The Hanging of Margaret Dickson (30 page)

‘Are you all right, Minister Bonaloy?' Maggie enquires.

‘Grand,' he lies and heaves a great sigh. He sits heavy in a seat and massages his temples. ‘Maggie, my dear, have you considered a nunnery?'

Spellbound on the young blacksmith, Maggie never hears him.

Maggie steps over Duncan. He arrived at the cottage late at night, stinking drunk and passing out on the floor. No one's bothered to move him.

‘Wake up, you daft fool!' she shouts, prodding him with her foot.

‘Have you got a few groats for your dear father?'

Maggie shakes her head. ‘So you can return to the alehouse? No!'

He struggles to sit straight on the floor, scratching his scraggy head. ‘Can I have a wee bite to eat then?'

‘Aye, now move yourself, you daft ass. You're making this place untidy.'

‘This pigsty?' he mutters.

‘What was that?' asked Maggie.

‘Nothing, help your dear father to stand, will you?'

Maggie struggles to lift him; her stomach's so huge it's awkward to perform the simplest of jobs.

‘Jesus. You're a dead weight.'

‘Don't say the Lord's name in vain.'

‘Pish,' she laughs.

***

The widow's door's twisted, probably due to the ivy creeping around its oak frame. Making a fist Maggie knocks and waits. But there's no response. She knocks again and hears a clinking noise.
A great shiver runs along her spine as she remembers the chains she once wore.

‘Who is it?' a faint voice reverberates through the door.

‘It's me – Maggie. Maggie Dickson.' Maggie stares through a crack in the door, squinting past dark shadows.

‘Wait a moment.'

After a long while the door creaks open.

‘Oh dear God, what have they done to you?' Maggie gasps, gawping at the widow. She looks like a grotesque mythical creature. Her clothes are a stinking mess. Placed upon her head is an ugly metal mask, fashioned to resemble a monstrous creature, its exaggerated tongue curling upwards.

The widow tries to talk but it comes out muffled. ‘They put the branks on me.'

‘What?' Maggie says.

‘The branks – they put them on me.'

‘I can see that, but why?'

‘I don't know, some disagreement with the miller's wife,' the widow declares, spreading out her arms in front of her. She hobbles into the house, her chains clanging with every step.

‘You're chained to the fire?'

‘Aye, the gaoler did it. He comes once a day to take this awful thing off. Once he's given me some bread and water he puts the bridle back on and beggars off.'

‘I see. How long do you have to keep it on? '

‘God knows, lass. I don't know how much longer I can stand it. It's the metal part, it makes my mouth dribble and it's so heavy it's hurting my neck. I can't get a wink of sleep. How could anyone get a moment's rest with this on their head?'

Maggie grimaces and turns away from the old woman.
Another man-made invention designed to create human misery
, she thinks, before adding, ‘Let me wash your clothes and tidy this place for you.'

‘Would you? You're a kind, lass. I've a mind to rest my weary head.'

First Maggie sorts the chanty – it's near overflowing. Then she tidies the cottage, sweeping and taking away half-eaten food covered in mould. The hearth needs cleaning and new peat placed inside. Maggie looks for kindling and a bucket to fetch fuel.

‘Can you take off your clothes? Have you a clean sark?'

The widow points to a wooden box.

‘Here, let me help you.' Maggie passes her clean linen.

‘I'll have to step into it, lassie, and I'm a wee bit unsteady on my feet. Will you pull it on for me? Excuse my filthy body; I haven't been able to wash properly.'

‘No matter. So you got into a disagreement with the miller's wife again, did you?'

The widow tries to nod. ‘Aye.'

‘You need to learn to bite your tongue, old woman,' Maggie says pulling on the clean sark.

‘I could do with a wee nap, Maggie.'

‘Lean your head against the wall.'

Before Maggie departs she spreads a blanket over the widow's knees and stokes up the fire. She's careful not to slam the door as she closes it behind her. Once outside, she turns on her heel to return home. Suddenly a man collides with her causing her to jump backwards, shrieking with terror. ‘Minister Bonaloy! You scared me.'

‘I'm sorry. How is she?'

‘Not good. The poor thing has had no sleep. Anyway, now that she's finally resting, it would be a shame to wake her.'

‘The baby's getting bigger,' he says glancing at her stomach.

‘Aye, and it kicks all the time.' She places a hand over her bump.

Maggie twitches her head in the direction of the widow's cottage. ‘I'll check on her later. I've got to go now so – good to see you, Minister Bonaloy.'

He nods and then suddenly calls after her. ‘Maggie!'

‘What is it?' Maggie shuffles on a spot, keen to be on her way.

‘I was wondering – well, I don't mean to pry or pressure you, but I assumed you and Patrick would marry again, before the new baby comes.'

‘You're not prying at all. We've been so busy since – well, we've had people bringing gifts, money, and some folk just wanting to touch me thinking I'll bring them good fortune or something. Lord knows why!'

‘Would you like me to arrange something? It's not every day a holy man gets to marry a woman to her widower.'

‘All right, I'll speak to Patrick. We'll need to make some arrangements. He's swallowed the anchor, you know. He's a labouring man now.'

‘Aye, I heard.' He tips his hat and walks away.

***

At the end of the night they congregate near the fire, all huddled together for warmth. For a while Maggie stares into the crackling flames, wondering if the widow has finally managed to get enough sleep. An amber glow fills the room, beyond the fishing gear her eyes are drawn to her fish creel, Maggie's heart thumps in her bosom and her face grows hot.

‘Do you want some? And stop biting your nails,' Patrick gestures towards the cooking pot.

‘No, thank you. Just been to Widow Arrock's cottage. She's in a right state. Come here, Anna. Your hair is a mess.' Maggie takes a bone comb and proceeds to run it through her daughter's hair.

‘Arrgh, get off me, Maggie. I don't want you to comb my hair with that louse trap.' Her little head shakes from side to side in an effort to avoid the comb.

Maggie smacks her around the head. ‘Stop calling me Maggie. I'm your mother. Who taught you to call it a louse trap?'

‘Widow Arrock.'

Maggie laughs, amused by the child.

‘Who's making that awful noise?' Patrick kisses his soon-to-be wife.

‘Your scraggy-headed daughter, who else? She doesn't like having her hair brushed and tied with a fillet.'

Patrick lifts both hands into the air. ‘I wonder where she gets that from.' He turns to young Patrick. ‘Do you want some oats, son?'

The laddie nods his head. ‘Are we going to the harbour to work on the boat again on the morrow?'

Patrick's eyes crinkle when he smiles. ‘Yes lad, first thing – once we've had something to eat. An empty sack won't stand up on its own, you know.'

‘I thought you swallowed the anchor?' Maggie places her hands on her hips and her lips curl into a scowl.

‘I have. Just helping one of the fishermen with his boat, that's all. I'm teaching the lad a few things.' He winks at his son.

***

They marry the following Sabbath in Minister Bonaloy's home. Andrew Hay, the master weaver is a witness, and Maggie's brother, James. There are no celebrations or revelry of any kind. They marry and then they head home to the bairns.

That night they go to bed once more as man and wife.

‘Was it strange to marry me a second time?' She traces her fingers around the scars on her neck.

‘No, you'll always be my wife. I thought of you every day on that man-o'-war ship.'

She closes her eyes and thinks of what she was doing while he was away, willing away that familiar ache from her heart.

***

Almost a year to the day since her trial began Maggie gives birth to a healthy son. They name him James after her brother, and he's baptised privately in the home of Minister Robert Bonaloy on 20 July 1725. Witnesses present are Andrew Hay and William Cass.

Ever since Patrick was press-ganged into the navy, he expresses an ardent fear of being taken again. On the rare occasions that he helps out at the harbour, Patrick keeps a low profile. But every now and then, Maggie catches him looking out to sea with misty eyes. She knows the longing, she feels it too, that constant craving for something out of reach but irresistible. Nevertheless she continues to fast and pray every Wednesday and tries to be a good wife.

***

The following market day Maggie returns home early without her kertch and her plaid torn. She slams the door so hard they near come off their hinges.

‘What's the matter?'

‘I can't do this anymore, Patrick. It's impossible.'

‘Do what? You're not making sense.'

‘Sell fish, here or in Edinburgh. They follow me everywhere, tugging on my clothes, pointing or shouting “Half-Hangit Maggie!” They stole my kertch today for a souvenir.'

‘Is it that bad?'

‘Worse. Look at the state of me – they near tore off my clothes today. If it wasn't for the chandler from the Cowgate, I'd be still there trying to fight them off. Thank God he let me take refuge in his shop.' She lifts her tattered sleeves. ‘Just one person it takes to recognise me and then all hell lets loose.'

Patrick shakes his head and does his best to console her. ‘Well, what shall we do? What can we do?'

‘I want to move away from here, Patrick. I want to make a fresh start away from here.'

Patrick pushes her away. ‘But I've lived in Musselburgh my whole life, and all our friends and family are here. What about James and your father?'

‘We won't move far. Folk can always visit.'

Patrick's forehead furrows. ‘Can't we think about it? I just don't know lass, it's a big decision and we haven't much money, remember?'

‘Nonsense. We've plenty, what with all the well-wishers and gifts.'

‘I suppose it would be good for the children. But this is our home and all I've ever known.'

‘You've travelled across many seas, you daft fool. A house is just wattle and daub. Think of the bairns, Patrick, they've been through enough. The other children keep teasing them and singing a song to them, one about me.'

‘I've heard it. Merry wives, welcome to Meg Dickson – is that the one?'

‘Aye, that's it. Well that's settled, then. I have somewhere in mind.'

‘Not Kelso?'

‘Of course not,' she replies. ‘Berwick. How would you like to run an inn in Berwick?'

***

It's always hard to say goodbye, but it has to be done. Patrick's parents, James, Minister Bonaloy and his kind wife, Betty, all have to be thanked. Hand in hand, Patrick and Maggie walk from house to house to say farewell to the fisher folk, Jean Ramsay and Widow Arrock.

On the day of the move Maggie looks around the empty cottage with fresh eyes. Looks like someone has ripped the soul out of this place, she thinks and proceeds to the hearth. Her knees creak as she bends to pick out a large chunk of peat. This will be the first thing she places in her new home in the Borders.
One more thing to do
, she thinks. Lifting a shovel she walks out to the pigsty as her family wait outside. At the far right-hand corner she begins to dig till her back's drenched with sweat. She removes the object from its pouch – it's larger than she remembers and heavier. When she turns it up towards the sunlight it glitters like molten gold. Engraved onto it is a picture of a sun and moon, she polishes it with her sleeve and drops it into her stocking.

***

It took a good few hours to reach The Cross Keys, what with the three children wanting to stop and pee every hour or so. Anna and little Patrick stare all around them at silver-birched trees, and along the broadest of paths, a golden light lingers on their white sunlit limbs – and beyond lies a purple pathway sprinkled with moss. As they approach the coast the terrain became sparse of houses and trees, and soon a sparkling blue sea can be seen on the distant horizon.

At a huge oak door they wait. Patrick holding onto Anna and little Patrick's hands, Maggie with her new baby on her hip, listening to the sounds of rusty bolts and metal scraping as the door is pulled open.

‘Welcome to Berwick. Joseph Bell holds out a hand to Patrick, clapping him on the shoulder and greeting him like a long-lost relative.'

‘Pleased to meet you,' Patrick smiles. ‘These are our children – Patrick, Anna and baby James.'

Joseph crouches to his knees, ruffling Anna and Patrick's hair and making a fuss of them. ‘I expect you two are hungry. Go with your father to the scullery, there's lots of food. Follow your noses.'

Joseph and Maggie are alone. ‘Good to see you, Maggie. How are you, lassie?'

‘A lot has happened since I saw you last,' she blurts out.

‘I heard, and in my opinion ‘tis not a fitting punishment for a lass in trouble,' he grumbles and points above. ‘And he agrees and all. It was God's will that you survived. Come here, lass.' He gives her a bear hug.

‘Joseph – you asked me once if I wanted the inn. Well, here's your answer.' Maggie drops the solid gold fob watch into his hand.

‘Where on earth did you get this?' His eyes bulge. ‘On second thoughts, don't tell me.'

Maggie whispers in his ear. ‘Be careful how you get payment for it. It's worth a fortune. It belonged to a fine gentleman friend.'

Joseph nods and touches the tip of his nose. ‘I know a man who can fetch me a pretty sum for this. Still got a bit of business going on here – I think you know what I mean, don't you, Maggie? I have my contacts.'