Withering Heights

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Just who are Tom and Betty, if I may be so bold as to inquire?” Mrs. Malloy had her nose, along with her pinky, elevated as she sipped her tea.

  “The Hopkinses,” I said. “Tom is Ben’s cousin. It’s his daughter, Ariel, who enjoys gothic novels.”

  “Oh, right! I remember you kindly let me post a parcel of them to her.”

  “Tom isn’t a first cousin,” Ben explained. “Our mothers are second cousins; I think that’s how it goes. They probably wouldn’t have stayed in touch but for the fact that they are both Roman Catholics and at one time attended the same church. I’d never met Tom until the year I began working at my Uncle Sol’s restaurant in Tottenham Court Road.”

  “I’ve never heard about him!” Despite not letting on until today about Melody, Mrs. Malloy naturally expects to know more about our relatives than we do.

  “He died before I met Ellie. The nicest, kindest bloke, who always hoped I’d follow in his footsteps. Mum asked me to put in a word with him about Tom, who was out of work, and Uncle Sol hired him on at the cash register. He was there for about a year until he got a job with more money as a mechanic. He was great with his hands and could spot why things didn’t work”-Ben massaged his jaw to conceal a yawn-“but I didn’t see much of him even when we were working together. I had my own life and he had a girlfriend he was pretty crazy about.”

  “No bothering to keep in touch?” Mrs. Malloy has a strong sense of family, when it isn’t hers.

  “How was I supposed to know he’d one day win the lottery? They didn’t have them in those days. If someone had tipped me the wink, I’d have made him my best friend.”

  “Has your mother managed to get hold of their new address?” I asked him, ignoring the witticism.

  “Afraid not. Of course she assumes it’s Betty, not Tom, who’s afraid that if his relatives know where to find them they’ll all show up with their hands out, hoping for a share of the lolly.”

  “From the stories past winners tell, that does happen with disastrous results,” I said. “The millions disappear and bankruptcy looms.”

  “Would Betty be the girlfriend from when you was working with Tom, Mr. H?” Mrs. Malloy pulled a passing Tobias onto her lap and proceeded to arrange him into a furry blanket. It was getting a little nippy. I found myself thinking longingly of bed for a variety of reasons, one of which sprang from the fact that Ben smiled at me tenderly while answering Mrs. M.

  “No, that wasn’t Betty. Perhaps it was a pity the other relationship didn’t pan out. From the couple of times I met her, she seemed exactly what he needed. A real go-getter and as pretty as they come. Tom called her his wild Irish rose.”

  “What went wrong?” I asked.

  “She wasn’t a Catholic, which was a must for his parents. They put up a stink. Over their dead bodies would their son marry out of the faith. They had someone else lined up for him in no time, a girl he’d known from their first days in kindergarten. They’d gone on retreats together and even dated a few times as teenagers.”

  “Betty?” Mrs. Malloy and I said together, in the hopeful voices of children expecting to have stars drawn beside our names on the chalkboard.

  “No, Angela. She and Tom married but only had a few years together.” Ben waited for a rumble of thunder to subside before continuing. “There was a car accident and she was killed. She wasn’t even thirty, and to make matters as bad as they could be, Tom was driving.”

  “How awful!” I pressed a hand to my throat.

  “Bad weather conditions. Tom was lucky to get out of the crash with only minor injuries.”

  “The poor man! He must have been devastated.”

  “I’m sure he was. I wrote to him, of course, but I didn’t go to the funeral because he wanted the immediate family only.”

  “Grief takes people in different ways,” Mrs. Malloy proffered sagely.

  “Quite shortly afterward, he met and married Betty. The family thought it indecently quick. Maybe that’s another reason she’s glad to be shut of them.” Ben attempted to mask another yawn, a sign for me to get to my feet and begin gathering up the tea things. Time for bed.

  I was thinking it was nice that Mrs. Malloy had Lord Rake-hell waiting for her upstairs when an ill wind blew my cousin Freddy into the room. With his long hair, beanpole figure, and dangling skull-and-crossbones earring, he never projects the image of a young man about town, but women-including Mrs. Malloy-for some impenetrable reason dote on his every leer.

  “Hello, my nearest and dearests!” He spread his arms wide, his scraggly beard parting in an ecstatic grin.

  “Keep creeping up on us like this and I’ll ask for your key back.” I eyed him severely. “You almost made me drop the teapot, and it’s irreplaceable. Woolworth’s doesn’t sell this pattern anymore.”

  “You’re all wet from the rain. You need to dry off, Freddy dear.” Sounding ridiculously motherly, Mrs. Malloy looked around as if hoping to find an assortment of freshly aired towels at her elbow.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure?” Ben asked the source of the wet footprints.

  “I thought with the children gone from the nest, an evening down at the pub might be in order. Who’s game?” Freddy swept us with his beneficent gaze.

  “Well, I would be,” said Mrs. Malloy, “but the thing is I need to get a decent night’s sleep, so’s to be up with the birdies to get me packing done before setting out for Yorkshire to see me sister.”

  Before Freddy could say he didn’t know she had a sister, I explained I was accompanying her and also needed my full ration of slumber. That left Ben to take the hint and graciously bid Freddy adieu. But that didn’t happen.

  “Sure, I’ll come along.” No sign of a yawn anywhere close to his face now. He exuded energy. “You don’t mind, do you, Ellie?”

  “Of course not! I’ll be happy knowing you’re having fun.” And then I’ll go to bed and look at the ceiling, I thought.

  “ ’Right then! We’ll be off.” He kissed the top of my head. “Ready, Freddy?”

  Did he have no idea that I wanted to pull off his ears? In all fairness, probably not. The sunny smile I gave him would have done wonders for my acting career, had I had any aspirations to go on the stage. As Mrs. Malloy had so profoundly said, it didn’t do to be a spoilsport.

  “Are you sure you’re all right with this, Ellie?” He had turned around and taken hold of my hand.

  “Absolutely.” I prodded him toward the door. “I’ve got a book, Lord Rakehell’s Redemption, that I’m dying to read, if I can just lay my hands on it. I’m hoping there’ll be a murder. That’s always the best part, isn’t it, Mrs. Malloy.”

  When would I learn to keep my mouth shut?

  3

  Shortly after Ben and Freddy left, Mrs. Malloy headed upstairs-supposedly to prepare mentally for her reunion with Melody but probably to lose herself in machinations that would ultimately result in Lord Rakehell’s transformation from villain to devoted husband. Ha! I stomped into the kitchen to bewail the treachery of men in general and Ben in particular.

  Feeling abandoned and heartily sorry for myself, I got busy at the sink, sloshing cups and saucers around in water both too hot and too soapy. My children were gone. My husband had left me. Even my cat had turned tail and gone outside, refusing to come back in when I called, in spite of the rain. Why hadn’t I gone with Ben and Freddy to the Dark Horse?

  The answer rumbled down from the thunderous night sky. Because I’d relished cutting off my nose to spite my face. Having laboriously dried the last plate, I was left with nothing to do beyond kicking myself in the shins. To go up to bed leaving Tobias outside was not an option. After another futile endeavor to lure him back inside with the promise of taking him to see Cats for his birthday, I trailed disconsolately back to the drawing room, where I was made further despondent by finding the dismembered feather duster buried under a chair. Reflecting that with my luck it would turn out to be on the endangered species list and I would be whapped with
an enormous fine should word leak out to the Chitterton Fells Council on Conservation, I rearranged some ornaments that had been perfectly fine as they were. Then I straightened some magazines and plumped a couple of pillows. Had there been a fire in the grate, I would have poked it.

  The mantelpiece clock was chiming seven P.M. when a pitiful meow sounded at the window and, feeling that life was marginally improving, I crossed the room to let Tobias in. Far from being grateful at being rescued from the elements, he shot past me in a streak of wet fur to deposit himself on a chair and assume his most ill-used expression. If it’s true that misery loves company, I should have been elated. Had I been kinder, I would have told him to finish off the feather duster and forget the consequences. Instead, I turned off most of the lights, leaving only one rose-shaded lamp glowing, and sank down on the sofa facing the windows.

  Immediately I found myself weighed down with fatigue. It wasn’t the pleasant lassitude that is often the precursor to drifting off into untroubled sleep; I felt heavy and lumpish, beset by physical discomfort. The cushions would not conform to my back. The floor became unreachable to my feet. My shoulders wouldn’t hold my arms up properly. I thought about going up to bed, but not only was it too early, there would be that slog up the wooden mountain. Added to which I wasn’t entirely sure I was awake and wasn’t about to take up sleepwalking. Offstage, the thunder had transformed itself into an overture for Cats, with a more than permissible number of wrong notes. I could hear the audience rhythmically clicking its teeth. No, that was the clock ticking away like a metronome inside my head, growing increasingly louder until it, along with the Chitterton Fells Philharmonic Orchestra, got pushed into the background by a more imperative intrusion. A bird, sent by the Endangered Species Commission, was tapping at the windows.

  “Tobias, do something about that,” I murmured huffily.

  No meowed response. As I struggled to sit up and reach around for my feet, which I was almost sure I’d had on when I sat down, the noise got louder. The room was in shadow, adding to my foggy state of mind. Even so, it occurred to me that there might be someone-a person sort of someone, not a blackbird or thrush-trying to get my attention.

  “Who is it?” I asked, through lips that didn’t belong to my face.

  “It’s me,” said a spectral voice.

  “Who?” I crept forward without so much as the poker in hand to protect myself. Against the dark sweep of curtain, a wedge of open window was revealed. Realizing I must have failed to close it when letting Tobias in was not cheering. It was my own fault that I was about to die wearing an elderly bra and no earrings.

  “Oriole!” At least that’s what I thought the voice said.

  My heart pounded and my throat squeezed shut. Here was no ordinary everyday intruder with a bad back and a wife or mother waiting at home, eager to present him with a cup of tea before hearing how he had done on the job and whether the proceeds would allow for a little extra being set aside for Christmas. Lurking behind that pane of glass was the nastyminded child ghost from The Night Visitor. My mouth went dry. Ice prickled down my spine. I regretted never having learned to fall without hurting myself, this surely being an acceptable moment for a Victorian-style faint. No need for a breath-constricting corset. It took Tobias, looking at me with whisker-twitching contempt, to bring me back to reality.

  “How clearly do you think when you’re half asleep?” I asked him defensively. Then I again addressed the window. “Say again who you are?”

  “Ariel.”

  “Ariel Hopkins?”

  “Yes.”

  This was a stunner, but I didn’t waste time gasping; I hurried into the hall, opened the front door, and ushered her in. She was a pitiful sight, wet and bedraggled; her feet in inadequate sandals, her sandy plaits looking as though they had swabbed decks.

  “Hello, Ellie.” She sized up my welcome through rain-fogged spectacles, as I peeled off the sodden raincoat and tossed it over the banister. Her face was a pale pinch-lipped blur. I envisioned Jane Eyre’s friend Helen Burns and held my breath against the pathetic eruption of a consumptive cough.

  “Sorry to burst in on you like this.” She didn’t sound regretful.

  “Why tap at the window, instead of ringing the bell?”

  “I didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot by waking the children if they were in bed.”

  “That was thoughtful, but they’re with their grandparents in London.”

  “What about Ben?”

  “He’s at the pub with my cousin. Let’s get you into the drawing room where it’s warmer.” I led the way, still in something of a dream state.

  “You won’t believe the horrible time I had getting here. Sometimes life can be too cruel,” she said, as I settled her on the sofa. “Would you believe, Ellie, there wasn’t a buffet on the train? It almost made me wish I hadn’t come.”

  “And where would that be from?” I asked, switching on extra lighting before closing the window against more visitors.

  “Yorkshire.”

  Why was I not surprised?

  “I had to wait ages for a taxi after my train got in.”

  “Ariel”-I sat down across from her-“do your father and Betty know you’re here?”

  “I told them I was going to my friend Brandy’s house and that her parents were okay with my spending the night.”

  “Ariel!” Unable to think, I bundled a sofa blanket around her. “After I’ve made you a cup of cocoa and something to eat, you have to let them know what’s going on. Meanwhile, take off those wet shoes and settle back comfortably. Wipe your glasses.” I pointed to a paper napkin on the table beside her that I had failed to pick up earlier when tidying away the tea things. I headed for the door. “Now you’re defogged you can see where you are. Try and relax.”

  “How can I when my life is in turmoil?”

  “We’ll get to that in a minute.” It was good to draw breath in the hall, but before I could fully recuperate I was summoned back to the drawing room by a piercing scream.

  “A cat jumped out at me.” Ariel glared at me through her now-clear lenses. “A great, horrid tabby cat.”

  “He lives here.”

  “I hate cats.”

  “Do you?” I forced a smile. Receiving none in return, I fled back into the hall, where I beheld Mrs. Malloy descending the stairs, majestically crowned with purple hair rollers. Having been engaged in her nightly ablutions, she was only wearing one eyebrow. This did not stop her, while clutching her matching dressing gown around her chest, from informing me that I looked pale.

  “I feel pale.”

  “I thought I heard the kettle whistle.”

  “That was a scream.”

  “Whose?” She followed me into the kitchen, the clicking of her high heels echoing through the house. “Not Mr. H, waking up to a hangover?”

  “He’s not back. He’s only been gone half an hour.”

  “You, clearing your lungs?”

  “Ariel Hopkins. She absconded from home.”

  “The girl you send the books to? The one that’s parents won the lottery?”

  “That’s her.”

  “Talk about surprises. After you and Mr. H were just discussing them!” Mrs. Malloy hovered at my elbow while I made the cocoa and put a slice of chocolate cake and some digestive biscuits on a plate.

  “Ariel could probably do with a sandwich or, better yet, something hot to eat,” I said, picking up the tray, “but I don’t want to waste unnecessary time. I need to phone Tom and Betty. She told them she was staying at a friend’s house. But if they’ve checked and found she’s not there, they’ll be worried to death.”

  “Where did she spring from?” Mrs. Malloy graciously held the kitchen door open for me.

  “Yorkshire.”

  “You don’t say! Why’s she come?”

  “That’s the burning question.” I drew up short outside the drawing room door. “If only Ben were here!”

  “No sense standing weighing d
own the floor, is there? Here, give me that tray.” Mrs. Malloy stopped fussing with her purple rollers to give an exasperated sigh. “Your hands are shaking, Mrs. H, and you’ve slopped the cocoa. Talk about making our little guest feel welcome!”

  We entered to find Ariel sitting with Tobias on her lap.

  “He climbed on and I haven’t been able to get him to budge.” She aimed a fierce look at me through glasses that were way too big for her face.

  “I’ll take him,” I offered.

  “He can stay if he goes on behaving himself. When he’s still, he’s like a hot-water bottle. And I think he’s picked up on the fact that I don’t put up with any nonsense. Who’s this?” She pointed a finger at Mrs. Malloy.

  “Got a mouth, haven’t you?” Mrs. Malloy operates on the theory that children won’t get the upper hand if you don’t let them get taller than you, which is one of the reasons, I suppose, that her ridiculous heels keep getting higher.

  Having enthroned herself in the most comfortable chair in the room, she patted the purple crown of rollers and smiled complacently down at her feet.

  “I know someone who wears stupid shoes like those.” The cocoa mustache Ariel now wore did nothing to diminish her hauteur. I pitied Tom and Betty, being stuck with the job of preventing her from alienating entire populations at a time. Would they offer Ben and me a substantial bribe to keep her?

  “Ariel,” I said firmly, “I need to phone your parents.”

  “Betty’s not-”

  “Never mind that.”

  “Can’t it wait until I’ve told you everything?” She swallowed a mouthful of chocolate cake.

  “Has either of them been mistreating you?”

  “They won’t let me have a TV in my room.”

  “That doesn’t count. Give me the phone number.”

  “There’s no need. I’m not the usual fussed-over child. They won’t check up on me at my friend’s house. They’re not that sort. Maybe if I had a real mother it would be different.”