by Jean Stubbs
‘I have been privileged to communicate with such public-spirited medical men as Henry Gaulter and James Kay of Manchester and with Robert Baker of Leeds. These names may not be known to you, gentlemen, but I assure you that they will be honoured in history when your own are very properly forgotten! I mention them so that you shall not think you are dealing with one eccentric doctor. There are many of us working and fighting for the betterment of public health.
‘It is twelve years since I published my findings and figures for the cholera epidemic in Wyndendale. It is nine years since I published a statistical survey of general diseases in the town and environs of Millbridge. These theses were both proof and plea for the need of good sanitation and filtered water. I took care to give copies to each member of the council so that they might understand the reasons for sanitary reform and so be able to act upon my recommendations.’
He wheeled round and cried loudly, ‘And — nothing — was — done!’
They kept silent, not even daring to glance at one another in sympathy. He continued, more quietly.
‘We will pass over the innumerable occasions on which I have pleaded my case, backed by evidence of local epidemics. I will remind you instead that a few months ago the government passed two Public Health Acts, both of which stressed the urgent need to grapple with all endemic diseases. But even at that time, gentlemen, there was cholera in Russia again. Cholera, gentlemen. In Russia. Again.’
Still they sat mute and sullen and afraid.
‘Of course,’ Jamie continued, sarcastically, ‘it was the national epidemic of typhus fever which finally drove the government to act. Typhus fever, gentlemen — famine fever, as they call it! — whose death toll among the poor in Millbridge last year was as horrendous as any cholera epidemic. If your own bowels had been moved in the same way, gentlemen, they might have been moved to compassion! But I digress!
‘The Public Health Act itself gave you the power to create a local Board of Health in places where ten per cent of the inhabitants asked for one. I made it clear, at the time, where your duties lay. So did The Northern Correspondent. And yet you did not even ascertain public opinion on the matter. Once again — nothing — was — done!’
He dropped his voice to such a low pitch, and their silence was so absolute, that they could hear the faint belling of the curtains in the autumn breeze.
‘Do you know why nothing was done, gentlemen?’ Jamie asked softly. ‘It was because you, or those who vote you in, own slum property. Because your financial interests, or theirs, are threatened by such reforms. And on such personal and transitory concerns does the health and wellbeing of eighty thousand people depend!’
He began his striding up and down again, and as he passed each member of the council, though he was a good yard away from them, each man shrank a little in his chair.
‘When William Howarth, the ironmaster, died,’ Jamie went on, almost conversationally, ‘he was kind enough to leave me a handsome sum of money — partly because I was a relative through marriage, partly because I was the director of the most important hospital in this valley. He also left instructions that it was to be spent upon some form of medical research, in whatever way I thought fit.
‘His generosity enabled me to buy a Lister microscope from London. The best available instrument. With the help of that astonishing microscope, gentlemen, I have been able to study the water we drink — and I can assure you that it is not a pretty sight at close quarters! I found that it contained mysterious and minute particles, unrelated to its usual animalcula. I eventually discovered that these were partially digested fragments of food from the intestines. And from this information I concluded, as I had often feared, that our drinking water was tainted — however subtly — with sewage!’
He delivered the next assault in hard, clear tones.
‘From my own research and observations, and from the work of other medical colleagues, I have reason to believe that typhus and cholera are modifications of one another. In most cases, they are preceded by diarrhoea. And what we call summer diarrhoea, and also dysentery, are members of the same family. Now, what might be the effect, I asked myself, if we drank water in which there floated particles from the bowels of a person infected with one or another of the diseases?’
He stopped by the Mayor this time.
‘I wrote a paper on that subject, too, sir, on which The Lancet was pleased to make favourable comment. Again, I gave you and the members of this council a copy. You told me confidentially…’ — here the Mayor looked extremely worried — ‘…that you would use it to urge the immediate building of four reservoirs to supply the town and its environs with filtered water. Again,’ and his voice rose to Olympian heights of wrath, ‘nothing — was — done!’
He looked scornfully at the silent councillors round the table. He strode away. He came back, softer in tone and aspect.
‘I think that there cannot be one of us here,’ he said quietly, ‘who did not lose someone dear to them in the cholera epidemic, sixteen years ago, who has not lost someone in last year’s typhus epidemic. There can be no one — for the terror of it was all about us — no one who did not see how shockingly its victims suffered.’
Still sorrowfully, like a teacher chiding errant pupils, he said, ‘And yet you have learned nothing from these lessons. But I tell you that disease is a cruel taskmaster, and will set them before you again and again until you do something about it.’
He surveyed them without hope.
‘Do any of you realise that the only thing we doctors know about cholera, for instance, is how to recognise it? That we can only try the same hopeful ineffectual remedies as we did in 1832? That we must endure it as best we may, and pray to Almighty God to have mercy on our souls? And that perhaps the prayer may be of more assistance than the remedies we apply?’
One or two of them said deeply, ‘Amen!’
Jamie Standish seemed to have finished, and a rustle of relief went round the table. Now was the moment when he would ask them seriously to consider what portion of the rates they could put aside, in order to proceed with the Public Sanitation programme. They were all wondering how to placate him when he spoke up for the last time.
‘I have something here which should interest you, gentlemen.’ And he took a slip of paper from inside the breast of his coat. ‘This information comes courtesy of Mr Ambrose Longe. In the public interest, he has allowed me to give you news which readers of The Northern Correspondent will not know until the weekend. Unless, of course, by then, you will have thought fit to do something about it — however belatedly.’
He laid down the slip of paper before the Mayor. It was a message from the Telegraph Office, received earlier that day.
First cases of cholera confirmed in this country. Details follow later.
TWENTY-EIGHT: LEPER’S CHARTER
‘I need your help and support, Ambrose,’ said Jamie Standish. He refused to sit, being too charged with nervous energy, and paced the office up and down as he talked.
‘And though you may consider my proposals extreme, it is a matter of life and death,’ he added.
Ambrose indicated that he should explain himself fully.
‘I have made an ally of the cholera, in that Millbridge council are equally terrified of us both!’ Jamie said, with some satisfaction. ‘I mean to continue in that way. If I have The Northern Correspondent solidly behind me, nothing can prevent my measures from being adopted. If I have not,’ and here he regarded Ambrose with both hope and defiance, ‘then I must manage without you — fight you if need be.’
‘Strong words!’ Ambrose remarked lightly, but did not smile.
‘Aye, well, you’re no stranger to strong words yourself. Do I not recall a leading article in The Clarion, back in 1831, describing the first cholera circular as a leper’s charter?’
Ambrose smiled faintly, and nodded.
Jamie halted by his desk, looked him in the eyes, and said, ‘I am asking you and your newspaper to back a
leper’s charter of my own.’
Ambrose considered this proposition without relish. ‘Allow me to imagine the sort of thing you have in mind,’ he replied slowly. ‘Everywhere stinking of chloride of lime? Relatives and close contacts of the sick isolated? Individual houses marked Cholera? Mass disposal of bodies in common graves? Stricken areas placed out of bounds? No favours granted to anyone, high or low? In short, a well-intentioned tyranny?’
At each enquiry, Jamie gave an abrupt nod.
‘If they had allowed me to deal with the typhus like that,’ he said, ‘I know I could have contained it better. I know it. We must learn from past experience in order to cope with the present, and to make the future possible. I should like you to see what Harold Bailey and I have devised, in case of cholera.’
And he unrolled a little chart and laid it before Ambrose.
‘This is merely my portable terror-raiser!’ he remarked with grim humour. ‘Our real allies are two vast maps on the wall of the fever hospital — one of the valley, one of the town and environs of Millbridge. We shall put someone in charge of marking the outbreaks with flags, and taking down details, if Wyndendale suffers a second epidemic — as I fear it may.’
As you fear? Ambrose wondered. For there was little fear about Jamie. He was plainly itching for close combat.
‘This is the one on which I shall base my paper. The town chart. The other simply serves as general evidence.’
Millbridge had been divided just south of her crossroads, at Cornmarket. The Old Town was marked Houses supplied by Belmont Reservoirs, and coloured a light fresh blue. Lower Town was a dull brown and bore the legend Houses supplied from River Wynden.
‘I am expecting to prove a connection,’ said Jamie, ‘between cholera deaths and water supplies. Now, tell me how you feel about a campaign run by the pair of us.’
Ambrose was both enthralled and horrified.
‘Take your time before you answer,’ Jamie advised him. ‘You’re either for or against me on this — and I would say the same to my own dear wife. There are some issues on which a man must stand alone if need be.’
And now at last he sat down quite patiently, and waited.
Ambrose pondered the little chart, considering every possibility which might arise. Then he rolled up Jamie’s terror-raiser and pushed it towards him.
‘It’s going to be hellish, and The Correspondent will back you all the way,’ he said quietly. Then with rueful humour, ‘I can’t very well refuse you, since we’re right on the firing line — even though Middleton Street is on the fresh water side!’
Jamie wrung his hand until the bones hurt, and stuffed the scroll in a side-pocket, triumphant. He jumped to his feet.
‘I’ll let you know the next step as soon as I’ve seen the council again!’ he said, prepared to tackle them straight away.
‘Oh, by the by,’ he added, pausing at the door, ‘how’s George’s wee family settling down?’
‘As well as can be expected,’ Ambrose replied.
Negotiations with Norah Howarth had been long and difficult. Primarily, she was afraid of uprooting herself and her children. They were part of a close-knit mining community and had never been outside Wigan in their lives. Also, the idea of living on Ambrose’s charity, even though he was related by marriage, hurt her independent spirit. So she refused financial help outright. She said she could earn a few shillings by washing and cleaning, and would stay where she was and be beholden to nobody. Plainly, also, she was thinking she could manage for the few months her man was away.
Then, being considered a particularly desperate and hardened case, George was tried at the Lancaster Assizes and given a two-year sentence in Lancaster Jail. By herself in Wigan, Norah had no chance of communicating with him, for she could neither read nor write. Housed over the offices of The Correspondent she could rely on Ambrose to influence events, to keep in touch with her husband, and perhaps even take her to visit him once or twice.
Finally, she was persuaded that any hope for George’s future must lie in Millbridge, and that she could support herself and her children more easily by living rent free. In the end, she agreed to accept a form of exile.
Joseph, the coachman, had long since ceased to be surprised by any of Ambrose’s actions or acquaintances, so his face expressed no concern at the poverty of their surroundings or the purpose of their visit. He slowed the horses to walking pace and ignored the interest aroused by their arrival.
Curtains twitched slyly. Children stopped their games of hopscotch and marbles. As if by accident, women appeared in doorways to stand, arms folded over their pinafores, infants clinging to their skirts. Only one person did not stare at them or appear to notice their approach. At the far end of the street, Norah Howarth continued to whiten her front doorstep with a donkey-stone.
‘Stop at number fifty-three, Joseph,’ said Ambrose, amused and sorry.
As the carriage drew to a halt, Norah finished her work, rinsed and dried her hands, and rose to greet her visitors.
She was a sternly handsome woman, tall and gaunt as though life had worn her down with constant friction. She humbled herself before no one but her God. Her height and dignity triumphed over the drab gown and sacking apron. She held out a cold, red hand to Ambrose and spoke with brisk good nature.
‘Well, Mr Longe, you can see what I’ve been doing, I reckon. I’ve been scrubbing through since four this morning. T’boxes are packed and t’childer are ready. I shan’t keep you above a few minutes while I wash me and change me. Come on in.’
Ambrose could hear the children calling to him from the kitchen, where he rightly guessed they were marooned on the deal table, dressed in their best clothes, having been told not to move.
‘They’ve had their breakfasses. Don’t go spoiling them,’ said Norah, as Ambrose felt in his overcoat pocket. ‘You can sit you down on George’s old chair. I’ll just draw some clean water from t’pump.’
The two children watched her every move with absorption, as if it were a lesson in life. When she had gone upstairs with her bowl and flannel, they turned their attention to Ambrose.
They were strangely serious little creatures. Eddy, the same age as Jack, had none of Jack’s adventurous spirit. Amy, a contemporary of Jessica, lacked Jessica’s spontaneity. Circumstances had been too hard for them to enjoy such a luxury as childhood. Yet there was something childlike behind their tight polite smiles, behind their wistful faces, which came to life for Ambrose. Still, their sense of what was right and proper always prevailed. They had heard Norah tell him not to spoil them, and they refused his proffered peppermints, though their eyes lusted after the paper packet as it returned to his pocket.
All Norah’s furniture had been sold, since it would have cost twenty times its worth to move, and George’s apartment was already fully furnished. Besides, she needed the small sum of money it fetched. So she had parted with most of her past. One of the boxes in her parlour contained clothes and bedding, the other held household utensils, a few ornaments and prints bought from the pedlar, and George’s books. Amy nursed a homemade rag doll. Eddy was the proud possessor of a bag of marbles, some of which he was constantly dropping on the floor by accident.
Down came Norah in her Sunday black gown and her best black bonnet and shawl. She carried the enamel bowl with care, lest her finery be splashed. Two flaring red cotton roses were pinned to the crown of her bonnet, and she was obviously pleased with them. It was the first sign of femininity Ambrose had seen in her.
She gave him a nod, as if to say, ‘I shan’t be a minute!’ and went out into the communal yard to empty and rinse the bowl. With ritual gestures, she put her scrubbing brush, damp cloth and donkey-stone neatly into the bucket, stood the bucket in the bowl, and placed it on top of the nearest box. For the last time she mounted the stairs, and returned with her working clothes neatly made into a bundle, which she placed on top of the second box.
‘Right!’ said Norah, with sombre satisfaction. ‘I’ve done.�
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She shepherded her children to their seats, and supervised Joseph as he stowed her belongings in the boot. The neighbours were still out, watching, and as soon as departure seemed imminent, several women came forward to shake Norah’s hand and wish her well. She acknowledged each of them with grave pleasure, thanked them for past kindnesses, and wished them well in turn.
Ambrose helped her into the carriage, amazed at her composure, and held himself in readiness for a burst of grief as soon as they turned the corner of the road. Norah’s self-control never failed her. She did not glance round once at her old home, but set her lips so that they should not quiver, and looked steadily ahead of her as they trotted sedately through the maze of dirty streets.
At the turnpike road, Joseph paused before giving the horses their heads, and Ambrose felt the customary surge of excitement as the broad highway unfurled its ribbon before them. Eddy and Amy sat primly, side by side, but their eyes shone, and they could have whooped for joy.
Ambrose watched Norah anxiously. Her lips moved. He leaned forward to catch the words with which she was comforting herself.
She was saying, finally and sadly, ‘I left it clean, any road.’
Then Joseph clicked his tongue, flourished his whip and flicked the reins simultaneously. And they were off.
Everything had been done, with the utmost loving kindness, to make them feel at home, but they were cruelly isolated. To live at the top of a large office building among strangers, after the intimate community of a familiar street, is to be wholly disorientated. The very business of The Northern Correspondent confined them. Their only means of access was a back staircase, on which they could not linger since it was also used by the staff. Moreover, when the children did reach the pavement, they found themselves at hazard in Millbridge’s busiest thoroughfare.
Apart from frugal shopping expeditions, and a Sunday morning attendance at St Stephen’s church, George’s family were as surely marooned as if they had been banished to a desert island. And when local people spoke of them at all, they referred to them almost contemptuously as ‘them foreigners at t’news-papper office!’