Read The Hanging of Margaret Dickson for Free Online Page B

There’s a wild desire in her heart to be on-board the ship, as one with the wind and sea.
    â€˜If only I were a man,’ she whispers into the salt breeze.
    A hungry guillemot mews above her head, soaring towards the fishwives who gut fish near the shore. The fishwives are a fearsome lot, feisty, outspoken and coarse. Maggie observes them from the corner of her eye and notes the muscles in their arms as they lift huge creels of fish onto their backs. Curious about a fisher lassies lot, she’d asked Patrick about the fishwives, and he’d told her that they’re strong independent women, used to being alone while their men are at sea. Maggie approaches the boat shore, her legs trembling and shaking, feeling as though she’s approaching an unknown barbaric land. As she stoops by some rocks, one fisherwoman in particular catches her eye. She has dirty clouts tied around her neck and a masculine weather-beaten face. There’re all kinds of fish set out around her, and the fisherwoman has spread them out on the rocks in neat little rows. Maggie takes a deep breath and steps towards her.
    â€˜Hello, missus. What you doing?’
    â€˜What the devil does it look like? I’m sortin’ the catch. You’re Patrick Spence’s lassie, aren’t you? Going to be a fisher lassie soon?’
    â€˜Aye, I am,’ replies Maggie. She lifts some seaweed to her nose and inhales its bitter scent.
    The fishwife stops what she’s doing and stands still. A dangerous looking knife dangles from a belt tied to her apron and skirts. Her gaze is intense as though she’s deciding if Maggie’s up to the job. ‘So you’ve decided to come to the harbour and take a wee look at what we do then? That takes some guts, girl,’ she nods.
    The fisher lassie’s nimble fingers slice through a slimy fish. Greedy gulls swoop from above in pursuit of tasty morsels. She stops again and peers at her abruptly, as though vexed at being interrupted in her work. ‘Are you still here?’
    â€˜Aye,’ says Maggie.
    â€˜Do you want me to show you the ropes, is that it?’
    Maggie stares at the woman’s torn fingers covered in strips of cloth. ‘Aye, missus. If you’re busy, I’ll return later.’
    The fishwife cackles. ‘Lassie, you’ll get nowhere with that attitude. Be bold. I’ve seen you with the fishermen. You’re not shy with them now, are you?’
    â€˜What’s your name, missus?’ Maggie asks.
    â€˜That’s better. My name is Isobel, Isobel Tait. That’s my husband over there, Jack bastard Tar,’ she laughs and waves at a short, stocky man baiting a six-stringed line into a wicker skull. ‘Aye, we know your Patrick, he’s a good man. You’ve much to learn, lass. I’m busy now but if you come here tomorrow, I’ll try and help.’
    Maggie smiles and thanks her, pleased that someone is willing to teach her. She walks away and then realises that she’s not asked what time. She turns and calls out, ‘Isobel. What time should I come to the harbour?’
    â€˜Sunrise, and don’t be late.’

    ***

    On the horizon, where the light blue heavens meet a turquoise sea, a beautiful sunrise streaks the sky soft yellow, pink, and blazing orange. Shadowy silhouettes of sailing boats bob on a glittering water, and the warm sun reflects off its surface, casting a soft glow on the ebbing tide. A hissing noise fills Maggie’s ears as a current of air whips up the sand, with both hands she covers her eyes and rubs away the grit till her vision returns. When she opens her eyes an astonishing scene greets her. Into the wading waters go the fishwives. Their skirts hiked up and tied around trim waists so that their bare legs are exposed. But it’s the sight of the fishermen sat on their backs that surprises her, clear of the water until safely aboard their boats.
    â€˜We carry the men to the