by Jean Stubbs
Their remarks had not really displeased her, as Naomi observed by the dimple at the corner of her friend’s mouth.
‘Yes, they have rough tongues, but they are good workers,’ Naomi replied soothingly, ‘and what is this little inconvenience compared to the risk of another epidemic? Think how many people died of typhus fever last year — even people with whom we were acquainted. At least it made the Council do something about drainage and sewerage. And we are supposed to be having a better water supply, too. But Ambrose and Jamie are afraid they will only improve the Old Town, and leave the poor quarters just as they are.’
Public welfare not being one of her major interests, Mary said, ‘I’m sure your boys love all the upheaval. I saw them just now talking to the navvies further down the street, with dear Mrs Lillie hanging on to Jessica and trying to stop Jack from falling into a huge hole!’
‘They learn such terrible words from them,’ said Naomi, and lifted her hands and eyes momentarily to the front parlour ceiling. ‘Come on, my dear. Come by the fire. How well and how young you look!’
‘At forty, my dear?’ cried Mary, delighted. ‘Still, I don’t think that women age as quickly as they did, do you? My poor mother was dead at forty-four, and quite worn out. It doesn’t bear thinking of! And yet I work shockingly hard, I can tell you. And so do you, I know, but you look handsomer than ever. Now, madame,’ loosening her bonnet strings, and producing a large notebook, ‘I have come to interview you, on behalf of our magazine readers, as the first lady in our series of Wyndendale’s Remarkable Ladies…’
‘Before we have tea?’ Naomi asked, surprised.
‘Well, while we have tea, then. I’m used to working through meals, these days,’ said Mary importantly.
Amused, for she managed both her public and her private life without fuss, Naomi bowed her head. It was in her friend’s nature to be the heroine of her own self-made dramas, and she had known and loved her too long by this time to take offence.
‘Of course!’ Naomi replied. ‘I forget how busy you are!’ There was a gleam of mischief in her eyes as she went on, ‘I ask just one question of you before we begin. Why did you not ask Lady Kersall to begin your series? Socially speaking, she is the first lady in Wyndendale.’
‘Oh, there’s nothing remarkable about her, except for a title!’ Mary cried scornfully. ‘Our readers prefer to identify with someone like you, who is married to a man they can speak to in the street, and has a family to bring up and a household to run, and yet can envision the Millbridge Concert Hall and raise the money to build it. They want to think that they could wield that sort of public power and have that sort of inspiration. That they could persuade the great Jenny Lind to sing there on the opening night… Oh! I shall want details of her stay with you, by the by.’
Naomi lifted one hand to halt her friend’s progress. She was amused by the way Mary rattled on, but would not allow her to embroider the truth.
‘Jenny Lind did not stay here, my dear. I booked a suite of rooms for her at the Royal George — and visited her there, naturally, because we both have many friends and acquaintances in the music world. But she had a private supper here with us after the concert.’
‘Oh well, that’s almost as good. Can you remember what she wore — when she saw you on those private occasions, I mean? I have details of all the important ladies’ gowns on the opening night at the Concert Hall, because Dorcas took note of them for Page Seven.’
‘Yes, I believe I can remember,’ said Naomi, amused again. Then she persisted, lightly, naughtily, ‘But how you surprise me not to be interested in Lady Kersall! The stories in your magazine are all about proud and beautiful ladies with titles — or those who marry a title.’
Mary hesitated a moment.
‘Oh, well. I admit that I did ask her first. But the wretched creature said she would have nothing to do with Lady’s Hour!’
Naomi laughed aloud and clapped her hands.
‘Mary, my Mary. What a — what a — Picey Cat you are!’
‘Pisey!’ Mary corrected her, with a grin. ‘Ah, good! Here comes tea! I’m starving. I didn’t have time for luncheon. Now, I hope you’re prepared to answer a number of personal questions.’
‘Of what nature?’ Naomi asked dubiously.
‘Oh, goodness me, nothing and everything!’ said Mary, amused in her turn by Naomi’s sudden withdrawal. ‘How you choose your clothes, and which gown is a particular favourite — preferably one with sentimental associations. The recipe for some special continental dish, preferably one that Ambrose likes…’
‘But I gave you all my recipes for Page Seven long ago!’
‘Oh, nobody will remember that! Also, we want to know how you keep so healthy and beautiful. And have you any special beauty tips you can give us? Your German aunt’s recipe for face cream would be useful, if you can bear to part with it to the general public.’
Naomi smiled, and said, ‘No wonder Lady Kersall was reluctant! And do you want a few hints as to the buying and selling of stocks and shares, or how to add up a column of figures in your head correctly?’
‘Oh, Lor’! No, Naomi. Nothing like that.’
‘Your readers prefer to think that I create the Millbridge Concert Hall out of strudel and face cream?’
‘Now, Naomi, don’t be so satirical!’
‘They wish to pick the flowers but not to meet the gardener?’
‘Naomi, you’re being difficult. You know perfectly well that I should be out of business in an instant, my dear, if I started all that earnest stuff. The Lady’s Hour isn’t here to ruffle feathers but to smooth them down and point out the beauties of female plumage! And it is lovely to be a woman, of course, if you’re lucky enough to be pretty and reasonably well-to-do, and find a nice, kind husband who loves you, and if you don’t have too many babies or die having them.’
‘And that is your only concern?’ Naomi asked, eyebrows raised.
Mary discerned an undercurrent of criticism and resented it.
‘Oh, it’s all very well for Ambrose to publish social injustices abroad, and for my brother George to preach sedition and get put in prison for it, but they’re men. They can do as they please. And even if I were a man, I should be inclined to take Uncle William’s point of view. I’m not a fool, and I see a great many things that I should like to alter, but I can’t do that. So I cut life to my own pattern as best I can, and look after those I love. And I persuade women that there is nothing nicer than being a wife and mother.’
‘And that is what you believe?’
‘You know perfectly well, Naomi, that if I stayed at home all day looking after my children — much as I adore them — I should go mad in five minutes! And I would truly rather die than drudge in poverty all my days. As it is, my dear, I enjoy life outside my home, and show other women how to enjoy life inside theirs.’
The interview had become too serious. Mary spoke more lightly.
‘Mind you, most women are not like us, you know. Look at Dorcas! She simply adores daily life at Beech Grove. You won’t get her yearning to run a magazine or finance a company, my dear. Not in a month of Sundays! An occasional contribution to Page Seven is her wildest limit.’
Naomi did not respond to this sprightly sketch of their mutual friend. Her voice was distinctly sombre as she replied.
‘I wish you to tell your readers that to be a woman with outside interests of her own is not all ales and cakes. That it is hard work. That often I despaired. That often I was afraid.’
‘Oh yes, I will,’ Mary promised, already thinking of nicer ways to put this statement.
Naomi spoke even more sternly, to invisible readers who did not want the whole truth.
‘I do not like silly women!’
‘Oh yes, you do,’ said Mary ruefully, impishly. ‘You like me!’
‘You are not silly. You are very shrewd. Very strong-willed. Very intelligent. You laugh and smile and chatter to cover up the fact that you get your own way.’
&nbs
p; ‘Naomi!’ Caught out.
‘I wish you also to tell your readers that my views on the education of women are strong. My father educated me as good as a son. Jessica shall be educated as good as our sons — both Ambrose and I agree on this. We do not like the fashion for women to be taught parlour tricks, like dogs. A little music, a little art, a little writing of verse — and none of it done well.’
‘Just as you please, my dear. It may not come out exactly like that, but you shall approve the copy before we publish it.’
Naomi regarded her with some irony.
‘Yes, you will find a way to please all of us,’ she answered, ‘without offending any of us.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, who am I to complain? I have learned much about local politics in the last few years. What do you say? I have touched pitch with the hands and defiled them?’
‘Oh, that’s coming it a bit strong!’ Mary said good-naturedly. ‘You mean you’ve learned to manage people.’
Naomi sat thinking. Her face and demeanour changed.
‘I have been rude to you, I think,’ she said repentantly.
‘No, you haven’t!’ Mary cried, ridding herself of the notebook and coming over to clasp Naomi’s hands. ‘You’ve upped and told the truth as usual, and I love and admire you for it.’
The two friends searched each other’s faces for signs of hurt or displeasure, and found none.
‘Sometimes, Ambrose says I make a sermon!’ Naomi admitted. ‘But I tell him — if we cannot talk together of what we think and feel, how are we to know each other?’
‘Well, most people prefer not to know each other!’
‘Then I must continue to make a sermon!’
But she was smiling now, and Mary smiled back most lovingly, saying, ‘Lor’, Naomi! You do remind me of Aunt Cha!’
TWENTY-SIX: KNIGHTS ERRANT
April, 1848
Saints and martyrs, Ambrose thought, are uncommonly difficult people. Although their bravery and sincerity cannot be questioned, although their intentions are of the noblest, and their lives dedicated to the highest purposes, how very much easier it is to cope with ordinary sinners.
The letter which lay before him on his office desk was George Howarth’s first communication in five years, and came from Wigan. The paper was poor and dirty, the handwriting too meticulous — the hand of a self-taught man who is afraid of less than perfection. His spelling was good as far as it went, but he still wrote as he spoke, which was both a strength and a weakness.
Dear Cousin,
Its me again. George Howarth. Ive been arrested for nowt more than standin int Market Place listenin to somebody else speak. This ant the first time Ive been in prison and Im feared theyll sentence me heavy. I know I piked off sudden-like but your the only one as can help and I have summat to ask you. Wilt come to Wigan and see me?
Your cousin George.
‘Come in!’ Ambrose called, hearing the double knock on the door. And as the customary slip of paper was laid in front of him, accompanied by much wheezing, ‘Sit down, Frank. Where’s the war?’
For Frank Ormerod had capped all the office’s black jokes throughout February and March by panting up the stairs and delivering first of all a note which read, ‘Revolution in Paris,’ to be followed at intervals of every few days by, ‘Riots in Vienna,’ ‘Explosions in Bohemia,’ ‘Hungary declares itself an independent nation,’ ‘Austria under attack from all sides,’ and ‘War of liberation in Italy’.
This one read, ‘Frederick William of Prussia drives Danes out of the duchies.’
‘We seem to have a European revolution on our hands!’ Ambrose observed. ‘No wonder they’ve arrested George Howarth for standing in Wigan market place!’
And he handed the letter to Frank, who pursed his lips and shook his head as he read it, and spoke with wry affection.
‘The daft little pillock!’ said Frank, handing the note back. ‘So you’re going down there to bail him out then, are you?’
‘No, I’m going to see if they’ll transfer him to Millbridge Jail while he waits for the Assizes. I can keep an eye on him here. I have a little influence with the law these days — I used to be on the other side of it when I was young!’
‘Them Chartists!’ said Frank contemptuously. ‘There was one time, back in the thirties, when I thought they were going to take the country over. But they’ve fizzled out like a lot o’ spent rockets.’
‘That’s a good phrase,’ said Ambrose absently. ‘I must remember that one. They convinced our George, at any rate.’
‘Aye, well. He’s an innocent, isn’t he? Our George.’
Ambrose said, ‘It’s ironic how life turns your best intentions inside out. Do you know I took him to that mass meeting on Kersall Moor, ten years ago, because I thought it might liven him up a bit.’
The torches, flaring against the night, had lent an air of magic to the occasion. In the crush of the crowd, hearing the old roll and thunder of radical argument, watching the rapt uplifted faces, Ambrose felt his political pulses race again.
Nearly fifty thousand working men were gathered there. Some of the older ones were carrying the banners they had borne at Peterloo, nearly twenty years before. And as each separate group brought forth its leaders and its hopes and grievances, it seemed for once as if all the radical streams were flowing together, to form one mighty river which would flood the nation.
And yet, though he waged constant war upon social evils, Ambrose tended to be more of a realist than an idealist where politics were concerned. He had lived too long and seen too much to believe that any single movement had the ultimate answer, or that any of its leaders might be Messiahs.
In his mind he heard Charlotte’s voice saying, ‘Beware of the emotions roused by torchlight and the dreams of fine orators!’
Then Ambrose came down to earth. He knew that tomorrow, and ten thousand tomorrows, would dawn bleak and cold for these listeners, who must return to the treadmill of their daily lives. The paradise of a fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay was far off, still.
But George Howarth, being a man of great heart and simplicity, was moved to tears and talked of nothing else on the way home. For a week or more, his passionate enthusiasm for the Chartists was a matter for private amusement among the staff of The Correspondent. He buttonholed anybody who would listen to him. He could quote the aims of their People’s Charter off by heart. Then, as though the experience had proved too much for him, he went underground again.
At lunchtime in Pendleton’s Chop-house, seeing Sam Pickering sitting by himself at his particular table, Ambrose strolled over to join him and ordered a bottle of claret for the pair of them. But no sooner had the wine been poured out than Sam spoke up with a grin.
‘I hear George Howarth’s in prison again!’
‘How the devil do you know that, you old fox? I was just going to tell you!’
‘Your office-lad’s got a big mouth, and mine has big ears.’
‘Do you pay them for the information?’ Ambrose asked unkindly.
‘I don’t have to,’ said Sam, and ate a mouthful of piecrust. ‘They wag on without an incentive. What’s our George done, then?’
‘He was arrested for listening to someone speak in the market.’
‘He was arrested because he’s a known Chartist,’ said Sam, spearing a chunk of meat. ‘The state of affairs in Europe is enough to frighten anybody. They’re mopping up the people who might cause trouble here. We don’t want a revolution.’
‘The Chartists did. Oh, thank you, Albert. That smells good.’
‘The Chartists are finished. And now the Corn Law’s been repealed, the Anti-Corn Law League’s got nothing to shout about, either,’ said Sam, mopping up his gravy with a piece of bread. ‘I told you a long while ago that changes come at their own pace, in their own time.’
‘Time doesn’t mean as much to you as it does to a starving man,’ said Ambrose, unconsciously quoting George.
‘It’s no good being high-minded,�
� Sam replied. ‘You know as well as I do that the Chartists and the League were ambitious. They both wanted working-class support on a national scale. And there was no brotherly love beyond the Charter, neither.’
‘They weren’t all like that. Lovett was a sound man, and he had the support of the educated artisans and the liberal-minded middle class. He was the brains behind the Charter. But he had people like that rabble-rouser O’Connor to contend with, and an army of hungry workers who only asked for a pike in their hands, and promises of a three-hour working day, roast beef, plum pudding and beer forever!’
‘Of course, you and O’Connor never quite saw eye to eye, did you?’ Sam Pickering remarked slyly.
This was a nasty dig, for Fergus O’Connor of The Northern Star had mounted a personal attack on Ambrose in his newspaper, calling him ‘a bogus revolutionary’, deriding his editorials as being ‘the ineffectual bleats of a middle-class fence-sitter’, and finally describing The Correspondent as ‘a Tory Wolf in Whig’s Fleece’.
‘I wonder what The Northern Star’s circulation is now?’ Sam went on, in a tone of idle curiosity. ‘It was selling ten thousand copies a week before it had been going four months.’
Ambrose replied coolly, ‘Well, it wasn’t enough for our friend Fergus anyway. He wanted to hear the roar of the crowd. Words don’t draw blood — at least, not at first hand. He did well to get himself elected to Parliament.’
‘You aggravated the Anti-Corn Law people, too!’ Sam remarked, being in an aggravating mood himself. ‘I heard that Charlie Ainsworth was mobbed on one occasion.’
‘He was turned away from a meeting and somewhat roughly handled. No bones broken. Some people don’t like honest reportage!’