Never before, either with Samuel or with Mary, had Janet felt so weak and tired in the early months. She was more concerned for the child than herself, and was afraid it would be born prematurely and die. The feeling of peace and security she had known before the birth of the two other children was not with her this time.
Her old wild, restless longings rose within her, and she wanted only to leave the house and her family, and take herself away into some silent far-distant place.
She no longer sat in the rocking chair, her work in her hands, content with the peace and warmth of her home, she would wander restlessly about the house, miserable at her weak state.
When the summer came, and the days were warm and long, Janet would leave the house and taking the children with her, climb laboriously to the top of the high cliffs above Plyn, and sit there for hours, watching the sea.
She longed for freedom as she had never longed for it; a throb of intense pain shook her being when she saw a ship leave the harbour of Plyn, her sails spread to the wind, and move away like a silent phantom across the face of the sea. Something tore at her heart to be gone too.
As the months slowly passed this feeling became stronger and more vital, not a day passed when Janet did not find some moment or other for making her way to the cliffs, and turning her head to the wind and listening to the sound of the sea. More than ever in her life she felt the urge and the desire to use her strength and to move swiftly, then she looked at her ugly misshapen body and bowed her head in her hands for shame that she had been born a woman.
Her nerves, usually calm and unruffled, were jagged and on edge.
The house seemed empty to her, she found no peace within its walls - it gave her nothing. She was short with Thomas and hasty with the children, they were all part of the chain that bound her to Plyn. Back to the cliffs she would roam, restless and miserable, searching for what was not; frightened at solitude yet craving it withal - her soul as sick as her body, and alone.
So the summer months drew into autumn, the early mornings were chill and drowned in a white mist, while at nights came the sharp frosts, heralding the approach of winter. Truan woods and the trees round Plyn were a riot of colour, and then the first leaves fell, shivering, rustling, a pale covering for the earth.The seaweed broke away from the rocks, and floated dull and heavy on the surface of the water. The rich brown and yellow autumn flowers became sodden with the soft autumn rain, and drooped their heads upon lean stalks.
Harvest was gathered in, the apples stripped from the orchards and stored in the dark lofts.
The birds seemed to have vanished with the summer sun, only the everlasting gulls remained, wheeling and diving for fish in the harbour, the long-necked solitary shag, and the stout busy little puffins.The river was silent, save for the whisper of the trees when the leaves dropped to the ground, and the weird mournful cry of the curlew as he stood at low tide on the mud banks, searching for food.
Dusk came early, soon after six o’clock, and the people of Plyn closed their doors and their windows against the cold damp mist, leaving the night to wrap its shrouded blanket about their sheltered homes, heedless of the weeping sky and the lonely baleful owls.
So the last week of October drew to a close.
The damp still weather changed of a sudden one afternoon, great purple clouds gathered from the south-west, and a low ugly line ran along the sea’s horizon. With the turn of the tide the strong wind changed to a gale, and descended with all its force upon Plyn.
High mountainous seas broke against the rocks at the harbour mouth, and swept their way inside the entrance. The spray came up over the Castle ruins, and the water rose above the level of the town quay, flooding the ground floor of the cottages grouped there on the cobbled square.
The men shut their women folk inside their houses, and made their way to the harbour slip, to see to the safety of their boats. It was the last day of October, ‘All Hallowe’en’, and usually a beacon was lit on this night, and the custom followed of feeding it at midnight with driftwood, and then proceeding through the town, but tonight this was abandoned - for no one would venture forth into such a gale unless on duty bound.
Thomas Coombe was down at the yard, watching the rising tide with apprehension and longing for the turn, when no more damage could be done. At Ivy House the children were put to bed and already asleep in spite of the howling wind. Janet had laid the supper and was awaiting Thomas’s return.
The rain had now ceased, only the wind and the sea shouted in unison. Every leaf was scattered, and the broken branches swung in the trees, creaking and shaking like the rattle of a ship’s shroud. Something was dashed against the window and fell, sending Janet’s hand to her side with the shock of the sound. She opened the window to see, and saw the dead body of a gull with its two wings broken.
The wild air tore at her curtains and blew to darkness the flickering candles.The fire hissed and shrank in the grate.Then Janet felt the movement of the live thing stir within her, she felt the striving of one who would break his bonds and be free.
And to her, too, came the call for liberty, the last desperate longing of a soul to seek its freedom, and the anguish of a body cast from its restraint.
She threw up her hands and cried aloud, and the wild mocking wind echoed her cry - ‘Come with me,’ called the voice out of the darkness, ‘come and seek your destiny on the everlasting hills.’
So Janet wrapped her shawl about her head, and conscious only of the pain that gripped her and the struggle of spirit and body, she stumbled away into the wild wet wind, with the call of the thundering sea in her ears.
Down in the yard Thomas and his men watched the slackening of the tide, and when they saw it retreat slowly inch by inch, angry at the forces which compelled it, they knew that the premises were safe for the night until the following morning.
‘Well, lads, it’s been a hard forbiddin’ watch for us. What do ye say to a cup o’ somethin’ hot up to the house? The wife will have it ready and waitin’.’
The men thanked him gratefully, and marched by his side up the hill to Ivy House, half bent with the weight of the wind at their backs.
‘Hullo, no lights,’ said Thomas. ‘She’s surely never gone to bed.’
He made his way into the house, the men at his heels.
The room was just as Janet had left it, with supper on the table, but the fire was low in the grate, and the candles blown out.
‘That’s queer,’ muttered Thomas, ‘’tesn’t like Janie to leave a room in such a state.’
One of the men looked over his shoulders.
‘Seems as if Mrs Coombe left everythin’ hasty-like,’ he said. ‘Suppose she’s been took bad, she’s very near her time, isn’t she, Mr Thomas, beggin’ your pardon?’
Fear clutched at the heart of Thomas.
‘Wait,’ he said, ‘I’ll see what she’s about.’
He went to the bedroom over the porch and opened the door.
‘Janie,’ he called, ‘Janie, where are you to?’
Samuel and his sister were sleeping sound, there was no movement in the house. Thomas ran downstairs, breathing hard.
‘She’s not there,’ he stammered, ‘she’s not anywhere; she’s not in the house.’
The men looked grave, they read the fear in his eyes. Suddenly he clutched at the table for support, his legs weakening. ‘She’s gone to the cliffs,’ he cried, ‘she’s gone out into the gale, crazy with the pain.’
He seized the lantern in his hands and ran from the house, shouting and calling to the men to follow him.
Folk came to their doors. ‘What’s all the pother an’ noise?’
‘Janet Coombe’s trouble is upon her, an’ she’s gone to the cliffs to lose herself,’ came the cry.
Men donned their coats and found lanterns to join in the search, and one or two women besides, sorrowful and anxious at the thought that one of their kind should suffer. The group staggered up the hill after Thomas, already a long way ahead
.
Borne through the air came the chime of midnight from Lanoc Church, the final notes loud and triumphant with a gust of wind.
‘All Hallowe’en,’ whispered the folk amongst themselves, ‘and the dead risin’ from their graves to walk the earth, an’ the evil spirits of all time fillin’ the air.’
And they huddled close together and called for God’s mercy and protection, with horror in their hearts for the plight of Janet.
They gathered beside Thomas at the summit of the cliff, where the gale nigh shook them from their feet, and the black sea crashed against the rocks.
Hither and thither tossed the pale lanterns, searching the ground. ‘Janie,’ cried Thomas, ‘Janie - Janie, answer me.’
No sign of her on the bare grass, no sign of her in the tangled ferns.
Now the rain came once again, blinding the eyes of the searchers, the boiling waves dashed themselves to pieces, sending cloud after cloud of stinging spray on to the cliffs above.
The wind tore at the ground and the trees, wailing and sobbing, and cried like a thousand wild devils let loose in the air.
Then a faint shout came from Thomas, who held his lantern high above his head, and the light fell slantways upon the figure of Janet beside the Castle ruin.
She was crouched half kneeling in the grass, her hands flung out and clenched, her head thrown back. Her clothes were drenched with the spray and the rain, and her long dark hair fell wild about her face.
On her cheeks were the marks of her own tears, and those of the rain from Heaven.
Her teeth were biting into her torn lips, and blood ran at the corner of her mouth. The light in her eyes was savage, primitive, the light of the first animal who walked the earth, and the first woman who knew pain.
Thomas knelt by the side of Janet, and took her in his arms, and carried her away down the bleak hillside into the town of Plyn, and so to her home and laid her on the bed.
All the night the storm raged, but when at length the wind ceased, and the sea quietened its mournful clamour, peace came to her.
And when Janet held her wailing baby to her breast, with his wild dark eyes and his black hair, she knew that nothing in the whole world mattered but this, that he for whom she had been waiting had come at last.
8
‘Joseph, leave your brother alone, will ’ee, tormentin’ him like the little devil you are.’
‘No, I won’t. He’s got my boat, an’ he’s goin’ to give it back to me,’ said the boy firmly.
‘I only wanted to see it for the shape,’ cried Samuel, wiping the tears from his face. ‘I haven’t done’un no harm. Get away, Joe, you’re hurting.’
The two boys were struggling on the floor, Samuel, the eldest, held down by his younger brother. Joe’s black hair fell over his face, he threw back his head and smiled, a dangerous gleam in his brown eyes.
‘Give it me, or I’ll smash your face in,’ he said softly.
‘No, you don’t, my lad,’ shouted his father, and Thomas sprang to his feet from his armchair by the fire, and pulled the two boys apart; Samuel pale and shaken, Joseph reckless and laughing.
‘Is this the way you behave on the Sabbath? Has’n’ church taught you no better’n that? For shame on ye. Samuel, you go to your room an’ to bed without your supper, but you, Joseph, you’ll take a beatin’.’
Samuel went quietly up to bed, crying to himself, ashamed of his bad behaviour; and Thomas was left alone with his second son.
Although he was only seven, Joe was tall and big for his age, nearly as tall as Samuel who was eleven. As he stood there, with his dark eyes fixed on his father’s, his head thrown back and his chin in the air, he looked so much like his mother that Thomas turned away for a moment, then he hardened himself.
‘Do you know you’re a bad evil boy?’
The child made no answer.
‘Baint you goin’ to reply to your father when he asks you a question? Say you’m sorry at once, will ye?’
‘I’ll say I’m sorry when you gives me my boat, an’ not afore,’ said the boy coolly, and he stuck his small hands in his breeches and tried to whistle.
His defiance staggered Thomas. Never had Samuel behaved like this, or either little Herbert or Philip, the two youngest boys. Only Joseph persisted in getting his own way above them all, as if there was something in him that made him different to the others. He looked different too, with his dark wild appearance; his clothes were always in holes and his boots through at the toe.
Two or three times a week he played truant from school, or was complained of in some way or other, generally for fighting. It seemed as if Thomas had no authority over him at all. Only Janet knew how to handle him. Since his birth seven years ago on that dark October night, this small bit of a lad had dominated the household. He had needed more careful rearing than either Samuel or Mary, and during the first few months of his existence the house had rung with his screams and his yells. There had never been such a baby for making a noise. Only when his mother held him close to her and whispered to him, was he quietened. Once he grew out of his babyhood he threw off his first temporary frailty, and developed into a strong sturdy boy. Ivy House was seldom still or peaceful now, it resounded with either his laughter or his rages. He was not spoilt, there was no attempt made to pamper or give in to him in any way, it was just the boy’s personality that threw a sort of glamour about him, and there was no gainsaying him.
With the development of his character he seemed to open also that of his mother’s. From the moment of his birth Janet had altered.The soft pliability of temperament that had obeyed Thomas’s wishes during the first years of marriage had flown to the winds, and with it the solitary melancholy part of her that had seized her later. She had emerged stronger, braver, utterly fearless in mind, soul, and body, with no humble wishes to please her husband only and to care for his home, and no half-conscious longing and vague desires in her mind. Now she was no more a girl half sure of herself, puzzled at the world; she was a woman of past thirty who had already brought five children into the world.
Thomas, who had hitherto ruled home and business with no doubt about it, found himself placed gently but firmly in the background. It was Janet who had the first say and the last say at Ivy House, and now it had come to be the same down at the yard. It was Janet who suggested a change here, or an improvement there, it was Janet who ordered this and refused that. Of course,Thomas was the head of his own firm, and he gave the orders, but all the men under him and the folk of Plyn knew that his wife was behind him. Any man who had been slacking at his work invariably straightened his back and clutched his tool with an uncomfortable fear in his heart when Janet came down to the yard, with young Joseph following close behind her.
‘Well, Silas Tippet,’ she would say, ‘you’ve been an uncommon length o’ time over that piece o’ plankin’. What’s the reason for it?’
‘Well, I can’t say, Mrs Coombe,’ mumbled the man, red as fire,‘we’m tremendous busy down here, if you ask Mr Coombe he’ll tell ’ee . . .’
‘Stuff an’ nonsense, man,’ said Janet sharply,‘that boat’s promised by June the first, an’ on that date ‘twill be ready. It’s nails that is wanted in that plank, an’ not the drops of beer from your pocket, so see.’ - And she swept away like a regular queen, with young Joseph’s hand in hers.
And by June the first the boat would be ready for sure. At Ivy House and in the yard there were only two people that mattered - Janet and Joseph. Always the same couple running the house and running the business - Janet and Joseph.
But in the year 1842 Joseph was still but a lad of seven, and known then to be ‘terrible wild’, while Janet was famous for two things in Plyn, her beauty and her temper.
Back in Ivy House Thomas stood in the parlour, his stick in his hand, and Joseph before him. ‘Come here an’ take a beatin’,’ he said gravely.
‘I won’t,’ said the boy, and folded his arms.
Thomas took a step towards him and sei
zed his collar in his hand, then he bent the child over and gave him three hard cuts with the cane.
Joseph fought like a little devil, and catching hold of his father’s wrist he bit it, breaking the skin and bringing blood.
Thomas dropped his stick with a cry, not of pain but of horror, at the action of his son.
He was white with the shock, none of his children had ever done such a thing. ‘God will punish you in His own way,’ he said quietly.
Joseph seized his coveted boat from the table, and with a shout of triumph he climbed out of the window, preferring it to the door, and was gone.
Upstairs poor Samuel knelt by his bed, his face in his hands - ‘Please God, make me a better boy,’ then he undressed, folded his clothes, and climbed into bed, the sheet over his head.
Thomas sat uneasily by the fire.When would Janet be back and what would she say?
She had gone to tea with Sarah Collins, taking with her Mary and Herbert, and little Philip.
Thomas reached for the Bible on the shelf, always his consolation, and unfortunately the book opened at the Commandments, and his eyes fell on the line - ‘... for the sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children, even unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me . . .’
He sighed and shook his head. He had always loved and trusted God, he could think of no action in his life that could deserve the pain that Joseph had brought upon him. He had always been so proud of his family, too. Good, hard-working Samuel, gentle patient Mary, kind stolid Herbert - even quiet baby Philip with his small refined features; none of them had ever gone against his word, except Joseph.
Janet and Joseph - Joseph and Janet - the pair of them together controlled everything.
Thomas listened, he heard footsteps and voices in the garden.
It was the family returning. Janet swept into the room, the children following. They were chatting and laughing, pleased with their afternoon.