For a week Joseph devoted himself to the task of making his wife happy and content, which was easy and pleasant enough; and he felt proud of her and his home as he thought things over on his last night in Plyn. Queer to think he must consider himself as ‘settled down’ now, and a married man with responsibilities. He bent over her as she lay asleep in the crook of his arm.They were to look after one another through life, she was to share his luck and his misfortunes. Did she care for him greatly, he wondered? Would she understand his moments of wretchedness and desolation? He longed so much for her to wake and to drag his head down upon her breast, and to run her fingers through his hair, and whisper to him that he would be safe with her. Tomorrow he was starting off once more on his lonely path, on his own ship that understood his ways, and where he could give himself up entirely to that strange mixture of dreams and reality that was the essence of his inward life.
But it would be good to know that here in Plyn a woman waited for him, to whom he longed, in some helpless way, to be a child as well as a lover.
‘Susan,’ he said softly, ‘Susan.’
She stirred in his arms and opened her eyes.‘Still awake, Joe?’ she murmured sleepily. ‘Try an’ sleep, my dear, for you’ve a long journey afore you i’ the mornin’.’ She stretched and settled herself once more in his arms. ‘An’ here’s me dreamin’ I’d burnt the Sunday cake to ashes, an’ parson comin’ to tea . . .’
Joseph lay awake until the morning. Below in the harbour the figurehead of Janet waited, her eyes turned to the horizon, and the ship strained at the moornings which kept her from the sea.
4
Once more on the decks of his ship, the interests of his little world were cast aside from Joseph’s mind, as dim and as unreal as the smudge of Plyn astern of him.
His wife and his home were nothing but make-believe, the fancies of one who was not sure of himself, and who created these things to serve as a protection and a means of escape from himself. They could be loved and cherished for a while, but the real life was here, far from the cries and worries of humankind. Here Joseph lived with a strange indefinable sense of freedom, beside the rough simple men who obeyed his will and shared his dangers.
The routine life in the Janet Coombe was much the same as the first year. She made a quick passage to St Michaels, and from thence back to London with fruit, the race again being won by Joseph’s ship, having met with favourable winds the whole passage, and also by a stroke of luck securing an early freight. In London she loaded with coals to Madeira, proceeding in ballast to St Michaels again, from where she returned with a cargo to Dublin. Freights were firm for St Michaels at this time, and the ship returned to Plyn for a few days only, filling up almost at once with clay and taking her departure once more.
Thus Joseph, who had only spent a week of married life, was obliged to sail again with scarce three days added to the original week, and those few hours mainly filled with settlement of the new cargo, and paying off the ship’s accounts. The business was always transacted with Philip at Hogg and Williams, and Philip, though not yet thirty, was hinting at his rise to the position of head clerk in the near future. Mr Hogg was an elderly man, with no sons to follow him, and he trusted most of his affairs in the hands of the head clerk, who was about to retire for reasons of ill-health. It was into this man’s shoes that Philip was to step. Williams, the other partner in the firm, was a pleasant easy-going sort of man, and the young clerk expected to have little or no trouble in dealing with him. Philip was clever and far-seeing; he already looked ahead to the days when old Hogg should succumb to his age, and by judicious foresight and careful investment the young man intended to save enough money to buy the partnership, when it became vacant. None of his family knew of this intention. He kept his concerns private, and no one knew of the little store of wealth that was accumulating year by year. He lived extremely quietly, almost meanly, and his expenses were practically nothing. The only clue to his as yet modest fortune was that he possessed most of the shares of the Janet Coombe. He and Joseph between them held four-fifths of the shares, while the remaining fifth was owned by Samuel and Herbert, whose stock of money naturally was in the business in the yard. Mary and Lizzie also held a small interest.
Philip looked forward to the time when he might control much of the shipping in Plyn, and when he would command respect from his brother Joseph himself.
Joseph was unaware of the secret animosity of his youngest brother. He had never had any particular liking for him, but had not given the matter much consideration. Philip led his own life; they were not likely to come into opposition against each other.
Only Janet had foreseen trouble. She had read it often in Philip’s eyes.
Meanwhile the Janet Coombe had sailed again, and did not drop anchor in Plyn until the first week of October.
Joseph was in a fever of impatience to be back, for Susan was already seven months gone, and he knew she was anxious for him to be with her when her time came. Joseph was strangely excited at the thought of being a father. He had not thought it possible that such a thing could stir him. He had never taken much notice of Herbert’s and Samuel’s children, and had laughed when one of his brothers went about Plyn with an important face, half pride and half concern, that meant his wife was expecting an addition to the family. He had joked with them on the ‘trials of marriage’, and asked them if they did not envy a free sailor like himself, with no cares and responsibilities.
Now he was surprised at his own tenderness towards Susan, and caught himself watching her with anxious worried eyes as she moved slowly about the house, fearful lest she should do herself some damage and harm the child that was within her. This child would carry Janet’s blood in his veins, and his own too.There would be something indefinably precious about him that Joseph could not explain. It was as if Janet herself had been present at his creation, and was sending him as a messenger of consolation, as another tie to bind them more strongly together.
The weeks dragged slowly for Joseph. He could scarcely conceal his impatience, and fretted at what he considered to be an unnecessary waste of time.
Susan smiled at him and said little. She was facing her ordeal with courage, for to a woman of past thirty-five it was no small matter to bring a child into the world. But she was too happy to be overcome by vague fears. She had longed all her life to be a wife and mother, and that Joseph Coombe, the most splendid man in Plyn, should have chosen her for his own, never ceased to be a cause for wonder and glory. She would suffer ten times over if it should bring him any pleasure.
The baby was due in Christmas week, and the Janet Coombe would be sailing for St John’s, Newfoundland, in the very first days of January.
The Christmas festivities came and went, and on New Year’s Day Joseph was standing in the little garden at the back of the house in a half-hearted attempt to do some digging, his spade in his hand. It was in the early part of the afternoon, and he was thinking of laying aside his tools and going into the kitchen to ask Susan to make him a cup of tea, when he heard a murmur come from her bedroom window. She was leaning out, and waving her hand to him.
He threw away his spade and ran to her.
‘What is it, are you taken bad?’ Her face was pitiful, and contracted with pain, but she managed to summon a smile for him.
In a moment he was gone from her and running up the hill. Soon he returned with the doctor.
Why was the man so slow, when perhaps the child’s life was in danger? To his fury, he was shut away from the sick-room, and told to take himself off.
Helpless and raging Joseph made his way to the Janet Coombe, and as he looked upon the figurehead of his ship it seemed to him that calm came to him. The eyes of Janet smiled into his, and bade him to lay aside care and distress. She understood what this thing meant in his life, she knew the great value he placed upon the birth of this child, bringing them both, as he would, nearer together.The evening came and still Joseph stayed by his ship, wrapping himself in the at
mosphere of Janet, and then refreshed and steadied he turned his back on the harbour, and walked along the quay to his house. The doctor was standing on the doorstep.
‘You’ve got a splendid little boy,’ he said, ‘and your wife is rallying wonderfully. You can step upstairs an’ see ’em both, but only stay a minute, mind.’ Joseph burst into the bedroom, with a smile on his lips. He had felt like this before, when he had returned to Janet after a voyage, and she waited for him with open arms. He had known the same sensation on a wild night at sea, when for hours he had battled with wind and sea, and by his own skill had brought his ship to safety. This was the thrill that came to him when he anchored in strange waters, and looked for the first time on a new land where the city lights rose and beckoned with mysterious fingers.
Another adventure . . .
He crossed the room and leant over the bed where Susan lay, pale and weak, upon her pillows. Then he turned without a word and gazed down upon the cot, where the baby was sleeping.
‘We’ll call him Christopher, won’t we, Joe, since he’s come to us at this holy time,’ murmured his wife.
‘Yes,’ said Joseph slowly. He was looking on his son for the first time. He had a tiny red face and his head was covered with soft fair hair.
‘Takes after his mother, I should say, eh?’ cried Mrs Joliff.
Joseph waited and then the child’s eyelids fluttered, and for a moment opened wide.
The colouring and indefinite features were Susan’s right enough, but the eyes were the eyes of Janet.
5
When Joseph returned from his voyages, it was not with a light in his eye and a boyish step that he flung himself ashore, as in the old days with no desire in his mind but to reach Janet’s side as soon as he may; this new Joseph was a man of past thirty, Master of his own vessel, who sat in the stern sheets of a gig while the boat was pulled to the quay by his seamen; and who was greeted with respect by the shopkeepers, before he made his way to the house hard by the Methodist Chapel. Here he was just as much master as on his own ship, and every word was accepted as law and the truth from Susan.
Now all was changed. Joseph would come into his house, and Susan would be standing there in the hall, anxious to relieve him of his raincoat, and fearing the splashes of dirt on the spotless floor. Then she would fling open the door for him, and wait for him to pass into the stiffly furnished parlour, with the hard upright chairs of plush, the white antimacassars on the back, and the pot of ‘everlasting’ fern on the bamboo table by the window.
Joseph was proud of his parlour; it was furnished in the latest style and much admired by the people of Plyn, but for all that he wondered sometimes why the old kitchen at Ivy House had been so homely, with the soft candlelight instead of the gas lights; and the rug for him to lie by the fire had been more soothing than his armchair here. He would sit with his feet on a footstool, while Susan placed a little table at his elbow for his tea, and she herself took up her work on the opposite stiff, hard chair, and prattled on about the local gossip of Plyn, while Christopher, a somewhat fretful baby, moved restlessly in his cot.
With the first excitement of the baby over, he was aware of a certain amount of flatness and staleness about this married life. Nothing unexpected ever happened. The meals were orderly and punctual, his clothes were mended and brushed, and then the days spread themselves emptily before him with little to fill them. Joseph had imagined that once married the hours in Plyn would fly like the wind, and with difficulty he would leave his home for the discomforts and danger of the sea. On the contrary, he found the time heavy on his hands, with Susan busy about the house, and now he was used to her there was no excitement in watching her bake, and cook his dinner.
Then he was shocked to discover that Christopher’s crying got on his nerves. He reproached himself greatly for this, for like Janet he disliked irritation in any form, but sometimes when he sat in the parlour with a book in his hand, in a hopeless attempt to read, the boy started his fits of crying in the kitchen next door, and as the child droned on like a mewling cat, Joseph would fling his book to the floor with a muttered oath, and leave the house to get away from the sound.
Lizzie was the only one of his family who made a companion, and he wistfully asked her to come for a stroll or a row in the harbour, and sometimes she went with him, but not often, for she was very much wrapped up in her farmer, and they were to be married quite shortly. Then Joseph rambled about by himself, and finally returned to his home where his wife was waiting, with his restlessness unappeased.
It was with a feeling of great relief, though cursing himself for his own inability to enjoy his home, that he stood again on the deck of the Janet Coombe, and sailed away from Plyn harbour, alone with his sea and his dreams once more.
In 1867 another boy was born, Albert, and two years later a third, christened Charles.
Joseph’s desire for sons was thus being fulfilled, although to his disappointment he found he was unable to take a great deal of interest in them during these early stages. He was at home in Plyn for barely four scattered months in the year, and these three boys, who followed so closely upon one another, were scarcely more than babies, and clung to their mother, intimidated and nervous of this big strong man with his rough hair and beard, who pinched their ears and tickled their chins, and spoke to them in a deep voice which they were too scared to answer. Joseph realized that, being away at sea as often as he was, it was difficult to appear little more than a stranger to his children. He would have liked to drop down on his hands and play with them, rolling them over like puppies; be, in fact, entirely free from self-consciousness towards them. Something kept him back though, shyness perhaps, and a fear that they would not understand his ways. Susan was no help in this matter either. She was for ever cautioning the children not to make a noise before their father, telling them how hard he worked on that cruel rough sea, so that they should have this lovely home to live. When father returned from his travels he liked to sit quietly and rest, said Susan, and he would be angry if they disturbed him with their silly games and chatter. Everything that father did was right, and if they were quiet, good little children in his presence, then he would be pleased and proud of them.
So, coupled with Joseph’s natural shyness and Susan’s unintelligent but well-meaning training, the children grew up in fear of their father, and spoke to him timidly always, waiting for a chance to escape and play by themselves, or run to their mother to whom they were devoted.
Often Joseph would sit in the parlour after tea, and hear their voices in the next room, and a longing came over him to have them next him, and hold them on his knee, his own boys, Janet’s boys. When he first thought of marriage and children of his own, it was with the idea of their companionship.
He wanted to carry the lads on his back, and chase them about the hills and beaches of Plyn, show them how to sail their toy boats, and watch their faces lighten at his approach. Of course, they were very young, as yet, too young to want anyone but their mother, he supposed, yet it hurt him that they never came to him of their own free will.
‘Where are the children, my dear?’ he would say carelessly to Susan of an afternoon, ‘I don’t seem to have seen anythin’ of them the livelong day.’
‘I reckon they’d be worryin’ you, Joe, with their noise an’ their clatter,’ replied Susan, laying aside her work. ‘You know what children are when they get playin’, there’s no holdin’ them. I sent them in the garden to be out o’your way, but I’ll fetch ’em in.’
‘No need to worry, Susan,’ mumbled Joseph, picking up his paper, ‘they’ll be happy out there by themselves.’
‘Nonsense, dear, if you want to see the children they shall come in at once.They must learn to obey their father’s wishes, that’s the first thing I tell ’em always.’ So saying she would bustle out of the room, and Joseph would hear her marshalling the little boys up to their bedroom to be washed and brushed, whispering to them that ‘Father wants to see you in the parlour.
’
So Joseph, who would have enjoyed to see them muddy and dirty, and running in to him with cries and laughter, their tongues not moving quickly enough to explain to him all they had seen and done, would stand with his back to the fire, his pipe in his mouth, while Susan ushered in two tiny round-eyed boys.
Then his wife perhaps would run upstairs to give an eye to the baby, and he would be left alone with these two, wondering what to say.
His heart went out to Christopher the eldest, with his slim well-built little body, his fair hair, and his brown eyes - Janet’s eyes.
Janet would have known how to deal with these babies; she would have taken the pair of them under her arm and made for the fields, setting them to run bare-headed and bare-footed in the long grass, while she knelt beside them her dress and her hair blown by the wind, inventing some wild and very wonderful game.
His mind instantly flashed to his own boyhood, when even as a little lad no bigger than Christopher now, he had plunged into water up to his waist, his hair falling over his face, tugging at Janet’s hand while they both shouted with laughter at her trailing petticoat, and the pickle they were in. Christopher would have blushed scarlet with shame if he had seen his mother’s hair come down. Something had happened to the world since he had been a boy. It was for the best, he supposed with a sigh, but it turned him bitter and sore at times. And now he stood in his own parlour with these two round-eyed little lads before him.
‘Been playin’ nicely together, Chris an’ Albie,’ he said, making his voice as gentle as possible.
‘Yes, thank you, father,’ they replied seriously.
‘There’s good youngsters.’ He scratched his head wondering what to say next.
‘Well,’ he said after a while, ‘you can play in here if you like, an’ make as much noise as you want.’ He smiled and sat down. Would they perhaps come to his knee?