The Hanging of Margaret Dickson (13 page)

‘I want to go to the bath house. I need to go home,' she sobs. ‘I don't belong here. This is not the kind of place for me.'

‘I beg to differ,' he remarks before taking her arm.

***

As they walk hand in hand along the mile, Alexander takes her aside. With gentle hands he wipes away her tears before walking to a carriage.

‘Remember when you were facing the looking glass earlier?'

‘Aye.'

‘Well I'm holding one up to your face now. Take a look.' He mimics the act of holding a mirror to her face. ‘You're a minx, a natural tease,' he whispers in her ear.

‘No I'm not.'

‘You can't help yourself, Maggie. It's just your nature to be, well, how can I put it? I knew the moment you set eyes on John that I would be a distant memory. You gravitate towards handsome men like a moth to a flame.'

‘What I do is my business, sir. And your brother is incredibly rude. He called me a whore.'

Alexander raises one eyebrow. ‘You met your match in him.' He stifles a yawn and climbs into the carriage. Before long they arrive at the bath house.

All is silent as they climb the stairs. He can't resist one more glance at that rounded bottom as she ascends the steps, and so he deliberately falls behind to enjoy the view. With one hand clutched to his heart, he struggles to keep up with her and she's already at the top of the staircase. Beyond the changing screen, she disrobes and changes back into her fisherwoman garb; her face turned away from him.

‘You may take the clothes and shoes.'

Maggie shrugs and stuffs the items into her creel, a tense look on her face. ‘Are you vexed with me?'

‘Heavens, no. I'm afraid my time in Edinburgh is over. I must return home.'

‘Why?' Maggie whirls around to face him.

‘My parents demand it. There is to be no more gambling, drinking or whoring. I am to go to London to find a suitable vocation and a wife.'

His cool green eyes watch her feign sadness and distress, but he has the measure of her. She's an utterly selfish being, a woman who cares little for those she hurts, as long as she gets what she desires. ‘Don't fret,' he opens his arms and kisses the top of her beautiful head before handing her a bag of coins.

‘I'll miss you, Alexander. Truly – I will.'

He cringes at the falsehood. ‘I know. You must learn to be happy and accept who you are. You've a long hard road to travel; it would have been an easier life for you, Maggie if you'd have been born a man.' He nods and turns away.

For just an instant he feels a pang of sorrow as she walks away. And then he laughs to himself and wonders why such a common strumpet could make him feel this way. Nevertheless, he decides to take one last look at her, and as she turns her head to reveal just a hint of her profile, he catches a glimpse of the black patches still glued to her face.

***

The world had grown two years older since the night Maggie Dickson returned home stinking of whore's scent, wearing patches and clutching a bag full of coin. Patrick never did ask where the money came from, but like any wronged husband he'd taken a stick no thicker than his thumb and given her such a thrashing that she couldn't sit down for a week.

He's no fool, but she obviously thinks him one, and so he's taught her a lesson she most richly deserves. After that, she's dutiful and kind, and eager to please him with hearty food. There are plenty of kisses and praise, and so once again he becomes complacent, at least for a while. Because suspicion is a terrible thing, like wormwood it can eat away at a man, and so in the depth of his heart, doubt and mistrust weaves an intricate web.

***

Maggie exits the bath house with a new man's arm around her waist. Just like his brother, Alexander – John will return to London soon, back to his ancestral home. But no matter, she thinks, there are plenty of other men to take his place.

At Dawney Douglas's John lifts his glass and drinks to their health. After that he gives her a quantity of money. John's very generous and she's more than happy to accept his gratitude. Later, when she returns home and there is no one around, she will be sure to hide the money away in the pigsty.

A string of men come after that, athough none as exciting or handsome as the McGregor brothers. Their company proves lucrative and is preferable to selling fish. She chooses her men carefully; steering clear of the unhealthy ones – Maggie doesn't want the pox. For the most part the majority are too old and fat for her liking. Worse still, many of them tend to talk politics, their favourite subject the south sea bubble, of which she knows nothing and is the most frightful bore as Alexander would say. By the end of the year Maggie's with child again.

This time the potion is unsuccessful. The wise woman complains that she has no ergot and gives her hemlock instead, which has little effect. Maggie's figure becomes rounded. In a vain attempt to disguise her condition, she ties her stays tighter and always wears her plaid. And all the while she cringes as the older women point and whisper.

‘If all else fails use a sharp stick, lassie. It'll pull the baby out from inside you.'

‘Is that safe?'

‘Aye, works every time.'

Maggie shakes her head and winces. ‘Isn't there any other way?'

The old woman cackles. ‘You can always drink strong liquor and bleed your feet or better still…' she pauses for effect. ‘Learn to keep your legs shut.'

In the end, she obtains some pennyroyal and to her utmost relief it is successful and the gossip is no more.

***

One day, after a long country walk, Maggie, a troubled spirit of late, begins to look into her own heart.
What makes me act so wanton?
she thinks. And then, Alexander's words come back to haunt her: ‘If only you had been born a man.'

This is my curse
, she ponders.
I am a weak vessel, a mere woman, and a poor one at that. Now if I'd have been born a man, I could do as I please, bed as many women as I like, and to hell with the consequences
. Her lips curve at the memory of Alexander and his brother, and their overt masculine prowess; men encourage such conduct and praise virility. But if women act the same way, their sex brings them down through gossip, denouncement, or condemnation.

A coughing noise interrupts her thoughts; a chubby-faced Anna holding up her shoes.

‘We go to the long water, Mama?' she asks as her little brother pulls her hair behind her.

‘Aye,' Maggie nods, ‘why not?'

***

They paddle in the sparkling waters of the Esk, and in no time at all their feet become numb from the icy cold water. For a while all three of them sit together at the river's edge and watch a pearl fisher go about his work. He whistles a merry tune and digs mussels from the river bed, tossing some aside and examining others in his weathered hands.

‘He's looking for a black river pearl.' Maggie points at the pearl fisher.

‘What's a pearl?'

Maggie looks to the cloudless sky, thinking best how to describe it. ‘Like a black or white pea, but shinier.'

Anna throws a small pebble into the water. She's a bonny child and the image of her mother, according to Johnny Notions that is. In her tiny hand she clutches a wooden doll her father has carved for her and all the while her younger brother tries to wrench it away.

‘I want it. I want it,' he cries.

Anna slaps him in the face and he responds by kicking her in the shin. ‘It's mine. Take your hands off her. Mother, tell him to leave me be,' she sobs and rubs her shin.

‘Anna, don't hit your brother.'

‘He kicked me.'

‘Yes, but you struck him first.'

‘I'm sorry. I won't do it again,' Anna pouts.

As Maggie turns away she catches Anna pinching her brother on the leg.
What a little horror
, she thinks. The sound of their quarrelling buzzes in her ears as she closes her eyes.
Perhaps if I ignore them they will stop
, she thinks, but alas the children persist.

‘I'll bang your heads together if you don't stop.' She grabs Patrick and Anna's hands and guides them over to the oak tree, stooping to gather up their stockings.

Maggie rubs their pink toes with her plaid, listening to their laughter as she tickles their feet. But then something distracts her and she stops what she's doing. A young man passes by; her eyes glitter as she looks him up and down. It's the blacksmith's son, all grown and tall; her gaze lingers on his body, he's muscular and strong.

‘Mother – Mother!' Anna shrieks and tugs on Maggie's skirt.

But Maggie can no longer hear them; she's deep in thought, thinking up a reason to visit the smithy and his handsome son.

There's a beggar at Canongate, under the arch of Tolbooth Wynd. He has one leg and his eyes are all misted over with white film. On a makeshift cart, he drags himself along the floor, his hair, body, and clouted-up leg crawling with vermin. There's no shoe upon his one foot and his stocking is torn. He shelters under an arched bridge and every day folk step over him as though he's not there. But Maggie can see him, she even knows his name – Hoppy Hughie they call him, who lost his leg on a man-o'-war. Maggie greets him like an old friend and places an apple into his filthy hands. ‘God bless you, Hughie.'

‘And you too. You're an angel,' his bottom lip quivers.

The narrow twisting wynds that lead to the flesh market are beset with ravenous dogs. The air is heavy here; fleshers, tanners and dyers, each creating a rancid stench that claw at the nostrils and cause even the strongest of stomachs to gag. Rotten carcasses litter the market square, attracting swarms of flies and other insects. Maggie walks faster as the fish market looms ahead; she greets the linkboys and listens to ballad singers singing their bawdy songs. Finally she pushes through a row of blue-gowned beggars and fights for a place beside the other fish hawkers to cry out her wares.

***

The cottage is in darkness, the only light comes from a fading fire. Patrick sits at the table eating cold oats; shoulders slumped as he licks his teeth with his tongue. He is lost in thought; forehead bunched together in a deep frown. The tiniest shimmer catches his eye beneath the table, the children hugging their knees. But Patrick has no time for them. He suddenly has an urge to scream and curse, and so he does, like a wild, injured animal.

‘Where is she?'

The rumours are ripping him apart; he picks up his plate and throws it against the wall, it shatters into a thousand pieces upon the dirt floor.
Can they be true? These evil rumours
. He shudders, Patrick's frightened. A queer feeling comes upon him, a tightness that starts at the base of his neck, circling his throat and choking him so that his lungs feel sure to explode. After a while he becomes quiet and still, his bloodshot eyes glancing warily at two shadows beneath the table.

‘It's all right,' he croaks, his voice is hoarse from spent tears. ‘I was feeling a wee bit sad, but I'm better now.' He leans over a bowl of water to splash water upon his face, and all the while his body trembles.

***

The door is ajar; the sound of weeping resonates from within. With a sinking heart Maggie stretches out one trembling hand and pushes on splintered timber. Little by little, step by step, she enters her dwelling, feet crunching upon broken pottery. Maggie peers through the dim light, wondering why Patrick's let the fire run low. Then she notices the children beneath the table.

‘What's the matter? What are you doing under there?' Maggie rushes towards Anna and Patrick with open arms. They cling to her like frightened mice, eyes and noses dripping with moisture. Maggie fumes, turning to Anna with flashing eyes. ‘Where is your father?'

At that moment, Patrick emerges before her, a plaid in his hand dabbing his face. ‘What have you done, Patrick? You've frightened them to death.'

‘What have I done?' he hisses, rushing towards her and grabbing her in a vice-like grip.

‘Let me go, Patrick. What's got into you?' She thrashes in his arms like a slippery eel.

‘Where have you been?'

Maggie cannot meet his gaze, fear pierces her heart. She's wondering if he knows, if he really
knows
what she's been doing. And the very thought causes her knees to shake beneath her. She manages to break apart from him.

‘I've been selling fish at market, what else?'

‘Where is your creel?'

‘On the steps. Have you had anything to eat?' she asks, changing the subject.

He nods. ‘Aye, cold oats.'

Maggie dares to glance at him, there are bags beneath his eyes and his face is pale, a chilly feeling of disquiet settles into her bones.

‘And the children?'

‘Cold oats.'

From out of her creel she takes out two pies, she bartered for them earlier at the market square. She places them on the table, takes a deep breath and against her better judgement heads for the door.

‘I have to go out for a short while. When are you sailing?'

Patrick groans out loud. ‘You're going out? You've only just returned, woman. Sit with me.'

‘Must I always be sitting with you, Patrick? You bore me with your dull fisherman talk. I've chores to do. A woman's labour is…'

‘You're a cruel woman, Maggie. What have I done to deserve such coldness?'

Maggie shakes her head. ‘You've done nothing, you daft beggar,' she replies, hoping to lighten his mood. ‘I won't be long. I need to fetch some eggs and the widow has plenty, I am sure. Then I'll make you a good broth.'

For a while he stands there staring at her, mouth gaping open, and all of a sudden she has an awful feeling that he won't let her out… and all Maggie can think is what will she do then?

‘Don't be long,' he orders through gritted teeth. ‘And cover your head.'

Maggie resists the urge to jump for joy. She can't get out of the door quick enough for fear of him changing his mind. Her short raspy breaths cut through the dense air as the walls seem to disintegrate around her. ‘Aye, won't be long,' she mutters.

At the corner of the harbour, Maggie tugs the kertch from her head. ‘Damn the man, he has no right to order me around,' she curses out loud.
No matter
, she thinks,
soon he will be gone again
,
back to the sea
, and then she can do as she pleases. A feeling of exhilaration surges through her as she walks towards the blacksmiths.

***

As Maggie walks away, every step she takes feels like a stab through his heart. But what can he do? Hasn't he encouraged her to be independent? For a while, as he stands there with Anna clutched to his body, he contemplates shouting after her, or even begging her to come home. But all he does is say, ‘wave to Mother,' before drooping his sorry head.

Once Maggie's out of sight, he places Anna gently to the ground. ‘Come on. Let's see what your brother is doing.' They walk into the cottage.

‘Father, may we play on the steps and wait for Mother?' the young lad enquires and without waiting for an answer he takes his sister's hand and walks to the doorway.

‘All right. But stay here on the steps. I won't be a moment – I forgot to tell your mother to fetch me some bait.'

Patrick runs towards the harbour, all the while looking left and right. But Maggie's long gone; he'll have to collect his own blasted bait now. ‘Damn,' he says under his breath. He walks slowly back to the cottage, the muscles in his jaw twitching. As he peers towards the cottage steps suddenly a sense of dread consumes him. The children are gone.

He bolts into the cottage, leaving the door wide open to let in some light. The room is quiet, empty – he checks behind a threadbare piece of material that serves to divide the room, but all he finds is a nasty over-flowing chamber pot. A ringing noise begins in his ears and then a sickening in the pit of his stomach. He dashes back to the open door, eyes darting in all directions, but they're nowhere to be seen. It doesn't make any sense. He has been gone but a moment. So where are they?

Then something catches his eye and he breaks into a dead run, heart pounding as he heads for the harbour.

***

Agnes strolls along the fisherman's way, whistling a merry tune. The boy's too slow and so she stoops to pick him up, holding him to her bosom as the lassie trails stubbornly behind her.

‘Stop whining. There is nothing to fear. Your mother asked me to take you to her, nearly there now.'

‘But mother has gone to the widow's house, and this isn't the way,' cries Anna.

‘Shut up, girl. Do as I say, I'm your mother now.' Agnes tightens her grip around Anna's little hand. These children are hers. The voices tell her so.

‘Your mother is a witch! I'm your real mother,' she declares in a sing-song voice. Anna begins to cry.

***

Towards the harbour Patrick sprints; the sound of Anna's cries spurring him on. He races after them, ignoring the dagger-like pain in his stomach as his arms furiously pump up and down.

‘Agnes, what are you doing?' Patrick screams. He bends his face to his knees, struggling for breath. ‘Have you gone soft in the head, woman? Why have you taken my bairns?'

Agnes clutches the children to her and smiles. ‘These are our children, Patrick. You know that. You lay with me, did you not?'

He shakes his head, and swallows back a wave of nausea. ‘That was a long time ago, Agnes, years and years ago. Have you turned lunatic? These are mine and Maggie's children.'

She cackles. ‘Hah! You're not fooling me. The voices have spoken and these children are ours – yours and mine.'

With a slack jaw Patrick stares at the woman; she's insane. Why hasn't he noticed it before?

‘Agnes,' he takes one step towards her. ‘You've no right to take them without my permission. You must return them to me at once.' He holds out one arm, trying to ignore the way Agnes trembles, an insane stare contorting her pale face.

‘But…'

‘Agnes,' he pleads.

For one terrifying moment Agnes's hand encircles the tip of her fish knife, adjusting it so that she can place the boy higher up her bony hip. It takes all Patrick's composure to refrain from walking over to her to wring her damn neck, but a combination of factors prevent him; the insane glitter in her eyes, the fingernails dug into his son's leg, and the sharp silver knife dangling from her waist. While Agnes is distracted, Anna breaks into a run, travelling as fast as her little legs will carry her, straight into her father's arms.

‘They should have been mine, Patrick.'

Patrick embraces Anna and gestures towards the boy. ‘Give him to me, Agnes. You know this is wrong, now do the right thing – ‘tis a sin, Agnes, a terrible sin.'

Agnes shakes her head. ‘They're my own flesh and blood. Just like the one we lost, Patrick. Remember?'

He groans out loud. ‘Remember what, Agnes? Please give me the boy, you're frightening the laddie… he's scared to death.'

‘I will not,' she steps backwards and almost trips on a rock. ‘Only if you leave that whore and come back to me.'

Patrick screws his eyes together, resisting the urge to curse at the top of his lungs. A long moment passes before he takes a deep breath and decides to fool her.

‘Aye. You are right, Agnes, she is no good,' he says, placing Anna safely away upon a craggy rock. ‘I should have stayed with you all along. What was I thinking? A woman like you is just what I need. I must leave Maggie and come to you.' Patrick takes small steps, one at a time, closer and closer, till they are but inches apart.

‘I knew you would come back to me. I knew it.' Agnes arches her neck backwards and closes her eyes, as though waiting for a kiss.

With steady hands Patrick snatches the lad from Agnes's grasp, and as he does so an unbelievable sense of relief comes over him as his laddie clutches his arms. At that moment, tears flow from his eyes, but he was not ashamed. If anything, Patrick is calm, even when he presses his face so close to Agnes's they are inches apart. His voice is quiet, but his message is clear and there is malice in his eyes.

‘Listen to me, woman, and take heed because I will only tell you this once. Don't
ever
go near my wife or children again. Do you hear me? If you do, I will hunt you down, and put an end to you woman. You'll burn in the pits of hell if you try something like this again.'

And with that Patrick marches away to collect Anna, never looking back. But all the while that strange creature calls after him, so that it becomes a mantra in his ears, playing over and over.

‘A curse on you, Patrick Spence – and a curse on that whore of a wife of yours. I hope she dies, do you hear me? I hope she dies.'

***

Patrick ignores the death curse on Maggie and decides not tell a soul. Besides, if he's learned one thing of late, it's that Agnes Lecke is a raving lunatic. Nevertheless, the curse festers in his mind and clings to his thoughts like seaweed to rocks. After all, fishermen are a superstitious lot, and Patrick's no exception.

A few days later there's a commotion at the harbour. A savage wind tears through the foreshore as pale faces look out to sea. Side by side, men and women wade into frothy waves, their backs hunched over to pull a body to shore. Upon the shingle they place it, turning it over so that they can see what's left of its face. The eyes went first no doubt, nibbled by hungry fish, but they're able to determine that it's Agnes Lecke.

Amidst the turmoil Patrick gazes upon Agnes's bloated corpse. And in death she looks to be finally at peace. With a sinking heart he puts his hands together in a silent prayer and hopes her curse died with her.

***

In times of sadness, confusion and desperation, folk will find a way to hold their head high, and after a while if all goes well, they can pretend that there's no problem at all, and that life's not just good, but glorious even. And this is how Patrick lives his life, for better and worse.

Patrick stands amongst the men, an amused expression on his face as he watches the women race to the finish line. A vision of flashing petticoats and rolled sleeves, they mean business. The competition is fierce; after all they're fighting for a much sought after prize, the entrails and offal of a sheep. Earlier that day, sixteen of Musselburgh's strongest fishwives set off from Fisher's Wynd to run a six-mile race to Canongate. And the crowd cheers as the women run their last few strides; sweat pouring from their bodies and muscles taut. Maggie and a young woman race towards the finish line. Patrick's heart leaps, Maggie looks sure to finish, but then the younger woman gets a second wind and just beats her to the line.