The Loving Spirit

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I don’t know where we come from, nor how the mist was broken for me to get to you. I heard you callin’, and there’s nothin’ kept me back.’

  ‘They’ve been long weary days since you went from me, an’ I’ve not heeded your counsel, nor deserved your trust in me,’ he told her. ‘See how I’m old now, with the grey hairs in my head and beard, and you younger than I ever knew you, with your girl’s face and your tender unworn hands.’

  ‘I have no reckoning in my mind of what is past, nor that which is to be,’ said she, ‘but all I know is there’s no space of time here, nor in our world, nor any world hereafter. There be no separation for us, no beginnin’ and no end - we’m cleft together you an’ I, like the stars to the sky.’

  Then he said - ‘They whisper amongst themselves I’m mad, my love, my reason’s gone and there’s danger in my eyes. I can feel the blackness creepin’ on me, and when it comes for good I’ll neither see nor feel you - and there’ll be nothin’ left but desolation and despair.’

  He shuddered as a cloud passed over the face of the moon, and it seemed to him he was a child in her arms, crying for comfort.

  ‘Never fear, when the black fit seizes you I’ll hold you as I hold you now,’ she soothed him. ‘When you can neither see nor hear, an’ you’re fightin’ with yourself, I’ll be at your side, strivin’ for you.’

  He threw back his head and watched her as she stood, white against the sky with a smile on her lips.

  ‘You’re like an angel,’ he said,‘standing at the gates of Heaven before the birth of Christ. It’s Christmas, and they’re singin’ the hymn in Lanoc Church.’

  ‘Fifty years or a thousand years it’s all the same,’ said Janet, ‘our comin’ here together is the proof of it.’

  ‘You’ll never leave me again, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Never no more.’

  He knelt and kissed her footprint in the frost.

  ‘Tell me, is there a God?’

  He looked into her eyes and read the truth.

  They stood for a minute and gazed at each other, seeing themselves as they never would on earth. She saw a man, bent and worn, with wild unkempt hair and weary eyes; he saw a girl, young and fearless, with the moonlight on her face.

  ‘Good night, my mother, my beauty, my sweet.’

  ‘Good night, my love, my baby, my son.’

  Then the mist came between them, and hid them from one another.

  There were no thoughts now in Joseph’s mind, no knowledge of what had happened before. He went quietly down the hill, his memory and his reason gone, and let himself in to Ivy House without a sound, creeping silently to the old room he had lived in as a boy, which had remained empty since Christopher had departed.Then he undressed, and lying down on the bed, he fell asleep. He heard nothing of Annie’s low moaning, nor the soft weeping of Katherine, he was not even disturbed by the arrival of the doctor, and the general movement about the house.

  He slept until late the following morning, Christmas Day. When he awoke he rose and dressed himself, and descended to the kitchen. He found something to eat, and sat himself down by the empty grate. People came in and bothered his quiet reflection, he bade them leave him alone, and let him sit there in peace. No, he would not move, he would not go out. Would they please let him rest there in peace? He would do no harm.

  There was a girl weeping by the doorway, her apron to her eyes. He offered her some of his bread, for he was sorry to see these tears. Then her face crumpled up, and she moved away. He wondered who she was, and why there were so many folk coming and going about the house.

  A man came to him, saying he was a doctor. Well, he wanted no doctor. There was nobody ill. Someone took hold of his arm, and told him that his wife and new born child were dead.

  He shook his head and smiled.

  ‘I am not married, I have no child - you have made a mistake.’

  Then he turned his back on them, and spread his hands to the empty fireplace. ‘Would someone light a fire, perhaps?’ he suggested. ‘The mornin’s are cold this time of the year.’ But they went away and left him. They must have forgotten. It may be he had been dreaming all the while. Never mind though, he would lay the fire himself. This he did, and when the cheerful blaze crackled and burnt he rubbed his hands, and laughed. He hummed to himself, remembering snatches of old tunes.

  He found the rocking chair from the parlour, and brought it into the kitchen. Now he could rock backwards, forwards - backwards, forwards. He could watch the bright fire, listen to the clock, listen to his own voice singing. That was very nice, that was very pleasant. Did somebody say it was Christmas? Well, fancy that, who would have known?

  Backwards, forwards - backwards, forwards. Someone looked in at the door.

  Joseph waved his hand. ‘Merry Christmas - Merry Christmas,’ he called.

  There were no days, no nights. . . .

  Philip Coombe was seated at his desk, his head bandaged, and his wrist bound. He was reading aloud a postcard.

  Dear Mr Coombe,

  I see I cannot get to Plyn before 11 o’clock in the morning.

  You had better have someone ready with a trap at noon, so that we can start right away, to get to Sudmin as soon as possible.

  Yours in haste,

  R. Tamlin

  PS - Have you found out if there is room in the asylum, if not, you had better wire immediately.

  ‘This Tamlin is a male nurse, who will act as an escort,’ said Philip, laying the card on the desk.

  Samuel and Herbert Coombe nodded, their expressions grave, their eyes sad.

  ‘Is it really necessary to remove Joseph?’ began Herbert.

  ‘Can’t you see for yourself?’ exclaimed Philip impatiently. ‘Hasn’t he killed his wife, his poor child, not to mention his deliberate and vicious assault on myself? The man is dangerous - a raving madman, I tell you. Let there be no mulish sentimentality among you, brothers. Joe is to go to Sudmin this morning. I have wired to the asylum, and they are expecting him. My word is final.’

  They groped for their hats and took their leave.

  At noon a trap was waiting outside the door of Ivy House. There were little knots of people clustered in the roadway. At the sight of Philip Coombe they moved away, alarmed at his stern face and authoritative manner.With him was a big burly man, a stranger to Plyn. They went into the house together. The sun was shining in a cloudless sky, the blue harbour water flickered, and on the branch of a tree a robin sang. Children’s voices sounded on the beach below the quay.

  A tug-boat was steaming slowly in past the entrance, with a schooner in tow. The sun caught the topsails in a patch of colour, before they were furled on the yard.There were shouts from the deck, and the rattle of halyards as the mainsail was lowered. Then the clanking of the anchor chain. The figure-head stood out white and distinct on the bows of the ship. The Janet Coombe had returned to Plyn.

  Ten minutes later Philip Coombe and the male nurse came out from Ivy House, holding Joseph between them. He made no attempt to struggle or break away, he allowed himself to be placed in the trap, and his coat buttoned up to his chin. He blew on his hands to warm them, he smiled with pleasure at the restive horse. Then he sat still, a big hunched figure, dumb and unresponsive, heedless of those around him. Philip and the keeper were talking in low tones; Katherine was weeping in the doorway.

  Joseph looked over his shoulder to the harbour below him. The keeper climbed into the trap with Philip, and the driver took his place. The little party moved away down the hill, and through the street of the town.

  As they passed the quay Joseph saw the schooner in mid-harbour, anchored safely and her stern to the buoy. She was standing in a patch of sun. For a moment the light flickered in his eyes, shone strong and true, a recognition of love and beauty; then he shivered and the light was gone, leaving a heavy, cold haze instead. The houses shut the harbour from sight, and the trap sped away along the road to Sudmin.

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sp; 14

  For five years Joseph Coombe was an inmate of Sudmin Asylum. He would probably have remained there for the remainder of his life had it not been for the efforts of his sister, Elizabeth Stevens, and her son Fred to have him released.

  In October 1895, Fred Stevens, passing through Bodmin, suddenly decided to call at the asylum and demand to see his uncle, on chance. To his surprise he was admitted, and on inquiring after Joseph’s health, he was informed that the patient was doing very well, that in fact he could have been released three years ago, but that his family preferred to keep him in the care of proper authorities, and paid handsomely for doing so.

  Fred knew at once that the ‘family’ was Philip. He was taken upstairs to the ward where Joseph was seated before the open window.

  The nephew was greatly shocked at the devastating change in his uncle’s appearance. His hair and beard were white, although he was but sixty years of age, and the whole contour of his face had altered.The cheeks were sunken and the brown eyes dimmed.

  Fred went over to where he was sitting and took his hand. ‘Uncle Joseph,’ he said gently, ‘have you forgotten your nephew Fred?’

  Joseph moved in his chair and blinked his eyes, peering up at the young man.

  ‘Why, Fred,’ he said in his old strong voice, ‘this is pleasant indeed. I’m delighted to see you. Why have you never been before? I’ve been staying here some time, you know. Everybody is very kind, I’m sure, but I wish I could go home. Will you ask them if I may go home?’ He smiled timidly like a lost child.

  ‘There now, Uncle. Don’t you fret. I’ll see what can be done about having you home. D’you want to return to Plyn?’

  ‘Yes, please, nephew.They’re all kind here, but home is best. Yes, home is best.’

  Fred left him soon after this, and demanded to see the Governor of the asylum.There were many matters to be gone through before his uncle could be released, but he was determined to overcome all difficulties. In spite of Philip’s objection, there was no possible reason for confining Joseph any longer.

  The family were told of the approaching release, and Ivy House was opened once again. Katherine had no objection to return and look after her father, now that it was proved he was harmless, and as gentle as a child.

  So Joseph was fetched away from Sudmin Asylum one fine morning in November, and brought home to Ivy House where Katherine waited anxiously on the doorstep.

  He was happy and contented to be back. He could remember nothing of his life, nothing of the first terrible years at the asylum, all he knew was that this was his home, and here he had come to rest.

  He didn’t want to move anywhere, he was content to stay where he was. Sometimes he could climb his way slowly to the top of the cliffs by the Castle ruin, leaning on his daughter’s arm, and when he reached the summit he sighed, then stood with his cap in his hand, letting the soft breeze play with his white hair and beard.

  He liked it on summer evenings best, just as the sun was sinking in the west, behind the beacon landmark; when the crimson patches were reflected on the water. There would be a still hush, and now and again the sound of sheep calling one another in the distant fields, or the lowing of cattle.The smoke rose from the chimneys of the grey houses, and with it an evening mist, like a gentle shroud. Children played on the quayside. Then a boat would draw into the harbour, returned from the fishing grounds, with a cloud of gulls in the wake that stretched behind like an orange ribbon.

  The peace and calm of Plyn. Joseph would sigh, and hold his daughter’s arm. ‘You know, Kate girl, I’ve travelled far, an’ I’ve travelled wide, I’ve seen the riotous coast of Africa with her glittering surf an’ her tossin’ palm trees; I’ve lain becalmed in the lazy waters o’ the tropics; I’ve known the cold of Arctic nights an’ the rare white light that leaves a man dumb with wonder; I’ve gazed at the snow-capped mountains of the north; vast, Kate, lonely an’ mysterious. But ’tis a queer thing, an’ a true thing, that wherever I’ve been, an’ whatever I’ve seen, there’s nothin’ like the sweet beauty o’ Plyn harbour when the sun be setting, and the shadows fall, an’ the white gulls fill the air with their joyous clamour. It’s home, Kate, that’s all I reckon.’

  In the May of 1900 Joseph became very feeble, and Katherine saw that he had not long to live. His mind wandered, and he scarcely knew what he was about. She had to dress him, and attend to his wants as though he were a child. Both Albert and Charles were away, and Fred was shortly to be married.

  There was no one to whom Katherine felt she could turn, for she never spoke to Philip Coombe.

  Then one day a letter arrived with the London postmark. She tore it open with eager hands, for she had recognized her brother Christopher’s writing. He wrote apparently overcome with a wave of homesickness, longing to see all their dear faces again, and especially his father’s. He asked if his father would ever forgive him? He had written so many times to them and had never received an answer, he had but poor hopes that this letter would ever reach its true destination.

  Poor Christopher. Then he had heard nothing of the trouble there had been, nothing of those years at the asylum. Katherine read over the letter carefully, then after turning the matter over in her head she resolved to write to her brother without saying a word to anyone. She would write to him imploring him to come home at once, as his father was in weak health, and she feared the worst. So Katherine shut herself up in her room and composed a long letter to Christopher, giving a full account of the years since he had been gone, and then she put on her hat, and slipped to the post with it herself.

  Two days later a wire came for Katherine. Luckily Joseph was in the parlour and did not see the boy coming up the garden path, and the wire was from Christopher saying he would take the train on the Saturday and be with them.

  On Friday evening, 28 May, Katherine left her father safely seated in the garden of Ivy House, and made her way down into the town to tell her Aunts Mary and Martha that Christopher would arrive the following day.

  It was drawing on for evening, and the sun was setting, lighting the roofs of the houses of Plyn and the hills above, and smoothing a wide orange path over the sea that lost itself on the horizon. Joseph moved restlessly in his chair, and pushed aside his rug. He did not wish to sit there any more, he was cramped and stiff.

  He turned his face towards the setting sun, and felt the gentle warmth of it strike his dim eyes, while his hair was blown by the west wind. He could hear the cries of the gulls and the dull lapping of the harbour water. Beyond this was the sea, grey, silent, colourless save for that orange band, like a last trailing whisper of the setting sun.

  And the longing rose in Joseph to look upon the sea once more, to touch the water with his hands, to be borne by the waves to some far-distant resting place where the wind blew everlastingly, and the white surf thundered. He yearned to taste the salt upon his lips, to hear the sighing murmur in his ears, and following the sun track, he would come upon the ship that waited for him. Somewhere, beyond the land, beyond that line where sea and sky mingled, the Janet Coombe lifted her face to the heavens; alone amidst the silence of the ocean she tossed and plunged, glorious and free, her two masts pointing to the stars.

  Joseph rose from his chair, casting it away. He went from the garden; he left the house standing empty and forlorn, with the golden light on the windows.

  His eyes could tell him nothing, but his senses led him to the shipbuilding yard, quiet and deserted till morning. A boat was moored to the ladder at the bottom of the slip. For thirty, forty, fifty years a boat had been fastened there from custom, night after night. Joseph remembered this; like a ray of light at the back of his mind, the memory had opened itself to him. He lowered himself slowly, heavily, into the boat, and untied the painter with stiff, fumbling hands. Then he grasped the paddles in his hands and pulled away to the harbour mouth. The tip of the sun hovered above the rim of the distant hill for a moment - flickered, whispered, and was gone. The pathway shivered in the lost ligh
t, and the red glittering patches faded into mist, and were sunk, swallowed in the hands of the gathering dusk.

  Joseph was a little lad again, a child in a boat for the first time, grasping the heavy oar while his mother guided his straining wrists.

  Joseph was a boy, a laughing, reckless boy, who pulled a quick, impatient stroke, and smiled into the eyes of Janet, seated in the stern.

  Joseph was a young man, filled with the zest and wonder of life, craving adventure, scorning danger, drunk with the glory of wind and sea.

  Joseph was the master of his ship, eager to reach her decks again and forget the empty days on shore, wanting no more but the rattle of shrouds and the hiss of a gale in close-reefed sails.

  Joseph was a husband, showing off his skill to Susan, marvelling with open mouth, her baby in her arms.

  Joseph was a father, and Christopher tugging at his knee with scared brown eyes and sun-kissed hair, pointing at the angry waves that loomed ahead.

  Joseph was a lover, watching the loveliness of Annie, who, ashamed of the light, hid her eyes with her hands to make herself more secret.

  Joseph was an old man, weary of living, calling for release, seeking salvation on the lonely waters where his beloved waited.

  Joseph was none of these things, he was a spirit who had cast aside his chains and triumphed over matter, he was a soul who had climbed from the depths of darkness and despair to the high and splendid hills.

  Night fell upon the ocean, and the winds and the sea rose in unison. The storm clouds gathered and battled in the darkness. The lightning flashed in the rain-streaked heavens, and the waves shouted.

  And a sea, larger than his fellows, rose above the surface and flung itself upon the boat.

  Joseph threw back his head and laughed, as the planks were torn and tossed into the sky.

  Then he spread out his hands, and the waters covered him.