Often Joseph would sit in the parlour after tea, and hear their voices in the next room, and a longing came over him to have them next him, and hold them on his knee, his own boys, Janet’s boys. When he first thought of marriage and children of his own, it was with the idea of their companionship.
He wanted to carry the lads on his back, and chase them about the hills and beaches of Plyn, show them how to sail their toy boats, and watch their faces lighten at his approach. Of course, they were very young, as yet, too young to want anyone but their mother, he supposed, yet it hurt him that they never came to him of their own free will.
‘Where are the children, my dear?’ he would say carelessly to Susan of an afternoon, ‘I don’t seem to have seen anythin’ of them the livelong day.’
‘I reckon they’d be worryin’ you, Joe, with their noise an’ their clatter,’ replied Susan, laying aside her work. ‘You know what children are when they get playin’, there’s no holdin’ them. I sent them in the garden to be out o’your way, but I’ll fetch ’em in.’
‘No need to worry, Susan,’ mumbled Joseph, picking up his paper, ‘they’ll be happy out there by themselves.’
‘Nonsense, dear, if you want to see the children they shall come in at once.They must learn to obey their father’s wishes, that’s the first thing I tell ’em always.’ So saying she would bustle out of the room, and Joseph would hear her marshalling the little boys up to their bedroom to be washed and brushed, whispering to them that ‘Father wants to see you in the parlour.’
So Joseph, who would have enjoyed to see them muddy and dirty, and running in to him with cries and laughter, their tongues not moving quickly enough to explain to him all they had seen and done, would stand with his back to the fire, his pipe in his mouth, while Susan ushered in two tiny round-eyed boys.
Then his wife perhaps would run upstairs to give an eye to the baby, and he would be left alone with these two, wondering what to say.
His heart went out to Christopher the eldest, with his slim well-built little body, his fair hair, and his brown eyes - Janet’s eyes.
Janet would have known how to deal with these babies; she would have taken the pair of them under her arm and made for the fields, setting them to run bare-headed and bare-footed in the long grass, while she knelt beside them her dress and her hair blown by the wind, inventing some wild and very wonderful game.
His mind instantly flashed to his own boyhood, when even as a little lad no bigger than Christopher now, he had plunged into water up to his waist, his hair falling over his face, tugging at Janet’s hand while they both shouted with laughter at her trailing petticoat, and the pickle they were in. Christopher would have blushed scarlet with shame if he had seen his mother’s hair come down. Something had happened to the world since he had been a boy. It was for the best, he supposed with a sigh, but it turned him bitter and sore at times. And now he stood in his own parlour with these two round-eyed little lads before him.
‘Been playin’ nicely together, Chris an’ Albie,’ he said, making his voice as gentle as possible.
‘Yes, thank you, father,’ they replied seriously.
‘There’s good youngsters.’ He scratched his head wondering what to say next.
‘Well,’ he said after a while, ‘you can play in here if you like, an’ make as much noise as you want.’ He smiled and sat down. Would they perhaps come to his knee?
The children said nothing, they stood silently by the door, uncertain whether he meant them to stay or to go away.Then Susan came down and they ran to her at once.
‘Well, now,’ she said, ‘have you answered your father nicely when he spoke?’
They clung to her hand, while Joseph sat alone by the fire, wretched and uncomfortable.
‘Show me your play,’ he suggested, flushing a little, watching Susan’s eye and wanting to hold Christopher next to him. Immediately the boys disappeared and returned in a minute with a toy horse. Joseph thought of his old moth-eaten rag monkey, and how he had slept with it until he was twelve years old.
‘Ah!’ he said cheerfully, ‘that’s a very fine animal, I’m sure. I reckon he can gallop to Plymouth an’ back in no time.’
Christopher stared up at his father in wonder, and squeezed Albie’s hand. ‘S’only a toy,’ he said politely.
‘Oh! I see.’ Joseph roared with laughter, and then pulled himself together, afraid of appearing a fool before his boys.
‘There now,’ declared Susan, clapping her hands, ‘isn’t father funny, joking with you.’
The children summoned up a laugh at once.
‘This is terrible,’ thought Joseph. ‘I don’t seem to know how to treat ’em at all.’ He began to feel in his pockets.
‘Here’s a nice bright penny for you both,’ he said, bending down and twisting a curl in Christopher’s hair.
‘Thank your kind father, dears, immediately,’ cried Susan. ‘Was there ever such spoilt childrun, I wonder?’
‘Thank you, father,’ said the pair together. What queer little mortals they were, impossible to get a word from them separately. He wondered what Chris thought about, whether he knew he was going to be a sailor. Oh! well, they were only babies after all. He yawned, and took up his paper which he had already read from corner to corner. ‘Run back an’ play i’ the kitchen, or you’ll fuss your father,’ said Susan.
Joseph made no attempt to keep them back, he saw how eager they were to get away. He drummed his boots in the fender moodily, wondering whether to go out or not.
What was the use, though? There was nowhere to go.
Lizzie was married now, and the mother of a baby boy. Joseph liked the old rough farmhouse where they lived, two miles from Plyn, on the road to St Brides. Lizzie was always ready to welcome him, but he had been there only two days ago, and it looked odd to be always going there, as if he was not made comfortable at home. He watched Susan as she drew the curtains and trimmed the lamp. Her three children had aged her considerably, she was forty now, and looked more. There were many grey streaks in her hair. She looked more worn than Janet had done at fifty, with six children. Not that he minded this. He had chosen her for the qualities of wife and mother, and not for youth and beauty. Joseph yawned again and stretched himself.
‘Sleepy, dear?’ asked his wife, ready to turn down the bed upstairs if he wanted a nap.
‘Think I’ll go along an’ take a look at the ship,’ said Joseph, and he went from the room.
It was better outside in the fresh air, with the wind on his face. It had been stuffy in the parlour, and difficult to breathe, and his legs were cramped from sitting still. Not quite dusk yet, but the men were coming back from their work at the jetties, and the lights were beginning to shine in the windows. He glanced at the yard, and saw that his brothers had closed down for the night. They would be up in their homes now having a late tea. He went down the slip, and cast the painter of a small pram. He jumped into this, and seizing the paddles pulled swiftly against the tide up harbour towards the buoy where the schooner was moored. This was better than being inside the house with those queer little brats and Susan. The tides were springing, and he had to work his boat carefully along the edge of the harbour, out of the run of the channel. From the entrance to Polmear creek the tide was ebbing swiftly, and there was a hint of an easterly wind. This meant a strain on Joseph’s muscles, and he enjoyed it. He was bare-headed and the wind blew his hair over his eyes. He had to keep shaking his head to push it back. He chewed a quid of tobacco, and every now and then he spat into the water. The pram shot ahead in spite of the tide, and before long he reached the buoy, and lay on his oars, glancing up at the figurehead. A gull was perched on the foremast, facing the wind, and uttering a weird triumphant cry. The ship had just had her bottom scrubbed, and a coat of paint all over. She was ready to move up to the jetties for her load of clay and then away to sea again. She looked smart and trim, and worthy of her name as the fastest schooner in Plyn. Only the figurehead of Janet had been left untouched. The colour was a little faded now from the friction of the sea, but the features were unchipped and unspoilt as on the day she was launched.
Joseph stood up in his boat, holding the water with one paddle. ‘Hullo, my beauty,’ he called softly.
Dusk sank upon Plyn. The gull lifted his wings and flew away. The harbour was deserted. The hour chimed out from Lanoc Church, borne on the easterly wind. Only Joseph remained, a still figure in his boat, watching the shadows creep along the figure-head above him.
6
A
daughter was born to Joseph and Susan in 1871, and this completed their family.
Susan was seriously ill at the birth of Katherine, and the old doctor warned her that she must be very careful in the future if she wanted to be sure of her life. Suspecting that she would say nothing to her husband, and would in all probability keep the matter to herself, making light of his words, the doctor determined to tackle Joseph himself.
Joseph returned to Plyn three weeks after his daughter had been born, and was amazed to see the man’s long face, and that he still visited Susan and the baby every day.
‘Why, she’ll be up and about soon, surely,’ he said. ‘The house is very uncomfortable with a woman hired in to do the work, and to only give an eye to the children now and again. My wife is strong and healthy, isn’t she?’
‘Your wife is past forty, Joe,’ said the doctor seriously. ‘She’s borne four children now, and this one has all but killed her. Unless she takes very great care of herself from now on, I won’t answer for the consequences.’
‘Thank you, doctor,’ said Joseph slowly, and turned into the house. He supposed he had been selfish and inconsiderate, but all said and done he did not consider he had been entirely to blame. After all, Susan had never complained, she had never said a word to him about weakness in health. He could not be expected to guess this sort of thing, when he was away at sea for nearly eight months in the year. Supposing something happened to Susan and he was left with this young family on his hands. What in the world would he do with them? And Lizzie was married, no possible hope in the thought that she would come and live in the house.
Susan would always be something of an invalid in the future. What a hopeless outlook it was going to be. She would just act as his housekeeper and bring up the children. No more than this.
‘Doctor says you’ve been worse than poorly this time, my dear,’ he began awkwardly. ‘Somehow I didn’t come to realize things, bein’ away so much, and then just at home for short whiles now an’ agen. I ought to have known that . . .’ He broke off in confusion, afraid to hurt her by alluding to her age. He had always made a point of ignoring it. ‘I reckon that men don’t figure matters out the same as women do,’ he went on, trying to be as gentle in his words as possible. ‘Sailors, too, are a selfish, careless crowd, seldom givin’ a thought to others. I’ve been as bad as any o’ them. We’ll start things different in future, an’ you must get well quick an’ get out in the air, ‘twill pull you together in no time.’
‘That’s what’s been the worryin’ of me up here,’ cried Susan fretfully, ‘to know as you’re back an’ I can’t look after you. I know the house’ll be all upside down, an’ nothin’ like comfortable for you. The place not clean nor tidy, in all likelihood, and the boys runnin’ wild. You’ll be that irritated you’ll be wantin’ to go off to your ship again. Oh! dear - oh! dear.’
‘There, there, dear,’ said Joseph, taking his wife’s hand. ‘Everythin’ is in perfect order, all shipshape an’ Bristol fashion. I’m perfectly happy an’ content, an’ the boys no worry. Susan, my love—’ He was stumbling to tell her how sorry he was for bringing her to this state, how he cursed himself for a selfish blind ruffian, and that in the years to come, from now onward, he would love her devotedly and selflessly, protecting her and caring for her. Perhaps it was not too late to start some sort of companionship, nothing physical nor passionate, but a deep understanding born of mutual trust and affection. This poor tired-eyed woman was his wife, Christopher’s mother; who had slaved and worked for him while he had grumbled and groaned that she could not share his dreams.
‘There now,’ she choked, blowing her nose, ‘now you’re vexed with me for givin’ way, and quite right an’ proper too, for you to feel like that. I’m a stupid selfish woman, who gets silly little fads into her head, an’ you’re too good to say you mind the house upside down, though I know well you hate it. Never mind, dear, I’ll be up soon, and all will go on as before.’
Joseph rose and stood above her helplessly. She had misunderstood him again, and another fresh ideal had flown to the winds. He realized that there could never be anything permanent or truthful about their relationship. Husband and wife. Queer. Had Janet lived thus with his father? No, he believed there had been moments of beauty between them.
He looked at the baby girl whom his wife was trying to soothe. Poor little thing, with her blue eyes like a kitten. Why could he feel no sort of emotion towards his children, except - Christopher. And Chris was a shy sensitive boy, who didn’t seem to understand.
‘I’ve made a mess o’ things, somehow,’ he thought, but aloud he said to his wife, ‘Don’t take on, dear, you’ll soon be better now, an’ the little girl is a dear, I can see.’
Then he went downstairs and sat alone in the stiff parlour.
Joseph was nearly a month in Plyn before sailing again, and he enjoyed this holiday ashore more than he had ever done since Janet had died. As Susan had feared, the house got upside down, and this was what appealed to her husband, though she never had any idea of it. It amused him to take off his boots in the fender and put his feet on the mantelshelf. He left the parlour, and spent his time in the kitchen when he was not out-of-doors. The meals were late and badly cooked by the woman who came in daily.Time did not matter, and he could wander in to one of these scrappy suppers and smoke all the time, with an old wet jacket on his back, and a newspaper in his hand.