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Chapter Thirty-Five

Fisherrow October 1724

T hey say many things of fishwives. That we are gossips, and that we are rough and coarse and loud. That we are greedy, and that we berate and browbeat our poor husbands. That we pile our coins high, and that we strive to break out of our place in the world, although we really know nothing but fish. And that we stink.

Many of these things may be true of us, from time to time. But we know of far more than just fish.

We know of freezing mornings, monstrously dark, standing on the beach as the sun rises and the boats go out, picking up shellfish with our bare hands. We know of grit under our fingernails that never scrubs quite clean, and we know of waiting for boats to return as the storms rise. We know of back-breaking work.

Proud as I am of that life, and though it has taught me much about being resilient, I want more now, for me and Ma and Joan.

When the cart drops me back home, early evening, the pair of them spill out of the front door to meet me.

‘Oh, dear lass,’ murmurs Ma, clutching me. ‘We thought you’d had enough of us and done another flit.’

I lose myself for a moment or two on her shoulder and let myself be enveloped. I feel Joan’s hand pat my head, and I stand back and say we ought to go inside, for it’s dark and cold out here.

I can’t tell them what really happened.

I feel far enough removed from the events of last night that I do not fear a constable will come. It is not likely. How many enemies must a hangman have? And certainly I was not one of them, for Dr McTavish quite failed to hang me altogether.

‘I had some unfinished business,’ I tell them. ‘And it is finished now.’

‘I feel like I don’t really know you, Daughter, disappearing off like that and coming back as if all of it was perfectly normal,’ Ma says, sitting down at the table. The remnants of a half-eaten meal of bread and cheese lie on it, and it looks as though it has not been tidied and wiped since the meal before that.

‘I shall try not to do it again,’ I promise, ‘but I have friends in Edinburgh now and sometimes they might call on me, for I do not fancy going back there again. You must trust me to live my own life, Ma.’

‘That chap came looking for you – the harbourmaster,’ Joan says, watching me unwaveringly. ‘He was terribly upset and was off to call the constables. One minute you were in his office and the next minute gone, and no one had even seen you leave. I said to give it a while and that you had not simply vanished into thin air. I had a feeling you had something to do in Edinburgh and that we would see you before too long.’

My sister knows me better than anyone, it would seem. But oh Lord, constables are the last thing I need.

‘I shall go and let the harbourmaster know I am safe,’ I reply. I hand Ma my parcels. ‘You are to guard these with your life. Do not open them; we will discuss what is in them when I return. We have plans to make.’

‘You cannot go and see the harbourmaster dressed in that shabby shawl,’ says Joan. ‘You look a real fishwife in that. Worse than a fishwife, Maggie; you look like an Edinburgh beggar.’

So I am given a clean shawl and Ma wipes my boots, and I grab a lantern and off I trot down to the harbour. I have missed the fresh tang of it. It is not the kind of scent everyone likes, of salt and fish and horses and carts and the cold north wind. But it is mine.

Mr Munroe is standing on the doorstep of his office, looking out across the darkness of the Forth as if it holds some answers or some secrets he is trying to work out. As I approach, I can just about make out the details of his face from the light of the harbour lanterns. He looks as though he has not had a lot of sleep. He is a smart-looking man, handsome enough, but not showy with it. Decent, I’d say. I call out to him and, when he sees it’s me, he stares, as though he can’t believe I’m here.

‘I am sorry,’ I begin. ‘Terribly sorry, but something happened to me when you went out yesterday and I had to go and deal with it urgently.’

I think Mr Munroe will say something – scold me or tell me I am not welcome back in his harbour or in his office again – but he nods at me to go inside and sits me down by the fire.

‘I was about to call the constables,’ he says. ‘Your sister said to trust you a little and that, with everything that has happened to you these past few weeks, you have become flighty. But even so, I was very worried about you.’

‘I had no choice but to leave for a while on urgent business,’ I reply. ‘But I can promise you I’ve no more plans to go away again. And if I do, I will give everyone proper notice.’

He takes his pocket watch from his waistcoat and fiddles with it, then wipes his lips and paces up and down for a few minutes, as men do when they are pondering what to say next.

‘I did enjoy my morning’s work with you here,’ I tell him, ‘even though it was cut short. I should like to keep working here, with you.’

He stops and glances at me.

‘I did enjoy your company,’ I add shyly.

‘I dare say my company is not as exciting as some of the company you have kept,’ he says.

‘Mibbie that’s what I like about it,’ I answer.

The cottage in Musselburgh has been vacant since Spencer’s lease expired. The landlord, who turns out to be a friend of Mr Munroe’s, gives me the key so that I can go back and take another look at it.

It’s always the smell of a place that brings back the memories, is it not? The Musselburgh cottage smells of the ghost of Spencer’s perfumes, as though they have seeped into its very bricks and boards. It also still smells of freshly laundered linens and rush-light smoke and rum; but oh, it is still. It is empty of people and laughter and stories.

It needs to be filled with these things again.

I go back to the landlord and tell him I shall lease it for the next quarter – see how I like it. Then I tell Ma and Joan that we have a new place to live.

And that is how, by and by, Da returns to Fisherrow, for I was not happy to pay for him to live in an inn for the rest of his days. And Joan and Ma come to live with me in Musselburgh. And we do cause a scandal, I can’t deny that. All over Fisherrow, and Musselburgh town too, they talk of how we upped and left, and how my half-hanging and my high ways had made me into a different Maggie than the meek one they had long known. But we do not care, for me and Ma and Joan fill the place with chatter and laughter and stories. Happy stories and sad stories, and here is a sad little one.

It is a cold October day when I finally lay my poor Susanna to rest.

The gravediggers at St Michael’s do not have much of a job of it, for the coffin is tiny. But one day I will rest with her. I made sure to buy us space.

It has rained and the east-coast wind has made quick work of the kirkyard trees, stripping them down to their bare branches and making my heart feel stripped bare too. It is the yellow part of autumn, when there is so little of the season left, and such bitterness in the air that we might as well call it the start of winter. But now Susanna is finally in the ground, at home, near to me, where she can close her eyes and take her blissful slumber.