***
The following morning sees a marked improvement in Maggie; she is able to sit up and complains only of tenderness to her neck. And amidst the turmoil of well-wishers and visitors, Maggie suddenly remembers that she is a mother and cries out for her children. Minister Bonaloy promptly puts down his Bible and ventures outside to fetch the widow and Maggie’s bairns to be reunited with their mother.
It seems to take an age for the children to arrive. For some reason they do not come to their mother’s bed at once. Maggie is puzzled, as she lies propped up in her bed she fidgets and curses and wonders what is taking them so long.
‘Where are they?’
A door opens. Two reluctant children are pushed inside. Meanwhile Maggie is lost for words. To the casual observer this sad little threesome would appear but strangers to one another, an emaciated woman and two terrified children.
‘Have you forgotten me, Patrick?’ Maggie holds out a trembling hand.
‘Greet your mother, go on, laddie – don’t be scared,’ barks out the minister.
‘She’s not my mother.’ Young Patrick backs away from the straw bed.
Maggie shakes her head at Minister Bonaloy and sinks back onto her pillow. ‘It’s all right, none of this is their fault. It’s all mine for leaving them for so long. I’ve been a terrible mother.’
At that moment little Anna walks over and takes a seat on the straw bed beside her. All eyes widen as her little hands linger on the red marks around Maggie’s neck. ‘What happened to your neck? Did you fall over?’
Maggie chokes, her words come out broken. ‘Aye, I fell. Did you miss me, Anna?’
‘I didn’t miss you, Mother. I had Buttercup.’
‘Who’s Buttercup?’ Maggie frowns.
The widow titters and places a hand to her mouth. ‘Your old goat. Anna would sleep with the thing if I let her.’
‘I’ve been replaced by a goat,’ Maggie nods. ‘Serves me right.’
***
On the proceeding Sunday, Maggie decides to attend a public worship, at which the minister has agreed to preach a sermon applicable to her case. Maggie fasts and prays and gives gratitude for her deliverance. As the sermon comes to an end the crowded congregation surge forward and nearly crush Maggie against the kirk wall. Duncan, Johnny and James gather around her to push away the crowd, trapped between a rabble of people and a trembling minister.
‘For goodness sake, I just want to thank God for sparing me,’ she cries into the dense crowd.
The kirk minister turns pale. ‘You’re all in danger of being trampled. Follow me now.’
And so the minister is obliged to conduct them out of the kirk through a backdoor, denying many a glimpse of ‘Half-Hangit Maggie.’
***
The following Wednesday, one week after the hanging, Maggie returns to the Fisherrow cottage along with the bairns. She glances around the cottage at the fishing gear; the creels and skulls. Everything is not as she left it, someone has tidied up and everything is spick and span. With her hands she removes the scarf from her neck to reveal her scars of her shame. The widow stays for a wee while to settle the children and help make up a fire.
‘Will you be all right, Maggie?’ The widow holds out a hand.
Maggie nods and wipes away a tear.
‘What have I done?’ she whispers as the widow departs. ‘I must devote myself to solemn fasting and prayer.’ Maggie drops to her knees.
‘Where has the widow gone?’ sobs little Patrick.
‘Hush,’ Anna pouts. Her eyes widen as the door flies open and a gust of wind fills the room. ‘Father!’ she gasps.
Maggie gulps. Her husband is very much changed. And her mind reels and turns like cogs on a wheel to discover the reason for this transformation. She looks him over. He carries a lantern and it swings from side to side. His figure is the same, although he appears stronger – but then he always was as strong as a horse. Then, as her eyes sweep over him, she notices his mouth, one side of his lips is raised and his head is tilted back slightly, as though he is looking down at her, the focus of his disgust and contempt.
‘That’s enough praying, Maggie. You’ll wear out your knees.’
‘Patrick, Patrick,’ she crawls on her knees to wrap her arms around his legs.
‘It’s been nearly two years since I saw you last, Maggie. I have continued to exist only for you. You have no idea how many times I yearned to see your face,’ his voice quivers as he pulls her to her feet.
‘Patrick. There is something I must tell you.’
‘No matter – I know everything. The widow told me about the hanging and mouths are no doubt clacking everywhere. I could hang you by the scruff of the neck myself.’
Maggie’s hands flutter nervously to her rope-scarred neck. ‘Are you going to leave? Please don’t leave me, Patrick – can you forgive me?’
Maggie stands very still, her hands at her sides so that he does not see them tremble. She dare not move for fear that he might have a swift change of mood and grab her by the scruff of her neck.
‘After the hanging, they pronounced me dead and I thought to myself that means we are no longer wed. You are free to marry another if you wish…’
Patrick pulls her into a fierce embrace. ‘To hell with them all. As far as I’m concerned you are still my Maggie and we are still wed.’
***
The next morning, Maggie wakes to find Patrick snoring by her side. She kisses his rough face and creeps from the bed, taking care not to wake him. Due to two mischievous children, the cottage is already a mess and needs a good sweeping and dusting. But for now it can wait.
The usual sounds come from the harbour; iron ringing on iron, hammers striking nails, sending a shiver up Maggie’s spine. She doesn’t want to think of the hanging but images come to her all the while, triggered by the smell of old rope, or the feel of the deep welt that encircles her neck. What if they decide to hang me again? she wonders, as sadness fills her heart. When Patrick stirs he places one arm around her and sets her mind at ease.
‘They can’t hang you again, Maggie. It was God’s will that you lived. The law can’t meddle with that, no matter how high and mighty. And besides, I won’t let them. They’ll have to hang me first.’
***
If there’s ever a place to forget your worries, it’s the sea. The harbour’s a magical place at dawn and as Patrick and Maggie walk bare-foot towards the crashing waves, the two children lag behind admiring the sailboats and fishing boats beside the shore. For a while they rummage through the sand and rock pools, collecting shells, starfish and crabs.
‘I’m going to swallow the anchor, Maggie – I’ve thought it through and it’s what I want,’ Patrick declares, nodding his head.
‘Patrick? But you love the sea.’
‘The time has come for a change, Maggie. Besides I need to be closer to home – to keep an eye on you.’
Noisy gulls screech above. Patrick grasps his wife’s hand and pulls her into his arms. All the while she feels her mouth going dry, trapped like a songbird in a cage, suffocating within his arms.
‘Maggie, Maggie!’ a voice interrupts them.
James runs towards them, his face red. A strange looking man follows behind him carrying a leather bag and papers.
‘A doctor from the Surgeon’s Hall in Edinburgh wants to see you, Maggie. I expect he’s one of Munro’s men. He’ll pay you for your time. And don’t be surprised if you’re presented with a magistrate, too.’
‘What?’ Maggie gasps.
Patrick releases Maggie from his arms. ‘Don’t fret. Everything will be fine.’
‘I hope so.’ Maggie clutches his hand, digging her nails into his fingers. ‘What do they want? Haven’t I already paid for my sins?’
***
Near the cottage he waits, at the bottom of the steps peering at his fob watch as though he is short of time. If first appearances are anything to go by, the doctor seems a pleasant enough man. But as time passes he be
comes brutally succinct to the point of downright rude. In a brusque manner the doctor explains that in the interest of medical science, he feels it necessary to examine Maggie in order to determine how she managed to survive the noose.
Inside the cottage, he removes his thick coat and puts on his blood-stained apron. The learned gentleman carries the all-pervading odour of decay, a nasty remnant of the dissecting room, not to mention fingernails clogged with putrid flesh. Maggie shivers and holds her breath as he approaches her, her eyes gaping at his macabre bag of medical tools. Her first instinct is to run and be away from the man. But on reflection she realises that by doing this she will gain nothing, and besides if she refuses him, other medical men might follow to satisfy their curiosity, so better to be done with this now.
‘What do you want me to do?’ she asks, not meeting his eyes.
‘I won’t be a moment.’ A smudge of ink streaks his fingers as he scribbles some notes. ‘Now then, basically, I need to perform an examination that involves a physical bodily inspection. And then I will ask you several questions regarding the hanging. Is that clear?’
She nods and looks at him with haggard, desperate eyes. ‘Will it hurt?’
‘After what you’ve been through – I imagine not,’ the doctor continues. ‘Do you realise how fortunate you are? You could have regained consciousness on the dissection table, and then – well, I shudder to think.’
Maggie rocks backwards and forwards in her chair as the doctor talks, biting her nails.
‘Your survival is nothing short of a miracle! I refused to believe your incredible tale when I heard it, dismissing it as pure nonsense. Though I must say I am glad to be proven wrong. You’re the talk of Edinburgh. ‘Half-Hangit Maggie,’ they’re calling you. Do you know that?’
‘Aye, I could do without the fuss,’ she shrugs.
The fire crackles as he motions for her to sit forward in her chair. ‘Now be still so I can take a wee look at that neck,’ he says.
***
It’s all over and all the fretting was for nothing because the doctor was a kind and gentle man. He didn’t bleed her or hurt her in anyway. Once the examination and inquisition are over the doctor packs up his medical bag and makes his way to the door.
‘Count your blessings, lass. I’m quite sure that the man who bled you had nothing to do with your recovery, but no matter. I’m glad he was there anyhow. Peter Purdie, you say?’ He turns to Patrick and smiles. ‘Your wife is very well, sir. Except for the ligature marks – I expect it will leave a scar but that’s a small price to pay for her life. Good day to you both.’ He tips his hat.
***
After the doctor leaves they sit for a while by the fire. Maggie’s restless still, imagining all sorts of horrors that await her. After a while there is the sound of a horse galloping outside, and then a series of blows onto the cottage door. Patrick opens the door and realises that the magistrate has arrived.
‘What is it?’ he says to the man.
‘Does one Margaret Dickson live here?’
‘Aye.’
‘Please inform her that I have come to deliver her an important message.’
Maggie peeks out from behind Patrick with wide eyes, and wasting no time, the magistrate takes out a document and nods to her: ‘Are you Margaret Dickson?’
‘Aye,’ she says in a hoarse voice.
‘After much deliberation, it has been decided that the said Margaret Dickson shall not be hanged a second time. The legal authorities have pointed out that as the certificate of execution was indeed signed, they therefore have no further claim on you. I must also inform you that as a consequence, the said Margaret Dickson’s marriage to a Patrick Spence has been legally dissolved.’ Satisfied that his message has been delivered, he passes Patrick the document and walks off in the direction of the nearest tavern.
Maggie chokes. Her voice, when it comes, is thick with emotion. ‘I’m safe, Patrick. They can’t touch me now. I’ve been given my liberty.’
Patrick lifts her from the ground, sweeping her up off her feet and twirling her around.
***
Inside the Musselburgh Arms, a large party toasts Maggie Dickson’s health.
‘To Half-Hangit Maggie.’ They raise their tankards.
Musselburgh being a small town, word soon gets round and the tavern buzzes with well-wishers and folk hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman who survived a public hanging. Maggie mingles and dances with the fishwives while the fishermen puff on their trusty pipes. In the midst of the crowd, Minister Bonaloy walks towards his most infamous and miraculous parishioner, taking hold of her arm.
‘I am delighted for you, Maggie. There is nothing to fear anymore.’
She shouts over the revelry. ‘I am thankful to the Lord above, Minister Bonaloy. And from this day forward I intend to live out the rest of my life to the full.’
The minister glances at the blacksmith’s son, he’s a handsome young lad and folk would have to be blind not to notice how he follows Maggie around with his eyes.
‘Are you all right, Minister Bonaloy?’ Maggie enquires.
‘Grand,’ he lies and heaves a great sigh. He sits heavy in a seat and massages his temples. ‘Maggie, my dear, have you considered a nunnery?’
Spellbound on the young blacksmith, Maggie never hears him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE LUCKENBOOTH
Maggie steps over Duncan. He arrived at the cottage late at night, stinking drunk and passing out on the floor. No one’s bothered to move him.
‘Wake up, you daft fool!’ she shouts, prodding him with her foot.
‘Have you got a few groats for your dear father?’
Maggie shakes her head. ‘So you can return to the alehouse? No!’
He struggles to sit straight on the floor, scratching his scraggy head. ‘Can I have a wee bite to eat then?’
‘Aye, now move yourself, you daft ass. You’re making this place untidy.’
‘This pigsty?’ he mutters.
‘What was that?’ asked Maggie.
‘Nothing, help your dear father to stand, will you?’
Maggie struggles to lift him; her stomach’s so huge it’s awkward to perform the simplest of jobs.
‘Jesus. You’re a dead weight.’
‘Don’t say the Lord’s name in vain.’
‘Pish,’ she laughs.
***
The widow’s door’s twisted, probably due to the ivy creeping around its oak frame. Making a fist Maggie knocks and waits. But there’s no response. She knocks again and hears a clinking noise.
A great shiver runs along her spine as she remembers the chains she once wore.
‘Who is it?’ a faint voice reverberates through the door.
‘It’s me – Maggie. Maggie Dickson.’ Maggie stares through a crack in the door, squinting past dark shadows.
‘Wait a moment.’
After a long while the door creaks open.
‘Oh dear God, what have they done to you?’ Maggie gasps, gawping at the widow. She looks like a grotesque mythical creature. Her clothes are a stinking mess. Placed upon her head is an ugly metal mask, fashioned to resemble a monstrous creature, its exaggerated tongue curling upwards.
The widow tries to talk but it comes out muffled. ‘They put the branks on me.’
‘What?’ Maggie says.
‘The branks – they put them on me.’
‘I can see that, but why?’
‘I don’t know, some disagreement with the miller’s wife,’ the widow declares, spreading out her arms in front of her. She hobbles into the house, her chains clanging with every step.
‘You’re chained to the fire?’
‘Aye, the gaoler did it. He comes once a day to take this awful thing off. Once he’s given me some bread and water he puts the bridle back on and beggars off.’
‘I see. How long do you have to keep it on? ’
‘God knows, lass. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it. It�
��s the metal part, it makes my mouth dribble and it’s so heavy it’s hurting my neck. I can’t get a wink of sleep. How could anyone get a moment’s rest with this on their head?’
Maggie grimaces and turns away from the old woman. Another man-made invention designed to create human misery, she thinks, before adding, ‘Let me wash your clothes and tidy this place for you.’
‘Would you? You’re a kind, lass. I’ve a mind to rest my weary head.’
First Maggie sorts the chanty – it’s near overflowing. Then she tidies the cottage, sweeping and taking away half-eaten food covered in mould. The hearth needs cleaning and new peat placed inside. Maggie looks for kindling and a bucket to fetch fuel.
‘Can you take off your clothes? Have you a clean sark?’
The widow points to a wooden box.
‘Here, let me help you.’ Maggie passes her clean linen.
‘I’ll have to step into it, lassie, and I’m a wee bit unsteady on my feet. Will you pull it on for me? Excuse my filthy body; I haven’t been able to wash properly.’
‘No matter. So you got into a disagreement with the miller’s wife again, did you?’
The widow tries to nod. ‘Aye.’
‘You need to learn to bite your tongue, old woman,’ Maggie says pulling on the clean sark.
The Hanging of Margaret Dickson Page 29
