The Hanging of Margaret Dickson

by Alison Butler

  ***

  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.

  When she returns to the cottage, he’s gone.

  ***

  On New Year’s Day, Maggie spends another day alone. And on that day it happens the fire is low and so she ventures outside to fetch the last of the peat. As she descends the steps of the cottage she takes care not to slip on the icy floor, when suddenly a familiar voice calls out to her.

  ‘What are you doing out here in the freezing cold, Mangy Maggie?’

  ‘Johnny. Is that you?’ She peers down from the steps to the ground below.

  ‘Who do you think it is? Get that door open, I’m frozen to the bone.’ In two strides he’s half-way up the steps holding out his arms.

  He looks at her with a puzzled expression and places a hand on her protruding stomach. ‘I thought you’d have dropped that by now?’

  ‘You feckless fool, this is a new baby. My baby girl’s fast asleep inside; you must come inside and see her.’ She stretches out one arm to the door.

  Johnny ruffles her hair, exactly the way he did when she was a child. ‘You have a wee baby girl? What did you call her?’ He asks and follows Maggie through the front door.

  ‘We named her Anna after my…’ she beams.

  Johnny’s bottom lip trembles. ‘Of course…’ he replies in a broken voice, a tear rolls from the corner of his eye, and he wipes it away with his dirty sleeve.

  For a while Johnny shuffles near the door and then he raises a hand to his face and laughs. ‘I knew I’d forgotten something. Can I ask you a favour, lass? My friend’s waiting outside by the harbour. Can he come in by the fire? It’s a cold night.’

  ‘Aye, bring him inside. I won’t be a moment, I need to fetch some peat.’

  When Maggie returns with the peat, a strange looking man enters the cottage. A cloak of sea mist swirls around his body as though he’s wearing a magical cape. Maggie stares at him in awe, mouth wide open.

  Johnny claps his hands together and walks over to the odd man. ‘This is a good friend of mine, Maggie. This is Kenneth Laing.’

  Kenneth wastes no time in getting close to the blistering hearth.

  A quantity of steam rises from his trews as he warms his rump by the fire. And as he does so an expression of extreme relief crosses his face.

  ‘Kenneth’s a taibsear.’

  Maggie’s eyebrows lower. ‘A what?’

  ‘A taibsear. Oh, you lowlanders are an ignorant lot. A taibsear – a seventh child of a seventh child. Kenneth has a gift; he can see into the future and has premonitions.’

  Maggie’s not one for such nonsense and narrows her eyes. ‘And how did he get these powers?’

  ‘How do you think? Through the power of the fairies, Maggie, how else? Don’t you ever leave gifts out for the little people – milk or…’

  Maggie interrupts him and says under her breath. ‘Isn’t that a load of old nonsense, Johnny?’ she replies, ignoring the dagger-like look she receives from the strange little man.

  For a while, there is silence, except for the crackling fire. When the taibsear opens his mouth, he directs his speech to Maggie, his tone smooth and rich like warm honey. ‘The gift of prophecy is not nonsense; you should learn to curb your tongue, woman. The gift is not something to be taken lightly and comes with a price.’

  ‘I meant no offence. So if there was a price, sir – what was yours?’

  ‘I paid with my eyes.’

  ‘He’s blind in one eye,’ explains Johnny.

  The taibsear clears his throat. ‘The sight comes to me in visions and dreams. Do you dream, Maggie?’

  A feeling of unease comes over Maggie. Her hands reach for her neck, nervous fingers scratching at her throat. ‘Aye, I do. It’s very strange. I have the same dream, over and over again.’

  Kenneth nods. ‘To dream the same dream again and again is commoner than you think. What’s in this dream, Maggie?’

  Maggie swallows, unsure of whether to reveal the nightmare that plagues her sleeps. She looks to Johnny for reassurance and when he nods his head she utters. ‘I am stretched out on a dirty floor and rats crawl all over me. And there’s this banging noise in the dream, as though a hammer is banging in the distance and the noise drives me insane, so that I scream at the top of my lungs, and that’s how the dream is – every single time until I wake up.’

  The taibsear’s face appears troubled. He turns to Johnny and then to Maggie as though unsure of who to address. ‘My premonitions are spontaneous and come of their own accord. I see nothing of your future, but I do feel uneasy in your company. I sense a dark…’

  Johnny Notions interrupts here. ‘You’ll be giving the lassie nightmares, Kenneth.’

  Johnny pokes Maggie in the arm and twitches his head in Kenneth’s direction, swirling a finger in a circular motion around his head. ‘Pay him no heed, he’s been at the fire water again and is not making much sense. I think we should be on our way now, Maggie, we’ve a long journey ahead of us.’

  Maggie’s shoulders sag. ‘But you’ve had nothing to eat. Sit down and warm yourself by the fire.’

  Maggie pulls a stool out for Johnny and another for Kenneth, gesturing for them to sit down. ‘I’ve some broth and a couple of bannocks.’

  Johnny shakes his head. ‘Nae, lassie. You need the food for yourself and the coming bairn; you’ve not enough for everyone.’

  ‘No, I insist Johnny. Let me give you a bite to eat and then you can be on your way.’

  Reluctantly, Johnny nods his head. The two men sit by the fire and make conversation. Maggie sets about br
inging the broth to the boil, all the while watching Johnny’s kind face glowing in the firelight. Taking her time, she places the food on the table and then pours out two cups of small ale.

  ‘Eat up,’ she says.

  ‘Where’s yours?’

  ‘I ate earlier,’ she lies.

  But Johnny’s no fool. His brow furrows into a frown as he picks up a wooden spoon. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Aye,’ Maggie replies as a look passes between them. ‘Honest to God.’

  She watches them eat and fusses all over them, fetching more ale and even some of Patrick’s baccy. When they finish she places the last of the peat on the fire and signals for them to come near the hearth.

  ‘Oh no, Maggie, we must go now.’

  Maggie’s eyebrows droop and the corners of her lips pull down. ‘But I’ve just put more peat on the fire…’

  Johnny crosses the room to embrace her, pulling her face to his chest. He smells of heather and tobacco and his coarse hair tickles her chin. Maggie sniffs up in her nose and swallows back the pain in her throat. He’ll forever be the father she wishes she had.

  ‘Your man will return soon lassie and when he does pass on my good wishes.’ He kisses the top of her head and pulls away. ‘Now kiss the bairn for me and keep a place for me near the fire.’

  Maggie nods and places a shaky hand across the front of her mouth. ‘Don’t leave it long now coming back, Johnny,’ she tries to smile but it somehow turns into a sob.

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Goodbye, Kenneth. It was a pleasure to meet you. Look after Johnny, he’s like a father to me you know,’ she says and closes the door.

  ***

  With her belly full of baby, Maggie follows the other fishwives downhill to the Westbow. Her throat’s dry and raw. She catches sight of a water fountain and is so distracted she pays little attention to the familiar cry of ‘gardy loo.’ Suddenly a dirty rascal throws raw sewage from a tenement above. At the last moment, Maggie manages to avoid the offensive shower and hurries away, but in the process loses the other fishwives.