by Alison Case
‘I am so sorry to hear about your father,’ I began. ‘How is he doing now?’
‘He is as well as can be expected, as regards his bodily health,’ said Bodkin, ‘and in spirits, a good deal better than we have any right to expect. He is very determined to give us as little trouble as possible, so he has been working hard to learn to dress himself and manage the chair without help. Still, it’s hard to see such an energetic and capable man as that bending all his store of energy and concentration merely to putting his arm into a shirtsleeve, or writing a note to ask someone to draw the window shade. Anna has been wonderful, though – she is always thinking up new ways to give him ease, or make it easier for him to do things for himself.’
‘She has presumably given up working for her father?’
Bodkin snorted. ‘Yes – I would have thought Ricky’s birth would be enough to see to that, but Mr Smythe persuaded her to keep coming in, and bringing the babe with her. And would you believe it, after Father’s stroke he still tried to suggest that we should hire someone to look after Father, so that Anna could keep working for him, gratis! But she refused, thank Heaven. Even she was shocked by his selfishness then, and she has spent her whole life making herself blind to it. So then what does the old monster do, but go and marry his housekeeper! And now he has her helping in the shop too – and of course needn’t pay her either.’
I laughed. ‘But she’s not much older than us, is she? I wonder she would have him.’
‘Well, she’s a hard-favoured woman, with a character to match, is Zillah – I doubt she could do better. And of course he’s promised to leave her everything now, as she took pains to point out to Anna at the wedding.’
‘So Anna gets nothing after all? That seems most unfair.’
‘Well, I don’t care about it for myself – we have enough, really. But poor Anna was grieved. She worried that I had married her under false pretences about what she would bring us. I told her I had never trusted the old man’s promises anyway, and that I would gladly have taken her without them. Really he has done us a favour by casting her off, for, between you and me, he robbed me shamefully on the drugs I bought from him, and was not over-scrupulous about the quality either, yet I felt I couldn’t go elsewhere. Now I can get what I need wholesale through a supplier in Brassing, and know I am getting the best quality, too. And Anna is a great help with the measuring and compounding.’
‘You must both be very busy, with your father’s care, and all your father’s patients on your shoulders now too.’
‘Busy enough, to be sure. But my father managed it all alone for many years, you know, so we cannot complain.’
‘Hindley says you are too busy ever to go drinking with him any more.’
‘It was a handy excuse, really. The last time I was out with him – it would have been not long before Cathy’s illness, I suppose – he took umbrage at something I said, and tried to drown me in a ditch! He was too drunk to succeed, fortunately. But I came home filthy and damp, and with a good display of bruises, and Anna was so frightened, she made me promise never to go out with Hindley again. I can’t say I made any resistance to her. I had only kept with him for old time’s sake, and in hopes of having some good influence, but I think he really is past that now.’
‘You know he came home and told us he had killed you outright? It gave me quite a turn, though I could not believe it was true, for I thought you too sensible to let him do anything really threatening.’
‘So did I, to be honest, but he came a little too close for comfort, there.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘It seems we are both in the habit of underestimating just how badly Hindley can behave. I would ask you why you stay, but I have seen you with little Hareton, and there’s really no need to ask.’
‘No, I couldn’t leave him. He’s like my own child, and the poor thing gets no kindness from anyone else in that house.’
‘Not even Cathy?’
‘Oh, she’s not unkind to him, really, but she takes no interest in him either. And she has grown so peremptory since her illness! She seems to think it her duty now to think of no one but herself, and expects us all to do the same.’
‘She was in a very bad way there, for a time, you know. Father thought it essential that nothing should upset her, until she was fully recovered.’
‘But could he really have meant that none of us must ever gainsay her again, for the rest of her natural life?’
Bodkin laughed. ‘Is that how she understood it? I’m sure he didn’t mean that – only that she must be kept clear of distresses for a few months – or at any rate, of distresses over and above those that could not be helped. She took Heathcliff’s departure very hard, I understand.’
‘To be sure, she did, though it was partly her own doing. She spoke to me of planning to marry Linton, saying Heathcliff was too low for her, when she didn’t know Heathcliff could hear her. After that, what was there to keep him?’
‘And you have heard nothing about him since?’
‘Not a word – and we made more effort to find him than you might think we would, precisely because Cathy was so ill with worry. It’s plain he has left the neighbourhood, and has no desire to be found. But to return to Cathy, may I tell her from you that her health no longer provides a warrant for her unchecked tyranny?’
Bodkin looked taken aback. ‘I don’t know that I can say that on my own authority, Nelly. Though I presume she will be my patient now, I have not had any consultation with her since Father’s stroke. If I am called in to see her, I will be able to form my own judgement on that matter, and will certainly communicate it then.’
I sighed. ‘Well, let us hope she sends for you soon, then.’ The surgery was beginning to fill up again at that point, so I went to join Anna and the children in the house, and to pay my respects to old Dr Kenneth. He was a sad sight, to be sure, but he managed half a smile when he saw me, and leaned forward in his chair.
‘He cannot speak,’ said Anna, ‘but I can assure you his mind is as quick as ever.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ I said, nodding to Dr Kenneth and to her. The two boys had retreated to a corner, where Ricky had a few small, brightly coloured toys, which seemed to fascinate Hareton. There were still a few toys in the nursery at home that he liked to play with, but they were old and faded, and like all small children he was drawn to the bright colours. At one point Ricky snatched a toy from Hareton’s hands, and the latter began to cry. Anna immediately came over and knelt by the children, taking the toy from Ricky and talking gently but firmly to him as she returned it to Hareton.
‘Hareton is our guest,’ she said, ‘and we must always be kind to guests, and share our toys with them.’
‘Atta,’ said Ricky.
‘Yes, Hareton is his name, and Hareton is our guest.’
Ricky gazed at Hareton, seemingly more interested in this strange concept of ‘guest’ than concerned about the toy. ‘Atta gess,’ he announced.
‘Exactly!’ said Anna delightedly, as Ricky grinned with pride. ‘He’s only just begun putting words together like that,’ said Anna to me. ‘It’s quite fun to watch, isn’t it?’
‘Delightful,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘And equally delightful to watch you teaching him the principles of hospitality at such a young age.’ I was remembering the first time Hareton had put two words together. I had left him playing in the yard while I did some work in the dairy, stepping out to check on him now and again. He was engaging in one of his favourite activities: carefully arranging sticks and pebbles according to some inner logic of his own, while carrying on an incomprehensible running commentary to himself. Then suddenly he rushed into the dairy and hid in my skirts. Hindley’s voice from outside, uttering a string of foul language, soon told me the reason. When we were sure he had passed, we came back out again, to find that Hindley had kicked apart Hareton’s arrangement, scattering the sticks and pebbles in every direction. I looked at Hareton, expecting him to burst into wails, but he only began silently gathering up h
is materials again. Then he looked up at me.
‘Dada naughty,’ he had said, as calmly and matter-of-factly as if he had been saying that fire was hot, or water wet. It was the first time he had ever said ‘dada’. (‘Nana’, which I had taught him to call me, was the first word he ever spoke).
We watched the two children a little longer, while Anna and I chatted lightly about what they were eating, and how quickly they outgrew their clothes. I noticed how careful she was to include her father-in-law in the conversation despite his inability to contribute to it, addressing herself as much to him as to me, so I made every effort to do the same. When I perceived that Hareton was growing tired and irritable, I bundled him up and took my leave, not wishing to test Ricky’s new-forged hospitality too strenuously.
On the walk home, Hareton slept on my shoulder, and I reflected sadly on the contrast between the Kenneths’ household and our own. Hareton had such a loving, generous spirit born in him, but where was he to learn hospitality, or charity?
I said almost nothing about those years to you before, Mr Lockwood, for I had been cut off from the poor child so long, and feared so for what he was becoming under Heathcliff’s rough tutelage, that I could not bear to speak about it beyond what absolutely must be told. Now that that awful time is passed and gone, and I have them both under my wing again, I thought that I would be able to tell all about it. Yet I have sat here, day after day, pen poised, unable to begin. What is there to tell? Mostly the stories any doting mother will tell of her first child: that he took his first steps at thus-and-such an age, and spoke his first word at another; that he was forward at learning his numbers, but more backward at his letters, that he loved currants, but could not abide gooseberries – or the other way round. What is the use of writing all that down here? The knowledge is precious to me, but it will only sound commonplace to your ears. Cathy might like to know these things, when she can compare them to her own child’s progress – but I do not write this for her.
Well, I will write what I can. Such a bonny, sweet child he was! He feared and disliked his father, as well he might, but when Hindley was not about, which was most of the time, as I managed it, his naturally loving and trusting character held sway. You have never had children, Mr Lockwood, so I can scarcely hope to make you understand what it is like to be with a child day and night, as he grows from a helpless babe-in-arms to a proper little man running about in short trousers. How he flung himself with all his spirit into his little joys and sorrows, in a way that brought back to me the intensity of my own feelings as a child, so that when I shared in the former, and comforted him in the latter, it was as if I was caring, too, for that long-lost child that I was myself. I was not merely his nurse, but also his teacher, his parent, and, when I could snatch the time from my duties, his playmate too. His favourite game with me was one we called ‘sack of oats’. He would climb into a burlap sack, placed somewhere that I would be sure to see it, and lie quiet until I came upon him. Then I would pretend to be puzzled by the find.
‘What is this sack of oats doing here in the path?’ I would exclaim, poking at it with a finger. This would elicit a number of barely stifled giggles. ‘What a strangely noisy sack of oats this is!’ I would say. ‘Perhaps it has mice in it! Well, I had better bring it back to the barn where it belongs.’ Then I would pick up the sack and sling it over my shoulder, pretending not to notice as Hareton wriggled and shrieked with glee. ‘What a heavy sack of oats this is!’ I would say. Once in the barn, I would fling the sack down on a large pile of hay, pretending to be careless, but really making sure the child landed safely, then turn on my heel and walk away. Then, a few minutes later, the sack would reappear somewhere else, and I would begin all over again, acting more and more puzzled about how this same sack of oats kept ending up in odd places after I had taken the trouble of putting it away. ‘Joseph must be very careless to leave sacks of oats lying around,’ I would say, or ‘I think that naughty cow has been up to her tricks again, dragging sacks of oats every which way.’ At other times I would blame the dogs, the horses, or even the cat: the more unlikely the culprit, the more he laughed. Hareton would happily have played this game all day long, I think, but I rarely had time or energy for more than a round or two. When I wanted to end it, I would announce that this sack of oats was so troublesome, I was going to feed it to the horses, straight away. I would go to their manger and start to take hold of the bag as if I were going to empty it, and then Hareton would pop his head out and declare himself in triumph. ‘Why if it isn’t Hareton!’ I would cry, as if astonished. ‘And I thought all this time, you were a sack of oats!’
His faith in me was touching – he really thought me not only the kindest, but also the bravest and strongest being on earth. He loved to compare the monsters in the stories I told him, wondering, could an ogre defeat a Gytrash, or the other way round? But whichever one I said would triumph, he would add, ‘But you could make it go away, couldn’t you?’
‘To be sure I could, if it were threatening you,’ I would say. ‘I would hit it over the head with my rolling pin, pour boiling water on it, and scold it so viciously, it would run away and never come back.’ Then he would nestle safe in my arms and ask for another story, ‘A really scary one this time.’ Ah, those were happy times for us.
No, I find it racks me still, the years I did not have with him: all the missed caresses, the little triumphs unshared, the troubles uncomforted, and lessons untaught. It was his loss too, that I see yet. He is so diffident, so loving and yet so uncertain of his claim to love, it tears my heart to see it. Such needless pain we both suffered, and all for the selfish whim of a girl, and the careless cruelty of a drunken beast. It was a terrible crisis in my life, when Hareton was torn from my arms, and it brought me as near to madness as I have ever been.
TWENTY-THREE
With Heathcliff gone, it was inevitable that Cathy would marry Edgar Linton in time. The only surprise to me was that it took as long as it did: some three years passed between his proposal and the wedding. The sudden death of both of the Linton parents had been a great blow to Edgar and Isabella, and they took to mourning with great solemnity. Edgar was too young to assume management of the property himself, so an uncle was made their guardian, and even after the mourning period was over, he thought Edgar a deal too young to be marrying. He wished him to go to Oxford to complete his education, and see a bit more of the world (especially, I suspect, its female portion) before deciding to settle down, as he said, ‘with the only pretty girl in the neighbourhood’. But Edgar refused to go – he owed it to his sister, he said, to remain in residence, and to himself to devote his energies to learning the management of his own estate, which would be more use to him than studying Latin and Greek. But I don’t doubt that Cathy had a great deal to do with his refusal, for she told him frankly that his departure would make her ill again.
When Cathy first suggested, a couple of months before the wedding, that she would like me to come with her to Thrushcross Grange on her marriage, I thought little of it. I had no intention of leaving Hareton, and I thought I only needed to say so, for the plan to come to naught. After all, I was not some American slave, to be passed on from one family member to another like a prized cow or a silver platter, whether I wished it or not.
Cathy tackled me first. ‘I have grown so fond of you, Nelly,’ she said coaxingly, ‘I cannot imagine going without you. When I move to Thrushcross Grange, everyone there will be a stranger to me, and you would not want me to feel so alone, would you? Besides, with me gone and no other lady in the house, it is improper for you to be here by yourself.’
‘You will hardly be alone, miss,’ I said, ‘with your husband and your sister-in-law for company, and you have spent so many weeks in residence there, at one time or another, I am sure even the servants are not really strangers any more. But if it is loneliness you are imagining, how do you think it would be for little Hareton, if I left, and he had only Joseph and Hindley to look to for comfort? As for
propriety, miss, do you really imagine that you have been chaperoning me, all these years? It is rather the other way round, don’t you think?’
But Cathy was not so easily put off. She still clung to Dr Kenneth’s words, that she must not be crossed for her health’s sake, and nothing Bodkin could say could be permitted to countermand his father’s authority – not, certainly, when that authority was so convenient to her! She pouted and cried, and refused food for a day or two, and Edgar grew alarmed.
‘I am astonished that you could wish to stay here in this degraded mad-house, when your mistress shows such a need for you as she has done,’ he said to me sternly. ‘You will be much better off at Thrushcross Grange: we have a large servants’ hall, and everything is orderly and well managed. As for your pay, I will double whatever Hindley is paying you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ I replied. ‘I have no doubt that Thrushcross Grange is well managed, and am therefore the more confident that you have no real need of my services there. This household may be degraded and mad, but that is all the more reason not to leave a young child unprotected here. If I leave, you may be sure Hindley will not replace me, and what will become of little Hareton then?’
