A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (86 page)

“Dear old Bradshaw,” mused Miss Havisham, “he's retired about twelve times a year since 1938. I expect we'll see him again next week.”

“Ah!” muttered the Bellman as he approached. “Havisham and Next.” He consulted his clipboard for a moment. “You weren't in the Outland on another speed attempt, were you?”

“Me?” replied Havisham. “Of course not!”

“Well,” murmured the Bellman, not believing her for an instant, “the Council of Genres have told me that any Jurisfiction staff found abusing their privileges will be dealt with severely.”

“How severely?”

“
Very
severely.”

“They wouldn't dare,” replied Havisham in the manner of an elderly duchess. “Now, what have you got for us?”

“You're chairing the
Wuthering Heights
rage-counseling session.”

“I've done my six sessions. It's Falstaff's turn.”

The Bellman raised an eyebrow. “Now that's not true, is it? You're only on your third. Changing counselors every week is not the best way to do it. Everyone has to take their turn, Miss Havisham, even you.”

She sighed. “Very well.”

“Good. Better not keep them waiting!”

The Bellman departed rapidly before Havisham could answer. She stood silently for a moment, a bit like a volcano deciding whether to erupt or not. After a few moments her eyes flicked to mine.

“Was that a smile?” she snapped.

“No, Miss Havisham,” I replied, trying to hide my inner amusement that someone like her would try to counsel anyone about anything—especially rage.

“Please do tell me what you think is so very funny. I really am very keen to know.”

“It was a smile,” I said carefully, “of surprise.”

“Was it now? Well, before you get the mistaken belief that I am somehow concerned about the feelings of such a pathetic bunch of characters, let's make it clear that I was
ordered
to do this job—same as being drafted on to Heathcliff Protection Duty. I'd sooner he were dead, personally speaking—but orders are orders. Fetch me a tea and meet me at my table.”

There was a lot of excited chatter about the upgrade to UltraWord™ and I picked up snatches of conversation that ran the full gamut from condemnation to full support. Not that it mattered; Jurisfiction was only a policing agency and had little say in policy—that was all up to the higher powers at the Council of Genres. It was sort of like being back at SpecOps. I bumped into Vernham Deane at the table of refreshments.

“Well,” said Vernham, helping himself to a pastry, “what do you think?”

“Bradshaw and Falstaff seem a bit put out.”

“Caution is sometimes an undervalued commodity,” Vernham said warily. “What does Havisham think?”

“I'm really not sure.”

“Vern!” said Beatrice, who had just joined us along with Lady Cavendish. “Which plot does
Winnie-the-Pooh
have?”

“Triumph of the Underdog?”
he suggested.

“Told you!” said Beatrice, turning to Cavendish. “ ‘Bear with little brain triumphs over adversity.' Happy?”

“No,” she replied, “it's
Journey of Discovery
all the way.”

“You think every story is
Journey of Discovery
!”

“It is.”

They continued to bicker as I selected a cup and saucer.

“Have you met Mrs. Bradshaw yet?” asked Deane.

I told him that I hadn't.

“When you do, don't laugh or anything.”

“Why?”

“You'll see.”

I poured some tea for Miss Havisham, remembering to put the milk in first.

Deane ate a canapé and asked, “So how are things with you these days? Last time we met, you were having a little trouble in the Outland.”

“I'm living in the Well now, as part of the Character Exchange Program.”

“Really? What a lark. How's the latest Farquitt getting along?”

“Well, I
think,
” I told him, always sensitive to Deane's slight shame at being a one-dimensional evil-squire figure, “the working title is
Shameless Love
.”

“Sounds like a Farquitt,” sighed Deane. “There'll probably be a rustic serving girl who is ravaged by someone like me, cruelly cast from the house to have her baby in the poorhouse—only to have their revenge ten chapters later.”

“Well, I don't know—”

“It's not fair, you know,” he said, his mood changing. “Why should I be condemned, reading after reading, to drink myself to a sad and lonely death eight pages before the end?”

“Because you're the bad guy and they
always
get their comeuppance in Farquitt novels?”

“It's still not fair.” He scowled. “I've applied for an Internal Plot Adjustment countless times but they keep turning me down. You wouldn't have a word with Miss Havisham, would you? She's on the Council of Genres Plot Adjustment subcommittee, I'm told.”

“Would that be appropriate? Me talking to her, I mean?”

“Not really,” he retorted, “but I'm willing to try anything. Speak to her, won't you?”

I told him I would try but decided on the face of it that I probably wouldn't. Deane seemed pleasant enough at Jurisfiction, but in
The Squire of High Potternews
he was a monster. Dying sad, lonely and forgotten was probably just right for him—in narrative terms, anyway.

I gave the tea to Miss Havisham, who abruptly broke off talking to Perkins as I approached. She gave me a grimace and vanished. I followed her to the second floor of the Great Library, where I found her in the Brontë section already with a copy of
Wuthering Heights
in her hand. I knew from Havisham's hatred of men that she probably
did
have a soft spot for Heathcliff—but I imagined it was only the treacherous marsh below Penistone crag.

“Did you meet the three witches, by the way?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “They told me—”

“Ignore
everything
they say. Look at the trouble they got Macbeth into.”

“But they said—”

“I don't want to hear it. Claptrap and mumbo jumbo. They are troublemakers and nothing more. Understand?”

“Sure.”

“Don't say ‘Sure'—it's so slovenly! What's wrong with ‘Yes, Miss Havisham'?”

“Yes, Miss Havisham.”

“Better, I suppose. Come, we are Brontë bound!”

And so saying, we read ourselves into the pages of
Wuthering Heights.

Wuthering Heights
was the only novel written by Emily Brontë, which some say is just as well, and others, a crying shame. Quite what she would have written had she lived longer is a matter of some conjecture; given Emily's strong-willed and passionate character, probably more of the same. But one thing is certain; whatever feelings are aroused in the reader by
Heights
, whether sadness for the ill-matched lovers, irritability at Catherine's petulant ways or even profound rage at how stupid Heathcliff's victims can act as they meekly line up to be abused, one thing is for sure: the evocation of a wild and windswept place that so well reflects the destructive passion of the two central characters is captured here brilliantly—and some would say, it has not been surpassed.

MILLON DE FLOSS
,
Wuthering Heights: Masterpiece or Turgid Rubbish?

I
T WAS SNOWING
when we arrived and the wind whipped the flakes into something akin to a large cloud of excitable winter midges. The house was a lot smaller than I imagined but no less shabby, even under the softening cloak of snow. The shutters hung askew and only the faintest glimmer of light showed from within. It was clear we were visiting the house not in the good days of old Mr. Earnshaw but in the tenure of Mr. Heathcliff, whose barbaric hold over the house seemed to be reflected in the dour and windswept abode that we approached.

Our feet crunched on the fresh snow as we approached the front door and rapped upon the gnarled wood. It was answered, after a very long pause, by an old and sinewy man who looked at
us both in turn with a sour expression before recognition dawned across his tired features and he launched into an excited gabble:

“It's bonny behavior, lurking amang t' fields, after twelve o' t' night, wi' that fahl, flaysome divil of a gipsy, Heathcliff! They think I'm blind; but I'm noan: nowt ut t' soart!—I seed young Linton boath coming and going, and I seed
yah
—yah gooid fur nowt, slatternly witch!—nip up and bolt into th' house, t' minute yah heard t' maister's horse-fit clatter up t' road!”

“Never mind all that!” exclaimed Miss Havisham, to whom patience was an alien concept. “Let us in, Joseph, or you'll be feeling my boot upon your trousers!”

He grumbled but opened the door anyway. We stepped in amidst a swirl of snowflakes and tramped our feet upon the mat as the door was latched behind us.

“What did he say?” I asked as Joseph carried on muttering to himself under his breath.

“I have absolutely no idea,” replied Miss Havisham, shaking the snow from her faded bridal veil, “in fact,
nobody
does. Come, you are to meet the others. For the rage-counseling session, we insist that every major character within
Heights
attends.”

There was no introductory foyer or passage to the room. The front door opened into a large family sitting room where seven people were clustered around the hearth. One of the men rose politely and inclined his head in greeting. This, I learned later, was Edgar Linton, husband of Catherine Earnshaw, who sat next to him on the wooden settle and glowered meditatively into the fire. Next to them was a dissolute-looking man who appeared to be asleep, or drunk, or quite possibly both. It was clear that they were waiting for us, and equally clear from the lack of enthusiasm that counseling wasn't high on their list of priorities—or interests.

“Good evening, everyone,” said Miss Havisham, “and I'd like to thank you all for attending this Jurisfiction Rage Counseling session.”

She sounded almost friendly. It was quite out of character and I wondered how long she could keep it up.

“This is Miss Next, who will be observing this evening's session. Now, I want us all to join hands and create a circle of trust to welcome her to the group. Where's Heathcliff?”

“I have no idea where that scoundrel might be!” declaimed Linton angrily. “Facedown in a bog for all I care—the devil may take him and not before time!”

“Oh!” cried Catherine, withdrawing her hand from Edgar's. “Why do you hate him so? He, who loved me more than you ever could—!”

“Now now,” interrupted Havisham in a soothing tone, “remember what we said last week about name-calling? Edgar, I think you should apologize to Catherine for calling Heathcliff a scoundrel, and Catherine, you did promise last week not to mention how much you were in love with Heathcliff in front of your husband.”

They grumbled their apologies.

“Heathcliff is due here any moment,” said another servant, who I assumed was Nelly Dean. “His agent said he had to do some publicity. Can we not start without him?”

Miss Havisham looked at her watch. “We could get past the introductions, I suppose,” she replied, obviously keen to finish this up and go home. “Perhaps we could introduce ourselves to Miss Next and sum up our feelings at the same time. Edgar, would you mind?”

“Me? Oh, very well. My name is Edgar Linton, true owner of Thrushcross Grange, and I hate and despise Heathcliff because no matter what I do, my wife, Catherine, is still in love with him.”

“My name is Hindley Earnshaw,” slurred the drunk, “Old Mr. Earnshaw's eldest son. I hate and despise Heathcliff because my father preferred Heathcliff to me, and later, because that scoundrel cheated me out of my birthright.”

“That was very good, Hindley,” said Miss Havisham, “not one single swear word. I think we're making good progress. Who's next?”

“I am Hareton Earnshaw,” said a sullen-looking youth who
stared at the table as he spoke and clearly resented these gatherings more than most, “son of Hindley and Frances. I hate and despise Heathcliff because he treats me as little more than a dog—and it's not as though I did anything against him, neither—he punishes me because my
father
treated him like a servant.”

“I am Isabella,” announced a good-looking woman, “sister of Edgar. I hate and despise Heathcliff because he lied to me, abused me, beat me and tried to kill me. Then, after I was dead, he stole our son and used him to gain control of the Linton inheritance.”

“Lot of rage in
that
one,” whispered Miss Havisham. “Do you see a pattern beginning to emerge?”

“That they don't much care for Heathcliff?” I whispered back.

“Does it show that badly?” she replied, a little crestfallen that her counseling didn't seem to be working as well as she'd hoped.

“I am Catherine Linton,” said a confident and headstrong young girl of perhaps no more than sixteen, “daughter of Edgar and Catherine. I hate and despise Heathcliff because he kept me prisoner for five days away from my dying father to force me to marry Linton—solely to gain the title of Thrushcross Grange, the true Linton residence.”

“I am Linton,” announced a sickly looking child, coughing into a pocket handkerchief, “son of Heathcliff and Isabella. I hate and despise Heathcliff because he took away the only possible happiness I might have known and let me die a captive, a pawn in his struggle for ultimate revenge.”

“Hear, hear,” murmured Catherine Linton.

“I am Catherine Earnshaw,” said the last woman, who looked around at the small group disdainfully, “and I
love
Heathcliff more than life itself!”

The group groaned audibly, several members shook their heads sadly and the younger Catherine did the “fingers down the throat” gesture.

“None of you know him the way I do, and if you had treated him with kindness instead of hatred, none of this would have happened!”

“Deceitful harlot!” yelled Hindley, leaping to his feet. “If you
hadn't decided to marry Edgar for power and position, Heathcliff might have been half-reasonable—no, you brought all this on yourself, you selfish little minx!”

There was applause at this, despite Havisham's attempts to keep order.

“He is a
real
man,” continued Catherine, amidst a barracking from the group, “a Byronic hero who transcends moral and social law; my love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks. Group, I
am
Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being!”

Isabella thumped the table and waved her finger angrily at Catherine. “A
real
man would love and cherish the one he married,” she shouted, “not use and abuse all those around him in a never-ending quest for ultimate revenge for some perceived slight of twenty years ago! So what if Hindley treated him badly? A good Christian man would forgive him and learn to live in peace!”

“Ah!” said the young Catherine, also jumping up and yelling to be heard above the uproar of accusations and pent-up frustrations. “There we have the nub of the problem. Heathcliff is as far from Christian as one can be; a devil in human form who seeks to ruin all those about him!”

“I agree with Catherine,” said Linton weakly. “The man is wicked and rotten to the core!”

“Come outside and say that!” yelled the elder Catherine, brandishing a fist.

“You would have him catch a chill and die, I suppose?” replied the younger Catherine defiantly, glaring at the mother who had died giving birth to her. “It was your haughty spoilt airs that got us into this whole stupid mess in the first place! If you loved him as much as you claim, why didn't you just marry him and have done with it?”

“Can we have some order please!”
yelled Miss Havisham so loudly that the whole group jumped. They looked a bit sheepish and sat down, grumbling slightly.

“Thank you. Now, all this yelling is
not
going to help, and if we are to do anything about the rage inside
Wuthering Heights,
we are going to have to act like civilized human beings and discuss our feelings sensibly.”

“Hear, hear,” said a voice from the shadows. The group fell silent and turned in the direction of the newcomer, who stepped into the light accompanied by two minders and someone who looked like his agent. The newcomer was dark, swarthy and extremely handsome. Up until meeting him I had never comprehended why the characters in
Wuthering Heights
behaved in the sometimes irrational ways that they did; but after witnessing the glowering good looks, the piercing dark eyes, I understood. Heathcliff had an almost electrifying charisma; he could have charmed a cobra into a knot.

“Heathcliff!” cried Catherine, leaping into his arms and hugging him tightly. “Oh, Heathcliff my darling, how much I've missed you!”

“Bah!” cried Edgar, swishing his cane through the air in anger. “Put down my wife immediately or I'll swear to God I shall—”

“Shall what?” inquired Heathcliff. “You gutless popinjay! My dog has more valor in its pizzle than you possess in your entire body! And, Linton, you weakling, what did you say about me being ‘wicked and rotten'?”

“Nothing,” said Linton quietly.

“Mr. Heathcliff,” said Miss Havisham sternly, “it doesn't pay to be late for these sessions, nor to aggravate your cocharacters.”

“The devil take your sessions, Miss Havisham,” he said angrily. “Who is the star of this novel? Who do the readers expect to see when they pick up this book? Who has won the Most Troubled Romantic Lead at the BookWorld Awards seventy-seven times in a row? Me. All me. Without me,
Heights
is a tediously overlong, provincial potboiler of insignificant interest. I am the star of this book and I'll do as I please, my lady, and you can take that to the Bellman, the Council, or all the way to the Great Panjandrum for all I care!”

He pulled a signed glossy photo of himself from his breast pocket and passed it to me with a wink. The odd thing was, I actually
recognized
him. He had been acting with great success in Hollywood under the name Buck Stallion, which probably explained where he got his money from; he could have bought Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights three times over on his salary.

“The Council of Genres has decreed that you
will
attend the sessions, Heathcliff,” said Havisham coldly. “If this book is to survive, we have to control the emotions within it; as it is, the novel is three times more barbaric than when first penned—left to its own devices it won't be long before murder and mayhem start to take over completely—remember what happened to that once gentle comedy of manners
Titus Andronicus
? It's now the daftest, most cannibalistic blood fest in the whole of Shakespeare.
Heights
will go the same way unless you can all somehow contain your anger and resentment!”

“I don't want to be made into a pie!” moaned Linton.

“Brave speech,” replied Heathcliff sardonically, “
very
brave.” He leaned closer to Miss Havisham, who stood her ground defiantly. “Let me ‘share' something with your little group.
Wuthering Heights
and all who live within her may go to the devil for all I care. It has served its purpose as I honed the delicate art of treachery and revenge—but I'm now bigger than this book and bigger than all of you. There are better novels waiting for me out there, that know how to properly service a character of my depth!”

The assembled characters gasped as this new intelligence sank in. Without Heathcliff there would be no book—and in consequence, none of them, either.

“You wouldn't make it into
Spot's Birthday
without the Council's permission,” growled Havisham. “Try and leave
Heights
and we'll make make you wish you'd never been written!”

Heathcliff laughed. “Nonsense! The Council has urgent need of characters such as I; leaving me stuck in the classics where I am only ever read by bored English students is a waste of one of
the finest romantic leads ever written. Mark my words, the Council will do whatever it takes to attract a greater readership—a transfer will not be opposed by them or anyone else, I can assure you of
that
!”