The Hanging of Margaret Dickson
Page 5
The evening of the hen night arrives. And isn’t it typical of her to get in a muddle, spinning over long outside and panicking about the time. On one bended knee she stoops to the ground to pick up her yarn. Maggie’s so engrossed in her task she does not sense Patrick behind her.
‘Maggie,’ Patrick calls out. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’
‘No. Help me with the spinning wheel will you and where have you been?’
Patrick silences her with a kiss and drops to his knees in front of her. Next he opens out one of her palms and places a gold ring within it.
‘Where did you get that from?’ she gasps, placing it onto her right finger.
‘A Bilbao fisherman trading in whitefish. Have you missed me?’
Maggie shudders and presses her body against his. ‘Aye, but I must confess I was beginning to think that you’d changed your mind.’
Patrick laughs and shakes his head. ‘Not a chance. You look exhausted, lassie. Are you all right?’
‘Aye, it’s just I’m worn-out from all the upheaval, Patrick. The disagreements, the altered plans. Oh, and your mother, Patrick. Now she’s really beginning to vex me…’
‘Hush, Maggie. You know how folk are. Any excuse for a party. Weddings are community property, lass. A time for neighbours and friends to make gifts, bake bread and brew ale for the feast. And don’t mind my mother, she means well. She’s baked enough bannocks to feed an army. There’s not a surface clear in our cottage.’
‘Why didn’t you come to me yesterday, once you were off the boat?’
‘The men folk abducted me and took me to a tavern. You wouldn’t believe what they did.’
‘I can imagine.’ She kisses him and he tastes of alcohol and his face is all smudged with soot. ‘You’ll have to go. It’s my turn tonight.’
Patrick places a hand to his brow and then scratches his head. ‘Your turn for what?’
‘My hen night. It’ll be like a bare-knuckle fight before the night is over. In one corner the farmwomen and the other, the fishwives.’
Patrick shudders as though a sack-’em-up man has dug up his grave. ‘I’ll be off then.’
***
Hen nights are normally sedate occasions, a time for woman folk to come together and pluck hens in preparation for a wedding feast. Maggie yawns. She’s not really in the mood for a get together. To her mind, the night does not bode well, and just the thought of what’s to come causes her to shiver inside.
They arrive at dusk in droves, with hens and other victuals tucked underneath their arms and skirts. James and Maggie’s father are promptly banished to a tavern and told not to hurry home. The hens are piled on a crude wooden table, begging to be plucked. Around the poultry, a cloud of flies buzz, causing several of the women to swat them away. Above them, Maggie’s roosting hens cower in the rafters, not wanting to join them.
‘Where’s the ale, Maggie?’ a fisherwoman calls out in a coarse raspy voice.
‘At the far wall. There are a couple of kegs brewed by old Widow Arrock. Strong stuff too,’ Maggie shouts through the din.
Isobel Tait smirks. ‘Aye, that ugly old cow’s ale will put some hairs on your chest!’ She pours out some ale and hands it out to the fishwives, interrupting them as they pull out their snuff, pipes and tobacco.
At the other end of the room, a wizened old farmwoman raises her shaggy eyebrows and glowers at Isobel and the other fishwives. Several of her chins wobble as she sniffs up her nose in a stern manner. A group of young farm lassies surround her, licking their lips at the prospect of frothy spiced ale, their eyes fixed on the old woman in the hope that she might allow them to join in with the drinking. But alas, the young lassies’ hopes are to no avail, because soon the old woman claps her hands together and yells, ‘Come on ladies, it’s time to pluck the hens.’
One young farmwoman in a striped apron and petticoat complains out loud, ‘Why can’t we have a drink first, Ethel?’
‘Once we’ve done our chores and not before.’ The older woman extends a flabby arm and shuffles her way over to the table of hens.
The fishwives pay no heed to the farmwomen making their way to the hens. They’re far too busy tittering and telling crude jokes. The smell of pipe smoke wafts across the room, along with lewd laughter and scandalous talk. Maggie takes a deep breath and hurries over to them with a nervous smile. She pauses to brace herself, opening out her hands in front of her, palms up.
‘Come on lassies. Now is not a time to be idle, we must pluck the hens!’
Isobel points at old Ethel and says, ‘Aye, we will if she stops turning her nose up at us. Has she got a cane stuck up her backside?’
Maggie sighs deeply. ‘Don’t be daft; it’s just the old woman’s way. She’s all right once you get to know her.’
The fishwives look to one another, as though unsure of what to do. Nearly all of them are up to their elbows in ale, snuff and tobacco. But now, to Maggie’s relief, they put their drinks down along with their pipes and roll up their sleeves.
‘Come on girls,’ Isobel says. ‘The quicker we have them plucked, the quicker we’ll be back on the ale.’
One of the women jests. ‘Aye and we all know you’re the best plucker around, Isobel!’
And just like that the women come together as one. In no time at all they create a snowstorm of feathers and pluck enough hens to stuff a dozen or so mattresses.
‘That was damn thirsty work,’ declares Isobel while hurrying back to the ale. The other fisher lassies follow close behind.
The young farmwomen remain busy. They sweep up the last of the feathers and cover the hens to keep off the flies. Every once in a while they glance at old Ethel with expectant eyes. Despite the heat, Ethel huddles in a corner, wrapped up in her shawl. At long last, a loud groan escapes her fleshy lips as she mutters, ‘Go on then. But mark my word you’ll be sorry come morning and don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
It isn’t long before the hen party is merry and Maggie’s dizzy from it all. Blood rushes to her head and her eyes are throbbing with fatigue. A blend of odours fills the small cottage; sweat, brackish fish, and the ever-present smell of a peat fire. One of the fisher lassies, Mary Brock, is up for some antics, doing her best to impersonate daft Davie from the village. She shuffles her feet and closes one eye, then does her best to mimic his childish way of talking. It comes out like gibberish and the other women laugh and slap their knees. Then, all of a sudden all hell lets loose when Mary Brown, a relative of daft Davie, overhears the banter and punches the offending imitator square in the eye.
‘Never mind them, Maggie. Have a drink of this. It’s my own special brew,’ one of the women shouts.
The ale’s delicious. Maggie closes her eyes and throws her head backwards to catch the dregs in her mouth, a quantity spills down her chin. She proceeds to wipe it away when the women grab her and secure her to a stool, clamping her head with strong hands and arms. It’s useless to struggle, the reason being that when she does it makes their sharp fingernails scratch even more, and so the women hold her still to pour ale down her throat. All the while they chant, ‘Drink, drink, drink…’
The room begins to spin. Someone plays an instrument, a merry tune on a Jew’s harp, a foot tapping melody, pleasing to the ear. Maggie’s breathing becomes shallow and suddenly it’s as though everything’s in slow motion. All around her the room is a blur of vibrant colours, as dancing figures and swishing skirts fly through the air. The pain behind her eyes causes her vision to blur and she squints into the haze. The two Marys: Mary Brock and Mary Brown are fighting again, this time over a bottle of whisky. A circle forms around them as they roll on the floor, fists flying and nails scratching. Several articles of their clothing scatter across the floor alongside a broken bottle. They look a sorry sight, hair wild like they’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. Soon they both sport thick bloody lips, and the language that comes out of them, well they would put a drunken sailor to shame.
It’s this rowdy scene
that greets Maggie’s father and brother as they enter the cottage. Near the open door, they stand shoulder to shoulder with open mouths, rooted to the spot. So intent are the two scolding women in their fight, they haven’t even noticed them.
‘I’m so sorry Father, James. There’s no point trying to separate them. They’ve been quarrelling like cats since they got here.’
‘Don’t stop them on my account,’ Duncan winks at James. ‘This is quite a show.’
Maggie’s attention returns to the fight. It’s really getting out of hand now. The two women are like wild animals and no one dare go between them, least of all Duncan who’s enjoying a spectacular view. For a while longer they roll about the floor, teeth bared and breasts popping out from stays. Maggie makes eye contact with her father, one eyebrow arching as an understanding passes between them.
Eventually, to everybody’s relief they break apart. Duncan holds out a hand to the prettiest girl, Mary Brock. ‘Lassie, you look a little worse for wear. Let me walk you hame.’
‘I’d rather walk with the devil himself, Duncan,’ she scoffs, hands on hips. With the back of her hand she wipes blood from her mouth.
James bites his lip to stifle his amusement. ‘You must be losing your touch, Father,’ he smirks.
‘I think not, son. Watch and learn,’ he places a finger to his nose.
The room looks an almighty mess; the only thing Maggie wants is for them all to go home. She bangs on a table and shouts at the top of her voice, ‘The hen party is over everyone. Come and fetch a hen.’
The women form an orderly line to collect a bird; it helps that the cooking is shared for the wedding feast, and Maggie is eager to get each and every one of them to take one home. First in the queue is Patrick’s old sweetheart, the one he had up against the rowan tree, Agnes Lecke.
‘I haven’t got a dangle spit in my cottage, so there is no point me taking one,’ Agnes whines.
Isobel pushes Agnes aside. ‘Hah! Trust you, Agnes. No matter, I will take two, Maggie. It’s no bother.’
And so, as a cloud uncovers a half-moon in the starless sky, a line of women march up the brae from Maggie’s cottage. All but one of the women carries a hen in their hands. At the very end of the row, there is one man, Duncan, with a spring in his step and one arm around Mary Brock.
***
At twilight on the next Sabbath, a childhood friend pays Maggie a visit, carrying a mysterious brown parcel under her arm. For the past year, Maggie’s friend, Alison Beutson has been employed at the local manse, probably to avoid working the fields (just like her). Maggie lets her in, ignoring her father and James gawping at the girl and her hessian bag.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be at the manse, Alison?’
‘Not on the Sabbath.’
‘Oh, so what brings you here on your one day off pray? There’s not much going on here except mending stockings and spinning. Sit yourself down near the fire.’
‘I wondered if you’d be interested in this.’ Alison sits down and unfolds the parcel. A beautiful amber silk dress spills out onto her knee.
‘Would you look at that? Where did you get it? I could never afford it.’
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Alison pats the dress. ‘It looks bonny on me, mind, and I’m tempted to wear it – you know, for your wedding. But I’m not the bride, am I?’
‘Couldn’t you sell it?’
‘Aye, I thought about pawning it. It would fetch a fortune. But then I thought about all the questions the pawn man might ask me and so I daren’t, Maggie. He’d probably declare me a thief and have me locked up in the tolbooth.’
‘Come on then, where did you get it?’
‘Well, I was cleaning one of the spare rooms in the manse. On my hands and knees I was, minding my own business when I heard a rustling sound.’
‘What was it?’
‘A holy man. He was standing in front of a one of those looking glasses and he was admiring himself.’
Maggie frowns. ‘Aye. Go on then, what’s so strange about that?’
‘Hah. He was wearing this dress! Of course, once he caught sight of me he tore the garment from his body and ran stark bollock from the room. Can you imagine that?’
‘You’re jesting.’
‘Hah. I swear to God it’s true. A bearded man in a dress,’ she giggles.
Maggie raises her eyebrows. ‘I can’t believe it. I wonder who it belongs to.’
‘I don’t know. No one’s asked for it and the man with the beard’s surely not going to ask for it now, is he?’
‘Nae, give us it here.’ Maggie stretches out her arms for the dress.
‘I attach one condition to you wearing it.’
‘Anything,’ Maggie smiles.
‘I’m your chief bridesmaid.’
‘Done.’
***
Widow Arrock lives in a henwife’s cottage. It has the only indoor privy in town and is the envy of the whole of Musselburgh. The widow’s hen-pecked husband built it just before he succumbed to smallpox, and it was to be his greatest achievement and testament to his place of refuge, away from his nagging wife. To be sure the widow’s a feisty character, well-known for her wicked temper, quick tongue and strange appearance. Folk either love her or loathe her and Maggie falls in with the former.
When the Lord was handing out good looks, sadly Widow Arrock was not in the queue. Her face and body have no symmetry, everything’s twisted and out of kilter. The widow has beady eyes, one placed higher than the other, ears that resemble cauliflowers and thin lips that stretch inwards to form an ugly grimace. And if that isn’t bad enough, her skin is so bad it resembles the peel of an over-ripened fruit, spoiled by a hot sun. For sure, Widow Arrock is the ugliest woman in Musselburgh, and probably the whole of Scotland. But nevertheless, Maggie is proud to call her a friend.
Upon an old wooden stool, Maggie stands, fidgeting as the widow pins her wedding dress. With nimble fingers, the widow makes the necessary alterations all in her own good time. Maggie draws in her breath and clamps her teeth together. A searing pain shoots down her back as she struggles to hold her position.
‘Be still, Maggie. If your poor mother could see you now, she’d be having kittens. You look a mess; a blue-gowned beggar would put you to shame. Look at me up to my oxsters in pins and material, but I’m well turned out.’
Maggie glances at the widow and can’t help having visions of ugly toads crawling on their backs in muddy swamps. ‘I was too busy to comb my hair.’
The widow slaps Maggie on the leg and puffs out her cheeks. ‘That’s no excuse girl; you should always look your best. You’re bone idle.’
‘Ouch, that hurt! Anyway, today is not my wedding day. Does it really matter what I look like?’
The widow stops to stare at Maggie, her one good eye slightly slewed, so that it bores into Maggie. ‘Now listen to me, girl. You youngsters are an absolute disgrace. In my day we would not be walking about with our hair unbound, even in private. You’re slovenly, Maggie. You should always look your finest, not just for your husband, but for yourself. You’re a very fortunate woman, because you were born with the gift of beauty. God never shined on me, but that didn’t stop me trying to make the best of myself! Nae, it did not. I’m a handsome woman and not the hag people claim me to be.’ She pats the rear of her head with a haughty look.
Handsome, Maggie thinks. The widow’s finally gone insane.
‘How much longer will it take? My feet are killing me and I’m starving.’
The widow scoffs. Her eyes near pop from her head and a vein bulges from her neck as she rants. ‘Starving? What nonsense, you wouldn’t know starving if it slapped you in the face. My generation was born hungry. You probably don’t remember the great dearth, but your father would, that’s if he wasn’t too drunk to recall it. Anyway, it’s patience you need a lesson in, young lady. I’m nearly done,’ she says with a pin between her teeth.
‘I’m going to pee myself if it takes much longer.’
It takes Maggie just a moment to take off the dress and run to the much envied indoor privy. When she returns she feels much better. ‘All cottages should have indoor privies. I wish Father would build us one.’
The widow presses her hands together. ‘Never mind the privy.
I wish to God someone would knock it down now, it stinks rotten. The dress is perfect for you, lassie. The colour compliments your eyes. Oh, I almost forgot, I have to leave one stitch undone.’
‘Why?’
The widow shrugs. ‘How should I know? It’s the done thing, lass.’
Maggie folds her arms over her chest, opens her mouth to ask something and then thinks better of it. At the front door she reaches out tentatively and touches the widow’s hand. ‘Thank you.’
Widow Arrock smiles and leans forward, her lips are dry and hairs stick out of her prickly chin. ‘It’s a pleasure, lassie. Now make sure you look after yourself. Dress respectable and keep your hair bound. You’re going to be a married woman soon, so start behaving like one.’
***
At long last, on the night before her wedding, Maggie gathers her last remaining things together and places them in a bundle. Dusk falls, and soon the cottage becomes a place of flickering shadows as silence descends within. Suddenly it hits her. On the morrow she will be married and the thought terrifies her. A bottle of Johnny Notions’s home-made fire water stands on the table near the furthest wall, the very sight of it makes her mouth water. Without a doubt her father will be cross if she takes but a single drop. But the blasted bottle is glinting in the firelight; she paces the floor up and down and eventually her footsteps stop at the far wall. The bottle makes a strange popping noise as she pulls the cork. The clear liquid burns her throat as she takes her first sip, like fire it spreads through her belly to the tips of her toes. And then, before she has the chance to take a second taste, a great crash causes her to jump from her skin.