The Hanging of Margaret Dickson by Alison Butler Page B

them.’
    â€˜Well, some folk around here call them witch’s thimbles. A wise woman told Sarah to scatter the foxglove flower heads over the changeling’s body. Boil the flowers and feed it the boiled potion before leaving it in a barn overnight. The wise woman said come morning the real baby will be found in its cradle.’
    Maggie’s eyes bulge in her head. ‘Leave it in a barn overnight for foxes and God knows what else to get at it?’
    Jean adjusts baby Anna in her arms, the child’s head is tilted backwards, and her tiny lips press together like a rosebud. ‘Well, we’ve no reason to trouble you about this little one; she’s perfect and fast asleep for now.’ The midwife holds out her arms.
    â€˜Aye, for now, just the way I like her.’ Maggie places the child within her cradle. ‘Have you seen this contraption? My Patrick made it out of some wood from an old table. It looks more like a pig trough!’
    Jean chuckles and slaps one bony knee. ‘A pig trough maybe, but it’s a perfectly formed wee baby girl you’re placing inside. Count your blessings, lassie. How many babies die before they reach their first year? Near every month a poor mother buries a little one.’ She places her hands together in a silent prayer. ‘Anyway, I must be off, Maggie. It’s time I filled my belly with some oats. I’ll bring you some kale later to make some broth once I’m fed and watered.’
    Maggie thanks Jean and places a hand over her rumbling stomach and with a sinking heart she realises that she’s low on peat and must scavenge for wood. After all, when all is said and done, she cannot boil broth without a fire.

    ***

    After countless sleepless nights, in the sixth month of little Anna’s life, a marvellous thing happens: she sleeps through an entire night. And therefore a new wife awaits Patrick when he returns home. Once Maggie learns that Patrick’s on dry land, she dresses for the occasion with the utmost care. Her white shift is tight after the birth and clings to her curves. With her hair unbound, she loosens the laces at the front of the shift and smooths the material over her generous hips.
    They make love till the break of dawn and it feels like their wedding night all over again. That morning, as she dresses near the fire, Maggie stares down at her thighs and notices several black bruises from the top of her thighs to the inside of her knees.
    â€˜Look at this, Patrick,’ she points at the bruises.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Look at the bruises. You need to be gentler, Patrick,’ she declares in a high pitched voice.
    â€˜I thought you liked it rough,’ he replies, grabbing her around the neck and pulling her into a fierce embrace.
    â€˜Stop it,’ she demands.
    He laughs. ‘For better or worse, Maggie – you are mine.’

    ***

    Maggie’s starving, her breasts are empty of milk, and the child’s not been fed for a good few hours. Outside she digs up a few kales, ignoring the child’s wails as she bends on dirty knees. Maggie takes a few leaves and jams them into her mouth, chewing the lot so that her cheeks bulge out and a quantity of green mush spills out onto her chin; she wipes it away with the back of her hand.
    At the mouth of the Esk, Maggie gathers mussels. She loathes shellfish but when her belly rumbles she’s not so fussy. Above and beyond, Anna needs feeding, and if Maggie’s not careful her milk will dry up. Without a doubt the child will need weaning soon, but Maggie daren’t feed it floury pap yet, just in case it gets sickly. And so she collects a basket full of mussels and hurries home.
    The following day Patrick returns and his face sun-tanned and covered in bristles. For once Maggie makes a real fuss of him; kissing his face and helping him carry in his nets and fishing gear. From the corner of her eyes she notices him looking her up and down, a frown