The Hanging of Margaret Dickson by Alison Butler

back to the ale. The other fisher lassies follow close behind.
    The young farmwomen remain busy. They sweep up the last of the feathers and cover the hens to keep off the flies. Every once in a while they glance at old Ethel with expectant eyes. Despite the heat, Ethel huddles in a corner, wrapped up in her shawl. At long last, a loud groan escapes her fleshy lips as she mutters, ‘Go on then. But mark my word you’ll be sorry come morning and don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
    It isn’t long before the hen party is merry and Maggie’s dizzy from it all. Blood rushes to her head and her eyes are throbbing with fatigue. A blend of odours fills the small cottage; sweat, brackish fish, and the ever-present smell of a peat fire. One of the fisher lassies, Mary Brock, is up for some antics, doing her best to impersonate daft Davie from the village. She shuffles her feet and closes one eye, then does her best to mimic his childish way of talking. It comes out like gibberish and the other women laugh and slap their knees. Then, all of a sudden all hell lets loose when Mary Brown, a relative of daft Davie, overhears the banter and punches the offending imitator square in the eye.
    â€˜Never mind them, Maggie. Have a drink of this. It’s my own special brew,’ one of the women shouts.
    The ale’s delicious. Maggie closes her eyes and throws her head backwards to catch the dregs in her mouth, a quantity spills down her chin. She proceeds to wipe it away when the women grab her and secure her to a stool, clamping her head with strong hands and arms. It’s useless to struggle, the reason being that when she does it makes their sharp fingernails scratch even more, and so the women hold her still to pour ale down her throat. All the while they chant, ‘Drink, drink, drink…’
    The room begins to spin. Someone plays an instrument, a merry tune on a Jew’s harp, a foot tapping melody, pleasing to the ear. Maggie’s breathing becomes shallow and suddenly it’s as though everything’s in slow motion. All around her the room is a blur of vibrant colours, as dancing figures and swishing skirts fly through the air. The pain behind her eyes causes her vision to blur and she squints into the haze. The two Marys: Mary Brock and Mary Brown are fighting again, this time over a bottle of whisky. A circle forms around them as they roll on the floor, fists flying and nails scratching. Several articles of their clothing scatter across the floor alongside a broken bottle. They look a sorry sight, hair wild like they’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. Soon they both sport thick bloody lips, and the language that comes out of them, well they would put a drunken sailor to shame.
    It’s this rowdy scene that greets Maggie’s father and brother as they enter the cottage. Near the open door, they stand shoulder to shoulder with open mouths, rooted to the spot. So intent are the two scolding women in their fight, they haven’t even noticed them.
    â€˜I’m so sorry Father, James. There’s no point trying to separate them. They’ve been quarrelling like cats since they got here.’
    â€˜Don’t stop them on my account,’ Duncan winks at James. ‘This is quite a show.’
    Maggie’s attention returns to the fight. It’s really getting out of hand now. The two women are like wild animals and no one dare go between them, least of all Duncan who’s enjoying a spectacular view. For a while longer they roll about the floor, teeth bared and breasts popping out from stays. Maggie makes eye contact with her father, one eyebrow arching as an understanding passes between them.
    Eventually, to everybody’s relief they break apart. Duncan holds out a hand to the prettiest girl, Mary Brock. ‘Lassie, you look a little worse for wear. Let me walk you hame.’
    â€˜I’d rather walk with the devil himself, Duncan,’ she