The Road To Kandahar (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  There was no doubt, Alice felt, that even Gladstone, accustomed as he was in this campaign to addressing large audiences of the faithful, was impressed by the size of the gathering in the Market. His great beaked nose turned as, in silence, he surveyed the ranks before and above him. ‘This great ocean of human life’, he called it. And Alice hastened to scribble down the phrase, determined now to capture the orator’s bons mots as well as those endless damned statistics.

  This time, however, Gladstone eschewed economics, matching both the content and the language of his address to the sentimental, rough-hewn nature of the audience before him. His theme was the rights of overseas people to govern themselves and his form was an attack on Disraeli’s policies of intervention in the affairs of the ‘struggling provinces and principalities of the East’.

  As Alice scribbled to keep up, her cheeks flushed as the opinions that had been taking shape in her mind for the last eighteen months were put into words by the old man. She looked sideways at Campbell, who was effortlessly capturing the address in his strange cryptography, having time even to sideline the most newsworthy points. Alice sighed and gave up her attempt to record, sitting back to listen. Looking into Gladstone’s black eyes only a few feet away, it seemed that he was addressing her alone.

  ‘I think of the events which have deluged many a hill and many a plain with blood,’ he said to her, ‘and think with shame of the part which your country has had in those grievous operations. In South Africa - that a nation whom we term savages have, in the defence of their own land, offered their naked bodies to the terribly improved artillery and armies of modern European science and been mown down by hundreds and thousands and who have committed no offence but that of having the duties of patriotism.’

  Alice closed her eyes to prevent tears. She heard again the boom of the guns at Ulundi and saw the corner of the British square open to release the cavalry. She recalled the heat of Zululand and the whoops of the Lancers as they lowered their lances and charged after the defeated Zulus.

  ‘Turning to Afghanistan, I fear that there has been a sadder night than there has been in the land of the Zulus.’ Gladstone was unrelenting. ‘Many of the facts belonging to that war have not been brought under the general notice of the British public. I think that is a great calamity.

  ‘You have seen that, from time to time, attacks have been made upon British forces and that in consequences of these, villages have been burned. Have you ever thought of the meaning of those words?’ For the first time for weeks, Alice thought of Simon. Was he in those hills? Was he burning villages?

  ‘These hill tribes have committed no real offence against us. If they have resisted, would you never have done the same? Their villages were burned. The meaning of these words is that women and children were driven forth to perish in the snows of winter. Does that not appeal to your hearts and make a special claim on your instincts? To think that the name of England for no political necessity except for a war, as frivolous as ever was waged in the history of man, should be associated with consequences such as these!’

  Alice realised that tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she forbore to draw attention to herself by fumbling for her handkerchief. Gladstone thundered on, declaiming - to roars of approval - that the sanctity of life in the hill villages of Afghanistan, among the winter snows, was as inviolable in the eyes of Almighty God as that of the audience themselves.

  Alice became suddenly conscious of a pressure on her thigh. Under the table, a large white handkerchief was being offered to her. Campbell, however, did not look at her. His head down in concentration, he continued with his right hand to record the Liberal leader’s every word.

  ‘Thank you,’ Alice mouthed, and took the handkerchief surreptitiously, blowing her nose gently to cover the wiping of her tears. She picked up her pencil again and returned, chastened, to her note-taking.

  At last Gladstone finished, to the inevitable standing ovation. Campbell threw down his pen and drew out his watch. ‘Not too bad,’ he said. ‘Only forty-five minutes - probably no more than two columns. Mind you, I’m told he reeled off twenty columns in all last week.’

  Alice smiled, glad that no reference was being made to her weakness. ‘Yes. He went on for an hour and a quarter this afternoon.’ Shyly, she handed back the handkerchief. ‘Thank you. I am most grateful.’

  For the first time Campbell looked a little embarrassed. ‘No. Keep it. You must have a cold. It’s the weather up here . . . this wretched wind.’

  ‘Yes.’

  A vote of thanks was being proposed by a worthy at the end of the line on the platform. The pressmen were all scurrying away. Campbell closed his notebook.

  ‘Did you, did you . . . er . . . get it all down?’ whispered Alice.

  ‘Yes. But now I must transcribe and get it on the telegraph before the Press Association and Reuters.’

  ‘I do think you are clever to be able to do that.’ Alice regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. Although meant sincerely, they sounded gushingly schoolgirlish.

  Campbell looked embarrassed again. ‘No, no. It’s not difficult once you’ve mastered the business of it.’ He regarded her with his half-smile ‘It’s not really reporting, you know. It’s not writing. A clerk could do it.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Alice was glad to sound professional again. ‘It is reporting. It certainly wasn’t beneath Dickens.’

  ‘True. Perhaps I shall progress to making my fortune by writing novels.’ He gathered up his papers. ‘You must excuse me, Miss Griffith. I must file my copy.’ The vote of thanks was drawing to an end. Campbell leaned towards Alice. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘Very close. The Waverley.’

  ‘Ah.’ A grin split his whiskers. ‘So am I. Would you . . . would you care to have supper with me when I have filed my copy? We both must eat.’

  Alice felt uncomfortable again for a moment. ‘That is very kind. But I must decline. I, too, have to put my story on the telegraph.’ She smiled. ‘And I have to cover both speeches, you see, and, alas, I don’t write quickly. A snatched sandwich is all I can expect.’

  He regarded her expressionlessly. ‘Quite so. Well, if you need any help . . .’ he adjusted quickly, ‘I mean with your notes, not your story, of course, I am in room seventeen. Don’t hesitate to call on me.’ He smiled again to remove any misunderstanding. ‘I know how difficult it is to decipher notes. And even if you’re not doing a verbatim, you will need references. Au revoir.’

  He rose and, head bowed in deference to the formalities still being observed on the speaker’s platform, shuffled out of the hall. Alice gathered her things more leisurely and followed him. She gave a half-apologetic look behind her to the platform and found Gladstone watching her with - was she imagining it? - a small smile playing on his hard mouth.

  Back in her room in the solid Waverley, Alice summoned a maid to light the fire, arranged her copy paper on the table and gazed out of the window, which gave her a much-prized view of Edinburgh Castle. She had just two hours to compose a thousand words - and she hated writing to a tight deadline. Luckily the post office, with its telegraph service (what a boon to newspapers!) was almost next door. Pen in mouth, she mused.

  Campbell was much luckier. It was true that once you had mastered shorthand, reporting politicians verbatim was comparatively easy. The main news pages of all of the London dailies tomorrow - Times, Telegraph, Morning Post, Daily News, Standard, Morning Advertiser - would lead with: ‘Mr Gladstone said . . .’ and run without cross-headings or interruption for four or five columns, giving every word the great man had uttered - and marking every pause for applause and cries of ‘yes, yes’ and ‘hear, hear’.

  Alice sighed. Her problem lay not only in meeting her deadline. She was slow to get her first words on paper, but once she had her introduction and basic theme, she found her copy flowed. No, Campbell had been shrewd enough to outline her main difficulty: how, in writing an analytical piece, could she express her approval of Gl
adstone’s opinions without obviously clashing with the pro-Tory policy of the Morning Post? In comparison, reporting from Zululand had been easy. There, she had gathered facts and they were sacred. Although some of her more direct criticism of Lord Chelmsford and his staff had been softened back in London, the fact that Isandlwana had been a tragic disaster was self-evident, and she had been allowed to show why. But it was one thing to criticise the direction of an obviously unsuccessful British army in the field and quite another to attack government policies which her employers espoused. She sucked hard on the pen and began to write.

  After ten minutes she had covered three pages, writing uncharacteristically clearly so that the telegraph clerk would have no trouble transmitting the copy. She sat back and read her introduction with approval: ‘Twenty-five thousand people - perhaps ten times the number eligible to vote in the Midlothian constituency - heard Mr Gladstone in Edinburgh yesterday continue his wide-ranging and devastating’ (she frowned and then, reluctantly, deleted those last two words) ‘attack on the record of Lord Beaconsfield’s government. His targets, in two major speeches in the Corn Exchange and Waverley Market, were, respectively, the Government’s fiscal and foreign policies, and there was no doubt that Mr Gladstone’s audiences in both places felt that his shafts had hit their targets with unerring’ (she crossed that out and substituted ‘devastating’) ‘accuracy.’

  Alice nodded slowly. Good. Facts, not opinion. No one could argue with that. She read on and then threw down her pen in disgust. Damn! Once again she had forgotten to write in cablese. The telegraph service had been nationalised and brought under the Post Office only nine years before, and the resultant lower charges had virtually revolutionised news-gathering costs and enabled daily newspapers to carry large reports the day after the news had broken. But thousand-word dispatches were still expensive to transmit and all reporters were trained to condense their copy into simple, money-saving codes. This was a discipline which Alice had learned the hard way but still often overlooked when deadline pressure was heavy. It would never do to look unprofessional, and she pulled fresh copy paper to her and began writing again, as quickly as clarity allowed:

  25,000 people - prps ten times t number eligible to vote in t Midlothian constitcy - heard M Gladstone in Ednbrgh ysty continue hs wide-ranging attack on t rcrd o Ld Becnsfld’s govt. His targets, in two major spchs in t Corn Exchange and Waverley Market, wre, respectively, t Govt’s fiscal and foreign policies, and th ws no doubt tt Mr Gldstne’s audiences in bth places felt tt his shafts hd hit thr targets wi devastatg accuracy.

  Good. That must have saved at least tuppence. Brow furrowed, she continued to write, her pen now fairly racing over the paper. After an hour, she had covered about fifteen pages, and she allowed herself time quickly to read through what she had written. It wasn’t perfect, but she felt that she had captured the passion of the man without letting her approval of the arguments intrude.

  Alice looked out of her window at the yellow gaslights in the streets below. Why did Gladstone wear rough tweed trousers and waistcoat with a worsted tailcoat? Was he dressing down for his audience? Better the smooth cream of Campbell’s double-breasted vest. Such white teeth, too, and so charming a smile . . . Alice shook her head in annoyance, rang for tea and settled down again.

  She was finished well within the hour. The teapot was still warm as she gathered the pages together, put on her coat and hat and half walked, half ran through the door, down the corridor and stairs into the cold air outside. The telegraph office was only three minutes’ walk away and she was fifteen minutes within her deadline as she handed her copy to the clerk, paid for the transmission and pocketed her receipt.

  ‘Well done.’ Campbell rose from the bench beside the door. ‘I thought you said you didn’t write quickly. I have only just filed my own copy.’

  ‘Oh, I er . . .’ Alice felt uncharacteristically flustered. She tucked a strand of hair back beneath her hat. ‘Thank you. You have been very quick yourself. Goodness,’ her brows rose as she made the calculation, ‘you must have written at least twice as much as me.’

  The white smile came again, reminding Alice disconcertingly of Simon Fonthill. ‘Nothing to it. As I told you, it’s formulaic, really.’ He gestured to the door with his curly-brimmed bowler. ‘Look, we have both finished work now. Do let’s have supper together. I am hungry and I am sure you are too.’

  Alice regarded him quizzically. He had been sitting with his back to the wall of the telegraph office as she had entered and spoken to the clerk. If he had only just filed his own story he would still have been at the desk. Obviously, he had been waiting for her. She felt a slight anticipatory tingle. ‘Oh, very well,’ she said. ‘But I insist on paying my share.’

  ‘We can argue about that later.’ He ushered her through the door. The wind hit them sharply, forcing them to turn up coat collars and bow their heads. He gripped her arm and turned his body to shelter her. ‘Would you mind if we did not eat at the hotel? There are so many of the agency fellows there and, anyway, the food’s not very good. I know of a splendid restaurant literally round the corner where we can get oysters. What do you say?’

  His face was now frowning in supplication and the wind had turned his cheeks a bright red. Alice thought how young he looked. She decided to succumb to the tingle. ‘Why not?’

  The restaurant was quite full, but a table was found for them and, without consulting her, Campbell ordered a bottle of’75 Chablis while they studied the menu. For all his youthfulness, Alice noted, he carried an easy air of authority and worldliness. This was no louche boy from the provinces.

  They gave their orders and Alice found herself chatting to the young man with no awkwardness. He had a habit, she noted, of asking questions directly. There was no gentle skirmishing, no deployment of small talk. He wanted to know how she had got her job, so he asked her. It was not what she was accustomed to, this directness. But she made no objection. After all, it was what they both did for a living, asking questions.

  She related how she had begun by writing to the letters page of the Morning Post, and then contributing articles on matters of the day, usually foreign policy. Gradually she had become a regular contributor, signing her covering letters to the editor ‘A. Griffith’, although, of course, she had received no by-line in the newspaper. Occasionally she was allowed to sign her articles ‘From a Special Correspondent’.

  Campbell’s eyebrows rose. ‘So they never knew you were a woman?’

  ‘No.’ Alice grinned.

  ‘When did they find out?’

  ‘When I applied for a job as a foreign correspondent to cover the North West Frontier of India and the Afghan War.’

  ‘Good lord.’ Campbell slowly put down his glass. ‘I must say, you have got nerve . . . but that’s always been obvious.’

  Alice decided to take this as a compliment. ‘Thank you.’ ‘But you didn’t get sent to the Frontier. You ended up in Zululand.’

  ‘Quite. Cornford, the editor, liked my articles and had agreed to see me, not knowing, of course, that I was a woman.’ Alice pushed away a stray lock of hair, and a gleam of satisfaction came into her eye at the memory. ‘I had him at a disadvantage, of course, because he had written praising my pieces and he was curious to meet me - although there was never any offer of a position on the paper.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, eventually, after a lot of arguing, I did a deal with him.’

  Campbell’s eyebrows rose again. ‘A deal? A deal? One doesn’t do a deal with editors.’

  ‘Oh yes one does - if one is determined. He would not hear of me going to an “active” area like the Frontier, but I managed to persuade him that, through my links with the 24th Regiment - my father was a brigadier and both battalions had been posted to South Africa - I could be useful to him there.’

  Alice smiled at the memory. ‘There seemed little threat of war there so Mr Cornford eventually agreed to my offer to pay my own way if he would refund the expenditure if
I made the grade.’

  ‘And then came the war?’

  Alice nodded. ‘Yes, rather out of the blue. More to the point, then came Isandlwana. I reported on that . . .’ she paused, and then smiled, half apologetically, ‘adequately. The cost of my fare was refunded and I was taken on the staff and stayed to cover the rest of the war.’

  Campbell nodded. ‘Yes, and you did well. I remember. Very descriptive stuff. I admired it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  For a moment, their knuckles touched as they gripped the stems of their wine glasses. Campbell’s fingers relaxed, extended, and lay along the back of Alice’s hand. She let her hand remain there for a second or two before raising the glass to her lips. The young man held her gaze and smiled, as if in recognition of the gesture. Alice felt again that inward surge of excitement. She sat back and cleared her throat.

  ‘So there you are. My life story; or, at least, my professional life story.’

  Campbell still held her gaze, his head now slightly on one side, quizzically. Then, slowly, he raised his glass. ‘I toast you. Beautiful but talented. Compassionate but determined.’

  Alice snorted. ‘Nonsense. Anyway, I’m not the first woman to do this sort of thing. Frances Whitfield covered the siege of Paris for The Times-you know that she floated her dispatches out by balloon? How marvellous!’

  Campbell leaned back in his chair. ‘That may be so, but it’s still rough trade, this. Do you remember what John Stuart Mill said about it?’

  ‘No.’

  The young man frowned in recall. ‘Now, let me get this right. Mill wrote: “More affectation and hypocrisy are necessary for the trade of literature and especially the newspapers than for brothel keepers.” ’

  ‘Hmnn.’ Alice drained her glass and then accepted the remainder of the Chablis. Campbell, again without conferring, ordered another bottle. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘he may have been right fifty years ago, or whenever he said it, but things have improved considerably since then. Do you know,’ she leaned across the table in emphasis, ‘I do believe that we journalists are right in the middle of a sort of revolution in literacy. I read somewhere last week that, in Birmingham alone, about ten thousand people a day are visiting these new reading rooms to take in the dailies.’