The Hanging of Margaret Dickson (22 page)

‘Very well,' she mumbles, a thousand miseries in her damp eyes.

He nods and folds his arms across his body. ‘Tis wise to be prudent, Maggie – you don't want to end up on the cutty stool, do you?'

‘Course not. But that's not the reason you won't see me again, is it? It's because I mean nothing to you.'

Her heart thumps as Williams's hands caress her face and neck; his fingers linger at the base of her throat before he pulls away. ‘I haven't any time for this nonsense, Maggie. Accept it's over. It never really began.'

‘You're an animal,' she steps backwards, edging towards the door. ‘You've used me just like you have other lasses. You treat all women the same.'

William strides past her, blocking the exit. ‘I gave you what you wanted. You practically begged me, woman.'

Her eyes are sad, like the dark pools of a peat bog. She's no fight left in her and there's a sickening feeling in her muscles and bones.
‘I must go. I don't want to quarrel.'

William's eyes soften; he fumbles for a moment with his jacket, unclipping a small pin from the cloth. ‘Take this – go on, take it as a token of my affection.'

Maggie stares at the silver brooch; it feels cold in her palm. ‘What is it?'

‘A luckenbooth. This was pinned to my shawl when I was a wee bairn. I want you to have it.'

She lifts her eyes from the brooch, lifting her head in hope. ‘So you'll see me again?'

‘No,' he groans.

A look of disgust crosses Maggie's face. ‘Well I curse the day I met you, William Bell. I will plague your thoughts now and forever and never forget it.' She runs from the shop, tears rolling down her face.

She leans against the tailor's door. A mother bird feeds her chicks on a rooftop, their high pitched cries soaring over faded grey tiles. Nearby, a wood pigeon competes with the racket, puffing its breast in and out, adding to the din. Maggie sighs and takes a deep breath – she has to go back in, but her throat's so tight she feels sure to choke. She pushes open the door.

‘Now Maggie…'

‘Shush,' she stands on her tip-toes and places a finger to his lips. And then she walks to his work bench, reaches for his cutting scissors and snips off a lock of her hair. ‘Here,' she says, ‘a fairing to add to your other conquests.'

William shrugs and ties the lock of hair with a scrap of scarlet material, and then places it inside a leather pouch. ‘Tell Father I'll come by at dusk. Goodbye, Maggie.'

She swallows a lump from her throat. ‘I love you, William. I knew it the moment I first saw you.'

Every step she takes towards the door, she yearns for him to reciprocate her love, but he remains rooted to the spot and says nothing.

The sour girl Helen is a nightmare to work with. No matter what Maggie does, Helen will not smile or be civil. It's as though a strange entity had climbed within Helen's body and sucked all the goodness out of her.
Evil, that's what she is
, decides Maggie.
The lass thrives on misery and maliciousness
.

‘Get out of my way,' Helen pushes past her.

‘I'm not in your way, you feckless idiot.' Maggie ignores her, having had quite enough.

‘I'll go to the Master and tell him you've been cavorting with his son,' she hisses.

‘What's there to tell,' says Maggie. ‘He's not set foot in this inn for days.'

***

Isobel glances at the two lasses from across the room, shaking her head as she runs a smooth cloth over the bar. There's trouble brewing, of that she's sure. She only has to look on the faces of the lassies to see that. Helen in particular looks ready to roll up her fists and do battle, and so she tugs on her husband's sleeve.

‘Adam. Will you look at those two? There's going to be trouble, I'm warning you now.'

‘I'll not get involved in women's quarrels, so leave me be, Isobel. They're just having an argument; you know what lasses are like. They're not happy unless they're quarrelling like cats.'

‘I disagree. Maggie's a placid girl. It's our Betty's girl, Helen, that's the trouble…'

‘I know, I know, but she's kin, so my hands are tied.' He scratches his beard and places a hand on his wife's shoulder. ‘Helen's an awkward girl no doubt, but she's got the stamina of a carthorse, and besides – if we interfere we'll probably just make it worse.'

Then, to Isobel's surprise, her husband stops talking and squints ahead, his whole concentration suddenly focused on the two girls.

‘Did you hear that?'

‘Nae,' says Isobel. ‘What did they say?'

‘Be quiet, woman. I just heard them mention William's name. Let me listen to what they say.'

***

The two women stand toe to toe, finger pointing and prodding one another. For every step Maggie takes backwards, Helen inches forward, spewing her venomous bile. With her fists clenched by her side, Maggie stands her ground.

‘Leave me be, Helen. You're just jealous.'

‘Hah! Jealous of you? You're nothing but a whore. You should go back to where you came from and find that illusive husband of yours. If you've still got one, that is!' Helen sniggers.

‘I'll go when I'm good and ready. And I stand by my word, you are jealous. You're sweet on the Master's son, but he's no interest in you whatsoever.'

‘And I suppose you think he likes you? He's diddled every lassie in this tavern, except his mother, and it wouldn't surprise me if he's been there as well.'

***

Adam and Isobel overhear the whole conversation.

‘Helen. Come here, at once,' Adam bellows.

‘She made me to say it – she's caused nothing but trouble since the…' cries Helen.

‘Pack your things and get out.'

‘But…'

‘Out!' Adam shouts, his eyes flashing with anger.

Maggie has no pity for the lass. After all is said and done, Helen has no one to blame but herself. To be honest, she can't wait to see the back of her. For the sake of Adam and Isobel, though, Maggie tries to muster up some understanding and compassion.

‘I am so sorry. I didn't mean to badger her. No matter what I did she wouldn't take to me. That must have been hard for you, her being kin and all.'

‘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-bitten 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.