by Jean Stubbs
Still, they did their best to mingle. Being on the edge of the Old Town, Norah found herself daily work in two or three of the big houses. She entered the children at a Dame School just off Newmarket Street, where, for a penny a week apiece, they began a very rudimentary education indeed. Again, Ambrose wanted to help. Again, Norah refused him. He continually went out of his way to find a solution to their problem, only to discover the truth of George’s statement that they were as different as chalk and cheese. There was no common ground on which to found a friendship.
An afternoon call at Middleton Street from Thornton House proved to be purgatory for both sides, but it was worse still with the Vivians. Norah had been awed by Naomi, but she took an instant dislike to Mary. No wonder, she said to Ambrose, that George never kept up with this sister. She were too grand by far! And Norah might have said more, except that she knew how close the two families were, and so desisted. Only to herself could she have been heard muttering, ‘Lady Muck!’ as she scrubbed doorsteps for a living.
But a visit from the Howarths of Kit’s Hill was successful from the moment that Hatty panted up the stairs, hampered by two small scarlet-cheeked children and an ample basket.
‘I hope you don’t mind us dropping by, like!’ cried Hatty cheerfully. ‘We shan’t stop if we’re not wanted, but I come up to t’market with our Dad and Fred every Sat’day — and they’re supping their pints at t’Red Lion!’
‘Nay, come on in!’ cried Norah, with a warmth she could not feel for the Longes and the Vivians.
These were the sort of relatives she expected George to have.
Eddy and Amy, intent on every change of her expression as usual, also brightened, and looked at the smaller strangers with hope.
‘I’ve got no oven here,’ said Norah in apology, ‘so I canna bake owt, but I’ve bought some bread and butter from t’Co-op and I’ll brew us a pot of tea.’
It was not in the nature of a farmer’s wife to come empty-handed. The large square basket on Hatty’s arm contained just enough to ease life for this new sister-in-law, and not enough to put her under an obligation. On Norah’s table Hatty set a clutch of eggs, a cold boiled fowl, a slab of butter, a wedge of cheese, a quartern loaf of home-baked bread, a round, heavy fruit cake, a large jar of blackberry jam and a small can of milk.
‘Well, you’re feeding us, aren’t you?’ said Hatty, arms akimbo. ‘Any road up, I’m not carting these tu’thri things all the way back to Garth Fell! You’ll be doing me a favour, taking them. They’re nobbut what I’ve got left over from this morning’s market!’
Her manners might leave something to be desired, but her sense of delicacy was very nice.
Then for an hour or so Hatty and Norah talked, and the four children played, and all of them regaled themselves at the tea-table until the wheels of a farm wagon announced the arrival of Dick Howarth and Fred Tunstall. And up the back stairs came the heavy double-tread of boots, and round the door came two crimson faces to greet these new members of the family.
Neither man could be called a brilliant conversationalist. They were inclined to make do with grinning broadly and shifting from one foot to the other, as Hatty made herself and her children ready for the long road home. But their goodwill and good humour was evident.
‘Take care o’ thysen!’ Hatty said, embracing her sister-in-law. ‘We’ll come again next Sat’day, if we’re welcome.’
‘Eh, I’d like that!’ Norah cried.
‘And you must come and see us, and all, but we’re ten mile down t’valley. Still, what about having your Christmas dinners with us? Dad’d fetch you, wouldn’t you, Dad?’
‘Aye,’ said Dick. ‘I would that.’
‘So there’s plenty to look forward to,’ said Hatty, always optimistic, ‘and our George’ll be out in no time at all. So goodnight, and God bless, and I’ll see thee a-Sat’day — all being well!’
Without which greeting no God-fearing woman would have parted from any friend.
They managed several Saturdays, and the Christmas dinner, before a traveller was taken desperately ill at the Royal George overnight. Jamie Standish, called in by a vigilant landlord, diagnosed cholera.
From then until George’s release, some part of Wyndendale was always in quarantine. They did not have an epidemic as such. The outbursts were sporadic. So sometimes Norah could work and the children could go to school, and they could see their friends once a week, and sometimes they could not. They were fortunate in that they were never personally stricken, but unfortunate nevertheless.
Had you been standing in Middleton Street, practically any hour of any day during the two years that Jamie Standish fought the cholera, and glanced above the freshly whitened legend of THE NORTHERN CORRESPONDENT to the attic windows above, you would have seen two little faces pressed against the panes watching the world go by.
Perceptive as he was, Ambrose had never understood the relationship between Norah and George, nor realised how much Norah had suffered, until he brought the hero home in the autumn of 1850.
Wyndendale was rejoicing in this nut-brown season of the year as it had rejoiced in the green spring of 1833. Once more it had survived an onslaught of disease, and would put out new shoots of hope and promise for the future. Once more its medical officer had compiled a weighty document of facts against an enemy of mankind, and proved to his professional satisfaction that ten times as many people had died of cholera in Lower Town as in the Old Town. Once more, The Northern Correspondent had taken an unpopular course, and stuck to its convictions in spite of public opinion, and been right to do so.
Therefore, Ambrose helped George from the carriage with a feeling of satisfaction at a job well done. Having taken care of Norah, he thought it fair enough that Norah should now take care of George, and so lift a long-standing responsibility from Ambrose’s shoulders.
So he was greatly astonished when she wrung her hands and broke down as little grey George limped towards her. The two children stood white and silent behind her, and Ambrose’s mind recoiled at the thought of the shock they must suffer, seeing their invincible mother reduced to sobs and tears. But George was master of the situation.
He drew his tall and dignified wife towards him, and put his arms protectively about her. Her proud head rested gladly upon his shoulder. He stroked her hair gently.
Ambrose checked the ever-sensitive barometer of Norah’s children, but they were staring at George and their mother with dawning relief.
Their expressions told Ambrose more about that marriage than any amount of words. Then Amy skipped and Eddy hopped away, released.
Ambrose made some excuse to depart, which nobody heard or cared about, and returned downstairs to his office.
Behind him, George was saying, ‘That’s right, my lass. Have a good greet. It’s all over now, and I’m home for good. I’ll take care o’ thee, my lass. Tha’s got nowt to worry about now I’m home.’
PART FIVE: POSTSCRIPT, 1851
TWENTY-NINE: A GREAT EXCURSION
What marvellous event is this which draws people of all colour, creed, class and political conviction from the four corners of the earth, to lift their hands and eyes in astonishment?
What could possibly persuade Ambrose Longe to leave The Northern Correspondent for an entire week? For Hal Vivian to be awakened from his latest dream and bestir himself to see a greater vision? For Jamie Standish to let the Council alone and allow Wyndendale to be sick without him? For Dick Howarth of Kit’s Hill, who had never travelled further than Millbridge in his seventy-six years, to set forth for the unknown like some agricultural Christopher Columbus? For the Longes, the Vivians and the Standishes to undertake the trouble and expense of transporting themselves en famille some two hundred miles, to find lodgings in the capital city?
What in the world could be so wonderful as to achieve all these professional and domestic miracles?
Ladies and Gentlemen, and Lesser Mortals, and Servants and Little Children too — it is nothing less than
the First Great International Exhibition, being held in London, England, in 1851!
On the platform of Millbridge Central Station, in the summer of that year, a large group of some fifteen persons was chatting together animatedly, as they awaited the local train which was to take them as far as Preston, where they would join the London & North Western Railway.
Only two members of that group could be called children, and they were not going to keep each other company. For Jack Longe, at eleven years old, refused to talk to a girl of seven, even if she was his much-loved sister. So he moved closer to Nat and Toby and Matthew Standish and stood as tall as he could, and knitted his brows knowledgeably as he listened to their discourse. Only the twin forks of a catapult, sticking out of his trouser pocket, betrayed his true interests.
Alice and Cicely, almost ready to come out into society as marriageable young ladies, chatted vivaciously together like the feminine stars of an occasion; watched by Philomena, whose own star had never been bright. While Jessica, too young to envy any of them, and loving her father best, slipped her small gloved hand in his and held a whispered monologue with her doll. Naomi, Mary and Dorcas, as became family matrons, were poised, handsome and fashionable, discussing everyone else. The patriarchs stood slightly apart.
‘Of course, though it is an age since I visited the place, I am a Londoner by birth!’ Ambrose was saying.
His hair had silvered, but his silk top hat was still set at a killing angle, his figure as youthful, his attitude as jaunty as ever.
‘I have never been there in all my life!’ Jamie answered.
His red whiskers had turned a creamy-gold. The long struggle with typhus and cholera had left him lean and gaunt. In contrast, Hal Vivian in his late fifties had grown powerful in build and manner like his father the ironmaster. And like the ironmaster he worshipped his son, who was a slimmer, darker and more vivid edition of himself.
He was not alone in this. Mary tended to take Santo’s arm in a proprietary manner when they were in public together, and look proudly on the handsome fellow who had survived a hectic childhood. And now and then, though apparently wrapped in conversation, pretty little Cicely Standish would glance at him to see if he was noticing her. Which he was, as best he could, though deep in talk of railways.
‘For, of course, the success of this exhibition would not have been possible without a national and international network of fast transport!’ Hal Vivian was saying to his son.
‘Look how many people have come from abroad, simply because they can get here easily and quickly. Take our own railways! With all these cheap excursions, even factory workers can afford a day at the seaside, and a great number of ordinary folk can afford to visit the exhibition. Seven shillings return from Millbridge to London is not expensive.’
And he looked with tremendous pride at the rails glistening in the morning sun, leading them away to foreign parts.
Ambrose poked him gently in the back with his cane.
‘You’ve proved to be a public benefactor by accident, Hal!’ he observed, smiling. ‘Devil a fig did you give for poor people’s pleasures before!’ Then fearing to mar the happiness of the day, even by so light a joke, he added, ‘And what an improvement this station is on the original. I remember, Santo,’ gracefully including the young man, ‘when your father began the Wyndendale Railway with Pioneer back in ’twenty-eight, this place was no more than a platform and a hut for a booking office, with a board on which some unskilled workman had painted MILLBRIDGE!’
From those humble beginnings had risen a glass and iron palace with an imposing booking hall, two platforms connected by an iron bridge and flights of iron steps, a white-washed waiting room with wooden benches along its walls, a station-master’s house of blackened brick, and a large and dignified sign announcing MILLBRIDGE CENTRAL.
Gratified, Hal Vivian said, ‘We have not done badly. Twenty-three years to connect this valley to the outside world! Eh, Santo?’
‘Very well indeed, sir!’ Santo replied.
But to him, at twenty-one, that length of time seemed forever.
‘By the by,’ said Ambrose, looking round, ‘I thought Uncle Dick Howarth was supposed to be travelling down with us by this train.’
‘Aye! Did I not hear that your uncle had some piece of wood-carving accepted by the Exhibition?’ asked Jamie Standish.
‘Yes. His winter whittlings by the fireside have borne fruit!’
‘It was Mamma’s idea to send it up to the Exhibition,’ said Santo, grinning. ‘She went over to Kit’s Hill to interview Aunt Hatty for her magazine series about “Old Farms of Wyndendale” — and found that my grandfather had carved an absolute replica of the hill farms on Garth Fell from a log of wood.’
‘So Mamma pounced on him!’ cried Alice, who had come up to be admired and to improve her brother’s narrative. ‘Twitched the carving from his aged hands, forced some poor artist to copy it to illustrate her article, posted it off to London without asking him, and announced the result in triumph!’
‘Mamma really is too awful!’ said Santo proudly.
‘And then, my dears,’ Alice continued, ‘she told grandfather that of course,’ and here she imitated Mary to perfection, ‘of course he must go all the way to London to see it in the Exhibition! I’m surprised the poor old thing didn’t drop dead of a heart attack!’
‘That’s enough impudence from you, Miss,’ said Hal automatically.
Alice smiled radiantly on all of them, and twirled her parasol.
‘The train’s coming!’ shouted Jack, who had moved to the very edge of the platform unobserved. ‘The rails are throbbing!’
His ears were sharper than theirs. They had to stop talking in order to hear the approaching sounds of whistle and wheels.
‘Jack would like to be an engine-driver,’ Ambrose confided, ‘and I have a treat in store for him today which he does not expect.’
‘What treat, Papa?’ Jack asked.
As his question remained unanswered, he asked another as a matter of principle.
‘Which engine will it be, Uncle Hal? The Ironmaster or The Lancashire Messenger?’
‘Oh, The Messenger!’ Hal replied. ‘Or else your father couldn’t give you such a splendid surprise!’
For his knowledge of the Pennine Railway Company extended even to its engine-drivers, and this train was being driven by a new one.
A whistle screamed for attention. In a rush, a roar, and a cloud of steam, The Lancashire Messenger was upon them, shining with brass and importance. And behind the engine trundled a line of carriages like a snake: ranging from the smart yellow coachwork and upholstered seats of the first-class, to plain, wooden second-class, to hard, open third-class, and ending with goods wagons and a guard’s van.
The great iron wheels of the locomotive ground slowly to a halt, and most of the three family parties converged upon the carriages.
But Ambrose said, ‘Jack!’ and something in his tone fetched the lad hurrying to his side. ‘Do you want to meet the engine-driver?’
Jack nodded, too excited to speak.
Jessica tugged his hand to remind him of her presence.
‘I know,’ said Ambrose, smiling. ‘You can come too! But keep on the far side of me. We don’t want smuts on you and Isabella, or there’ll be hell to pay with Mamma!’
Hal and Jamie were busy escorting the ladies into their carriage. A porter carried their luggage to the guard’s van. Passengers in the first and second class had the advantage of the platform for boarding purposes, but the third-class carriages stood beyond it. So there was much hurrying down the line, and hoisting of women and children up the carriage steps, and many broad jokes about the size of the goods.
Hunks of glittering black fuel were piled high on the coal-wagon. Jack could feel the warmth of the engine and smell the oil as he walked quickly by his father’s side, and when they reached the cab of the locomotive a black face, like that of a coal-miner, smiled on them and waved an oily rag. Jack swallowed
with excitement. Even the prospect of London paled beside a real engine-driver. And between this little monarch of the railroad and his stoker, weathered and rosy with pride, stood a familiar figure.
‘It’s my Uncle Dick!’ cried Jessica, and waved her doll’s arm at him in tribute. ‘You’re the surprise, aren’t you?’
‘Eh, I’ve surprised myself, my lass!’ said Dick heartily.
Then he nodded his head sideways at the driver and spoke to Ambrose in a highly confidential manner.
‘I come down wi’ him from t’railway shed in Garth Fowt! And I must say it’s been a fair treat. I reckon I’ll go on to Preston wi’ him, and all!’
Jack never took his eyes off the driver, who was of middle height and fair-skinned under the oil and coal-dust, with cheerful grey-green eyes and a wide smile as though he knew everybody well.
‘Jack, my lad,’ said Ambrose. ‘This is your cousin, Herbert Howarth. Uncle Dick’s — what number is it? The sixth son?’
Jack held out his hand and said, ‘Honoured to meet you, sir!’
But Herbert would not shake it because of the coal-dust.
‘Do you want to come up here a minute then, Jack, lad?’ he asked in a friendly fashion. And to his father, ‘Do you mind getting out for a bit, Dad? There’s not a lot o’ room in here!’
‘Have we got time, Papa?’ Jack asked, looking for permission.
‘Well, they canna start th’engine without me!’ said Herbert humorously, and raised a laugh.
It was early days on the Pennine Railway. No one minded if the train was held up for a few minutes. No one cared if it stopped at unofficial halts as well as the usual ones. And like the mail-coaches it had to stop at certain intervals for the convenience of passengers, though unlike them it could not choose hostelries but had to find a nice wood or sheltered field.