The Hanging of Margaret Dickson (23 page)

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, alongside 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.

Flurries of clouds stretch out in the sky as they walk home. Margaret's silent and morose, her lips pursed together in a perpetual scowl. She wants to voice her concerns to the girl walking beside her, but she's at a loss for words, and when her mouth finally does open, the speech is clumsy and stilted and she's unable to articulate.

‘I need to… what I'm trying to… Maggie, I hope…'

‘For God's sake, Margaret – spit it out.'

‘Have you something to tell me, Maggie? A secret perhaps?'

‘No, why do you ask?'

‘Are you with child?'

‘No, no, I am not,' Maggie walks faster, shaking her head.

Margaret grunts. ‘Oh my dear God, I knew this would happen. It is William's child, isn't it? My poor mother, she'll be mortified if she finds out. It's happened before, not long before you arrived here. The girl who ran away, we never heard from her again.'

‘I'm not. Please believe me, Margaret,' Maggie pleads.

Margaret Bell bites her lip. ‘You
know
what to do, Maggie. Do you understand my meaning? You
know
what to do. You're a married woman estranged from her husband.'

An almighty shudder passes through Maggie's body, a tortured expression contorts her pale face and tears roll down her cheeks. ‘But…'

‘Hush. I won't tell a soul; this is between you and I, Maggie. And it will stay that way as long as you do as I say. Now wait here, I won't be a moment.'

***

But Maggie does not wait, because suddenly she's overcome with a strange desire, and before she knows it she's sprinting through the air, arms pumping up and down. The wind whips up her hair, and with it goes her cap, and on and on she runs as though her life depends on it, until there's no breath left in her lungs. At the end of the wynd she stops and bends double, gulping like a fish out of water. But still she pushes on until she stands beside a heather brae. A sense of dread fills Maggie's heart as the wise woman opens her door.

‘I've no herbs left,' she mumbles. ‘But I've got this.' She hands Maggie a clout of dead worms and a rusty nail.

And thus, in her desperation, Maggie follows her inside.

When it began the morning light was just peeking through slate grey clouds, a crow was cawing from the top of the chicken coop, and the sounds of Isobel and William quarrelling echoed from below. With both hands Maggie pushes herself from the mattress and takes care not to disturb Margaret as she rolls out of the box-bed.

In haste, Maggie pulls on her clothes, her face contorting as a tightening ache surrounds her stomach. She recognises the cramps in her stomach immediately. They come in waves, starting in the lower back and tightening like a belt around the belly. With a sickening heart, she knows these contractions will come closer and closer together – until, well she daren't think about it. Nevertheless, for the moment she's able to cope with the pain.

The sound of Margaret's soft snoring suddenly vexes her. In a short while, Maggie might need the room to herself, of that she's sure.
Why is Margaret always so indolent
, she wonders. Thus, Maggie reaches into the box-bed and places a hand on the sleeping girl.

‘Wake up, Margaret.'

Margaret opens one eye. ‘All right, all right, just a moment more.'

‘No, you must get up now, Margaret. Your mother just called you downstairs. I'll go down and tell her you're coming, so hurry,' Maggie lies.

Once downstairs, Maggie enters the scullery. Cook is busy and doesn't give her a second glance. Therefore, Maggie is free to do her work, without fear of folk seeing her pain or guessing her predicament. But in less than an hour, Maggie's in a state of panic, staggering around with wild, terrified eyes. In no time at all, she has no alternative but to get to the attic room, away from prying eyes.
In a daze Maggie flees the room, her face flushed and covered in sweat, at the end of the corridor she bumps into Isobel.

‘Oh, lass, what ails you? You're burning up.' Isobel feels Maggie's forehead with the reverse of her hand.

‘Must be something I ate. I feel terrible, Isobel. May I be excused?'

‘Aye, you must have caught a winter chill. Take yourself off to bed, lassie. It's best that you rest. I'll be along later with some water and a cloth for your forehead.'

‘There's no need,' Maggie mutters.

‘Nonsense. Now off you go.'

***

A cold sweat coats her forehead as she enters her room. Knees shaking and weak, she places a hand on the wall to steady herself, determined not to fall.

‘This isn't happening; this isn't happening to me,' she says to herself. And then, before she has time to reach a basin, Maggie retches into her hands. Before long, the tightening pains are minutes apart, and are so unbearable, she falls to her knees. With her elbows resting on the box-bed she presses her face into the mattress and screws up her eyes. In desperation, Maggie wills the agony away, but the contractions keep coming, like the sea tide's inexorable waves. She sobs, she takes shallow breaths, and her fingernails dig into the mattress as another cramp passes.
Isobel
, she could walk in here any moment. In haste Maggie undresses and staggers to her bed in her sark.

A moment later the door creaks open.

‘Here I am, Maggie. How are you feeling? Oh dear, you look awful. I'll leave you some water and check on you later.' Isobel fusses with her covers and feels Maggie's forehead again. ‘You're hot as an oven, lass.'

‘No. I'm fine. I just need to rest. There's no need for you or Margaret to check on me, really. I will be all right.'

Isobel pats her on the arm
.
‘Well, if you are sure, lass.'

Just go, please go
, thinks Maggie, grimacing as Isobel strolls out of the room.

Maggie rises from the box-bed. Hands over head, she strips off her sark and places one hand over her swollen stomach. Suddenly there's an unbelievable pressure in her stomach, forcing its way down. Maggie drops to the floor again, crawling on hands and knees beneath the box-bed to drag out linen and clouts. She takes small linen squares and twists it into a spiral shape to stuff into her mouth, after that she shuffles backwards till her naked body blocks the door. Then, with her last ounce of strength she reaches up to turn the key in the lock.

Very slowly and with great effort she pushes herself off the door onto all fours. Her ears are ringing and a mist covers her eyes, as though she's immersed in murky water. Through the haze, Maggie bites down on her length of twisted linen and pushes her feet against the door for leverage and at that very moment a great quantity of water bursts from her body. And then everything goes black.

***

Something wriggles beneath her; Maggie won't look at it, because she doesn't want to acknowledge it. As she struggles to lift her cheek from the floor, strange gurgling noises come from beneath her. After a while, she can ignore it no more, so she pushes on her hands and sits straight. It is tiny and struggling for breath. Without hesitation she places a finger in its throat and nostrils, and then taps it on the back. It lets out a hearty wail – and to silence its cries, she places its mouth to her breast, but it won't suckle – it is too weak.

Maggie's numb. She feels nothing. Her eyes are cold as she pushes the child farther beneath the box-bed, and the very act allows her to detach herself from it. Not merely as a cover or a lie, but to deny the child its existence from the outset – in an act of self-preservation – and to remain near William.

***

‘Ah – there you are, Maggie. Are you feeling better this morning? I was terribly worried about you lassie,' Isobel holds a tray of dirty tankards, no doubt from the night before.

‘Aye, much better. What do you want me to do?'

‘Do you feel well enough to fetch some water from the river, lass? I can't find Margaret anywhere.'

By the time Maggie returns from the river her napkin's soaked with blood and her thighs are chaffed. As she waddles and staggers to the tavern door, a high pitched voice calls out to her. It is young David. Her heart sinks – she hasn't the time or vigour to help him today. Maggie just about manages to carry the water pail to the door; she really needs to rush upstairs to change her soiled padding, and so she ignores David.

‘Maggie! Maggie! Where have you been?' David runs into her arms, sulking as she pushes him away.

‘You cannot stay, David. I'm too busy, lad. Run along now, that's a good boy.' Maggie doubles over, her teeth clench as she rests the pails to the ground.

‘I'm hungry, Maggie. Have you got a pie for me?'

‘Nae, come back tomorrow. I'll give you some bread.'

‘Oh please, Maggie.'

‘You're a little beggar, you are. Go round to the back door.'

His eyes are bright as she hobbles out of the door, practically slavering at the sight of the oatcake she holds out for him.

‘God bless you, Maggie,' he says, with a mouth full of oatcake.

***

It's funny how when someone longs for something and craves for something so much, it never comes. And then, when they least expect it, or perhaps when they no longer want it, it lands at their feet, like an unwanted guest or a toy that has lost its appeal.

‘Maggie? Maggie, can't you hear me?'

The voice is warm like honey and instantly recognisable, and yet at this moment in time, she hasn't the energy to acknowledge it. But alas, as the voice persists she turns wearily around to face him.

‘William,' is all she can think to say.

William leans in close. ‘You look awful.'

‘And fat like a pig?'

‘Now come on, Maggie, that was a long time ago and I was just tormenting you. Is everything all right? You don't look too…' his forehead creases with concern.

‘I am very well, thank you.'

‘Why were you ignoring me?'

Maggie opens her hands out wide. ‘I wasn't ignoring you. I just couldn't hear you, and is that any wonder with this almighty din going on?'

‘Look at me,' William demands.

‘Why?'

He touches her hand, ever so gentle. ‘You looked troubled. Has someone affronted you? Have I upset you?'

‘No – everything is just grand.' She grits her teeth to block out the hurt.

His eyes flicker and dart in all directions. He looks confounded. ‘I never thought I'd say this, but I feel wretched and I'm sorry. Can you forgive me?'

Maggie's eyes widen and her heart thumps. ‘There's nothing to forgive.' She tries to move away but he grips her hand.

‘I must see you later.'

‘After all this time you want to see me? Now?'

‘Aye.'

‘Month after month I have waited to hear you say those words, William. But really, your timing couldn't be any worse.'

His eyes widen with surprise. ‘So be it.'

***

That night, her usual nightmare is replaced with a wondrous dream. In the dream there's a beautiful baby boy with flaxen hair and blue eyes, and the tiniest nose. And they're a family, all three of them, and so happy. She holds out her child to his father, and William lifts him from her arms, his mouth widening with a proud smile.

‘What shall we call him?'

‘What do you want to call him?'

‘James,' Maggie claps her hands together. ‘James – after my little brother.'

‘James he shall be,' William declares in a proud voice.

And then she wakes and the real nightmare begins.

***

Hoarfrost covers the banks of the river. She walks briskly past Castle Floors and glances at the fabulous castellated parapets and pepper pot turrets, her pail swings side to side, banging against her legs. She slips in the ice, but Maggie doesn't feel a thing, she's completely numb.

A queer feeling descends upon Maggie as she reaches the Tweed. At the water's edge, the sight of the tumbling waters prove too much for her, and thus she's overcome with sorrow. Tears roll down her face as she retrieves the bundle from the pail. With a sob, Maggie places it within some tall reeds on the river bank, thinking it will be washed away.

***

On 9 December a fisherman baits his fishing line on the banks of the Tweed. He curses under his breath, his line's become snagged on a weed and so he pulls and tugs until finally a small bundle appears. And to his horror, it's a dead child, perfectly preserved, and on further inspection he's able to determine that it's male. The fisherman duly informs the magistrates and the local Justice of the Peace is quickly acquainted with the dead child. In a short amount of time, a midwife and several women who have borne children are quickly assembled and ordered to inspect it. All of them give their opinion that the child has been lately thrown in the river.

The body's then moved to the Gospel Kirk in Kelso under the supervision of Minister James Ramsay. Meanwhile, the Justice of the Peace calls upon his constables to go along with the midwives to make a diligent search through the town of Maxwellheugh for any women with the usual mark of one who has brought forth a child.

On a cold winter day, William Pringle, the present Baillie of Kelso is summoned to investigate the matter of the dead child found on the banks of the River Tweed. Pringle's an utterly diligent man and after a small amount of enquiry he's directed to the home of Easter Mosereys and his sister, Elizabeth, who quickly inform him that a stranger resides in Maxwellheugh. And that stranger is a young lassie, who goes by the name of Maggie Dickson. Interestingly, according to Easter, she works in the inn of Adam Bell and Isobel Lidgerwood and as coincidence has it, the River Tweed flows directly past their inn.

***

In winter, the scullery is by far the warmest room in the inn. Maggie sits with young David by the large hearth, the pair of them warming their hands and faces in the soft flow of flames. Cook pays no heed to them as she peels her turnips, and all the while she sings one of her Irish ballad songs.

‘A coin for your thoughts, laddie? You're staring into the flames like you've seen a ghost.'

His eyes light up. ‘I'm wishing you could be my mother, Maggie. You're kind – and you always help me carry my father his ale, and give me bread and apples and…'

Maggie laughs. And it feels as though she hasn't felt joyful or untroubled for so long. She hugs David to her and ruffles his hair.
‘I already have a son, David and a daughter as well. Besides your father would miss you I am sure.' It's cruel to give the lad false hope, so Maggie shakes her head and takes him by the arms. ‘I've got to leave here soon, David. It's time I returned to my own kin.'

‘You can't, Maggie. I want you to stay here.'

She bites her lip and looks at him. ‘I'm sorry, David.'

***

The mind's a mighty and powerful thing, and if a person wants to forget about something and remove it from their memory, if they try hard enough, they can. In the wake of her trip to the banks of the Tweed, a new harder Maggie emerges: cold, indifferent and keen to go back to where she came. Time has left no mark on her face, she's bonnier than ever, but there's hardness in that fine-looking face that was not there before. With purpose in her stride, Maggie sets off in search of her employees, to tell them her news.

The sound of Maggie's footsteps echo into the cold air as she marches along the grey slate floor. She continues down a long winding hall before entering the main room. A group of people stand in its centre, turning to her with slack mouths and expressions of horror – the innkeeper, his wife, Margaret and William.

‘Is it true?' William rushes towards her, seizing her by the wrist. ‘Oh, a plague on you, tell me it isn't true, Maggie.'

Adam shakes his head violently. ‘Step away from her, William. The magistrate will be here any moment.'

William ignores his father and cries out: ‘The child – was it mine?'

Maggie trembles and dares not look him in the eye; he will forever be associated with a child that she cannot acknowledge or claim as her own. A solitary tear escapes from the corner of her eye, and other than that Maggie displays no emotion. But somewhere deep within her soul, Maggie's heart breaks for William. How she wishes she could hold him till they are both lifeless and covered in earth – her William, the object of her obsessions and desires.