by Jean Stubbs
Even the Cornishman was silent for a few moments.
‘And the drovers,’ George added quietly. ‘The drovers’ll be finished, and all. Them goods wagons can transport cattle.’
But he was the only man present who had personal experience of drovers. The only one who, in his boyhood, had heard the shout from the far fields which made everyone on Kit’s Hill farm stop in the middle of their work and hurry out, to stand and shade their eyes against the sun and look up at that dark cleft in the Pennine hills.
‘Dro — o — o — vers!’
How George had scrambled up and run with his gaggle of brothers and sisters to watch the black river of cattle pouring down through the Nick o’Garth which divided Yorkshire from Lancashire. Come from Scotland perhaps, weeks away over the ancient drovers’ roads, plodding mile by patient mile.
How he had run and run that he might be the first to open the gate into the Ha’penny Field, where cattle would stay overnight, sleeping and grazing, where the drovers’ dogs curled into small pits and kept guard. And he had perched up on the stone wall to see the tired beasts counted in. ‘Yan, teyan, tethera, lethera, dic…’
Then to squat at the back of the farmhouse kitchen that evening, keeping mouse-quiet so that he shouldn’t be sent to bed. Waiting for the old drover to light his clay pipe and lean back in his chair. Becoming part of the drovers’ tales. Seeing in his mind’s eye the endless road stretching ever before him.
Gone, all gone. With the drawing of a map.
‘We must change with the times,’ Hal Vivian reminded them, cool and sensible, for his visions were more splendid than these.
Yes, they knew that. They accepted it, even gloried in it. They must and should and would progress. And yet, and yet. Just for a moment, they must pause and look back.
For most of them, the coachman mounted his box again and they sat by his side. The ostlers pulled off the cloths. The guard blew his horn. Out of the hostelry yard they rolled in their pride, trotting sedately down the busy street, the envy and interest of all. Past the crossroads, through Lower Town, and over the bridge. Then the last wonderful, stomach-turning pause. The final wind of the horn. And they were off, galloping like the devil down the Turnpike Road.
In the ears of one man alone rang that cry from the windy fells of the past.
‘Dro — o — o — vers!’
As might have been expected, Naomi and Mary were hobnobbing over the supper table in the parlour of Thornton House, for this was Naomi’s first day up after Jack’s birth, and the two women were celebrating her liberty.
‘What a relief it is to have one’s body to oneself again,’ said Mary, accepting a slice of cold boiled ham. ‘All those months full of little miseries, and having to wear shapeless gowns, and then to go through purgatory. I am sure that if men had to do it, the population would shrink overnight! Naomi, I hope you are not going to have any more children — at least, not for a long while.’
Naomi shrugged magnificently. The Lord, whether Christian or Jewish, would provide as He thought fit.
‘Oh, fiddlesticks!’ said Mary, divining the shrug. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. I don’t intend to have any more babies if I can help it. And it is a perfectly simple and harmless method. You simply put a little sponge — inside yourself, you understand — then afterwards, you take it out. Look at me, my dear. I haven’t been pregnant again since Alice was born!’
‘But I have never heard of respectable women doing these things,’ Naomi protested. ‘Only your Flawnes Gardens creatures do such things.’
‘Well, Aunt Cha used the sponge — it’s a French method — and she was married to Toby Longe for eight years and only had two children by him and none afterwards. And don’t tell me that Jack Ackroyd visited her every night just to discuss politics, because I won’t believe it!’
The mention of Jack Ackroyd brought Naomi’s thoughts back to her latest nursling, who was sleeping in deep content in his bassinette at the side of the hearth.
‘Ah, my jewel,’ she murmured.
‘Naomi! Please attend to me. This advice is for your own good. Aunt Cha advised me to limit my family, so that I could give time to myself and my husband. Otherwise one becomes nothing better than a breeding animal! And Aunt Cha was always right. Besides, I’m sure Ambrose doesn’t want a big family. He looks bewildered already!’
Naomi protested, ‘But I am sure he would like a daughter. And so should I. And I would call her Jessica Mary.’
‘That’s all very nice, but you don’t want her for a while.’
‘I don’t think that Dorcas does these things.’
‘She must do something,’ said Mary practically. ‘She’s only had Cicely and Matthew so far. Perhaps they abstain?’
‘No, I do not think so. There is no strain between them.’
‘Abstinence used to be the only method, apart from the man interrupting himself.’
‘I do not like those methods either,’ said Naomi seriously.
‘Perhaps Jamie uses something. You know…?’
‘Mary! Mary! How do you come to hear such things?’
‘I’ve got a good nose for news. Ambrose says so. Anyway, you just remember that you could be enjoying life instead of having babies!’
Naomi sat back, eyes half-closed, and contemplated the fire-screen. Life had nothing more to offer her at the moment. She turned the conversation away from herself to signal that the subject was closed. Yet kept it in the same key, to show she was not offended.
‘The Queen has been married almost five months now. I wonder whether she will have a prince first?’
Mary’s thoughts scurried in another direction.
‘Oh, don’t you think Prince Albert handsome? I do. So manly and so chivalrous. No wonder she’s head over heels in love with him. My goodness, I’d be the same.’
Naomi smiled on her friend with deep affection.
‘Well, you will have your own handsome husband living at home again soon, as director of the Pennine Railway project.’
‘So I shall! Late for supper instead of late for the weekend!’ said Mary cheerfully.
She still loved him, but had learned not to worship. They were both happier in consequence. Besides, Mary had interests and ambitions of her own these days. She was the whole of Page Seven, since Naomi had abdicated in favour of motherhood.
‘The Pennine Railway is an excellent investment,’ Naomi said.
She spoke with faith, out of experience. She had invested in it heavily. Motherhood had not curbed her taste for finance.
‘How is Ambrose taking your proposal for The Correspondent, by the by?’ Mary asked.
‘He has said nothing, one way or the other. And I have been otherwise occupied,’ with a graceful gesture towards the bassinette. ‘But it is not a matter of choice. It is a matter of common sense. We can no longer run The Correspondent as a little family concern, with Ambrose as editor and me as financier. The circulation has reached six thousand, and is increasing. The newspaper is ready to become a public investment. Ambrose does not like the idea, of course, but he will be troubled as little as possible. I shall make sure we own the major part of the shares, and keep an eye on the financial side still. The ironmaster is advising me, and he is very sound. So — in another month or so…’
‘Lord above! What a far cry from the old Clarion!’
Little Jack Longe clucked and rustled in his warm nest.
‘Ah, he is waking up,’ Naomi murmured, bending over the bassinette. ‘I must feed him.’
‘And that’s another thing,’ said Mary. ‘You can’t get wet-nurses as easily as you used to! When I was a child, nearly every poor woman in Garth village had a squire’s baby at one breast and her own at the other! Now they all go out to work in factories, and women like us have no choice. If we’re not dead or invalids, we must turn into cows!’
‘But I prefer to feed him myself. I do not want a wet-nurse.’
‘You’re like Aunt Zelah. She fed Tabith
a, but Uncle William wouldn’t allow it after that. The rest of them were wet-nursed — and so were all mine.’
The infant opened his eyes and smacked his lips. Life was a series of surprises, but one or two facts were beginning to connect. He was hungry. He opened his mouth and yelled hopefully. He entered the land of milk and honey. His cup of content ran over.
For the ironmaster that evening, staying late at the House of Commons, life was at a high peak, and most resolutely did he put away thoughts of old age. Seventy-six last week, and he’d never felt better or more vigorous. Never felt happier, either. Not long now before Parliament went into recess, and then he and Zelah could go home to Kingswood Hall for the summer. Hal was winding up his affairs in the Manchester office, ready to join him in August. Then the two of them could begin on the most ambitious project of both their lives, and William’s own life would change accordingly.
Of course, he would not rush matters, or let anyone down. He would serve his party until the next election. But he would not stand again for Parliament. Let a younger … let another man take his place. Then he could go back to Lancashire for good. Concentrate his energies on the Pennine Railway. Be on the spot.
The day had been long and humid. The Thursday night debate had lasted longer than usual. Afterwards, he had spoken a word into one or two influential ears and drunk rather too much wine, and still his day was not done. He had to write a line to Hal, to tell him that all was well, before he went home to Zelah in Queen Anne’s Gate.
He and his son were closer now, more friendly and trusting than they had ever been. But he must go carefully, he knew that. He must not dominate or interfere, must not scare the boy away with his love.
For he thought of the Cornishman as a boy still, though Hal Vivian would never see forty-seven again.
So the ironmaster mused over a blank sheet of paper, the ink drying on his pen, trying to find the right words and the right way, until it grew late.
‘Who goes home?’ came the call from a group of colleagues.
He answered loudly and cheerfully, ‘Not yet awhile, I thank you. I have a letter to write.’
‘It’s near midnight, Will! Too late to be on the streets alone.’
‘No matter!’ he replied, but less graciously, for he did hate to be interrupted and the words were escaping him.
‘Make sure you are not the last to leave, Howarth!’
‘God damn it!’ cried the ironmaster testily. ‘I have been looking after myself and a host of others for six-and-seventy … longer than I care to remember. I shall keep to the lighted streets and be perfectly safe. Now leave me be, I pray you, and goodnight to you.’
In quiet contemplation, he found the paper consoling. It invited him, almost, to bare his feelings. After all, if he was honest with himself, he had nothing new to write about. He only wanted to talk to Hal. So why not, for once, stop pretending that this was business and jolly good fellowship and say what he felt?
The lamplight soothed him, keeping the dark at bay, luring him into the past. He leaned back in his chair, remembering Kit’s Hill — not as it was now, a rowdy, shabby farmhouse, but in the days of its dignity. Why, if he half-closed his eyes he could picture them all this minute in the kitchen. His father smoking a pipe, Charlotte sitting at his feet and dreaming in the firelight, young Dick on his father’s lap sucking a thumb, and the goddess of all their childhoods, their mother Dorcas Howarth, presiding over them.
She sat very upright in her high-backed chair, a copy of Robinson Crusoe in her hands, reading aloud to family and servants. Old Betty Ackroyd was knitting a stocking, and comely Nellie was darning one. Tom the carter carved a wooden christening spoon. The scullery maids stoned raisins for the Christmas pudding. And he, William, sat at his mother’s feet, and absorbed her presence. A rustle of silk, a faint sharp scent of lavender, smooth black hair and quick black eyes like his own, a clear voice. But, above all, a sense of her steel. You could kill Dorcas, but you could not diminish her.
Lamp and paper swam. The ironmaster was an old man full of tears. He picked up his pen and wrote very simply and quickly.
My dear son,
He had never dared call him anything more tender than Hal.
My sin in fathering you, if sin it was, caused you and your mother — who was beloved of us both — much grief and hardship. For this I have a thousand times asked forgiveness of her in Heaven, and in a thousand ways tried to make it up to you since. I now ask you that there may be no shadow between us in the future, to forgive me as I know she has done. May God bless and keep you, my dear Hal.
Then he added briskly:
I look forward to seeing you in August. I shall be taking a back seat, of course, in your project, but will always be ready to help in whatever way you think fit.
He signed himself, Your father, William Howarth.
He sealed the letter and left it to be posted for him.
The night was cool and silky after the sullen day. The ironmaster strolled out into Parliament Square and struck up towards Tothill Street for home. His heart and mind and conscience were clear. He even felt a little hungry, and looked forward to the plate of sandwiches always left in readiness for his return. He hoped Zelah had not gone to bed. They had been married for forty-five years, and only she could end the day properly for him: listening to his news, offering advice, giving her approval. Yes, he hoped she was not asleep. What time was it? He stopped under a gas lamp and took out his watch. Great Heaven! Past one o’clock in the morning! And again the past called to him as he snapped shut the silver lid, for the fine old watch had belonged to his Great-Grandfather Wilde. Aunt Tib had given it to him when he was apprenticed to Bartholomew Scholes. What a long life she had had. Now how old would she have been back in ’78? He reckoned it up on his fingers and was surprised. Not nearly as old as he had thought.
The quick cut into Queen Anne’s Gate was dark but short. He could see Zelah’s lighted window at the end of it. Undaunted, swinging his silver-headed cane, he strode into the shadows.
His reactions were almost as good as ever. He spun round, hearing the soft insidious swish of a blackjack, and turned to face them. The blow had missed him but caught his silk top hat, which fell and rolled a little way. The street was empty and silent, and he was too proud to shout for help. Where the devil were all those Peelers?
He backed against the wall, never taking his eyes off the enemy. The ultimate enemy. Four grinning youths encircled him. Envy, failure, poverty, greed and ignorance advanced upon him.
The cane would be no use to him. He threw it away. He squared up to them in boxing stance, as he had squared up to many a man in his younger days. Beneath the fine broadcloth coat, his blacksmith’s muscles swelled and tensed. Almost as good as ever.
‘D’ye want a fight, grandad?’ the leader jeered. He said to his fellows, jerking his chin over his shoulder, ‘This old geezer wants a fight, lads!’
They laughed. They dropped their weapons. The Peelers would not be round here for forty minutes. They could punch and kick him to death. They moved in slowly, smiling, running their tongues across their lips like dogs.
God was good, William thought. He had a chance after all. They could have knifed him and run off.
‘One at a time, gentlemen. Play fair!’ said the leader, mocking the ironmaster, and on the instant threw a mean punch.
William dodged, swung a fist that could once drive a nail through a block of wood, and felled him. The youth squirmed on the ground.
God damn it, William thought, infuriated, that whimpering cut-throat would have been out for the count twenty years since!
The other three hung back in sheer amazement for a second or two, and then abandoned all thoughts of fun. Two moved in together. The third picked up his weapon.
The ironmaster kept his head and timed his punches. He stopped them in their tracks, he left marks upon them, he forced their respect, but he could not overcome them. The blackjack sapped him viciously on one side of his he
ad and he went down.
In a haze of blood and muddle, he felt them take his watch and his money. Not very much money. Not worth a life, even an old life.
Alone, too weak to shout, he crawled to the end of the street and lay in an oblong of light which shone from their bedroom window.
The light gradually enlarged and enveloped him. He, on the other hand, grew smaller and smaller, and moved further and further away, until in the end he became an infant in his mother’s arms.
Her glossy black head bent over him, her bright black eyes saw nothing beyond him. He had sucked each small breast dry and fallen away, swollen as a bee’s bag. She talked to him. The sound came upon his ears like the sound of summer. And once again he was all the world to her, and she to him. And so the light went out.
TWENTY: A KING IS DEAD
In death as in life, the ironmaster insisted on holding the stage. Had he departed a few hours earlier, his news could have travelled up with the parliamentary despatches by express mail and reached Millbridge in time for The Lancashire Herald and The Northern Correspondent to print a handsome obituary in the weekend edition. As it was, he achieved far greater impact by arriving at half past six o’clock the following morning, when both editors were abed after their Friday night labours and their papers were already being distributed. His news value was too good to wait until midweek, so nothing less than a special edition seemed adequate.
What pleasure the ironmaster would have derived from the way the guard of the London-to-Carlisle Mail jumped down and bustled into the Royal George to inform Benjamin Tyler. To have seen the venerable landlord throw up his hands in horror, and straight away send an ostler down to Thornton House with an urgent message, which would then be conveyed all over Millbridge, from Kersall Park to the Town Hall.
What delight he would have felt at the sight of his nephew, hastily dressed and badly shaven, riding off breakfastless on a hired horse to break the news personally to other members of the family. How it would have gratified him to follow this shock wave down the valley and observe its effects upon high and low. To watch the way women nipped up their aprons and held them to their eyes, while men looked down and shook their heads and shifted their feet in sheer wonder and disbelief.