adored the other, thumped Philomena hard between the shoulder blades.

  ‘Oh, do for heaven’s sake stop quarrelling!’ cried Mary, exasperated with all three of them.

  Philomena sank down on the carriage seat, sobbing, ‘I can’t breathe, Mamma! He’s stopped me from breathing!’

  ‘Nonsense, Philly! Santo, get out immediately, sir! Your Papa shall hear of this! Alice, get up at once! Margery,’ to the stout, young nursemaid, ‘help me to lift Alice.’

  The Vivians’ arrival was usually the opening comedy of the day, and since they were always late, everyone else was there to watch.

  Dorcas stood in the doorway of Beech Grove smiling, as dark and lovely as ever, holding the hand of her grave little daughter, Cicely. At her side, her old nurse Sarah Pratt prevented Matthew from throwing himself under the horses. Behind them, Nathan Longe was squirming along the hall tiles, trying to get away from his nurse, Gussie Purdom.

  ‘I’ve had enough of you already, Master Awkward,’ breathed Gussie, ‘and the day ain’t half started yet!’

  She spotted the distraction and seized upon it.

  ‘Oh, look at Miss Alice! Oh, what a naughty girl!’

  ‘What? Where?’ Nathan scrambled to his feet.

  He was at once deeply struck by the spectacle of Cousin Alice being carried across the pavement. Her sturdy frame and close-cropped head gave her a boyish look, and a strong will was evident in the set of mouth and chin, but what people noticed first was the beauty of her colouring: her amber hair and darker amber eyes, her bright pink cheeks and milky skin.

  She had held on to anything and anyone that could prevent her from being removed. Now, in order to make matters as difficult as possible, she was playing dead. Her body was rigid, her arms crossed over her chest, crusader-style, her eyes squeezed shut. A blue hair-ribbon slithered down over one ear. From the crook of one elbow peeped a rag doll, dressed like herself in a sky-blue cotton frock, white frilled pantalettes and black slippers. Alice was a bonny child and big for her years. Her porters were flushed with exertion.

  ‘Oh, what a very large parcel!’ Dorcas said, smiling. ‘Do put it down carefully on the mat.’

  Still playing the game for all it was worth, Alice lay perfectly stiff and motionless.

  ‘Ah, what a pity you didn’t bring Alice,’ said Dorcas sweetly. ‘She would have so enjoyed the new garden swing.’

  The child’s eyes snapped open. She sat up, clutching her doll.

  ‘It’s not a parcel, it’s me, Aunt Dorcas!’ she cried, and smiled like the sun and tried to set her hair-ribbon straight.

  Now Cicily giggled and tugged at Dorcas’s skirt, saying, ‘Not a parcel, Mamma. It’s Alice!’

  ‘Iss Alice! Iss Alice!’ Nathan shouted, escaping Gussie again.

  And he ran round and round until he fell down.

  Matthew laughed very loud, throwing back his head which was as fair and fluffy as a dandelion clock, drumming on Sarah Pratt’s stomach with his heels, repeating the phrase as nearly as he could.

  ‘Iss Ice! Iss Ice! Iss Ice!’

  ‘Hush now, my beauty!’ said Mrs Pratt comfortably.

  Nathan scrambled up again, dodged Gussie, and pretended to be a spinning top.

  ‘Do you know, it exhausts me even to look at that child!’ said Mary factually. ‘What are you doing with my portfolio, Philly?’

  ‘I thought you’d forgotten it, Mamma,’ said Philomena, demure and sly, ‘so I picked it up as we came out. Aren’t you going to work on your next article with Aunt Naomi? You said you wanted to see her!’

  She knew very well what was afoot.

  ‘Give it to me,’ said Mary, snatching it back, ‘and hush!’

  But the remark had been noted, and immediately all was bedlam. Alice ran towards her, crying, ‘I want to come with you and see Aunt Naomi! I said so. I said so.’

  Nathan, who had suspected all along that something was being kept from him, stopped spinning and said pitifully, ‘Mamma! Mamma!’ and burst into loud sobs.

  Cicely’s eyes filled. Matthew wept in sympathy. Tears poured down Alice’s cheeks, and she and Nathan clung to Mary’s skirt and begged to be taken with her.

  Santo’s tact and good humour came uppermost. He was a hero in the younger children’s eyes, and he knew it.

  ‘Aunt Dorcas!’ he said loudly, over the squall. ‘Aunt Dorcas, don’t you t
hink we should try the new swing?’

  ‘What an excellent notion!’ said Dorcas quickly.

  Alice and Nathan paused in mid-sob to consider this offer.

  To Mary, Santo whispered, ‘You go and take Phil to school. I can walk up to the rectory.’ As she hesitated, he added, ‘And I say, Mamma, you might drop in on Uncle Jarvis and tell him why I’ll be a bit late!’

  Then he began to tickle Nathan until the little boy rolled on the ground, laughing and calling for mercy.

  ‘Who’s going to have the first swing?’ cried Santo.

  Alice’s tears dried visibly on her cheeks.

  ‘Me!’ she shouted, letting go of Mary’s gown.

  Matthew recovered, steadied himself by grasping Mrs Pratt’s hair, and cried, ‘Me! Me!’

  Graciously, Santo held out both hands for the little girls to clasp. Over his shoulder, he spoke to the giggling Nathan.

  ‘Come on, you! Stop fooling around!’

  Followed by Dorcas and the three nurses, the children poured out into the garden of Beech Grove.

  ‘Bless you, Santo!’ said Mary under her breath.

  Philomena said sourly, ‘He’s only doing that to dodge the first lesson. He hasn’t learned his Latin!’

  ‘Get into that carriage!’ said Mary grimly, ‘and don’t dare say another word, Miss!’

  Alfred whipped up the horses and they proceeded along the High Street and into Market Square at a brisk trot. Philomena, deeply offended, was delivered up to another day’s ladylike schooling. Then the coachman turned into Rectory Lane and waited while Mary made her son’s excuse, then finally drove her back to Thornton House. There, the Longes’ carriage stood outside, with Joseph on the box, waiting. The manservant touched his hat to Mary and nodded to Alfred.

  ‘We’re in a bit of an upset this morning, madam,’ he observed.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s going to be one of those difficult days, Joseph!’ she replied, and ran up the steps and lifted the knocker which was not yet muffled.

  Ambrose opened the door himself, crying, ‘Thank God you’ve come. Naomi is being very brave, but we are all at sixes and sevens. I had forgotten how awful it was.’