the sheer force of her character. She
knew.
The opponent didn’t.
‘I won’t be going immediately,’ she said encouragingly, ‘but I wanted you to know in good time. I’m awfully sorry . . .’
I returned to the cottage and told Jeannie the news. At first she laughed at my solemn face and said the whole idea was absurd and that it would never materialise.
‘You know Jane!’
But when I described the way Jane had told me, how it seemed to be different from her other enthusiasms that had melted away, she began to share my concern. After all Jane had given in her notice. That was final enough; and she had too cool an intellect to do that unless she and her mother had made their final decision. And as we discussed it, both Jeannie and I became vexed. The day’s pleasure was being sidetracked. Instead of celebrating our personal achievement, we were talking about Jane. Who should we get to take her place? Did we want a girl or should we have a boy to help Geoffrey? The tedious worries of an employer, bitty and sterile. Round and round the same subject and going nowhere. She won’t leave, she will. Jane, Jane, Jane . . .
Then we asked ourselves why we were so concerned whether Jane stayed or left. She was certainly thorough but she had not the knowledge to make her indispensable. We could easily find someone to take her place. So why waste time talking about her?
It was her attitude to life that we wanted to keep. Young as she was, she was in tune with us. An essence of happiness is to wake up in the morning and look forward to seeing the people with whom you are going to work. If you are at ease with them, if they are friends and not robots, if they do not irritate you, if they are not envious, then another dimension enters your life. Time does not drag. Evenings are not wasted worrying about the mishaps of the day. And if you are small employers the weight of responsibility is lightened, the enthusiasm of cooperation becoming as important as the technical ability to do the job.
There was the basic fact that Jane possessed the same wild love for the coast along which we lived as we did ourselves. It is no ordinary coast. The stretch where Minack lies and where Jane’s cottage still stands gaunt, staring out at the ocean, is not the kind of country which appeals to the conformist. The splendour of the cliffs does not lead to beaches where people can crowd together, transistors beside them.
The cliffs fall to rocks black and grey where the sea ceaselessly churns, splashing its foam, clutching a rock then releasing it, smothering it suddenly in bad temper, caressing it, slapping it as if in play, sometimes kind with the sun shining on the white ribbon of a wave, a laughing sea throwing spray like confetti, sometimes grey and sullen, then suddenly again a sea of ungovernable fury lashing the cliffs; enraged that for ever and for ever the cliffs look down.
And among the rocks are the pools; some that tempt yet are vicious, beckoning innocently then in a flash a cauldron of currents, pools that are shallow so that the minnow fish ripple the surface as they dash from view, pools so deep that the seaweed looks like a forest far below, inaccessible pools, pools which hide from everyone except those who belong to them.
High above, the little meadows dodge the boulders, and where the land is too rough for cultivation the bracken, the hawthorn, the brambles, the gorse which sparks its yellow the year round, reign supreme. This is no place for interlopers. The walkers, tamed by pavements, faced by the struggling undergrowth, turn back or become angry, their standardised minds piqued that they have to trace a way through; and it is left to the few, the odd man or woman, to marvel that there is a corner of England still free from the dead hand of the busybody.
The badgers show the way. Their paths criss-cross, twist, turn, pound the soil flat, a foot wide, high roads of centuries, and when the bracken greens or coppers the
knew.
The opponent didn’t.
‘I won’t be going immediately,’ she said encouragingly, ‘but I wanted you to know in good time. I’m awfully sorry . . .’
I returned to the cottage and told Jeannie the news. At first she laughed at my solemn face and said the whole idea was absurd and that it would never materialise.
‘You know Jane!’
But when I described the way Jane had told me, how it seemed to be different from her other enthusiasms that had melted away, she began to share my concern. After all Jane had given in her notice. That was final enough; and she had too cool an intellect to do that unless she and her mother had made their final decision. And as we discussed it, both Jeannie and I became vexed. The day’s pleasure was being sidetracked. Instead of celebrating our personal achievement, we were talking about Jane. Who should we get to take her place? Did we want a girl or should we have a boy to help Geoffrey? The tedious worries of an employer, bitty and sterile. Round and round the same subject and going nowhere. She won’t leave, she will. Jane, Jane, Jane . . .
Then we asked ourselves why we were so concerned whether Jane stayed or left. She was certainly thorough but she had not the knowledge to make her indispensable. We could easily find someone to take her place. So why waste time talking about her?
It was her attitude to life that we wanted to keep. Young as she was, she was in tune with us. An essence of happiness is to wake up in the morning and look forward to seeing the people with whom you are going to work. If you are at ease with them, if they are friends and not robots, if they do not irritate you, if they are not envious, then another dimension enters your life. Time does not drag. Evenings are not wasted worrying about the mishaps of the day. And if you are small employers the weight of responsibility is lightened, the enthusiasm of cooperation becoming as important as the technical ability to do the job.
There was the basic fact that Jane possessed the same wild love for the coast along which we lived as we did ourselves. It is no ordinary coast. The stretch where Minack lies and where Jane’s cottage still stands gaunt, staring out at the ocean, is not the kind of country which appeals to the conformist. The splendour of the cliffs does not lead to beaches where people can crowd together, transistors beside them.
The cliffs fall to rocks black and grey where the sea ceaselessly churns, splashing its foam, clutching a rock then releasing it, smothering it suddenly in bad temper, caressing it, slapping it as if in play, sometimes kind with the sun shining on the white ribbon of a wave, a laughing sea throwing spray like confetti, sometimes grey and sullen, then suddenly again a sea of ungovernable fury lashing the cliffs; enraged that for ever and for ever the cliffs look down.
And among the rocks are the pools; some that tempt yet are vicious, beckoning innocently then in a flash a cauldron of currents, pools that are shallow so that the minnow fish ripple the surface as they dash from view, pools so deep that the seaweed looks like a forest far below, inaccessible pools, pools which hide from everyone except those who belong to them.
High above, the little meadows dodge the boulders, and where the land is too rough for cultivation the bracken, the hawthorn, the brambles, the gorse which sparks its yellow the year round, reign supreme. This is no place for interlopers. The walkers, tamed by pavements, faced by the struggling undergrowth, turn back or become angry, their standardised minds piqued that they have to trace a way through; and it is left to the few, the odd man or woman, to marvel that there is a corner of England still free from the dead hand of the busybody.
The badgers show the way. Their paths criss-cross, twist, turn, pound the soil flat, a foot wide, high roads of centuries, and when the bracken greens or coppers the
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