by Alison Case
‘Except when Hindley and I dragged you into mischief.’
‘Well, yes – though I would have said that it was Hindley and I who dragged you.’
‘Or Hindley dragged us both. Oh, Bodkin, what am I to do about him?’
‘Well, I don’t see that there’s much you can do. It’s Hindley’s crime, and he must bear his punishment like a man. I’m sure he understands that. You can smuggle him a few small comforts now and then, and condole with him on his sore muscles, but that’s about all.’
The reference to sore muscles gave me an idea. ‘Say, Bodkin, that salve that Old Elspeth sells you, do you think it would help Hindley with the soreness?’
‘Very likely.’
‘Could you get me some?’
Bodkin frowned. ‘That would be very difficult.’
My face fell. ‘Why?’
‘Well, I should have to get up from this chair, like this, walk two steps across the room, like this, reach halfway up the wall and take down this very heavy little pot’ – he pretended to be pulled to the ground by it – ‘and carry it all the way back to put in front of you, like this.’ He heaved the little pot onto the table in front of me and then collapsed into his chair, gasping with mock exhaustion. ‘But for Hindley’s sake, I’ll do it.’
‘Oh, stop it, Bodkin, you really had me worried! How much does it cost?’ I had none of the master’s money left, but I had brought some of my own.
‘For you, gratis.’
‘No, really, I can’t be taking your father’s stock like that.’
‘I’ll pay him for it, and you can tell Hindley it’s from me. Come, it’s only a shilling, and it would please me to be able to offer Hindley some comfort, too. Anyway, as I’ve been meaning to tell you, I must say farewell for a while, so should like to leave you something to remember me by – and what better memento than a pot of smelly ointment made by an old woman?’
‘Farewell? Where are you going?’
‘To Edinburgh, to complete the formal portion of my medical education. For three years I shall be watching dissections, listening to lectures, poring over medical books, and tramping the wards of a great city hospital, and if I do it all well enough, when you see me next, you may call me Dr Bodkin.’
I laughed. ‘We will call you Dr Kenneth then, of course. Or to be precise, Young Dr Kenneth, so we can distinguish you from your father. But can the neighbourhood really support two doctors, or will you have to move elsewhere?’
‘There will not be two Dr Kenneths in practice for long. My father is eager to pass the practice on to me. For the last thirty years he has been woken at all hours of the night, and travelled in all kinds of weather, to attend to the sick and injured for some ten miles around. He would like to retire while he still has health left to enjoy his ease, or at least limit his efforts to those well enough to haul themselves to the surgery to see him.’
‘Leaving the burden of midnight rousings and hailstorm house calls to you?’
‘Well, it is no more than what I have always expected. Father has certainly earned a rest, and I consider myself lucky to have a practice ready-made to step into as soon as I am qualified.’
‘You are lucky in more than that, Bodkin,’ I sighed.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why, that what your parent would have you do, what you would do yourself, and what you can do, are all the same thing.’
Bodkin looked concerned. ‘Do you feel that’s not true for you?’
‘Oh, not me. I am thinking of poor Hindley.’
‘Poor Hindley! Really Nell. I am sorry that his father is not kind to him, and I condole with him sincerely on the aches and pains he is about to suffer. But taken as a whole, is there any young man on the face of the earth with fairer prospects, and who need do less to attain them, than the eldest son of an English gentleman? Enough Latin to drop the occasional phrase in polite conversation, enough arithmetic to add up the sum of his rent-roll, and enough patience to wait for his inheritance to fall in his lap – beyond that, what is really expected of him?’
‘A good deal more than that,’ I replied, nettled. ‘What you say may be true for many, but Wuthering Heights is not a rich estate. Does Mr Earnshaw look to you like a man who lives at his ease?’
‘No, he looks like a man under great strain, I’ll grant you that. But he seems more haunted than overworked. Does he really demand so much of Hindley? More, say, than you and I perform daily without complaint?’
This was a home question. ‘When you put it that way, perhaps not,’ I said carefully, ‘but things that you or I can do if we try, and do well, Hindley cannot. Remember, I have been at lessons with him since we both began them, and I have seen what a struggle they have always been to him. He is not stupid – you have seen yourself what he could do with a borrowed fiddle, on which he never had a lesson in his life, and how he could learn a dance by watching it only once – and there are other things in which he is clever, too.’ Bodkin nodded. ‘But Mr Earnshaw never cared about those things. He only saw what Hindley could not do, and always made it clear what a poor opinion he had of him. How would you get on, if your father made no secret that he thought you a dunce, and was forever predicting that you would never come to anything? And then Heathcliff came, and Hindley was pushed entirely aside in his favour. It is not right! Is it any wonder, then, that Hindley is bitter and discouraged, and looks on his father as his enemy?’ I felt myself growing more and more vehement as I spoke, as if it were the master himself, and not poor well-meaning Bodkin, I was arguing against.
‘Pax!’ cried Bodkin, putting up his hands, ‘I’m sorry I spoke slightingly of Hindley – I had no idea I would unleash such a storm! Hindley always seemed to me a boisterous and fun-loving fellow, and I often envied him what seemed his freedom from compunction. But perhaps that was mostly bravado. And I know he was a great favourite of his mother’s, so that loss must have hit him hard.’
‘It did,’ I said shortly. I was fighting off the tears that threatened to follow in the wake of my anger. Bodkin must have noticed, for he excused himself from the room for a few minutes, so that I could compose myself. When he came back, I began gathering my things to leave. ‘So will I really not see you for three whole years?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I will be home now and then, for holidays and suchlike. But not as often as I might like. It is expensive enough to pay for the lectures and my lodgings, without paying coach fare back and forth several times a year.’
‘Couldn’t you just ride your little pony back and forth?’ I asked with a smile.
‘To tell you the truth,’ he laughed, ‘I am hoping to leave Potsie behind for good. I have so far outgrown her, that if I don’t keep my legs bent double while I’m riding her, I find myself standing on the ground, while she trots off without me!’
‘What will become of her, then?’
‘Oh, she’s too old now to be sold on as a saddle pony, and Father doesn’t like giving horses to the knacker man, so probably she’ll be put out to pasture.’
‘Perhaps you can bring her in the house to sit by the fire, and she and Tabby can keep each other company.’
Bodkin laughed. ‘They would be well suited,’ he said. ‘She’d pour tea for Tabby, and Tabby would dish up hot mash for her, and the two of them would shake their heads together over the foolish men going out in all weathers, when any sensible creature would stay warm and dry at home.’
On that note we said our farewells, and I headed home with my purchases.
I found Hindley in the stable after supper, in a better mood than I expected. In response to my anxious queries about his first day, he assured me that it had gone well.
‘I’m working with three other lads – Cal, Burt, and Jim, they are called – and today we were cutting hay. It is hard work, but I got the hang of it quickly enough, and though I couldn’t keep pace with them, I worked faster than they thought I would. When we stopped for lunch they amused themselves by laughing at my “gentleman’s hands
” and my fine clothes, but I gave it right back to them. “Give me time,” I said, “and I’ll grow hooves as hard as yours. And then when I’ve got myself a suit of grey homespun, if I can just grow a nose as long as Burt’s, and ears as big as Jim’s, and bray at a jest like Cal, why, I shall be as good a donkey as any of you.” How they roared! Then they asked me what wages I was getting, and when I told them none at all, they said that was a shame, and that come Saturday evening, when they are paid theirs, they would all stand me a round at the Ploughshare.’
‘Well, I am glad you’re getting on well,’ I said cautiously, ‘but have a care that you don’t become too familiar with the lads, else you’ll have a hard time getting their respect, when you do become their master.’
‘I don’t see that at all,’ said Hindley. ‘If Father chooses to keep me in such company as theirs, who am I to hold myself aloof? And why should I lose their respect by working as hard as they do, and showing I will take no nonsense from them, without giving back as good as I get?’
‘But to let them treat you?’
‘What, am I to have all of their labour, and none of their comforts? And for the matter of that,’ he added jocularly, ‘who are you to lecture me on the company I keep? Where would you be, if I limited myself to consorting with gentlefolk?’
‘That’s different,’ I said hastily. ‘I am as well brought up as you, and as well educated, for a girl, and we are kin too, on our mothers’ sides. And anyway, a man raises his wife to his level – everyone knows that.’
‘So he does,’ said Hindley, seizing my hand and pulling me close, ‘and when I have raised you up to be mistress of Wuthering Heights, you may lecture me all you please on the comportment appropriate to my station. But until then, not a word, please.’ With that he kissed me, and it was no child’s kiss this time. I was willing enough to be kissed, at first. But then Hindley’s hands began to rove too freely, and I struggled to extricate myself.
‘Please, no, Hindley,’ I gasped, wriggling out of his arms at last. I felt, I know not what, angry, confused, and near to tears, all at once. ‘If you – I can’t—’ I stumbled, my usual fluency gone. I sat down on a crate, buried my face in my hands, and burst into tears.
Hindley was instantly contrite, pouring out a stream of soft-voiced apologies and cautiously patting my back, as if afraid he might offend again. I thought this a good sign, and so I made no effort to compose myself, but let my sobs run their course. By the time I looked up, Hindley was kneeling in front of me, looking stricken and miserable, with a few tears making their way down his face.
‘Please, Nelly, I am so sorry. Really I am. I don’t know what came over me. Say you will forgive me, please. No one loves me but you, and I cannot bear to lose you too.’
I could not resist this, but thought I ought to show some sternness first. ‘I am shocked, Hindley, that you should think you could treat me so. I may not be a lady by birth, but I am not some slattern bred in a barnyard, either, and as you hope to make me your lady in time, you ought to treat me with more respect. As for you: you may be obliged to dress and work as a labourer, but you need not act like one too! Remember Ferdinand, from The Tempest? He was made by Prospero to haul logs, which was labour far beneath his station, but he remained a duke’s son in his heart and in his manners. Prospero did that to test his character and his love for Miranda, and when Ferdinand behaved as a ‘patient log-man’ and passed that test, Prospero loved him as a son. You ought to take him as your model.’
‘Well, I rather think my father ought to love me as a son already – seeing as I am his son.’
‘Perhaps he ought. But you did do wrong, about the lessons, you know. If you show a goodwill to this work, he is bound to respect you more. And I will love you all the better for it.’ With that I gave him a brief hug, and a little kiss on the cheek, just to show I had forgiven him. ‘And now I must get back to my work. Oh, but I almost forgot! I brought you something from Bodkin. He is going to Edinburgh for his medical training, and he gave me this for you. You must rub it in of an evening, anywhere your muscles are sore, and it will ease them.’
‘I suppose he knows all about my punishment. It must be all over the town by now.’
‘Actually, I told him myself,’ I said awkwardly. ‘He saw me with the clothes and asked what they were for. I didn’t think you would mind, as he is such an old friend of ours.’
‘What do I care? Everyone will know soon enough. Bodkin must have had quite a laugh at my expense.’
‘Of course not, he was concerned for you – else why would he have sent you the salve? Anyway, he wishes you all the best, and is very sorry he can’t say farewell in person.’
‘Well, I am sorry for it too. But I am not too sorry he is going away, for he is entirely too fond of you.’
‘Me! Don’t be ridiculous, Hindley. First of all, he is well known to be courting Miss Smythe, the apothecary’s daughter, and second, he must know that I could never love anyone but you. He and I are only friends, who enjoy making each other laugh.’
‘Miss Smythe, is it? She’s a pretty little thing, to be sure, and her father’s heir. It would be a handy thing for a doctor, to be heir to an apothecary shop! Still and all, I will be glad to have your laughter-making all to myself for a while. I have more need of laughs than Bodkin does, just at present.’
‘Well, it takes two to jest. Don’t you be spending all your merriment with your new work-fellows. Save some for me, and I will come out here of an evening to laugh over the day with you, as we used to do in the nursery long ago.’
Hindley smiled, then, with something like his old warmth. ‘I will, Nelly, and I will be a “patient log-man” too, for your sake.’ We shook hands to take leave, and I hurried back to the house to close up for the night, feeling more cheerful than I had in many weeks.
Hindley kept his word, and went at his new work with a better spirit than any of us expected. He had good success, too: the cleverness he lacked in schoolroom lessons he had in full when it came to learning bodily motions. Then, too, he had matured into a powerfully built lad, who took pleasure in physical exertion, so although the long hours of unremitting labour were difficult at first, he adjusted quickly, and Old Elspeth’s salve fell into disuse before it was halfway expended. He continued to earn the respect of the overseer and his fellows by hard work and a ready wit. In deference to me, he declined to let them treat him; instead I gave him money each week from my own wages so that he could share a drink or two with his workmates. Neither of us was entirely happy with this arrangement: Hindley thought it unmanly to ‘take money from a girl’, and I did not like to encourage his growing fondness for drink, but it seemed preferable to allowing him to become beholden to his future inferiors, or trying to ban him from pleasure altogether. Thus the two months passed peacefully enough.
The end of Hindley’s punishment coincided with the finish of the harvest. Mr Earnshaw was not one for revelry in general, but he always gave a harvest dinner for his tenants and labourers not long after Michaelmas, at which the ale flowed, if not freely (for Joseph manned the tap), at least in moderate quantity. It had been an excellent harvest. The tenants had all paid their rents without difficulty, and even wiped out any little arrears, which put both them and the master in good humour. The labourers had all had plenty of work at good wages, and their wives and daughters rich gleaning in the fields after them, and their prosperity showed itself in an array of new boots, breeches, and frocks on the little lads and lasses who came with them. Hindley sat up with the family again, and looked well pleased to be there. I was too busy overseeing the food, and the crowd of women who were helping me serve it, to sit down, but I paused to listen when the master stood up to speak.
‘Let me first give thanks where thanks are most due: to God Almighty who has given us this bountiful harvest, that may we use it in humbleness and gratitude towards His service,’ he said, to bowed heads and respectful silence. And then, in a lighter tone, he gave thanks to all who had ploughed
and planted, reaped and gathered and threshed, not forgetting those who had fed and clothed them for the work, and even those little ones whose childish prattle had ‘made bright their father’s eyes, and strengthened his arm to provide for them’, so that there were smiles everywhere when he had finished.
After that, it was customary for the tenants each to stand to say a few words. When they were finished, the overseer of the harvest labourers stood up and raised his glass also. ‘Eed joost layk to say,’ he said, ‘that this year we ’ad help better’n we thought on, from yoong Master Hindley, there, as is a roight foin lad, an’ oon as yo should be prood on, Mr Earnshaw, eff yo don’t mine me sayin’ soo, an’ ’ere’s a toost to Master Hindley.’ With that the labourers all cheered and raised their mugs. Hindley nodded his thanks back at them, and looked towards his father.
Mr Earnshaw stood up. ‘Well, Hindley,’ he boomed, with a broad smile, and I saw Hindley grin happily in expectation of his well-deserved praise, ‘it seems you have finally found your level.’
Silence fell over the whole gathering. Even the children sensed something wrong, stopping their chatter, and looking wide-eyed towards their parents for explanation. Men and women shook their heads and looked embarrassed. The labourers all got up. Bowing and pulling their forelocks politely to the master, but with grim expressions, they left their table and departed together.