The Loving Spirit (12 page)

The family glanced at him. They thought he had probably cut himself, falling by the stile.

Only Philip laughed quietly to himself. ‘Did she scratch you so hard, Joe?’ he asked.

‘Be silent, Philip,’ said his mother sharply, and she handed Joseph his plate.

He sat down without a word, and never spoke throughout the meal. The others took no notice of him, they were used to Joe’s queer changes of mood.

When supper was cleared, they all sat round the fire as they did every night. Janet and Mary took their sewing on their laps, while Lizzie learnt a new stitch from her sister. She alone seemed to sense something of the agony in her mother’s eyes and Joseph’s, and once she went across to her brother and squeezed his hand. He looked up at her in surprise, and noticed for the first time that her expression was like to Janet’s. He pulled her curls softly and smiled. ‘I’ll be bringin’ ye back a new dolly for sure,’ he told her. Thomas sat in his armchair opposite his wife, with a book in his hands. He narrowed his eyes at the small print, and fumbled for his glasses. How old he was compared to the Thomas who had kissed Janet on the top of the Plyn hill, over twenty years ago. Yet he saw no difference in himself.

Herbert and Samuel were cleaning Samuel’s gun in a corner of the room, Philip was counting the money in his money-box. He always had more silver than any of the others. Joseph was standing at the window, his hands in his pockets, only his back view visible.

The old clock ticked and coughed on the wall, the fire settled sluggishly in the grate.

Thomas turned a corner of his book, and then laid his head against the back of the chair, and took off his spectacles. His eyes fluttered, he sighed, he opened his mouth wide and yawned horribly.

‘Think I’ll be goin’ up, dear,’ he said to Janet.

‘Yes, Thomas,’ she answered. ‘It’s your bedtime, too, Lizzie.’

There was the sound of Lizzie’s light patter in the girls’ room, and the heavy sober tread of Thomas in the room over the porch.

A board creaked loudly now and then. One by one the others moved off to bed, and soon Janet and Joseph were left alone.

She laid aside her work, and poked at the dying fire. The room felt chilly, drear. Joseph put out the lamp, and snuffed the candles. He drew aside the curtains, and the light of the moon made a white pattern on the carpet. Then he came across the room, and knelt beside Janet in the darkness.

‘Do you know how much I love you?’ he whispered.

‘Yes, Joseph.’

He held her fingers and kissed the hollows of her hands.

‘I reckon I’ve never realized before what the losin’ o’ you meant.’

She rested her head on his shoulder when he said this.

‘You won’t be losin’ me, Joseph. This baint a real partin’, ‘tes a reason for you to find yourself, an’ lead the life that’s suited to you.’

‘’Twon’t be a life away from you. ‘Twill be a misery an’ an anguish, turnin’ me to stone till I’m by your side again.’

‘Hush, Joseph, I won’t let you say these things. Cowardice is no man’s business, ’tisn’t for the likes o’ you an’ me.’

He dug his nails into her hand.

‘Call me a coward, do you?’

‘Yes - we’m both cowards, an’ I’m filled with shame at myself.’

He put out his hand and felt her chin.

‘I knew it would be stickin’ i’ the air,’ he smiled. ‘’Tisn’t no good, don’t let’s be brave for our last few hours together. Bravery’s no mortal use to me now. I want to lay here all night, and cry at your feet, and worship you in a still an’ silent way.’

He bent his head, and she laughed in the darkness, and kissed the back of his neck.

‘How long are you goin’ on bein’ a child like this?’

‘Always - never. I don’t know.’

‘Why baint I a man to come along wi’ you?’ she sighed. ‘I’d be at your side i’ the daytime an’ learn a sailor’s life. I can picture the sway o’ the vessel as she leans to the wind, an’ in rough weather the grey seas sweepin’ the deck. Bare feet, bare head, an’ the taste of salt on your cracked lips. At night the kiss of wind an’ rain, the shouts of men through the darkness, and then sudden, when a great cloud broke away loose from the sky, there’d be one wild white star.’

‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘I’ll find you clothes - pretend you’re Sam; come along to keep me company.’

‘You’ll never be lonely, Joseph. Promise you’ll never be lonely?’

‘Aye, I promise.’

‘What’s to be done about darnin’ your socks an’ the like? An’ you won’t be fed proper. Oh! sudden, the fear an’ dread of it all comes upon me - you goin’ away without me like this.’

‘Mother, dearest love - there’ll be nothin’ to hurt. Look, it’s me the brave one now, an’ you all pale an’ tremblin’ like a lamb i’ the fields.’ He took her in his arms and rocked to and fro.

‘Where’s your proud chin now?’

‘’Tes all a sham, an’ always has been through my life,’ she whispered. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

She laughed through her tears.

‘Stop it, will you?’ he said. ‘Here’s fine talk about bravery. Listen, every night at this hour, whatever I’m doin’ and wherever I be, I’ll look for a star in the sky; an’ when I judge as there’s a star pointin’ his finger over Plyn I’ll close my eyes and say good night to you.’

‘Joseph, what made you think o’ that?’

‘It came to me by the Castle ruin tonight, and gave me comfort; and at this same time when I’m away on the sea, you’ll lean out o’ your room over the porch; an’ the star that’s direct above you will be the star I’m lookin’ at.’

‘I’ll remember, Joseph. Every night. Will you never be forgettin’?’

‘Never - never.’

She took his face in her hands and smiled, while the moonlight cast a shadow in his eyes.

‘My baby - my sweet.’

The ashes fell in the grate, and the clock ticked slow and solemn on the wall.

Although the next day was Sunday the wind held true from the north, and Captain Collins determined to sail with the evening tide. Joseph’s things were got on board and stowed away by his hammock in the fo’c’sle. All the family came down to the slip to see him off, and bid him farewell.Thomas shook him warmly by the hand and blew his nose rather too heartily, when he saw him climb into the boat with his companions, and pull for the ship.

He was fond and proud of his handsome son for all his wild ways. The boys clapped their brother on the shoulder and chaffed him for a sailor, while Joseph kept up his jokes and his laughter until the end. Mary slipped a couple of hot saffron buns into his pocket, and Lizzie gave him a spray of white heather she had discovered on the hills. Janet stood a little apart from the others, chatting quietly to one of the men whom she knew. Joseph hung back too, and made some cheerful remark to his father about the weather.

The last minutes were passing, flying now - faster - faster; they fled away in a hopeless tangle of time. Joseph took a step towards Janet. The men were waiting in the boat below, ready to push off for the ship.

He grasped her hands and kissed her hurriedly, roughly on her neck behind her ear. ‘I can’t find my speech somehow, ’ he muttered, ‘there was somethin’ - many things - I was goin’ to have told you. All gone now - I’ve no thoughts in my head.’ He swallowed hard. Janet looked over his head. There seemed to be no feeling in her heart. Her limbs were turned to stone, her tongue refused to move. She noticed that Mary’s bonnet was hanging a little crooked. It gave her a drunken, foolish appearance. She must remember to tell her.

‘Yes,’ she said, and that was all.

‘Don’t - don’t get catchin’ cold or anythin’, remember the evenin’s are chillsome now,’ he told her desperately.

‘No - oh! no!’ Janet listened with surprise to her own voice, dull and cold.

‘Good-bye.’ She looked at him in horror, her eyes sweeping his face, her hands clutching foolishly at her shawl. ‘Are you goin’?’

He turned from her and jumped with a shout into the boat.

‘Give us an oar, an’ let’s pull like the devil.’

The boat swung away across the harbour, and he was gone. Suddenly the bells began to peal for evensong from Lanoc Church.

Usually they were soft and mellow, breathing a whisper of peace and content, but now they clanged loudly, furiously. They ran in Janet’s ears, hideous, monotonous, never changing their ceaseless clamour, falling over each other in a wild confusion of sound.

Thomas came beside her and held her arm.

‘Feelin’ faint, love?’ he asked kindly.‘Don’t ’ee start worryin’ over the lad, he’ll soon find his feet, I reckon.’

She shook her head silently, unable to speak, she put her hands over her ears.

‘It’s them bells,’ she cried suddenly. ‘Won’t they never cease, never?’

The children were looking at her curiously.

‘Come to church, mother dear,’ said Mary, ‘and we’ll all pray that Joe is returned safe and sound to us.’

Thomas pulled out his watch.

‘We ought to be startin’,’ he began awkwardly.‘Us has never been late in our lives as far as I can remember.’

They waited on the slip, a kind, hesitating little group, unequal to the occasion.

Janet drew her cloak about her, and fastened it at the neck.

‘No - we mustn’t be late.’

They walked back along the slip, and turned up the hill. The bells were hushed for a moment, and now another sound rose from the harbour; the hauling and rattling of chains. It was the
Francis Hope
weighing anchor.

The Coombes walked hurriedly to the stile that led across the fields. They tried to speak easily and naturally, but all were aware of their mother’s silent grief. Poor Thomas blundered tactlessly, meaning to cheer and to comfort.

‘Ah! well, we’ll miss the lad’s voice about the house for sure. ‘Twill seem a different place without him.’

The bells started once more, screaming and insistent.

Janet tried to shut her mind to the sound, to put away every thought from her. It was autumn, the time of the year that she and Joseph loved the best. The ripe corn was cut, and the rough edges that were left were short and prickly stubble to the feet. The hedges were bright with hips and haws, and in the gardens in Plyn drooped the scarlet fuchsias. Down in Polmear Valley below Lanoc Church the golden bracken was waist-high and soft lichen clung to the branches of the trees.The farms smelt of manure, and of the bitter wood smoke that rose from the bonfires of the fallen leaves. The swollen brook murmured loudly over the flat grey stones.The evening was grey and cold, the air hinting of mists arising from the river banks. In the elm tree by the church a thrush sang of the autumn, his note sweeter and more plaintive than in spring.

By the gate the family turned, and looked towards the harbour. Already the ship was clear of the land, and every sail set. Her bows were turned to the horizon, and Plyn lay behind her. Soon the land would be astern like a dark smudge in the coming dusk, and the lights would be swallowed up in the darkness.

‘Well, there goes the last of Joseph,’ sighed Thomas.

The ship slipped away like a bird upon the surface of the still water.The bells ceased ringing. Janet Coombe led the way into the church, followed by her husband and her children. She sat through the service dumb and unresponsive.

The setting sun caught the western windows in a beam of light. She knew this same beam would cross the path of the ship that sailed away.The little church was hushed and peaceful. Centuries old, it still held the presence of those folk who had knelt there in years gone by. The stones were worn with the knees of humble people, now in their graves, their names long buried and forgotten.Those who worshipped there beside Janet would one day in their turn come to the same unbroken silence and rest.

Their voices murmured in prayer now, as they responded to the preacher. Joseph in his ship thought of them kneeling there in Lanoc Church, and of his mother’s pale face turned to the lattice windows.

The
Francis Hope
plunged on, with her stern lifting to the sea, and the fresh wind hissing in the flattened sails.

In Lanoc Church the voices sang loud and true, resounding in the old rafters, and with them the plaintive organ rose and fell.

Janet sang with the rest, but her heart stole away from the sound of the hymn and from the voices of the people, beyond the bowed heads and the quivering candles; all she saw were the stars of heaven, and the lights of a ship upon a lonely sea.

12

 

 

D
uring the months that followed, Janet tried to accustom herself to Joseph’s absence. At first it was as though all mortal feeling had left her. She felt as if she herself were dead, and that some mechanical being had taken hold of her limbs and her mind, to continue her life in the same narrow channels as before. Her body was like an empty husk, the nerves and the senses were departed. Outwardly there was no perceptible change, save that her head was carried somewhat higher; she wrapped herself in a cloak of pride to mask her grief.