The Loving Spirit (21 page)

Joseph wrung his hand without a word, and going over to Christopher, he kissed the boy’s head. Then he climbed into the boat, and the others followed him.

As he gazed down upon his wife’s face, now white and silent for evermore, Joseph was possessed with a great pity that she should be gone from her children, but for himself he felt no emotion.

He had never really loved her; he had used her as a way of escape from his own loneliness. And now she had fled beyond him, seeking her own salvation, and not at his side. Poor Susan, she had given him seventeen years of affection and care, and now it was over. She had given him Christopher. . . . He turned away, and as he went down the stairs he wondered what would come to the home and the children without her.The boys would soon be able to fend for themselves, but Kate was merely a child.

The problem was happily solved by his two nieces, Mary and Martha, now tall and strapping young women of twenty-six, suggesting that they should come and keep house for him. Thus, the matter was lifted from his mind.

Another surprise was in store for Joseph on his return, besides the sad hearing of his wife’s death. He went down to the broker’s firm on the afternoon of his arrival home, and found brother Philip seated at the desk in the office which had always belonged to the senior partner.

‘Why, Philip,’ exclaimed Joseph, ‘what in the name of thunder are you doing here?’

‘Merely sitting at my own desk in my own room,’ replied Philip. ‘I’m sorry to hear of your wife’s death; I’m sure she will be a very great loss to you. However, Time the great healer will perhaps - hum . . .’ he pretended to sort his papers.

‘Listen, Philip, I don’t seem somehow to get the hang o’ this,’ said Joseph frowning, ‘what’s come to Mr Hogg?’

‘The old man died a month ago, and I have bought up the partnership.’ Philip leant back in his chair and watched his brother’s astonished expression with cool enjoyment. ‘You see, Joe, while you and my brothers have spent your time marrying and raisin’ large families, I have quietly put by with no one but myself to keep, and here I am, aged forty-two, a partner in this business and a moderately rich man, and my own master in the bargain. Samuel and Herbert are already middle-aged men, and you, I suppose, make some sort of existence on the family vessel?’

‘No need to sneer, Philip,’ said Joseph quietly.‘I’ve no reason to be ashamed of my calling, which is the finest in the world, and a man’s job, what’s more. You can be the gentleman of the family for all I care, and welcome to it if it brings you any satisfaction.’

‘Thank you,’ said Philip, with a superior smile. ‘Incidentally, I suppose you are aware that the remainder of the family have sold their shares of the ship? You and I are joint holders now.’

‘But that’s goin’ agen the original agreement,’ cried Joseph, smashing his fist on the desk. ‘We was all to share equal, an’ everyone to have a benefit.’

‘Perhaps so, but the others being, I imagine, in the need of ready money, competition is fierce, you know, in Plyn, were only too willing to hand over their rights to me. Any objection?’

Joseph had no reply to this. The procedure was entirely legal, but he mistrusted Philip.

‘No,’ he said, shortly.

‘By the way, how’s that eldest son of yours shaping?’ inquired Philip carelessly. ‘He’s old enough to go to sea, I suppose?’

Joseph rose from his chair and seized his hat. He longed to hit his brother in the face, with his sneering attitude, and his hints against Christopher. ‘My boy will be ready when I want him an’ not afore,’ he said and made for the door.

‘Well, Joe,’ called Philip as a parting shot, ‘I gather you are a happy man with this big growing family of yours. However, I’m glad I’ve been single and free during the best years of my life. No ties or anything. Now I have an established position though, I may look around me and choose some beautiful young thing to share my home. I’m still a comparatively young man, you see. Good day to you.’

Joseph laughed as he left the building. So that was why Philip had lived so much in retirement all these years. He would control much of the shipping in future, he supposed, if he was buying up shares in this manner.Well, he could hang himself for all Joseph cared.

The next few weeks in Plyn Joseph spent much of his time up at Nicholas Stevens’ farm, where his sister Lizzie was always pleased to welcome him and give him a meal. He liked the happy, friendly atmosphere of this place, and the obvious mutual devotion of Lizzie and her kind husband. They were three in the family, two girls and a boy. Joseph found himself much attracted to this lad, Fred, who though only twelve or so was a keen, intelligent youngster, with ready answers and a lift to his chin which reminded him of Janet.

Thomas Coombe was now seventy-seven, a frail tremulous old man, who could just manage to creep down the road to the yard now and again, to see how things were going.

He would sit on a bench and puff at his pipe, making some remark from time to time which nobody would notice, and follow with his eyes his namesake and grandson, Thomas, Samuel’s eldest son, in whom he liked to see himself all over again. And then Mary would appear to fetch him home, a stout middle-aged woman whose expression and character had changed very little in all these years; she had still the same affectionate self-effacing character. Joseph’s heart always beat faster when he approached the path to Ivy House. At times he was a boy again, playing in the front garden with his eye on the kitchen window, from which Janet would peep, waving to him, taking her mind off her work; and at other moments he was a young man, returning from the sea, knowing that she was there waiting for him. He could never look at the room above the porch without remembering his first homecoming from the
Francis Hope
, when she appeared with her girl’s plaits at the window, and he had climbed up to her, hand over hand, by the thick-branched ivy. Nearly thirty years ago.

One afternoon Mary met him at the door with a worried expression on her face.

‘Father’s poorly,’ she told him. ‘He’s up in bed and seems so weak. I don’t know whether ’tis tiredness only or if I should call the doctor. Come up and see what you think.’

He found his father propped up by pillows, his face white and sunken, his eyes gazing vacantly to the open window, and his thin hands plucking nervously at the sheet.The veins stood out on his temples, and his lips were blue.‘Is that you, Sammie?’ he murmured.

Joseph knew at once that his father was dying.

‘Fetch the doctor,’ he said in a low tone to Mary, and she went at once, frightened and distressed.

‘It’s Joe, father,’ he said gently, and going towards the bed he took his father’s hand. ‘Be there anythin’ I can do for ye?’

‘Back from the sea, boy, eh?’ Thomas Coombe peered up at his son. ‘I can’t see ye without my spectacles, but I’m sure you’m well and hearty, an’ glad to be home. Give my compliments to Captain Collins, that worthy man.’

‘That’s right, father. Why not try an’ get a little sleep, dear?’

Thomas moved his head fretfully about the pillow. ‘I ought to be down at the yard,’ he said. ‘They’ll be launchin’ that new boat tomorrow forenoon, and I’m blessed if those boys will do it proper. The Squire will be vexed if anythin’ goes wrong, an’ your brothers haven’t the experience that’s mine.’

Squire Trelawney had been dead twenty years, and his nephew lived up at the House now.

Joseph felt the tears coming into his eyes.They rolled down his cheek and into his beard.

The afternoon quietly faded, and the sky was streaked with crimson and golden patterns. They shone upon the surface of the harbour water. From the yard came the steady clanging of hammers, as planks were nailed into the ribs of some new ship. Presently Mary returned. The old doctor was dead, and this new one was a younger man, and a stranger to Plyn. He held Thomas’s wrist and felt his pulse.

‘I can’t do anything for him,’ he said gently. ‘I’m afraid his time has come. There’s very little life left, you see, and I think he will be gone in a few hours. There will be no pain. Would he care to see the parson?’

Mary threw her apron over her head and began to cry softly to herself. Joseph saw she would be the better for something to do.

‘Go down to the yard and tell Sam and Herbie to come at once, and Philip too if you can find him at the office.’

Then when she was gone he took his place once more at Thomas’s bedside. The old man muttered sentences from time to time, but it was impossible to catch what he said. The orange light dwindled in the sky. Long shadows crept across the floor. Suddenly the sound of hammers ceased down at the yard. Joseph knew that his brothers had been told.

With the silence Thomas spoke in a clear, firm voice.

‘They’ve stopped work for the night,’ he said, ‘the boys will be comin’ home to supper.’

‘Yes, father.’

‘I reckon as all will be quiet now, till mornin’ agen, won’t it Joe?’

‘Aye, that’s so, dear.’

For a few minutes there was silence, and then Thomas spoke again.

‘I don’t fancy as I’ll read the Bible, not just at present. Seems as though my eyes is come over terrible dim, and I’ll fancy restin’ awhile. Maybe Mary’ll read it later on, when I feels refreshed.’

‘Just as you like, father.’

The house was very still. Down in the parlour below the old clock was ticking on the wall. Joseph could hear the sound through the thin boards of the floor.

Quietly the other brothers made their way into the room, followed by Mary. Philip had been impossible to find, and it was too far to run and fetch Lizzie.The tears were flowing fast down Herbert’s cheeks, but Samuel knelt beside the bed and whispered in a low tone:‘Be there somethin’ you require, father?’

Thomas felt for his head in the gathering dusk.

‘That you, Sammie? I’m glad you’m come. You’ll have a tidy wrist for the saw if you practise hard, sonnie, but you must always heed my advice in all things, so see.’

His voice wavered uncertainly, he tried to raise himself on the pillow. ‘How the evenin’s do draw in for sartin, we’ll be havin’ the light for supper now regular. I can mind the time when ’twas sweet to feel the fall o’ dusk on Plyn, and me, as a young chap in a tidy way, callin’ your mother up to Castle ruin . . .’

He leaned back exhausted, and closed his eyes. The breathing came slow and harsh now, difficult to control. The three men waited beside their father, with Mary at the window. For a long time he did not speak, and the room was quite dark. No one thought of lighting a candle.

Then he spoke once more, his voice sounding immeasurably tired, and coming from far away.

‘Janie,’ he said, ‘Janie, where are you to?’

Joseph bent low over the bed and watched his father’s eyes. They opened wide and looked into his.

‘You’ll not be forsakin’ me, lass, I’m thinkin’.We’ll bide a tidy while together, you an’ I. D’you know that it’s terrible strong the love I have for you, Janie, leavin’ me all of a tremble at times like a flummoxed lad.’ He held out his two hands and covered Joseph’s eyes, and then sighed gently and so fell asleep.

Thomas Coombe was buried beside his wife Janet in Lanoc Churchyard, next to the thorn hedge and the old elm tree.Their tombstone stands today, high above the waving grass, with long stems of ivy clustered about their names. Beneath the inscription are these words in faded lettering:

‘Sweet Rest at Last.’

In early spring the first primroses nestle here, and the scattered blossom falls from a forsaken orchard beside the lane.

8

 

 

A
lbert Coombe had gone to sea beside his father the Skipper, and his cousin Dick. Charles was at a training camp for soldiers away in the Midlands somewhere. Only Christopher remained at home, pleading his health as an excuse for not going to sea. He was working down at the yard with his uncles and his three cousins, and imagined that he was wasting his time. Christopher could not banish the demon of restlessness that was ever at large within him. He loathed and detested the thought of being a sailor, his only experience these eight years ago had never been forgotten. He read the disappointment in his father’s eyes. Every time Joseph returned the son was aware of the unspoken question that never passed his lips. ‘Will you come with me this time?’ Then ashamed, miserable, half-rebellious at heart, Christopher would show his father that even if he was a poor sailor, he would make a splendid workman. Secretly he disliked the business, he dreamt of leaving Plyn and seeking his fortune farther afield, but had no idea how this could come about.

Meanwhile, the father must have patience. Joseph was now fifty, and had not yet wearied of the sea or of his ship. He was as strong and as powerful as he had ever been, with little trace of grey in his dark hair and beard. He had never known a day’s illness. The only thing that troubled him occasionally was his eyesight. At times his right eye became sore and bloodshot, and the pupil greatly distended in size. He had no idea of the cause of this. Every now and again this eye would fail to register, as though there was a film partially obscuring the sight, and then all would be clear again, and the shooting pain that was part of the trouble would also pass away. Joseph said nothing of this to anyone; he refused to admit to himself that there might be anything serious connected with it, as obstinate as Janet herself had been with her faltering heart. Nothing mattered but that the
Janet Coombe
still held her high reputation as the fleetest schooner of Plyn, and that son Christopher would soon become a man.

Just before Whitsun of 1885, Joseph returned to Plyn after an exceptionally long voyage. He had been twice to St John’s, Newfoundland, for fish, which had to be taken down to the Mediterranean, and then had secured good freights from St Michaels to the Mersey, making three runs. It was now the latter part of June, and he looked forward to a peaceful, happy time while at home before setting forth again. Christopher pulled out to the
Janet Coombe
as soon as the ship dropped anchor. Joseph looked about him with pleasure. There were several boats rowing up and down the harbour, and some children were bathing in the Cove beneath the Castle. Real glorious summer weather. He promised himself some days’ fishing round the bay, with Christopher perhaps at his side.