The Hanging of Margaret Dickson (5 page)

When the Lord was handing out good looks, sadly Widow Arrock was not in the queue. Her face and body have no symmetry, everything's twisted and out of kilter. The widow has beady eyes, one placed higher than the other, ears that resemble cauliflowers and thin lips that stretch inwards to form an ugly grimace. And if that isn't bad enough, her skin is so bad it resembles the peel of an over-ripened fruit, spoiled by a hot sun. For sure, Widow Arrock is the ugliest woman in Musselburgh, and probably the whole of Scotland. But nevertheless, Maggie is proud to call her a friend.

Upon an old wooden stool, Maggie stands, fidgeting as the widow pins her wedding dress. With nimble fingers, the widow makes the necessary alterations all in her own good time. Maggie draws in her breath and clamps her teeth together. A searing pain shoots down her back as she struggles to hold her position.

‘Be still, Maggie. If your poor mother could see you now, she'd be having kittens. You look a mess; a blue-gowned beggar would put you to shame. Look at me up to my oxsters in pins and material, but I'm well turned out.'

Maggie glances at the widow and can't help having visions of ugly toads crawling on their backs in muddy swamps. ‘I was too busy to comb my hair.'

The widow slaps Maggie on the leg and puffs out her cheeks. ‘That's no excuse girl; you should always look your best. You're bone idle.'

‘Ouch, that hurt! Anyway, today is not my wedding day. Does it really matter what I look like?'

The widow stops to stare at Maggie, her one good eye slightly slewed, so that it bores into Maggie. ‘Now listen to me, girl. You youngsters are an absolute disgrace. In my day we would not be walking about with our hair unbound, even in private. You're slovenly, Maggie. You should always look your finest, not just for your husband, but for yourself. You're a very fortunate woman, because you were born with the gift of beauty. God never shined on me, but that didn't stop me trying to make the best of myself! Nae, it did not. I'm a handsome woman and not the hag people claim me to be.' She pats the rear of her head with a haughty look.

Handsome
, Maggie thinks.
The widow's finally gone insane
.

‘How much longer will it take? My feet are killing me and I'm starving.'

The widow scoffs. Her eyes near pop from her head and a vein bulges from her neck as she rants. ‘Starving? What nonsense, you wouldn't know starving if it slapped you in the face. My generation was born hungry. You probably don't remember the great dearth, but your father would, that's if he wasn't too drunk to recall it. Anyway, it's patience you need a lesson in, young lady. I'm nearly done,' she says with a pin between her teeth.

‘I'm going to pee myself if it takes much longer.'

‘Be quiet, lass. The dress will be ready for you tonight. I've never seen so many petticoats in my life, what a fortunate lass you are to wear a dress as fine as this on your special day. Where on earth did you get it? On second thought I don't want to know. I wish your poor mother could see you now.'

It takes Maggie just a moment to take off the dress and run to the much envied indoor privy. When she returns she feels much better. ‘All cottages should have indoor privies. I wish Father would build us one.'

The widow presses her hands together. ‘Never mind the privy.
I wish to God someone would knock it down now, it stinks rotten. The dress is perfect for you, lassie. The colour compliments your eyes. Oh, I almost forgot, I have to leave one stitch undone.'

‘Why?'

The widow shrugs. ‘How should I know? It's the done thing, lass.'

Maggie folds her arms over her chest, opens her mouth to ask something and then thinks better of it. At the front door she reaches out tentatively and touches the widow's hand. ‘Thank you.'

Widow Arrock smiles and leans forward, her lips are dry and hairs stick out of her prickly chin. ‘It's a pleasure, lassie. Now make sure you look after yourself. Dress respectable and keep your hair bound. You're going to be a married woman soon, so start behaving like one.'

***

At long last, on the night before her wedding, Maggie gathers her last remaining things together and places them in a bundle. Dusk falls, and soon the cottage becomes a place of flickering shadows as silence descends within. Suddenly it hits her. On the morrow she will be married and the thought terrifies her. A bottle of Johnny Notions's home-made fire water stands on the table near the furthest wall, the very sight of it makes her mouth water. Without a doubt her father will be cross if she takes but a single drop. But the blasted bottle is glinting in the firelight; she paces the floor up and down and eventually her footsteps stop at the far wall. The bottle makes a strange popping noise as she pulls the cork. The clear liquid burns her throat as she takes her first sip, like fire it spreads through her belly to the tips of her toes. And then, before she has the chance to take a second taste, a great crash causes her to jump from her skin.

‘Damn. Don't you two know how to knock on a door? Is it the bridesmaid's job to scare the bride to death before her wedding?'

‘Sorry,' say Isobel and Alison in unison.

‘Where's your chanty and tocher?' Isobel looks around, her eyes settle on the bottle clutched between Maggie's hands.

Maggie places the bottle down.

‘Whisky? Can we have some?'

‘Nae, my father would skin me alive. Here's the chanty to fill with salt and all my belongings.'

‘Go on. Just a wee dram,' whines Isobel.

‘Aye, go on Maggie. Just a wee dram for us both,' Alison repeats. ‘I'm chief bridesmaid and that means I should get first sip.'

‘Nae, be off with you.'

The two women shrug and proceed to collect the bride's goods.

‘Be careful with those, it's not just folds of old dusty linen. My mother's arasaid off Johnny Notions is in there and…'

‘Oh, don't concern yourself,' Alison replies. ‘We'll take care of everything. After we're finished here we're going to make up the bridal bed and collect petals to scatter over your blankets, and Isobel collected willow earlier. Didn't you, Isobel?'

Isobel nods. ‘It's for fertility you know.'

‘I know, I know.' Maggie puffs out her cheeks.

***

Before the men return, Maggie heats up some water to pour into a large bowl. Once out of her tight-fitting stays and pinching shoes, she feels wicked and free to explore the contours of her own body. The water discolours as she washes the filth from beneath her fingernails. A saponaria plant sits beside a water jug on the old mantle; the widow dug it up from her kale yard, claiming it does wonders for the hair. As Maggie crushes the roots and leaves, the fresh scent of luscious grass tickles her nostrils. To her amazement the roots produce a small amount of foam; she takes the water jug and wets her long hair. Next she applies the saponaria to it, massaging it into her scalp. With a steady hand she holds the jug high above her head and pours the last of the clean water over her hair, rinsing the plant extract from it and sending a thousand glistening water droplets down the length of her naked body. An old plaid hangs from a nail on the wall; she takes it to dry herself and stifles a yawn. Finally, she cleans her teeth with a clout full of wood ashes and falls asleep by the glow of the peat fire.

***

Morning comes at last, and the sun rises bright in a clear blue sky. James, as usual is up first, to throw open the door and let the hens and pigs out. Maggie turns in her bed; her eyes glued shut with sleep as brilliant sunlight streams through the open door. Cursing in her slumber, she pulls a blanket over her scraggy head to shut out the light.

‘Maggie. The sun is shining. Get up. You're to be married.'

But Maggie's all warm and cosy; she pulls the cover further over her head and ignores his voice. But James persists, and soon she feels his foot upon her backside.

‘Don't kick me or I'll tell Father,' Maggie screams.

‘He isn't here.'

A sinking feeling begins in the pit of her stomach. Just for once couldn't he have behaved and acted as a father should. ‘Who's going to give me away? Oh no, where is he, James?'

With a thump, James sits beside his sister. ‘I don't know. He could be anywhere, a ditch or a brothel. Who knows?'

Maggie shakes her wary head. ‘Perfect.'

***

By the time Isobel and Alison arrive, all dressed up in their Sunday best to arrange Maggie's hair, the bride-to-be is in a right state. The cottage bustles with activity. Hens and pigs scuttle around in the dirt, and then to top things off, Duncan returns in search of his bottle.

‘Who's been drinking this? I was saving this for me and Johnny.' With one hand he holds up the bottle to examine the contents, sloshing the liquid inside.

‘He'll be fortunate if he gets a drop,' Maggie remarks.

‘I heard that. Did you two drink some?' He points an accusing finger in the direction of two red-faced bridesmaids.

‘No. We've come to dress the bride and arrange her hair. We haven't touched it, have we, Alison?'

‘Well get on with it,' mutters Duncan, before picking up the bottle.

It requires much patience to place wild flowers into the fine net that covers Maggie's hair, but the bridesmaids persist, and it was well worth the effort. After that they help her to dress, fluffing out her petticoats so that the skirts billow out to resemble the shape of a bell. Beneath the silk fabric they place a ribbon garter, and when the bride isn't looking they hide a coin in her left shoe for good fortune.

At long last, the bride is ready, it doesn't matter that her shoes pinch and the hem of her dress is slightly over long. It's time. Maggie takes a deep breath and tries to show some enthusiasm. Her father's singing an old Scottish folk tale, his bottle clutched tight to his heart. How she loves him, despite his faults.

Maggie gets to her feet to be promptly pushed down. ‘Just one more thing to do now, stop moving, Maggie – and stop pulling a face, close your eyes while I put some soot on your eyelashes.'

‘Give us that bottle, Father?'

‘No chance,' replies Duncan.

***

Many months ago, in a vain attempt to keep his wedding attire safe and clean, away from the incessant smoke from the peat fire, Patrick hid his clothes. The trouble is, for the life of him, he can't remember where. They're by far the finest clothes he possesses and so he turns the whole cottage upside down looking for them, until his mother holds them up over her head and says: ‘You daft oaf! You told me to move them the other day to a better hiding place.'

It's a beautiful morning; a gentle breeze blows into the cottage as he pulls on his new worsted stockings. Next he picks up a hessian bag and pulls out a pair of new black shoes, a present from his mother and father. They seem out of place on his big ugly feet. Patrick's only ever worn scuffed homemade brogues, usually with holes in them, or his trusty sea boots.

William Cass, Patrick's best man, arrives at dawn. They spend most of the morning reminiscing about their days at sea, until Patrick's father pokes his head around the door and roars at them to hurry.

William whistles. ‘Look at you, all dressed up in your finery. Are you sure you want to go through with this, lad? Marriage is forever you know, no more gallivanting. Remember our days at sea?'

‘We were just boys at sea, years and years of sailing – but gallivanting? No. I'm as quiet as I was then.' Patrick fidgets, his face contorting and wrinkling as he pulls and tugs at the new clothes.

‘Stop fiddling and scratching, man. You're like a dog with fleas. Oh, I almost forgot. I need to check you've no knots about your person.'

Patrick groans out loud.

‘Come on, once the ceremony is over, we can tie the knots again.'

‘All right,' Patrick says, holding up his hands.

***

The bride's party set out led by the bride's father; unfortunately he's blind stinking drunk. Therefore, James makes sure Maggie approaches the kirk from right to left, to circle the kirk three times, before entering. Duncan staggers behind, looking like something the cat's dragged in. At the kirk gates, they're informed by a kirk elder that Patrick's arrived with the bridesmaids, preceded by a piper.

At the door, Maggie's met by a kirk officer, who takes one look at Duncan and decides James, not Duncan, should walk her up the aisle. Maggie cringes inside; her cheeks flush as she walks at a slow pace, head dipped to the floor until she stands to the right of her groom. When the service begins, there's not a sound as the betrothed couple exchange vows.

***

Patrick stands with his legs wide apart, breast puffed out with pride. It's finally happening. Soon she will be his and the faint flutter of anxiety that constantly irks him will be no more. He can't take his eyes off her as she stands beside him, looking like a fine lady in her fancy dress. It doesn't matter that he has no ribbons or pearls to give her; a woman like Maggie doesn't need any ornament or decoration. She'd look beautiful in a sack of cloth. As he places the gold ring on her left finger, there's a great swelling in his heart and at long last they are man and wife.

As the church bells ring out, the customary rush to kiss the bride is won by Minister Bonaloy since he's the nearest. Patrick watches her with proud eyes, his heart thumping as he takes her image in. She's breathtakingly beautiful, but it's her eyes that do it for him. Dark, smouldering eyes, feline and predatory, Maggie's eyes hold the promise of carnal delight.

Outside kirk, Widow Arrock has a major disagreement with the miller's wife. Together, they make a hideous sight and it's difficult to decide which of them has the prickliest chin as they point and curse at one another. Folk gather around them to get a good view in case it develops into a fist fight, but then the minister breaks them apart and threatens to fetch the scold's bridle. It's at this moment that Duncan suddenly comes to life and removes one of his shoes to throw in Patrick's direction.