by Alison Case
‘You cannot rest properly with them weighing on you.’
‘What am I to do then?’
‘I am going to prescribe for you a month by the seaside.’
‘A month! Good heavens! I cannot be gone half so long as that.’
‘You must. I am serious, Nelly. You must make arrangements to have someone – or some three or four, more like – to take care of things here, and really go away. Take at least two long walks by the sea daily. Make friends with your landlady. Take out a subscription to the local library, and read all the latest books. Collect shells, and glue them to boards. And for a full month, be responsible for no one but yourself. Doctor’s orders.’
I declined his advice, of course, but a few more days showed no improvement, and then Bodkin spoke to Cathy and Hareton, and they entered into the plan with enthusiasm. I suggested that we all three go together, but they had been warned off this arrangement. And so a room with a sea view was engaged by proxy, and a post-chaise hired, and I was bundled off to the sea by myself.
I don’t know that my malady was quite what Bodkin had diagnosed, but certainly his treatment was effective. I had never seen the sea, and found it wondrous and delightful. Gradually my walks grew longer, and the sea air seemed to drive the weariness from my limbs and spirits. With little to demand my attention in the present, and almost no one to talk to, I found my mind turning more and more to the past. And so, instead of gluing shells to a board, I began to write. And then when I returned home, I continued, on and on, until I had produced the whole of the stack now before me. And now that it is all done, I wonder what I am to do with it.
Mistress of a snug household of my own. That is what my mother wanted for me, once. What I wanted, more than anything, was to be one of the Earnshaws, to be truly a member of their family. A foolish wish, and one that has led many situated as I was to a lifetime of faithful service with little return. No wonder my mother wanted me out. But I cannot complain: I have been more fortunate than most. Cathy and Hareton both love me and look up to me as to a mother. I am more mistress here than many a real mistress, and I cannot be divided now from those I love.
So why am I still sad? Ah, when I search it to its core, I wonder if it is not just the mother’s sadness after all, the mother’s sadness that is also her joy: they will thrive without me. I am no more the centre of their world.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Dear Mr Lockwood,
It feels strange to take up the pen again to write to you. I thought I had finished with all that. I had quite a sizeable pile of paper by the end. I tied it all up with a red ribbon, wrapped it in an old linen pillowcase, and put it under some blankets in a trunk. But I have pulled it out again. I find that my story is not finished after all.
When Hareton and Cathy and I all settled at Thrushcross Grange after the wedding, Wuthering Heights was left to the care of old Joseph, with a boy to assist him. Finding a boy to put there was no great difficulty – there is no shortage of idle lads in this neighbourhood – but keeping one there was another matter altogether. Joseph proved such a harsh master that one by one the boys abandoned their posts, until the position acquired such a reputation that finding another lad for it became impossible. One day Bodkin stopped in for a cup of tea and some talk after a professional visit to Cathy, who was nearing her confinement. The poor man had lost his wife the year before, in a fever that followed on the birth of their youngest daughter – I had been away at the time, on my trip to the seaside – and he was still wearing mourning. I knew he would prefer to talk of other things, though, so I brought up the matter with him.
‘I don’t know what I am to do about Joseph,’ I said. ‘He is too old to be left alone all the way out there, but he drives the boys away faster than I can find new ones.’
‘Perhaps you are choosing the wrong boys. I could name some whose homes have been made so unpleasant to them that Joseph could not but be an improvement.’
‘I thought of that already, but it is no use. The ones who are welcome at home return there; the rest merely run off to sea, or to the Army, as inclination takes them.’
‘What, they think Joseph is worse than the British Army and Navy? Well, either he is a greater terror than I can conceive of, or the lads hereabout are exceptionally stupid.’
‘His temper has not sweetened with the years, nor has his arm lost strength with a switch. His Bible tells him not to spare the rod, and that at least he is prepared to obey to the letter. Perhaps he thinks his excesses there will make up for some deficiencies in other areas, such as loving his neighbour.’
‘So they prefer the devil they do not know, to the devil they do. And to think the government is paying good money to press gangs and recruiters to lure unsuspecting young men into service, when, did they but know it, Joseph is performing the service for free!’
‘Make light of it if you will, but what am I to do? He is really too old to be left all alone, even if he can still find the strength to drive away those meant to care for him.’
‘Well, why leave him all the way out there at all? Let the Heights to some young family who can make the farm pay a little, and get Joseph respectable lodgings in town. I could name a few landladies who are as honest and clean as you could wish, but yet have a strength of character that could quell even Joseph. Mrs Greene, for example: it is said of her that she scrubbed her late husband as vigorously as she did her floors, until he was worn away to a scrap, and simply blew away.’
I laughed. ‘I would dearly love to see Joseph matched against Mrs Greene,’ I said. ‘It would be a clash of Titans, indeed. But there is a difficulty which perhaps you have not heard of. Joseph has been collecting notes of hand in lieu of part of his wages for as long as he has been at Wuthering Heights – dating back all the way to when Hindley’s grandfather was master there, if you can believe that. Hindley’s father would gladly have paid him in full, for he had a horror of debt, but it had become a kind of fixed idea to Joseph that his “notes” were more precious than money, and Mr Earnshaw was not fool enough to force cash on him if he preferred mere signatures on scraps of paper. And of course Hindley, and then Heathcliff, were only too happy to follow suit. When we tried to dislodge Joseph from the Heights – for his own good, mind you, for however little I love him, God knows the man has earned his retirement – he dug out a whole chest full of these chits, which added up to nearly a thousand pounds, and said that if we were to send him away, he “mun have his wage”.’
Bodkin whistled. ‘A thousand pounds! An impressive total for such a man. I can see that it would be a pull for the young Earnshaws to come up with such a sum all at once, but still, it could be done – Thrushcross Grange is a rich estate, after all. And the man really is owed the money.’
‘So I told them, and they agreed. None of us wishes to cheat Joseph of his hard-earned wages. But the man really is a little mad on this subject: to hear him, you would think that instead of wishing to pay him what is rightfully his, and help him to retire comfortably, we were trying to rob him of his employment, his home, and his money all. Nothing will do for him but to continue at Wuthering Heights, and continue to add new signatures to his ancient pile. We have not the heart to cross him in this. I am not sure we have even the right to.’
Bodkin looked thoughtful. ‘Has he any relatives, who might take on the task of caring for him there, in hopes of gaining such an inheritance?’
‘He had a sister, but she died a few years back. I don’t know if she ever married – Joseph would scarcely ever talk of his family.’ Then I remembered. ‘Of course she did! And had at least one child. Joseph attended the wedding of a nephew of his, let me see, it would have been August of 17—.’
‘What an almanac you are! Do you have every casual little memory filed away by month and year, that way?’
I flushed. ‘No, of course not. But that was the summer Hareton was born, and it was in the midst of his … difficulties then. That is how I remember it.’ Bodkin did not appear to notice my discomfort in the leas
t.
‘Ah yes,’ he said with a smile, ‘it’s funny how children anchor you that way. For me lately the years all seem to run together, but if I need to know a date more precisely, I need only remember that at that time Ricky had the cast on his arm, or Kate had just learned to crawl, and between that and the season I can usually pin it down within a month or two.’
‘Well, thank you for making me think of it. A grand-nephew or someone of that sort may be just what we need. I will speak to Joseph about it. And, speaking of the children,’ I added, ‘how are yours faring?’
‘They still miss their mother,’ Bodkin said, ‘all but Sophie, who doesn’t remember her. But Maggie does for us very nicely during the day, and the children love her. Her own two boys come in with her, so the five of them all tumble about together quite happily. Have I ever told you how grateful I am, that you sent her to us?’
‘Only about a hundred times, and she says the same. And it’s not a problem, having her gone in the evenings?’
‘Her husband doesn’t come back from the mill until late, so she’s able to give us supper before she goes. And she’s added a little maid-in-training to the household, Sarah, who is with us at night, so that if I am called out the children will not be left alone. But in truth we scarcely need her. Peter is so proud to be the man of the house when I am out, he’ll pop out of bed the moment Sophie cries, and have her walked or rocked back to sleep again, before Sarah has rubbed the sleep from her eyes.’
‘Do you ever bring him about to your cases, as your father used to do with you?’
‘I take him with me now and then, for he’s keen to learn, but not nearly so much as my father did. There is more at home for him than there was for me. There’ll be time enough for him to see cases, when he is properly apprenticed. I am glad he’s taken to it though. Ricky never did, you know: he’s much happier as a clergyman.’
With that we parted.
I did speak to Joseph on the subject of his relations, and discovered that the marriage of his sole nephew, all those years before, had borne fruit in the form of a numerous family. I obtained their address from him and wrote to them, telling of Joseph’s condition and hinting at his wealth, and sure enough, they found they could spare their second son, a lad of fifteen years, to ‘do his duty’ by his great-uncle. This boy had been saddled with the august name of Abraham, though, when he arrived, it struck me that a less patriarchal figure could scarcely be imagined, for he was slight and timid.
It was on a grey morning in early spring, about a year later, that this same young man came dashing into my sitting room, wide-eyed and breathless.
‘Uncle Joseph is dead,’ he announced, and then collapsed into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
‘There, there,’ I said soothingly, ‘you’ve had a shock – let me get you some tea and you can tell me all about it.’ I filled him a mug, and when I could see that he was a little recovered, pressed him to tell me how Joseph had died.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I found him dead in his room this morning.’
‘So he died in his sleep?’
‘No – I mean – I don’t know. He was not in his bed, but slumped against the wall. His eyes were open, and his face—’ He buried his head in his hands again.
‘His face was what?’ I asked gently.
‘Horrible. It was horrible.’
‘Well, he must have had some kind of fit, or perhaps a nightmare. Did you hear anything in the night?’
‘I did,’ he said, without lifting his head. ‘I was woken up by a commotion, and I leaped out of bed, thinking we had robbers in the house. When I got out into the hall, I could hear that it was all coming from Joseph’s room – he was shouting, and stumbling about, as if he were crashing into things. I tried to open the door, but it was locked from the inside.’
‘Was that unusual?’
‘No, he always locked his room. I was never allowed in there. I called out to him, but he yelled at me to go away and leave him alone. Then things quieted down, and he told me again to go away, so I went back to bed. He always woke me before dawn to get up and make the fire, but this morning he didn’t, and when I knocked on his door and called out to him, there was no answer. So I fetched the toolbox and took the door off its hinges. And then I found him.’
‘Do you think there had been anyone in the room besides him that night?’
‘I … I don’t know,’ he said. ‘The window was latched on the inside, and you know it is very high up, but—’
‘Did you hear any voices besides his, or any noises than could not have come from him?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Then it was only a bad dream he was having, you may be sure of it. It must have frightened him more than his old heart could bear. He was a very old man – it’s no surprise his time had come.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Bram doubtfully.
‘Well, what do you think happened? It’s clear enough no one could have got into the room and back out again without leaving any sign.’
‘No human, perhaps. But I tell you, that house is haunted. I felt it, many times. I am sure there was … something … in that room with him.’ He shuddered. ‘Something that killed him.’
I laughed more heartily than I felt. ‘The only bad spirit haunting Wuthering Heights was your uncle Joseph’s,’ I said briskly, ‘and it was ill-tempered enough for a host of angry ghosts. That is all you felt, you may depend upon it – that and sheer starvation, for you look like you haven’t eaten in a month, poor boy. Go down to the kitchen, and the cook will give you a good solid breakfast – everything will look better with some food in your belly. Go on with you.’ This prospect appeared to cheer him considerably, and he hastened to obey. I sent one of the stable boys with a message to Bodkin, that Joseph was lying dead at Wuthering Heights, and he should meet me there as soon as he could manage. Then I set out to walk there myself, as briskly as I could. I had no love for Joseph, as you know, but still, the thought of him lying alone in that desolate house touched my heart. He had been a faithful servant, after all, in his own sour way, and he deserved better than that.
When I reached the house, I saw Bodkin’s horse already tethered outside – he had made better time than I had, evidently. I found him upstairs, in Joseph’s attic room, with the body. Bodkin was bent over Joseph, who was as his nephew had described him – on the floor, slumped against the wall, and with a scowl that might have been horror or rage frozen on his face.
‘What do you think?’ I asked.
‘There’s no mark on him,’ said Bodkin. ‘What does the nephew say happened?’
I relayed young Bram’s account.
‘Death by haunting? I can’t put that on the death certificate. It seems clear enough he died of a heart attack. At his age it is not uncommon to find disease of the heart.’
‘Do you think the attack might have been brought on by a nightmare? That might explain what Joe heard.’
‘Very likely. Or the other way around – he was staggering about from the attack, and its stress brought on delusions. Either is possible. What do you know of the nephew?’
‘A surprisingly decent boy, considering his parentage. Easily cowed, I think – it was that, more than the hope of gain, that made him bear with Joseph longer than any of the other lads.’
‘You don’t suspect foul play?’
‘Not in the least. Do you?’
‘I see no sign of it, but I have to ask. Still, I trust your judgement, and I’m content to call it death by natural causes if you are.’
‘Can we move him onto the bed, and shut his eyes for him?’
‘Of course, I’ll help you with that. He can lie with some dignity until the undertaker arrives – I took the liberty of telling him we’d be needing him here later this afternoon.’
‘Thank you.’
Together we lifted Joseph up and laid him out in the bed with his hands folded on his chest. When we were finished, Bodkin asked me what I pla
nned to do until the undertaker arrived.
‘I’ll stay here,’ I said. ‘Someone should keep watch.’
‘Well, I’ll stay with you then, if you don’t mind. I’ve no calls on my time just now, and Peter knows where to find me if something comes up.’
‘I’d be most grateful.’
I blew up the fire, still banked from the night before, and made us both a pot of tea. The storeroom was still reasonably well supplied – evidently the abstemious old man had made few inroads on its little luxuries. I found a pot of jam and some oatcakes, and carried them out to have with the tea.
‘This is like old times, isn’t it?’ said Bodkin. ‘You and I, drinking tea and eating oatcakes and jam, here in the kitchen of Wuthering Heights.’
‘It is,’ I said, and suddenly felt my eyes fill with tears. ‘It’s strange – with Joseph gone, I am the only one left now, of all the people who lived here then.’
‘Were you fond of him, in the end? I hadn’t thought so.’
‘No, not really, but he was my last tie to my childhood here, you know. I thought I hated him, but now I find I can wish him no worse than that he will meet a more forgiving God than the one he prayed to.’
‘Amen.’
We sat for some time, sipping tea and crunching oatcakes in companionable silence. Bodkin seemed as lost in reverie as I was. At last he spoke.
‘How I envied you all, back then!’
‘Envied us? Really?’
‘Oh yes, back when we were all children, before Heathcliff came. Father would bring me to Wuthering Heights every few weeks, and drop me off for half a day or so, remember?’
‘Of course – that was when we started calling you Bodkin.’
‘Yes, well, you and Hindley would be let off lessons when I came, so that we could all play together, and it seemed to me that you were always free that way, since I never saw you otherwise. And then you and Hindley were such good friends to each other. I thought it must be a fine thing, to have a friend and playmate always to hand like that.’
‘It was, often,’ I said, ‘but we certainly had our lessons and other chores to do, much of the time. Your coming always made a holiday for us.’
