The Hanging of Margaret Dickson Page 11

  ‘You’ve got your arms full, Maggie. Do you need any help?

  ‘Just here to collect some bait, Agnes.’

  ‘I’ll collect some bait for you or hold Anna.’

  Maggie stares upwards into Agnes’s face, suddenly her stomach lurches. Just the sight of her makes her wary for some reason. There is something odd about her face and the way her eyes gaze into empty space. ‘That’s very kind of you, Agnes, but no. I’m fine. I’m in no rush. I’m just here to collect some bait and go home.’

  ‘No washing then? It is wash day, you know.’

  ‘No. Like I said, I’m fine; the laundry can be done tomorrow.’ Maggie glances at Agnes from the corner of her eye, her stockings are odd again and there’s a quantity of heather and gorse in her hair.

  Agnes persists. ‘I am free to look after the children tomorrow if you want. You could collect more bait or go to market.’

  ‘There’s no need. The widow is always on hand to take care of my bairns.’ Maggie breathes a sigh of relief as Agnes walks away.

  It isn’t long before an old farmwoman takes pity on her and watches the two little ones while she collects bait. With a double-bladed knife, Maggie shells a quantity of mussels until she’s satisfied she has enough.

  At the cottage, Maggie places little Patrick inside the cradle and collects some gear together. Into a fishing basket she adds a knife, a heather brush and some strips of cloth to bind her fingers. With Anna safe in her arms, she picks up the basket and makes her way to the harbour. Patrick’s boat is in, beached on the shingle shore. She runs towards him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.

  ‘I left the baby sleeping. I thought you might need a hand with the boat and your catch.’

  ‘I managed without you,’ he says gruffly. ‘I’ve already sold most of the fish but I saved some for you. Did you bait the other line?’

  ‘No, I forgot. I’m sorry, Patrick. I did get the bait though.’

  ‘It’s all right. I know it’s sore on the fingers, lassie. I’ll bait the lines later. I shot six lines from the skulls today and there’s still plenty of fish for you to hawk.’ He takes Anna from her arms so she can sort the fish.

  Maggie’s apron is soaked by the time she’s done. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she hesitates, deciding whether or not to kiss him, but packs up her creel instead.

  ‘Don’t forget Anna,’ he frowns, holding out their child to her. ‘And Maggie. I’ll be off in the morning again and I don’t know for how long.’

  Maggie swallows a lump back in her throat and turns away.

  The mariner, Billy Swindles, blocks her path as she makes her way home. He’s stinking drunk as usual, and carries a bottle of grog under his arm. ‘Where’s your father?’

  ‘In the tavern I expect, in a similar state to you.’

  He laughs and displays teeth, green with algae. Bloodshot eyes ogle her as if she’s a dockside whore.

  ‘Your father’s a good man. Heart of gold has Duncan. Well I’ll expect he’ll be home soon.’

  ‘The tavern is his home,’ she says through clenched teeth.

  The baby’s still sleeping when she returns. She places Anna next to him and crouches near the hearth, clutching her empty stomach.

  A soothing glow radiates from the fire; Maggie stares into the crackling flames and allows her weary head to slump to the soft ground.

  ***

  Lammas is the last of the three fishing seasons after Beltane and Johnmas, a quarter day in Scotland. It’s time for fairs and a welcome rest for farming folk. In bygone days, couples used to meet up at Lammas for the handfasting ceremonies. Many couples married this way, by a wandering priest or over the blacksmith’s anvil.

  Folk bring their horses to swim in the sea at Lammas, and the kirk ministers always kick up a right fuss as it’s thought to be a pagan tradition. But when all is said and done, it’s a time for good cheer and festivity, and for folk to dance by bonfires as pipers play a merry tune. Maggie waits for Patrick near the foreshore, amidst the revelry. He agreed to meet her and the children, but as the sky darkens, she realises he’s not coming. While her attention is momentarily elsewhere, a hand taps her shoulder.

  ‘Hello, Maggie,’ calls a familiar voice.

  ‘Hello, Minister Bonaloy,’ Maggie beams, more than pleased to see him.

  ‘Are you all alone? You could do with some help I see. Allow me to walk you home. But first of all, allow me to get you and the children something to eat,’ he holds out his hands to Anna.

  ***

  The baby is crying as Maggie drags on her old boots. She ignores the shrill wails and pulls up her stockings at top speed, before grabbing her plaid. When Jean Ramsay arrives to look after the children, she flies out the door.

  In record time Maggie reaches Edinburgh. It’s a busy day and the air is hot and sticky, and so she proceeds to a well for a drop of water, before she hawks her fish and returns home. A mixture of folk wait in the line, women, young boys, exhausted water-carriers. Before long, Maggie grows impatient, keen to be on her way. As she waits in the queue, one of her stockings fall down.

  ‘Damnation,’ she cries and tilts forward, lifting up her petticoats to reveal a shapely thigh. With one leg stretched out in front of her she pulls up her stocking and ties it with a knot.

  Intent in her task, a wisp of hair tickles the back of Maggie’s neck as she secures her stocking. And then, all of a sudden the tickling becomes stronger, like a prickling sensation, and to be sure she has the distinct sensation that someone or something is watching her.

  ‘May I help you?’ asks a strange voice.

  A mature man of quality stands before her offering his hand. He wears a powdered white wig that makes it impossible to determine his age. Maggie stares into his eyes. He’s handsome, aristocratic and superbly arrogant, and when he smiles he sends blood rushing up her veins. With an open jaw she examines his clothes; they’re simply stunning – silken blue knee-breeches decorated with tiny gems, and an exquisite velvet coat, embroidered with silver thread.

  ‘What fine breeding stock you are. What is your name, pretty wench?’

  ‘Maggie,’ she answers, tugging down her petticoats and skirts.

  The man takes a step forward and pulls out from his pocket a silver egg-shaped vinaigrette containing smelling salts. ‘A pretty name, indeed,’ he leans forward and unscrews the top of his silver egg, picks out a sponge and holds it to his nose. ‘I’m not in the habit of conversing with young ladies of your station, but I happened to notice that there was a problem with your…’ Suddenly he seems lost for words. ‘…attire.’

  Maggie drops the prettiest curtsey and steals a half-shy glance at him. ‘My attire is in perfect order now, sir.’

  The man leans in closer and whispers in her ear. ‘I do believe that you are the prettiest wench I have ever seen. How old are you? Fifteen or sixteen?’

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘You look much younger,’ says the gentleman, holding the sponge to his face. ‘I was just on my way to the pleasure gardens near Queen Mary’s bath house. Would you care to join me?’

  Maggie points to the creel of fish. ‘I’m busy, sir. I have fish to sell.’

  The gentleman turns a frown. ‘Are you sure? It’s not far. If one wanders towards Holyrood Palace, one is bound to come across it. You won’t be disappointed.’ His voice is persuasive and pleasing to the ear.

  ‘Aye, I might do that one day,’ Maggie nods, watching him walk away.

  She watches him walk into the distance for the longest time, wondering if she’s being foolish in refusing his invitation. When all of a sudden, a fat woman in the queue for water nudges her in her ribs and says: ‘You’re an ignorant sow! Why didn’t you go with him? You must be insane. I’d have gone with him for sure. And it’s a wonder he came within an inch of you with the smell of that fish.’

  Maggie shrugs. ‘What’s does someone like him want with a lassie like me? And besides, I’ve fish to sell,’ replies Maggie, poi
nting to her creel. ‘And a husband at home.’

  ‘Haven’t we all, lass, haven’t we all. Where is he now? Have you any little ones to feed?’

  Maggie nods, ‘Aye, I have two.’

  The fat woman shrugs. ‘Have they any food in their bellies? You’re all skin and bone! Look at me, fat and content, because I take what I can in life.’

  Maggie stands rooted to the spot, suddenly regretting her decision. She drinks water from the well and strolls towards the fish market. The usual banter, eloquent speech, a pert tilt of the head, and her fish is sold. With her creel empty, she takes her time walking home, and without thinking her gait gravitates towards the pleasure gardens and the whisper of a thrill.

  ***

  It’s as though she’s stepped into another world. A magical courtyard flanked by luscious greenery and vibrant flowers, such a contrast to the drab grey vista of Edinburgh. The air’s heavy with the sweet scent of freshly cut lawns, she raises one eyebrow and observes one, two, no, three couples in the act of copulation. Maggie shudders inside, her breathing’s shallow and her legs tremble with guilty pleasure. As she drinks in the rhythmic movements, the stolen kisses and fervent desire, her gaze becomes drawn to one couple in particular. She can’t take her eyes off them, and her hand instinctively begins to caress her own neck and trail downwards to her décolleté.

  ‘Enjoying the scenery?’

  Maggie turns around, her face flushing a shade of deep ruby claret. ‘You startled me,’ she says, removing her hand from her hot skin.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

  Bells ring in the distance as her eyes return to a courting couple, lost in the throes of passion. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that before.’

  ‘It’s perfectly natural,’ he licks his lips.

  ‘For dog or swine perhaps, but not folk – and in plain view for all to see.’

  The gentleman’s eyes widen and sparkle with mirth. ‘You are quite the innocent, how delightful.’ He pauses and pulls a gold fob watch from his jacket. ‘Anyway, I must bid you farewell. I have business at the coffee house.’

  ‘What is your business, sir?’ Maggie doesn’t want him to go.

  ‘My business?’ His expression is one of amusement. ‘Oh, this and that, my dear. I suppose I do what most gentlemen do to pass time away: I gamble away my inheritance. Good heavens, you are the most desirable thing but that dreadful smell,’ he coughs into a handkerchief.

  ‘Tis the fish,’ she shrugs and points to the pail. Maggie can’t take her eyes off him. He’s utterly fascinating to observe, his manner and speech so different from common folk.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he repeats and moves towards her, one smooth finger tilting her chin backwards so that he can peer at her face. ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘Despite the muck and stench?’

  ‘I could tell you were a beauty through six layers of dirt,’ he adds with a fixed look.

  Maggie’s canny. She bends at the knee and bows forward to allow him a splendid view; her eyes face the floor then flicker upwards at the very last moment to meet his eyes.

  ‘That’s very kind of you to say so, sir. But I’m taking up too much of your time and so I’ll be on my way.’ She turns to walk away.

  ‘Maggie,’ he walks after her, blocking her way. ‘I’ve been frightfully rude. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Alexander McGregor. I am very pleased to meet you, Maggie.’ He holds out his hand.

  She pauses for a while before taking his hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alexander. But now I really should be on my way.’

  ‘But I simply must see you again,’ he demands.

  ‘I’m very busy, sir. I have a family and my fish to sell.’

  To Maggie’s utter amazement, he dips at the knee in an elaborate bow and brings his soft mouth to her hand, kissing it as if she’s a lady. If the fishwives could see her now, they would pee themselves with laughter. She shakes her hand away, suddenly ashamed by their coarseness and filth.

  ‘Please allow me the pleasure of your company again?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps…’

  ‘Until we meet again. I will not take no for an answer, Maggie.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE SINS OF EVE

  The sound of the widow’s cane tapping on the wattle and daub wall is by far the most vexing noise. Tap, tap goes the cane as Maggie crosses the room, wiping sleep from her eyes and stubbing her toe on a wooden toy.

  ‘All right, I’m coming,’ Maggie screams, thinking how much she’d like to stick that cane up the widow’s backside. ‘Stop banging the damned cane,’ she whines as she opens the door to usher the old woman inside. ‘The bairns have just gone back to sleep so be quiet.’

  ‘It’s the middle of the day and don’t curse. Your poor wee mother will turn in her grave.’

  ‘Midday? Surely not. The sun’s not even over the brae.’

  The widow clucks. ‘Been up since the crack of dawn, I have, unlike some. My poor feet are killing me. I bring gifts, a chicken for the pot and a parsnip.’ The widow’s brows knot together, her face scrutinising the vegetable in her hand. ‘Look at that, Maggie; it’s like the shape of a man’s…’

  Maggie pushes her towards the fire and smiles. ‘Aye, a fine maypole that is, Widow. Put it to the side, I’ll save that for later.’

  ‘Maggie, you’re a wicked girl. Anyway, have you heard the news?’

  Here we go, thinks Maggie. It’s no wonder the widow’s always getting into trouble, spreading gossip and causing trouble. And so Maggie says: ‘No, I’ve better things to do than listen to idle gossip. Sleeping for instance, that’s a more enjoyable pastime.’ Maggie pulls a face.

  ‘Nonsense, lassie. What woman can’t resist a bit of gossip?’ says the widow, slapping her warty forehead. ‘You know the brewster woman from near the Old Roman Bridge?’

  ‘There are lots of brewster women. Which one?’

  ‘You know – the one with the bad leg and red hair. Well she was beaten by her husband for drinking too much of her own strong brew. And do you know that farmer at Inveresk? Peculiar fellow, you know, the one with the wife who looks like she has a beard. Well he’s been caught interfering with his cows again.’

  ‘Hah! You’ve seen his wife? I don’t blame him,’ Maggie laughs.

  ‘Oh, Maggie, that’s shocking talk.’

  ‘Well, she’s a right sour-faced cow.’

  ‘Cow? You said cow and he’s been...’ Widow Arrock cackles and then covers her mouth, suddenly ashamed of her jesting.

  Maggie pats her on the arm. ‘I did hear something.’

  The widow’s ears prick up like a ravenous hound. ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘About a Quaker. Have you heard? Near Haddington, I think. He wouldn’t let folk graze their animals on his land. So they flogged him and cut through his tongue with a red hot poker.’

  ‘Did he have a family?’ the widow enquires.

  ‘Aye, banished.’

  ‘That’s a sad business.’

  ‘Have you seen my father?’

  Maggie fixes her eyes on the widow, watching the widow’s face turn crimson and her lips purse together. A moment passes before she replies.

  ‘Aye, I have seen him, Maggie and he’s a devil as always.’

  ‘Where did you see him?’

  ‘I caught him coming out of the manse one morning tucking his shirt in. He’s been dallying with one of the minister’s daughters again.’

  ‘Again?’ Maggie sucks in her breath. ‘And they’re both so young, surely not?’

  The widow clucks her tongue. ‘Aye, well when your father’s concerned nothing surprises me. I gave him a right tongue lashing, I did. But he told me to mind my own business and assured me that he was merely trying to educate the lasses, making them think for themselves instead of following the flock, whatsoever that means.’

  ‘Was he drunk?’

  Widow Arrock laughs. ‘Hah! Of course he was drunk. Your father’s a
lways drunk. God knows how he does it. Even when folk think he’s sober, he’s half-cut. Never been any different since the day he moved here from Temple. Your mother told me he stayed sober long enough to secure a cottage and then slowly drifted to his old ways.’

  ‘No one can accuse him of not knowing how to have a good time,’ Maggie shrugs.

  ‘He drove your poor mother to her grave.’

  ‘Now that’s not true. She was ill and nature took its course. It was God’s will.’

  ‘All right, all right, I’ll mind my own business. Some things are best left unsaid,’ whines the widow as she reaches for her wooden cane.

  ‘Aye, they are. Thank you for the chicken.’

  ‘You’re welcome, my lovely.’

  The widow places one hand on the table, putting her weight on it before bending her knees. ‘My, I’m getting old.’

  ***

  More often than not, before Maggie reaches the High Street, a barrage of hucksters and forestallers hinder her way. But with brute force she pushes and nudges her way through them, eager to reach her destination. Nearly there, she thinks, a pain in the pit of her stomach as she sprints along the wynds. A cross-road looms ahead, the palace grounds clearly visible beyond. But before she reaches it something prompts her to stop in her tracks and stare up into the sky.

  Against the backdrop of a leaden grey sky, a gibbet creaks back and forth in the wind. A pale woman stands beneath it, waiting to catch his bones. Maggie closes her eyes to block out the eerie

  spectre – the image of a decomposing man, birds feasting on his rotting and putrid flesh.

  ***

  The air smells of rain. Soon a fine drizzle covers her face, washing away the grime and filth. Without thinking she walks to the pleasure gardens and then the coffee house, but the fine gentleman is not there. With drooped shoulders Maggie walks towards the fish market and sets down her creel. Along the way, the lassies at the fruit market cheer her. They’re as bawdy and vulgar as the fishwives and always have a funny tale to tell. Creel empty, she heads away from the fish market and crosses the street, proceeding downhill towards Anchor Close. There’s a little tavern there by the name of Dawney Douglas where the rich folk are said to frequent. Outside, a small group of gentlemen sit playing dice.