On a beautiful day in May, Maggie Dickson and Patrick Spence give their names to be proclaimed in order to be married in the old kirk of St Michaels in Inveresk. Their date of marriage set for 3 June, 1715.
***
Inside the Musselburgh Arms, near the tolbooth, patrons drink a toast to the betrothed couple. It’s gaming night and so the wedding party huddles around an old beer-stained table, shouting to one another to be heard above the din. A serving wench brings a full tray of ale and points to a handsome man propped up against the bar. Duncan winks in their direction and raises a jar of frothy beer.
Patrick’s father, George Spence shouts above the rumpus. ‘Has the lassie got a dowry by any chance?’
‘Aye, I have.’
James shushes her as though she’s incapable of answering him. ‘Allow me to speak for you, Maggie.’
‘Damn men and their superiority,’ Maggie curses to herself and sits back in her chair. A tight smile stretches across her face as she seethes inside. Patrick places a consoling arm around her; she brushes it aside and glares at her brother, unable to appreciate, as yet, the important role he is willing to play.
James clears his voice. ‘Since Maggie was a wee lassie our mother, friends and neighbours have helped to collect and make bed linen, furniture, blankets and the like for Maggie’s dowry. There’s a suckling pig for her and other odds and ends. She’s not coming to Patrick empty-handed mind; she’s a fine catch.’
‘Oh, I don’t doubt that,’ says George, his gaze remaining on Maggie’s figure a fraction too long. His wife, Barbara, cuffs him around the ear with the back of her hand.
‘What did you do that for, you daft bat?’ George glares at his wife.
‘You know why, and don’t do it again or I’ll slap your other lug-hole.’
In the midst of this quarrel, Maggie notices Patrick looking at her father with a curious, puzzled face. Duncan is on his feet, swaying back and forth, his hat on back to front, and he seems to have lost the use of one eye.
‘Your father looks like he needs to go home.’
Maggie shrugs, indifferent to her father’s behaviour. ‘He’s only just started. Once he takes one drink he has to have more. Oh no, here he comes.’ She winces.
‘Well, what’s all this then?’ Duncan slurs.
‘Your daughter’s getting married,’ declares George in an offhand manner. ‘And your son has taken your place giving her away. Haven’t you heard?’
Duncan wobbles on his feet. ‘Oh, the indignity of it. No matter, Maggie, he’s a better man than I.’
‘Well wouldn’t you like to know when?’ George runs his hand through what is left of his hair.
‘When what?’
‘When they are to be wed.’ George shakes his head.
‘When?’
George informs Duncan of the date.
‘Perfect. You two choose to get married when the bastard Jacobites are planning an uprising. What timing!’
George sniggers and mumbles under his breath, ‘What would a drunk know about politics?’
Duncan laughs. ‘Every Scottish man should know about politics or those damned Sassenachs would run us out of our own country. Why do you think they don’t want a Stuart to reclaim the throne? Answer me that, fisherman.’
‘That’s obvious, pal; they don’t want a Catholic.’
Duncan shakes his head. ‘Nae, the English couldn’t care less. He’s German, with a couple of mistresses to keep him happy. The Stuarts are of a Scottish line, and the Sassenach’s would rather have a German running the country than a Scottish descendent. Anyway, where was I?’ Duncan staggers back to the bar; carefully turning his hat until it faces the right way.
***
Long ago, on the east bank of the river at Fisherrow, there was once an old almshouse. It stood near the west end of Market Street and was a great comfort to the poor, ill and destitute. But those days are long gone and now Fisherrow has one main street, with soaring tenements built up on both sides. Beyond the tenements are a multitude of fisherman’s cottages, in several rows leading to a busy harbour.
From Martimes to Candlemas, a school house operates here, recently built at the west end of Magdelen Chapel. Its traditional medieval roof thatched with turfs dug from the town’s common lands.
A saltwife cries out her wares and shuffles along with her creel on her back, unhappy in her toil. With much reluctance Maggie stops her and can’t help but notice how her mouth slants to one side, as though she’s suffered an injury of some kind. Before she loses courage, Maggie asks her if she could direct her to Watts Close where the fishermen dwell. The saltwife grumbles and directs her to halfway along the tenements to a group of white cottages.
‘It’s up there, by the sea mill.’
It takes Maggie longer than she thinks to reach it. Nevertheless, when she reaches Watts Close she realises how close she is to the harbour.
‘Maggie,’ a deep voice calls out.
About half way down the wynd, Patrick waves to her. Silhouetted by the sunlit harbour, he stands by a small cottage, his stance tall and proud. Maggie squints into the sun and walks towards him, with every step she resists the urge to run, and soon she has a better view of the dwelling. It has large stores at ground level for a good catch, and fishing gear with living accommodation above. At the entrance, near a little wooden door is a hook for drying fish. Below, an abundance of fishing nets, creels, baskets and skulls are on hand for line and sea fishing. Near the steps, Patrick waits, his eyes never leaving her face as she walks towards him.
‘You took your time.’ His forehead creases. ‘Why is your hair uncovered? Shouldn’t you have it under a cap or tied with a fillet?’
Maggie pulls a face at him. ‘No, I like my hair like this,’ she smiles, tossing her locks to one side.
‘I really think you should keep your head covered in future, it’s not fitting. Put it on now,’ he squeezes her hand and guides her up the steps.
Maggie changes the subject. ‘Why didn’t you tell me it was near the harbour?’
‘I did,’ he says.
‘Are you going to show me inside our new home or are we going to stay out here all day in the cold?’
‘Aye, but no kisses, Maggie. My mother might arrive at any moment, says she wants to give this place a wee clean.’
Maggie huffs. The last thing she wants is an interfering woman. ‘I can clean it myself.’
The wind in Musselburgh is like no other, blustering, bitter and incessant. Hand in hand they ascend the stone steps that lead to the fisherman’s dwelling. The interior is surprisingly warm, fat walls keep out the cold wind and drown out all noise from outside. With bright eyes, Maggie skips around the dwelling to explore every nook and cranny, and to imagine hers and Patrick’s possessions positioned inside.
‘Patrick. Look here, there is a small window.’
‘Aye, I’ve seen it. The glass isn’t broken, it’s just dirty and needs a bit of spit on a clout to clean it. Your chore,’ he nods to her.
‘More like your mother’s.’
‘Less of that, Maggie, you should be grateful for the help.’
‘I just want us to be left alone.’
‘There’s no rush. Patience, my love.’
Maggie presses her finger onto the grimy windowpane; it feels cold and smooth to the touch. She draws a star in the dirt; it makes a squeaking sound with every line. Happy with her handiwork she wipes her finger on her skirts and crosses the room to his extended hand. A delicious shiver shoots up her spine as he takes her hand in his own and presses it to his lips. In a trance, Maggie follows him out of the dwelling.
‘Next time we come here, I’ll be carrying you over the threshold.’
Maggie smiles and then turns a frown. ‘Aye, I can’t believe it.’
***
Upon the ancient rocks at Joppa, Maggie observes white caps explode against rocks misshapen by a thundering sea. Is there a more beautiful place, she wonders? She fancies not. A solan goose
circles above her head, and it seems to spread its wings like a majestic angel to a dying sun. For a while, she follows its progress and becomes lost in thought. A bitter taste fills her mouth – in a short while her husband will be her master and she must do his bidding. With a sickened heart Maggie stands to leave. Beyond the rocks she catches sight of a splendid ship on the horizon, its intricate rigging and a fine figurehead cutting through the wind. There’s a wild desire in her heart to be on-board the ship, as one with the wind and sea.
‘If only I were a man,’ she whispers into the salt breeze.
A hungry guillemot mews above her head, soaring towards the fishwives who gut fish near the shore. The fishwives are a fearsome lot, feisty, outspoken and coarse. Maggie observes them from the corner of her eye and notes the muscles in their arms as they lift huge creels of fish onto their backs. Curious about a fisher lassies lot, she’d asked Patrick about the fishwives, and he’d told her that they’re strong independent women, used to being alone while their men are at sea. Maggie approaches the boat shore, her legs trembling and shaking, feeling as though she’s approaching an unknown barbaric land. As she stoops by some rocks, one fisherwoman in particular catches her eye. She has dirty clouts tied around her neck and a masculine weather-beaten face. There’re all kinds of fish set out around her, and the fisherwoman has spread them out on the rocks in neat little rows. Maggie takes a deep breath and steps towards her.
‘Hello, missus. What you doing?’
‘What the devil does it look like? I’m sortin’ the catch. You’re Patrick Spence’s lassie, aren’t you? Going to be a fisher lassie soon?’
‘Aye, I am,’ replies Maggie. She lifts some seaweed to her nose and inhales its bitter scent.
The fishwife stops what she’s doing and stands still. A dangerous looking knife dangles from a belt tied to her apron and skirts. Her gaze is intense as though she’s deciding if Maggie’s up to the job. ‘So you’ve decided to come to the harbour and take a wee look at what we do then? That takes some guts, girl,’ she nods.
The fisher lassie’s nimble fingers slice through a slimy fish. Greedy gulls swoop from above in pursuit of tasty morsels. She stops again and peers at her abruptly, as though vexed at being interrupted in her work. ‘Are you still here?’
‘Aye,’ says Maggie.
‘Do you want me to show you the ropes, is that it?’
Maggie stares at the woman’s torn fingers covered in strips of cloth. ‘Aye, missus. If you’re busy, I’ll return later.’
The fishwife cackles. ‘Lassie, you’ll get nowhere with that attitude. Be bold. I’ve seen you with the fishermen. You’re not shy with them now, are you?’
‘What’s your name, missus?’ Maggie asks.
‘That’s better. My name is Isobel, Isobel Tait. That’s my husband over there, Jack bastard Tar,’ she laughs and waves at a short, stocky man baiting a six-stringed line into a wicker skull. ‘Aye, we know your Patrick, he’s a good man. You’ve much to learn, lass. I’m busy now but if you come here tomorrow, I’ll try and help.’
Maggie smiles and thanks her, pleased that someone is willing to teach her. She walks away and then realises that she’s not asked what time. She turns and calls out, ‘Isobel. What time should I come to the harbour?’
‘Sunrise, and don’t be late.’
***
On the horizon, where the light blue heavens meet a turquoise sea, a beautiful sunrise streaks the sky soft yellow, pink, and blazing orange. Shadowy silhouettes of sailing boats bob on a glittering water, and the warm sun reflects off its surface, casting a soft glow on the ebbing tide. A hissing noise fills Maggie’s ears as a current of air whips up the sand, with both hands she covers her eyes and rubs away the grit till her vision returns. When she opens her eyes an astonishing scene greets her. Into the wading waters go the fishwives. Their skirts hiked up and tied around trim waists so that their bare legs are exposed. But it’s the sight of the fishermen sat on their backs that surprises her, clear of the water until safely aboard their boats.
‘We carry the men to the boats so their clothes and sea boots don’t get wet. You see, if they board ship with wet clothes, they’d never get the damned things dry.’
‘You startled me,’ says Maggie. ‘When did you get here?’
‘Just got here. Saw you gawping at the women carrying the men to the boats. It’s not as difficult as you think you know.’
‘You’re jesting. You’ve seen Patrick and the size of him.’
‘You’ll be amazed what you can do.’
A swallow circles above. Maggie peers at it as it swoops into the waters before soaring off again into the sky.
‘The swallow’s a sign of good weather, lassie. See the gulls too?’
Maggie cups one hand over her eyes, squinting into the bright sky. ‘Aye. What of them?’
Isobel’s face turns grave. ‘Seagulls are thought to be the souls of those drowned at sea.’
Maggie continues to stare at them. As far as she’s concerned they’re noisy flying rats, forever in pursuit of food. And yet the harbour or any shore for that matter would seem desolate without them.
Isobel prattles on. ‘Fisher folk are a superstitious lot, Maggie. Have I mentioned nets? Don’t ever step over fishing nets barefoot; otherwise the nets cannot be used again. And don’t say any of these words in front of the fishermen: pig, that’s a bad one. Oh and rabbit or hare, fox or salt. Do you want to know more?’
Maggie shakes her head.
The women return from launching the boats, their clothes soaking wet and skirts tied around their waists. A group of them walk over to the rocks. From the look of them they seem to have lost something and then Maggie realises that they’re searching through the rocks. But why, she wonders? They are quite odd; perhaps they are looking for crabs or starfish, she thinks.
‘What are they doing now?’ Maggie asks.
‘They’re collecting heavy rocks to act as ballasts; those rocks weigh a boat down and control buoyancy. It can mean the difference between life and death choosing the right ones.’
‘Should we help?’
Isobel shrugs. ‘You’re not one of us yet.’
Maggie looks out across the shingle, a determined look in her eyes. ‘Can I carry your creel?’
Isobel shakes her head and explains, ‘It’s full to the brim. You’ll never take the weight. These things take time, Maggie.’
Maggie ignores her and strolls over to the willow creel, its hessian strap all withered and worn. A glazed look crosses Maggie’s face as she bends to lift the creel. To Maggie’s utter displeasure, Isobel follows her and barks out an order.
‘Don’t you be lifting it yourself, you daft beggar. You’ll be falling on your backside. Wait. I’ll help to attach the strap to your shoulders, so keep still.’
Maggie whines, ‘I can do it. I can do it.’ She holds out her hands in front of her to carry the creel.
Isobel cackles. ‘Nae, you don’t carry it like that. Like this.’
A glitter sparkles in Maggie’s eye as the heavy creel is lowered onto her back. For a short moment Isobel faces her, as though waiting for her to drop the creel. But to Maggie’s amazement she takes the weight and takes a few steps. ‘See, it’s easy.’ But Maggie’s progress is short-lived; it starts with a buzzing in the ears. After that an explosion of bright colours burst from beneath her eyelids. However much she ignores the pounding in her ears, it’s to no avail and all colour drains from her face.
An amused expression crosses Isobel’s face as she removes the heavy load. ‘You’re trying to run before you can walk, Maggie. Don’t be too disheartened.’
Maggie slumps to the floor, perched atop a mound of rotting seaweed. A cold sweat covers her whole body. And as she looks out to sea, for no reason at all she thinks of her mother.
***
Maggie returns to the boat shore every day after that, eager to learn. She meets up with plenty more fisher lassies and they’re a lively lot. Most of all, Maggie
’s astonished by the women’s strength and the manner that they talk to one another. They employ a rude kind of eloquence and witticism that’s crucial when selling fish in Edinburgh or at local fish markets. But when all is said and done they’re a rowdy lot; loud, crude, bawdy and absolutely hilarious.
With the fisher lassies’ help and guidance, it takes just one week for Maggie to learn how to sort a catch. In no time at all Maggie learns to gut, clean, split open and salt the fish and before long her fingers and hands are red raw. With a knowing look the fisher lassies show her how to bandage her fingers to protect them but to Maggie’s mind they never seem to heal, because every time she dips her hands into salty water it feels like her flesh is being torn apart. Then there are the dreaded creels – she carries a small one at first and then progresses to heavier loads and bigger creels. In time, Maggie builds up her strength and learns to take the jeering banter when she falls on her behind. The more thick-skinned she becomes the more they accept her. One thing is for sure, there’s no room for sentimentality or mollycoddling with this bunch.
CHAPTER FOUR
ST MICHAELS, INVERESK – 3 JUNE 1715
The first wild roses bloom in June. Soon follows a scorching sun, drying out the grass and making the earth hard and dusty. When the land is like this, Maggie shivers in her bones because there’s no question her father will require her in the fields to perform backbreaking labour from sun-up till sun-down. God knows the only saving grace is when James lends a hand, when he can, subject to his weaving. Nevertheless, before long, Maggie will leave this kind of work behind her. She will not miss it because to her mind the land and toil killed off her mother, that and her thankless role of wife, mother and serf. Aye, Maggie’s certain all that heavy lifting and bending over a cooking pot sent her mother to an early grave, either that or a broken heart.
The Hanging of Margaret Dickson Page 4
