Truly, Wildly, Deeply

by Jenny McLachlan

  ‘Sounds urgent,’ I say.

  Once again, when I sit down, I’m forced up against the window by Fab’s rather relaxed way of sitting. Today he’s wearing a disappointingly conventional blue T-shirt, but who knows what he’s got on his bottom half.

  I’m half expecting him to ask me why I haven’t messaged him, but instead he says, ‘I want to talk to you about Wuthering Heights.’

  I pull my copy out of my bag. ‘What about it? Everyone is so messed up and controlling. Especially Heathcliff.’

  ‘Ah!’ he says, holding up a finger. ‘That is exactly what I want to talk about: Heathcliff.’

  I get out my laptop. ‘Well, he’s not a nice person, but I still find myself rooting for him, you know?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Fab. ‘He is both good and bad, but do you think he is sexy?’

  I burst out laughing. ‘Sexy?’

  He pulls out his phone and taps on the screen. ‘Look, I found his name in a list of the Hottest Male Book Characters. Heathcliff comes second after Mr Darcy in Pride and Prejudice and before Count Vronsky in Anna Karenina.’

  ‘Well, I suppose he is a bit sexy, what with all his brooding and scowling.’ I shrug. ‘Everyone loves a bad boy.’

  Fab continues looking at me. ‘I know,’ he says, drumming his fingers on the desk, ‘and this is wrong. Everyone should love a kind, respectful boy who treats girls well and … cares for them and –’

  ‘Opens doors?’ I suggest, smiling.

  ‘Exactly! A bad boy like Heathcliff does not deserve to be on the Hottest Characters list.’

  ‘Well, I suppose bad boys keep life interesting. I’m not sure we’d be reading Wuthering Heights if Heathcliff just went around opening doors for people and being kind.’

  His fingers stop moving and he fixes me with his intense stare. ‘But is that what you believe, Annie? That kind is less important than interesting?’

  ‘Me?’ This conversation is getting stranger and stranger. ‘I guess so. I love all the scenes that Heathcliff is in. That’s when all the exciting stuff happens.’

  For some reason my words make Fab sigh and shake his head, but I’m saved from any more Heathcliff analysis by Miss Caudle starting the lesson. She asks us how much of the book we’ve managed to read and, as Fab and I are the furthest ahead, she tells us to sum up the plot for the rest of the class.

  ‘Come, Annie,’ says Fab, jumping to his feet and striding to the front of the room.

  I’m fairly certain Miss Caudle just wanted us to do this briefly, from our seats, but I still get up and follow him.

  ‘OK,’ says Fab, addressing the class, ‘here is what happens. A rich man brings home an orphan, Heathcliff, and the rich man’s daughter, Catherine, loves Heathcliff from the moment she sets eyes on him –’

  ‘Er, no, she doesn’t,’ I interrupt. ‘She spits on him.’

  Fab shakes his head. ‘Yes, but a few days later, they are devoted to each other and are so in love that nothing can keep them apart!’ Fab says these last words with such theatrical relish that the class starts to laugh.

  ‘Right, they’re so in love,’ I say, ‘that Catherine marries a richer man and then Heathcliff marries her sister-in-law as some sort of sick punishment.’ I’ve been doing a bit of research online. ‘Oh, and then he makes Catherine’s daughter marry his son. Nothing says love quite like forcing your dead ex-girlfriend’s daughter to marry your son.’

  Fab turns to face me and raises a finger. ‘Annie, you are looking at this in the wrong way.’

  ‘Oh, am I?’

  The students’ eyes flick between us as we talk, like people watching a ball at a tennis match.

  He nods and the finger wags. ‘Yes. You see, Catherine and Heathcliff’s love for each other is so powerful it goes beyond what other people understand. It is almost supernatural.’ He rushes to find a page he’s dog-eared in his book. ‘Catherine says, “I am Heathcliff”. They aren’t two people – they are one person joined by love.’ He snaps the book shut. ‘It is a deeply romantic idea.’

  I laugh. ‘Er … No, it’s not! Losing your identity in a relationship is a deeply creepy and controlling idea. All through Wuthering Heights Catherine tries to escape and be free, but she can only attempt that through marriage, so she can never truly escape.’ I glance at Miss Caudle’s feminist badge. ‘And nothing’s really changed. Women still see the label “girlfriend” as a sign of success and the one route to happiness – they’re just as trapped as Catherine.’

  In the front row of desks, I see a girl busy texting and a boy struggling not to yawn.

  ‘This book is about the power of love,’ says Fab. ‘From the moment Heathcliff and Catherine meet, they are bratnimi duszami, soulmates, and their love is a source of happiness in their lives.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ I say. ‘It makes them miserable.’

  Fab sighs deeply, like I’m missing the point, and I roll my eyes to make it clear that it’s definitely him who’s missing the point.

  ‘Could you both be right?’ suggests Miss Caudle.

  Well, probably, but I don’t feel like agreeing with Fab.

  ‘Nope,’ I say. ‘I don’t see love in this book. I see women struggling to be free of the constraints society puts on them.’

  ‘Heathcliff is “owned” by Cathy too,’ says Fab. He’s stopped looking at the rest of the class and is just looking at me. ‘And society stops him from doing what he wants.’

  ‘Ah, so I’m right: “love” traps the characters.’

  Fab shakes his head. ‘Love frees the characters.’

  Miss Caudle is so delighted with our argument that she gives us a round of applause. ‘It’s wonderful to see you reacting with such passion to the book,’ she says.

  I wouldn’t say the rest of the class are sharing our ‘passion’. They’re looking at us with a mixture of boredom and confusion. I guess our plot summary wasn’t very helpful because Miss Caudle puts an account of the first three chapters on the board and tells us to make notes.

  Fab and I sit down.

  ‘Love,’ whispers Fab, ‘is an adventure!’

  I snort, and Miss Caudle shoots me a look.

  ‘A trip on the Titanic was supposed to be an adventure,’ I whisper back. ‘Look how that ended up.’

  A few minutes later, while Miss Caudle is still talking to the class, Fab slides his notebook across to me, the one where he records English words and phrases. He’s written: At least the passengers had four good days.

  I laugh and shake my head, and I wonder where this boy, who says things like this, but who also believes in love and kindness and goes round handing out flowers, has come from. I don’t think it’s anything to do with him being Polish. Lius and Dan at my old school were Polish, and I never saw them doing anything romantic … Although once Dan did nick an Appletiser from the canteen for his girlfriend.

  Twenty seconds later, Fab gets a text. I watch him pull out his phone, read the message, smile, then slip his phone back in his pocket.

  I know exactly what the message says because I just sent it: Now that was a naughty thing to say. Congratulations … you just joined the bad boys!

  TWELVE

  The next couple of weeks at college fly by. This is partly because I’m having so much fun with Hilary and the boys, but it’s also because I’m loving my English lessons so much – or, to be precise, I’m loving arguing with Fab so much.

  A curious consequence of being disabled is that people often agree with me, even if they don’t actually agree with me at all. They assume my life is hard and they don’t want to knock me down any further by telling me I’m wrong about something.

  Fab doesn’t buy into this idea. In fact, he never gives me an inch and he challenges everything I say. This literary bickering even continues out of lessons via texts.

  Me: OMG. Heathcliff’s just dug up Cathy’s body. Sick!

  Fab: Surely romantic?

  Me: Errr …

  Fab: Joke.

  Today, when
Miss Caudle tells us our homework is to work in pairs making collages that explore themes, Fab and I start arguing straight away. We’re happy working together – it’s the theme we can’t agree on.

  ‘It has to be “Foreignness or the Other”,’ says Fab, pointing at the whiteboard. ‘We have a lot of expertise in that area.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ I say. ‘I want to do the supernatural. I was a Goth between the ages of thirteen and fourteen, and I have a lot of gloomy craft supplies that need using up.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Ghost stamps, black puffy paint …’

  ‘I think you are not taking this homework seriously enough.’

  I laugh. ‘Well, I think you’re taking it too seriously!’

  ‘Fab ’n’ Annie!’ Miss Caudle calls from the front of the class.

  I really wish she wouldn’t call us this. It began as a joke because she had to ask us to be quiet so often, then the rest of the class shortened it to ‘Fannie’. Not only have I unwittingly become part of a supercouple, but our/my nickname is Fannie. Marvellous.

  ‘Yes, Miss Cuddle?’ I say pointedly.

  ‘You two are doing love.’

  ‘What? But that was my last choice, miss!’

  ‘Sorry, but it’s the only theme left. While you two were arguing about it, the others got taken.’

  ‘That is perfect, Miss Cuddle,’ says Fab, stretching back in his seat and putting his hands behind his head. ‘It was my second choice. We will make an excellent love collage together.’

  ‘Fannie are so adorable!’ cries out Romilly, and I’m forced to throw my Tic Tac box at her.

  ‘So, Annie,’ says Fab, ‘when shall we make our love collage?’

  I shrug. ‘After school some time?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘at my house. It is just a few minutes away on the bus, and my mother works at Staples and recently brought home a very large piece of card.’

  That wasn’t what I meant. ‘Couldn’t you just bring it into college?’

  He frowns and shakes his head. ‘No. It is very large. How about after school tomorrow?’

  I consider his suggestion for a moment. Obviously, Fannie meeting up at Fab’s house might encourage some silly comments from the class, but it will probably be the easiest way to do the homework, and I’ve always enjoyed having a snoop round other people’s homes.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll see if my mum can pick me up from your place.’

  ‘And I will get my mother to buy some glue and big pens.’

  ‘Cutest. Thing. Ever.’ We look up to see Romilly grinning over at us.

  She’s already got my Tic Tacs – and appears to be eating them – so this time I’m forced to chuck my fluffy pencil case at her.

  THIRTEEN

  When Fab meets me outside college the next day, he tells me that he’s going to pay for my bus ticket.

  ‘You really don’t need to do that,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t want this to be any trouble for you. It is kind of you to come all the way to my house.’

  ‘I’m not sure about kind. I live twenty miles away from college. You live two miles away. It’s just the logical thing to do.’

  He smiles. ‘In that case, thank you, Annie, for being so logical.’

  Suddenly, Fab leaps into the road and waves his arms around to flag down the bus. I’m fairly certain a raised finger would have done the trick, but Fab likes big gestures.

  The bus is packed full of schoolchildren and shoppers – every seat is taken, and the wheelchair space is filled with two buggies. Sitting behind the buggies are two women; when the younger one notices me eyeing the pushchairs, she says, ‘Sorry, there’s babies asleep in there,’ before turning back to talk to her friend.

  Round here, wheelchairs have priority over pushchairs. In theory. I suppose I’m a bit of a grey area because I’m not confined to my wheelchair, although, after a day spent walking round college, I don’t think I can stand.

  ‘You’re blocking the exit,’ the bus driver tells me helpfully.

  I look up, and the whole bus looks down, trying to keep themselves out of this awkward situation I’m causing. Although I’m not causing it. There is a space on this bus for me, but two babies are already in it.

  Annoyance that I’ve been put in this situation flares up inside me. Fab steps forward to speak, but I put my hand on his arm.

  ‘I can sort this out,’ I say. I turn to the bus driver. ‘You’re not going to ask them to fold their buggies, are you? You’re expecting me to do it.’

  He keeps his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes fixed on the road ahead of him. ‘Sorry, love. I just need to get this bus moving. Another one will be along in a few minutes.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m not getting off this bus,’ I say, then, feeling the impatient, curious eyes of all the passengers on me, I get to my feet and fold up my chair. I hand it to Fab, who pushes it behind the buggies.

  ‘Careful!’ snaps the older mum.

  Before I’ve even had a chance to ask someone to move, the bus roars into life. I grab the pole to stop myself from falling and that’s when I notice where the priority seating is.

  I might not to want to disturb the babies in front of a bus full of people, but I’ve got no problem disturbing their mums.

  ‘Please can I have one of your seats?’ I ask.

  The younger mum blinks at me and stares. ‘What?’

  My heart speeds up and I hold on tight to the pole. ‘You’re sitting in a priority seat that’s reserved for people who are elderly, disabled or pregnant, and I’m disabled.’

  The two women study me suspiciously, looking me up and down, then the younger one sighs and says, ‘Fine.’ Then, oh so slowly, she gets to her feet.

  I squeeze in next to her friend, and for the next few minutes the women are glued to their phones, sharing secret smiles and glances.

  I’m fairly certain they’re texting about me, so I keep my eyes on the window and try to project the strongest couldn’t-care-less vibes possible, putting my shoulders back, yawning, smiling to myself. But it’s hard, because of course I do care about having to fight for the right to get on a bus just like everyone else.

  Suddenly my phone buzzes with a message from Fab.

  What a couple of dupki.

  I don’t know what dupki means, but I’m guessing it’s not nice.

  Massive dupki, I text back.

  I watch as he reads my message, then his eyes meet mine, and he gives me the briefest of smiles. He’s too polite to make the women feel uncomfortable.

  I settle back in my seat and take a sip of water, not faking being relaxed now. The women are still frantically tapping away on their phones, but I just let them, and what they’re doing, wash over me because they’re really not worth worrying about. Plus their babies have just woken up and are screaming their heads off.

  Ha, ha, ha!

  FOURTEEN

  Fab lives in a small, square terraced house, with a small, square front garden stuffed full of the same flowers he gave me.

  ‘My mother is at work,’ he says, letting me in and ushering me into the kitchen.

  It’s as immaculate as the front garden, and arranged on the table is the much-discussed piece of Large Card and various craft items: glue, scissors, pens. Sweet. He must have got it all ready before he came into college this morning.

  Fab pours us each a glass of squash, then we sit at the table, sipping our drinks. An awkward silence falls over us.

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened on the bus,’ Fab says, looking at me.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘No, but it was me who made you get the bus.’

  ‘Yeah, but you didn’t put the dupki on the bus. Forget about it.’ I say this firmly, because I can sense Fab’s teetering on the edge of trying to talk to me about my cerebral palsy, and I’m really not in the mood for that right now. What I’m in the mood for is some serious crafting. To make this clear to Fab, I pull a Tesco bag o
ut of my rucksack.

  ‘I’ve got all my love stuff in here,’ I say, shaking out the bag.

  Pieces of paper, scraps of fabric, and bits and bobs spill over the table. I show him the pictures of erupting volcanoes and storms that I tore out of Mum’s National Geographic magazines.

  ‘I’ve also cut out anything that symbolises being trapped: walls, chains, bars. Oh, look: I got a picture of a tower with no doors, on a cliff, surrounded by the sea! And I cut out these words from a newspaper.’ I spread them out in front of me, making a sort of grim poem. ‘Lost, hate, torn, assault, missing, scared, beat, agony,’ I read. ‘Those last two came from an advert that said, “New Way to Beat Agony of Piles”.’

  ‘Ah,’ he says, eyeing my heap of misery. ‘I think maybe we have different views of love.’

  Then he tips out the shoebox he’s set on the table and it’s like Clintons Cards on Valentine’s Day: there are hearts (lots of hearts), flowers, rainbows, pouting lips, birds, bees and entwined couples. He’s even got hold of some heart-shaped sequins. Like me, he’s cut out words, but his are: love, kiss, passion, strength, hope and touch.

  ‘Just a bit,’ I say, sifting through them. I hold one up. ‘Tender? Fab, who’s tender in Wuthering Heights?’

  ‘Heathcliff is tender when he gives Catherine a lock of his hair twisted with her own.’

  ‘But she’s dead. He puts it on her corpse.’

  Fab does one of his expansive shrugs, declaring, ‘It is still tender. A little creepy, but tender.’

  After two hours, and lots of cutting and sticking, we’ve produced a rather fine collage. We basically do half each and have fun arguing about which side the quotes should go on. In the end, we have to compromise with: ‘Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same’ and put it slap bang in the middle. I stick a pair of handcuffs on my side, and Fab retaliates by sticking an entwined lock of hair on his side. I don’t even ask him where he got the hair from.

  After we’ve tidied up, we’ve still got ten minutes until Mum’s supposed to arrive, so I ask to see Fab’s bedroom.

  ‘My mother wouldn’t like it,’ he says, hesitating at the foot of the stairs.