by Jean Stubbs
Santo had come up to them and was gazing at Cicely, who was gazing fixedly at the toe of her little slipper. They were enchanting. Children on the verge of an old adventure.
Yes, love’s all very well, thought Alice, but I shan’t have time for it just yet!
Jessica and Jack had found the patent freezing machine and were enjoying a sixpenny ice-cream apiece.
‘I’ve had an ice-cream maker at home for over fifty years!’ Dick Howarth said to the vendor.
‘Ah! You’re a bit of a caution, you are!’ said the man, speaking in a familiar fashion, disbelieving him.
For what would a red-faced fellow in leather gaiters be doing with an ice-cream maker?
Immediately, Jack spoke to his great-uncle with extreme courtesy, intending to make the vendor cringe.
‘Yours is an incredibly good ice-house, sir! Was it not made by your brother, the ironmaster?’
This subtlety was lost on Dick, the true democrat. Like his father before him, he could admire and pay homage to the great without feeling that he was lowly. It was young Jack, steeped in middle-class consciousness, who demanded the tokens of outward respect.
‘Aye, our Will had it put up,’ said Dick quite naturally. ‘And it served to make ice-cream for his wedding, back in ’ninety-five.’
‘Then you might be interested in this here machine, sir,’ said the vendor, ‘which is the latest model. Run entirely by steam, sir.’
‘Nay, I can’t abide the stuff!’ said Dick honestly. ‘I were only making a remark. Would you two young ’uns like another?’
They hesitated, wondering whether this would be greedy.
Then Jessica said, ‘I wouldn’t, uncle, thank you. But Isabella quite fancies one, and she hasn’t had any!’
Jack shook his head like a gentleman, wishing he were young enough to call upon the services of Little Voice.
‘Here. Give us a couple o’ shilling ’uns for the childer!’ said Dick, understanding them both. And as he took the silver from his old leather purse, ‘See that, young man? That were made from one of our sheeps’ hides for me when I were one-and-twenty! And I tell thee, in those days my father paid me seven shilling a week in wages to be his carter. And what’s that, nowadays? Seven big ice-creams, sithee!’
‘Not a great deal on which to bring up a family, sir,’ said Jack, well versed in Correspondent doctrine.
‘No, but I’m still here to tell t’tale!’ said Dick factually.
There would be yet another tale for him to tell, for him and for no other member of the party.
‘I were on my own,’ he would say, ‘harming nobody and having a quiet gander round by mysen, when I heard — nay, I don’t know how to describe it!’
A rustle, a murmur, a multitude of whispers. Then a man’s voice just beside him said quietly and clearly, ‘It’s the Queen!’
‘The Queen?’ Dick cried. ‘What? Our Queen?’
And he looked about him for trumpets and fanfares, for heralds and beefeaters and officers of the guard, and a thousand regal fancies connected with his notion of royalty.
‘Where?’ cried Dick, amazed.
‘Why, here, man,’ said the military gentleman beside him. ‘The Queen comes here quite often, God bless her. No fuss. No ceremony. Just another visitor, moving among us all.’
‘Without her sojers?’ said Dick, horrified to think of royalty unprotected.
‘Safe as houses with all of us, sir, and proud of it you may be sure. Such trust would be out of place abroad, of course. You never can depend on foreigners. But here in England, sir, we know how to behave to our monarch, and this is how she behaves with us!’
The crowd parted as quietly and efficiently as the river opened to allow Moses and his people to pass through to the Promised Land. And there, not an arm’s length from him, walked a little lady in a rose-coloured silk bonnet and gown and a white lace shawl, entirely at her ease, followed a few paces behind by two other ladies.
‘Just like it might be Mrs Bowker wi’ a couple o’ neighbours,’ Dick was wont to say, and then wont to add, ‘Well, not like Mrs Bowker exackerly, but you know what I mean!’
No, not in the least like Mrs Bowker, nor like anyone he had ever seen before or would ever see again. Not particularly young or striking or fashionable. Simply unique.
‘I can’t describe it,’ said Dick, ‘but as soon as I set eyes on her, I knew. It were summat about her. She were our Queen Victoria.’
Something, whether myth or symbol or superstition, which caused him to sweep off his farmer’s hat and bow as low as any courtier when she passed. Something which aroused more than ordinary respect or curiosity.
Was her smile and nod directed at him, or was she so adept by this time that she could convey a personal interest to every member of the crowd? She smiled. She nodded. It was enough to last him the rest of his life, and though he was an old man there were years yet.
For the second time that day, he wiped the tears from his cheeks and could not speak for a while.
Applegath and Cowper’s latest printing-machine resembled two four-posters connected by a large wash-boiler. From where they stood, Ambrose and Nathan could see five men employed. The method of printing paper on a flatbed had been scrapped. Now the wash-boiler spun the sheets off in a rotary motion. They were printing The Illustrated London News while people watched.
At his father’s request, Nathan moved close to the nearest worker and asked him how many copies an hour the machine could do.
‘Five thousand, young sir!’
‘So we enter the age of mass production,’ Ambrose said.
And it would not be too long, he expected, before the government lifted all the duties from newspapers, and so allowed them to sell more cheaply and in greater numbers.
‘Five thousand!’ Ambrose repeated.
He doffed his hat to the machine, and gave an ironic little bow. Nathan watched him, smiling. Mamma had said to keep an eye on him, but not to let him know.
‘Why, we shall see The Northern Correspondent printed every day in its tens of thousands and sold for two pence a copy, yet!’ cried Ambrose to his eldest son, following a train of thought.
‘And why not The Evening Correspondent, sir, coming out nightly, in an early and late edition?’ Nathan remarked lightly.
Ambrose laughed, and capped this serious jest.
‘I can even imagine a Sunday Correspondent at that!’ he cried.
Then he stopped himself and put one hand inside his coat, for his heart was hopping in his breast like a mad thing.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ Nathan asked, concerned.
‘Certainly!’ said Ambrose.
For he saw how ridiculous it would be to die of a dream.
‘Certainly, I am. And it’s all possible, Nat. It’s all possible. Perhaps not in my lifetime,’ he added, ‘but in yours, at any rate.’
Then this splendid son of his, who was a little taller and not quite so lean, but brown of skin and hair and eyes, undeniably flesh of his flesh, slipped an arm through his.
‘In both our lifetimes, sir!’ said Nathan firmly.
‘How old are you, Nat?’ Ambrose asked, for he never knew.
‘Sixteen, sir.’
‘Ah. A little way to go yet, then.’
Still, he should last five years. Get the boy on his feet. See him ensconced as future editor.
‘We must keep her in the family, Nat!’ he said, almost anxiously.
‘Oh, we shall, sir. Never fear. The Northern Correspondent and the Longes are one and the same thing.’
‘Nat!’ said Ambrose. ‘It is high time you and I had a talk over a glass of brandy one evening when the other lads are asleep.’
He clapped his top hat to one side of his head at a jauntier angle than ever before. And as they walked away, he was whistling softly and swinging his cane.
***
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MORE BOOKS BY JEAN STUBBS
The Brief Chronicles:
Kit’s Hill
The Ironmaster
The Vivian Inheritance
The Inspector John Lintott Series:
Dear Laura
The Painted Face
The Golden Crucible
Other novels:
An Unknown Welshman
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks as always to those who suggested, obtained, lent or gave research books: in particular, Ian Atlee and the staff of Helston Branch Library and Paul Bannister of the Library Van; Bob Gilbert of Gilbert’s Print and Bookshop, Truro, Cornwall; Stella Thomas of the Press Gallery, House of Commons; my uncle, R. B. Darby, and Adrian Leaman, for scholarly beavering; my brother, J. G. Higham, for loan of a rare copy of The History of Hyde published in 1930 by the Clarendon Press, formerly owned by our family; and Mr R. H. Pratt Boorman, editor and proprietor of the Kent Messenger for fifty years, for generously giving time, books and advice. I have read and used the information from a great many sources to furnish the historical background to this novel, but I feel I should mention the debt I owe to David Ayerst for his Guardian, Biography of a Newspaper, and to R. J. Morris for his Cholera 1832.
I am grateful to Frank Munday, general manager of The Cornishman in Penzance, for showing me round the newspaper premises on two occasions and answering all my questions. I thank both my editors, Tess Sacco and James Hale, for creative criticism and encouragement. And I thank my four grandchildren for being such good copy: Joanna Mathys continues to shine through the young Cicelys; Nicholas Mathys is all three Longe boys rolled into one, and the original creator of ‘Little Voice’; Clare Brookes inspired Alice Vivian; very young Oliver Brookes makes an early appearance as Matthew Standish. Finally, of course, I am very glad of Felix — the man who has lived with me and the Howarths for so long that he thought of a far more subtle dedication than I did!
J.S.
Published by Sapere Books.
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Copyright © The Estate of Jean Stubbs, 1984
The Estate of Jean Stubbs has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are purely coincidental.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-80055-004-9