The Hanging of Margaret Dickson

by Alison Butler

  ‘Where is your creel?’

  ‘On the steps. Have you had anything to eat?’ she asks, changing the subject.

  He nods. ‘Aye, cold oats.’

  Maggie dares to glance at him, there are bags beneath his eyes and his face is pale, a chilly feeling of disquiet settles into her bones.

  ‘And the children?’

  ‘Cold oats.’

  From out of her creel she takes out two pies, she bartered for them earlier at the market square. She places them on the table, takes a deep breath and against her better judgement heads for the door.

  ‘I have to go out for a short while. When are you sailing?’

  Patrick groans out loud. ‘You’re going out? You’ve only just returned, woman. Sit with me.’

  ‘Must I always be sitting with you, Patrick? You bore me with your dull fisherman talk. I’ve chores to do. A woman’s labour is…’

  ‘You’re a cruel woman, Maggie. What have I done to deserve such coldness?’

  Maggie shakes her head. ‘You’ve done nothing, you daft beggar,’ she replies, hoping to lighten his mood. ‘I won’t be long. I need to fetch some eggs and the widow has plenty, I am sure. Then I’ll make you a good broth.’

  For a while he stands there staring at her, mouth gaping open, and all of a sudden she has an awful feeling that he won’t let her out… and all Maggie can think is what will she do then?

  ‘Don’t be long,’ he orders through gritted teeth. ‘And cover your head.’

  Maggie resists the urge to jump for joy. She can’t get out of the door quick enough for fear of him changing his mind. Her short raspy breaths cut through the dense air as the walls seem to disintegrate around her. ‘Aye, won’t be long,’ she mutters.

  At the corner of the harbour, Maggie tugs the kertch from her head. ‘Damn the man, he has no right to order me around,’ she curses out loud. No matter, she thinks, soon he will be gone again, back to the sea, and then she can do as she pleases. A feeling of exhilaration surges through her as she walks towards the blacksmiths.

  ***

  As Maggie walks away, every step she takes feels like a stab through his heart. But what can he do? Hasn’t he encouraged her to be independent? For a while, as he stands there with Anna clutched to his body, he contemplates shouting after her, or even begging her to come home. But all he does is say, ‘wave to Mother,’ before drooping his sorry head.

  Once Maggie’s out of sight, he places Anna gently to the ground. ‘Come on. Let’s see what your brother is doing.’ They walk into the cottage.

  ‘Father, may we play on the steps and wait for Mother?’ the young lad enquires and without waiting for an answer he takes his sister’s hand and walks to the doorway.

  ‘All right. But stay here on the steps. I won’t be a moment – I forgot to tell your mother to fetch me some bait.’

  Patrick runs towards the harbour, all the while looking left and right. But Maggie’s long gone; he’ll have to collect his own blasted bait now. ‘Damn,’ he says under his breath. He walks slowly back to the cottage, the muscles in his jaw twitching. As he peers towards the cottage steps suddenly a sense of dread consumes him. The children are gone.

  He bolts into the cottage, leaving the door wide open to let in some light. The room is quiet, empty – he checks behind a threadbare piece of material that serves to divide the room, but all he finds is a nasty over-flowing chamber pot. A ringing noise begins in his ears and then a sickening in the pit of his stomach. He dashes back to the open door, eyes darting in all directions, but they’re nowhere to be seen. It doesn’t make any sense. He has been gone but a moment. So where are they?

  Then something catches his eye and he breaks into a dead run, heart pounding as he heads for the harbour.

  ***

  Agnes strolls along the fisherman’s way, whistling a merry tune. The boy’s too slow and so she stoops to pick him up, holding him to her bosom as the lassie trails stubbornly behind her.

  ‘Stop whining. There is nothing to fear. Your mother asked me to take you to her, nearly there now.’

  ‘But mother has gone to the widow’s house, and this isn’t the way,’ cries Anna.

  ‘Shut up, girl. Do as I say, I’m your mother now.’ Agnes tightens her grip around Anna’s little hand. These children are hers. The voices tell her so.

  ‘Your mother is a witch! I’m your real mother,’ she declares in a sing-song voice. Anna begins to cry.

  ***

  Towards the harbour Patrick sprints; the sound of Anna’s cries spurring him on. He races after them, ignoring the dagger-like pain in his stomach as his arms furiously pump up and down.

  ‘Agnes, what are you doing?’ Patrick screams. He bends his face to his knees, struggling for breath. ‘Have you gone soft in the head, woman? Why have you taken my bairns?’

  Agnes clutches the children to her and smiles. ‘These are our children, Patrick. You know that. You lay with me, did you not?’

  He shakes his head, and swallows back a wave of nausea. ‘That was a long time ago, Agnes, years and years ago. Have you turned lunatic? These are mine and Maggie’s children.’

  She cackles. ‘Hah! You’re not fooling me. The voices have spoken and these children are ours – yours and mine.’

  With a slack jaw Patrick stares at the woman; she’s insane. Why hasn’t he noticed it before?

  ‘Agnes,’ he takes one step towards her. ‘You’ve no right to take them without my permission. You must return them to me at once.’ He holds out one arm, trying to ignore the way Agnes trembles, an insane stare contorting her pale face.

  ‘But…’

  ‘Agnes,’ he pleads.

  For one terrifying moment Agnes’s hand encircles the tip of her fish knife, adjusting it so that she can place the boy higher up her bony hip. It takes all Patrick’s composure to refrain from walking over to her to wring her damn neck, but a combination of factors prevent him; the insane glitter in her eyes, the fingernails dug into his son’s leg, and the sharp silver knife dangling from her waist. While Agnes is distracted, Anna breaks into a run, travelling as fast as her little legs will carry her, straight into her father’s arms.

  ‘They should have been mine, Patrick.’

  Patrick embraces Anna and gestures towards the boy. ‘Give him to me, Agnes. You know this is wrong, now do the right thing – ‘tis a sin, Agnes, a terrible sin.’

  Agnes shakes her head. ‘They’re my own flesh and blood. Just like the one we lost, Patrick. Remember?’

  He groans out loud. ‘Remember what, Agnes? Please give me the boy, you’re frightening the laddie… he’s scared to death.’

  ‘I will not,’ she steps backwards and almost trips on a rock. ‘Only if you leave that whore and come back to me.’

  Patrick screws his eyes together, resisting the urge to curse at the top of his lungs. A long moment passes before he takes a deep breath and decides to fool her.

  ‘Aye. You are right, Agnes, she is no good,’ he says, placing Anna safely away upon a craggy rock. ‘I should have stayed with you all along. What was I thinking? A woman like you is just what I need. I must leave Maggie and come to you.’ Patrick takes small steps, one at a time, closer and closer, till they are but inches apart.

  ‘I knew you would come back to me. I knew it.’ Agnes arches her neck backwards and closes her eyes, as though waiting for a kiss.

  With steady hands Patrick snatches the lad from Agnes’s grasp, and as he does so an unbelievable sense of relief comes over him as his laddie clutches his arms. At that moment, tears flow from his eyes, but he was not ashamed. If anything, Patrick is calm, even when he presses his face so close to Agnes’s they are inches apart. His voice is quiet, but his message is clear and there is malice in his eyes.

  ‘Listen to me, woman, and take heed because I will only tell you this once. Don’t ever go near my wife or children again. Do you hear me? If you do, I will hunt you down, and put an end to you woman. You’ll burn in the pits of hell if you try
something like this again.’

  And with that Patrick marches away to collect Anna, never looking back. But all the while that strange creature calls after him, so that it becomes a mantra in his ears, playing over and over.

  ‘A curse on you, Patrick Spence – and a curse on that whore of a wife of yours. I hope she dies, do you hear me? I hope she dies.’

  ***

  Patrick ignores the death curse on Maggie and decides not tell a soul. Besides, if he’s learned one thing of late, it’s that Agnes Lecke is a raving lunatic. Nevertheless, the curse festers in his mind and clings to his thoughts like seaweed to rocks. After all, fishermen are a superstitious lot, and Patrick’s no exception.

  A few days later there’s a commotion at the harbour. A savage wind tears through the foreshore as pale faces look out to sea. Side by side, men and women wade into frothy waves, their backs hunched over to pull a body to shore. Upon the shingle they place it, turning it over so that they can see what’s left of its face. The eyes went first no doubt, nibbled by hungry fish, but they’re able to determine that it’s Agnes Lecke.

  Amidst the turmoil Patrick gazes upon Agnes’s bloated corpse. And in death she looks to be finally at peace. With a sinking heart he puts his hands together in a silent prayer and hopes her curse died with her.

  ***

  In times of sadness, confusion and desperation, folk will find a way to hold their head high, and after a while if all goes well, they can pretend that there’s no problem at all, and that life’s not just good, but glorious even. And this is how Patrick lives his life, for better and worse.

  Patrick stands amongst the men, an amused expression on his face as he watches the women race to the finish line. A vision of flashing petticoats and rolled sleeves, they mean business. The competition is fierce; after all they’re fighting for a much sought after prize, the entrails and offal of a sheep. Earlier that day, sixteen of Musselburgh’s strongest fishwives set off from Fisher’s Wynd to run a six-mile race to Canongate. And the crowd cheers as the women run their last few strides; sweat pouring from their bodies and muscles taut. Maggie and a young woman race towards the finish line. Patrick’s heart leaps, Maggie looks sure to finish, but then the younger woman gets a second wind and just beats her to the line.

  Maggie collapses to the ground, red-faced and covered with sweat. For a while she lies on the floor catching her breath, her face staring into a blue sky.

  ‘Get up, lass,’ he says. He knows how she doesn’t likes to lose.

  ‘I don’t like offal anyway,’ she shrugs.

  They walk home, hand in hand until they reach Arthur’s Seat where another race is underway. Twelve pregnant brewster wives are already halfway up the 822 foot summit having already raced from Figgat Burn. A Dutch midwife waits at the bottom clutching a budgell of Dunkeld aquavitae and Brunswick rum.

  Maggie laughs. ‘I’m glad the midwife is here. She’ll not be short of customers once they descend the peak.’

  Patrick nods his head in agreement. ‘Those ale wives have a taste for the strong stuff; they’ll race to hell and back for a wee dram.’

  Maggie points ahead at the summit. ‘Look at the red-haired one punching the other in the ribs.’

  ‘And you thought your race was tough.’

  Maggie places her hands on her hips. ‘Our race was longer. We had much further to run.’

  ‘Aye, Maggie, but you did not have to climb the summit with your belly full of baby.’

  Maggie huffs. ‘That’s nothing. I’ve walked to the market carrying a bairn and a full creel of fish, day in day out since I met you.’

  ‘You’ve been permanently with child since we married?’ he asks, one eyebrow arched.

  ‘Well it feels like it.’

  ‘I’m teasing you. I know you fisher lassies are a tough lot. Did I ever tell you about when my mother was carrying me? Well this particular day her creel was full to the top. When her pains started midway to market she had to stop at a farm to deliver the baby. Anyway, the kind farmer, Patrick was his name; well he got his wife to look after her new-born baby while my mother continued to Edinburgh to sell her fish. And mother, well she collected me on her way home. She named me after the farmer.’

  ‘That’s impressive, Patrick. She’s a fine woman, you must be proud of her.’

  ‘Aye, I am that.’

  With the sound of sea roaring in their ears and the sun sinking on the horizon, Patrick places his arm around his wife as they walk home. The sky’s a hazy pink, sea birds glide in the shape of a ‘v’ to distant lands, and below them a frothy sea sparkles on the surface.

  ***

  After he makes love to her, he falls asleep. For a moment or two she watches him, her eyes drawn to the rise and fall of his upper body. His body hair is coarse and wiry and the colour of fire, not at all like the blacksmith’s. Is it wrong to compare them? Does she really care? Better to be unfaithful than to be faithful without wanting to be, she thinks. To hell with the kirk and the Lord, and all those who think her a whore. Anyway, she thinks to herself, isn’t life like being a whore? All give and take.

  ***

  Married six years, he can hardly believe it. Is it six or seven? He can’t remember. Lately he dreads returning home, for fear of finding Maggie in the arms of another man, and he’s terrified. The gossip persists, along with the finger pointing and sniggering. In the midst of the turmoil Maggie’s conduct towards him remains flippant, dismissive even. And to make matters worse, every time he sets out to confront her, he loses his nerve. With his head in his hands, he groans out loud – what he needs is a stiff drink. And where there’s drink, there’s Duncan.

  Duncan is in the Musselburgh Arms. He’s near the bar as usual, his hands buried within a buxom tavern wench’s top.

  ‘What’s down there, fair maiden?’ Duncan slurs.

  The wench laughs and shoves him away.

  At the sight of Patrick, Duncan widens his eyes. ‘What brings you here, fisherman?’

  ‘The same as you – drink. Do you want me to buy you one?’

  Duncan’s eyes glitter. ‘Aye, I’ll have a wee dram of whisky, Patrick. Thank you for asking.’

  Patrick places a drink in front of Duncan and takes a dram himself, and then another. ‘That’s strong stuff,’ he chokes on the fiery liquid as it burns his throat.

  Duncan eyes him with a curious stare. ‘Take your time, son. What’s the rush? Is anything the matter?’

  ‘Everything is fine. Shall we have another?’

  ‘Why not? Let’s drink to this tavern,’ Duncan raises his tankard in a toast. ‘The Musselburgh Arms.’

  Patrick raises his drink. ‘The Musselburgh Arms.’

  ‘That’ll put some powder in your musket,’ says Duncan.

  Several drams later Patrick glances up at a spinning ceiling, the rafters are a blur of bottles and broken tankards, and all the while the noise of laughter and chatter drones in his ears. His tongue is swollen in his mouth, he’s parched and so he plunges his hands into his pockets, the tips of his fingers brushing strange objects as he rummages around. But all he can find is a neck chief, a clay pipe and a rusty nail. He has no money and only a mouthful of drink left.

  ‘Duncan. Where are you?’

  Patrick twists around and near falls from his stool. Duncan is nowhere to be seen. A cold sweat covers his forehead as he searches the inn, shadows and distorted silhouettes dance all around him. All of a sudden he is so desperately weary, and so he allows his head to sag. Then there’s a bump as the room turns on its side, as one clammy cheek presses against an ale sodden table.

  ***

  The pressman stands up, buttons his coat, picks up his tankard and downs his ale in one. Next he takes out his purse and selects a shiny coin. Time is up. He moves with conviction towards his prey, a swagger in his walk. The first thing he notices is the young man’s hands, palms scarred by rope, an able seaman for sure. And in the blink of an eye, before anyone notices, he drops the King’s shilling into
Patrick’s tankard, relishing the clanging noise as it hits the bottom.

  ‘Wake up, man. You and I have business to attend to.’

  The innkeeper groans. ‘Not here, take your business elsewhere.’

  The pressman stands his ground, hands on hips, his long legs slightly apart. He’s a formidable presence, especially once he lifts his red jacket aside to reveal his weapon.

  ‘Mind your own business, innkeeper. Need I remind you that enlistment into the naval service is voluntary, and if numbers are low, men between the ages fifteen and fifty-five are fair game.’

  ‘The fisherman hasn’t taken the King’s shilling.’ The innkeeper points at Patrick slumped over the table.

  ‘He will, mark my word. It’s in his tankard; he’ll sup his drink in a moment. Too much ale makes a man thirsty.’

  ‘You should have asked for a glass-bottomed tankard, you idiot,’ shouts some smart arse from the other side of the tavern.

  ‘It has a glass bottom,’ the pressman shrugs and smacks Patrick on the cheek. ‘But he’s too drunk to notice. Let’s see, shall we?’

  As predicted Patrick sits up and sups the last of his drink. The tavern is suddenly silent – folk waiting with baited breath for the outcome. They soon have their answer. Patrick of a sudden stands up, red-faced and swaying on his feet, a cough rattling from his throat…and then with an almighty sputter spits out the coin.

  ‘That’s it. He’s all mine.’ The pressman calls out to some men loitering outside: ‘Grab an arm and a leg and get him on the cart.’

  In a flash they are gone.

  ***