Philip seemed to have no wish to join his brothers later at the yard; he was a queer secretive boy with his own friends and his own ideas, and he spoke little, spending most of his time reading in a corner.
Lizzie was now a dear unselfish little girl of ten, who seemed fond of everybody, and was made a general pet by the household.
What of Joseph? At eighteen he was taller than his father and his brothers, with square powerful shoulders and a massive chest. Except for Lizzie, he was the only dark one of the Coombe family. His hair was thick and curly, already whiskers were growing on his cheeks, and he looked older than his brother Samuel, who was twenty-two. He had not yet learnt caution. There was not a man in Plyn he would not have fought for the pleasure of it, nor any wild escapade of which he did not make himself the leader. Old people shook their heads when Joe Coombe’s name was mentioned.
The girls of Plyn blushed when he looked at them in church, which he had made a point of doing, and they would gather in groups, giggling, and whispering excitedly when he passed them in the street. ‘He’s treated Emmie Tippit shameful, ’ whispered one. ‘Aye, an’ now they say he’s turned down Polly Rogers,’ whispered another. Who would be the next victim, they wondered. One of them, perhaps. The secret longing rose in their hearts and would not be stilled.
It was high time Joseph went to sea. He was going, too; very shortly now he was to join the Francis Hope as apprentice under Captain Collins, Sarah Collins’s husband.
Joseph felt that the first ambition of his life was to be realized. To go to sea, to leave Plyn behind him, and all the stuffy ill-natured folk who would not let him do as he wished. He was not afraid of roughing it in a cramped barquentine, of being treated possibly worse than a dog, of being soaked to the skin for hours on end, little enough to eat and a few wretched hours of sleep; this was a man’s life, and in spite of having to obey orders from morning till night, it was a free life. He laughed at Herbert and Samuel, who seemed content and proud of themselves after a day’s work down at the yard.What did they know of real work? Icy gales and shaking sea-drenched canvas, slippery decks in the darkness, hard ropes that tore your fingers, the waves and the wind fighting in unison against your life, the cries and oaths of roughmen. None of his family envied him, save one, Janet, his mother. At forty-two she was unchanged; the years had not left their mark upon her.There were no lines beneath Janet’s eyes, no grey threads in her hair.
Her figure was still that of a young woman, for all the six children she had borne. Her eyes were bold and fearless like her son’s, and her chin was perhaps more determined than ever. She alone envied Joseph. There was nothing she desired more than to be at his side on his first ship, and to share his discomforts and his dangers.
Before he came to her, before he was born, she had always known that the sea would claim him, as it would have claimed her had she been a man.
She was proud that Joseph was to be a sailor, but her heart was sick and cold at the anguish of parting. She despised herself for her weakness, she who had no fears of death nor danger. Her reason told her to be still and unmoved, she would follow Joseph in the spirit; but her body claimed his body, she could not bear that his eyes would no longer light upon hers, nor his voice whisper in her ear, nor his arms hold her close. She must fight against this weakness, fight with all the strength that was in her, and conquer herself.
She made no attempt to hide her pain from Joseph; they had never hidden anything from each other.
They said little during these last days. They pretended to busy themselves with Joseph’s new clothes. Joseph was never still for a moment. He ran wild about the countryside to prevent himself from thinking, he fought the farmer’s son over to Polmear Farm, and was chased by the labourers, he made love to three girls in Plyn on the same day and forgot them a moment afterwards. He disturbed his brother and his father who were working on a new boat down at the yard. He spoilt Mary’s cakes that she had baked so carefully for supper, he hid Lizzie’s doll behind the harmonium where she could not reach it, he took Philip’s books and chucked them down the dried-up disused well at the bottom of the garden.
His spirits were wilder and higher than they had ever been in his life, he sang and shouted at the top of his voice, he broke a chair in the parlour, the house shook with his noise and his clatter.
‘There won’t be no peace till you’m gone,’ cried Mary indignantly.
‘Hurrah - hurrah - only one more day now,’ shouted Joe, his eyes shining, his hair falling over his face.
Only Janet understood that this was a blind, a last defiance, a pretence of strength, and every now and then his eyes would meet hers across the room, savage, miserable - ‘I love you - love you - love you.’
He saw her lower her head, and the colour drain from her face, leaving it white and pitiful. She clenched her hands, and turned away, looking into the fire. ‘Careful - now, Mary, with the hot plates,’ she said in a steady voice.
He could bear it no longer. He ran from the room and left the house, climbing the steep hill to the cliff like a madman, the angry futile tears brushing his cheek, blaspheming God aloud. The trees tossed in the wind, the hedges moved, the sheep cried sorrowfully from beyond the fields. He saw none of them, he saw only Janet’s face and her dark eyes looking up into his. He felt her cool hands on his forehead, her low voice speaking his name. He knew the sound of her footsteps, the rustle of her skirt.
He remembered the strength of her arms when she carried him as a little boy, and the sweet clean smell of her as he pushed his head against her bodice. He remembered looking up at her, holding her hand; running madly to her to climb in her lap and to mutter some nonsense in her ear. She kneeling beside his bed at nights and tucking him safely, while Samuel and Herbert slept like logs in the corner.
How they laughed and whispered like conspirators in the darkness and he would watch her steal from the room like a pale ghost shielding the light with her hand, her eyes shining, her finger on her lips.
Joseph reached the top of the cliffs, and he flung himself on the ground, tearing at the earth with his hands, groaning and kicking like one in a physical pain. ‘Hell and Damnation - Hell and Damnation—’
Back at Ivy House Janet sat at the head of the table, while the family gathered round for supper.
Thomas looked about him frowning.
‘Wherever’s Joseph to? The lad is that wild with his goin’ away tomorrow, there’s nothin’ to be done to him.’
‘Leave him alone,’ said Janet, softly. ‘I reckon he’s finishin’ his packin’ in his room.’
She knew well he had run from the house and was now cursing and blaspheming by the Castle ruins.
‘Oh, no, he’s not,’ put in Philip, sneering. ‘He went up the hill as fast as he could go. He’ll be meetin’ some of his girls to kiss ’em for the last time.’
‘High time he went to sea,’ murmured Thomas thoughtfully.
Janet looked across at her youngest son.What was this queer strain of his nature that made him mean and sly at times? He was the only one of her children she did not trust. He had more intelligence than the others, but there was something indefinable in his character that made her shudder. He was harmless at present, but when he grew to be a man, what then?
She wondered if the difference in him was owing to her weakness after he had been born. She had not been able to nurse him.
Thus she had never felt that he belonged to her.
She turned her eyes away from Philip, and glanced at the clock on the wall. Joseph would be hungry. She knew that sitting with his family would be irksome to him this last evening, and he would want only to be left alone with her. At that moment Joseph came into the room. His clothes were bespattered with mud, and there was an ugly red mark on his cheek.
Janet knew this meant he had been weeping.
The family glanced at him. They thought he had probably cut himself, falling by the stile.
Only Philip laughed quietly to himself. ‘Did she sc
ratch you so hard, Joe?’ he asked.
‘Be silent, Philip,’ said his mother sharply, and she handed Joseph his plate.
He sat down without a word, and never spoke throughout the meal. The others took no notice of him, they were used to Joe’s queer changes of mood.
When supper was cleared, they all sat round the fire as they did every night. Janet and Mary took their sewing on their laps, while Lizzie learnt a new stitch from her sister. She alone seemed to sense something of the agony in her mother’s eyes and Joseph’s, and once she went across to her brother and squeezed his hand. He looked up at her in surprise, and noticed for the first time that her expression was like to Janet’s. He pulled her curls softly and smiled. ‘I’ll be bringin’ ye back a new dolly for sure,’ he told her. Thomas sat in his armchair opposite his wife, with a book in his hands. He narrowed his eyes at the small print, and fumbled for his glasses. How old he was compared to the Thomas who had kissed Janet on the top of the Plyn hill, over twenty years ago. Yet he saw no difference in himself.
Herbert and Samuel were cleaning Samuel’s gun in a corner of the room, Philip was counting the money in his money-box. He always had more silver than any of the others. Joseph was standing at the window, his hands in his pockets, only his back view visible.
The old clock ticked and coughed on the wall, the fire settled sluggishly in the grate.
Thomas turned a corner of his book, and then laid his head against the back of the chair, and took off his spectacles. His eyes fluttered, he sighed, he opened his mouth wide and yawned horribly.
‘Think I’ll be goin’ up, dear,’ he said to Janet.
‘Yes, Thomas,’ she answered. ‘It’s your bedtime, too, Lizzie.’
There was the sound of Lizzie’s light patter in the girls’ room, and the heavy sober tread of Thomas in the room over the porch.
A board creaked loudly now and then. One by one the others moved off to bed, and soon Janet and Joseph were left alone.
She laid aside her work, and poked at the dying fire. The room felt chilly, drear. Joseph put out the lamp, and snuffed the candles. He drew aside the curtains, and the light of the moon made a white pattern on the carpet. Then he came across the room, and knelt beside Janet in the darkness.
‘Do you know how much I love you?’ he whispered.
‘Yes, Joseph.’
He held her fingers and kissed the hollows of her hands.
‘I reckon I’ve never realized before what the losin’ o’ you meant.’
She rested her head on his shoulder when he said this.
‘You won’t be losin’ me, Joseph. This baint a real partin’, ‘tes a reason for you to find yourself, an’ lead the life that’s suited to you.’
‘’Twon’t be a life away from you. ‘Twill be a misery an’ an anguish, turnin’ me to stone till I’m by your side again.’
‘Hush, Joseph, I won’t let you say these things. Cowardice is no man’s business, ’tisn’t for the likes o’ you an’ me.’
He dug his nails into her hand.
‘Call me a coward, do you?’
‘Yes - we’m both cowards, an’ I’m filled with shame at myself.’
He put out his hand and felt her chin.
‘I knew it would be stickin’ i’ the air,’ he smiled. ‘’Tisn’t no good, don’t let’s be brave for our last few hours together. Bravery’s no mortal use to me now. I want to lay here all night, and cry at your feet, and worship you in a still an’ silent way.’
He bent his head, and she laughed in the darkness, and kissed the back of his neck.
‘How long are you goin’ on bein’ a child like this?’
‘Always - never. I don’t know.’
‘Why baint I a man to come along wi’ you?’ she sighed. ‘I’d be at your side i’ the daytime an’ learn a sailor’s life. I can picture the sway o’ the vessel as she leans to the wind, an’ in rough weather the grey seas sweepin’ the deck. Bare feet, bare head, an’ the taste of salt on your cracked lips. At night the kiss of wind an’ rain, the shouts of men through the darkness, and then sudden, when a great cloud broke away loose from the sky, there’d be one wild white star.’
‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘I’ll find you clothes - pretend you’re Sam; come along to keep me company.’
‘You’ll never be lonely, Joseph. Promise you’ll never be lonely?’
‘Aye, I promise.’
‘What’s to be done about darnin’ your socks an’ the like? An’ you won’t be fed proper. Oh! sudden, the fear an’ dread of it all comes upon me - you goin’ away without me like this.’
‘Mother, dearest love - there’ll be nothin’ to hurt. Look, it’s me the brave one now, an’ you all pale an’ tremblin’ like a lamb i’ the fields.’ He took her in his arms and rocked to and fro.
‘Where’s your proud chin now?’
‘’Tes all a sham, an’ always has been through my life,’ she whispered. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
She laughed through her tears.
‘Stop it, will you?’ he said. ‘Here’s fine talk about bravery. Listen, every night at this hour, whatever I’m doin’ and wherever I be, I’ll look for a star in the sky; an’ when I judge as there’s a star pointin’ his finger over Plyn I’ll close my eyes and say good night to you.’
‘Joseph, what made you think o’ that?’
‘It came to me by the Castle ruin tonight, and gave me comfort; and at this same time when I’m away on the sea, you’ll lean out o’ your room over the porch; an’ the star that’s direct above you will be the star I’m lookin’ at.’
‘I’ll remember, Joseph. Every night. Will you never be forgettin’?’
‘Never - never.’
She took his face in her hands and smiled, while the moonlight cast a shadow in his eyes.
‘My baby - my sweet.’
The ashes fell in the grate, and the clock ticked slow and solemn on the wall.
Although the next day was Sunday the wind held true from the north, and Captain Collins determined to sail with the evening tide. Joseph’s things were got on board and stowed away by his hammock in the fo’c’sle. All the family came down to the slip to see him off, and bid him farewell.Thomas shook him warmly by the hand and blew his nose rather too heartily, when he saw him climb into the boat with his companions, and pull for the ship.
He was fond and proud of his handsome son for all his wild ways. The boys clapped their brother on the shoulder and chaffed him for a sailor, while Joseph kept up his jokes and his laughter until the end. Mary slipped a couple of hot saffron buns into his pocket, and Lizzie gave him a spray of white heather she had discovered on the hills. Janet stood a little apart from the others, chatting quietly to one of the men whom she knew. Joseph hung back too, and made some cheerful remark to his father about the weather.
The last minutes were passing, flying now - faster - faster; they fled away in a hopeless tangle of time. Joseph took a step towards Janet. The men were waiting in the boat below, ready to push off for the ship.
He grasped her hands and kissed her hurriedly, roughly on her neck behind her ear. ‘I can’t find my speech somehow, ’ he muttered, ‘there was somethin’ - many things - I was goin’ to have told you. All gone now - I’ve no thoughts in my head.’ He swallowed hard. Janet looked over his head. There seemed to be no feeling in her heart. Her limbs were turned to stone, her tongue refused to move. She noticed that Mary’s bonnet was hanging a little crooked. It gave her a drunken, foolish appearance. She must remember to tell her.
‘Yes,’ she said, and that was all.
‘Don’t - don’t get catchin’ cold or anythin’, remember the evenin’s are chillsome now,’ he told her desperately.
‘No - oh! no!’ Janet listened with surprise to her own voice, dull and cold.
‘Good-bye.’ She looked at him in horror, her eyes sweeping his face, her hands clutching foolishly at her shawl. ‘Are you goin’?’
He turned from her and jumped wit
h a shout into the boat.
‘Give us an oar, an’ let’s pull like the devil.’
The boat swung away across the harbour, and he was gone. Suddenly the bells began to peal for evensong from Lanoc Church.
Usually they were soft and mellow, breathing a whisper of peace and content, but now they clanged loudly, furiously. They ran in Janet’s ears, hideous, monotonous, never changing their ceaseless clamour, falling over each other in a wild confusion of sound.
Thomas came beside her and held her arm.
‘Feelin’ faint, love?’ he asked kindly.‘Don’t ’ee start worryin’ over the lad, he’ll soon find his feet, I reckon.’
She shook her head silently, unable to speak, she put her hands over her ears.
‘It’s them bells,’ she cried suddenly. ‘Won’t they never cease, never?’
The children were looking at her curiously.
‘Come to church, mother dear,’ said Mary, ‘and we’ll all pray that Joe is returned safe and sound to us.’
Thomas pulled out his watch.
‘We ought to be startin’,’ he began awkwardly.‘Us has never been late in our lives as far as I can remember.’
They waited on the slip, a kind, hesitating little group, unequal to the occasion.
Janet drew her cloak about her, and fastened it at the neck.
‘No - we mustn’t be late.’
They walked back along the slip, and turned up the hill. The bells were hushed for a moment, and now another sound rose from the harbour; the hauling and rattling of chains. It was the Francis Hope weighing anchor.
The Coombes walked hurriedly to the stile that led across the fields. They tried to speak easily and naturally, but all were aware of their mother’s silent grief. Poor Thomas blundered tactlessly, meaning to cheer and to comfort.
‘Ah! well, we’ll miss the lad’s voice about the house for sure. ‘Twill seem a different place without him.’
The bells started once more, screaming and insistent.
Janet tried to shut her mind to the sound, to put away every thought from her. It was autumn, the time of the year that she and Joseph loved the best. The ripe corn was cut, and the rough edges that were left were short and prickly stubble to the feet. The hedges were bright with hips and haws, and in the gardens in Plyn drooped the scarlet fuchsias. Down in Polmear Valley below Lanoc Church the golden bracken was waist-high and soft lichen clung to the branches of the trees.The farms smelt of manure, and of the bitter wood smoke that rose from the bonfires of the fallen leaves. The swollen brook murmured loudly over the flat grey stones.The evening was grey and cold, the air hinting of mists arising from the river banks. In the elm tree by the church a thrush sang of the autumn, his note sweeter and more plaintive than in spring.