Alias Grace (41 page)

“And then?” says Simon, when she does not continue.

“It was at this time, Sir, that McDermott said he had a secret, and I promised not to tell; and you know, Sir, that once having promised such a thing, I was bound by it. Then he said he was going to kill Nancy with the axe, and strangle her as well, and shoot Mr. Kinnear when he came back, and take the valuables; and I was to help him, and go with him, if I knew what was good for me, as otherwise I would be blamed for all. If I hadn’t been so upset I would have laughed at him, but I did not; and to tell you the truth, we’d both had a glass or two of Mr. Kinnear’s whisky, which we saw no reason not to help ourselves, seeing as we were to be turned away in any case. Nancy was over to the Wrights‘, and so we had a free hand.”

“Did you believe McDermott would do as he said?”

“Not altogether, Sir. On the one hand, I thought he was just bragging, about what a fine man he was and what he could do, which was a thing he was prone to when drunk; and my father was the same way. But at the same time he seemed in earnest, and I was afraid of him; and I had a strong feeling as if it was fated, and it couldn’t be avoided, no matter what I did.”

“You did not warn anyone? Nancy herself, when she came back from her visit?”

“Why would she have believed me, Sir?” says Grace. “It would have sounded too stupid, if I said it out loud. She would think I was getting back at her, because she told me to leave; or that it was a servants’

quarrel, and I was paying back McDermott. There was only my word for it, which he could easily deny, and say I was nothing but a silly hysterical girl. At the same time, if McDermott really meant it he might have killed the both of us right there and then; and I did not want to be killed. The best I could do was to try to delay him until Mr. Kinnear got back. At first he said he was going to do it that very night, and I persuaded him not to.”

“How did you manage to do that?” says Simon.

“I said that if Nancy was killed on the Thursday, that would mean a whole day and a half of having to account for her whereabouts to anyone who might enquire. Whereas if he left it till later, there would be less suspicion aroused.”

“I see,” says Simon. “Very sensible.”

“Please don’t make fun of me, Sir,” says Grace with dignity. “It is very distressing to me, and doubly so considering what I am being asked to remember.”

Simon says he didn’t mean it that way. He seems to be spending a lot of time apologizing to her. “And what happened then?” he asks, trying to sound kind, and not too eager.

“Then Nancy came back from her visit, and was quite cheerful. It was always her way, after she’d been in a temper, to pretend as if nothing had happened and we were all the best of friends; at least when Mr.

Kinnear was not present. So she acted as if she hadn’t told us to leave, or given us any hard words, and all went on as usual. We had supper together in the kitchen, cold ham, and potatoes made into a salad, with chives from the garden, the three of us; and she laughed and chattered. McDermott was sullen and silent, but that was no change; and then Nancy and I went to bed together, as was always the case when Mr. Kinnear was away, on account of her fear of burglars; and she suspected nothing. But I made very sure the bedchamber door was locked.”

“Why was that?”

“As I’ve said, I always lock the door when I sleep. But also, McDermott had some foolish notion of creeping about the house at night with the axe. He wanted to kill Nancy while asleep. I said he should not do that, as he might hit me by mistake; but it was hard to convince him. He said he didn’t want her looking at him when he did it.”

“I can understand that,” says Simon drily. “And then what happened?”

“Oh, the Friday began right as rain, to the outward eye, Sir. Nancy was very gay and light-hearted, and did not scold at all, or not as much as usual; and even McDermott was less sullen, in the morning, as I told him if he went around with such a hangdog face then Nancy was sure to suspect he was up to no good.

“In the middle of the afternoon young Jamie Walsh came over with his flute, as Nancy had asked him to.

She said that as Mr. Kinnear was away we would all have a party, to celebrate. What was to be celebrated I am not sure; but in her good mood Nancy was very lively, and liked a song and dance. We had a fine supper, with cold roast chicken, and beer to wash it down; and then Nancy told Jamie to play for us, and he asked me if there was a tune I would especially wish to have, and was very attentive and kind to me, which McDermott did not like, and told him to stop making sheep’s eyes at me, as it was enough to turn the stomach; and poor Jamie flushed bright red. Then Nancy told McDermott not to tease the boy, and couldn’t he remember being young once himself; and she told Jamie he would grow up handsome, she could always tell a thing like that — much handsomer than McDermott with his scowling and pouting, and in any case handsome is as handsome does; and McDermott threw her a look of pure hate, which she affected not to see. Then she sent me down into the cellar to get more whisky, as by that time we had emptied the decanters upstairs.

“Then we laughed and sang; or Nancy laughed and sang, and I joined in. We sang
The Rose of Tralee,
and I remembered Mary Whitney, and wished very much that she was there, as she would know what to do, and would help me out of my difficulties. McDermott would not sing, as the dark mood was on him; nor would he dance when Nancy urged him, and said now was his chance to make good his boasts about what a nimble dancer he was. She wanted us all to part friends, but he was having none of that.

“After a time the life went out of the party. Jamie said he was tired of playing, and Nancy said it was time for bed; and McDermott said he would walk Jamie back to his own house, across the fields, I suppose to make sure he was well and truly gone. But by the time McDermott was come back, Nancy and I were upstairs already, in Mr. Kinnear’s room, with the door locked.”

“Mr. Kinnear’s room?” says Simon.

“It was Nancy‘s idea,” says Grace. “She said his bed was bigger, and cooler in the hot weather, and I had a habit of kicking in my sleep; and in any case Mr. Kinnear would not find it out, as it was us who made up the beds, not him; and even if he did discover it, he would not care, but would no doubt like the idea of two serving-maids in his bed at once. She had drunk several glasses of whisky, and was talking recklessly.

“And I did warn Nancy, after all, Sir. While she was brushing out her hair, I said, McDermott wants to kill you. She laughed, and said, I expect he does. I would not mind killing him, either. There is no love lost between us. He is in earnest, I said. He is never in earnest about anything, she said lightly. He is always bragging and boasting, and it is all just air.

“So then I knew there was nothing I could do, to save her.

“Once she was in the bed, she fell asleep at once. I sat brushing out my own hair, in the light of a single candle, with the naked woman in the picture looking out at me, the one who was taking a bath outdoors, and the other one with the peacock feathers; and they were both smiling at me, in a way I did not like.”

“That night Mary Whitney appeared to me in a dream. It was not the first time; she’d come before, but never to say anything; she would be hanging up the wash and laughing, or paring an apple, or hiding behind a sheet on the line up in the attic, which were all things she used to do before her trouble came; and when I dreamt about her in that way I would wake up comforted, as if she was still alive and happy.

“But those were scenes of the past. This time she was in the room with me, the very room where I was, which was Mr. Kinnear’s bedchamber. She was standing beside the bed in her nightdress, with her hair down, as when she was buried; and on the left side of her body I could see her heart, bright red through the white of her dress. But then I saw it was not a heart after all, but the red felt needle-case I made for her that Christmas, which I’d put in the coffin with her, under the flowers and the scattered petals; and I was glad to see she still had it with her, and hadn’t forgotten me.

“She was holding a glass tumbler in her hand, and inside it was a firefly, trapped and glowing with a cold and greenish fire. Her face was very pale, but she looked at me and smiled; and then she took her hand from the top of the glass, and the firefly came out and darted about the room; and I knew that this was her soul, and it was trying to find its way out, but the window was shut; and then I could not see where it was gone. Then I woke up, with the tears of sadness running down my face, because Mary was lost to me once more.”

“I lay there in the darkness, with the sound of Nancy’s breathing; and in my ears I could hear my own heart, trudging and trudging, as if on a long and weary road that I was doomed to walk along whether I wanted to or not, and who could tell when I would get to the end of it. I was afraid to go to sleep again, for fear I might have another such dream; and my fears were not in vain, for that is indeed what happened.

“In this new dream, I dreamt I was walking in a place I had never been before, with high walls all around made of stone, grey and bleak as the stones of the village where I was born, back across on the other side of the ocean. On the ground there were loose grey pebbles, and out of the gravel there were peonies growing. They came up with just the buds on them, small and hard like unripe apples, and then they opened, and there were huge dark-red flowers with glossy petals, like satin; and then they burst in the wind and fell to the ground.

“Except for being red, they were like the peonies in the front garden on the first day I came to Mr.

Kinnear’s, when Nancy was cutting the last of them; and I saw her in the dream, just as she was then, in her pale dress with the pink rosebuds and the triple-flounced skirt, and her straw bonnet that hid her face. She was carrying a flat basket, to put the flowers in; and then she turned, and put her hand up to her throat as if startled.

“Then I was back in the stone yard, walking, with the toes of my shoes going in and out under the hem of my skirt, which was blue and white stripes. I knew I’d never had a skirt like that before, and at the sight of it I felt a great heaviness and desolation. But the peonies were still coming up from the stones; and I knew they shouldn’t be there. I reached out my hand to touch one and it had a dry feel, and I knew it was made of cloth.

“Then up ahead I saw Nancy, on her knees, with her hair fallen over and the blood running down into her eyes. Around her neck was a white cotton kerchief printed with blue flowers, love-in-a-mist, and it was mine. She was holding out her hands to me for mercy; in her ears were the little gold earrings I used to envy. I wanted to run to her and help her, but I could not; and my feet kept walking at the same steady pace, as though they were not my own feet at all. When I was almost up to Nancy, to where she was kneeling, she smiled. Only the mouth, her eyes were hidden by the blood and hair, and then she came apart into patches of colour, she scattered, a drift of red and white cloth petals across the stones.

“Then it was dark suddenly, and a man was standing there with a candle, blocking the stairs that went up, and the cellar walls were all around me, and I knew I would never get out.”

“You dreamt this before the event?” says Simon. He is writing feverishly.

“Yes Sir,” says Grace. “And many times since.” Her voice has dropped to a whisper. “That was why they put me away.”

“Away?” Simon prompts.

“Into the Asylum, Sir. Because of the bad dreams.” She has laid her sewing aside, and is looking down at her hands.

“Only the dreams?” Simon asks gently.

“They said they were not dreams at all, Sir. They said I was awake. But I do not wish to say any more about it.”

Chapter 36

“On the Saturday morning I woke up at dawn. Outside in the henhouse the cock was crowing; he had a hoarse and rattling sort of crow, as if there was a hand tightening around his neck already, and I thought, You know you’re for the stewpot soon. Soon you will be a carcass. And although I was thinking about the rooster, I will not deny that I was thinking about Nancy as well. It sounds cold and perhaps it was. I felt light-headed, and detached from myself, as if I was not really present, but only there in body.

“I know these are odd thoughts to confess to, Sir, but I will not lie and conceal them, as I could easily do, having never told this to anyone before. I wish to relate everything just as it happened to me, and those were the thoughts I had.

“Nancy was still asleep, and I took care not to disturb her. I felt she might as well have her sleep out, and the longer she stayed in bed the longer it would be before anything bad happened, either to her or to me.

As I crept cautiously out of Mr. Kinnear’s bed she groaned and rolled over, and I wondered whether she was having a bad dream.

“The night previous, I’d put my nightdress on in my own room off the winter kitchen before going upstairs with my candle, so I went in there and dressed as usual. Everything was the same but not the same, and when I went to wash my face and do my hair, my own face in the mirror over the kitchen sink was not like my face at all. It looked rounder and whiter, with two great startled staring eyes, and I didn’t wish to look at it.

“I went into the kitchen and opened the window shutters. The glasses and plates from the night before were still on the table, and they looked very lonely and forlorn, as if some great and sudden disaster had overtaken all who had eaten and drunk from them, and here was I, coming upon them by accident, many years later; and I felt very sad. I gathered them up and carried them into the scullery.

“When I came back out there was a strange light in the kitchen, as if there was a film of silver over everything, like frost only smoother, like water running thinly down over flat stones; and then my eyes were opened and I knew it was because God had come into the house and this was the silver that covered Heaven. God had come in because God is everywhere, you can’t keep him out, he is part of everything there is, so how could you ever build a wall or four walls or a door or a shut window, that he could not walk right through as if it was air.