The Hanging of Margaret Dickson by Alison Butler

awkward as Isobel places her in her hands. She’s unsure of whether to hold it to the left or right and so she tries both ways, finally resting its head in the crook of her left arm. Her skin crawls as Isobel guides it to her breast.
    The child hiccups and jerks in her embrace, as though something disturbs her sleep. Maggie gazes at her with drowsy eyes.
Already she prefers it asleep, silent and undemanding. Suddenly, a hoarse cough startles Maggie, causing her to clinch the babe tight in her arms.
    â€˜Oh, it is you, Patrick. Where have you been? I was frightened to death.’
    â€˜At sea. Where else? I got here as soon as I could. The midwife got here in time then?’
    â€˜Aye, but the birth – oh Patrick, I never want to go through that again.’
    Patrick shakes his head. ‘Was it painful, lass?
    Maggie nods and slumps her head back. ‘Do you want to hold her?’
    â€˜Aye. It’s a girl child then? What have you called her?’
    â€˜I haven’t called her anything.’
    â€˜Why not?’ He walks the length of the room and sinks to his knees beside her.
    â€˜I was waiting for you, silly beggar.’
    He kisses her forehead. ‘We’ll call her Anna, in remembrance of your mother.’
    She lifts her head to find his lips. He tastes of the sea.
    â€˜Anna Spence it is then,’ she agrees.
    They christen her on 29 July 1716 at St Michaels Kirk.

    ***

    Motherhood does not come naturally to Maggie. Why didn’t anyone warn her about the trouble bairns bring? And how many more sleepless nights must she endure? The incessant crying grates on her nerves now and, to make matters worse, the child seems to be permanently on the breast like a huge sucking parasite.
    A rapping noise from the door startles her. Maggie’s not really in the mood for visitors but nevertheless she crosses the room with weary legs to answer the door. It’s the midwife, Jean Ramsay, waiting to be invited in. She opens the door and ushers her inside, offering her a chair near the fire.
    â€˜How’s the child?’ asks Jean, glancing at the baby and giving the cottage a once over.
    â€˜She’s feeding well that’s for sure and she’s a healthy pair of lungs on her.’
    â€˜And you?’
    â€˜Grand,’ Maggie tells a falsehood.
    Jean scrutinises her with penetrating eyes. ‘Hmm, you look a bit sickly to me. Have you taken the child outside yet?’
    Maggie shakes her head and shudders; the thought of going out with the babe irks her, and to be honest she has neither the energy nor the desire to venture out-of-doors. ‘No, I thought I’d leave going out for now.’
    â€˜Nonsense. The child needs fresh air, and by the look of it so do you. You can’t stay within these four walls forever you know, you’ll be off to Edinburgh soon with the other fishwives to sell your fish. And look at the state of this place. I’ve seen cleaner pigsties. Do you want me to help you give the place a wee clean?’
    Maggie lowers her head. ‘Aw, no need, Jean. I’ll have this place spick and span soon; it’s just I’ve been so weary and Widow Arrock said she’d come by to lend me a hand after kirk on Sunday.’
    â€˜All right then. I’ll be off now, but get yourself out in the fresh air, do you hear me? You need to get some colour back into those cheeks.’

    ***

    The rush is on. Market day at Fisherrow and the fishwives labour hard to sort and gut their fish. Agnes Lecke toils slowly, in her typical precise manner. She sits apart from the other fishwives, happy in her own company, sometimes chattering to herself. Wispy fair hair spills from her cap as she leans over her fish, a razor-sharp knife twisting in hand as she guts her fish. She senses the woman and baby before the others. Her nostrils flare and her upper lip rises as she turns away, Agnes can’t bear to look at them and her heart aches as though a