The Hanging of Margaret Dickson (19 page)

‘What's keeping you? Haven't you a tavern to be off to?' William barks to Brewster.

Brewster makes no answer and backs away with sagged shoulders to grab a barrel. So, with Maggie now gone and the brewery lad at work, William storms off to the smoky twilight of the tavern, to pour himself a wee dram before he returns to his work.

‘Bit early for that?' his mother remarks, eying him with a strange look.

He knocks it back in one and shakes his head. ‘I'll be off now, see you later.'

On his way out he passes Brewster, fists clenching as he bangs into his shoulder. Suddenly, a strange compulsion comes over him to knock him off his feet. And then, all of a sudden, he arrives at his senses, and wonders why he's just acted as he did.

***

Never before has Maggie felt such pain. It started in her jaws at first with a dull ache, and then travelled to her neck, throat and gums. The hurt is unbearable and because of the swelling to her face, everywhere she turns people look at her and shake their heads, as though feeling her pain.

‘Shouldn't she see a tooth puller or blacksmith? There'll be one at the travelling fairs,' Adam asks his wife. ‘She's putting the customer's off their ale.'

‘No need, Adam. I know how to cure it. It's simple. When I was a wee bairn in Jedburgh, my mother used to suffer with toothache. And what she used to do is find a nail, a new one if possible and scratch her gum with it. Then all you have to do is hammer it into an oak tree. It works every time.'

Adam Bell grimaces. ‘That's an old wives tale like when you take a poker, heat it on the fire and burn your earlobe.'

Maggie shudders, her eyes are watering with the throbbing pain. But she doesn't fancy burning her earlobe or scratching her gum with a nail. In her desperation, she even tries a strange concoction, a potion made up of squashed fisheyes that tastes so foul she has to gag into a pail. And then it comes to her, a cure her mother used long ago. Orris plant – she remembers how her mother used to search for it high and low.

The following day Maggie feels much better. At the crack of dawn she starts her chores; cleaning, sweeping, and fetching water from the river. Just before noon she scrubs a small tiled section of the scullery floor, kneeling down on all fours before Cook returns. The stone floor is cold and hard on the knees, so Maggie puts her back into it, pressing down on the wooden scrubbing brush with all her might. After a while she gets a rhythm going as she pushes back and forth. A section of her long hair escapes from her cap and tickles her neck; she brushes it away with impatience and works up a sweat. Nearly done, she scrubs harder, just a few more tiles, and then she hears a cough. Maggie stops what she's doing and continues to look down at the floor. She knows without looking that it is William. He coughs again, this time louder. Maggie takes a deep breath and tilts her neck back; her eyes are dark, hot and naked in their longing for him. She pushes down on her hands to stand.

‘Don't get up on my account; you're doing a fine job. Pretty as a picture,' William remarks with a smile.

‘How long have you been there?' Maggie stares into his face. How she yearns to know the secret of him.

‘Long enough,' he holds out a hand for her.

Maggie takes his hand, allowing him to help her to her feet. ‘I'm sopping wet. I must change my apron.'

He holds her hand for the longest time.

‘Maggie…' he says with a serious face, and then without uttering another word he hurries away.

***

In the morning, Maggie strolls to the Baxters to fetch the bread to be baked in the communal oven. The bakery lies to the west, and so she continues on her way until she passes an oyster hawker crying his wares. Just the sight of him causes Maggie to grimace as he struggles with the burden of his creel. Rooks caw and leaves rustle in the trees as she follows a cobbled path and passes a barefoot child; he's small and puny, hugging his knees to his body on a cold stone step. He makes a right din, and thus Maggie stops to stare at him. He reminds her of her own son, little Patrick, so she ventures towards him with a kindly face.

‘What's the matter?' She observes him with curious eyes. He's seen at least seven summers. ‘Why are you crying, little one?'

‘Father sent me for some more ale, but my feet are sore and cold and I hurt them on a big sharp rock.' His speech is interrupted with bouts of sobbing and hiccups. He wipes his tears onto a filthy sleeve.

‘Where do you live?' she asks him, helping him to wipe his runny nose with her plaid.

The boy shrugs and sniffles, reaching for his horn beaker of frothy ale and holding it to his thin body. ‘Over there. It is a long, long walk, and if I spill a drop I'll get a smack ‘round the lughole.'

Maggie holds out a hand to him, sucking in her breath as she observes open sores all over his scrawny legs. ‘Come on, I'll help you. What's your name?'

The boy stops weeping and rubs his eyes red-raw.

‘David.'

Maggie lifts the child. He's as light as a feather, not even as heavy as an empty creel. ‘Point the way, little one,' she says. ‘No fear, little one. I'll go slowly. We won't spill a drop.' She walks a good way before her back starts to ache, his tiny hands clutch around her neck and his breath is sour.

After a while she stops between a tannery and dyers. The smell is appalling. ‘You're choking me,' she coughs.

‘Here we are!' he shouts right down her ear.

Poor little rascal
, she thinks,
he's stuck out here at the edge of the village, near this stinking smell, and he's a bag of bones
. She waves to him as he walks carefully to his doorway, not spilling a drop of the precious ale.

It is a good quarter hour before Maggie's back in the village. There's a queue at the Baxters and so Maggie taps on the floor with one shoe, how she loathes to wait. As usual, when there's not much to do, the women gossip. It doesn't matter what the subject is, they talk about anyone and anything, to spread denigration, vilification, and mindless tittle-tattle. What an utter waste of time, Maggie thinks and then for once her ears prick up as she recognises a name.

‘Aye, Bell, he got the last tavern wench. Well, you know – he took her maidenhood, can't keep it in his trews that one.'

Maggie's face flushes. A rush of heat sears to the base of her scalp as her pulse quickens. The women continue, clucking and squawking like hens in their scandalous corner of chitchat.

‘Aye, you know the one, Ethel – the handsome tailor.'

‘Handsome sailor?'

‘No, you cloth-eared idiot. I said tailor. You know the tall one with fair hair, apprentice to that fellow across the way at the tailor shop. Oh come, Ethel, you can't miss him; he's the kind that makes a lassie weak at the knees. He's been with loads of lasses, can't get enough of them. Apparently he has a box of fairings of all the lassies he's been with – ribbons, hair, and even garters and stockings, so they say.'

Maggie's had enough. She takes hold of her bread and storms outside for some air. And once again she wonders why he arouses such intense feelings in her. But deep down she knows why: she's insane with jealousy.

***

Every day, from the moment she wakes up, Maggie's thoughts are of William. Invariably he's busy at work, meeting women or simply amusing himself. With a swollen heart she tallies up the days since she saw him last. Oh how she suffers for him – how she longs for a sign or indication that he cares for her, but it never comes. For the most part, since that day outside the cellar door, and the antics of the brewer's son, he's distant and aloof. And when he does talk to her, she has the distinct feeling that he's never quite taking her serious.

***

Angus McDonald claims he can't find a wise-woman, and because of Maggie's success with the orris plant, he's on a mission to find a cure. It's common knowledge that if one ventures over the heather brae, past a pair of rowan trees, and beyond a tiny burn, there's a low wooden structure that could almost pass for a home. It's inhabited by an old hag, who has knowledge of plants and herbs. And when Maggie reminds Angus of this he laughs and says: ‘She's no wise woman, that old crone is away with the fairies and soft in the heid.'

‘Well I can't help you. I can do without your bothering me now, Angus. I only know a couple of remedies for headaches or ague and I am certainly no wise-woman. You'll have me hanging from a tree come candlemas. Folk will think me a witch,' she shivers.

‘Will you look at me,' he throws up his hands and strokes his balding head. ‘I'm not getting any younger and it's time I got me a wife. There must be a cure for thinning hair. Are you listening to me, Maggie?'

‘Aye, I am and don't look at me. I am already wed.'

‘Oh yes, and where is this husband of yours?' he scoffs and swings a hand around the room.

‘At the keels in Newcastle, so I'm told. How the hell should I know? I'm just his wife!' Her eyes narrow and then she has an idea.

‘Angus. It's suddenly dawned on me. I
do
know of a cure. It is a little odd I might add, but I'm sure that it works.'

Angus practically slavers and his eyes near pop from his head. ‘What is it?'

‘You just take a little dove dung and slap it on your head twice a day.'

From the corner of her eye Maggie catches a glimpse of Adam Bell collapsing into heap of laughter at the corner of the room.

***

A lively fire crackles in the hearth as Helen, the sullen maidservant scurries about the scullery. The witch never shuts up, and Maggie loathes the sound of her grumbling and cursing as she performs her detested chores. In the midst of her complaining, shovel-faced Helen bawls. ‘Where's Cook? Why I am making the broth? I've a hundred things to do and it's left to me to sort out the food to serve this noon.' She chops some meat, screws up her nose and leans forward to inhale its smell. ‘For goodness sake, it's rancid.'

Maggie approaches Helen with caution, wary of her bared teeth. ‘Rotten?'

‘Aye, do you have to repeat everything I say, silly girl? Can't you smell it?' Helen wipes her hands on her apron, leaving a quantity of blood smeared marks.

‘Put some spices on it to disguise the smell,' offers Maggie.

‘I can't do that. It'll make folk ill. That bastard flesher! I'll tear his eyes out, I will. He's sold me rotten meat again. Isobel will be vexed with me. How could I have been so foolish? I should've noticed the smell at the flesher's stall.' Helen shakes her head and then bites her nails, then almost chokes as she spits out the rancid taste.

‘Can't you buy some more?'

‘No money left,' she moans.

‘I have.'

Helen's eyes narrow into slits. ‘And where on earth would a tavern wench get money from. Did you steal it?'

‘Of course not.' All of a sudden Maggie wishes she hadn't offered to help. ‘I was simply trying to help you, Helen, but I can see that you require no charity from the likes of me.'

Helen scoffs and turns her nose up. She opens the door and tosses the meat to the pigs. Sneering, she heaves herself away from the door, bringing with her a stench that causes Maggie's nostrils to burn with repulsion.

‘Well, do you want some money or not?' Maggie enquires.

‘No.' Helen shakes her head.

***

The inn is rowdy. The fire-place in the tap-room is large enough to accommodate a small crowd, and to be sure they are crammed in tonight. There is not a high-back settle empty and folk stand shoulder to shoulder scraping roughly-plastered walls. Yarns are spun, scandal slyly discussed, and countrymen take their tankards with a sense of a good day's work behind them.

A stranger enters the tavern, all eyes stop to stare. He's a tramping man and stays for one drink, but before he leaves folk have discussed him from the hair on his chin to the cut of his coat. Time is called. One by one, the inn empties of customers. Maggie stays busy. Adam's already gone up to bed and Isobel's yawning. The hour passes slowly; Maggie's worn-out and could do with a rest. But the pigs need feeding, and Helen's busy clearing up.

Maggie walks over to Isobel and asks, ‘Who's feeding the pigs?'

‘William. I'm worn-out, lassie. I'm going to bed. William will lock up.'

‘Shall I go up too?'

‘Aye, but be sure to wipe down the tables first.'

Maggie scratches her head and frowns. ‘But I've just done that already.'

‘Well do it again, please. We've a wake on the morrow.'

Maggie gives Isobel a side-ways glance as she walks from the tap-room, and though she wants to ask her why she has to do the tables again, she holds her tongue. The fragrance of cooking, tobacco and sawdust penetrates every nook and cranny of the room, a feral cat lingers near the open door. As the last of the stragglers leave, she takes a minute and sits down near the hearth, and suddenly she realises that she's not alone. She spins around. William's behind her with both elbows resting on his wide-spread legs, holding a whisky glass in two hands.

‘Want some?' He leans over her and brushes her shoulder with his face. With gentle hands he presses a glass to her lips. ‘Drink some more.' His eyes dip to the swell of her breasts.

Maggie turns red and swallows. Her fisher lassie banter evades her. She just can't find the words. Suddenly she has a miserable sense of inadequacy, and to cover her embarrassment she looks down at her shoes. A dozen times or more she thinks of something interesting to say, but her confidence wanes and she mourns the minx of bygone days.

‘Cat got your tongue, Maggie. You had no difficulty frolicking with the brewer's son and his poxy scars.'

Maggie shudders as his lips graze her neck. ‘You're drunk.'

‘I am not,' he slurs. He leans in even closer to spin her a yarn, a joke about his manhood, implying he has length as well as girth, and all the while his hands linger over his groin. ‘What tiny hands you have,' he takes her hand and presses it against his own. Hers look like a child's next to his.