“A Scarborough Connection”

Several years ago I belonged to a society whose sole purpose was to raise funds for the erection of a new headstone over the grave of Anne Brontë. After a half-decade of internecine squabbles and costly errors of judgment the money was collected at last, and as I was at the time a rather well-known lecturer on the Brontës for youthful audiences, it was I who was sent to Scarborough to make the arrangements. I was not eager to go. As a girl I had been taken on summer holiday to Scarborough and disliked its musty, clammy atmosphere at once; even then I longed for warmer beaches.

The society convened regularly in Keighley, several miles from the Brontë parsonage at Haworth. I must warn you about Haworth. It's a madhouse for tourists. Business at the pub where poor Branwell drank himself to death continues to thrive; a brass plaque on its door proudly memorialises his custom. In fair weather or foul, souvenir kiosks, named for the secret kingdoms from the Brontës' childhood, cluster on the cobbled high street like unctuous mushrooms. The parsonage itself is a shrine meticulously tended, but the never-ending stream of visitors throughout the years has utterly spoiled its simplicity and remoteness. Needless to say the town lost its glamour for me years ago and I avoid it whenever possible. After our final convention, I was given a lift to the station at Keighley, and once on the train I found a seat opposite a young woman of nineteen or twenty. She was slight and bob-haired, and wore a motorcyclist's jacket over jeans and hiking boots. Her rucksack lay on the seat next to her.

We were the only ones in the compartment. I set my pocketbook and valise beside me and took out my book―I'd decided to bring on this trip a copy of Agnes Grey, which I hadn't opened since my undergraduate days―and began to read it again from the beginning. Finally after a few minutes of looking out the window she asked me, 'Which one is that?'

I looked up. 'I beg your pardon?'

'I mean, which Brontë is that? Did she write Wuthering Heights?'

'No, that was Emily,' I said, and continued reading.

'Nope, never heard of her. I thought there were only two sisters, Emily and Charlotte.'

'Five,' I said. 'Two died in childhood.'

'Oh. Man, that was a great book though. How about this one, is it any good?'

'Quite good,' I said. She asked me what it was about; I summated the story. Warmed now by this opportunity to share some of my knowledge, I then briefly described my mission. That is, I divulged to her my membership in a group which planned to erect a suitable memorial to the book's author, in order to correct the age at which she died, twenty-nine, and to commemorate her work in its entirety.

'Wow,' said the girl. 'That sounds really important.'

'It is especially important,' I continued, 'when you consider that Anne is the only one of the famous Brontës not to be buried on the bleak but romantic moors. It is widely accepted that her last wish was to be buried in Scarborough. Perhaps it is fortunate, because her grave is so far from Haworth that it's often overlooked by tourists.'

'Yeah? I'm from the States. The Midwest. It gets pretty bleak there too,' she said. 'I'm Gina.' I shook her proffered hand and introduced myself. At this point, I confess to having felt a touch of ennui and would have preferred setting aside my reading and letting this outgoing, interesting young woman carry the conversation. But she wanted only to talk about the book.

'Hey, why don't you read something from it? You choose,' she said.

With some thought to this I skimmed through and found a passage to read aloud. It was the scene wherein Agnes, the governess, discovers the two boys sadistically pulling the wings off baby birds. As I began, Gina declared she'd never heard it before, then showed her appreciation by exclaiming at the end, 'That's disgusting! I don't know any kid who does that.'

'I suppose the ones who aren't brought up properly do,' I said.

'Then I guess I've been lucky, I'm an au pair. Actually, ex-au pair.' She stressed the ex with irony. 'It was an okay family, I guess, they had heaps of money,' she said, 'but Keighley's such a dump. Actually, they were pretty close to getting rid of me, so I suppose it's just as well.' I inquired about her plans. She said she was on her way to Leeds―'Met a guy from there, said I could crash with him anytime.' When I casually mentioned that it was a shame she wasn't going as far as York, and asked if she'd seen the cathedral there, not only one of the finest examples of medieval structures in Europe, but a place of great spiritual significance to Anne Brontë herself, she said no and shrugged, 'But if you say it's great...' She said nothing more, and I thought that was the end of our conversation, for she fell to silently looking out the window, and I picked up my reading again. But once we reached Leeds she paid for a ticket extension and announced she would 'take me up on it'.

'What about your friend?' I asked.

'He can wait. He's not going anywhere,' she said.

I hadn't planned to stop at York, but her ebullience and spontaneity raised the prospect of my introducing the Minster to fresh eyes. Once we arrived I checked my valise at the station cloakroom and Gina and I, rather than take the lovely ambling path across the river, set out in a cab straightway. I gave her a full tour that afternoon (not too distracting a crowd there fortunately), pointing out and sharing with her brief histories of the nave, the newish clock, the presbytery, and so forth. I was surprised at how much I was able to recall. It was gratifying to see her genuinely impressed by the Minster, the most particular impression being made by the medieval stained-glass windows which are dedicated to all Englishwomen killed in the Great War, and are called the Five Sisters. At this she whispered 'wow' several times.

Afterward I threw my economies to the wind and treated us both to a slap-up tea at one of those precious tiny shops the Germans and Americans love. We sat at a charming pink-linened table, consuming cakes and chicken sandwiches―she had four―while resuming our discussion of the Brontës. I hadn't taught in ten years; I was beginning to realise how much I'd missed that sort of contact. I even toyed with the idea of inviting Gina to come to Scarborough with me. I remarked to her that I'd always been irritated by the plot contrivances in Jane Eyre and that, to my mind, AG was superior to JE in its intent.

'But Jane,' she said (I'd given her permission to call me by my first name, rather than Dr Fitch), 'if they're both stories about women making their way in the world, what's the difference?'

I explained that the heroine of Agnes Grey more closely resembled her creator―in fact, mirrored more precisely the author's own spiritual and mental progress as she attempted to make way, and because of this the novel had an honesty and relevancy that Jane Eyre lacked.

'Yeah, I get it,' said Gina. 'That Jane was a real stick anyway.'

'Anne did allow herself some fancifulness, though,' I said. 'There was a young man, a curate who had been employed at her father's parsonage. His name was William, William Weightman. He was handsome, cheerful, kind-hearted, and he died of cholera at the age of twenty-eight.' Gina knit her brows. 'Bad water,' I explained.

'Oh,' she said.

'There had never been any indication in her life that Anne was in love with this young man, except in the character of the curate, Edward Weston, with whom Agnes Grey is reunited at the end of the book. On the beach at Scarborough, in fact.'

'Well, that's it then,' said Gina. 'She wrote the book for him, this Weightman guy. I mean, he was dead and she could never have him in real life, but she could bring him back and have him be in love with her. I bet it takes a lot from someone to write a book. I bet that's why she put something like that in. I bet writers have a tough time keeping things like that out because it gets so tempting. I mean, you have to have something.'

I said I supposed so.

'You don't mind if I save this for later, do you?' she asked, as it turned out rhetorically, for rather than wait for my answer she quickly wrapped the rest of her sandwich in one of the pink linen serviettes and tucked it away in the pocket of her motorcyclist's jacket. I refrained from comment. She continued. 'Now take Wuthering Heights, which to me is the all-time greatest novel ever written. If you can agree in the book Nelly Dean was really Emily -'

'I might have heard arguments supporting that,' I said.

'―you can get the idea that Emily Brontë was actually, you know, a lezzie, I mean, you know, when you look at the relationship between Nelly and Cathy number two, the young girl-'

'I'm not familiar with that theory,' I said.

'Sorry, didn't mean to freak you out,' said Gina, biting her lip. There was a rather awkward silence; then, abruptly, she pulled up her rucksack from underneath the table and began rummaging in it. 'Do you think the bathroom's clean here? I'm a real mess,' she said.

She was pulling out several contents of her rucksack, all folded or contained in plastic bags, before she found her hairbrush and carefully packed up the rest again and refastened the clasps.

'You misunderstand. I'm not at all freaked out, as you put it,' I said as she rummaged, 'although I certainly understand how easily an unanalytic reader might come to the conclusion that the Brontës were somewhat ignorant of what we'd call, I suppose, all the varieties of full-blooded passion... Consider, after all, that nearly all the men of their intimate acquaintance were ministers...'

'My father's a minister,' Gina broke in.

* * *

Gina didn't go to Scarborough with me. As we set out on foot for the station, she thanked me for the wonderful day and wished me luck, but said she'd better be on her way. I thanked her and wished her well, too, and was at the point of offering to purchase her ticket for Leeds, when she'd caught the eye of two scruffy-looking young men leaning against a van. They made some comment, at which she turned with a smile, biting her lip, sauntered over and began chatting them up. I stood waiting on the pavement for a minute or two; finally she waved to me, blithely called out, 'It's okay, they're musicians,' got into the van, and drove off with them.

A half-hour later I was on seated on the train, attempting to assure and reassure myself that, after all, she was intelligent, her habits were neat, she didn't appear to be a drug-user, she could take care of herself. It was late afternoon and the slate-grey sky, the bare trees and the darkening hills lulled me into unworrying thoughts, and before I knew it the train pulled into Scarborough.

My schedule of appointments wasn't to begin until the following morning, so I spent the evening in the damp hotel room the society had booked, sitting on the too-soft, too-wide bed, sorting and tidying the contents of my valise and pocketbook. That's when I opened my wallet for the first time since York and discovered twenty pounds missing. I didn't immediately suspect Gina, until I discovered my paperback copy of Agnes Grey missing too. Mentally retracing my steps, I realised she must have managed the theft in short time I left her with my pocketbook in the teashop to go to the toilet.

I was not, at that time, a seasoned enough traveller to take it in stride. I cursed my blindness, of course, my failure in judgment. To place any sort of trust in a girl like that... And then I sullenly wondered how much of her story had been real. Was her name, in fact, Gina? Was she really from the Midwest? Had she really been an au pair? What sort of family would hire such a girl knowing so little about her?

My ill feeling toward the little thief contributed to my general, ongoing ill feeling toward Scarborough, toward the society and its empty flattery and shameless exploitation of my reduced circumstances; toward, well, the bruises of my life in general.

I hoped sleep would provide some relief, but that night I had a dream.

I was on a beach, but it was the beach at Ostia near Rome. It's not the loveliest beach in the world. Winter or summer it's crowded with day-trippers from the city, families, babies, preening boys. But it was my first glimpse of the Mediterranean. In my dream I could smell the tang of oil and citrus again; the sun was dazzling my eyes and warming my skin. I looked out to the sea and there, walking toward me out of the waves, still in her motorcyclist's jacket, was Gina. She came straight up to me and touched my arm.

Listen, honey, she said, sounding like an old friend, I needed twenty from you, hope you don't mind.

No, I don't mind, I answered, and in the dream I meant it.

Upon awaking the next morning I felt strangely cheerful and brisk, as if I'd successfully completed a pressing business transaction. This feeling carried over into my conference with the church warden and the stonecutter, and somehow I was able to transmit to them an enthusiasm for what would be―as we all agreed―a 'truly splendid' dedication ceremony the following week. We took our leave of each other at the grave, which was better tended than I'd imagined; the grass was trimmed and someone had recently laid down a bunch of violets. I decided to walk back to town along the beach, now practically deserted that chilly damp November day.

I neglected to mention this about Haworth: At the parsonage there is a graveyard, and an iron gate, and a path, and the path leads you onto the moor. The very first time I visited Haworth I ran away from my schoolmates and raced through the graveyard and the gate and up the path and onto the moor, where I promptly got lost. The fog surrounded me so quickly I couldn't see past my feet, but became childishly convinced that I was all right, for if I walked in a straight line in any direction I would eventually reach the sea, and then I would know where I was.

When Anne came to Scarborough for the first time, it was in the employ of people she could not respect, with whom she could never feel mental kinship. But disregard the means, she also met for the first time this force, this immutable source of life and death, that strengthened her soul. Think of it: her aunts, sisters, brother, lover gone, the dank spell of loneliness (how well we know that spell) consuming her spirit, she had returned to this place to be received, this slight young woman with corroded lungs and backbone of steel.

'Courage, Charlotte!' she whispered, grasping her sister's hand in a strange hotel room, her frail bird-heart straining toward the Viking sea, where no curates or governesses may swim.

Copyright © 2002 Cantara Christopher. Originally published in the Noe Valley Review.

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