The Heights

by Juliet Bell

  ‘So, is her getting married what brought you back after all these years?’ Mick asked.

  The question was ignored. ‘Is the Lion still the pub for a meal and a beer?’

  Mick’s ears pricked up at that. ‘It is. Not many of us left now, from the old days. But that’s where we go. I could reintroduce you to everyone.’ Mick was starting to have hopes of a free meal and a drink. After all, the least Heathcliff could do was buy Mick a meal, after all those years the Earnshaws looked after him.

  ‘What about the kid?’

  ‘He’s fine down the pub,’ Mick said, dismissing that excuse. ‘The landlady likes him. He sits outside and she takes him a lemonade.’

  The removal men were locking up the back of their van.

  ‘All right. Let me pay this lot and then we can go.’

  Mick almost licked his lips when he saw Heathcliff pull a fat wallet from his pocket. So, the gyppo was back. And he had money. That might not prove such a bad thing after all.

  The slamming of a car door interrupted the thought. The woman walking towards him had a stern look on her face.

  ‘We had an appointment, Mr Earnshaw.’

  Mick shrugged. He found that appointments with social services often had a way of slipping his mind.

  Ellen Dean smiled without it reaching her eyes. ‘I’ve got the forms for school uniform and free dinners for Harry. They need to be back to the council by the end of the month.’

  Mick grabbed the envelope she was holding out and nodded quickly. He could hear Heathcliff behind him still talking to the removal guys. That was good. He didn’t need him knowing that Mick couldn’t afford school uniform for his own kid.

  The social worker was staring past him. ‘Someone moving in?’

  Mick nodded.

  A voice behind him cut in. ‘Miss Dean.’

  She nodded, furrowing her brow.

  ‘You might not remember me. Heathcliff Earnshaw.’

  ‘I remember.’

  Mick saw Heathcliff’s gaze dart from the social worker to Mick and then to Harry. ‘I hope there’s no problem here.’

  Ellen Dean shook her head.

  ‘Good. Because if there was, you really wouldn’t need to worry any more. Harry’s got his uncle right next door now. The Earnshaw family reunited, as it were.’

  Mick felt suddenly cold, despite the warm day.

  ‘I intend to take very good care of my nephew,’ Heathcliff said.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  2008

  The graffiti caught Lockwood’s eye as he walked through the centre of town. They called them artists now but it was still a crime, in Lockwood’s mind at least. He paused and studied the wall. Several generations of the local kids had all had a go at that wall. Layer after layer of names and the occasional attempt at pattern. The more recent ones were pretty fancy. But the older ones – that was graffiti as he’d known it back when he walked a beat. Just names. An attempt at some sort of fame or immortality from some kids who were all too aware of how little life was going to offer them.

  And still visible through the layers was her name. Cathy. It was written roughly in plain white paint, but it shone through. That was odd. It almost looked like it had been repainted, maybe more than once, over the years.

  Time had not been so kind to the Red Lion. Lockwood stood outside, looking at the dirty windows and grimy bricks. The gentrification and prosperity of the newer parts of town hadn’t reached down here. This wasn’t a place he’d go for a drink after work. It wasn’t a place he’d go for any reason at all – except one. He took a deep breath and stepped inside.

  The interior of the pub probably hadn’t changed much since the striking miners had come here to drink and convince themselves they were going to win. The walls were covered with old photos of Gimmerton. The men in the photos were smiling. There were newspaper clippings too, from the strike. Those showed a less optimistic picture. One clipping was of miners gathered around a graveyard. That must have been Ray Earnshaw’s funeral, the beginning of the end for a certain kind of life in this town.

  Lockwood stepped to the bar. The smoking ban might have been implemented a year ago, but past generations had left their mark. The smell of cigarettes didn’t hang in the air any more, but it lingered in the yellow of the walls and the stains on the ceiling. The floor was sticky with years of spilled beer, and the bar was pitted and marked.

  ‘What’ll you have?’ The landlord looked as old as his bar.

  ‘Pint of bitter, thanks.’ It was a bit early in the day for Lockwood, but information came with a price.

  The landlord reached for a glass that didn’t look all that clean, and placed it under the pump.

  ‘Don’t often see strangers in here,’ he commented as he placed the foaming glass on the bar in front of Lockwood.

  ‘I’m not exactly a stranger,’ Lockwood said, handing over a twenty. ‘I was here during the strike.’

  He was gambling that the barman would assume he’d been with the miners. His accent identified him as from the south, but southerners had come up to support the miners too. It was a safe bet the landlord had never had off-duty police in his pub back then. Nor expected to now.

  ‘Bloody Thatcher,’ the barman muttered. ‘They’re putting up statues to her now. Well, not round here.’

  Lockwood took another drink. He nodded at the clippings on the wall. ‘I remember those days. That bloke who was killed. What was his name? Shaw?’

  ‘Earnshaw. Criminal it were. And him with those nippers at home.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘There were an older lad, stayed on the Heights. The younger one ran off. Came back though – years later. I heard he’d been mixed up with the IRA.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  The landlord paused. ‘I forget. You ask a lot of questions.’

  Lockwood winced internally. He’d forgotten himself for a moment. The Irish thing was new, though. Nothing in any of the reports he’d read suggested anything like that. Lockwood raised his eyebrows, trying, this time, to look more casual in his interest. ‘Sorry. My mum always said I was too nosey.’

  The landlord laughed.

  ‘IRA sounds a bit far-fetched, though?’

  ‘Dunno. He came back with money in his pocket. Bought the house right next to the Earnshaws. Dunno why – never really thought him and Mick got on.’

  ‘They weren’t mates?’

  ‘I don’t know. They used to come down here a lot. Mick liked a drink, he did. Heathcliff paid. Never understood that. They’d sit here night after night. Mick drinking and Heathcliff buying. The kid came too. Mick’s son. My missus didn’t like that. Said it wasn’t right for a bairn, but I told her if it weren’t for Heathcliff buying all that beer, we’d be closed.’

  ‘Wasn’t there a sister too?’ Lockwood caught the frown on the man’s face. He was still asking too many questions. He quickly downed the last of his pint and held out the glass for another. ‘And have one for yourself too,’ he said.

  That did the job. The barman pulled two pints and leaned against the bar, seeming pleased with the company.

  ‘Yeah. She were a right looker, she were. Married the Linton boy… them that shut down the mine. Her father would have been turning in his grave.’

  ‘And they stayed round here too?’

  ‘Yeah. He was something all arty. Worked from home, he did. Not a proper job if you ask me. But still.’

  ‘So…’

  He didn’t get to ask his next question. The old man picked up a cloth from the back shelf and turned away. ‘Ah well, don’t have time to stand round chatting all day.’

  Lockwood glanced around. He was the only customer, but the message was clear. A pint only bought a nosey southerner so many answers.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  September, 1990

  Cathy watched the three figures emerge from the pub. She recognised them immediately. One was Mick. The second was Heathcliff. And the third was Ha
rry, straggling along behind them like a lost puppy. She ducked down in the seat of her car, which was parked across the road. The two men were clearly visible as they turned towards the stream. Mick kept trying to pat Heathcliff’s back. He missed as often as not, then staggered against a wall. She heard him grunt with pain. Mick was drunk. That wasn’t so unusual. What did surprise her was that Heathcliff was with him.

  Heathcliff hated Mick. And the reverse was also true. So why were they suddenly drinking buddies? According to gossip, they were at the Lion most nights, with Heathcliff picking up the tab. That’s why she was here. To see for herself if the gossip was true. And it looked like it was. But it didn’t make any sense.

  The car window was wound down, and Mick’s raised voice was easy to hear in the crisp autumn air.

  ‘Heathcliff. You’re a true mate. You know that.’ His words were slurred with drink.

  ‘Right.’ Heathcliff’s reply was terser but still clear.

  ‘You helped me out with that bank thing.’

  Cathy had to strain to hear Heathcliff’s reply. ‘The charging order.’

  Cathy frowned. She didn’t know what that meant.

  The two men continued their walk, Mick still talking away. ‘Yeah. Them bastards ain’t getting my house.’

  ‘I will never let anyone take that house.’ Heathcliff’s voice was cold and clear now. He sounded sober and entirely in control.

  ‘Too right!’ Mick stumbled as he stepped over the gutter. Heathcliff stood and let him fall heavily to the ground. Then he slowly bent over and dragged their brother to his feet.

  Cathy felt anger growing inside her. She hadn’t seen Heathcliff since that day up on the blue hills almost a month ago. But here he was, drinking every night with Mick, who he hated, while she sat by the phone, waiting for him to call.

  Well, fine, if that was the way he wanted it, then she didn’t need him. He was back living in the Heights. The very place they had struggled to leave behind. That might be good enough for him. But it wasn’t for her. She had Edward. And the Grange. She had her own life now.

  Heathcliff could go to hell.

  She sat up and turned the key in the ignition, revving the engine loudly before slamming it into gear and pulling out onto the road. She sped past Heathcliff and Mick, glancing in the rear-view mirror. Mick was so drunk he probably wouldn’t have noticed if she’d run him down. Heathcliff, though, was staring after the car as if he knew who was driving it.

  A wave of nausea hit as Cathy pulled into the driveway outside Thrushcross Grange. She closed her eyes for a moment and waited as her skin tingled under a sheen of cold sweat. Her heart seemed to race. Her head throbbed. She breathed as slowly and deeply as she could. She wasn’t sure how long she sat like that but eventually the feeling passed. She opened her eye, in time to see Isabelle pulling the front door to the Grange closed.

  Cathy jumped out of the car. ‘Where are you going?’

  Isabelle frowned. ‘Why were you sitting out here?’

  ‘I just got back.’

  ‘I heard the car ages ago.’

  So Isabelle was listening for the car, and she’d waited before going out. Cathy stared at her sister-in-law. Her hair was piled on top of her head, and she had a long coat that she was holding tightly closed across her chest. Cathy recognised that. She’d done it herself enough times. Isabelle wasn’t going out. She was sneaking out.

  Cathy darted forward and grabbed Isabelle’s arm. Her sister-in-law twisted away, but the coat fell open, revealing a mini-skirt and tiny cropped top. Cathy laughed. ‘You don’t have to sneak out. You’re allowed a boyfriend.’ She pointed at Belle’s tiny outfit. ‘This is all for a boyfriend?’

  Isabelle stared at the floor for a second before nodding.

  Cathy couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit jealous. Getting dressed up and going out late to meet someone – that’s what other girls her age were doing, wasn’t it? She pushed the thought away. She had Edward. She knew she was very lucky. ‘Who is he?’

  This time Isabelle raised her head and met Cathy’s gaze. ‘It’s Heathcliff.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘I’m not.’ There was a hint of triumph in Isabelle’s eyes that Cathy had never seen before. ‘It’s Heathcliff.’

  The tiny spark of jealousy flared into a white-hot rage. ‘You cannot go out with Heathcliff.’

  Isabelle laughed in her face. ‘You can’t stop me’

  ‘I forbid it.’ Cathy screamed the words.

  ‘You can’t do that. You’re not my mother.’

  ‘Well, if she was here, she’d forbid it.’

  Isabelle took a step closer to Cathy. ‘Well, she’s not here, is she?’

  Cathy didn’t reply. That night, the accident, what had happened to Mr and Mrs Linton, it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t.

  ‘But Heathcliff loves me.’ Cathy’s voice was venomous now. ‘You’re nothing to him.’

  ‘You’re just saying that because you want to keep him for yourself. You’ve taken Edward. And my parents. But you can’t have him. Heathcliff’s with me now.’

  ‘Oh, is he?’ Cathy snarled. ‘Well, why don’t we get together then? One big happy family.’

  ‘Fine.

  ‘Fine. Lunch then. On Sunday.’

  Isabelle shrugged. ‘If you like. I’ll ask him tonight.’

  Cathy spun on her heel and left Isabelle standing there. As she pushed the front door open a new wave of nausea hit. She hurried into the bathroom to splash water on her face. She really didn’t feel well. She was sweating and her heart was pounding as if it was about to explode. She drank some water and then walked through to the bedroom. She flung herself on the bed and closed her eyes. If she didn’t feel better in the morning, she’d have to go to the doctor.

  This family dinner was a terrible idea. Edward wished he’d cancelled, but it was too late now. And besides, he suspected Cathy wouldn’t have let him call it off, even if she was at death’s door.

  They had taken their places around the dining-room table, which was laden with food. None of it cooked by Cathy, of course. She’d called caterers in. She’d read in some magazine that people in LA used caterers even for family dinners. It seemed like madness to Edward, but after she’d spent half a day with the Yellow Pages, finding someone who’d do it, he didn’t have the heart to refuse. He didn’t have the heart to refuse her anything at the moment. Hugging their secret close to him, he couldn’t help but smile.

  He looked round the table. Even with caterers he hadn’t expected it to be quite so over-the-top. Cathy was showing off. To Heathcliff. That didn’t sit well, and nor did the fact that Cathy was sitting there with a glass in her hand, smiling at another man. Flirting with him.

  She looked beautiful tonight. She was wearing a figure-hugging, low-cut black dress that showed off the swell of her breasts. A gold necklace was around her neck, hanging down towards her cleavage. It looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t really place it. Cathy’s taste in jewellery tended to run to expensive and showy. This seemed a bit cheap for her, but Heathcliff couldn’t take his eyes off it.

  And then there was Isabelle. She was dressed to the nines too. He never paid much attention to his little sister’s dress, but tonight she looked… Well, if she had been any other girl, he would have said she looked like she was out to get laid. But Isabelle wasn’t like that. She was, however, paying far too much attention to Heathcliff.

  He didn’t like any of it. Not one little bit.

  ‘So, Isabelle,’ he said pointedly. ‘Have you thought any more about university?’

  He’d understood his sister wanting time off after her disappointing A-levels but she wouldn’t be hanging around Gimmerton for ever. It couldn’t hurt for Heathcliff to know that.

  Isabelle pouted. ‘No. I might travel. I think that would be exciting. You’ve travelled, Heathcliff. Was it exciting? What sort of places did you visit?’

  ‘Oh yes, Heathcliff. Do tell us about your travels.’ Cathy�
��s voice had a hint of sarcasm in it. ‘Ireland, wasn’t it? Or did you go further afield?’

  Heathcliff threw a glance at Cathy, then turned to Isabelle with a smile. ‘Well, Isabelle, I did go to some exciting places. You should think about travelling. You’ll really enjoy it. Broadens the mind. And it would get you away from this awful weather.’

  Cathy slammed her wineglass down on the table. ‘Isabelle, come with me. We need to bring the dessert in.’

  Isabelle got to her feet.

  ‘And bring the dirty plates with you.’ Cathy flounced out through the door into the kitchen.

  Edward and Heathcliff sat, until Edward could bear the silence no longer.

  ‘So, Heathcliff. What are your plans? Surely you don’t mean to stay here in Gimmerton for very long. There’s nothing here. No jobs, at least, not for someone like you.’

  ‘You seem to manage. What’s your job these days?’

  ‘I am a graphic designer,’ Edward said, wishing it didn’t sound quite so… unmanly. ‘I mostly work from home. It means I get to spend a lot of time with my family. With Cathy and Isabelle.’

  ‘I know very well who your family are.’

  Edward was still thinking of a retort when Cathy and Isabelle returned carrying a bowl of some dessert.

  ‘I’ll serve, shall I?’ Isabelle said, placing the bowl in front of her own seat. ‘Heathcliff, I hope you have a sweet tooth. This dessert looks really good.’

  ‘Of course I’ll be very happy to eat whatever you give me.’ Heathcliff leaned close to Isabelle, who blushed visibly then cast a triumphant glance across the table at Cathy.

  Edward had had enough.

  ‘Before we get into dessert,’ he announced, ‘I have some good news to share.’ He reached out to take Cathy’s hand. He felt her trying to tug it away, but tightened his grip. This one time, he would have his way.

  ‘Cathy and I are going to have a baby.’ His chest swelled a little with pride as he finally said the words out loud. ‘Cathy is pregnant.’

  ‘That’s quick.’ Isabelle’s tone was teasing.