The Hanging of Margaret Dickson

by Alison Butler

  ‘Damn. Don’t you two know how to knock on a door? Is it the bridesmaid’s job to scare the bride to death before her wedding?’

  ‘Sorry,’ say Isobel and Alison in unison.

  ‘Where’s your chanty and tocher?’ Isobel looks around, her eyes settle on the bottle clutched between Maggie’s hands.

  Maggie places the bottle down.

  ‘Whisky? Can we have some?’

  ‘Nae, my father would skin me alive. Here’s the chanty to fill with salt and all my belongings.’

  ‘Go on. Just a wee dram,’ whines Isobel.

  ‘Aye, go on Maggie. Just a wee dram for us both,’ Alison repeats. ‘I’m chief bridesmaid and that means I should get first sip.’

  ‘Nae, be off with you.’

  The two women shrug and proceed to collect the bride’s goods.

  ‘Be careful with those, it’s not just folds of old dusty linen. My mother’s arasaid off Johnny Notions is in there and…’

  ‘Oh, don’t concern yourself,’ Alison replies. ‘We’ll take care of everything. After we’re finished here we’re going to make up the bridal bed and collect petals to scatter over your blankets, and Isobel collected willow earlier. Didn’t you, Isobel?’

  Isobel nods. ‘It’s for fertility you know.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Maggie puffs out her cheeks.

  ***

  Before the men return, Maggie heats up some water to pour into a large bowl. Once out of her tight-fitting stays and pinching shoes, she feels wicked and free to explore the contours of her own body. The water discolours as she washes the filth from beneath her fingernails. A saponaria plant sits beside a water jug on the old mantle; the widow dug it up from her kale yard, claiming it does wonders for the hair. As Maggie crushes the roots and leaves, the fresh scent of luscious grass tickles her nostrils. To her amazement the roots produce a small amount of foam; she takes the water jug and wets her long hair. Next she applies the saponaria to it, massaging it into her scalp. With a steady hand she holds the jug high above her head and pours the last of the clean water over her hair, rinsing the plant extract from it and sending a thousand glistening water droplets down the length of her naked body. An old plaid hangs from a nail on the wall; she takes it to dry herself and stifles a yawn. Finally, she cleans her teeth with a clout full of wood ashes and falls asleep by the glow of the peat fire.

  ***

  Morning comes at last, and the sun rises bright in a clear blue sky. James, as usual is up first, to throw open the door and let the hens and pigs out. Maggie turns in her bed; her eyes glued shut with sleep as brilliant sunlight streams through the open door. Cursing in her slumber, she pulls a blanket over her scraggy head to shut out the light.

  ‘Maggie. The sun is shining. Get up. You’re to be married.’

  But Maggie’s all warm and cosy; she pulls the cover further over her head and ignores his voice. But James persists, and soon she feels his foot upon her backside.

  ‘Don’t kick me or I’ll tell Father,’ Maggie screams.

  ‘He isn’t here.’

  A sinking feeling begins in the pit of her stomach. Just for once couldn’t he have behaved and acted as a father should. ‘Who’s going to give me away? Oh no, where is he, James?’

  With a thump, James sits beside his sister. ‘I don’t know. He could be anywhere, a ditch or a brothel. Who knows?’

  Maggie shakes her wary head. ‘Perfect.’

  ***

  By the time Isobel and Alison arrive, all dressed up in their Sunday best to arrange Maggie’s hair, the bride-to-be is in a right state. The cottage bustles with activity. Hens and pigs scuttle around in the dirt, and then to top things off, Duncan returns in search of his bottle.

  ‘Who’s been drinking this? I was saving this for me and Johnny.’ With one hand he holds up the bottle to examine the contents, sloshing the liquid inside.

  ‘He’ll be fortunate if he gets a drop,’ Maggie remarks.

  ‘I heard that. Did you two drink some?’ He points an accusing finger in the direction of two red-faced bridesmaids.

  ‘No. We’ve come to dress the bride and arrange her hair. We haven’t touched it, have we, Alison?’

  ‘Well get on with it,’ mutters Duncan, before picking up the bottle.

  It requires much patience to place wild flowers into the fine net that covers Maggie’s hair, but the bridesmaids persist, and it was well worth the effort. After that they help her to dress, fluffing out her petticoats so that the skirts billow out to resemble the shape of a bell. Beneath the silk fabric they place a ribbon garter, and when the bride isn’t looking they hide a coin in her left shoe for good fortune.

  At long last, the bride is ready, it doesn’t matter that her shoes pinch and the hem of her dress is slightly over long. It’s time. Maggie takes a deep breath and tries to show some enthusiasm. Her father’s singing an old Scottish folk tale, his bottle clutched tight to his heart. How she loves him, despite his faults.

  Maggie gets to her feet to be promptly pushed down. ‘Just one more thing to do now, stop moving, Maggie – and stop pulling a face, close your eyes while I put some soot on your eyelashes.’

  ‘Give us that bottle, Father?’

  ‘No chance,’ replies Duncan.

  ***

  Many months ago, in a vain attempt to keep his wedding attire safe and clean, away from the incessant smoke from the peat fire, Patrick hid his clothes. The trouble is, for the life of him, he can’t remember where. They’re by far the finest clothes he possesses and so he turns the whole cottage upside down looking for them, until his mother holds them up over her head and says: ‘You daft oaf! You told me to move them the other day to a better hiding place.’

  It’s a beautiful morning; a gentle breeze blows into the cottage as he pulls on his new worsted stockings. Next he picks up a hessian bag and pulls out a pair of new black shoes, a present from his mother and father. They seem out of place on his big ugly feet. Patrick’s only ever worn scuffed homemade brogues, usually with holes in them, or his trusty sea boots.

  William Cass, Patrick’s best man, arrives at dawn. They spend most of the morning reminiscing about their days at sea, until Patrick’s father pokes his head around the door and roars at them to hurry.

  William whistles. ‘Look at you, all dressed up in your finery. Are you sure you want to go through with this, lad? Marriage is forever you know, no more gallivanting. Remember our days at sea?’

  ‘We were just boys at sea, years and years of sailing – but gallivanting? No. I’m as quiet as I was then.’ Patrick fidgets, his face contorting and wrinkling as he pulls and tugs at the new clothes.

  ‘Stop fiddling and scratching, man. You’re like a dog with fleas. Oh, I almost forgot. I need to check you’ve no knots about your person.’

  Patrick groans out loud.

  ‘Come on, once the ceremony is over, we can tie the knots again.’

  ‘All right,’ Patrick says, holding up his hands.

  ***

  The bride’s party set out led by the bride’s father; unfortunately he’s blind stinking drunk. Therefore, James makes sure Maggie approaches the kirk from right to left, to circle the kirk three times, before entering. Duncan staggers behind, looking like something the cat’s dragged in. At the kirk gates, they’re informed by a kirk elder that Patrick’s arrived with the bridesmaids, preceded by a piper.

  At the door, Maggie’s met by a kirk officer, who takes one look at Duncan and decides James, not Duncan, should walk her up the aisle. Maggie cringes inside; her cheeks flush as she walks at a slow pace, head dipped to the floor until she stands to the right of her groom. When the service begins, there’s not a sound as the betrothed couple exchange vows.

  ***

  Patrick stands with his legs wide apart, breast puffed out with pride. It’s finally happening. Soon she will be his and the faint flutter of anxiety that constantly irks him will be no more. He can’t take his eyes off her as she stands beside him, looking like a
fine lady in her fancy dress. It doesn’t matter that he has no ribbons or pearls to give her; a woman like Maggie doesn’t need any ornament or decoration. She’d look beautiful in a sack of cloth. As he places the gold ring on her left finger, there’s a great swelling in his heart and at long last they are man and wife.

  As the church bells ring out, the customary rush to kiss the bride is won by Minister Bonaloy since he’s the nearest. Patrick watches her with proud eyes, his heart thumping as he takes her image in. She’s breathtakingly beautiful, but it’s her eyes that do it for him. Dark, smouldering eyes, feline and predatory, Maggie’s eyes hold the promise of carnal delight.

  Outside kirk, Widow Arrock has a major disagreement with the miller’s wife. Together, they make a hideous sight and it’s difficult to decide which of them has the prickliest chin as they point and curse at one another. Folk gather around them to get a good view in case it develops into a fist fight, but then the minister breaks them apart and threatens to fetch the scold’s bridle. It’s at this moment that Duncan suddenly comes to life and removes one of his shoes to throw in Patrick’s direction.

  ‘Hah! I’ve thrown the shoe and you know what that means don’t you, laddie? She’s your responsibility now, and good luck to you because God knows you’ll need it.’ Duncan skips away to retrieve his missing shoe, stumbling as he replaces it on his foot. ‘And bloody good riddance,’ he mutters before bumping into Johnny Notions.

  Johnny embraces his old friend and bellows, ‘Doesn’t she scrub-up well, Duncan? A bit of tallow soap and she looks good enough to eat. No mangy Maggie.’

  ‘Mangy Maggie?’ Patricks asks the highlander.

  Johnny turns to Patrick with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Aye, that’s what I used to call her when she was a wee bairn. Maggie was forever climbing trees all day, or running along the harbour to the rocks. Always covered in bruises, she was.’

  Patrick smiles at Johnny, noticing his mass of wild ginger hair. He likes the strange Highlander; and from what he can gather he appears to be a father figure to Maggie. The same cannot be said for Duncan. The man’s a bloody disgrace, he thinks, can’t even stay sober long enough for his only daughter’s marriage ceremony. He places a protective arm around his new bride as they walk to the wedding feast.

  The wedding party walk downhill towards the sea-mill, to the bottom of Kerr’s Wynd, and soon they come to a tall barn. The miller has kindly let them use one of his out-buildings, much to the displeasure of his bad-tempered wife. As the guests flock in, Widow Arrock, along with a number of the women, uncover the food. It’s taken all morning to prepare the feast under the watchful eye of the miller’s wife, the cause for the widow’s bad temper. Before the food is served, Minister Bonaloy gives a good speech, spinning yarns and telling jokes before introducing other speakers and proposing the first toast.

  ***

  The pipers and fiddlers assemble themselves at the back of the barn, some of them tuning up their instruments, others supping their ale. Meanwhile food and drink is served on long tables, and the delicious smell of the cooked chicken wafts around the room. After folk are fed and watered, a space is cleared on the floor, and before long people dance and children play fight on the dirt floor.

  Maggie grins at Patrick as he takes her hand in his own and leads her to the centre of the room. All around them people dance with the bleary look of people heading towards drunk but are not quite there yet. But alas, the same cannot be said for her father. He reached the point of inebriation long ago and to Maggie’s dismay he’s walking towards them.

  ‘Allow me a last dance with my daughter, Patrick?’ he slurs.

  Patrick stands aside to let father and daughter say their goodbyes.

  As they begin to sway in time to the music, Duncan steps on her feet. Maggie grits her teeth and hopes for the tune to come to an end.

  ‘We may not have seen eye to eye, Maggie, but I’ve done my best and I wish you well.’

  Maggie nods and turns her face away from him. ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m proud of you lass, and I always will be. You’re a free spirit, just like me. So don’t let anyone change you. Do you hear me?’

  Duncan leans in close, so close Maggie can smell his alcoholic breath. ‘And before I depart let me give you a wee bit of advice. Learn to accept change, lassie, because nothing in this world remains the same. Remember that.’ He ruffles her hair as though she’s a dog and turns on his heel.

  ***

  A moment later the fiddlers pick up the tempo. Maggie searches the barn, eyes darting right and left for one man in particular. That kiss at the altar. She places a finger to her lips, her head’s still in a spin and there’s fire in her belly. After a while, she catches sight of the handsome minister and as usual he has a small crowd of adoring fans around him. She approaches him with conviction and holds out one hand.

  ‘A dance with the bride, Minister Bonaloy?’ Maggie asks before taking his hand. A new jig begins – a lively one that requires them to link each other’s arms. After a while she clings to him, feigning exhaustion. From beneath her dark lashes she looks boldly into his green eyes.

  ‘I’m not much of a dancer, Maggie. Sorry,’ he apologises, releasing his grip.

  ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘No, no,’ he musters. He can no longer meet her eyes.

  ‘Are you committing adultery in your heart, Minister Bonaloy?’ she enquires, moving closer to him so that they stand inches apart. Maggie watches his face crumple into a mixture of emotions; confusion, disappointment, perhaps disbelief – she’s not sure.

  ‘You flatter yourself, Maggie,’ he replies, suddenly taking control. With a firm hand he grabs her elbow and guides her across the room to her husband.

  ***

  From across the room, Patrick watches his wife dance with the minister. He can’t take his eyes off her, and his loins ache with desire at the thought of the night ahead. It’s more than he can bear to watch them. His jaw twitches as he pushes his way through a group of dancers to get to her. He’s nearly there, only a whisker away, when strong arms grab him from both sides and place a large creel upon his broad back.

  ‘Oh no, I’m too weary to carry the creel. Can’t we just miss this part out…’ he complains, looking at Maggie with yearning eyes.

  Patrick’s father laughs. ‘Tired? You’ll be weary come morning, son. All fishermen carry the creel on their wedding day, to symbolise sharing life’s burdens together. There’s plenty of time for you and the lass later on,’ he winks.

  ***

  At Watts Close, on a sultry evening, Patrick Spence carries his bride over the threshold of their front door. And he’s careful not to trip, mind, as this is deemed unlucky, and so as they enter the cottage, folk scream and cheer and throw petals over the married couple.

  Patrick’s mother, Barbara is a little worse for wear. With a clout held up to her eyes she whines in a shrill voice: ‘You know in some parts of the highlands, a newly married couple lives with the groom’s parents for the first week of their marriage. Oh and look at the state of this place, it’s got no homely touches; it’s not fit for my Patrick to live in. Perhaps you two should…’

  Johnny Notions scowls. ‘Nonsense, woman. And it’s the bride’s parents they live with the first week, not the grooms. And where I come from, they spend their first night in a barn.’

  ‘How awful,’ replies Barbara still dabbing her eyes. With much reluctance she passes Maggie the keys to the house and some fire tongs to place a peat on the fire. A look of resignation crosses her face as she embraces the bride, like she’s finally realised that she’s not the only woman in her son’s life.

  ‘Right,’ says Barbara clapping her hands. ‘Get out of here, Patrick. Go on. We’ve got to get on with the beddin’ o’ the bride.’

  An air of expectancy fills the room as the women strip Maggie of her dress and petticoats, until all she wears is a thin sark. With nimble fingers they remove the wild flowers and pins from Maggie’s long hair, so tha
t it tumbles around her shoulders. Before they fetch Patrick, one of the women makes up a fire.

  ‘Right, Patrick, she’s ready. Time for you to undress and lie next to your bride,’ the women giggle and sneak sly glances as he undresses.

  Side by side, Maggie and Patrick sit on their bed of straw as the men re-enter to claim a kiss from the bride. Patrick grits his teeth, uncomfortable with the custom. How he longs to be alone with his new wife. But when the left stocking is thrown and hits old Widow Arrock on the nose, everyone laughs, and this lightens his mood, as one thing is for sure – no one in their right mind would marry old Widow Arrock.

  At last the wedding party leave and all is quiet. Patrick turns to his bride, and right away all his blood seems to rush to his loins. They’re finally alone, but he can still hear folk chatting and jesting outside. But Patrick’s passed caring now and he pulls Maggie into his arms and kisses her passionately, his coarse hands exploring her body, feeling every inch of her soft skin.