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Maggie.’
    â€˜Damn men and their superiority,’ Maggie curses to herself and sits back in her chair. A tight smile stretches across her face as she seethes inside. Patrick places a consoling arm around her; she brushes it aside and glares at her brother, unable to appreciate, as yet, the important role he is willing to play.
    James clears his voice. ‘Since Maggie was a wee lassie our mother, friends and neighbours have helped to collect and make bed linen, furniture, blankets and the like for Maggie’s dowry. There’s a suckling pig for her and other odds and ends. She’s not coming to Patrick empty-handed mind; she’s a fine catch.’
    â€˜Oh, I don’t doubt that,’ says George, his gaze remaining on Maggie’s figure a fraction too long. His wife, Barbara, cuffs him around the ear with the back of her hand.
    â€˜What did you do that for, you daft bat?’ George glares at his wife.
    â€˜You know why, and don’t do it again or I’ll slap your other lug-hole.’
    In the midst of this quarrel, Maggie notices Patrick looking at her father with a curious, puzzled face. Duncan is on his feet, swaying back and forth, his hat on back to front, and he seems to have lost the use of one eye.
    â€˜Your father looks like he needs to go home.’
    Maggie shrugs, indifferent to her father’s behaviour. ‘He’s only just started. Once he takes one drink he has to have more. Oh no, here he comes.’ She winces.
    â€˜Well, what’s all this then?’ Duncan slurs.
    â€˜Your daughter’s getting married,’ declares George in an offhand manner. ‘And your son has taken your place giving her away. Haven’t you heard?’
    Duncan wobbles on his feet. ‘Oh, the indignity of it. No matter, Maggie, he’s a better man than I.’
    â€˜Well wouldn’t you like to know when?’ George runs his hand through what is left of his hair.
    â€˜When what?’
    â€˜When they are to be wed.’ George shakes his head.
    â€˜When?’
    George informs Duncan of the date.
    â€˜Perfect. You two choose to get married when the bastard Jacobites are planning an uprising. What timing!’
    George sniggers and mumbles under his breath, ‘What would a drunk know about politics?’
    Duncan laughs. ‘Every Scottish man should know about politics or those damned Sassenachs would run us out of our own country. Why do you think they don’t want a Stuart to reclaim the throne? Answer me that, fisherman.’
    â€˜That’s obvious, pal; they don’t want a Catholic.’
    Duncan shakes his head. ‘Nae, the English couldn’t care less. He’s German, with a couple of mistresses to keep him happy. The Stuarts are of a Scottish line, and the Sassenach’s would rather have a German running the country than a Scottish descendent. Anyway, where was I?’ Duncan staggers back to the bar; carefully turning his hat until it faces the right way.

    ***

    Long ago, on the east bank of the river at Fisherrow, there was once an old almshouse. It stood near the west end of Market Street and was a great comfort to the poor, ill and destitute. But those days are long gone and now Fisherrow has one main street, with soaring tenements built up on both sides. Beyond the tenements are a multitude of fisherman’s cottages, in several rows leading to a busy harbour.
From Martimes to Candlemas, a school house operates here, recently built at the west end of Magdelen Chapel. Its traditional medieval roof thatched with turfs dug from the town’s common lands.
    A saltwife cries out her wares and shuffles along with her creel on her back, unhappy in her toil. With much reluctance Maggie stops her and can’t help but notice how her mouth slants to one side, as though she’s suffered an injury of some kind. Before she loses courage, Maggie asks her if she could direct her to Watts Close where the fishermen