I sit in the common room next to a woman who is too thin. She asks about my book, and I decide there’s no reason to ignore her. I can see the veins sticking up on her arms, and her face is all angles with a thin covering of skin pulled tightly across her skull and cheekbones. What makes it really sad is the fact that she’s pretty, or rather she was pretty, but I imagine that nobody’s ever told her this. I open the book and explain to her that it’s all about royal gardens, and she says that my accent suggests to her that I’ve travelled quite a distance, and I tell her I must have because I used to have two children and heaven only knows where they are now. I laugh out loud, and so she laughs too, just to be polite. That’s funny, she says. I let her know that after the pills I spent another three weeks in the hospital and they told me that Ben would have to stay with these Gilpin people. At least until I was back on my feet and capable. That was nearly a year ago now. Last summer. She mops her brow with the sleeve of her nightdress. It’s hot, isn’t it? Yes, I say, and then she tells me that she’s sure I’ll like it in the courtyard. After everything I’ve just told her, that’s the best she can come up with? It’s hot and I’ll like it in the courtyard. I’m sorry, but nobody can say that I didn’t try. Once I realized that I’d messed up, I did everything I could to try and get Ben back. She suggests that we go for a walk and have a little explore. What’s your name? I tell her Monica, and she seems to think that’s quite a pleasant name. A bit unusual, she says, then smiles. But quite pleasant.
IX
THE JOURNEY
Seeing him step gingerly from the neglected barn, where he has sheltered from the fury of a sudden storm, and pass into the weak March sunlight, an onlooker might initially mistake him for a furtive man who hides in hollows and picks berries, a sad fellow who wraps himself in nostalgia for a happier past that has been swept away by ill luck and squibs of gin. But this is unequivocally a man of quality whose loose-jointed stride is soon long and true, and whose descent to the floor of the valley is assured. He effortlessly straddles an old stile, and is alert enough to sense that the moist air is now filled with the newly liberated scent of heather. He draws deeply upon the fragrance, and notes the tint and form of every flower, the texture and density of the many varieties of moss, and he is mindful of the nests of tadpoles wriggling furiously in the streams. On the other side of a narrow beck he sees a small patch of turf surrounded by clear springs, and he discerns a makeshift pathway of large flat stones that he decides might serve as dappled steps along which he can navigate his way to the safety of the green island.
Once there he lays down his bag and strips off his cloak and shirt, revealing a stout but firm stomach that suggests that this man’s appetite for good food and wine has not yet been corrupted by addiction. Wading ankle deep into the water, he scoops rivers to his face and lets the cool, sweet taste soothe the inside of his dry mouth. He stretches his arms above his head and feels the fresh breeze pass by both sides of his body. Two hours before dawn, he left his house to the sound of the dogs barking wildly, as though some unseen hand was administering a vicious beating. He instructed Joseph that he should quieten them so their unruly noise would arouse neither his sensitive wife nor the children. Joseph whistled and then released a string of unintelligible curses that soon had the beasts whimpering and then rolling on the ground with flapping tongues as though anticipating some tantilizing surprise. As he strolled away from his residence, he looked up and imagined the sky to be a black velvet glove that might, at any moment, reach down and lift him into the starlit heavens and propel him on an altogether different journey. However, he quickly averted his eyes and continued his lonely pilgrimage. Sometime later, the first light of daybreak arrested his attention, and he realized he could now see his fidgeting fingers, and the spongy soil on which he was walking was visible beneath his feet; then dawn broke with a quietly confident majesty that would have caused a less secure man to fall to his knees in supplication, but he pulled his cloak to against the morning chill and simply increased his pace.
He lowers himself down on his heels, knees jutting out on either side like awkward wings, and again he disturbs the sleeping beck by plunging his cupped hands beneath the surface and hoisting icy water across his broad shoulders. He kneads the cascading ribbons into the leathery skin on his chest and back with quick circular gestures that suggest thoroughness as opposed to haste. Tonight he will sleep at the familiar rooming house, which for many years has accommodated this gentleman’s eccentricity, without demanding any explanation of why he chooses to promenade on foot across country instead of taking to the roads and riding in a carriage in a manner more becoming for one of his status. The fact is, walking affords him the gift of exercise and an opportunity to refresh his mind and achieve a clearer understanding of deeds past and tasks present, but he has never shared this intelligence with anyone. The anxious commerce of Liverpool, conducted in crowded, dusty rooms choked with tobacco smoke, will offer him scant recourse to luxuriate in reflection, and this being the case, he has discovered that time invested in the ruminative quality of his excursion generally pays dividend once his mind begins to be assaulted by the discordant cacophony of the blustering world of business.
He worries about his children, for the radiant yet desperate light in the eyes of the passionate girl suggests a troubling delicacy, while the son’s wilful behaviour hints at an obstinate temperament that neither his wife’s line nor his own has ever accommodated. The young man always affects to listen, but with a slither of icy dissent lodged in his bosom, and he behaves churlishly towards both parents as though life has somehow been unfair to him. His angry and despondent wife finds it increasingly arduous to cope with the most trifling details of daily survival, and last night, after she had taken to her bed, he reclined in his chair and wondered if they would ever again enjoy the pleasant tenderness of time shared as man and wife. His children squabbled noisily next to the hearth, but then his daughter broke free, and the poor girl stood trembling before him as though ill clad in a hard frost. (Please, must you go, Father? Your ship is in Antigua, isn’t it? Are there problems at your sugarworks?) Old Joseph tended the roaring fire and said nothing, but neither son nor daughter could disguise their great frustration at the prospect of their father’s impending absence. Of course, the children had often been told that their father had little choice but to conduct dealings in Liverpool with men whose hearts were hard like stone, and whose Christian charity went no further than the looking glass: these men of commerce were his colleagues, the gentlemen for whom the children were continually being deserted, but last night both daughter and son found it difficult to mask their disappointment. Joseph looked on, and when he recognized an appropriate moment to speak, he rescued the situation and reminded his tongue-tied Master to be wary of petty thieves and vagabonds during the sixty-mile walk, men who, spying a gentleman, would undoubtedly demand both pocket watch and money.
He stands rooted in the water and observes the distant hills, and the newly formed bank of ashen clouds lurking dismally above them. It will rain again, of this he is sure. He remains still and vigilant; a passing native would see a stout bird silently waiting for a languid fish or a drifting insect. However, he is perplexed. A whole life built upon swift decisions, and now, marooned in this beck, he is crippled by a lack of certitude that tastes bitter in his mouth. Some years ago his acquiescent wife had accepted the notion that the distractions of Liverpool had most likely captured her husband’s mind, but of late she has been unable to prevent her tolerant acceptance from curdling into peevish bitterness. And now the children are also judging him harshly; he sees it in their defiant scrutiny, and yet he can find no comforting words for them. Half naked, he carefully picks his way across slippery stones until he reaches the safety of land. The forsaken water ripples and purrs as though lamenting his absence, and midway through the day his heart beats with a dread with which he is unacquainted. He listens to the rumble of distant thunder and understands he is truly alone.
The challenges of climbing up a steep ravine or scrambling down the hurried slope of a hill have provided him with welcome relief from the ubiquity of the moorland. Now, as the last streaks of daylight fade from the blackening sky, he can finally see the warm glow from the half-dozen oil lamps that decorate the windows of the rudimentary rooming house, and he is relieved to think that soon he will rest. As he approaches the shabby establishment, he is reminded that the place has long since passed its infancy, but he relishes the prospect of a plate of hot food and a freshly aired bed. Less pleasant to contemplate is the thought that this arrival marks the end of his precious solitude, for he will now have to reenter the company of his fellowman. Some ten miles ago he endured his sole encounter of the day: a savage-looking individual with both fists clapped on the head of a staff, who loitered at a crossroads and verbally accosted him, impatient to ascertain if he knew of a slab of stone that might serve a penniless wayfarer as a resting place after a hard day scampering on the moors. He answered the menacing man in the negative and, without breaking stride, increased his pace, feeling no stirrings of compassion towards the ruffian. Standing now outside of his moonlit lodgings, he is somewhat alarmed by the muted babble of human conversation that disturbs the tranquillity of the evening, but he knows he must prepare himself.
She wears a tight-fitting bodice and black frock that he is certain must surely impede the boldness of her movement. However, as she serves him, she maintains a magnificently upright yet relaxed posture, and he notices that as ever, much care has been exercised to season everything to his taste. His customary small oak table and chair have been discreetly set in place in the farthest corner by the window, presumably while he briefly repaired to his room. Once there, he washed his hands and face, and the overly solicitous servant boy praised his excellent wardrobe although it was unmistakably blotched and bog spattered. Nevertheless, he offered up a small coin to the scrawny youth, who seemed resolved to please regardless of remuneration. The servingwoman steps back from his table and he looks up at her. Despite her solemn countenance and irregular features, it would be unfair to label this statuesque woman ill favoured or without grace. He knows that later she will charm the guests and play refined melodies on the harp, but she will do so as though skating on a pond of thin ice, circling daintily, careful not to crash through to any depth. (Have you a ship come in, sir?) A furious fire roars and bellows beneath the wide brick flue; it lights up the room and casts outlandish shadows in every direction. There is a playful shyness to the woman, who bestows the merest inkling of a smile upon him before she quits the room. No ship. The recent letter said nothing about a ship.
Dear Sir,
I can no longer maintain the expense of housing your friend, its being past six months since I last received payment of rent. She fails rapidly, and appears to be making haste to leave us, for she possesses neither the strength nor the inclination to beg nature to refrain from tormenting her. I summoned, and paid for, the doctor, who informed me that she cannot sustain much more of this feverish agony, for winter has extended itself and made circumstances unfavourable for all, but especially treacherous for one in her condition. She periodically rallies and lingers, before once more resuming her difficult journey down a steep path of degradation, a descent made all the more hazardous, for she is unable to comfort herself with powders or draughts. I am fearful that the dread contagion, which is clearly visiting misery upon her, may spread rapidly among my properties and encumber me with sick and dying tenants who shall find themselves without means to pay monies owing to me. Sir, I require your assistance, for while it is evident that Providence has treated her brutally, I must insist that she meet her obligations or accept the consequences …
Moonlight streams through the bedroom window, but sleep refuses to soothe his weakened body, and he stares unhappily at the timepiece on the plain mahogany dresser. Outside, he hears the hooting owls as they swoop and hunt near the pile of manure to the back of the barns, and he listens to the high wind as it continues to sob and wail through the flailing trees. In the grate a childish fire sputters and makes one final attempt to snap to feeble life, and as it does so, he again rehearses the events that have propelled him to undertake this inauspicious expedition. He remembers the financial prattle of his Liverpool colleagues’ being irksome to his ears, and as they continued to pontificate, he sat rigid and forlorn as though occupying a church pew. Excuse me, I shall take some air. They watched him leave, knowing that one among them would soon be appointed to counsel their partner on the dangers of a surfeit of melancholy, but at present Mr. Earnshaw’s state of mind was the least of their worries. Once he was out in the street, his gloomy cohorts felt liberated, and they continued to scrutinize the carefully composed entries in the large dusty ledger that lay open before them.
She walked towards him with head held high, but it was obvious that the beguiling woman saw no one. And then, as she turned onto Rope Street, she felt his captivated glow upon her, and she began to fly down the road as if the devil himself were giving chase. Madam, please. Madam. Passersby glowered, but as she slowed to a lively walk, her haughty pout signaled that she cared little for people’s opinions. Will you not simply speak with me for a moment? My God, she misunderstands. The woman suspects that I am proposing a transaction. He laughed, which triggered a spasm of disdain to blemish the woman’s face. Please let me just walk with you a little way. He talked incessantly and marched by her side and attempted to create a great thaw in her defences, but she acted as though she had no perception of what it might cost a man to disclose his affection. My children mock my stubborn choice of clothes. And he talked. I come from a place where a surgeon, two grocers, a confectioner, a butcher, a cabinetmaker, and a wine merchant all ply their trades within a reasonable distance. He talked.
He is assaulted by the noise of clattering clogs that rises from the courtyard below, and then he listens to the ceaseless stamping of restless horses as, eager to step out of the cloud of their own steamy restlessness, they shudder and heave. Moonlight continues to stream in through the uncurtained windows, but he knows that he must soon depart if he is to reach his destination by sundown. Beyond the woman, his two children have populated his dreams and conspired to treat him unfairly. Despite his pleadings, the dreamworld son seems determined to emphasize that his father no longer retains his favour. Meanwhile, the girl has frightened him with her indignant outbursts, and demanded to know why he has not done his children the kindness of consigning both son and daughter to a foundling hospital. Still clad in his stockings, he rubs his eyes to wakefulness and remembers that the children have asked him to buy them gifts in Liverpool, and he hopes that the purchase of a fiddle for the boy and a riding whip for the girl might, on his return, enable him to pass future nights unperturbed by their hectoring.
* * *
Suddenly the day yields to darkness, as though it no longer has the will to continue. With a wet cloak upon his back and a carpetbag over his shoulder, he enters the seafaring town and begins to pass through the less public lanes and alleyways where the corpses of dogs and cats rot in the gutters. A shared journey in a post-chaise would have spared him the unpleasantness of proximity to people who are not overclean in either their habits or their persons, but his gruelling trudge is now reaching its conclusion, and there is no reason for him to confuse his mind by speculating on what might have been. Putrid vapours stupefy his senses, and as he proceeds deeper into this area of shameful squalor, his hand habitually hastens to his mouth to prevent his succumbing to a choking fit. All about him, in the very shadows of the port’s abundant wealth, it is impossible to ignore the evidence that the greater part of this town has a face that appears to have been exhaustively bruised by misfortune. He lowers his damp head and enters a court where the dwellings sag indifferently, one supporting the next, and where he can see offal-choked, verminous rooms—doors unlatched to all—that he knows to be peopled by men and women who nurse a lifelong commitmen
t to quenching their thirst and who will fly into a murderous rage should they feel slighted.
A dirty-fleshed, drunken fool emerges suddenly from the shade and sneers at him, and then the man’s eyes flash and he laughs. (Her gentleman, if I’m not deceived. The stuck-up bitch is where she should be, but it is not this court.) The scruffy brute staggers in all directions, his head bobbing in the heavily fermented mist that he replenishes with each rasping statement. We must go next door, he insists. The dreary wretch then obliges him to drop a coin into his blackened palm in order that he might conduct his guest no more than ten faltering paces down the lane, where they both bend double and pass through the tunnel-like entrance to a closed-in court. There are six houses in the yard, each boasting two stories, all of which give out onto an unpaved central area that is littered with bodily refuse. A water pump has long ago given up service, but on the wall above it a dog has been hung for amusement, and it squeals and tumbles helplessly at the end of a piece of frayed rope. The half-witted man smiles toothlessly and points to an open door in the corner.
He carefully edges his way up the unstable staircase and enters the foul-smelling attic room, which boasts not a single stick of furniture. The air sits sluggishly in the abandoned quarters, and he steps carefully, for some seepage stains the floor and appears to be still leaking between the ill-matched boards, no doubt soiling the inhabitants below. He looks up, for he hears footsteps in the stairwell, and then a lamplit face appears and greets him with a cheerfulness so out of keeping with the environment that he wonders if this intruder is in full possession of his faculties. (Kind sir, the severity of the season has caused great distress to those already beset with ailment and pain. It is all part of this dreadful infestation that has reduced so many of my tenants to the severest condition imaginable with no prospect of relief.) The landlord advances boldly into the room, the light from his lamp pooling unsteadily on the floor, and he stands close by, which merely confirms his lack of fellowship with either soap or water. (Once she began to flounder, vitality rushed suddenly from her body and left behind an empty vessel. Thereafter the Lord ushered her out of the misery of the present world and delivered her into the everlasting glories of the world to come.)
The Lost Child Page 23