The Hanging of Margaret Dickson

by Alison Butler

  One year later, true to form, Duncan missed the birth of his second child, a son named James. It was the last straw for Ann and a defining moment in their matrimony. Ann, a pious woman at the best of times, sought divine guidance. The kirk elders (in their desire to be rid of the drunken profligate, Duncan) were more than happy to assist them. And therefore, with the parish’s support, they moved to Musselburgh, known as ‘The Honest Toun.’ They settled near Inveresk, a cold and rough land near the coast of the Firth of Forth. It was a land of gardeners, farmers and fishermen, and if none of these professions were to Duncan’s satisfaction, there was always the nearby coalmine or saltpans. They departed at dawn, with the children wrapped up warm and testimonial of characters safe in hand. For a whole day they travelled by foot and hay-cart and together they left the horror of famine behind.

  ***

  If truth be told, Duncan has to bite his tongue while the landowner talks down to him like lord to vassal. In consolation, Duncan devotes half of his attention to the gudeman’s pretty wife, who snatches every possible opportunity to cast a swooning glance in his direction. While Duncan, his wife and children stand in rags, the shovel-faced landowner preaches to them in a new broadcloth coat, worsted stockings, silver buckled shoes and a silly little hat. He wastes no time in laying down conditions of verbal tack, thereby tying Duncan to the landowner on a short term lease.

  ‘Is there a cottage…?’ Duncan pretends not to notice the landowner scowling at having been interrupted.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes. It has land on the in-field to sow oats or peas, and a kale yard. You’ll be required to help with the ox team.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  The landowner grins and reveals yellow-brown teeth. ‘I might need a man to help clear the middens once in a while, and there’s a problem with foxes.’

  Duncan nods, but deep down seethes inside. That’s all he needs, chief shite clearer and ghillie. He hopes he won’t be labouring morning till night, with no time for drinking and women. The landowner and peasant shake hands and the deal is done. Duncan smiles at the comely gudewife and tips his hat.

  With the landowner now out of sight, he’s alone with Ann, at a loss for words. What does a man say to a sullen wife with a face like thunder? He closes his eyes and imagines finer things, a woman’s naked foot, long silken hair, pouting full lips. Without much enthusiasm he opens his eyes and searches for the figure of Ann. She stands beyond the run-rigs towards sloping ground, as if contemplating the labour yet to be done. Duncan sighs, the sad reality is, life for all but the privileged few is cruel, brutal and often short. These fields will claim their blood and strength. This is their lot. Duncan walks towards his wife, and as he does so his chest fills with air, and a deep sigh escapes his lips as a tentative hand reaches out towards her. She declines it.

  ‘We can make progress here, Duncan, let’s not waste this opportunity.’ Her face turns towards the hills that swell to higher grounds. ‘No more whoring, no more drinking or we’ll lose everything. You’ve James and Maggie to think of now.’

  Duncan’s face tilts up to the sun, his eyes darting left and right to all four corners of the sky, as though searching for the right words. ‘I cannot agree to that, wife. But I will work the land and keep us in home.’

  Ann nods, her eyes flicker with emotion. ‘Couldn’t you try?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE HONEST TOUN

  Of course, Duncan does not try. His roguish nature is fixed like limpets to rocks. And so, in the passing of ten years, Duncan Dickson does as he pleases and follows every decadent desire, and from this tree sprouts a branch, patterned with the same imperfect knots – Maggie. There is a pained expression on Ann’s face, for Duncan and Maggie are one and the same.

  Nevertheless, there is a vain hope for the child’s soul. Strict moral guidance and hard work is to be the girl’s salvation. And therefore, Maggie’s doting but ailing mother begins to impart vital knowledge to her daughter, in the hope of making her a useful, God-fearing and conscientious girl. But Maggie is not in the least interested. The practical business of learning to cook and clean, to spin and sew, she likes not, but no matter, she will learn them all.

  Therefore, Ann continues to guide her daughter, instructing her in all the domestic duties that are necessary to make her a good wife. Every day is dedicated to a new chore; washing clothes, making a fire, brewing ale and so forth. Thus, with the passing of time, and to Ann’s delight, Maggie begins to make progress. Religious instruction can be concentrated on later, Ann decides, for the time being Maggie must learn how to make rush lights for instance, but today she cannot be found. A deep scowl line mars Ann’s face as she searches the cottage, then the kale yard, but Maggie cannot be found. All day they search for Maggie across the moors and run-rigs, till Duncan finds her by the rugged coast, wild-haired and barefoot by the harbour, watching fishermen splice their ropes.

  They keep her prisoner after that and the lessons recommence. On a warm sunny day, a day no doubt Maggie would prefer to be spending out-of-doors, Ann demonstrates how to foot a stocking. Maggie observes her parent with a critical eye, finding it hard to believe her mother was once bonny and not this crooked woman of many chores. After all, what has all this domestic diligence achieved except chapped hands and swollen legs full of black spots? Once a week, near the clear waters of the Esk, her mother and countless other poor women trample dirty laundry in tubs of cold water, after that they run home to warm their legs by the fire – the result is black spots and swollen legs. Maggie winces at the thought; she doesn’t want to end up like her mother, old and wizened before her time. No wonder her father prefers the company of other lasses.

  When winter comes, the Yule brings a deep snow. Upon naked moors, shivering trees yield to a storm of swirling snowflakes, and for many weeks people huddle by their fires. The wintry weather leaves its mark on Maggie’s mother. Like the bent and twisted trees that cling to the landscape, she becomes more withered and worn. Her dull eyes only brighten at the sight of Maggie, such a spirited daughter, so different from her. Ann smiles and opens out her arms. Here she is, fresh from the harbour, and at fourteen years of age slender and comely. Men drool all over her like a dog for a flesher’s bone. Ann sighs, what to do? What else but domestic service. The sooner the better as far as Ann’s concerned, before she brings shame to their door. Ann gathers her shawl around her; of late there is a chill in her bones. Her breathing is laboured and as she holds a hand over her heart she thinks life is pitiless, as my blood weakens, my daughter’s strengthens. A pious lecture is what is needed. Ann is decided; the path of righteousness is to be Maggie’s salvation, because in her passing, Maggie has but one guardian, an incurable philanderer.

  ***

  St Michaels sits at the top of a steep hill, the shining crown of Inveresk. It’s an impressive structure surrounded by moss-stained gravestones and an abundance of weeds. At the crack of dawn, Maggie, her mother and James wait by two huge wooden doors patterned with metal rivets. To the right is a cutty stool and jougs, the collar all rusty and worn. Every Sabbath without fail the children dare each other to place it over their heads.

  Once the doors open, folk flock into kirk, pushing and shoving for one of the limited amount of seats. Maggie fights through the crowd, determined not to stand. James walks slowly behind supporting his mother’s arm. But all the seats have gone. All three of them huddle together in the dark. Rats and mice scurry over their feet, their tiny claws scratching their way around kirk fixtures in search of tasty morsels to eat. All around them, intricate wooden carvings adorn the alcoves, complimented by majestic buttresses, pillars and arches. Maggie bends her neck backwards and stares above, and she cannot be sure but she fancies that the grotesque gargoyles seem to sneer and mock the congregation below.

  As the last person enters kirk the door closes. Ragged parishioners stand shoulder to shoulder as mangy dogs run up and down the aisles. In the thick of it the stench is unbearable, and many a person holds a cl
out to their mouth or wrinkles their nose. The quality gloat from the safe distance of their comfortable seats, holding their smelling salts or vinaigrettes to their faces, well away from the rabble. The minister enters. A quick head-count is done. Woe betides the Sabbath-breaker that dares to miss a sermon, if they’re fortunate they’ll spend a day in the stocks.

  The minister begins his sermon with a typical bout of moral indignation. A feeling of dread bubbles within Maggie’s stomach. Is it possible he directs this pious speech to her? Surely not, Maggie thinks, and then flinches as a bony finger points out towards her face. His voice cuts through the air and the sermon goes on and on…

  ‘It is the congregation’s moral obligation to root out evil and sinful behaviour. Failure to do so will lead to punitive divine intervention in human affairs,’ he pauses for breath, ‘I promise you this, my congregation will be rid of impiety, and drunkenness, idleness, and cursing will not be tolerated. I have no need to remind you that only the elect, who were the followers of the true church, will achieve salvation. The sinners or reprobate will achieve eternal damnation in hell.’

  Maggie yawns.

  ***

  Prior to the passing of Maggie’s mother, a single event occurs that will determine her future. The incident in question transpires on a cold wash-day, under the Roman Bridge, near the sparkling waters of the Esk. Several lasses wash their dirty linen that day, in the Scottish way of course, with their dresses hitched up around their waists, treading away on their laundry with bare feet to trample away offending grime.

  A group of men approach the river, fishermen looking for bait: the likes of lugworms, paps or mussels. As the men settle near the edge of the Esk, most of the women blush and pull down their petticoats and wait for the men to be on their way. But not Maggie, she hitches her skirts higher and treads on her laundry with much vigour, her pretty thighs on full display. The other women raise their eyebrows and tut-tut at her brazenness, but Maggie doesn’t care, let the men have a good eyeful is what she’s thinking. Before long, two of the fishermen stick to her like dung to a cross sweeper’s shoe, and to the other women’s amazement they even help her to empty a dirty pail and carry her washing.

  ***

  Beneath the Old Roman Bridge an old fisherman spits out his pipe and stares at a young lassie passing by. Two fellow fishermen flank her; they are smitten, slavering all over her like rabid dogs. The old fisherman closes his gaping mouth. It’s impossible to take his eyes off her. After a while he averts his gaze and presses a hand over his heart. There is a great weight pressing down on his breast, but to his utmost relief the pain soon passes. Damnation, she’s stirred up feelings inside of him he’s not experienced for years. He turns to the young lugger, Patrick next to him, busy sorting his bait.

  ‘Look at those couple of Jack Tars with a lassie up yonder. Why don’t you go with them, Patrick?’

  ‘With that trollop? Not a chance.’

  ‘But did you see her? What a beauty and did you see the size of her…? Well I expect you know what I mean, you’d have to have been blind not to notice that one.’

  ‘I’ve seen her kind before; they bring nothing but trouble.’

  The old mariner laughs revealing a toothless mouth. ‘You’ve gone soft in the heid, lad. If I was but a few years younger, I’d rattle her bones, I would!’

  ‘Not me,’ declares Patrick Spence in a stern voice.

  The old fisherman scratches his head. Nevertheless, he notices how the young man’s eyes remain in the direction of the bridge long after the girl is gone.

  ***

  Before Ann goes to meet her maker, she has but one dying wish – she asks her husband to take Maggie to see the new assistant minister, Robert Bonaloy at kirk.

  ‘Why?’ moans Duncan. ‘You know Maggie. She’s not one for kirk.’

  Ann wrings her hands together. ‘Aye and I wonder where she gets that from. Just do as I ask, please. I don’t ask for much. This new minister will lead Maggie to the path of salvation. She must learn to obey God’s will.’

  Duncan shakes his head. ‘Waste of time if you ask me.’

  Ann persists. ‘Our daughter must be brought up in strict attendance of the Worship of God. This is to be her salvation.’

  The following day Duncan carries out his wife’s dying wish. But such is life; things do not go according to plan because Maggie develops a wild passion for the new minister. And so begins Maggie’s penchant for craving something that she simply cannot have.

  ‘I could be at the Ten Bells now having a dram,’ Duncan grumbles as he drags his daughter up the hill to St Michaels, ‘you could pray till there’s no skin on your knees, Maggie, but you’ll not mend your ways.’ He places a finger to the tip of his nose. ‘Ask me how I know?’

  ‘Please reveal all,’ she replies.

  ‘You and I are of the same mould, Maggie. You cannot change your true nature, lass. It’s who you are.’ He winks and pushes her in the direction of the minister.

  ***

  Assistant Minister Bonaloy and the Dickson girl enter kirk after prayers. More than a few kirk elders cast curious glances at them as they walk briskly towards the cloisters. The new minister directs her to a small wooden bench and prompts her to sit. Against his better judgement he sits beside her and examines the girl. She has the kind of face that one simply must stare at, and so he does for the longest time, unable to process such beauty. Unconsciously he looks for flaws, and if he finds one it is that her mouth is too large, and her eyes too knowing for a lass of fifteen. He moves closer, but not so close that he touches her knees. Without thinking he stretches out a hand to her face. There’s a slight tremble in his touch as tentative fingers settle beneath a bruised and swollen eye socket.

  ‘You’ve a blackened eye. Why?’

  ‘It’s nothing. A farm laddie cornered me at the back of a cowshed.’

  ‘And what were you doing there? On second thoughts, never mind, no matter. Does your father know?’

  ‘Aye,’ says she.

  ‘And did he punish you?’

  ‘Whatever for? I’ve committed no sin.’ She crosses her arms and her bottom lip pouts like a sulky child.

  The minister’s face softens, his gaze drawn to her full lips. The girl’s mother has a right to be concerned; he loosens his collar and crosses his arms. As he scrutinises her, he imagines the lassie’s confounded, caught in the middle of woman and girl. He decides to change the subject and introduces himself.

  ‘I expect you know who I am. I’m the new minister, Robert Bonaloy. And you are?’

  ‘Maggie Dickson.’

  ‘Well, Maggie. Your mother has asked me to have a wee talk with you. I’m under the impression she thinks you’re in need of moral guidance, and I couldn’t help noticing that she is ailing somewhat…’

  ‘My mother need not be troubled. I am perfectly fine.’

  The girl’s face saddens. All of a sudden he becomes at odds with himself, craving to comfort her, veins bulging in his neck as he longs to lean forward. For a while this inner battle rages on and then he shrinks backwards to clasp his beloved bible to his heart, like a magic and godly shield.

  ‘Have you learnt the catechisms, child?’

  Maggie shakes her head.

  ‘No? Why ever not? I’ll read them to you.’ His eyes look away as she removes her plaid. ‘Come here and kneel with me.’ He sinks to his knees and gestures for her to join him. Maggie kneels beside him, inching closer and closer, till one of her knees brushes against his, causing him to move away.

  ‘May I ask you a question?’ she asks with a bold stare.

  ‘Of course,’ he replies.

  ‘Are you married, Minister Bonaloy?’

  ‘Yes, yes I am. Betty and I have been married a year.’

  ‘Is it a sin to look at another woman when you are married?’

  ‘Whatever do you mean? Look at in what way, child?’

  ‘As a man looks at a woman and acknowledges her as a woman.’


  The minister shivers. ‘It is sinful for a man who is married or betrothed to look at another woman, for to do so is to commit adultery in the heart.’

  Maggie shakes her head. ‘But ‘tis a natural thing, is it not?’

  ‘No. It is not,’ he replies in a harsh voice.

  ‘So, you’ve never looked at another woman since you became wed?’

  The minister cradles his bible to his chest. ‘No, well not in that way, to do so would be disrespectful to my wife. Can’t you see that?’

  Maggie raises her eyes and scowls; the action wrinkles her pretty face. ‘Can’t see the harm in it myself, isn’t it the same as appreciating a beautiful sunset or the sound of a bird in song?’

  ‘Lead us not into temptation, Maggie. We must remain chaste, wholesome and free of sin. Think of your eternal soul. Do you want to be cast into eternal damnation?’

  ‘Of course not, but I have committed no sin,’ Maggie huffs.

  The minister suddenly feels a great weight upon his shoulders. ‘You must learn to obey the will of God, Maggie. Now let us pray.’

  ***

  At the river bank, Patrick sees her again, the bonny washer lassie from Musselburgh, sporting a black eye. Not that it detracts from her beauty in any way. He knows it is only a matter of time before she disgraces herself, so he keeps his distance and watches from afar. But despite his reservations he soon finds himself drawn to her – there is something earthy and iniquitous about her. Thus, it is with a heavy heart he departs from the river that day, for he would have liked to walk over to that girl, and push the other men away. But he has neither the courage nor conviction.