Being an Alternative Heathcliff.

Somebody asked me a strange question recently. She said: ‘Are you my Heathcliff?’

Now, anybody who has been reading this blog of late should have a fairly accurate picture of me by now. They will surely have detected the curious fusion of Eeyore, Emmett Brown and Quasimodo which makes up my persona. It isn’t a very edifying mix and hardly makes me a candidate to be Catherine Earnshaw’s soul mate. That much should be obvious. (It would have made more sense if she’d said: ‘My name is Esmeralda and I have no wish to swing on any bells with you.’)

And yet it’s true. She did say that. And it might surprise you to know that I have had two Catherine Earnshaws in my life. And the problem with Catherine Earnshaws is that eventually they always attract an Edgar Linton into the picture and you know what they say about three being a crowd.

So it is with me. I can’t do threes. Three is the best of numbers but the worst of combinations in the matter of connection.

‘May I bring my friend Edgar along on Wednesday night? He would like to meet you.’

No

‘Why not?’

Because I can only relate to people on a one-to-one basis. It’s the only way the energy of connection can flow. The psychic pathways need to be clear of obstruction if any melding of minds is to be achieved, and such an objective is necessary if I’m to find our companionship worthwhile. Edgar would get in the way.

‘But he’s a really nice man, and very interesting to talk to.’

That isn’t the point. Resistance is useless.

And the thing is, you see, I don’t have the wherewithal to do what the original Heathcliff did: go up to Edgar and say: ‘Now look ’ere Edgar, tha great dumb cowpat. Don’t tha presume to come between me an mah Cathy or ah’ll knock tha stupid block off and watch it roll all t’way to bloody Keighley.’ Or words to that effect.

(Those who don’t quite follow the subtleties of Yorkshire English needn’t worry. I don’t either.)

And there’s another big difference between the original Heathcliff and yours truly. As far as I recall, he and his Cathy were roughly comparable in age, whereas my Cathys are considerably younger than me. Which means that I’ll almost certainly die before they do. And that means that after I’m gone they’ll be the ones to get to get the comfort of a bed, while I’ll be the one standing outside on a winter’s night so cold as to set Pennistone Crag dragging its proud Yorkshire bulk southwards, pushing a pleading hand through the window and begging to be let in.

Let the haunting commence. Edgars needn’t worry.

*  *  *

Only kidding.