‘It’s all right, lass,’ Adam says handing her a glass. ‘Just get that down you. Let’s drink to happier times now that she’s gone. Good riddance.’
‘Happier times,’ Isobel raises her glass.
Maggie joins in with the toast. ‘Who will do her work?’
‘You and Margaret can take on her chores between you, just until we can hire another girl.’
Maggie forces a smile. Her stomach churns at the prospect of extra work, not because she’s afraid of hard work, mind. No, life as a fisher lassie has put her in good stead in terms of hard labour. But extra labour means more time in the tavern, mixing with all kinds of folk, be it baker, flesher or worse still – the prying eyes of old and wise women who might guess her predicament. It’s no use to pretend; in her heart she knows. Maggie’s carrying the child of William Bell.
***
The months pass slowly and to conceal her shame, Maggie develops a routine. In the morning, if she feels nauseous, she disguises her retching as a coughing fit. Once Margaret has left the room, she crawls out of bed and dresses in haste. The child grows quickly, stretching out her stomach like a man with a large ale belly, and when it kicks her beneath her ribs, Maggie grimaces in pain.
At first it’s easy to pretend it’s not happening, but as Maggie’s belly grows, so does her fear. And that fear lives with her every single day. She shudders and wraps her arms around herself – the horror of being discovered and the inevitable consequences is something she dare not contemplate. With her own eyes she’s witnessed an adulteress’s shame, and to be sure she does not wish to endure that.
***
Adam Bell senses trouble, and he can’t comprehend what irks him so. Of late an atmosphere exudes within the tavern, especially last thing at night, once they congregate near the fire. Awkward silence, stilted conversation, forced smiles – Adam feels sure it has something to do with Maggie, and so he contrives to send her on her way.
As fortune has it, Adam’s elder brother needs help in his inn in Berwick. A month or so ago, Adam’s brother’s wife became ill, and so he’s desperate for an extra pair of hands. Adam rubs his hands together with glee, he can think of just the person to send to him.
‘I’ll go,’ Isobel declares with bright eyes.
‘You will not,’ Adam elbows her in her arm. ‘Your place is here with me. Maggie will go. I am sure she will go if I ask her. It will do her good; a step closer to Newcastle and her husband, as far as I’m concerned. Haven’t you noticed the way she looks at William, or the way he looks at her for that matter? I’m sure there’s something between them, I can feel it in me bones.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Anyway, I’ve made up my mind. I’m sending Maggie; hopefully it will be the last we see of her. The new girl can take up her workload.’
***
Therefore, the following day, Maggie finds herself bound southward for Berwick, in a rickety old cart. The blue-grey sky is scattered with birds, their wings spread out to a dying sun. The driver’s a quiet fellow with a rough and sullen face, and for the duration of the journey, he offers little in the way of conversation. For the most part of the trip, Maggie stares ahead to take in the rough moorland. Trees are sparse and the ground is bleak and deserted, devoid of houses and people. The further they go, the fiercer the weather becomes. An incessant wind blows, and with the wind comes the rain. Maggie takes in the bleakness and she wonders how anything can survive this wild terrain.
‘Are you sure this is the right tavern?’ Maggie taps the driver on his shoulder.
‘It’s a wild and rough terrain, lassie. Not suitable for the likes of you if you ask me, but here we are.’ He stops the cart and jumps out.
Out of the mucky cart Maggie steps, near twisting her ankle as she hits the stony ground. The driver catches her arm and she thanks him, and to her surprise he smiles and tips his hat.
‘There’s a door ahead. I’ll be off now, wishing you good fortune.’ He glances nervously at the door before climbing into his seat. In a flash he’s away, whipping his horse into a frenzy so that it gallops off. For a while she watches him, disappearing into the horizon, like an apparition, and when she turns around she has the most beautiful coastal view.
But the sea will have to wait. Maggie stops near a huge oak door, her bag at her feet. She hears a great deal of noises from behind it, like rusty bolts and metal scraping. The door creaks open, and out of it comes a man, the spitting image of Adam Bell, although older and fatter.
‘Who is it?’ he enquires in a gruff voice.
‘Maggie Dickson, sir. Your brother, Adam, sent me.’
‘Ah – so it is you, the lassie from Adam’s inn. How is my brother?’
‘Good,’ she replies.
‘I bid you welcome to Cross Key Inn. My name is Joseph, Joseph Bell. Come in, rest your feet.’ Joseph takes her hand and squeezes hard. His hand is warm.
‘Can I take a moment? It’s a while since I’ve been near the coast and I’ve missed it so.’ Maggie turns towards the glorious view of the sapphire sea.
‘Aye, I’ll be just inside.’
Maggie inhales the salt sea air, closing her eyes so that the smells and sounds become heightened. Her senses sharpen; she can hear gulls and a roaring sea crashing against rocks. There is a freedom here that’s part of the air and sea; and so she’s compelled to stumble away down the rocks, with the call of a thundering sea in her ears. Near the foaming surf, Maggie rips the cap from her head, so that her dark hair falls wild upon her face… and for the first time in a long while, Maggie feels at peace.
***
‘You took your time,’ Joseph smiles and takes her arm. He guides her to a small room littered with old tubs, crates and hogsheads. A hideous looking man works in the corner, shifting sand-covered crates, and his figure casts a monstrous shadow on the lime-washed wall. For just a moment, a candle illuminates his face, and Maggie peers at him with a surprised expression, her countenance turning grave. He has the perfect shape of ‘S’ burned into his forehead.
‘The S is for slave. He’s a runaway collier serf. The first time he ran, they set to work with the branding irons, once they caught him that is. But those bastards won’t catch him again, he’s with us now. Does he scare you, lass?’
Maggie shakes her head. ‘Nae, not at all.’
‘Good, good,’ he smiles. ‘Can you brew ale and cook? The wife’s ill and, well, we’re behind with stock. I might be able to find another pair of hands to assist you if it’s too much to ask’
Maggie’s brows knit together. The prospect of working with another woman who might guess her condition she likes not. ‘No need. I am sure that I can cope alone. I mightn’t be the best cook,
I warn you, but I can brew some fine ale. Where is your cauldron?’
The look of relief on his face is plain to see. Good, she thinks. Now that he’s satisfied that I can manage the workload alone, I am safe. From the corner of her eye, Maggie glances at the collier serf again. He drinks from a horn beaker and the sight of him swigging back his drink makes her mouth water.
‘Listen to me clacking on like an old hen. I’ll show you the brewing vessel later – once you’ve had a bite to eat and something to drink.’
Joseph leads her to a large room thick with peat smoke. A table stands in the middle, and there is a loaf and a jug of water sat upon it. He gestures for Maggie to sit herself down and takes a chair from across the room, dragging the chair legs all the way with a piercing shrill. Joseph’s large belly disturbs the table as he sits beside her. With a blunt knife, he scrapes mould from a hunk of bread, and then cuts it into thin slices, before cramming a few into his own mouth. With a flick of his wrist he throws a few slices at her.
‘Drink up,’ he says, passing her a cup. ‘We’ll soon have much to do.’
***
They stand inside a storage room; Maggie and Joseph, near a window, watching the customers arrive. In they come, like a flock of drenched rats, mangy and flea-bitt
en and covered in sores. Whole hoards of them arrive; dirty thieves, beggars, and gipsy sorners, puffing on their clay pipes and staring warily around them. Even from in here, she can smell the reek of sweat and tobacco. The rowdiest of them congregate near a half open door. At first Maggie assumes they’re all drunk; what with the incessant singing, shouting and swearing. But on closer observation, she realises that they are quite sober. After a while, on further observation, Maggie assumes that they are on guard of something, standing rigid like sentries at the door, hair ruffled from wind.
‘Who’s serving the ale?’ she asks.
‘The collier you met earlier. Just till we go in, then no doubt he will join them. Are you ready to go in and face that ungodly rabble?’
‘Aye – but before we do, why do they keep going outside?’ she asks Joseph.
‘Checking the weather, no doubt.’
‘Why?’
‘You ask too many questions, wench. Your curiosity will not be met well here.’
Joseph claps his hands together. ‘Right, let’s go in then. Once you get behind this bar, stay behind it. Take heed, because I say this for your own good. Don’t mix amongst the men; I will take them their ale – all you need do is pour it.’
The bar is made up of beams salvaged from shipwrecks, so Joseph says. In a rare moment of quiet, Maggie presses her face against a weather-beaten window,and can just make out the shape of a tiny ship on the blue horizon, its sails a washed-out white.
‘Maggie!’ shouts Joseph, no doubt for more beer.
She turns her attention from the window and pours more ale. He takes it through to a group of men passing and trading contraband; brandy, tea, tobacco and wine, most of it covered in seaweed and sand. And all of a sudden she notices the pistols. Near every one of the men carries one in their belts and the air is suddenly charged with menace, causing a shiver to run up her spine.
Just after midnight, Maggie’s directed to a second floor. The quarters are mildewed and damp, and upon the dirt floor are empty barrels covered in grime. At the farthest corner is a huge bay window, and beneath it a bed of dirty straw. And so, as Maggie yawns and lays her plaid upon it, she hopes she’s not to stay here long. It takes an age to fall to sleep, for the inn is still alive with the sound of activity and noise. But soon, as her breathing becomes shallow, she is able to dream of distant lands – and of William. In the wee hours a scraping sound echoes from outside, like chains and strange metal objects being dragged about. What now? she wonders, pushing upwards to peek through the lattice window. A single lantern illuminates below, and a group of men follow behind, carrying ropes, lanterns and axes, their shiny pistols glinting in the dim light.
In hindsight, it’s a rather romantic image of them Maggie has that first night, because with time she will discover what a vile breed of men they are, these brutes – holding men, women and children down in the water, or killing them with rocks. In time she will discover how they smash up wrecked ships with pickaxes and shovels, to relieve them of goods, while dead bodies float all around them, belly-up, teeth broken, seaweed in their hair.
Like most peasant folk, she turns a blind eye. Maggie sees nothing and watches the wall. There is a code of principles here that’s easily learned, so Maggie does not see the tubmen carrying off their spirits in half ankers, or the batsmen defending contraband when smugglers make a landing. And of course she’s not aware of the barrels with false bottoms and the customs men and riding officers constantly snooping around. Maggie’s not a fool and she’s not about to betray a confidence, especially since they’ve been so kind.
‘I need extra transport for a shipment tonight,’ moans Joseph one day. ‘The tubmen have toiled too long and are weary, so I must labour alone.’
‘Use old Ned’s horses up yonder,’ Maggie says crossing her arms.
‘Nae, he won’t – not even if I set all his hay-ricks on fire.’
The air crackles with tension as Joseph stomps about. To Maggie’s relief he soon finds a man for the job. All it takes is a meaningful wink to a nearby farmer, who leaves his stable doors unlocked that night. In the morning, Joseph returns the horses to the farmer’s stalls, muddy and exhausted – and a keg of best brandy in the corn bin.
***
One morning, as a hint of dawn seeps through the wooden lattice of her window, Joseph storms into Maggie’s room. And for the longest time, all Maggie can feel is her own racing heart and the trembling of her body. With terror in her eyes, she realises that from where he stands, he might see her bulging stomach. She clenches the mattress with both hands and sits up, hoping with a sinking heart that he has not guessed her secret.
‘No need to get up, lassie. I just came in here to tell you you’re not needed anymore. My wife, you see, she’s much better. I owe you my gratitude,’ Joseph says.
Maggie stares up at him with sleep-filled eyes. ‘What for?’
‘For coming so promptly to Cross Key Inn. We’re a rough lot but you rolled your sleeves up and worked hard, never complained once. Hah! You’ve even helped us hide our smuggled goods in the caves. Have you enjoyed your stay?’
‘Aye, I learnt a great deal.’
‘Did you now?’ he laughs, and throws his head back. ‘I’ve a soft spot for you, Maggie. I think we understand one another. You’ve got a wild spirit, but more importantly I think you’re a lassie I can trust.’ He waits for her reply.
‘You’ve my trust and my loyalty, Joseph. Now leave me in peace to get dressed.’
Joseph heads for the door, but before he gets there he turns and says: ‘I’ll sell this tavern in a few years, Maggie. It’s yours if you want it, for a fair price. You’ve got guts in you – I can see that. What do you think?’
Maggie looks at him, wondering how on earth she could afford to buy an inn. ‘You own the inn and don’t lease it?’
Joseph nods. ‘Aye, lassie. You’ve seen the business I do here, it brings in more than enough to live comfortably. Almost all the inns round here finance smuggling, because we’re able to sell contraband straight across the bar. Think it over.’
Maggie smiles and wraps her plaid around her. ‘I’m afraid I’m in no position to accept your offer, Joseph. There’s the money and my husband and…’
‘That might change in a few years, wait and see.’
She wonders at that. Later on, as the carter cracks his whip and she’s on the way, Maggie suddenly realises that she’s at liberty to go where she wants. She calls out to the carter. ‘How long would it take to get to Newcastle from here?’
‘At least two hours,’ he says in a gruff voice.
‘No matter.’ She nods, and her thoughts suddenly return to the father of her unborn child.
***
When summer arrives, a peace settles over Kelso. Birds sing, drowsy bumblebees hum in the hot air, and butterflies flutter and dance through the trees. Near the water’s edge, vibrant flowers spread their petals to a hot sun. By the river, Maggie feels safe enough to remove her plaid, her hair blows in the soft summer breeze, and little David sits by her side, dangling his bare-feet into the cool water.
The boy points to a large ripple in the water. ‘Did you see, Maggie? That must have been a big fishy swimming there beneath the surface. It was as big as a cow.’
‘Don’t be daft, laddie.’ She shakes her head. ‘It was probably a salmon or trout and none of them are big as cows,’ she smiles and chuckles to herself. For a while they just sit there, side by side, comfortable in each other’s presence. Deep within the green foliage of riverside, Maggie’s attention is drawn to the marsh. Her eyes follow its course until the figure of a man protrudes from the rushes like a strange freakish plant. With shaky hands she gathers her plaid around her. ‘Come on, laddie. It’s time to go.’
‘Why must we go, Maggie?’ David whines.
‘We just do,’ she says staring at the strange man.
***
On the Sabbath, at kirk, Maggie stands in her usual position, behind the Bell family, along
side maidservants and rosy-faced dairymaids. As the sermon drags on she sneaks a glance at William, but his gaze is fixed firmly ahead. Since her return from Berwick he’s visited the inn twice, and on both occasions he’s helped his father and promptly returned to the tailor’s.
With each passing day, it’s becoming harder to conceal her shame. Before long, the four walls of the inn became an insufferable prison, hemming her in and pressing down upon her oppressive thoughts. That night, as Maggie lies on her box-bed, her bulging stomach clear of Margaret’s feet, she dares to dream of the living creature that lives in her belly and of his father, who will never hear the cry of his first born child.
***
On Monday morning, Maggie and Margaret carry peat from Pelstone Crag. On Tuesday they take dirty linen to the river to be laundered and on Wednesday they sell eggs and chickens in the market square. The market buzzes with activity, hawkers and buyers bartering for fresh goods, it is familiar territory, and not something Maggie’s keen to return to. A quantity of pigs and goats roam free causing havoc and a scold’s ducked in a local pond.
All her life, Margaret Bell has lived in Maxwellheugh. She knows and loves this area well. From the corner of her eye, she observes Maggie with wary eyes, she’s definitely stouter – and as Maggie bends backwards to relieve her sore back, her plaid gapes open to reveal a slight swelling in her stomach. Hence, Margaret Bell’s suspicions are roused but not confirmed. With a sense of doom, Margaret walks beside Maggie, her thoughts of condemnation and shame; she shudders and gazes into a leaden sky. Heaven above, if her fears are realised, Maggie’s in for a miserable time.
The Hanging of Margaret Dickson Page 22