The Northern Correspondent

by Jean Stubbs

  Dollie considered this enticing prospect. Bringing up the Longe boys was no sinecure.

  ‘Well, sir, I don’t see why not.’

  ‘I don’t either. So hurry up, there’s a good girl, or we shall lose him!’

  ‘Lose who, sir?’

  ‘The muffin man, dammit!’

  Ambrose threw up the sash window of the parlour and leaned out, calling, ‘Hey, you there! Wait a moment, will you?’

  Dollie ventured to say, ‘I think the children might be a bit young for muffins, sir.’

  Plain bread and butter was the order of the day, and a slice of plain sponge cake if all the bread and butter had been eaten.

  ‘Rubbish. No one’s too young for muffins. They’re very wholesome. Do you want some in the kitchen?’

  ‘Well, sir, it would be nice.’

  ‘How many do we need for all of us?’

  ‘A dozen would be enough, sir. One apiece.’

  ‘Nonsense. Fetch two dozen. That’s two apiece for all of us. Here’s a florin. Run out and get them, will you, Dollie? And tell Mrs Purdom to fetch the boys down here, and then you can forget about us. We’ll toast our own on the parlour fire. I shall want hot fresh tea for four of us, four toasting-forks and plenty of butter.’

  ‘The children only drink milk, sir, and Master Jack shouldn’t have a toasting-fork. He’s only two. He might stab himself with it, or fall into the fire…’

  ‘Be off with you, girl. The fellow’s waiting!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ said Dollie, accepting anarchy.

  And she ran briskly down the front doorsteps, florin in hand, and returned with an apron full of floury delicacies.

  In another few minutes, just long enough to have their faces and hands washed and their hair combed, down came Ambrose’s three sons, shining with pleasure. While Gussie Purdom, all gratitude and hypocrisy, dropped a deep curtsey.

  ‘Here’s kind Papa, then. What do you say to him, boys?’

  They stood solemnly in line, hands clasped behind their backs, heads well up, and spoke in unison.

  ‘Good afternoon, Papa!’

  ‘Oh, never mind that!’ said Ambrose. ‘Let’s not pretend you’ve got any manners. Go and eat your muffins in peace, Mrs Purdom, and leave the devils with me.’

  Gussie would have preferred her employer to play her game, but as he did not she gave a stiff smile, and made a stiff curtsey, and disappeared to enjoy herself in the kitchen.

  As soon as the door had closed behind her, the three boys flung themselves on Ambrose, shouting for joy. There was no doubt as to their parentage. They were all nut-brown lads, with hazel eyes and curly heads and an air of mischief. But they possessed a knowledge of domestic politics which Ambrose had always lacked. As soon as they heard Dollie’s knock on the parlour door they stopped in mid-action, in mid-syllable, and became quiet and well behaved.

  Dollie was not deceived. She looked at them meaningfully as she set down the loaded tray, and began to clear away the remains of Ambrose’s meal.

  ‘Leave the pudding,’ said Ambrose. ‘I’ll have that later.’

  ‘Why?’ said Toby curiously. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Yes. Especially with jam on it.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Toby. ‘Even with jam.’

  He was not yet five, and still liable to social lapses.

  ‘I expect that was my pudding what I left,’ he remarked.

  Nathan, now six-and-a-half, nudged him to silence and nodded in Dollie’s direction. Only Jack, too young to play the diplomat, pointed at the tower of muffins and said hopefully, ‘Who’s them?’

  ‘Hush,’ Nathan replied. ‘They’re all for Papa.’

  Dollie pursed her lips to prevent herself from smiling, and closed the door behind her.

  Pandemonium broke loose immediately. Toby grabbed the muffin-dish and the tower toppled. Jack stabbed his finger on the prong of a toasting-fork and stumbled over the fire-irons. Nathan had to save him because Ambrose was too busy catching muffins.

  ‘Stop!’ roared the patriarch.

  They froze to attention.

  ‘If you don’t obey my orders,’ Ambrose threatened, ‘I’ll hand you right back to Mrs Purdom and tell her what you did. And,’ he added with relish, ‘as this will interrupt her tea in the kitchen, she’ll be very cross indeed!’

  Jack swallowed a sob. He was afraid he was bleeding to death, but he would not endanger their treat. Mutely, he held out his finger.

  ‘That’s only a scratch,’ said Ambrose, and tied it up with a piece of tape from Naomi’s sewing basket.

  ‘Now!’ he cried, dusting the fallen offerings with the cuff of his smoking jacket. ‘We are going to do this in an organised fashion. Have you ever toasted muffins before?’

  They shook their heads. They stared at the unshielded and forbidden fire, fascinated.

  Jack tugged at his father’s sleeve. He stammered with excitement.

  ‘I-I-I-han’t ate a muffing. Never.’

  And he shook his head from side to side emphatically.

  ‘You haven’t ate a muffing never? Well, you’re going to eat two today! What do you think of that?’

  ‘Mrs Purdom says they’ll give us stomach-ache,’ Toby remarked.

  ‘Shut up, you fool!’ Nathan whispered.

  Ambrose pretended not to hear.

  ‘Kneel down on the hearthrug, here,’ drawing an imaginary line with the toe of his Turkish slipper, ‘and don’t move any further forward. Here’s a fork each. No, Jack, hold it by that end. God help me! Here’s a muffin each. I’ll put them on — I’ll put them on!’

  ‘Do as you’re told,’ whispered Nathan to his brothers on either side, ‘or we’ll be back upstairs on bread and butter, with blooming old Mrs Purdom yelling at us!’

  ‘Now hold them out to the red part of the coals, and I’ll tell you when they’re done. Keep your toasting arms stiff. No weakening!’

  Scarlet-cheeked, tongues held between teeth, the three boys toasted a muffin apiece, which Ambrose split and buttered lavishly.

  ‘Aren’t you going to scrape some of it off, Papa?’ Nathan asked, amazed at this extravagance.

  ‘Certainly not. Ready for the next round?’

  They marshalled their forks and nodded.

  Stacked one on top of the other, the muffins oozed butter into the bottom of the dish. Tea steamed invitingly in the silver pot. Tactfully, Dollie had brought a large earthenware jug full of milk.

  ‘Should we sit up at the table, Papa?’ Nathan asked.

  ‘No, better not. You’ll only smear the cloth. Sit on your handkerchiefs on the rug, and watch out for melting butter.’

  He tied a large dinner napkin round each small neck. They sat cross-legged, grinning at each other in complicity.

  ‘Who wants tea?’ he asked.

  ‘Me! Me! Me!’

  He poured out three mugs full of milk and coloured them faintly.

  Jack drank his mug right up and lost his breath. Ambrose was privately alarmed, but Nathan and Toby had seen it all before.

  Jack came up for air, whispering reverently, ‘I do like tea!’

  ‘Who wants jam?’ asked Ambrose.

  They thrust their dripping muffins forward, unable to believe their luck. They ate until they could hold no more.

  Ambrose ate with them, and finished off the cold rice pudding.

  They watched him, entranced.

  ‘What shall we do now, Papa?’ Nathan asked, and hiccupped.

  ‘What about a walk in Kersall Park?’

  ‘Mrs Purdom said it was too windy,’ Toby reported.

  ‘Well, I expect it was too windy earlier on,’ said Ambrose diplomatically, ‘but it’s all right now.’

  Nathan and Toby looked at each other. They would not have considered their nurse, but their father was so unpredictable that it seemed wise to look after him.

  ‘You’ll have to carry Jack some of the time. He’s too little to walk all the way. She gets fed up with him,’ said Nathan.r />
  Jack was deeply troubled by this confession on his behalf.

  ‘No bother. He can ride on my shoulders,’ said Ambrose airily.

  ‘Hooray!’ shouted Jack, jigging up and down.

  ‘Let’s find your outdoor clothes, then. We can manage that by ourselves, can’t we?’

  ‘They’re in the hall cupboard,’ said Toby. He added, ‘Me and Nat can put ours on, but Jack can’t.’

  ‘You’re about as much use as a two-legged stool, aren’t you, Jack?’ said Ambrose, grinning.

  The child nodded solemnly, and looked puzzled when his brothers shouted with laughter.

  ‘Come on, then. We’ll take the muffin we couldn’t eat, and feed Lord Kersall’s ducks for him!’

  He squatted on his haunches to tie Jack’s woollen muffler round his neck, and said, ‘By God, I am full!’

  ‘By God, so am I!’ Toby cried. ‘By God, I am!’

  Nathan began to giggle and punch his brother, shouting, ‘Don’t swear! You mustn’t swear!’

  While Jack cried, ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ and held his sides, in imitation of Mr Tyler from the Royal George.

  The kitchen door opened quietly, surreptitiously.

  ‘Come on! Let’s hop it before we’re caught!’ Ambrose whispered.

  One by one, fingers held to lips, they tiptoed across the hall and out into the blustery High Street.

  Naomi woke, sensing that someone was in the room, and pulled herself up into a sitting position. It was already growing dark. By the window, Ambrose turned to smile at her apologetically.

  ‘The lamp-lighter’s on his way down the street. I was just drawing the curtains, Nim, so that the gas lamp wouldn’t shine in your eyes. Stay where you are, and I’ll order some tea.’

  She was as anxious as he not to bruise the tender shoots of reconciliation, and chose her words carefully.

  ‘Yes, I should like some tea, my love. But what time is it? I must go downstairs. The boys always come to the parlour to spend an hour with me at five o’clock. They will wonder where I am.’

  ‘It’s half-past-six already. Nimmie, Nimmie!’ As she started to get out of bed. ‘Stay there in peace! The world won’t come to an end. A clock is only as important as you allow it to be. The boys know where you are. They’re sitting outside on the landing.’

  ‘So quietly? But Mrs Purdom…?’

  ‘Mrs Purdom is screeching with laughter in the kitchen, having been given the rest of the afternoon off. They’ve been with me.’

  ‘But she likes to take them off to bed at six o’clock.’

  He came over and held her hands in his.

  ‘Nim! When you’ve drunk several cups of China tea, and eaten a few small, rich cakes, and you’re feeling quite yourself again, I want to discuss Mrs Purdom with you. Until then, she is taking orders from me. Now, can the boys come in and sit on your bed? They’ve had enough of me for the moment, and they’re rather anxious for you — particularly the heroic Jack, whose short legs have toiled for miles!’

  She held her tongue. She kissed his cheek. She nodded. He turned her hands over and kissed the palms. They dared to look directly at each other, to smile and feel the world come right again. He walked over to the door and opened it.

  ‘Line up!’ said Ambrose cordially but firmly.

  Delicate shuffling noises indicated that they had done so.

  ‘Now, come in very quietly, because Mamma is only just awake. If I hear anyone raise his voice, he goes straight out again. All right, Nat, lead the way. Quick march!’

  ‘Oh, my boys,’ Naomi whispered, as they stood in a hopeful row, and did not know whether she should laugh or cry.

  They smiled shyly at her, their eyes saying what they could not and would not have put into words.

  ‘Come, sit on the bed,’ said Naomi fondly. ‘Ah, my Jackie with the short legs!’ As he mountaineered up the satin slope into her arms. ‘Come, Nat, come, Toby, sit here. One on each side of me. Now tell me what brave things you have all been doing…’

  Ambrose heard the exalted babble of replies and something which had become rare in the last few months, Naomi’s deep, rich laughter.

  This evening, he intended to absolve her from the demands of the household. He ordered a light supper for her and wine for himself, to be served in their bedroom at nine o’clock. When the tea-tray was ready, he took it from Dollie and sent her away. He sat on the bed with the boys, and insisted on a share of the conversation. Not until long past seven o’clock was an obsequious Gussie Purdom allowed to remove her charges, curtseying all the way as if in the presence of royalty.

  Husband and wife looked long and lovingly on one another.

  ‘But what an amazing man you are!’ cried Naomi.

  ‘Not really. I couldn’t do it day in, day out, as women do. I thoroughly enjoy myself for a while, and so do they, but that’s enough for all of us. Nim, about Mrs Purdom…’

  ‘Yes? You don’t like her? I think her a little strict at times, but then you said that I was not strict enough!’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with discipline. I dislike the way she scares them with superstitious nonsense, forces good manners on them outwardly, and doesn’t care what goes on in their hearts and heads. They’re decent little chaps, and they stick together like good ’uns. But if she can break down that fellowship, she’ll turn them into cowards and hypocrites. We must get rid of her as soon as possible.’

  ‘But what reason shall I give?’ cried Naomi, distressed. ‘She is honest. She does what she thinks is best. She works hard.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need for you to shoot my bullets. I’ll give her notice, and I shall tell her why I’m doing it, too. But I’ll play fair with her — a month’s wages, and a carefully worded reference about being honest and hard-working and doing her best. Intelligent parents will see through that one. As for the rest, let’s hope their children have thick heads and thick hides. It isn’t really ethical to pass her on to anybody else, but I can’t take away her livelihood.’

  ‘Ah! What a great inconvenience it is for you, to bring up a family!’ cried Naomi, mocking him. Then she was serious again. ‘But how soon will you do this?’

  ‘Not until we’ve found someone suitable to take her place. We need a good-hearted, wise and sensible woman like the Standishes’ nurse, Sarah Pratt.’

  ‘Mrs Pratt is an old family servant. She has been with the Poles or the Standishes for nearly thirty years.’

  ‘Family servants have to begin somewhere. We’ll find one. Now, Nimmie, there’s something else I have to say — which you’re not going to like. No more babies.’

  ‘Oh! Just one more. I shall be very well soon. And I do so want us to have a daughter.’

  ‘There’s no guarantee we shall ever have a daughter. You could go on for years, Nim, producing young hellions.’

  ‘You like them, though!’ Coaxingly, stroking his cheek. ‘You do.’

  ‘Never mind that beguiling nonsense,’ said Ambrose firmly. ‘Three babies and two miscarriages in eight years is enough for any woman. Besides, if you really admit the truth, you’re only angry about Mary’s magazine because you’d like to do the same sort of thing. I remember Mary having a few tantrums when she was festooned with infants.’

  Naomi started to contradict him. Then stopped, and thought.

  ‘Keeping an eye on The Correspondent’s accounts isn’t enough for you. You should think seriously about bullying the entire valley into building a concert hall. Think about your own music, too.’

  ‘I am nothing. Nothing. I play a little, that is all.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know enough about music to argue that point with you, but I think you play beautifully. And I rather liked having my own private concerts on Sunday evenings. The only thing that’s happened to the pianoforte recently is that its lid has been dusted.’

  Her smile admitted that he was right on all counts.

  ‘Just remember, Nim. Our future motto will be Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder.’
r />   Naomi continued to smile, but this time enigmatically.

  TWENTY-TWO: A MAN OF THE PEOPLE

  The suburb of Flawnes Green had borne a name for forbidden pleasures since the turn of the century. No decent woman would be seen in the vicinity of Flawnes Gardens, and in the darker district of Lower Flawnes the police took care to walk in pairs by night. So cynics were amused when the Mayor opened this latest public recreation ground, and innocently named it Flawnes Pleasure Park.

  It was not the first people’s park, of course. Lord Kersall and the ironmaster, among others, had bestowed gifts of enclosed land upon their subjects. But this one had been bought with public money and created by the Borough Council, and it belonged to the people. The poorest folk could enter its iron gates with a feeling of ownership rather than a sense of obligation, and the pleasures of this park were generally light-hearted and innocent.

  On weekdays it provided somewhere for children to play, while their mothers or nurses sat and gossiped. On Sunday afternoons, when they had worshipped their God and eaten their dinners, whole families sallied forth to enjoy themselves: parents sauntering arm-in-arm along the cement walks with their dogs on a lead, their children running ahead of them bowling hoops or dragging toy horses on wheels, and everybody keeping off the grass. There were kidney-shaped beds of flowers to admire, a new sundial made to look old, an ornamental iron drinking fountain, a pond on which ducks swam and boys could sail their boats, and best of all an iron bandstand surrounded by iron chairs, where Millbridge and District Brass Band played light music between two and four o’clock on summer Sunday afternoons.

  Very smart in his dark-green uniform with imitation silver buttons, the park-keeper also strolled along the paths on a constant tour of inspection, nodding respectfully or familiarly to those he passed. It was he who held the keys to those wrought-iron gates forged at Belbrook Foundry, and with them he ceremonially opened the park at nine o’clock each morning and locked it at dusk.

  Yet even here, where there should have been perfect democracy, people divided instinctively into classes. On this fine and breezy afternoon, a group of handsome lads were racing their sailing ships from one side of the pond. On the other side, a huddle of ragged urchins kept themselves and their lump of whittled wood out of the way. Shabby families did not take advantage of the three benches under the trees. They sat further up the Long Walk on a roughly-grassed slope. No well-bred adult or child used the drinking fountain. Even the chairs round the bandstand were split into rich and poor sections. No one intended this. It seemed to be the natural order of events.