The Hanging of Margaret Dickson (3 page)

***

At the river bank, Patrick sees her again, the bonny washer lassie from Musselburgh, sporting a black eye. Not that it detracts from her beauty in any way. He knows it is only a matter of time before she disgraces herself, so he keeps his distance and watches from afar. But despite his reservations he soon finds himself drawn to her – there is something earthy and iniquitous about her. Thus, it is with a heavy heart he departs from the river that day, for he would have liked to walk over to that girl, and push the other men away. But he has neither the courage nor conviction.

A week later he bumps into her at kirk. Her eyes gaze upwards to the new minister, attentive to every single word. Perhaps she's learnt the error of her ways, he wonders, or perhaps not. His heart swells as he stares; there is no doubt that she is a beautiful young woman, with waist length, chestnut hair and sloe-eyes rimmed with thick, sooty eyelashes. Her full lips are a vermillion red and her body already possesses the curves of a voluptuous woman. But when all is said and done it is her eyes that captivate him because beneath those long dark lashes is something evocative of pleasurable fulfilment.

After the sermon, as always, he prepares to walk home with his mother and father. But a compelling voice calls to him from within.
Go to the girl
, it chants over and over, until despite his reservations he contrives to meet with her near the kirk door. A great desire washes over him as she nears the entrance, and then to his dismay she turns and waves to the new minister instead. But Patrick persists and waits near the entrance. With much fortitude, he lingers close by and is soon rewarded with her presence.

‘Aren't you one of the fishermen from Fisherrow?' she enquires in a loud voice.

Patrick's mouth opens, taken aback by her boldness and confidence. ‘Yes, Patrick Spence. Pleased to meet you,' he stammers. ‘And you are?'

‘Maggie Dickson and this is my brother, James. He's apprenticed to be a weaver.'

‘So you're a fisherman? What do you fish?' the brother asks.

‘Herring.'

The brother grins. ‘Maggie loves the sea. Ever since she was a bairn she's been running to the harbour to watch the boats…'

‘Hush, James,' Maggie scolds and wraps her plaid around her.

‘Well you have, Maggie. Clothes and hair soaked from the sea, always telling our mother you want to be a sea captain.'

Patrick is well aware of her harbour exploits. His mind reels, now is the perfect opportunity to get her alone with a pledge of sorts, but for the life of him he doesn't know what to say. He's lost his tongue.

The girl and brother bid farewell and walk away. Patrick opens his mouth but nothing comes out. At the very last moment, just before she disappears from sight, he manages to stammer: ‘Maggie. Perhaps one day – if you are not – maybe I could take you…'

‘Yes I would like that very much,' replies Maggie and walks swiftly away.

***

In January, a great gale of wind sweeps across from the moors, sending autumn leaves in a swirl of dead elm, oak and beech. It's a black month of the year, haunted by melancholy, and a plague upon the ill and weak. Maggie's mother, Ann, hovers between life and death, her paper-thin skin stretched over her bony face. Of course, in the wake of a great famine, Maggie is no stranger to death, but nothing can prepare her for the passing of her mother. When she dies, it is a bitter blow. There is no consolation from Maggie's father. Duncan remains indifferent, he labours, he gallivants, and little else. Maggie's only comfort is James.

As one season passes into another, buds of the rarest green begin to scatter across the distant hills and for Maggie life goes on. With the passing of her mother, she is now responsible for all domestic work, and Lord there is so much to do. Wash day in particular causes Maggie to moan and groan, but of course it has to be done. As Maggie walks to the river, her pail of laundry weighs her down and causes her back to throb and ache. Near a great expanse of mountain gorse, she bends at the waist to set it down near the river edge, and as she does so, from the corner of her eye she catches sight of the fisherman, Patrick Spence shading beneath an oak tree, its budding twigs spread out like a fan. A yellow yowlie chirps and flutters in the tree above him, competing with the song of a sky-lark. Maggie squints into the bright sunlight to observe him, curious as to why he's there. He leans against the tree bark, his leine open at the neck. For just a moment, Maggie's eyes linger over him, he's broadened since she saw him last. After a while her interest wanes, and for the most part Maggie ignores him.

The cold water is up to her knees. Maggie adds more lye and hitches up her skirts. As usual there's no shortage of scandalous gossip. All round her women chitchat, clucking like hens. Maggie has the good sense to take no part in it. After a while a fair fisher lassie scurries towards the oak tree to the broad-shouldered fisherman. To Maggie's surprise he welcomes her like a lost lover, throwing his arms around her and kissing her neck. And this, and only this, secures Maggie's attention.

For what seems like eternity the amorous couple remain pressed up against the tree. The young women giggle, the older women shiver and grimace. And all the while the women go about their chores till their hands and feet wrinkle to a bright pink. As the sun reaches its highest point it has a great power now, and Maggie's legs stamp up and down on her laundry, her mouth set in a tight scowl as the smell of soiled linen fills her nostrils. But no matter how often she turns her head away, her curiosity soon gets the better of her, compelling her to sneak a sly glance in the fisherman's direction. His sweetheart can't take her hands off of him, lingering all over him as she blushes like a rose. Maggie becomes rather animated then, dancing up and down on her washing and singing a rousing song which some of the other women join in on. The amorous couple remain oblivious to all around them, lip to lip, toe to toe, the sounds of their unmistaken passion competing against the droning tones of bored washerwomen.

Then something snaps inside of her, and for whatsoever reason she reacts. Fire burns in Maggie's eyes as she looks at the man and truly sees him for the first time – this unassuming man, suddenly attractive while wrapped around another woman. But that's still not it. There's coldness in the fisherman's face she would like to thaw. She's seen it in the angular facial lines of the Norwegian fisherman with their steely blue eyes that mimic the ice cold fjords of their homeland – and cruel lips that hint of danger. Suddenly he's all man.

In a trance she inches closer towards them, her slippery fingers curling tight around her soapy pail. In one graceful swoop she flings the water with all her might towards the oak tree.

‘Jesus. Watch what you're doing. You've soaked us,' the fisher lassie gasps.

Maggie replies: ‘I didn't see you there.'

Patrick breaks away from the woman and moves closer to Maggie. ‘But you knew I was here…'

‘No matter, I expect you will dry in no time.' Maggie turns her attention to the fisher lassie smoothing out the wrinkles in her clothes. She's a pretty girl with wispy, fair hair. Suddenly Maggie's interested in which of them Patrick will prefer.

‘Is this your sweetheart, Patrick?'

Patrick's face reddens. ‘No – Agnes and I work at the harbour together.'

‘I'm pleased you mentioned the harbour. Remember that day at kirk when you offered to take me…'

‘The offer still stands,' he says.

‘In that case we will go at once.'

Patrick turns to face Agnes, a shadow of regret in his eyes. ‘But I have to…'

Maggie stoops to pick up her pail. ‘Well, if you have other plans…' she glares at Agnes.

‘No, no plans,' he shakes his head, a look of embarrassment on his handsome face as he shrugs at Agnes.

Agnes pouts her pretty lips. ‘But you said we would go to the fair.'

‘I know I did, Agnes. But the press gang might be there. I can't chance it.'

‘But you said that…'

‘I will make it up to you, lass, I promise. You see, I did say to Maggie that I would take her to the harbour a while…' He reaches out and places one arm on Agnes's shoulder in consolation.

Agnes pushes him away. ‘Don't bother.'

Maggie stretches a grin as Agnes marches away. ‘I'll have to finish my laundry first.'

‘I will wait for you.'

As they stroll towards the harbour Maggie allows his free hand to clasp hers and his fingers link with her own. As they reach the seafront a voice shouts out, that of a fisherman calling out to another or to some companion working upon the silted quay, and the sound flickers and ripples, blown away by the wind. Iron rings on iron, hammers striking nails as boatmen make repairs. The sea whispers on the ebb-tide sand and all above them, always clearly audible are the mewing cries of seagulls. This is Maggie's favourite place, it is here that she loves to watch the mariners at work, smoking their pipes as they empty gear from their boats to unload their haul. Some of them sit cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by their baskets, creels, and skulls. Others redd their nets to discard unused bait, and many of them curse as they free their nets of seaweed. It's here that Maggie feels at peace, especially when she looks out to sea.

‘What's the matter?' he asks.

‘There is nothing the matter.'

‘Come here,' he says and pulls her tight into his arms. For what seems like eternity her breath mingles with his own, until at last she manages to cry out, ‘Get rid of Agnes.'

Up and down, Maggie paces the cottage, from one wall to the next, ears peeled for the sound of heavy footsteps. Maggie knows he will come. For a moment she steps outside, her hair soft-lifted by a gentle breeze. In the distance she hears lambs bleat and the rustle of leaves in the trees. She lingers for a moment, hoping to see his large frame appear along the brae, a pleasant smile upon his handsome face, but it is not so. She enters the cottage and closes the door.

‘He is not here yet,' she complains.

‘He will be,' James nods.

‘How do I look, James?' Maggie twirls around so that her skirts billow out into the shape of a circle.

‘You look bonny, Maggie. You always do, but you are the vainest girl in Scotland. And quit preening and fussing with your hair, and shouldn't it be hidden under a fillet or a cap?'

‘I'll do as I please. No one tells me what to do, least of all you.'

James arches back his neck, and pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘You're asking for trouble. You're not a bairn anymore, Maggie.'

‘All right, all right, I'll put a cap on.'

A knock on the door interrupts them. And this sets Maggie off in a wild panic, running from one corner of the room to the next in search of her cap. After a while she finds it and with much reluctance places it upon her head.

‘James, open the door will you?'

‘Get it yourself. Why should I help you? No one helps me. All day long I've been working the run-rigs all on my own. I was supposed to be at the master weaver's ages ago. My back's gone and I've cut my hand. So open it yourself.'

‘Please, James,' Maggie begs. But he shakes his head and pushes her away, nursing his injured hand.

‘Fool,' she stamps her feet and crosses the room.

A series of knocks causes the door to rumble and shake. Maggie takes a deep breath and places her hand on the door handle. As the doors swings opens it creaks like a squeaky wheel, meanwhile a suckling pig takes the opportunity to escape into the kale yard, nearly tripping Patrick in the process.

‘Get it,' shouts Maggie. ‘The little swine will run away for sure.'

Together, Patrick and Maggie chase the piglet around the yard while James looks on with folded arms trying not to laugh. It takes them a good while before the pig is caught, and by the end of it Maggie's hair is a mess and her clothes are spoilt. It's not the best beginning to their first day of walking out, but nevertheless Maggie is determined to make up for the shaky start.

‘Come in. Come in. Mind your head.'

Maggie conceals a smile as he bumps his forehead on the crumbling doorframe.

As Patrick steps inside, a couple of hens run over his feet and from the look on his face they're not a welcome sight.

‘Don't mind them. They're roosting in the rafters and only come down for a while.'

‘Come sit by the fire, Patrick,' calls James and pats his hand on a stool. ‘Maggie, take his coat.'

The room's smoky. A pot of broth bubbles away on the hearth and the smell is delicious. Patrick takes a seat near the fire and nods to James. If he's nervous he does not show it and in truth he seems right at home. As Maggie takes his coat he removes a bunch of wild flowers concealed from within the fabric and smiles. A pleasing scent mingles with the smoky peat air.

‘Thank you,' Maggie says and with a flick of the wrist she throws the flowers to the side, thinking the pig can eat them later.

An awkward silence descends upon the cottage. Maggie stares at her humble home, suddenly seeing it through Patrick's eyes. Not a pane of glass graces the crumbling wattle and daub walls, and the only light comes from fire or rush light. Any smoke escapes from a crude hole in the roof. But this is home, somewhere to eat and somewhere to sleep.

‘Shall we?' Her eyes glitter with mischief as she holds out her hand to return his coat.

***

They walk hand in hand along winding tracks, their route pock-marked with the hooves of horses and dumb beasts. Maggie sniffs the pungent air, Beltane fires burn in the distant hills in celebration of the return of summer. For a while they walk in silence, past ancient dry stone walls and sodden ditches, and soon they reach an old castle ruin. A burn bubbles and gurgles nearby; its crystal waters trickling over smooth stones. A sparkling light reflects on the water's surface, casting a hazy glow on the two figures as they embrace near the water's edge. Maggie closes her eyes as fervent hands seek the cap that conceals her hair; her long tresses cascade around her shoulders. She shivers and tilts her neck backwards to look at the handsome fisherman. His eyes are rimmed with pale lashes and the bristles on his face do not match the colour of his hair.

As he leads her to the burn her heart thumps in her breast. All of a sudden her one and only desire is to run from this place and never return. He's immersed in the water now, waiting for her to join him; tradition demands that she mirrors his actions. And yet, all the while an image fills Maggie's head, an image of a fine-looking young priest, forbidden, out of reach, and thus more desirable. And so, it's with much trepidation that Maggie Dickson drops to her knees in the water to join hands with Patrick, to seal their fates forever.

‘Will you marry me, Maggie?'

‘Aye.'

Her heart sinks as she stands on her tiptoes to kiss him.
What have I done?
she thinks, but as his soft lips press hard on her mouth, Maggie becomes much altered and consumed with desire. As blood courses through her veins, he pulls away.

‘We must wed in haste. I don't want to lose you to another man.' His eyes narrow.

Maggie reaches out to soothe him, already aware of the jealousy that lies dormant within him. ‘Well I want a real shindig of a wedding, with pipers and fiddlers and dancing. And, Patrick, can the new minister wed us?'

‘Why the new minister?'

‘He helped me after my mother died. It would please me so, Patrick.'

‘Very well.'

A nauseous longing stirs inside of her. How she longs to feel his lips on her own again and so she kisses him for the longest time till there is no breath left in her. After a while she drags him to the dry purple heather below, hitching her petticoats higher and higher to inflame his desire. The art of love comes as natural to her as the air she breathes. With her head thrown to the side she pulls him on top of her, the sounds of his groans and heavy breathing tickling her ear. A wave of pleasure washes over her as he fiddles with his undergarments.

‘What's wrong?' she cries as he rolls off her and jumps to his feet.

‘A noise, did you hear it? Pull down your skirts, Maggie.' He pushes her petticoats over her knees and forces himself into his undergarments.

‘There's no one here,' she replies, continuing to caress his inner thigh. Her hands travel higher and higher until they settle near his groin.

Patrick slaps her hands away. ‘Stop it, Maggie.' He pulls her to her feet. ‘See,' he nods in the direction of two poachers.

A couple of poachers pass by covered head to foot in mud. Each of them holds a dead bird in one hand, a pistol in the other. A hunting dog yaps at their heels, sniffing the ground.

‘We have to go,' Patrick mutters, his face red and breathing laboured.

‘Can't we stay a moment longer? They'll be gone in a moment.'

‘Nae,' Patrick snaps. ‘We must go. If we stay here one moment longer you're in trouble.'

An awkward silence descends upon them as they wait for the poachers to be out of sight. As the sky darkens above Maggie sulks and will not meet his eyes.
How dare he reject me
, she thinks. Her tiny hands make a fist and her fingernails make crescent shapes upon her palms. Before they reach the cottage, they shelter beneath a rowan tree, its clustered branches dipping into a muddy stream.

‘Maggie, I have to go away for a wee while, on the keels. I'm taking oysters on coble boats to Newcastle upon Tyne, and after that I'm bringing glass bottles to Leith. It's well paid work and we need the money mind to rent a cottage. But rest assured, when I return we shall be wed.'

‘But, Patrick. I don't want you to go.'

‘If we are to have a roof over our head I must.'

They walk back to the cottage in silence with Maggie moping the whole way home. At the cottage Patrick stoops to kiss her, but at the last moment Maggie turns away and runs off to her dwelling before slamming the door.

***

So begins a volatile relationship, and one that will bring Patrick Spence to his knees. Nevertheless, as is the custom, he arranges to meet with Maggie's father to ask him for his daughter's hand in marriage. But this proves difficult indeed, as Maggie's father is invariably gallivanting or inebriated from the effects of ale. And therefore, Maggie's brother, James takes the place of Duncan and gives the fishermen permission to marry his sister.

On a beautiful day in May, Maggie Dickson and Patrick Spence give their names to be proclaimed in order to be married in the old kirk of St Michaels in Inveresk. Their date of marriage set for 3 June, 1715.

***

Inside the Musselburgh Arms, near the tolbooth, patrons drink a toast to the betrothed couple. It's gaming night and so the wedding party huddles around an old beer-stained table, shouting to one another to be heard above the din. A serving wench brings a full tray of ale and points to a handsome man propped up against the bar. Duncan winks in their direction and raises a jar of frothy beer.

Patrick's father, George Spence shouts above the rumpus. ‘Has the lassie got a dowry by any chance?'

‘Aye, I have.'

James shushes her as though she's incapable of answering him. ‘Allow me to speak for you, Maggie.'

‘Damn men and their superiority,' Maggie curses to herself and sits back in her chair. A tight smile stretches across her face as she seethes inside. Patrick places a consoling arm around her; she brushes it aside and glares at her brother, unable to appreciate, as yet, the important role he is willing to play.

James clears his voice. ‘Since Maggie was a wee lassie our mother, friends and neighbours have helped to collect and make bed linen, furniture, blankets and the like for Maggie's dowry. There's a suckling pig for her and other odds and ends. She's not coming to Patrick empty-handed mind; she's a fine catch.'

‘Oh, I don't doubt that,' says George, his gaze remaining on Maggie's figure a fraction too long. His wife, Barbara, cuffs him around the ear with the back of her hand.

‘What did you do that for, you daft bat?' George glares at his wife.

‘You know why, and don't do it again or I'll slap your other lug-hole.'

In the midst of this quarrel, Maggie notices Patrick looking at her father with a curious, puzzled face. Duncan is on his feet, swaying back and forth, his hat on back to front, and he seems to have lost the use of one eye.

‘Your father looks like he needs to go home.'

Maggie shrugs, indifferent to her father's behaviour. ‘He's only just started. Once he takes one drink he has to have more. Oh no, here he comes.' She winces.

‘Well, what's all this then?' Duncan slurs.

‘Your daughter's getting married,' declares George in an offhand manner. ‘And your son has taken your place giving her away. Haven't you heard?'

Duncan wobbles on his feet. ‘Oh, the indignity of it. No matter, Maggie, he's a better man than I.'

‘Well wouldn't you like to know when?' George runs his hand through what is left of his hair.

‘When what?'

‘When they are to be wed.' George shakes his head.

‘When?'

George informs Duncan of the date.

‘Perfect. You two choose to get married when the bastard Jacobites are planning an uprising. What timing!'

George sniggers and mumbles under his breath, ‘What would a drunk know about politics?'

Duncan laughs. ‘Every Scottish man should know about politics or those damned Sassenachs would run us out of our own country. Why do you think they don't want a Stuart to reclaim the throne? Answer me that, fisherman.'

‘That's obvious, pal; they don't want a Catholic.'

Duncan shakes his head. ‘Nae, the English couldn't care less. He's German, with a couple of mistresses to keep him happy. The Stuarts are of a
Scottish
line, and the Sassenach's would rather have a German running the country than a Scottish descendent. Anyway, where was I?' Duncan staggers back to the bar; carefully turning his hat until it faces the right way.

***

Long ago, on the east bank of the river at Fisherrow, there was once an old almshouse. It stood near the west end of Market Street and was a great comfort to the poor, ill and destitute. But those days are long gone and now Fisherrow has one main street, with soaring tenements built up on both sides. Beyond the tenements are a multitude of fisherman's cottages, in several rows leading to a busy harbour.
From Martimes to Candlemas, a school house operates here, recently built at the west end of Magdelen Chapel. Its traditional medieval roof thatched with turfs dug from the town's common lands.

A saltwife cries out her wares and shuffles along with her creel on her back, unhappy in her toil. With much reluctance Maggie stops her and can't help but notice how her mouth slants to one side, as though she's suffered an injury of some kind. Before she loses courage, Maggie asks her if she could direct her to Watts Close where the fishermen dwell. The saltwife grumbles and directs her to halfway along the tenements to a group of white cottages.

‘It's up there, by the sea mill.'

It takes Maggie longer than she thinks to reach it. Nevertheless, when she reaches Watts Close she realises how close she is to the harbour.

‘Maggie,' a deep voice calls out.