Sarah Waters - Fingersmith

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'How shall I do, Mrs Sucksby, without you?' I said.

I felt some tremor pass through her. Then: 'Better, dear girl,' she whispered, 'than with me.'

'No!'

She nodded. 'Better, by far.'

'How can you say it? When, if I had stayed with you— if I had never gone with Gentleman to Briar— Oh, I should never have left your side!'

I hid my face in the folds of her skirt, and wept again.

'Hush, now,' she said. She stroked my head. 'Hush, now . . .' Her gown was rough upon my cheek, the prison chair hard against my side. But I sat and let her soothe me, as though I might be a child; and at last we both fell silent. There was a little window, high in the wall of her cell, that let in two or three strips of sunlight: we watched them creep across the stone flags of the floor. I never knew light could creep like that. It crept, like fingers. And when it had crept almost from one wall to another, I heard a step, then felt the

matron lean to lay her hand upon my shoulder.— 'It's time,' she murmured. 'Say your good-byes, now. All right?'

We stood. I looked at Mrs Sucksby. Her gaze was clear still, but her cheek, in a moment, had changed— was grey, and damp, like clay. She began to tremble.

'Dear Sue,' she said, 'you have been good to me— ' She drew me to her, and put her mouth against my ear. It was cold as the mouth on a corpse, already; but twitched, like it might have been palsied. 'Dear girl— ' she began, in a broken whisper. I almost drew back. Don't say it! I thought.— Though I do not know if I could have said what it was I wished she would not say; I only knew I was suddenly afraid. Don't say it! She gripped me tighter. 'Dear girl— ' Then the whisper grew fierce. 'Watch me, tomorrow,'

she said. 'Watch me. Don't cover your eyes. And then, if you should ever hear hard things of me when I am gone, think back— '

'I will!' I said. I said it, half in terror, half in relief. 'I will!'— Those were my last words to her. Then the matron I suppose must have touched me again; must have led me, stumbling, into the passage beyond the gate.— I don't recall. What I remember next is passing through the prison yard, feeling the sun come upon my face— and giving a cry, turning away— thinking, how queer and wrong and awful it was, that the sun should shine, still shine, even now, even there . . .

There came a keeper's voice. I heard the rumble of it, but not the words. He was asking something of the matron at my side. She nodded.

'One of 'em,' she said, with a glance at me. 'The other came this morning I only wondered later what she meant. For now, I was too dazed and miserable to wonder anything. I walked, in a sort of trance, back to Lant Street— only keeping, as much as I could, to the shadows, out of the blazing sun. At the door to Mr Ibbs's shop I found boys, chalking nooses on the step— they saw me come and ran off, shrieking.

I was used to that, however, and let them run; but kicked the nooses away. Inside, I stood a minute to get my breath, and to look about me— at the locksmith's counter, streaked with dust; and

the tools and key-blanks, that had lost their shine; and the hanging baize curtain, that 334

had got torn from its loops and was drooping. When I walked through to the kitchen, my footsteps crunched: for sometime— I couldn't say when— the brazier had been knocked from its stand, and coals and cinders still lay scattered on the floor. It seemed too ordinary a thing to do, to sweep them up, set the brazier right; and anyway, the floor was ruined— broken and gaping, from where the police had torn up boards.

Underneath it seemed dark, till you brought a light: then you could see earth, two feet below— damp earth, with bones and oyster shells in it, and beetles and wriggling worms.

The table had been pushed to the corner of the room. I went and sat at it, in Mrs Sucksby's old chair. Charley Wag lay beneath it— poor Charley Wag, he had not barked since Mr Ibbs had jerked so hard on his collar: he saw me now, and beat his tail, and came and let me tug his ears; but then he slunk away and lay with his head on his paws.

I sat, as still and quiet as him, for almost an hour; then Dainty came. She had brought us a supper. I didn't want it, and neither did she; but she had stolen a purse to buy it, and so I got out bowls and spoons and we ate it slowly, in silence, looking all the time, as we did, at the clock— the old Dutch clock on the mantel— that we knew was steadily ticking, ticking away the last few hours of Mrs Sucksby's life ... I meant to feel them, if I. could. I meant to feel each minute, each second. 'Won't you let me stay?' said Dainty, when it came time for her to go. 'It don't seem right, you being here all on your own.' But I said that that was how I wanted it; and finally she kissed my cheek and went; and then it was just me and Charley Wag again, and the house, growing dark about us. I lit more lights. I thought of Mrs Sucksby, in her bright cell. I thought of her, in all the ways I had seen her, not there, but here, in her own kitchen: dosing babies, sipping tea, lifting up her face so I might kiss it. I thought of her carving meat, wiping her mouth, and yawning . . . The clock ticked on— quicker, and louder, it seemed to me, than it had ever ticked before. I put my head upon the table, upon my arms. How tired I was! I closed my eyes. I could not help it. I meant to keep awake; but I closed my eyes, and slept.

I slept, for once, without dreaming; and I was woken by a curious sound: the tramping and scuffing of feet, and the rising and falling of voices, in the street outside. I thought, in my half- sleep: 'It must be a holiday today, there must be a fair. What day is it?'— Then I opened my eyes. The candles I had lit had burned to puddles of wax, and their flames were like so many ghosts; but the sight of them made me remember where I was. It was seven o'clock in the morning. Mrs Sucksby was going to be h a n g e d i n t h r e e h o u r s ' t i m e . T h e p e o p l e I c o u l d h e a r w e r e o n t h e i r w a y t o Horsemonger Lane, to get their places for watching. They had come down Lant Street first, for a look at the house.

There came more of them, as the morning went on. 'Was it here?' I could hear them say. And then: 'Here's the very identical spot. They say the blood ran so fast and so hard, the walls were painted in it.'— 'They say the murdered chap called out against heaven.'— 'They say the woman stifled babies.'— ' T h e y s a y h e ' d b i l k e d h e r o f rent.'— 'Puts you into a creep, don't it?'— 'Serves him right.'— 'They say— '

They would come, and stop a minute, and then pass on; some found their way to the 335

back of the house and rattled the kitchen door, stood at the window and tried to see through the chinks in the shutters; but I kept everything locked and fast. I don't know if they knew I was inside. Now and then a boy would call: 'Let us in! A shilling, if you'll show us the room!' and, 'Hoo! hoo! I'm the ghost of the feller as was stabbed, come back to haunt you!'— but I think they did it to tease their friends, not to tease me.

I hated to hear them, though; and Charley Wag, poor thing, kept close at my side, and shivered and started and tried to bark, with every call and rattle.— At last I took him upstairs, where the sounds were fainter. But then, after a while the sounds grew fainter still; and that was worse, for it meant that the people had all passed on, found their spots for watching from, and it was almost time. I left Charley then, and climbed the next set of stairs alone— climbed them slowly, like a girl with limbs of lead; then stood at the attic door, afraid to go in. There was the bed I had been born in. There was the wash- stand, the bit of oil-cloth tacked to the wall. The last time I had come here,