The Hanging of Margaret Dickson (6 page)

‘Hah! I've thrown the shoe and you know what that means don't you, laddie? She's your responsibility now, and good luck to you because God knows you'll need it.' Duncan skips away to retrieve his missing shoe, stumbling as he replaces it on his foot. ‘And bloody good riddance,' he mutters before bumping into Johnny Notions.

Johnny embraces his old friend and bellows, ‘Doesn't she scrub-up well, Duncan? A bit of tallow soap and she looks good enough to eat. No mangy Maggie.'

‘Mangy Maggie?' Patricks asks the highlander.

Johnny turns to Patrick with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Aye, that's what I used to call her when she was a wee bairn. Maggie was forever climbing trees all day, or running along the harbour to the rocks. Always covered in bruises, she was.'

Patrick smiles at Johnny, noticing his mass of wild ginger hair. He likes the strange Highlander; and from what he can gather he appears to be a father figure to Maggie. The same cannot be said for Duncan. The man's a bloody disgrace, he thinks, can't even stay sober long enough for his only daughter's marriage ceremony. He places a protective arm around his new bride as they walk to the wedding feast.

The wedding party walk downhill towards the sea-mill, to the bottom of Kerr's Wynd, and soon they come to a tall barn. The miller has kindly let them use one of his out-buildings, much to the displeasure of his bad-tempered wife. As the guests flock in, Widow Arrock, along with a number of the women, uncover the food. It's taken all morning to prepare the feast under the watchful eye of the miller's wife, the cause for the widow's bad temper. Before the food is served, Minister Bonaloy gives a good speech, spinning yarns and telling jokes before introducing other speakers and proposing the first toast.

***

The pipers and fiddlers assemble themselves at the back of the barn, some of them tuning up their instruments, others supping their ale. Meanwhile food and drink is served on long tables, and the delicious smell of the cooked chicken wafts around the room. After folk are fed and watered, a space is cleared on the floor, and before long people dance and children play fight on the dirt floor.

Maggie grins at Patrick as he takes her hand in his own and leads her to the centre of the room. All around them people dance with the bleary look of people heading towards drunk but are not quite there yet. But alas, the same cannot be said for her father. He reached the point of inebriation long ago and to Maggie's dismay he's walking towards them.

‘Allow me a last dance with my daughter, Patrick?' he slurs.

Patrick stands aside to let father and daughter say their goodbyes.

As they begin to sway in time to the music, Duncan steps on her feet. Maggie grits her teeth and hopes for the tune to come to an end.

‘We may not have seen eye to eye, Maggie, but I've done my best and I wish you well.'

Maggie nods and turns her face away from him. ‘I know.'

‘I'm proud of you lass, and I always will be. You're a free spirit, just like me. So don't let anyone change you. Do you hear me?'

Duncan leans in close, so close Maggie can smell his alcoholic breath. ‘And before I depart let me give you a wee bit of advice. Learn to accept change, lassie, because nothing in this world remains the same. Remember that.' He ruffles her hair as though she's a dog and turns on his heel.

***

A moment later the fiddlers pick up the tempo. Maggie searches the barn, eyes darting right and left for one man in particular.
That kiss at the altar
. She places a finger to her lips, her head's still in a spin and there's fire in her belly. After a while, she catches sight of the handsome minister and as usual he has a small crowd of adoring fans around him. She approaches him with conviction and holds out one hand.

‘A dance with the bride, Minister Bonaloy?' Maggie asks before taking his hand. A new jig begins – a lively one that requires them to link each other's arms. After a while she clings to him, feigning exhaustion. From beneath her dark lashes she looks boldly into his green eyes.

‘I'm not much of a dancer, Maggie. Sorry,' he apologises, releasing his grip.

‘Don't go.'

‘No, no,' he musters. He can no longer meet her eyes.

‘Are you committing adultery in your heart, Minister Bonaloy?' she enquires, moving closer to him so that they stand inches apart. Maggie watches his face crumple into a mixture of emotions; confusion, disappointment, perhaps disbelief – she's not sure.

‘You flatter yourself, Maggie,' he replies, suddenly taking control. With a firm hand he grabs her elbow and guides her across the room to her husband.

***

From across the room, Patrick watches his wife dance with the minister. He can't take his eyes off her, and his loins ache with desire at the thought of the night ahead. It's more than he can bear to watch them. His jaw twitches as he pushes his way through a group of dancers to get to her. He's nearly there, only a whisker away, when strong arms grab him from both sides and place a large creel upon his broad back.

‘Oh no, I'm too weary to carry the creel. Can't we just miss this part out…' he complains, looking at Maggie with yearning eyes.

Patrick's father laughs. ‘Tired? You'll be weary come morning, son. All fishermen carry the creel on their wedding day, to symbolise sharing life's burdens together. There's plenty of time for you and the lass later on,' he winks.

***

At Watts Close, on a sultry evening, Patrick Spence carries his bride over the threshold of their front door. And he's careful not to trip, mind, as this is deemed unlucky, and so as they enter the cottage, folk scream and cheer and throw petals over the married couple.

Patrick's mother, Barbara is a little worse for wear. With a clout held up to her eyes she whines in a shrill voice: ‘You know in some parts of the highlands, a newly married couple lives with the groom's parents for the first week of their marriage. Oh and look at the state of this place, it's got no homely touches; it's not fit for my Patrick to live in. Perhaps you two should…'

Johnny Notions scowls. ‘Nonsense, woman. And it's the bride's parents they live with the first week, not the grooms. And where I come from, they spend their first night in a barn.'

‘How awful,' replies Barbara still dabbing her eyes. With much reluctance she passes Maggie the keys to the house and some fire tongs to place a peat on the fire. A look of resignation crosses her face as she embraces the bride, like she's finally realised that she's not the only woman in her son's life.

‘Right,' says Barbara clapping her hands. ‘Get out of here, Patrick. Go on. We've got to get on with the beddin' o' the bride.'

An air of expectancy fills the room as the women strip Maggie of her dress and petticoats, until all she wears is a thin sark. With nimble fingers they remove the wild flowers and pins from Maggie's long hair, so that it tumbles around her shoulders. Before they fetch Patrick, one of the women makes up a fire.

‘Right, Patrick, she's ready. Time for you to undress and lie next to your bride,' the women giggle and sneak sly glances as he undresses.

Side by side, Maggie and Patrick sit on their bed of straw as the men re-enter to claim a kiss from the bride. Patrick grits his teeth, uncomfortable with the custom. How he longs to be alone with his new wife. But when the left stocking is thrown and hits old Widow Arrock on the nose, everyone laughs, and this lightens his mood, as one thing is for sure – no one in their right mind would marry old Widow Arrock.

At last the wedding party leave and all is quiet. Patrick turns to his bride, and right away all his blood seems to rush to his loins. They're finally alone, but he can still hear folk chatting and jesting outside. But Patrick's passed caring now and he pulls Maggie into his arms and kisses her passionately, his coarse hands exploring her body, feeling every inch of her soft skin.

‘I thought they would never go,' he groans, covering her body with ardent kisses while wrapping one hand around her throat. He teases her with his tongue as his knees force her thighs further and further apart. She groans beneath him as he places his weight on both hands, pinning her arms outstretched aside of her to kiss and tease her breasts. ‘Say my name,' he demands, shivering as her breathing becomes heavier. ‘Say my name.'

‘Love me, Patrick,' she cries.

It's more than he can take; he can't wait any longer. He has to claim his bride and make her his own forever. Patrick's a large man and knows it has to hurt, but as his knees force her thighs wider apart to enter her, he's at the point of no return.

‘Hush, they will hear us.' His lips crush her mouth and stifle her cries. His hand returns to her throat as he pushes deeper inside of her, almost exploding as she opens her legs wider, fingernails clawing into his skin.

A moan escapes from her swollen mouth. The very sound sends him over the edge, and his hot seed spills inside her. He rolls off and stretches out a hand to cover her stomach, and a pulse beats within her groin. ‘Are you satisfied, wife?'

‘Aye.'

As they lay entwined, limb twisted around limb, recovering their breath, a loud cheer roars from outside. Patrick jumps off the bed and throws a blanket around him to peer outside.

‘Haven't you lot got anywhere to go?' he shouts, before slamming the door.

***

‘I love you,' he says. It's barely a whisper.

She kisses his mouth and shivers at his touch. A gasp escapes her lips as she examines his back criss-crossed with marks. ‘How did you get those scars?'

‘I went to sea as a boy. By the age of sixteen I was rated a seamen. But along the way I got the scars…'

‘Who gave you them?'

A knock at the door interrupts them. Maggie sighs and cringes inside. She knows it's the womenfolk; they've come to roll Maggie's hair with wooden bodkins and cover it with a kertch. As Patrick sleeps quietly in bed, they place a fine piece of linen on her head and fasten it behind her ears, and all the while Maggie fidgets and curses.

‘Do I have to wear this ridiculous thing on my head?'

One of the old women gasps.

Another old biddy can't hold her tongue and grumbles. ‘You're married now, Maggie, and you should behave accordingly. There can be no more prancing around with your hair flying about your face like a wee bairn.'

Maggie pouts her lips, her forehead wrinkling into a frown. She loathes being told what to do. ‘If I want to run round naked with my hair unbound, I will.'

The women cluck, shocked at her scandalous words. A smack around the side of her head sends her kertch flying through the air, causing the women to titter.

‘Put it on, woman. And never let me hear you talk like that again.' Patrick returns the kertch to her head.

The air crackles with tension. Maggie lowers her lashes and stares down at the floor; she ignores the women, too humiliated to look any of them in the eye. She nods and wipes a tear from her face.
You will never be my master
, she thinks,
nor my keeper or insult me in front of the other women again
. She continues to stare until he walks away and then rips the cloth from her head.

The harbour smells of seaweed, tar and brine. It's a noisy place once the seamen begin to work on their boats, banging their hammers with swift rhythmic movements. Seabirds swoop and dive from above, their shrill mewing cries piercing the air as they plunge into icy waters rich with fish. Concealed within the bruised sky is a winter sun, trapped in dense clouds, unable to break through.

Maggie stands at the edge of a rock pool, wild hair streaming behind her like a mass of tangled brown ribbons. Clothes soaked by wind and sea, laughter on her lips; she's never felt so alive. It's here that Maggie's one with nature, trancelike and content. An old seaman sits nearby on the rocks, a meerschaum pipe carved into the figure of a naked woman protruding from his cracked lips. Maggie observes his weathered face as he redds his fishing line and winds it into an old murlin basket that's seen better days.

Maggie turns away from the rock pool, moving barefoot effortlessly across the rocks towards the shore. She recognises him by the set of his broad shoulders and fisherman's garb. A woman stands close to him, linking his arm, head thrown backwards in laughter. Maggie marches in their direction towards the boat shore.
Damn and damnation
, Maggie thinks as they break apart.

‘Hello, Agnes.' Maggie turns to Patrick, hands on hips. ‘Well?'

Awkward silence follows until Agnes coughs and raises her hand to her red face. ‘I was just asking Patrick how married life…'

‘Get gone, will you, Agnes? And while you're at it, get your own man, hussy.' Maggie's gaze remains on her husband's face as Agnes saunters away.

‘What's going on, Patrick?'

‘Hush.' He places a finger on her tight mouth.

‘Don't hush me!' She takes a swing at him but misses. ‘I don't know what you're grinning at. I'll wipe the smile off your face before sundown.'

‘I was just being friendly.'

‘Do you think me a fool? The lassie was crawling all over you. You should've told her to be off the moment she turned up fluttering her lashes.'

‘Come here, Maggie. You know you're the only woman for me.'

‘Do I?'

‘You know you are. You mean everything to me. Come here.'

Maggie hesitates before walking into his arms, but once his arms are around her all is forgiven. As she presses her cheek against his, her hair whips up into her face.

‘Why aren't you wearing a cap? How many times have I told you to wear one?'

She pulls away, her face contorting at his displeasure. ‘I forgot it. Anyway, how long have you been talking to Agnes Lecke?'

‘Oh, I see. You're jealous.'

She shakes her head, teeth chattering from the cold wind. ‘No, not of that one.'

He frowns. ‘What's wrong then, lass? You've never been short with me before.'

‘I'm to have a bairn.' Maggie kicks her feet in the sand and pulls a sulky face.

‘Well, that's great news. Aren't you happy, lass?'

‘No, I am not. I'm too young to have a bairn.'

‘Nonsense, you're seventeen, nearly eighteen, that's old enough. It is natural, lass. Haven't we just tied the knot?'

‘Aye.'

‘Good. Now stop complaining and let's go home.'

***

Maggie's in a foul mood as she clears up the room. And what a sight she must look with her face streaked with tears and flour. The cooking pot's on its side, and all around her is an almighty mess, half-peeled vegetables, utensils and a cooling tray as if she hasn't been able to decide what to cook.

The door crashes open, and she hopes it's not Patrick.

Widow Arrock doesn't wait to be invited in and sits herself down. ‘What's happened in here? It looks like you've been raided, have you had a couple of gaugers in ‘ere looking for brandy and baccy?'

Maggie interrupts her. ‘Chance would be a fine thing, but no. Patrick was hungry, and, well, the smell of the food was making me gag.'

‘And…'

‘Well I might have become a wee bit careless and tipped a pot over.'

‘Aye, he told me.' The widow nods and crosses her flabby arms.

‘And now he's gone off fishing without a meal in him, and he's in a fierce mood with me, ranting and raving at me and calling me a terrible wife. Oh, and I've spoiled most of the food now. What shall I do? I've no fish to sell at market until he's home, and now I've hardly any money to buy food.' Maggie's bottom lip quivers.

The widow's face is indifferent, Maggie expects no less. The old woman probably thinks she has a lesson to learn no doubt, she'll show her. With a stiff face, Maggie picks up her boots and creel and grabs her shawl.

‘Where are you going?'

‘To buy fish off the boats.'

The widow's eyes shine with mirth. ‘You're learning fast my girl.'

But alas, Maggie has much to learn. Her first mistake is to buy an old batch of herring off Billy Swindles who unknown to her, is a worse drunkard than her father. The money Maggie gives him no doubt goes towards his next round of ale. Her second mistake is to carry her fish in the midday sun all the way to Edinburgh, a good three or four hour walk. By the time she gets there Maggie's hungry and thirsty and her back feels as though it's about to cave in.

She follows her nose to the fish market. Until now, Maggie's only hawked at Fisherrow, and the crowded market is packed with people pushing and shoving one another. Her eyes frantically dart left and right for a familiar face – Isobel, even Agnes, anyone will do – but alas everyone's a stranger and everyone's in a hurry. The market hawkers gawp at her with evil eyes. A fat fisherwoman gives her an almighty whack on the arm. ‘Your herring is rotten, get rid of it before you give us all a bad name.'

‘But…' Maggie stutters.

The woman doesn't wait around. In an instant she cuts the strap of Maggie's creel, spilling her rotten fish to the ground and after that she holds a knife to Maggie's neck. ‘Pick up your creel and your fish, and be off with you before I slit your throat.'

Maggie's heart thumps in her chest as she falls to her knees, scooping up the slimy fish with slippery hands, and all the while her eyes swim with tears. The stout woman hovers above her stinking of sweat and onions and rotting teeth, and the smell mingles with the scent of putrid fish guts and brine.

‘Hurry, shift yourself or you'll be sorry,' she says, prodding Maggie's shoulder with the handle of her knife. Without hesitation, Maggie flees, taking her rotten fish with her. At the end of a fleshers market she dumps her fish on a stinking midden and hurries away. A moment later at a street corner, Maggie presses her fingers to her neck and heaves a great sigh – there's no blood.

‘Could this day get any worse?' she says to herself. She has no fish to sell, no money and nothing to eat. Maggie's shoulders sag, everything's gone wrong. She picks up her empty creel and starts to walk home; at the first bend she dodges an old woman shouting out ‘gardy loo' as she throws out her slops from a chamber pot. At Canongate, a pie seller cries his wares from beneath an old stone bridge; the sight of the food makes her eyes bulge and her mouth water. Maggie edges closer and closer, by God she will have something to eat by the end of the day. She stretches out her hand and curls her fingers around a juicy mutton pie, but the pie seller's a canny man with eyes in the back of his head.

‘Stop thief!' he cries, as Maggie runs away clutching the pie.

At Joppa, she wolfs down the food and vows to never venture to market without the Fisherrow fishwives again. What was she thinking going alone?

***

Just before New Year, Maggie cleans the cottage. She sweeps, washes utensils and empties the rok of yarn. Patrick's fishing gear she daren't touch, so she cleans out the pigsty instead and collects weeds for the new goat. When she's finished she crosses her arms and looks around the room, then notices the pipe. It sits on an old bedding box and is in a shocking state. So much so, that when she lifts it to examine the carved detail, it's smothered in dirt. Maggie goes to work on it, scrubbing and cleaning until it gleams. By the time she's finished her arms feel like lead. Pleased with her handiwork, she replaces the pipe and returns to her chores.

‘Shut the door, it's freezing out there,' she shouts as Patrick strolls through the door. Her gaze follows him as he walks to the fire.

‘You'll get chapped skin. How many fish did you catch?'

He grunts. ‘Not many, it's still too cold for a good catch. I tell you what, Maggie, those bairns from the bottom of the brae have been playing tricks again. They've been throwing seaweed through keyholes and door rapping.'

‘Widow Arrock will sort them out.'

He walks towards her and then stops dead. ‘What have you done to my pipe?'

Maggie puffs out her bosom with pride. ‘I cleaned it,' she declares in a proud voice.

‘You cleaned it?' he roars.

She begins to panic inside. ‘Aye, with the tallow soap Johnny gave me.'

His eyes bore through hers as spidery veins bulge in his neck. Without thinking she begins to walk backwards. ‘Well, it was filthy.'

‘Ah lass, you shouldn't have done that to my pipe.'

Maggie swallows hard, teeth gritted together as one small hand forms a fist. A barrage of angry words spew from her mouth, ‘I thought I was doing you a favour, a good deed. It was all dirty. You are one ungrateful swine,' she sobs.

He points a finger at her. ‘Be careful what you say, woman. I've a mind to send for the lockman to fit you with the branks. You have the tongue of a shrew.'

‘I despise you!' she screams and smashes the pipe against the wall.

***

After that, Patrick can't do anything right. His wife's gone and in her place lives an irrational, weeping woman, quiet and moody. The widow shakes her head when he confides in her. To his consternation, she says it's common for women to be this way when carrying a child.
Oh, the horror of it
, he thinks. The slightest little thing can set her off, crying for no damned reason. Patrick's had quite enough of it and so he keeps well away.

To his utmost relief, Maggie's temperament improves when she begins to conceal her widening girth. From the corner of his eye he watches her tightening her stays over her bulging stomach. And if this makes her feel better and puts her in a better mood, that's grand with him.

The following Sabbath, Patrick and Maggie attend kirk at St Michaels. The congregation is packed full because the miller's wife, Bessie Ruchat has summoned Janet Hogg before the kirk session for slander, and so poor Janet has to stand for several Sundays to be rebuked at the stool of repentance. And if that's not enough humiliation she has to go down on her knees and beg Bessie's forgiveness in front of the entire congregation. And thus, there is the inevitable finger pointing and sniggering. Patrick tears his eyes from the miller's smug wife and nudges Maggie. ‘Poor Janet, the miller's wife is a right scold…'

But Maggie's attention is elsewhere, her neck is turned and she appears to be looking at something at the back of kirk. As he twists his head to see what she's looking at, his heart sinks. Maggie's looking at the young McDougal brothers. Patrick seethes with rage; he scowls and presses his lips together, but for now he lets it go.

The sermon drags on and unbelievably she does it again. ‘Stop looking at the men over your shoulder,' he hisses through his teeth.

‘What men?' She frowns and crinkles her pretty face.

‘You know what men.' His face reddens as he begins to wonder if he really knows this woman standing next to him. He thought he did – until now.

***

Maggie unlocks the door and descends the cottage steps. She's eager to venture outdoors. It's a fine day and there's a number of flowers just opening, golden gorse and violets too, uncurling their buds under fresh green leaves. No amount of tightening her stays can disguise her pregnancy now, and so she's waddling about like a fat duck. It is market day, and she's already late, lagging behind the Fisherrow fishwives. Soon her body glistens with sweat, and her hair's stuck to her face, sopping wet.

Just before the high street, Maggie struggles with her full creel of fish. She can't take a footstep more. And so, with weary legs she fights her way through a barrage of pedlars, hucksters, and buyers to the quiet corner of a fine house. At a stone doorstep, she eases her swollen frame to the floor, a joyous expression lighting her face.
I'll just stretch my legs for a moment
, she thinks.

A sedan chair comes to a halt in front of her. Two red-faced bearers lower the long poles that support the passenger's box. The men sag with fatigue, beasts of burden, removing leather straps from sweat drenched bodies and fighting for breath. The front bearer knocks a firm hand on the passenger door.

Heavy brocade curtains open. A fine gentleman leaps out; his hat tipped forward, no doubt to conceal his identity before his secret liaison. He lands on Maggie's feet, but seems oblivious to her cries. The front bearer throws up his hands and exclaims: ‘You stepped on the fisherwoman's feet.' His thick Irish brogue is musical to the ear.

‘What woman?' the gentleman mutters, and scarpers into the fine house.

The bearer holds out a calloused hand to Maggie. She wonders whether to take it.

‘Are you all right?'

‘Aye,' replies Maggie. She allows him to help her to her feet.

‘Take this coin. You look like you need a bite to eat.'

‘Thank you,' she says, and can't help smiling when she overhears him saying, ‘I'm glad the last one wasn't one of those fat pigs, aren't you?'

***

By the time Maggie returns home, the heather on the hills are drenched with fine rain and cling to Maggie's clothes like wet rags. Near a roaring fire, she removes her damp clothes to get warm, and soon falls asleep. In her dream she's swimming in a cool turquoise sea, like a mythical mermaid with long hair swirling around her face. And then, something interrupts her reverie, a twinge in the base of her back that wakes her with a start. The bed's wet and she can't understand why. She shifts her bottom and reaches beneath her legs before drawing up her hand.