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Chapter Twenty-Nine

T hey say Da is having a fine time down at the Mussel Inn. He keeps himself to himself and drinks in the lushery, and goes out in his boat as usual, and we do the bait and the lines, for nothing has changed in that regard.

‘We have only just got the trust of the tea men back. If your da stays out at the inn long enough, folk might stop coming here and giving us things to look after,’ worries Ma. ‘They might not think their tea is safe, being looked after by women, with no man about the place.’

‘Well, mibbie it’s time to put an end to all that,’ I say. ‘Take it from me, you don’t want to keep hoarding illicit things. You don’t want to get caught and have to spend time in jail.’

‘What if your da runs up a big bill at the inn?’ Ma looks better now that he has gone, but she has a habit of disappearing into herself, rubbing at her chin or her bonnet or the table top and gazing into the mid-distance.

‘I will settle his bills,’ I tell her. ‘I have enough saved.’

I have not gone hawking my half-death here in Fisherrow or Musselburgh yet, but I will if I must. Instead I would rather get a proper trade, so I dress well for the next Friday fish-market, which is always the biggest of the week.

They come for miles for their Friday fish, and that brings out all the other traders too. Fisherrow harbour is lined with stalls and barrels and crates, filled with loaves and autumn harvests of apples and pears and carrots and parsnips, along with the lobsters and salmon.

After a busy hour of selling our fish, I leave Ma and Joan and take a walk up the harbour, which sings with the cries of gulls and traders. A wind comes off from the Forth, a fresh wind, and I sit on the wall and feel it. I would take off my bonnet and sense it whip my hair, were it not for the fact that I am far too grown-up for such frolics. This is what it is to be alive. To feel the weather and to blink at the sun’s harsh glint off the waves. To look at the sea, full of Navy ships and pirates, and wonder where the world ends. To feel as small as anything.

Before the hanging, I barely noticed any of it. I was too busy studying maps and daydreaming.

I get up and walk over to the harbourmaster’s office. I do not like smartly dressed men, but I have come to learn how to talk to them and make a case for myself. I knock sharply on the door, and a deep voice calls at me to come in.

The harbourmaster sits at a large desk, smothered with papers and cups and quills, and he is plainly puzzled to see a woman walk into his office. He is not a Fisherrow man – I can tell by his rakish frame and his well-cut vowels.

‘Can I assist you?’ He frowns, as though he fears I am here to report a theft or drunkenness, or the usual trouble the Friday market brings.

‘I am Mistress Maggie Dickson,’ I tell him. ‘Of Fisherrow.’

The penny drops, but he is too much of a gentleman to gawp.

‘Are you the – ahem – the hanged woman? Ah yes, I see you are; there was a likeness of you in the Courant .’ He looks me up and down, then blushes as if I were naked.

‘They call me Half-Hanged Maggie,’ I say. ‘But I’m not fond of that name.’

We wait for his blushes to cool a little.

‘I would not be fond of a name like that, either. They call me Harbourman Jim, which is not quite as bad, but I don’t like it. My name is James Munroe,’ he tells me.

He is trying to be decent, so I take the plunge. ‘I should like to ply a trade at the market,’ I say. ‘My own folks have a fish stall, but they don’t need the extra pair of hands, as my sister works with them now.’

‘Yes, the Dicksons’ fish stall, which is one of our most reliable. I understand the Dickson fisher folk go back generations. Do you want your own fish stall?’

I shake my head. ‘I want to try something different,’ I reply.

He frowns. ‘But what other knowledge do you have?’

‘I lived in Edinburgh awhile,’ I tell him. ‘I learned the gin trade, but I would not wish to bring that to Fisherrow.’

He shakes his head vigorously. A good Presbyterian man.

‘I told stories about my hanging for pennies, but I do not wish to sell myself like that, either,’ I admit.

He considers me.

‘You have been through an ordeal,’ he admits. ‘Many ordeals, if what I read in the Courant is true.’

‘But I am still here,’ I tell him. ‘And I have learned a lot. Folk in Edinburgh would touch my neck for luck. They would think it would save them from their own hardships and perils.’

‘It is easy to be superstitious,’ Mr Munroe says. I can tell that he would not be as willing as other folks have been to believe my stories. His stare is frank. I dare say I could not tell this man any untruths, for he would see right through them.

‘But sometimes superstition is all we have,’ I go on. I sit down now on the spare chair, even though he has not invited me to do so, but he does not object or tell me to get up. ‘I have seen men stand at this very harbour and kiss cauls before they get onto their boats. I have seen their wives pray on their knees as the storms come, watching and waiting for the boats to return. I have seen storms come out of nowhere. I have seen folk ply their own secret trade in trinkets and tea and perfumes, and all sorts of smuggled goods, just to get by, for there is not much of a living to be made selling fish, once they have paid their rent for their stalls and a place to keep their boats overnight.’

He does not nod or shake his head, but looks serious.

‘All I should like to do,’ I go on, ‘is have my own little corner of the market where I can sell bits and bobs – enough to get by and make some sort of a living out of and not disturb anyone, nor be disturbed.’

He sits back in his chair and scratches his chin. ‘Have you brought any trouble with you from Edinburgh? Any constables looking for you?’

I shake my head. I do not tell him about Dr McTavish, or the fact that my own husband is alive and well there.

‘And do you have a trade, other than fish?’

‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘I have worked in an inn, but I don’t fancy that again – all that cooking and cleaning. I was thinking of selling salt or spices, something like that. Mibbie making some connections in that regard and taking it from there.’

‘That might take a while,’ he muses. ‘The setting-up of connections in trade is not an easy one. Not in honest trade anyway.’

‘I want an honest trade, more than anything,’ I tell him.

The fire burns in the grate and the gulls cry distantly. I cast my eye around the room and think it a cosy one, despite the pamphlets and the chaos of papers. On the desk is a paper bag and the remnants of a pie crust, and I wonder if Mr Munroe has a wife at home or takes his meals alone at his desk all the time.

Finally he seems decided.

‘I could use an assistant here in my office,’ he says. ‘Someone to keep the place neat and tidy and take messages and make tea for visitors.’

‘Oh,’ I reply, taken aback. ‘I had not thought of an office job. I have not worked in any kind of clerking job before. I don’t read well, sir.’

He smiles. ‘But, as you say, you want an honest job. Well, this is honest work. Keeping things ticking over here. Now, will you take it?’

I say I will take it.

When I close Mr Munroe’s door behind me, leaving him to scribble and scrape the details of his new appointment into his books, I must confess I feel proud of myself. The old Maggie Dickson would have been horrified of course. She would never have worked in the office at Fisherrow harbour. But she never reached the London of her dreams, which likely does not exist anyway and is not as decent a place as Fisherrow.

An office assistant! I cannot wait to tell Ma and Joan. I could skip for joy. But then I remember Dr McTavish and my heart sinks.

That night the fishwives come to our cottage to hear their fortunes and to touch my neck.

I had known it was bound to happen sooner or later. They weren’t invited, for Ma would not have welcomed the attention, nor Joan. But rather word got out and I was seen that day at the Friday market and, it being a Friday night, the men were down at the inn and the women were at a loose end, so they came wandering up to ours.

Ma lets them come in, dribs and drabs of them, until the parlour is full and hot and close. They’ve brought sherry and fruit baskets and slabs of cheese, so we can’t really turn them away. They take off their boots at the door, and by and by the doorway is so piled with boots that I don’t know how each will manage to find her own pair at the end of the night.

At first their questions are easy to answer.

‘Are you glad to be home?’ they ask. ‘Did you miss your ma’s cooking?’

Then, as they tip back their drinks and their eyes begin to glaze, the questions turn into an interrogation.

‘We only want to know , we are only asking – she doesn’t have to answer if she doesn’t want to.’ But their questions are no different from anyone else’s. How did the babe die? Do I miss the babe? What was the jail like? What was the Iron Room like? Is it true you get a good last meal?

What happens next, after we die? Have I been delivered, have I been spared, have I been resurrected?

Can we see the rope-bruise? Oh, it is not as bad as we feared. Oh, you can hardly see it, not really – not in this light.

Can we touch it?

I do not want to embarrass Ma. I do not want to embarrass Ma, but their words and faces and fingers probe at me until the only thing I can do is close my eyes; and when that doesn’t work and doesn’t drown them out, I put my fingers in my ears; and when that doesn’t work, I stand up. Plates clatter to the floor and a hush falls over the room.

‘She has had a terrible time,’ says Joan. ‘And you are all making it worse.’ I have never heard her so stern.

‘Then we shall change the subject,’ they cry, and the subject is changed. And I sit back down and they all go back to talking about the weather and the price of wool, and the best time to slaughter their household pigs.

Under the table, Joan reaches for my hand and squeezes it.

I squeeze it back, grateful to her.

Afterwards, when I get embarrassed thinking about my outburst and wonder why it happened, I realize that it is because I do not want to tell tall tales any more and, truthfully, I was never dead, was I?

I was out for the count. Unconscious. Similar to a fainting fit, I suppose. The noose constricted my breathing for a while, and Dr McTavish pronounced me dead, though he knew full well I wasn’t.

There is nothing special about me at all.

But everyone else wants me special, for it gives them some sort of hope. Hope of reunion with lost loves, and hope of salvation. They want it by touching my neck, and Dr McTavish wants it by me bringing him Mrs Rose.