The Loving Spirit

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘You do, do you? You make a habit of reading dead people’s letters?’

  Jennifer turned away, the tears in her eyes.

  ‘I never want to do it again - there’s so much unhappiness, so much that is pitiful, that I’d rather not know the truth.’

  ‘Was it these letters that you were crying over when I came in just now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He came and sat on the bench beside her.

  ‘Why should they make you cry?’

  ‘I don’t know who you are - or why I should answer you. You called me a curious fool just now, let’s leave it at that.’

  ‘I’m sorry - that was rude of me. But you see, this ship belongs to me: I was furious that anyone who was a stranger, who didn’t understand, should come aboard at all.’

  ‘I do understand.’

  ‘These papers have given you some idea, I suppose. The ship is bound up with the lives of dead people, men and women who loved one another - and now there’s nothing left. It was very wrong of you to open the sealed letters.’

  ‘How can it be wrong when they are mine?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Those letters were written by my father to my grandfather. ’

  ‘Then you are Jennifer?’

  ‘Yes - I’m Jennifer. Are you John?’

  ‘I’m John.’

  ‘Do you want a handkerchief, Jennifer? I’ve got one here you can use. It’s fairly clean.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She took his handkerchief and blew her nose, then wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes.

  ‘Now you look better. I’ve been rather beastly to you. I’m terribly sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right. How were you to know who I was.’

  ‘I don’t know - I might have guessed. So you’re living with Philip Coombe? How do you get on with him? You seem to be the only person who has ever managed him.’

  ‘I think people have been frightened of him so long that it’s become a sort of legend. He isn’t frightening at all. He’s just a wretched old man who is afraid to die.’

  John made no answer to this. He fumbled about in his pocket.

  ‘Do you mind a pipe?’

  ‘No.’

  For a minute he busied himself in filling and lighting it. Then he spoke again.

  ‘Listen, Jennifer. Don’t think any more about those letters. It was all long ago, wasn’t it? You’re upset because you feel your father was never forgiven. I can remember him here in Plyn. I was only a small boy at the time, but he gave me the impression of being the happiest, gentlest creature in the world, utterly content and at peace. Really at peace. He didn’t worry about his father Joseph. He knew that everything was all right. I liked him tremendously, he was my own father’s greatest friend.’

  Jennifer touched his arm.

  ‘You can read these letters if you like. Read them with me now.’ He glanced at her sideways.

  ‘Can I? That’s rather sweet of you, Jennifer.’

  She spread them out in front of her and they sat with their shoulders touching, their chins cupped in their hands.

  When they had finished Jennifer put them away without a word.

  ‘How did the box come here?’ she asked afterwards.

  ‘It belonged to your grandfather. It was always kept here. Then when Dick Coombe became skipper he used it too. Those letters of your father must have been slipped in when Joseph Coombe went to Sudmin.’

  ‘Daddy must have written other letters, I wonder what happened to them.’

  ‘Destroyed, I suppose.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Do you want to keep the box?’

  ‘No - let’s leave it here, where it’s always been.’

  He got up and taking the box he put it away in the drawer. Then he came back, and looked down at her curiously, his hands in his pockets.

  ‘So you and I are cousins, Jennifer?’

  ‘Vaguely - but several times removed.’

  ‘No - not so damned removed.’

  Jennifer laughed.

  ‘Come on deck - I want to show you something,’ he told her. They climbed up the ladder and walked forward to the fo’c’sle head.

  ‘Give me your hand,’ said John. He pulled her up beside him by the bowsprit. They both leaned over the bows of the ship. ‘You haven’t met Janet Coombe, have you?’

  ‘No,’ said Jennifer.

  ‘There she is, below you.’

  Jennifer looked upon the figurehead in the white dress, the old-fashioned hat, the dark hair pushed away from the pale face, the eyes gazing seaward, the chin in the air.

  ‘Oh!’ cried Jennifer,‘I wish I’d known her, I wish she wasn’t dead.’

  ‘She isn’t dead.’

  ‘Isn’t she?’

  ‘No - she knows we’re here, both of us.’

  ‘I believe she does.’

  They smiled at one another.

  ‘Jennifer, do you realize anything?’

  ‘Realize what?’

  ‘Do you realize you’re exactly like her?’

  ‘Like the figurehead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She laughed. ‘Am I really?’

  ‘H’m. How odd,’ he broke off suddenly, and leaned against the bulwark, his chin in his hands.

  Jennifer went and stood next to him. ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘Wondering what made me come out to the ship today.’

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ she told him. ‘After all, we ought to know each other, being cousins.’

  ‘We aren’t terribly removed, are we?’

  ‘No - not terribly.’

  They looked down into the shallow water, watching a crab settle on the bottom. John picked up a piece of glass and threw it down. They laughed as the crab scuttled away.

  ‘Jennifer, I believe I remember you as a child.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes - I’m sure you were brought to tea at the farm sometimes. Rather shy and timid.’

  ‘Was I? I believe I remember you too. There was a boy called John played with me once in a field. He kept running ahead, and I couldn’t keep up.’

  ‘I bet that was me.’

  He kicked the side of the bulwark.

  ‘Jennifer - tell me why you’ve gone to live with Philip Coombe?’

  ‘I don’t know - as a sort of subtle revenge.’

  ‘Don’t see where the revenge comes in myself.’

  ‘No - you wouldn’t. Nobody would but me.’

  ‘Is it terribly subtle?’

  ‘Terribly.’

  He could not help smiling at her grave face.

  ‘You ran away from home, didn’t you?’

  ‘I ran away from London - Plyn is my home.’

  ‘You love Plyn very much?’

  ‘H’m.’

  ‘So do I.’

  They looked across the harbour and watched the gulls.

  ‘How old are you, Jennifer?’

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘You look younger.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  After a minute he spoke again.

  ‘Would you like to come and look over the yard some time? That is, if you’ve nothing better to do. It might interest you.’ He spoke as though he didn’t care twopence whether she came or not.

  ‘Yes - I’d like to very much.’

  ‘Don’t bring Uncle Philip with you.’

  ‘Do you think I would?’

  ‘Jennifer - listen. If he gets trying - if you suddenly loathe the sight of him - will you come and tell me?’

  ‘Right, John, I will. You mean - I can vaguely count on you should I get depressed or . . .’

  ‘No - not vaguely. Definitely. Always at any time.’

  ‘It’s awfully nice of you,’ said Jennifer. She whistled and looked at her watch.

  ‘I ought to be getting back.’

  They walked to the ladder in silence.

  ‘Can I take you
anywhere in my boat?’ she asked.

  ‘No - I can get back across the fields.’

  She climbed down the ladder into the waiting dinghy.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said John. He looked so stern and cold that she was almost afraid of what he should say. ‘Listen - supposing we make this a sort of weekly business? I mean - come out here every Sunday and talk.’

  Jennifer hesitated. He sounded so bored with his idea she hardly cared to agree.

  ‘Do you mean that?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure.’ Then he smiled.

  ‘That’s a bet then?’

  ‘That’s a bet.’

  ‘Good-bye - Jennifer.’

  ‘Good-bye - John.’

  Now that Jennifer acted as her uncle’s companion there was no point in her continuing as typist in his office. She had no need of money. What he allowed her for housekeeping expenses was more than enough for her wants. Jennifer was not naturally extravagant but on seeing the pain it gave her uncle to part with as little as a shilling, she doubled the expenditure, knowing for his own sake he dared not refuse. He had fixed it in his mind that this great-niece of his should be the barrier between him and terror, that while she was present Janet and Joseph could not get to him. He clung to her from fear.

  So, though he watched her spend his money he said nothing. Jennifer knew that every penny she threw aside hurt this old man, and she continued, recklessly, laughing, remembering how Christopher had suffered.

  This was the subtle revenge of which she had spoken to John.

  After the house in Marine Terrace had been done up, painted, redecorated, and refurnished from top to bottom, she turned her attention to Plyn itself. The mission, the hospital, the poor, all these claimed her attention under the official patronage of her uncle, and when a scheme was brought forward to raise a sum in order to acquire large spaces of the headland for the public, as a safeguarding against building, the name of Philip Coombe headed the list of subscribers.

  And all the while Philip Coombe watched little by little the crumbling of the wealth he had secreted for himself, he watched this girl with Joseph’s eyes and Joseph’s ways do as she pleased, spend as she pleased, and he hated her.

  Jennifer saw the expression in his narrow deep-set eyes, she saw his wrinkled hands clutch the side of his chair, she saw the thin mauve lips pressed tight together - she knew the horror he had of her and she smiled inwardly, caring not at all.

  Jennifer had no worries, the time was passing pleasantly for her. She wrote to her mother telling her of the happenings of Plyn, of this living with Uncle Philip, of the freedom and amusement of life in general, of her friendship with her cousin John. Her mother’s reply was typical, neither cool nor particularly warm, surprised that she should have so made up to her father’s enemy, but glad that she was comfortable in his house, and after all, she had always heard he was a gentleman which Jennifer must naturally appreciate with her own education and upbringing. Plyn of course was delightful in summer, but no doubt she would find it very different with the approach of winter, though probably in her position as Philip Coombe’s niece she would have invitations to parties and dinners, which she, Bertha, had never experienced, poor Daddy having no social position. Meanwhile Francis and herself had settled comfortably down once more at No. 7, after a delightful three weeks at Ventnor, and she was certain that her life in future would make up for all those lonely years of widowhood and even before.At last someone really understood her, and though she would always remember poor Daddy with affection, she knew now what true love meant, she and Francis being everything to each other.

  And Jennifer must look upon Francis as a real friend and adviser; if she returned to London she would find a ready welcome from them both.

  Bertha added in a postscript that poor Grandmamma was seedy, and though she had not forgiven Jennifer she had insisted on reading the letter. She had seemed very perturbed about this Cousin John, and wanted to know what he and Jennifer found to do on a lonely old wreck, miles from sight of anyone, and quite out of earshot, on a Sunday afternoon. She did not like the sound of it at all.There was no knowing what a hot-headed young man might take it into his fancy to do.

  Jennifer shouted with laughter over the postscript, but frowned as she saw the words at the bottom . . . ‘anyway, Jenny dear, although Grandmamma exaggerates, I hardly think the idea of these meetings very nice myself. After all, you are so young and with nobody to look after you down there. I should not care for you to come to any understanding with this young man - boat-builder or whatever he is - especially as he is a cousin.’

  ‘What idiots they are,’ thought Jennifer, putting the letter in her pocket. ‘Boat-builder sounds like a plumber, the way she writes it. John’s the cleverest yacht-designer in the country. Besides, we’re not very close cousins if it comes to that. And anyway I loathe the way people jump to conclusions - it’s filthy.’

  She walked very fiercely down the hill, furious with the world in general, and seemed surprised when she found herself at the yard entrance. John was standing in the middle of the yard, talking to his foreman. His clothes were white and dusty, as though he’d been messing about in shavings. His fair hair flopped over his right eye, one hand was waving in the air, and his long legs looked as though they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

  Jennifer knew this attitude. It was the one he used when he tried to explain anything. She waited patiently until he should finish. Presently he caught sight of her. His hand dropped, his legs untwisted, and he walked away with the foreman far too carelessly to deceive anyone but himself. ‘Yes,’ he said loudly, ‘Yes - er - what I’ve been trying to point out is this, that . . .’ but when he was out of earshot he looked at his watch in some surprise and said ‘I’d no idea it was so late. Look, I’ll see you about that business in the morning,’ and left the foreman in the yard, scratching his head and wondering.

  John strolled across to the gate - casually, yawning a little.

  ‘Is that you, Jennifer. I thought p’raps I saw you, but I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘Are you very busy?’

  ‘Lord no - finished for the day,’ he lied.

  ‘Good.’

  He swung himself up on the gate beside her.

  ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’

  ‘Nothing much. I’m depressed. I’ve had such a beastly letter from Mother.’

  ‘Oh! - what about?’

  ‘I’ll read it to you if you like. It’s all about this awful husband of hers.’

  ‘Well, hang it, Jennifer, I s’pose she’s fond of him.’

  ‘How could she be after Daddy?’

  ‘But your father’s been dead nearly fourteen years - I know it sounds queer to you, but there’s no earthly reason why she shouldn’t care for somebody else.’

  ‘John - you just don’t understand. After being married to the most perfect man in the world to go and end up with an awful pompous, fatuous fool like Horton ... it’s utterly beyond me.’

  ‘Of course it’s beyond you. How can you expect to follow her feelings. Possibly your mother was never terribly happy with your father. This chap, though he may be a fool, happens to suit her, understand her - I don’t know. Anyway, she was probably lonely.’

  ‘Lonely?’

  ‘Yes - lonely, Jennifer.’

  ‘How dreadful, I never thought of that.’

  ‘You’re always telling me she never made any attempt to understand you. Did you ever make any attempt to understand her?’

  ‘No - I - I suppose not.’

  ‘Well then—?’

  ‘Oh! John - how terrible. Shall I go back to London now, this minute?’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot. It’s too late now, besides she’s happy with this husband of hers.’

  ‘Do you really think p’raps she didn’t get on with Daddy?’

  ‘Maybe not. I mean, they may have been awfully sort of devoted but never well - absolutely - I can’t explain.’

  ‘I know what y
ou mean. Never really indispensable.’

  ‘H’m.’

  ‘It must be dreadful to be married to a person and not sort of feel that if they went away you’d be sick all day in a basin.’

  ‘I don’t think one would do that, would one? Personally - of course I don’t know anything about it - personally if I loved someone and they went away I wouldn’t be sick, I’d just feel everything in life would be utterly pointless, un-worth-while - there would no longer be any object in working, thinking. And yet one would go on - just the same.’

  ‘Would you do that? Oh! I wouldn’t. I’d be sick at first, and then I should get very angry, and dress up as a man and join the Foreign Legion.’

  ‘You’d soon be discovered.’

  ‘No - I wouldn’t, I’m strong, I’m quite thin - I don’t look like a girl.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘I say so.’

  ‘Then you’re a bloody fool.’

  ‘John!’

  ‘Sorry - let’s change the subject. Read me your mother’s letter.’

  She did so, leaving out the postscript.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry, Jennifer.’

  ‘I don’t. It’s only I can’t understand it. That awful man . . .’

  ‘He’s obviously very attractive to her.’

  ‘If you could see him.’

  ‘Some women fall for the most amazing men. Fellows with spots, and bad teeth, who smell.’

  ‘John - don’t be filthy.’

  ‘It’s true - I think all men are terrible anyhow.’

  ‘You look pretty repulsive yourself at this moment, I must say. Where’s that dust come from?’

  ‘Wood shavings.’

  She brushed it off with her hands.

  ‘John - are we going to the wreck on Sunday?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘It’s fun rather, isn’t it?’

  ‘H’m.’

  ‘John - d’you suppose Janet Coombe was happy with Thomas?’

  ‘I wonder. I think she was probably too wrapped up in Joseph to care for anyone else.’

  ‘And Joseph probably never cared for either of his wives really - he was thinking about her, or worrying over his son.’

  ‘And your father Christopher thought so much about you that he rather forgot his wife.’

  ‘Isn’t it awful, John? All these people loving one another and being prevented somehow, from absolutely understanding, from it being perfect. They went away - or they died - or they quarrelled - or they lost each other. Somewhere - something went wrong for them. They had a kind of loneliness the whole time. I feel the same - I shall always miss Daddy.’