The Hanging of Margaret Dickson (8 page)

Jean clears her throat. ‘When's Patrick home?'

‘Don't know, a few days, next week. Who knows,' replies Maggie. The cooking pot is bubbling over; she stirs it and throws a dirty spoon on the table. ‘Have you anything for a broth? I've nothing here except turnips.'

‘I've kale and some herbs, and you are more than welcome. I'm sure your man will be back soon with a bag full of coins.'

‘I hope so. I'm beginning to wonder if he's a part of my imagination.'

The midwife laughs. ‘Do you know Sarah Clerk from the village? She had a baby around the same time you had Anna?'

Maggie nods. ‘Aye, I know of her. How is she? Isn't she the lass with the fancy house?'

Jean continues. ‘Aye, that's the one. She's not good; I was there at the birth and she had an awful time. In labour three days, she was, and when the bairn came it had a swollen head. And now folk say it's a changeling.' Jean crosses her arms.

Maggie shudders. She's taken every precaution to avoid fairies entering her home and spiriting her baby away. She's even got Patrick to place a large iron pin in the baby's cradle and warned him not to cut the baby's nails or hair.

‘A changeling? That's terrible. Why do they think it's a changeling baby?'

Jean shrugs. ‘The child's an imbecile and has distemper in the brain. The father wants to be rid of it and his family are urging him to bury it in a shallow grave come Martinmas so that the fairies will take it away. But his wife, Sarah will not hear of it. She doesn't believe that when they dig it up a few days later, the real baby will be returned.'

‘I don't blame her, Mrs Lewis from the dame school in Haddington buried her baby because she thought it was a changeling, and when they dug it from the ground, it was dead.'

Jean's brows lower as though she's deep in thought. ‘Aye lass, I understand. But it was the changeling that was dead not her real baby.'

‘What is she going to do then?'

‘She thought about throwing it in the linn, but she can't bring herself to do it. Do you know the foxglove plant with the pretty purple flowers?'

‘Aye, I've seen them.'

‘Well, some folk around here call them witch's thimbles. A wise woman told Sarah to scatter the foxglove flower heads over the changeling's body. Boil the flowers and feed it the boiled potion before leaving it in a barn overnight. The wise woman said come morning the real baby will be found in its cradle.'

Maggie's eyes bulge in her head. ‘Leave it in a barn overnight for foxes and God knows what else to get at it?'

Jean adjusts baby Anna in her arms, the child's head is tilted backwards, and her tiny lips press together like a rosebud. ‘Well, we've no reason to trouble you about this little one; she's perfect and fast asleep for now.' The midwife holds out her arms.

‘Aye, for now, just the way I like her.' Maggie places the child within her cradle. ‘Have you seen this contraption? My Patrick made it out of some wood from an old table. It looks more like a pig trough!'

Jean chuckles and slaps one bony knee. ‘A pig trough maybe, but it's a perfectly formed wee baby girl you're placing inside. Count your blessings, lassie. How many babies die before they reach their first year? Near every month a poor mother buries a little one.' She places her hands together in a silent prayer. ‘Anyway, I must be off, Maggie. It's time I filled my belly with some oats. I'll bring you some kale later to make some broth once I'm fed and watered.'

Maggie thanks Jean and places a hand over her rumbling stomach and with a sinking heart she realises that she's low on peat and must scavenge for wood. After all, when all is said and done, she cannot boil broth without a fire.

***

After countless sleepless nights, in the sixth month of little Anna's life, a marvellous thing happens: she sleeps through an entire night. And therefore a new wife awaits Patrick when he returns home. Once Maggie learns that Patrick's on dry land, she dresses for the occasion with the utmost care. Her white shift is tight after the birth and clings to her curves. With her hair unbound, she loosens the laces at the front of the shift and smooths the material over her generous hips.

They make love till the break of dawn and it feels like their wedding night all over again. That morning, as she dresses near the fire, Maggie stares down at her thighs and notices several black bruises from the top of her thighs to the inside of her knees.

‘Look at this, Patrick,' she points at the bruises.

‘What?'

‘Look at the bruises. You need to be gentler, Patrick,' she declares in a high pitched voice.

‘I thought you liked it rough,' he replies, grabbing her around the neck and pulling her into a fierce embrace.

‘Stop it,' she demands.

He laughs. ‘For better or worse, Maggie – you are mine.'

***

Maggie's starving, her breasts are empty of milk, and the child's not been fed for a good few hours. Outside she digs up a few kales, ignoring the child's wails as she bends on dirty knees. Maggie takes a few leaves and jams them into her mouth, chewing the lot so that her cheeks bulge out and a quantity of green mush spills out onto her chin; she wipes it away with the back of her hand.

At the mouth of the Esk, Maggie gathers mussels. She loathes shellfish but when her belly rumbles she's not so fussy. Above and beyond, Anna needs feeding, and if Maggie's not careful her milk will dry up. Without a doubt the child will need weaning soon, but Maggie daren't feed it floury pap yet, just in case it gets sickly. And so she collects a basket full of mussels and hurries home.

The following day Patrick returns and his face sun-tanned and covered in bristles. For once Maggie makes a real fuss of him; kissing his face and helping him carry in his nets and fishing gear. From the corner of her eyes she notices him looking her up and down, a frown upon his weathered face.

‘You're getting thin, woman. And no wonder if all we have to eat is kale broth. This tastes awful; didn't your mother teach you how to cook?'

Maggie puffs out her cheeks. ‘Aye, but I wasn't listening. Anyway I can't buy good food if I've no fish to sell, Patrick. Have you caught anything?'

‘Aye, there's a creel-full for you to sort out. But no matter, come here, let me give you a kiss.'

‘Nae, I must sort the fish,' she says and heads for the door.

‘What's wrong with you, woman? Your husband should always come first.'

Maggie stands with her hands on her hips and shrieks like a scold. ‘I'll tell you what's wrong, Patrick Spence. I've had nothing to eat for days and I've a weary heart. For days now, I've had no money, no food, and the child needs feeding…'

‘For God's sake, woman, my head's beginning to ache. And what do you think I've been doing? Sitting on my hands?'

Maggie shakes her head, eyes flashing. ‘Well a couple of lasses at the harbour said they saw you near the links with Johnny Notions. How do I know that you've not been throwing all our money on a cock-fight or the horses?'

‘That's nonsense. Here, go and buy something tastier than this awful broth,' he utters, tossing her a few coins before reaching out to embrace her.

Maggie pushes him away.

Patrick lets out a loud groan and puts his head in his hands. ‘For the love of God, woman, what's the matter with you now? Come here. Now listen to me. I'm going to give you some practical advice. So listen to me for once. You're going to have to learn from the other fishwives, Maggie. And I'll tell you why, a fishwife's life is a tough one and you must learn how to survive while I'm gone. Are you listening, Maggie, because if you don't, you and Anna will starve? Is that clear? Make do, scavenge, and don't be too proud to ask for help,' he pauses for breath. ‘I must say, I'm surprised, Maggie. I thought you were made of sterner stuff. Is something else the matter?

‘Aye,' Maggie says and sits down, her eyes looking down at the floor and her feet. ‘I'm to have a baby again,' she heaves a great sigh.

‘Oh, lass,' he says taking her hand. ‘Is that so bad?'

Maggie slaps away his hand. ‘I told you the last time I never wanted to go through that again. And Anna's just a few months and I'm to have another.'

Patrick runs his hand through his hair. ‘Well, there's no use whinging about it, woman, what's done is done and you'll just have to make the most of it. Now then, when you've seen to the baby, fetch me something to eat.' He smacks her backside and proceeds to fill his new pipe to the brim. His long legs stretch out in front of him to be warmed by the fire. And with that he dismisses her.

Many thoughts sift through her head as she feeds the child. The very act irks her. If she'd have been born a fine lady, she'd have hired a wet nurse from the day of its birth. But alas, she's poor. And so, she plods on, till the child's sated and then puts her down to sleep. While Patrick lazes by the fire, she decides to take his advice and make do, so she calls on the widow to ask for some food. In no time at all, she had a quantity of vegetables and a chicken carcass to flavour the broth. Soon the delicious aroma of chicken broth fills the room; Patrick practically salivates over the pot. And yet, none of this domesticity gives her a sense of purpose or fills the void inside her. In her heart Maggie knows something else out there awaits her, and it seems to call to her like a tantalising whisper of a thrill.

Before long, Patrick falls asleep again by the fire. Maggie would have liked to rest too but she has things to do. She clears up, washes the pots and generally bangs about the room, making as much noise as she can, no doubt to announce her displeasure. For the longest time she continues to make an almighty din until Patrick sits up, rubs his eyes and shouts: ‘For the love of God, woman, stop making so much noise.'

Maggie scoffs. ‘While you sit here and do nothing.'

The look that crosses Patrick's face is frightening; Maggie steps backwards till her back faces the door.

‘You've got some nerve. All you have to do is look after one bairn, sell fish and keep home…'

‘Aye, and what do you do except constantly disappear?' she screams.

‘What do you think I do, Maggie? So you gut and sell a few fish. Pah! Near every day I climb in a lug-sail boat with an open hull. At any moment I can be thrown overboard and drown. Are you even listening to me, woman?'

Maggie twitches her head to signal a yes but it somehow comes out as a no, she's never seen him lose his temper before and for some reason it gives her a thrill. A shiver of pleasure runs up her spine as he approaches her, one calloused hand taking her by the shoulder to take her in hand. She leans into him and presses her body against his, arching her neck backwards in anticipation of his kiss. His head moves closer, till their lips are barely a whisker apart, and then with a violent shove, he pushes her aside.

‘I'm going out!' he shouts, before slamming the door.

***

Patrick does not return that night, or the night after. So Maggie decides to put him out of her mind, and go about her business and
to hell with him
, she thinks. The following day she takes the money he gave her and stocks up on food, the rest she puts away for a rainy day.

At dusk, the widow calls round and Maggie can't resist telling her of her quarrel with Patrick. It's the first time Maggie's confided in anybody and she's curious to know if all women feel such disappointment in married life, and for some reason this causes the widow to laugh till she's red in the face.

Maggie frowns. ‘What's so funny?'

‘It's a woman's lot. Drudgery, looking after your man and your children, what did you expect? So you're feeling trapped, is that it? Feel like you've got the raw deal because you're a woman and a peasant one at that?'

‘Aye,' Maggie nods.

‘Hah!' the widow mocks her. ‘What's your occupation?'

‘I'm a fishwife.'

‘Well let me tell you something, Maggie. Fishwives are probably the most independent women in the whole of Scotland because their men are always at sea, and therefore they can do as they please. There's no one around to tell them what to do, most of the time that is. They drink, they smoke, and their language would put a navvy to shame. So why on earth are you whining about nothing? You are as free as a bird and not many women have that.'

***

A shrill cry pierces the air as Anna wails at the top of her lungs. Her linen needs changing, so Maggie bends over the crib to remove her soiled napkin, screwing up her nose as the offensive smell wafts up her nostrils. Maggie lifts the child's ankles up in the air, her bottom's red raw and covered in sores, so she rubs in some fat onto her chubby buttocks and it seems to ease Anna's pain.

As always, she senses him behind her; it's his smell, like fresh air, seaweed and tar. A shiver of delight runs through her as he wraps his arms around her and kisses the back of her neck.

‘Oh, you've decided to come home have you? Well, I'm busy, Patrick, so stop that now and let me see to the baby,' she makes him wait.

Patrick ignores her and continues to kiss the nape of her neck. ‘Oh, come on, Maggie. I'm exhausted; perhaps you and I could have us an early night. I'm off in the morning to the keels to Newcastle.'

A red light flashes behind her eyes as she turns to face him, pointing a finger in his face. ‘Oh, no you're not. They'll be no more gallivanting for you. You've only just walked in the door. I want you to stay here with Anna tomorrow while I hawk fish in Edinburgh.'

Patrick shakes his head. ‘No, it's arranged. Things are quiet here at the moment so it makes sense for me to go where the work is and put food on the table.'

‘But you're never here to eat at our table!' Maggie sobs.

Dark clouds gather over her shoulder as she clambers over rocks to reach the sea. She can almost smell rain as she settles near a rock pool to pull off her shoes.
To hell with him
, she thinks, and sniffs back tears.
I'll not moan at him anymore or beg him to stay.
Nae, what's the use?
She finds that her hands are shaking, the way her father's do when he needs a drink, so she tucks them under her plaid and gazes up at the clouds.