The Hanging of Margaret Dickson (4 page)

About half way down the wynd, Patrick waves to her. Silhouetted by the sunlit harbour, he stands by a small cottage, his stance tall and proud. Maggie squints into the sun and walks towards him, with every step she resists the urge to run, and soon she has a better view of the dwelling. It has large stores at ground level for a good catch, and fishing gear with living accommodation above. At the entrance, near a little wooden door is a hook for drying fish. Below, an abundance of fishing nets, creels, baskets and skulls are on hand for line and sea fishing. Near the steps, Patrick waits, his eyes never leaving her face as she walks towards him.

‘You took your time.' His forehead creases. ‘Why is your hair uncovered? Shouldn't you have it under a cap or tied with a fillet?'

Maggie pulls a face at him. ‘No, I like my hair like this,' she smiles, tossing her locks to one side.

‘I really think you should keep your head covered in future, it's not fitting. Put it on now,' he squeezes her hand and guides her up the steps.

Maggie changes the subject. ‘Why didn't you tell me it was near the harbour?'

‘I did,' he says.

‘Are you going to show me inside our new home or are we going to stay out here all day in the cold?'

‘Aye, but no kisses, Maggie. My mother might arrive at any moment, says she wants to give this place a wee clean.'

Maggie huffs. The last thing she wants is an interfering woman. ‘I can clean it myself.'

The wind in Musselburgh is like no other, blustering, bitter and incessant. Hand in hand they ascend the stone steps that lead to the fisherman's dwelling. The interior is surprisingly warm, fat walls keep out the cold wind and drown out all noise from outside. With bright eyes, Maggie skips around the dwelling to explore every nook and cranny, and to imagine hers and Patrick's possessions positioned inside.

‘Patrick. Look here, there is a small window.'

‘Aye, I've seen it. The glass isn't broken, it's just dirty and needs a bit of spit on a clout to clean it. Your chore,' he nods to her.

‘More like your mother's.'

‘Less of that, Maggie, you should be grateful for the help.'

‘I just want us to be left alone.'

‘There's no rush. Patience, my love.'

Maggie presses her finger onto the grimy windowpane; it feels cold and smooth to the touch. She draws a star in the dirt; it makes a squeaking sound with every line. Happy with her handiwork she wipes her finger on her skirts and crosses the room to his extended hand. A delicious shiver shoots up her spine as he takes her hand in his own and presses it to his lips. In a trance, Maggie follows him out of the dwelling.

‘Next time we come here, I'll be carrying you over the threshold.'

Maggie smiles and then turns a frown. ‘Aye, I can't believe it.'

***

Upon the ancient rocks at Joppa, Maggie observes white caps explode against rocks misshapen by a thundering sea. Is there a more beautiful place, she wonders? She fancies not. A solan goose circles above her head, and it seems to spread its wings like a majestic angel to a dying sun. For a while, she follows its progress and becomes lost in thought. A bitter taste fills her mouth – in a short while her husband will be her master and she must do his bidding. With a sickened heart Maggie stands to leave. Beyond the rocks she catches sight of a splendid ship on the horizon, its intricate rigging and a fine figurehead cutting through the wind. There's a wild desire in her heart to be on-board the ship, as one with the wind and sea.

‘If only I were a man,' she whispers into the salt breeze.

A hungry guillemot mews above her head, soaring towards the fishwives who gut fish near the shore. The fishwives are a fearsome lot, feisty, outspoken and coarse. Maggie observes them from the corner of her eye and notes the muscles in their arms as they lift huge creels of fish onto their backs. Curious about a fisher lassies lot, she'd asked Patrick about the fishwives, and he'd told her that they're strong independent women, used to being alone while their men are at sea. Maggie approaches the boat shore, her legs trembling and shaking, feeling as though she's approaching an unknown barbaric land. As she stoops by some rocks, one fisherwoman in particular catches her eye. She has dirty clouts tied around her neck and a masculine weather-beaten face. There're all kinds of fish set out around her, and the fisherwoman has spread them out on the rocks in neat little rows. Maggie takes a deep breath and steps towards her.

‘Hello, missus. What you doing?'

‘What the devil does it look like? I'm sortin' the catch. You're Patrick Spence's lassie, aren't you? Going to be a fisher lassie soon?'

‘Aye, I am,' replies Maggie. She lifts some seaweed to her nose and inhales its bitter scent.

The fishwife stops what she's doing and stands still. A dangerous looking knife dangles from a belt tied to her apron and skirts. Her gaze is intense as though she's deciding if Maggie's up to the job. ‘So you've decided to come to the harbour and take a wee look at what we do then? That takes some guts, girl,' she nods.

The fisher lassie's nimble fingers slice through a slimy fish. Greedy gulls swoop from above in pursuit of tasty morsels. She stops again and peers at her abruptly, as though vexed at being interrupted in her work. ‘Are you still here?'

‘Aye,' says Maggie.

‘Do you want me to show you the ropes, is that it?'

Maggie stares at the woman's torn fingers covered in strips of cloth. ‘Aye, missus. If you're busy, I'll return later.'

The fishwife cackles. ‘Lassie, you'll get nowhere with that attitude. Be bold. I've seen you with the fishermen. You're not shy with them now, are you?'

‘What's your name, missus?' Maggie asks.

‘That's better. My name is Isobel, Isobel Tait. That's my husband over there, Jack bastard Tar,' she laughs and waves at a short, stocky man baiting a six-stringed line into a wicker skull. ‘Aye, we know your Patrick, he's a good man. You've much to learn, lass. I'm busy now but if you come here tomorrow, I'll try and help.'

Maggie smiles and thanks her, pleased that someone is willing to teach her. She walks away and then realises that she's not asked what time. She turns and calls out, ‘Isobel. What time should I come to the harbour?'

‘Sunrise, and don't be late.'

***

On the horizon, where the light blue heavens meet a turquoise sea, a beautiful sunrise streaks the sky soft yellow, pink, and blazing orange. Shadowy silhouettes of sailing boats bob on a glittering water, and the warm sun reflects off its surface, casting a soft glow on the ebbing tide. A hissing noise fills Maggie's ears as a current of air whips up the sand, with both hands she covers her eyes and rubs away the grit till her vision returns. When she opens her eyes an astonishing scene greets her. Into the wading waters go the fishwives. Their skirts hiked up and tied around trim waists so that their bare legs are exposed. But it's the sight of the fishermen sat on their backs that surprises her, clear of the water until safely aboard their boats.

‘We carry the men to the boats so their clothes and sea boots don't get wet. You see, if they board ship with wet clothes, they'd never get the damned things dry.'

‘You startled me,' says Maggie. ‘When did you get here?'

‘Just got here. Saw you gawping at the women carrying the men to the boats. It's not as difficult as you think you know.'

‘You're jesting. You've seen Patrick and the size of him.'

‘You'll be amazed what you can do.'

A swallow circles above. Maggie peers at it as it swoops into the waters before soaring off again into the sky.

‘The swallow's a sign of good weather, lassie. See the gulls too?'

Maggie cups one hand over her eyes, squinting into the bright sky. ‘Aye. What of them?'

Isobel's face turns grave. ‘Seagulls are thought to be the souls of those drowned at sea.'

Maggie continues to stare at them. As far as she's concerned they're noisy flying rats, forever in pursuit of food. And yet the harbour or any shore for that matter would seem desolate without them.

Isobel prattles on. ‘Fisher folk are a superstitious lot, Maggie. Have I mentioned nets? Don't ever step over fishing nets barefoot; otherwise the nets cannot be used again. And don't say any of these words in front of the fishermen: pig, that's a bad one. Oh and rabbit or hare, fox or salt. Do you want to know more?'

Maggie shakes her head.

The women return from launching the boats, their clothes soaking wet and skirts tied around their waists. A group of them walk over to the rocks. From the look of them they seem to have lost something and then Maggie realises that they're searching through the rocks. But why, she wonders? They are quite odd; perhaps they are looking for crabs or starfish, she thinks.

‘What are they doing now?' Maggie asks.

‘They're collecting heavy rocks to act as ballasts; those rocks weigh a boat down and control buoyancy. It can mean the difference between life and death choosing the right ones.'

‘Should we help?'

Isobel shrugs. ‘You're not one of us yet.'

Maggie looks out across the shingle, a determined look in her eyes. ‘Can I carry your creel?'

Isobel shakes her head and explains, ‘It's full to the brim. You'll never take the weight. These things take time, Maggie.'

Maggie ignores her and strolls over to the willow creel, its hessian strap all withered and worn. A glazed look crosses Maggie's face as she bends to lift the creel. To Maggie's utter displeasure, Isobel follows her and barks out an order.

‘Don't you be lifting it yourself, you daft beggar. You'll be falling on your backside. Wait. I'll help to attach the strap to your shoulders, so keep still.'

Maggie whines, ‘I can do it. I can do it.' She holds out her hands in front of her to carry the creel.

Isobel cackles. ‘Nae, you don't carry it like that. Like this.'

A glitter sparkles in Maggie's eye as the heavy creel is lowered onto her back. For a short moment Isobel faces her, as though waiting for her to drop the creel. But to Maggie's amazement she takes the weight and takes a few steps. ‘See, it's easy.' But Maggie's progress is short-lived; it starts with a buzzing in the ears. After that an explosion of bright colours burst from beneath her eyelids. However much she ignores the pounding in her ears, it's to no avail and all colour drains from her face.

An amused expression crosses Isobel's face as she removes the heavy load. ‘You're trying to run before you can walk, Maggie. Don't be too disheartened.'

Maggie slumps to the floor, perched atop a mound of rotting seaweed. A cold sweat covers her whole body. And as she looks out to sea, for no reason at all she thinks of her mother.

***

Maggie returns to the boat shore every day after that, eager to learn. She meets up with plenty more fisher lassies and they're a lively lot. Most of all, Maggie's astonished by the women's strength and the manner that they talk to one another. They employ a rude kind of eloquence and witticism that's crucial when selling fish in Edinburgh or at local fish markets. But when all is said and done they're a rowdy lot; loud, crude, bawdy and absolutely hilarious.

With the fisher lassies' help and guidance, it takes just one week for Maggie to learn how to sort a catch. In no time at all Maggie learns to gut, clean, split open and salt the fish and before long her fingers and hands are red raw. With a knowing look the fisher lassies show her how to bandage her fingers to protect them but to Maggie's mind they never seem to heal, because every time she dips her hands into salty water it feels like her flesh is being torn apart. Then there are the dreaded creels – she carries a small one at first and then progresses to heavier loads and bigger creels. In time, Maggie builds up her strength and learns to take the jeering banter when she falls on her behind. The more thick-skinned she becomes the more they accept her. One thing is for sure, there's no room for sentimentality or mollycoddling with this bunch.

The first wild roses bloom in June. Soon follows a scorching sun, drying out the grass and making the earth hard and dusty. When the land is like this, Maggie shivers in her bones because there's no question her father will require her in the fields to perform backbreaking labour from sun-up till sun-down. God knows the only saving grace is when James lends a hand, when he can, subject to his weaving. Nevertheless, before long, Maggie will leave this kind of work behind her. She will not miss it because to her mind the land and toil killed off her mother, that and her thankless role of wife, mother and serf. Aye, Maggie's certain all that heavy lifting and bending over a cooking pot sent her mother to an early grave, either that or a broken heart.

The evening of the hen night arrives. And isn't it typical of her to get in a muddle, spinning over long outside and panicking about the time. On one bended knee she stoops to the ground to pick up her yarn. Maggie's so engrossed in her task she does not sense Patrick behind her.

‘Maggie,' Patrick calls out. ‘Didn't you hear me?'

‘No. Help me with the spinning wheel will you and where have you been?'

Patrick silences her with a kiss and drops to his knees in front of her. Next he opens out one of her palms and places a gold ring within it.

‘Where did you get that from?' she gasps, placing it onto her right finger.

‘A Bilbao fisherman trading in whitefish. Have you missed me?'

Maggie shudders and presses her body against his. ‘Aye, but I must confess I was beginning to think that you'd changed your mind.'

Patrick laughs and shakes his head. ‘Not a chance. You look exhausted, lassie. Are you all right?'

‘Aye, it's just I'm worn-out from all the upheaval, Patrick. The disagreements, the altered plans. Oh, and your mother, Patrick. Now she's really beginning to vex me…'

‘Hush, Maggie. You know how folk are. Any excuse for a party. Weddings are community property, lass. A time for neighbours and friends to make gifts, bake bread and brew ale for the feast. And don't mind my mother, she means well. She's baked enough bannocks to feed an army. There's not a surface clear in our cottage.'

‘Why didn't you come to me yesterday, once you were off the boat?'

‘The men folk abducted me and took me to a tavern. You wouldn't believe what they did.'

‘I can imagine.' She kisses him and he tastes of alcohol and his face is all smudged with soot. ‘You'll have to go. It's my turn tonight.'

Patrick places a hand to his brow and then scratches his head. ‘Your turn for what?'

‘My hen night. It'll be like a bare-knuckle fight before the night is over. In one corner the farmwomen and the other, the fishwives.'

Patrick shudders as though a sack-'em-up man has dug up his grave. ‘I'll be off then.'

***

Hen nights are normally sedate occasions, a time for woman folk to come together and pluck hens in preparation for a wedding feast. Maggie yawns. She's not really in the mood for a get together. To her mind, the night does not bode well, and just the thought of what's to come causes her to shiver inside.

They arrive at dusk in droves, with hens and other victuals tucked underneath their arms and skirts. James and Maggie's father are promptly banished to a tavern and told not to hurry home. The hens are piled on a crude wooden table, begging to be plucked. Around the poultry, a cloud of flies buzz, causing several of the women to swat them away. Above them, Maggie's roosting hens cower in the rafters, not wanting to join them.

‘Where's the ale, Maggie?' a fisherwoman calls out in a coarse raspy voice.

‘At the far wall. There are a couple of kegs brewed by old Widow Arrock. Strong stuff too,' Maggie shouts through the din.

Isobel Tait smirks. ‘Aye, that ugly old cow's ale will put some hairs on your chest!' She pours out some ale and hands it out to the fishwives, interrupting them as they pull out their snuff, pipes and tobacco.

At the other end of the room, a wizened old farmwoman raises her shaggy eyebrows and glowers at Isobel and the other fishwives. Several of her chins wobble as she sniffs up her nose in a stern manner. A group of young farm lassies surround her, licking their lips at the prospect of frothy spiced ale, their eyes fixed on the old woman in the hope that she might allow them to join in with the drinking. But alas, the young lassies' hopes are to no avail, because soon the old woman claps her hands together and yells, ‘Come on ladies, it's time to pluck the hens.'

One young farmwoman in a striped apron and petticoat complains out loud, ‘Why can't we have a drink first, Ethel?'

‘Once we've done our chores and not before.' The older woman extends a flabby arm and shuffles her way over to the table of hens.

The fishwives pay no heed to the farmwomen making their way to the hens. They're far too busy tittering and telling crude jokes. The smell of pipe smoke wafts across the room, along with lewd laughter and scandalous talk. Maggie takes a deep breath and hurries over to them with a nervous smile. She pauses to brace herself, opening out her hands in front of her, palms up.

‘Come on lassies. Now is not a time to be idle, we must pluck the hens!'

Isobel points at old Ethel and says, ‘Aye, we will if she stops turning her nose up at us. Has she got a cane stuck up her backside?'

Maggie sighs deeply. ‘Don't be daft; it's just the old woman's way. She's all right once you get to know her.'

The fishwives look to one another, as though unsure of what to do. Nearly all of them are up to their elbows in ale, snuff and tobacco. But now, to Maggie's relief, they put their drinks down along with their pipes and roll up their sleeves.

‘Come on girls,' Isobel says. ‘The quicker we have them plucked, the quicker we'll be back on the ale.'

One of the women jests. ‘Aye and we all know you're the best plucker around, Isobel!'

And just like that the women come together as one. In no time at all they create a snowstorm of feathers and pluck enough hens to stuff a dozen or so mattresses.

‘That was damn thirsty work,' declares Isobel while hurrying back to the ale. The other fisher lassies follow close behind.

The young farmwomen remain busy. They sweep up the last of the feathers and cover the hens to keep off the flies. Every once in a while they glance at old Ethel with expectant eyes. Despite the heat, Ethel huddles in a corner, wrapped up in her shawl. At long last, a loud groan escapes her fleshy lips as she mutters, ‘Go on then. But mark my word you'll be sorry come morning and don't say I didn't warn you.'

It isn't long before the hen party is merry and Maggie's dizzy from it all. Blood rushes to her head and her eyes are throbbing with fatigue. A blend of odours fills the small cottage; sweat, brackish fish, and the ever-present smell of a peat fire. One of the fisher lassies, Mary Brock, is up for some antics, doing her best to impersonate daft Davie from the village. She shuffles her feet and closes one eye, then does her best to mimic his childish way of talking. It comes out like gibberish and the other women laugh and slap their knees. Then, all of a sudden all hell lets loose when Mary Brown, a relative of daft Davie, overhears the banter and punches the offending imitator square in the eye.

‘Never mind them, Maggie. Have a drink of this. It's my own special brew,' one of the women shouts.

The ale's delicious. Maggie closes her eyes and throws her head backwards to catch the dregs in her mouth, a quantity spills down her chin. She proceeds to wipe it away when the women grab her and secure her to a stool, clamping her head with strong hands and arms. It's useless to struggle, the reason being that when she does it makes their sharp fingernails scratch even more, and so the women hold her still to pour ale down her throat. All the while they chant, ‘Drink, drink, drink…'

The room begins to spin. Someone plays an instrument, a merry tune on a Jew's harp, a foot tapping melody, pleasing to the ear. Maggie's breathing becomes shallow and suddenly it's as though everything's in slow motion. All around her the room is a blur of vibrant colours, as dancing figures and swishing skirts fly through the air. The pain behind her eyes causes her vision to blur and she squints into the haze. The two Marys: Mary Brock and Mary Brown are fighting again, this time over a bottle of whisky. A circle forms around them as they roll on the floor, fists flying and nails scratching. Several articles of their clothing scatter across the floor alongside a broken bottle. They look a sorry sight, hair wild like they'd been dragged through a hedge backwards. Soon they both sport thick bloody lips, and the language that comes out of them, well they would put a drunken sailor to shame.

It's this rowdy scene that greets Maggie's father and brother as they enter the cottage. Near the open door, they stand shoulder to shoulder with open mouths, rooted to the spot. So intent are the two scolding women in their fight, they haven't even noticed them.

‘I'm so sorry Father, James. There's no point trying to separate them. They've been quarrelling like cats since they got here.'

‘Don't stop them on my account,' Duncan winks at James. ‘This is quite a show.'

Maggie's attention returns to the fight. It's really getting out of hand now. The two women are like wild animals and no one dare go between them, least of all Duncan who's enjoying a spectacular view. For a while longer they roll about the floor, teeth bared and breasts popping out from stays. Maggie makes eye contact with her father, one eyebrow arching as an understanding passes between them.

Eventually, to everybody's relief they break apart. Duncan holds out a hand to the prettiest girl, Mary Brock. ‘Lassie, you look a little worse for wear. Let me walk you hame.'

‘I'd rather walk with the devil himself, Duncan,' she scoffs, hands on hips. With the back of her hand she wipes blood from her mouth.

James bites his lip to stifle his amusement. ‘You must be losing your touch, Father,' he smirks.

‘I think not, son. Watch and learn,' he places a finger to his nose.

The room looks an almighty mess; the only thing Maggie wants is for them all to go home. She bangs on a table and shouts at the top of her voice, ‘The hen party is over everyone. Come and fetch a hen.'

The women form an orderly line to collect a bird; it helps that the cooking is shared for the wedding feast, and Maggie is eager to get each and every one of them to take one home. First in the queue is Patrick's old sweetheart, the one he had up against the rowan tree, Agnes Lecke.

‘I haven't got a dangle spit in my cottage, so there is no point me taking one,' Agnes whines.

Isobel pushes Agnes aside. ‘Hah! Trust you, Agnes. No matter, I will take two, Maggie. It's no bother.'

And so, as a cloud uncovers a half-moon in the starless sky, a line of women march up the brae from Maggie's cottage. All but one of the women carries a hen in their hands. At the very end of the row, there is one man, Duncan, with a spring in his step and one arm around Mary Brock.

***

At twilight on the next Sabbath, a childhood friend pays Maggie a visit, carrying a mysterious brown parcel under her arm. For the past year, Maggie's friend, Alison Beutson has been employed at the local manse, probably to avoid working the fields (just like her). Maggie lets her in, ignoring her father and James gawping at the girl and her hessian bag.

‘Aren't you supposed to be at the manse, Alison?'

‘Not on the Sabbath.'

‘Oh, so what brings you here on your one day off pray? There's not much going on here except mending stockings and spinning. Sit yourself down near the fire.'

‘I wondered if you'd be interested in this.' Alison sits down and unfolds the parcel. A beautiful amber silk dress spills out onto her knee.

‘Would you look at that? Where did you get it? I could never afford it.'

‘It's beautiful, isn't it?' Alison pats the dress. ‘It looks bonny on me, mind, and I'm tempted to wear it – you know, for your wedding. But I'm not the bride, am I?'

‘Couldn't you sell it?'

‘Aye, I thought about pawning it. It would fetch a fortune. But then I thought about all the questions the pawn man might ask me and so I daren't, Maggie. He'd probably declare me a thief and have me locked up in the tolbooth.'

‘Come on then, where did you get it?'

‘Well, I was cleaning one of the spare rooms in the manse. On my hands and knees I was, minding my own business when I heard a rustling sound.'

‘What was it?'

‘A holy man. He was standing in front of a one of those looking glasses and he was admiring himself.'

Maggie frowns. ‘Aye. Go on then, what's so strange about that?'

‘Hah. He was wearing this dress! Of course, once he caught sight of me he tore the garment from his body and ran stark bollock from the room. Can you imagine that?'

‘You're jesting.'

‘Hah. I swear to God it's true. A bearded man in a dress,' she giggles.

Maggie raises her eyebrows. ‘I can't believe it. I wonder who it belongs to.'

‘I don't know. No one's asked for it and the man with the beard's surely not going to ask for it now, is he?'

‘Nae, give us it here.' Maggie stretches out her arms for the dress.

‘I attach one condition to you wearing it.'

‘Anything,' Maggie smiles.

‘I'm your chief bridesmaid.'

‘Done.'

***

Widow Arrock lives in a henwife's cottage. It has the only indoor privy in town and is the envy of the whole of Musselburgh. The widow's hen-pecked husband built it just before he succumbed to smallpox, and it was to be his greatest achievement and testament to his place of refuge, away from his nagging wife. To be sure the widow's a feisty character, well-known for her wicked temper, quick tongue and strange appearance. Folk either love her or loathe her and Maggie falls in with the former.