Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood
We went back into the winter kitchen, and along the passageway that led from it to the entrance hall, which was large, with a fireplace and stag's horns over it, and a good green wallpaper, and a fine Turkey carpet. The trapdoor to the cellar was in this hall, and you had to lift up a corner of the carpet to get to it, which I thought was an odd place as the kitchen would have been more convenient; but the kitchen did not have a cellar under it. The cellar stairs were too steep for comfort, and the cellar below was divided into two parts by a half-wall, the dairy on one side, which was where they kept the butter and the cheeses, and on the other side the place where they stored the wine and beer in barrels, and the apples, and the carrots and cabbages and beets and potatoes in boxes of sand in the winter, and the empty wine barrels as well. There was a window, but Nancy said I should always take a candle or a lantern as it was quite dark below and you could trip and fall down the stairs and break your neck.
We did not go down into the cellar at that time.
Off the hall was the front parlour, with its own stove and two pictures, one a family group, I suppose they were ancestors as their faces were stiff and their dress was old-fashioned, the other a large fat bull with short legs; also the piano, which was not a pianoforte but only a straight-backed parlour piano, and the globe lamp which took the best whale oil, brought up from the States; they did not have kerosene for lamps then. Behind that was the dining room, also with a fireplace, with silver candlesticks and the good china and plate in a locked cabinet, and a picture of dead pheasants over the mantelpiece, which I did not think would be agreeable while eating. This room connected with the parlour through a set of double doors and was also reached by a single door from the passageway, for carrying in the food from the kitchen. On the other side of the passageway was Mr. Kinnear's library, but we did not go into it at that time as he was reading in it, and behind that was a small study or office with a desk, which was where he wrote his letters and transacted any business he might have.
There was a fine staircase from the front hall, with a polished bannister; we went up it, and on the second floor there was Mr. Kinnear's bedchamber with a large bedstead, and his dressing room adjoining, and dressing table with an oval mirror, and a carved wardrobe, and in the bedchamber, a picture of a woman without any clothes on, on a sofa, seen from the back and looking over her shoulder, with a sort of turban on her head and holding a peacock-feather fan. Peacock feathers inside the house are bad luck, as everyone knows. These were only in a picture, but I would never have allowed them in any house of mine. There was another picture, also of a naked woman taking a bath, but I did not have the chance to examine it. I was a little taken aback at Mr. Kinnear having two naked women in his bedchamber, as at Mrs. Alderman Parkinson's it was mostly landscapes or flowers.
Down the hall towards the back there was Nancy's own bedchamber, which was not as large; and each room had a carpet. By rights these carpets should have been beaten and cleaned and stored for the summer, but Nancy had not got around to it, being short of help. I did wonder at her chamber being on the same floor as Mr. Kinnear's, but there was no third floor to the house, nor attic, not like Mrs. Alderman Parkinson's house, which was much grander. There was also a chamber for guests if any. At the end of the passageway was a closet, for such things as winter clothing, and a well-stocked linen cupboard with a good many shelves; and beside Nancy's bedchamber was a tiny room which she called her sewing room, and it had in it a table and a chair.
After we had seen the upstairs of the house, we went back downstairs and discussed my duties; and I thought to myself it was a mercy it was the summer, as otherwise I would have all those fires to lay and light, as well as the grates and stoves to clean and polish; and Nancy said of course I would not begin that very day, but the next one, and I would no doubt wish to retire early, as I must be wearied out. As this was indeed the case, and as the sun was setting, I did so.
And then everything went on very quietly for a fortnight, says Dr. Jordan. He is reading aloud from my Confession.
Yes Sir, it did, I say. More or less quietly.
What is everything? How did it go on?
I beg your pardon, Sir?
What did you do every day?
Oh, the usual, Sir, I say. I performed my duties.
You will forgive me, says Dr. Jordan. Of what did those duties consist?
I look at him. He is wearing a yellow cravat with small white squares. He is not making a joke. He really does not know. Men such as him do not have to clean up the messes they make, but we have to clean up our own messes, and theirs into the bargain. In that way they are like children, they do not have to think ahead, or worry about the consequences of what they do. But it is not their fault, it is only how they are brought up.
25.
The next morning I woke at dawn. My little bedchamber was close and hot, as the summer weather had begun; and it was dim also, as the shutters were kept closed at night in case of intruders. The windows were closed too, because of the mosquitoes and flies; and I thought that I must get a piece of muslin to put over the window, or else over my bed, and would speak to Nancy about it. I slept only in my shift, because of the heat.
I got out of bed and opened the window and the shutters to get some light, and turned back the bedclothes to air them, and then I put on my work dress and apron, and pinned up my hair, and set my cap in place. I intended to do a better job with my hair later, when I could use the mirror over the kitchen sink, there being no mirror in my room. I turned up my sleeves, slipped on my clogs, and unlatched the bedroom door. I always kept it locked, for if anyone was to break into the house, my bedchamber would be the first they would arrive at.
I liked being early to rise; that way I could pretend for a little while that the house was my own. The first thing I did was, I emptied my chamber pot into the slop pail; and then with the pail I went out by the door of the winter kitchen, noting in my mind that the floor was in need of a good scrubbing, as Nancy had let things get behind and there was considerable mud that had been tracked in and not dealt with. The air outside in the courtyard was fresh; there was a pink glow in the east, and a pearly grey mist rising from the fields. Somewhere nearby a bird was singing - I thought it was a wren - and farther off there were crows calling. In the early dawn, it is as if everything is beginning anew.
The horses must have heard the kitchen door open, because they whinnied; but it was not my duty to feed them or let them out to pasture, although I would have been glad to do it. The cow mooed as well, as her udder was no doubt full, but she would have to wait because I could not do everything at once.
I went along the path, past the henyard and the kitchen garden and back through the dew-sprinkled weeds, pushing aside the gauzy spiderwebs that were woven in the night. I would never kill a spider. Mary Whitney said it would bring bad luck, and she was not the only one to say so. When I found one inside the house I would pick it up on the end of the broom and shake it off outside, but I must have killed some of them by accident, because I got the bad luck anyway.
I reached the privy and emptied the slop pail, and so forth.
And so forth, Grace? asks Dr. Jordan.
I look at him. Really if he does not know what you do in a privy there is no hope for him.
What I did was, I hoisted my skirts and sat down above the buzzing flies, on the same seat everyone in the house sat on, lady or lady's maid, they both piss and it smells the same, and not like lilacs neither, as Mary Whitney used to say. What was in there for wiping was an old copy of the Godey's Ladies' Book; I always looked at the pictures before using them. Most were of the latest fashions, but some were of duchesses from England and high-society ladies in New York and the like. You should never let your picture be in a magazine or newspaper if you can help it, as you never know what ends your face may be made to serve, by others, once it has got out of your control.
But I do not say any of this to Dr. Jordan. And so forth, I say firmly, because And so forth
Then I carried the slop bucket to the pump in the courtyard, I say, and I primed the pump with water from the bucket that was kept there for the purpose, as with a pump you have to pour some in before you can get any out, and Mary Whitney used to say that was exactly how men viewed the flattering of a woman, when they had low ends in view. Once I had the pump going I rinsed out the slop pail, and washed my face, then cupped my hands to drink. The water from Mr. Kinnear's well was good, with no taste of iron or sulphur. By this time the sun was coming up, and burning off the mist, and I could tell it was going to be a fair morning.
Next I went into the summer kitchen and started the fire in the stove. I cleaned out the ashes from the day before and saved them for sprinkling into the privy, or else for the kitchen garden, where they help to keep off the snails and slugs. The stove was a new one but it had its own opinions, and when first lit, it threw black smoke out at me like a witch on fire. I had to coax it, I fed it bits of old newspapers - Mr. Kinnear liked his papers, and took several - and also slivers of kindling; and it coughed, and I blew in through the grate, and finally the fire caught and began blazing away. The firewood was split in pieces too big for the stove and I had to cram them in with the poker. I would have to speak to Nancy about it later, and she would speak to McDermott, who was the one responsible.
Then I went out into the yard and pumped a bucketful of water and lugged it back to the kitchen and filled the kettle from it with the dipper, and set it on the stove to boil.
Then I got two carrots from the bin in the harness room off the winter kitchen, old carrots they were, and put them in my pocket and headed out to the barn with the milking pail. The carrots were for the horses, and I gave them furtively; they were only horse carrots but I hadn't asked permission about them. I kept an ear out for sounds of McDermott stirring his bones up above in the loft, but there wasn't a rustle out of him, he was dead to the world or acting it.
Then I milked the cow. She was a good cow, and took to me right away. There are some cows very bad-tempered that will hook you with a horn or give you a good kick, but this was not one of them, and once I had my forehead into her flank she settled right down to the business. The barn cats came mewing around for milk, and I gave them some. Then I said goodbye to the horses, and Charley put his head down towards my apron pocket. He knew where the carrots were kept, all right.
On the way out I heard a strange noise coming from up above. It was as if someone was hammering furiously with two hammers, or beating on a wooden drum. At first I could not make it out at all; but as I listened, I realized it must be McDermott, step-dancing on the bare boards of the loft. He sounded skilful enough; but why was he dancing all by himself up there, and so early in the morning? Perhaps it was from sheer joy, and the overflow of animal spirits; but somehow I did not think so.
I carried the milk back to the summer kitchen and took off some fresh milk for the tea; then I covered the milk pail with a cloth because of the flies, and let it stand so the cream would rise. I wished to make butter from it later in the day if there were no thunderstorms about, as butter will not come when there's thunder. Then I took a moment to tidy my own room.
It was not much of a room to speak of, not papered and no pictures in it nor even any curtains. I gave it a quick sweep with the broom, and rinsed out the chamber pot and slid it under the bed. There were rolls of slut's wool under there, enough for a whole sheep, and you could see it hadn't been swept out for a long time. I shook up the mattress and straightened the sheets and plumped the pillow, and pulled the quilt up over. It was an old threadbare quilt, though a fine one when first made, a Wild Goose Chase it was; and I thought of the quilts I would make for myself, after I'd saved up enough wages and was married, and with a house of my own.
It gave me satisfaction to have a tidied room. When I came into it later, at the end of the day, it would be neat and trim, just as if a servant had made it up for me.
Then I took the egg basket and half a pail of water and went out to the henhouse. James McDermott was in the yard, sousing his dark head under the pump, but he must have heard me behind him; and as his face came up out of the water, for a moment he had a lost look to him, wild and frantic, like a half-drowned child, and I wondered who he thought was in pursuit of him. But then he saw who it was, and gave a jaunty wave, which was at least a friendly sign and the first one he'd given me. I had both hands full, so merely nodded.
I poured out the water for the hens, into their trough, and let them out of the henhouse, and while they were drinking and fighting over who was to go first, I went in and gathered their eggs - big eggs they were, it being the time of year for it. Then I scattered grain for them and the kitchen waste from the day before. I was not that fond of hens, as I have always preferred an animal with fur to a gaggle of frowsy, cackling birds scratching in the dirt; but if you want their eggs you have to put up with their unruly ways.
The rooster hacked at my ankles with his spurs, to chase me away from his wives, but I gave him a kick and almost lost the clog off my foot while doing it. One rooster a flock keeps the hens happy, they say, but one was too many as far as I was concerned. Mind your manners or I'll wring your neck, I told him; although in fact I could never bear to do anything of the sort.
By this time McDermott was watching over the fence, with a big grin on his face. He was better looking when smiling, I had to give him that, although he was so dark and had a rogue's twist to the mouth. But perhaps, Sir, I am imagining that in view of what came later.
Would that be me you're addressing? said McDermott. No it would not, I said with a cool manner as I walked by him. I thought I could tell what he had in mind, and it was not original. I did not want any of that kind of trouble, and to keep a cordial distance would be best.
The kettle was boiling at last. I set the porridge pot on the stove, with the porridge in it that was already soaking; then I made the tea and left it to steep while I went out into the yard and pumped another pail of water and carried it back in, and lifted the big copper pot onto the back of the stove and filled it up, as I needed a good supply of it heated, for the dirty dishes and such.
At this time Nancy came in, wearing a cotton gingham dress and an apron, not a fancy dress as she'd worn the afternoon before. She said Good morning and I gave it in return. Is the tea made, she said, and I said it was. Oh I feel I am scarcely alive in the morning until I've had my cup of tea, she said, and so I poured it out for her.
Mr. Kinnear will take his tea upstairs, she said, but I already knew this as she'd laid out the tea tray the night before with a small teapot and the cup and saucer; not the silver tray with the family crest, but one of painted wood. And, she added, he will want a second cup when he comes down, before his breakfast, as that is his custom.
I put on the fresh milk in a little jug, and the sugar, and picked up the tray. I will take it up, said Nancy. I was surprised, and said that at Mrs. Alderman Parkinson's, the housekeeper would never have thought of carrying a tea tray up the stairs, as it was beneath her position and a job for the maids. Nancy stared at me for a moment and was not pleased; but then she said that of course she only took the tray up when short of help and there was no one else to do it, and she'd got into the habit of it lately. So I proceeded.
The door to Mr. Kinnear's bedchamber was at the top of the stairs. There was nowhere near it where I could set down the tray, so I balanced it with one arm while knocking. Your tea, Sir, I said. There was a mumbling from inside and I went in. It was dark in the room, so I set the tray down on the round low table beside the bed and went over to the window and opened the curtains just a little. Those curtains were dark-brown brocade with a satiny feel to them and a fringe, and they were soft to the touch; but in my opinion it is better to have a white curtain, a cotton or a muslin, in summer, as white does not absorb the heat and bring it into the house as much, and also looks a good
I could not see Mr. Kinnear, as he was in the darkest corner of the room with his face in shadow. His bed did not have a patchwork quilt but a dark bedspread that matched the curtains; it was thrown back, and he had only the sheet over him. His voice came to me as you might say from underneath it. Thank you, Grace, he said. He was always one to say please and thank you. I must say he knew how to speak.
You're welcome, Sir, I said, and he was indeed welcome from my heart. I never begrudged doing things for him, and even though he paid me for doing them, it was as if I did them freely. There's beautiful eggs this morning, Sir, I said. Would you want one of them for your breakfast?
Yes, he says, in a hesitating way. Thank you, Grace. I'm sure it will do me good.
I did not like the way he said this, as he was talking as if he was ill. But Nancy hadn't mentioned anything about it.
When I went back downstairs I said to Nancy, Mr. Kinnear wants an egg for his breakfast. And she said, I will take one also. He will have his fried, with bacon, but I cannot eat a fried egg, mine should be boiled. We will have breakfast together, in the dining room, as he requires me to keep him company, he does not like to eat alone.
I found this a little curious, although not unheard of. Then I said, Is Mr. Kinnear ill at all?
Nancy laughed a little, and said, Sometimes he fancies he is. But it's all just in his head. He wants to be fussed over.
I wonder why he never married, I said, a fine man like him. I was getting out the frying pan, for the eggs, and it was just an idle question, I did not mean anything by it; but she replied in an angry tone, or it sounded angry to me. Some gentlemen do not have an inclination for the married state, she said. They are very pleased with themselves the way they are, and think they can get along well enough without it.