To begin with, Hindley had allies in his war against Heathcliff. Mother turned a blind eye to Hindley’s bullying. Nelly would pinch and prod and punish Heathcliff for invented crimes whenever she got the chance. Father was busy with the running of the farm, but if he noticed any instance of cruelty – and there were many – he would take Heathcliff’s side every time. Mother would defend Hindley, so hour after hour, day after day, week after week Wuthering Heights was in uproar.

But then Mother died. I can’t say I grieved for her. She’d scolded and scraped at me all the days of my life – her absence was a relief. But Hindley was distraught. He’d lost his most powerful ally. And not long after Mother was laid in the ground, Nelly’s attitude to Heathcliff softened. I don’t know what it was that caused her to desert Hindley, but he was left to rant and rave against his adopted brother all alone. Hindley gave us no peace and Father despaired of him. At last, Hindley was sent away to college to be turned into a gentleman. Heathcliff and I were left to run free.

Oh, I know what folk said. I heard the whispers when we were in church. The Lintons of Thrushcross Grange muttered to the Braithwaites from Gimmerton behind upraised hands that Heathcliff and I were an unruly, wicked, wilful pair. Hadn’t the sexton seen us playing in the churchyard after dark, dancing between the graves? Hadn’t the gamekeeper seen us running half naked over the moors? Weren’t we a disgrace to God and man?

Perhaps we were. But what did we care what the gossips said? In our eyes, only Heathcliff and I were real beings: other people were just shadows. Nelly tried to tame us and Father pleaded for us to behave in a seemly fashion, but we would not, could not be bound by them. We were wild, I admit that. We’d lie on our backs, staring at the sky, letting our spirits soar on the wings of the birds above. We’d strip naked and bathe in the icy waters of the beck. We’d shriek with delight running downhill, feeling we were about to take flight. And we’d laugh at something, nothing, anything. We’d laugh until we were breathless and so weak we could hardly stand. The idea of right and wrong, of good and evil, did not apply to us any more than they applied to a fox stalking across heather or a hawk riding the wind. Past, future, salvation, damnation meant nothing. There was only the here and now. Heaven for us was being together up on the crag. Hell was being separated after we’d pushed Father too far and he’d decided to punish us.

For a few years Heathcliff and I lived in paradise and I thought it would last for ever. But then came one dreary October evening, when the wind shrieked about the house and set all the windows rattling. That evening, a catastrophe brought everything tumbling down around our ears.