All was forgotten save this finding of himself and his father Joseph. The dim shape of the stricken ship loomed out of the darkness, he heard the shouts and the cries of men, he heard the grim shaking of the torn rigging above the thunder of the breakers.
Then out of the mist she swept, desolate, forlorn, like a great and mournful gull with its wings broken, heading for the rocks. Christopher raised his eyes and saw the shuddering, trembling vessel, he looked at the bows and beheld the white figurehead, her hands at her breast, her proud face turned towards the surf upon the shore. Straight into his eyes she looked. As the ship plunged in the trough of the sea he read the white letters on the starboard bow - Janet Coombe.
The lifeboat drew alongside, borne on the swell of a big sea. The skipper stood upon the deck; he placed his hands to his mouth and shouted; ‘We can save the ship yet,’ he roared above the fury of wind and sea. ‘We can save her if the tugs come quick an’ get her in tow.’
‘No - no,’ cried the men from the lifeboat, ‘jump now, all of you, jump for your lives. The ship must go.’
The schooner’s crew tumbled like scared sheep into the waiting boat, but the skipper shook his head.Then Christopher rose from his place and clung to the rope’s end that his cousin had flung. ‘There’s time yet!’ he yelled. ‘Look there!’
He pointed to the harbour entrance, where slowly round the point, plunging and rearing into the gigantic seas, came the lights of the two tugs.
‘They’ll do it, I tell you, they’ll do it,’ shouted Christopher, ‘get on board, some of you, to lend a hand in making fast the hawser when they come.’ The poor, frightened crew cowered in the boat, too exhausted and wet to move, while the men in the lifeboat hesitated, glancing from the tugs to the foaming rocks. They would never be in time.
‘Stay in your place, Coombe,’ ordered the coxswain of the boat. ‘It’s your life you’ll be riskin’ if you climb aboard that vessel. There’s none can save her now.’
Another big sea lifted the ship towards the waiting rocks.
Christopher smiled, and catching hold of the rope’s end he swung himself aboard the schooner, and stood by the side of his cousin Dick, the skipper.
The lifeboat hung away from the helpless ship, and the men lay on their oars, ready to stand by when she struck. The Janet Coombe was deserted save for the two cousins, who waited, silent and motionless, as the tugs drew nearer and the ship swept on to destruction. Christopher knew that they were not alone, he knew that Joseph was beside him giving him his courage, he knew that Janet was with him bidding him be calm. He had never known danger and now it was before him. The great cliffs stared up towards him, the smouldering surf rang in his ears like a wild sweet song.That moving thing in the mist was the tug, that flying, tearing rope was the flung hawser. Blindly, instinctively, Christopher and Dick worked in the darkness, yelling at one another, stumbling on the sea-swept deck.
There was a shudder and a crash as the ship struck the first ledge of rock - but the hawser held. A gigantic sea swept the face of the vessel - but the hawser held. Inch by inch over the tumbled breaking sea plunged the little tugs, with the Janet Coombe in tow, a jagged hole in her bottom, the hold fast filling with the churning water. Another sea swept Christopher from his feet and hurled him, face downward, upon a broken spar. Dick clung to the wheel, spent and exhausted. ‘Give us a hand here, Chris,’ he called. ‘Just a hand, lad, for the worst is over now.’
But his cousin never moved.
When Christopher opened his eyes he saw the black skies above his head, and he felt the soft rain fall upon his face.
He was lying on the old cobble stones of the quay, and it seemed to him that the eyes of many folk were upon him, and that they were talking amongst themselves. He tried to move, and as he did so the blood rose in his throat and choked him. Then he remembered that he had been fighting, he remembered one wild stupendous moment on the Janet Coombe, when the hawser held.
Someone wiped away the blood from his mouth.
‘Did we save her?’ he asked.
A voice spoke in his ear. ‘Aye, you saved her, but she’ll never sail again. There’s a hole in her bottom, an’ the keel clean ripped away. It’s the mud now for the Janet Coombe, though you kept her from the rocks.’
‘I’m glad for that,’ he said, ‘I’m glad she’s safe.’
Now their voices sounded faint in his ears, and he could no longer see their faces. The sky was speckled with queer dancing lights. He felt very weary, very tired. People lifted his head and held him in their arms. They were all slipping away from him though, he thrust out his hands towards them and they were gone.
‘Tell Father I wasn’t afraid,’ said Christopher. ‘Tell Father I’ll never fear the sea no more, for I’ve conquered it at last.’
Book Four
Jennifer Coombe (1912-1930)
Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world’s tide is bearing me along;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong.
E. BRONTË
... And there are bosoms bound to mine
With links both tried and strong;
And there are eyes whose lightening shine
Has warmed and blest me long:
Those eyes shall make my only day,
Shall set my spirit free,
And chase the foolish thoughts away
That mourn your memory.
E. BRONTË
1
Jennifer Coombe was six when her father Christopher died. The horror and fear that this cast upon her was to become part of her childhood, and even when she grew up, with him already many years in his grave, the memory of the death haunted and tormented her, causing by its presence a strange, unaccountable dread of the future. She would always remember, somewhere in the dark desolate places of her mind, the night that he had gone from her, never to return.
It was like the coming of a great darkness upon the glory of her little day. Hitherto life had been a succession of months, a following of winter upon summer; moments when she could play in the garden for hours on end, and moments when she must stay in the house with her toys because of the wet skies and blustering winds. Living was a matter of routine to her. She awoke in the mornings with a song on her lips and a happy expectation in her heart, reaching for her teddy bear, and glancing across to the big bed where her father and mother lay. Only a tuft of Daddy’s fair hair was visible, he slept on his front with his face buried in his hands.
When Mother had washed and finished dressing, she went downstairs, and then Jennifer’s moment had come. She scrambled out of her cot, and climbed on to the big double bed. She tripped over Daddy’s foot beneath the blanket, and he stirred restlessly in his sleep.Then she struggled with the sheet and curled in beside him, contented with the strange warmth of his body and the comfort it gave to her.
He opened one eye and seeing her there he smiled, and held her close.
‘Hullo, Jenny!’ he said.
At breakfast she sat beside him, and it was he who poured the extra helping of cream on to her porridge, making the whole an island surrounded by a white lake. Then he was off, and away to his work at the yard, with Jennifer running to the end of the garden path with him, her short legs striving to keep in time with his long stride. She swung backwards and forwards on the creaking gate, watching his back as he disappeared down the hill, waiting for his turn as he reached the corner and waved his last farewell.
In summer-time he took her on to the cliffs by the Castle, and peering over his shoulder she saw the sea stretching away for ever like part of the sky, the sea whose murmur woke her in the mornings and whose whisper was the last thing she remembered before sleeping.
During the day the sound of it rang in her ears, summer and winter, always the sigh of the waves as they broke against the Castle rocks. When the rain came, and the mists, and the hollow echoing wind and sea shouted fierce and insist
ent, laughing at the wet gulls, Jennifer was never afraid. She could not imagine a world without the sea, it was something of her own that belonged to her, that could never be changed, that came into her dreams at nights and disturbed her not, bringing only security and peace. The sea was part of her life that could never be taken away from her, any more than her father could be taken from her.
When she lay in the narrow truckle bed at nights, her last biscuit eaten, and the last candle blown, she listened one moment to the hum and murmur of her father’s voice in the room beneath. Soon, aware of the thin ceiling boards, he raised his voice and called up to her, ‘Are you asleep, Jenny?’ This was her last signal that all was well. She turned on her side, sighing for no reason, and fell asleep knowing that he would never forsake her, knowing that in the morning she would wake to see his fair tousled head buried in the pillow of the big bed beside her mother.
At last the day came when Daddy went to Sudmin. He started early in a motor-car with the uncles, and the novelty of this was exciting to her, but he forgot to wave his hand.
It was dark before he returned, and as she ran into the hall to kiss him he put her away from him gently, and went into the parlour. No one spoke at supper. When Jennifer could bear it no longer, and her mother scolded her, she burst into tears, and above her mug of milk she saw her Daddy’s face, white and fearful.
He rose and went out of the room. She struggled to free herself from the table, calling to him to come back to her, but he never heard.
Then her mother carried her upstairs and undressed her without a word, tumbling her clothes off her and forgetting to fold them up, tucking her so tightly in her bed that she felt imprisoned.
The house seemed still and ghostly without the customary voice below; no star shone through the chink tonight, and the wind shuddered in the ivy branches. She cried softly to herself, her thumb in her mouth, the salt tears running down her cheeks.
Suddenly came a sound that she was never to forget, the sound of three rockets fired into the night.
As the last echo died away Jennifer held out her arms and screamed: ‘Daddy - don’t go from me, don’t go from me.’
She ran out on to the passage in her white nightgown, distressed, tormented - frightened, she who had never known fear before. The house was ringing with voices and questions. Now her mother was running upstairs and seizing her in her arms. She was being dressed, she was fumbling with her gaiters, her thick coat was buttoned to her throat and a heavy shawl wound about her mouth.
Harold was swinging a lantern in his hands, he picked her up and handed the lantern to his mother. They ran down to the quay, they moved amongst a throng of people, calling, questioning, their voices carried away by the wind. And Jennifer pulled at her mother’s skirt, ‘Where’s Daddy - where’s Daddy?’ but nobody answered her; once more they were running up the hill, to the high cliffs where dark figures moved amongst one another in the mist. The wind blew at her, the rain stung her eyes.
Now they were sweeping down the hill, now time disappeared in a hopeless confusion of horror, and now all that remained in the depths of a child’s memory was the parlour in the early morning, the floor wet and muddied from the footsteps of many people; Mother, her face weird and twisted to one side stretching out her hand to Harold, and Jennifer herself peering round the corner of the door, looking beyond them to something that was covered by a blanket on the stiff horsehair sofa. . . .
The Janet Coombe lay at the entrance to Polmear Creek. The tide had deserted her, and she leaned pitifully on one side, half buried in this bed of mud and slime. Her bottom timbers had been torn from her by the jagged rocks at the harbour mouth, and the water gushed from her side, rust-coloured, like the blood from a living thing.
No longer was she part of the wind and the sea, no longer would she answer the call and pass away upon the surface of the water, free and triumphant. Adventure would claim her no more, nor beauty, nor the white skies; the singing gales would be a memory now. Gone was the stinging foam and the kissing spray, gone was the rattle of shrouds, the thud of canvas, the songs and the laughter of men.
Here her spars drooped listless and forlorn, her sails hung like rags upon the bent yards, and she herself was no more the pride and glory of Plyn but a shunned wreck, stricken and forsaken. A gull cried mournfully above her decks, and spreading his wings he took himself away to the high hills and the sun.
In the bows of the ship the figurehead of Janet gazed towards Plyn. She saw Jennifer, part of herself and belonging to her; she saw Jennifer, lonely for the first time.
2
‘Coombes’ had gone into liquidation, and today the sale had taken place at the yard. The shipwright’s hammer would be heard no longer, it was the auctioneer who took command and a representative of the firm of Hogg and Williams. The place was filled with inquisitive folk who had come to watch the sale, and also the faces of strangers, men from Plymouth and elsewhere, shopkeepers and managers knowing nothing of the Coombe family but all bent on the same mission, to secure payment of the debts due to them.
Bertha Coombe sat before the fire in her parlour, her two sons standing on either side.
They scarcely noticed Jennifer in the corner of the room, white-faced and silent; anyway she was too small, she would not understand.
‘It’s a bare pittance, Mum,’ Harold was saying, ‘just enough to keep you and Jenny until she is big enough to earn her own living. I always imagined Dad had scraped together more than that, but it appears he drew from this pile to help the business down at the yard. All gone west now, of course.’
‘There’s no need to worry, though,’ said Willie, ‘I can spare some of my pay, and Harold too for that matter.’
Bertha fumbled for her handkerchief. ‘I always was against him belonging to that horrible lifeboat,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘That terrible funeral, and that awful windy little churchyard . . .’ She blew her nose and glanced at Jennifer, who was watching her with scared eyes.
‘Run and find your pinny, Jenny, or you’ll spoil your new black dress.’
The child obeyed without a word, and as she ran upstairs she made a little picture in her mind of the damp cold churchyard. Clutching at the banisters she saw her daddy’s old mackintosh hanging on a peg in the hall; it moved slowly, caught by a draught from the open door of the parlour, and she was afraid - she knew not why.
Once more she crouched in the corner of the room and listened to the conversation, catching the sense of it now and again, and then going off into dreams of her own.
And the voices went on talking.
‘. . . every day I spend in Plyn makes me more and more miserable.You had better see to things here, Harold, for I really don’t feel strong enough. Of course Jenny and I can go and live with mamma in London . . .’
Where were they going? What was going to happen? She sat tight in her corner, fearful lest they should see her and send her from the room.
‘That seems the best way out of the whole business.’ Words, words - grown-up people’s mouths moving rapidly, tall figures standing by the mantelpiece rattling money in their pockets, Mother in her armchair deciding what was to be done.
When she woke up in the mornings she would look towards the bed to see if he had returned during the night. But her mother lay alone, her face upturned to the ceiling and her eyes closed. There was no one lying there beside her with his hair rumpled and his head buried in the pillow.
The threat of London drew nearer, now it was the day after tomorrow, now it was tomorrow. The house had a strange unreal appearance.The carpets were up, and some of the furniture gone. Where the pictures had hung on the walls there was a large brown stain, and a row of little black nails.
The trunks stood in the bedroom filled already with their clothes, and wisps of tissue paper lay strewn about the floor. The wardrobe and the chest of drawers gaped open, empty; in the corner of the room there was a small heap of things that mother had thrown away, a broken photo frame, an old glove,
some pins, and a faded red rosette off one of Jennifer’s shoes. These things looked dusty and forlorn. Jennifer turned away from them with a shudder and tiptoed from the room that had grown too large suddenly and too bare.
They had a queer supper that last evening, they had eggs and bacon, and potted meat with their bread because the jam was finished. Jennifer felt sick, and she had a cold ache inside her she could not explain. Only the thought of wearing her new boots in the morning prevented her from crying.
The Day had come. Mother got up early, about six o’clock, and started cramming the last things in the trunk.
Harold and Willie kept running up and down the stairs. ‘What about the keys?’ someone shouted from the hall.
Jennifer crept from room to room seeking some measure of consolation. It seemed to her that the doors and windows gazed at her reproachfully, the tumbled bed she would never sleep in again had been stripped bare, and was now a strange thing made of little grey wires with knobs.
There was an old pin in a crack on the floor, and underneath the washstand lay her dirty sand shoes which mother had told her she could leave behind. In the soap dish was a half-finished tube of tooth paste.
‘. . . Move out of the way, Jenny. We shall never get off at this rate. No, you can’t take that collection of rubbish with you . . . Harold - Harold - will you come up and strap the hold-all . . .?’
Jennifer pattered after them in her new boots, but somehow they felt different from what they had done in the shop. They were a little tight, pinching her. Suddenly she turned white, and the tears welled into her eyes.
The Loving Spirit Page 29
