The Hanging of Margaret Dickson (10 page)

Maggie's pains begin the following morning and last till the wee hours of the night. Jean Ramsay arrives in the afternoon, along with a barrage of women folk. And soon the house is clacking with gossips, for as the old saying goes, ‘for gossips to meet at a lying-in, and not talk, you may as well dam up the arches of the roman bridge, as stop their mouths at such a time.'

Nevertheless, Patrick keeps his word and does not miss the birth. And so, on a cold February morning he holds his second born, a son, and listens to the child's lusty cries. Young Anna has a brother,
a strong wee baby boy, and they name him Patrick after his father. For a month after the birth, every day the gossips return, much to Patrick's distain. Intimate relations between man and wife are forbidden, since it's believed a woman is defiled by childbirth. Thus, the women's job is to ward him off until churching and purification is obtained.

***

‘What's the matter with you? It's time you sat up, Maggie. The sooner the dry nurse goes the sooner the churching, and then you'll be back to your old self.' Widow Arrock crosses her arms over pendulous breasts. She knows what's wrong with Maggie. She's seen it before. It happens sometimes after a woman has a bairn. And in short, it's worse for some than others. Maggie, thank goodness has a mild form, the type that makes women irrational, weepy and unable to sleep.

After the churching, Maggie wakes up each day in a daze to carry out her day to day chores. And as she does so, there's a brooding look upon her pale face as her mouth droops down, looking like for all eternity that it will never lift up again.

***

During the summer of 1717, just as Maggie's melancholia disappears, a strange thing happens. Patrick's old fancy, Agnes Lecke, begins to call at Watts Close to help Maggie with the children. It's an unlikely alliance, but nevertheless Maggie welcomes the company and the extra pair of hands. Today, with Agnes's help, Maggie will venture outside with both children for the first time. Up till now Maggie's relied on the widow or Jean to look after the children, so she could collect water from the river, peat from the bogs, or to hawk her fish.

Patrick's old fancy is a pretty girl, but she can only be described in one word – peculiar. Agnes's eyes are empty and cold, so unlike Maggie's large eyes, like wild unearthly fires. They are an odd pair as they walk side by side towards the harbour. The air is fresh and breezy outdoors, and in no time at all they are at the boat shore. Near the rocks, sunlight reflects on the sea, like a thousand sparkling wavelets. A catch of fish is brought ashore, and so Agnes looks after the bairns while Maggie helps sort the fish. After a while, when there's no sign of her husband, Maggie buys some of the fish and decides to go home. Later she will dry the fish on hooks outside her door. A quantity of fishing nets, creels and baskets litter the entrance to Watts Close. Maggie shakes her head and groans out loud: ‘Mind your feet, Agnes. Patrick's left his fishing gear all over the place again. Don't want you to trip and fall.'

They settle the children down and sit near the open door, enjoying the cool summer breeze and waving to passers-by.

‘Was Patrick not at shore?' Agnes enquires in a soft voice.

‘No, why?'

‘I just haven't seen him in a while, that's all.'

As Agnes crosses her legs, Maggie notices that her stockings are odd and her stays aren't laced as they should be. And even more alarming, there are scars and strange scratches up the length of her arms.

‘I've a feeling that he visits the links. It's either that or he's playing with the lads kicking a ball. Comes in he does with mucky legs and gets into bed dirtying the blankets. And that's not all…'

Agnes yawns.

‘I'm sorry. How rude of me. Would you like a bite to eat? I've some bannocks on the cooling tray near the hearth.'

Baby Patrick begins to wail, Maggie huffs and wonders if the lad's stomach is a bottomless pit. ‘Agnes, did you hear me?'

‘What?'

‘I asked you if you want a bite to eat.'

Agnes nods and picks up little Patrick.

***

With thoughts of her old love, Agnes Lecke feels a shiver of anticipation as she crosses the room. A table and two stools stand by the far wall, everything's neat and ordered and not at all as she imagined it be. A clay pipe protrudes from a horn beaker on a wooden chest; a pair of sea boots that need mending lay upturned on the floor. And then her eyes become drawn to an old wooden chair, the seat of which was made up from thick rushes. She scrutinises the chair for the longest time, a quantity of its binding is frayed, but that's not what holds her attention. It's the coarse linen shirt that hangs on the chair's back.

With nervous eyes Agnes glances across the room. Maggie's busy warming bannocks so, in haste, Agnes places the child in its crib and sneaks off to the chair. Her hands shake as she lifts the material to her nose, inhaling Patrick's musky scent; a shiver of pleasure shoots up her spine. Agnes is greedy for his scent, how she longs to possess it, devour it, and suck it up into her own being, so that they mingle as one. And so, for what feels like eternity, she holds the shirt to her body and weeps like a child.

A voice calls out to her. Agnes drops the shirt and focuses hard, after a while a blurred image sharpens into the shape of Maggie holding out a plate of food.

‘What's the matter? You look like you've seen a phantom.'

‘I've a pain in my heid.'

‘Oh dear. There's a plant that cures headaches, looks like a daisy, it does. Do you know of it? It's called feverfew. My mother taught me how to recognise it when I was a wee girl.'

Agnes stares at Maggie, her bottom lip quivering all the while; she can see two Maggie's now and demons, familiars, and strange beasts with forked tongues. ‘Feverfew you say. Where will I find it? And if I take enough will it send me to sleep? My head hurts. I need to sleep, Maggie.'

‘Feverfew works miracles. You can find it on barren land or growing at the bottom of stone walls. I have some. Do you want me to make a tisane?'

‘Please, will you? Will it make me sleep?' Agnes repeats. The voices are returning now and her visions are becoming distorted. Everything's a blur, colours and shapes all merging into one. She can just make out Maggie's voice.

‘No, camomile and hops will help you sleep, but be careful though. You need to know how strong to make it.'

When Maggie isn't looking, Agnes staggers out the door.

Excited cries fill the harbour as a huge catch of fish is brought ashore. The fishwives work fast on the rocky foreshore, each taking their share and spreading them across craggy rocks. They move fast, fingers busy, sorting the fish as hungry gulls circle above. Once the catch is gutted, the women wash and scrub their fish with a brush of heather stems bound together. Maggie and Isobel work shoulder to shoulder. All morning they wash, scrub and remove all traces of blood from flesh and bones. Next comes the splitting and salting, this can take up to six hours. Finally, they can be placed in a circle, head out, tail in centre, and laid on racks or hooks to dry in the sun.

***

At the crack of dawn, Patrick creeps from his bed, taking care not to wake Maggie or the children. He tiptoes softly across the room, eyes darting left and right in search of his sea boots and fishing gear. But he can't find them anywhere. He steps on a sharp stone and curses, one of the bairns stirs in their sleep. Patrick screws his eyes together and holds his breath, and to his utmost relief the child settles down. He tiptoes back to his bed.

‘Maggie. Where is my fishing gear?' he whispers.

‘Outside.'

‘Outside?' he raises his voice. ‘And my boots?'

‘Aye, I've had quite enough of you leaving them near the door for me to trip up on – so I threw them out the door.'

Patrick's mouth gapes open. ‘You're jesting. What if it's rained? Or what if someone's taken my stuff? How could you be so foolish?'

Maggie ignores him.

‘I'm going then,' he says through gritted teeth and strides across the room to open the door. He's just about to leave when he remembers that he needs some bait.

‘Maggie.' He taps her shoulder.

‘What now?

‘I need a line baiting for when I get back.'

Maggie groans and turns over in her bed.

‘Maggie.'

She pulls the covers over her face. With an almighty push Patrick slams the door behind him, no longer caring if he wakes up the children. It's a clear morning and fortunately it's not rained. He gathers his fishing gear and picks up his sea boots. They're covered in fine dew; he wipes them with a clout, places them on his feet and is on his way. At the harbour he fills his lungs with sea air, thinking there's nothing better than a spot of line fishing to clear the head.

His lugger boat is close by. Into the deep blue sea he drops his baited lines. The sky is clear ahead, he stretches out his long body in the hull and waits for the fish to bite, not a care in the world. It might be a good six hours before he needs to haul it up.

***

Maggie's exhausted. Before Patrick left this morning he asked her to bait one of his unused lines. But for the life of her, she can't remember what he uses – lugworms, paps, anemones or mussels? She seems to recall it depends on what time of year it is. A cockerel crows in the distance as she rubs her drowsy eyes. The baby kept her stirring all night and she feels dreadful. Underneath a mountain of ropes and nets she finds a sturdy creel. She has a good mind to make him collect his own bait, the lazy swine! As if she hasn't got enough to do.

By the light of the fire, she dresses quickly, fastening her stays with nimble fingers. Her clothes reek of fish and brine, but Maggie's oblivious to the stench. A stale oatcake lies on the table; she eats it quickly before banking up the fire. After that, she covers her long hair with a clean striped kertch, pulls on her scruffy boots and feeds the bairns.

Young Patrick fits snug inside the creel. It's a warm day so she swaddles him in fine linen spun for her bottom drawer. Before she leaves Maggie looks around the cottage and wonders if she's forgotten something.

‘The baby,' she says out loud. And then realises the creel and baby are perched upon her back. She takes Anna and a basket in her arms and walks out the door.

‘Hold the willow basket for your mother, Anna?'

‘Anna hold basquit,' shouts Anna.

Maggie smiles as the child struggles to hold the object in her chubby arms. It isn't long before she has to take it herself. Anna drops everything eventually; she's all fingers and thumbs.

At the Esk, Maggie lowers her creel and basket to the soft ground. And so, with Anna on her hip and the baby safe in the creel she begins to look for mussels. Several women are scattered around the river bed. It is wash day and the gossips are out, ears wagging, listening for mindless tittle-tattle. To Maggie's consternation, baby Patrick begins to cry before she's found one mussel. With a thump she drops to the floor and traps Anna between her legs as she feeds the child. Before long a shadow looms over her.

‘You've got your arms full, Maggie. Do you need any help?

‘Just here to collect some bait, Agnes.'

‘I'll collect some bait for you or hold Anna.'

Maggie stares upwards into Agnes's face, suddenly her stomach lurches. Just the sight of her makes her wary for some reason. There is something odd about her face and the way her eyes gaze into empty space. ‘That's very kind of you, Agnes, but no. I'm fine. I'm in no rush. I'm just here to collect some bait and go home.'

‘No washing then? It is wash day, you know.'

‘No. Like I said, I'm fine; the laundry can be done tomorrow.' Maggie glances at Agnes from the corner of her eye, her stockings are odd again and there's a quantity of heather and gorse in her hair.

Agnes persists. ‘I am free to look after the children tomorrow if you want. You could collect more bait or go to market.'

‘There's no need. The widow is always on hand to take care of my bairns.' Maggie breathes a sigh of relief as Agnes walks away.

It isn't long before an old farmwoman takes pity on her and watches the two little ones while she collects bait. With a double-bladed knife, Maggie shells a quantity of mussels until she's satisfied she has enough.

At the cottage, Maggie places little Patrick inside the cradle and collects some gear together. Into a fishing basket she adds a knife, a heather brush and some strips of cloth to bind her fingers. With Anna safe in her arms, she picks up the basket and makes her way to the harbour. Patrick's boat is in, beached on the shingle shore. She runs towards him.

‘What's wrong?' he asks.

‘I left the baby sleeping. I thought you might need a hand with the boat and your catch.'

‘I managed without you,' he says gruffly. ‘I've already sold most of the fish but I saved some for you. Did you bait the other line?'

‘No, I forgot. I'm sorry, Patrick. I did get the bait though.'

‘It's all right. I know it's sore on the fingers, lassie. I'll bait the lines later. I shot six lines from the skulls today and there's still plenty of fish for you to hawk.' He takes Anna from her arms so she can sort the fish.

Maggie's apron is soaked by the time she's done. ‘I'll see you later,' she hesitates, deciding whether or not to kiss him, but packs up her creel instead.

‘Don't forget Anna,' he frowns, holding out their child to her. ‘And Maggie. I'll be off in the morning again and I don't know for how long.'

Maggie swallows a lump back in her throat and turns away.

The mariner, Billy Swindles, blocks her path as she makes her way home. He's stinking drunk as usual, and carries a bottle of grog under his arm. ‘Where's your father?'

‘In the tavern I expect, in a similar state to you.'

He laughs and displays teeth, green with algae. Bloodshot eyes ogle her as if she's a dockside whore.

‘Your father's a good man. Heart of gold has Duncan. Well I'll expect he'll be home soon.'

‘The tavern
is
his home,' she says through clenched teeth.

The baby's still sleeping when she returns. She places Anna next to him and crouches near the hearth, clutching her empty stomach.
A soothing glow radiates from the fire; Maggie stares into the crackling flames and allows her weary head to slump to the soft ground.

***

Lammas is the last of the three fishing seasons after Beltane and Johnmas, a quarter day in Scotland. It's time for fairs and a welcome rest for farming folk. In bygone days, couples used to meet up at Lammas for the handfasting ceremonies. Many couples married this way, by a wandering priest or over the blacksmith's anvil.

Folk bring their horses to swim in the sea at Lammas, and the kirk ministers always kick up a right fuss as it's thought to be a pagan tradition. But when all is said and done, it's a time for good cheer and festivity, and for folk to dance by bonfires as pipers play a merry tune. Maggie waits for Patrick near the foreshore, amidst the revelry. He agreed to meet her and the children, but as the sky darkens, she realises he's not coming. While her attention is momentarily elsewhere, a hand taps her shoulder.

‘Hello, Maggie,' calls a familiar voice.

‘Hello, Minister Bonaloy,' Maggie beams, more than pleased to see him.

‘Are you all alone? You could do with some help I see. Allow me to walk you home. But first of all, allow me to get you and the children something to eat,' he holds out his hands to Anna.

***

The baby is crying as Maggie drags on her old boots. She ignores the shrill wails and pulls up her stockings at top speed, before grabbing her plaid. When Jean Ramsay arrives to look after the children, she flies out the door.

In record time Maggie reaches Edinburgh. It's a busy day and the air is hot and sticky, and so she proceeds to a well for a drop of water, before she hawks her fish and returns home. A mixture of folk wait in the line, women, young boys, exhausted water-carriers. Before long, Maggie grows impatient, keen to be on her way. As she waits in the queue, one of her stockings fall down.

‘Damnation,' she cries and tilts forward, lifting up her petticoats to reveal a shapely thigh. With one leg stretched out in front of her she pulls up her stocking and ties it with a knot.

Intent in her task, a wisp of hair tickles the back of Maggie's neck as she secures her stocking. And then, all of a sudden the tickling becomes stronger, like a prickling sensation, and to be sure she has the distinct sensation that someone or something is watching her.

‘May I help you?' asks a strange voice.

A mature man of quality stands before her offering his hand. He wears a powdered white wig that makes it impossible to determine his age. Maggie stares into his eyes. He's handsome, aristocratic and superbly arrogant, and when he smiles he sends blood rushing up her veins. With an open jaw she examines his clothes; they're simply stunning – silken blue knee-breeches decorated with tiny gems, and an exquisite velvet coat, embroidered with silver thread.

‘What fine breeding stock you are. What is your name, pretty wench?'

‘Maggie,' she answers, tugging down her petticoats and skirts.

The man takes a step forward and pulls out from his pocket a silver egg-shaped vinaigrette containing smelling salts. ‘A pretty name, indeed,' he leans forward and unscrews the top of his silver egg, picks out a sponge and holds it to his nose. ‘I'm not in the habit of conversing with young ladies of your station, but I happened to notice that there was a problem with your…' Suddenly he seems lost for words. ‘…attire.'

Maggie drops the prettiest curtsey and steals a half-shy glance at him. ‘My attire is in perfect order now, sir.'

The man leans in closer and whispers in her ear. ‘I do believe that you are the prettiest wench I have ever seen. How old are you? Fifteen or sixteen?'

‘Nineteen.'

‘You look much younger,' says the gentleman, holding the sponge to his face. ‘I was just on my way to the pleasure gardens near Queen Mary's bath house. Would you care to join me?'

Maggie points to the creel of fish. ‘I'm busy, sir. I have fish to sell.'

The gentleman turns a frown. ‘Are you sure? It's not far. If one wanders towards Holyrood Palace, one is bound to come across it. You won't be disappointed.' His voice is persuasive and pleasing to the ear.

‘Aye, I might do that one day,' Maggie nods, watching him walk away.

She watches him walk into the distance for the longest time, wondering if she's being foolish in refusing his invitation. When all of a sudden, a fat woman in the queue for water nudges her in her ribs and says: ‘You're an ignorant sow! Why didn't you go with him? You must be insane. I'd have gone with him for sure. And it's a wonder he came within an inch of you with the smell of that fish.'

Maggie shrugs. ‘What's does someone like him want with a lassie like me? And besides, I've fish to sell,' replies Maggie, pointing to her creel. ‘And a husband at home.'

‘Haven't we all, lass, haven't we all. Where is he now? Have you any little ones to feed?'

Maggie nods, ‘Aye, I have two.'

The fat woman shrugs. ‘Have they any food in their bellies? You're all skin and bone! Look at me, fat and content, because I take what I can in life.'

Maggie stands rooted to the spot, suddenly regretting her decision. She drinks water from the well and strolls towards the fish market. The usual banter, eloquent speech, a pert tilt of the head, and her fish is sold. With her creel empty, she takes her time walking home, and without thinking her gait gravitates towards the pleasure gardens and the whisper of a thrill.

***

It's as though she's stepped into another world. A magical courtyard flanked by luscious greenery and vibrant flowers, such a contrast to the drab grey vista of Edinburgh. The air's heavy with the sweet scent of freshly cut lawns, she raises one eyebrow and observes one, two, no, three couples in the act of copulation. Maggie shudders inside, her breathing's shallow and her legs tremble with guilty pleasure. As she drinks in the rhythmic movements, the stolen kisses and fervent desire, her gaze becomes drawn to one couple in particular. She can't take her eyes off them, and her hand instinctively begins to caress her own neck and trail downwards to her décolleté.