THE DAWN LIGHT WAS A MEALY GREY and Helen yawned and stumbled over her own feet as she made her way to the Lawnmarket. First she went by the West Bow, but the crowd was so dense that she could not reach above half way. She retraced her steps through the Grassmarket instead, climbing up the steep wynds and out through Blair’s Close, squeezing her way back through the crowd and up to the Castlehill. From there she had a clear view of the scaffold where Andrew Fullarton would meet his Maker at nine o’ clock that morning.
Some of the sightseers had been gathered since the night before; William had seen them as he made his way home from a prayer meeting. The public houses were closing and they came spilling out, singing and dancing and cheering, he’d said, set to continue the revelry as long as they could, before the citizens of the upper stories of the Lawnmarket began emptying their chamber pots out on their heads. They would all have had a bottle or two tucked in their pockets and shawls to fend off the cold, no doubt, as they dozed away the few hours till dawn in a doorway, or curled against the barriers put up ahead to contain the crowds.
Their persistence had paid off, numbers had swelled enormously since the dawn and the overnighters had the best view by far. There hadn’t been a hanging in Edinburgh for more than a year, just reprieve after reprieve, and folk were fair daft to see a man suffer his fate. This was a brute, they said, to be hanged for Highway Robbery, having assaulted a poor cowherd on his way home from Lauder fair in the Borders to St Leonard’s in the south of town. Fullarton was with two others, and they wounded the cowherd most grievously, making off with his money, the stock from his neck, and his umbrella. Fullarton took his sentence stoutly enough, folk said, but his wife fell about in hysterics as the judge told him to lay aside any hope.
Helen had arrived at her place some time before six, and had entertainment enough that she did not feel the first hour of waiting long. There were churchmen of every persuasion preaching, some folk singing psalms and others rowdy choruses, and the occasional scuffle breaking out as scuffles will in any great crowd. The mood was good, though, in the main, with plenty of women and children among the gathering to keep it so.
After the bell of St Giles struck seven, the windows in the upper stories of the houses on either side of the Lawnmarket and Castlehill began to open and the gentry appeared in their finery, having paid handsomely for the right to watch the business from the comfort of a chair. Some of them threw coins into the crowd and laughed to see the scramble that resulted. One woman had a most peculiar instrument, a pair of small, shiny metal things like tumblers, fixed together in the middle, which she held in front of her eyes, the better, Helen thought, to see. Her coat and hat were very fine, but showy, and Helen wondered if she was a lady, or just a very successful hoor.
The last hour dragged on, the boredom only relieved around the half hour when a girl fainted and was passed hand-over-hand above the heads of the crowd, all the way from below Riddle’s Court back to the Castlehill. There was great laughter and swaying in the mob then, but the girl was passed carefully enough and set down near Helen, where there was more space. She seemed well enough, and even upset that she had lost her place. Her faint had likely been due to her hangover rather than any finer feelings, and indeed she soon ploughed forward again and Helen lost sight of her in the crowd.
The day brightened a bit after that and then the bell struck eight. There was a great cheer and the condemned man appeared on the scaffold, his hands already bound. A hush came over the crowd then, as someone spoke, but it seemed it was prayers or other religious observances that were to happen next, and the hisses and cat-calls and jeers began again, and a few near the front threw rotten cabbages and other muck onto the scaffold.
When the prayers were finished, Fullarton himself came to the barrier at the front of the scaffold and began to address the crowd. Helen couldn’t hear him, she was too far away, but his words were repeated back and back again, like a wind rippling through the barley crop. It was fell religious stuff, how he had kept bad company and broken the Sabbath and committed drunkenness, that was why he had committed his crime, he said, and then he said he beseeched them all, every last man, woman and child among them, to learn from his bad example and never do likewise. Then he was seen to make his farewells to those around him before he mounted the drop, where the hangman began to make his preparations. Someone in the crowd shouted, ‘Bonnets off!’ and it was picked up and shouted again and again, and everywhere heads were bared, and bald pates and uncovered hair gleamed in the weak sun.
All the time Fullarton’s legs were being tied, the hood placed over his head and the noose laid and tightened around his neck, it seemed that the man was praying most fervently. At last he gave the signal, and he dropped. A cry came from the crowd, but there was not a twitch from the body thereafter, and it seemed Fullarton had died without a struggle. Some were disappointed, it seemed; the mood changed in an instant and the jeers began again, aimed at the hangman this time, for depriving them of the spectacle they had expected.
Helen was no longer enjoying herself. There had been no show, no bravado at all in the man. No villain at all really, just a lad foolish enough to think a few shillings and a cowherd’s umbrella worth the risk of a meeting with the hangman. He had had youth and health and good looks, and a wife who loved him, and now he had a stretched neck and was nothing at all. Wearily, Helen turned and began to make her way through the crowd and back towards Blair’s Close. Just ahead, the workmen digging the new road around the Castle Rock hefted up their picks and shovels and began again. A hawker lad with a tray of pamphlets yelled as she passed, ‘ANDREW FULLARTON’S Last Dying Confession!’ and Helen yelped and pressed a hand to her bad ear, it still hurt sometimes if a noise was too loud or too close.
When she reached the Grassmarket, it was alive with the din and stink of trade, every vendor of eatables and drinkables in the city seemed to be betting that the hanging would have left folk with an appetite and a thirst. The smells of roast meat and fried pastry and pickled whelks fought with the spices of cakes and puddings, turning Helen’s stomach, and she hurried on until she heard her name called from an ale stall.
‘Were you at the hanging, Nelly?’ Helen was Nelly to everyone here, it was almost as though she had left her old self behind when they left Redding and came to Edinburgh. William had quickly become a well-kent face, between his cobbling and his Bible-reading, but Helen recognised this man as one who’d come to the house for drinking, not for prayers.
‘I was,’ she said. ‘It was a sorry matter, though.’
‘I heard it was a glum business,’ the man said. ‘Too godly, maybe, for dancing, was he?’ He laughed heartily at his own joke and gestured to Helen with his ladle.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And I need spunks, too, if you have any.’
The man handed over the ale cup and the matches, and took payment only for the latter. The ale was good, and she felt her stomach settle.
‘It’s fair unsettled you,’ the ale-man said, watching her. ‘I took you for a woman with a strong stomach, Nelly. There’s not a little Burke on the way, is there?’
‘No,’ Helen said, finishing her ale and handing it back. ‘Just tired is all, and that’s fair refreshed me. I thank you.’
When she had taken leave of the man and walked on, Helen found his words still running round her head. It had not occurred to her before now, but the last time she had fallen with child was before James MacDougal’s last terrible beating of her. She hadn’t looked to, and William said he was not sorry either that they had never conceived; they had spent so many years on the move and a child would have made a hard life harder. Perhaps James had shaken loose more than her eardrum, she thought, but maybe it made no difference, since everyone thought she was such a poor mother that her babes must be taken from her, just because of one accident that could have happened to anyone.
Back at their lodgings, there was no sign of William. Helen thought about crawling back into bed for an hour or two’s kip, but then she decided she would be as well to set out again and take advantage of the crowds along with the other traders. Not the used clothes today, she thought – no one would be looking for those after a hanging – a souvenir would be what they were after, to remember the occasion by. She fetched a peddling tray they had, and began to lay out on it the small items that William made with off-cuts of leather from the cobbling, tobacco pouches and coin purses and needle cases and book markers for Bibles, and a small set of cases for calling cards that had a pattern stamped along each side and sold for a premium, calling cards being the business of those with more money than most of Helen’s customers. Helen wished she had thought to ask William to stamp the date on the items, that way she could have asked a penny or two more for a thing folk could get out to show others when they told them they had witnessed the end of Andrew Fullarton.
Helen stuffed a handful of coins in her pocket for change, hefted the tray and set out again for the Grassmarket. The bulk of the crowd had abandoned the Lawnmarket now and made their way down in search of food and drink, and the stalls and carts were doing a roaring trade. Keeping a weather eye out for thieves, Helen made her way through the crowd, calling out her wares. Before long she had sold several of her pouches, all her purses – she always put a ha’penny in for luck, increasing the price by a penny to compensate – and even one of the calling card cases. That one had gone to a finely-dressed woman wearing patches on her face in the shape of hearts who said her gentlemen would be excited by an item from the hanging, some of them liked to feel a ligature around their own necks. Helen charged a fine price and was delighted by the transaction, even if she preferred not to think of the gentlemen. She hoped she would never have to make her living by any such trade.
A few more sales of the smaller pieces and Helen felt herself flagging. A printer lad appeared in her path, hawking an account of the hanging; the printers had outdone themselves getting that off the presses when it had only happened that morning, and the crowd fair flocked to get hold of a copy. Helen’s own purse was heavy against her thigh and she decided she had done enough for the day. She made her way to a pie stall and bought a fine pie for herself and William, steak and kidney, with a baked potato each from another trader that would eke the meal out for two days at least. Then she bought a piggy of ale and one of whisky and made her way home with her tray of bounty.
Helen’s good humour was dented a little when she pushed open the door and found William seated at the table with another man, and both in their cups.
‘Nelly!’ William exclaimed with a great grin on his face like a baby with a full napkin. ‘Come and meet my friend. You’ll never guess his name, it’s only . . . William!’ He broke out laughing at that, delighted to have met a namesake, despite there being hundreds, if not thousands of them in the city. If Helen went in conniptions every time she met another Helen, she thought, she’d be carted off to the Lunatic Asylum in no time at all.
The other William got to his feet and made a drunken attempt at a bow, which set William off laughing again.
‘William Hare, Mistress,’ the man said. ‘At your service.’
He needn’t have bothered with his pantomime; Helen knew fine who he was. He was the navvy from the canal with the scarred face and the hot temper, the one she had collided with on that awful night when the Lynch lad was ripped to pieces in the tunnel explosion. She gave him a tight little smile and set to unpacking her tray, laying the food on the table and putting the unsold stock to one side for sorting. She hoped the man did not intend to stay to eat; that way there would be nothing left for tomorrow, and Helen’s plans for a day spent in her nightgown would be for naught.
She needn’t have worried, however, the men were too far gone in drink to want her pie, though they were glad enough to make a start on her whisky when their own was done. Helen poured herself a big tumbler of her own to last the evening, and then she settled down to work her way through a plate of pie and a tattie while they continued their ramblings and rantings. William was telling again the story of his father-in-law in Ireland and how he had lost all that was rightfully his, and the other William was swearing and cursing the way things were in Ireland, so bad that any man with an ounce of sense had no choice but to leave, as he saw it. He had found a great place here in Edinburgh, he said, with a woman called Margaret Laird who was Irish too, they had known each other growing up, although she was married to a Scotsman now and settled here. They had a lodging house in the West Port, he said, five beds in one room and a double in another, and Margaret gave good prices to any Irish folk who wished to stay with them. In fact, he said, why didn’t Burke and Nelly think about coming there to stay?
William seemed quite taken by that idea but Helen said she liked the place they had well enough, it had all they needed and could keep themselves to themselves. William said it was mighty expensive to live in their own lodging, though, it might be cheaper to have a room in a larger place, if the company was good. William Hare suggested they go and see this Laird woman, right then and there, to see what they made of her and the place. Helen said no, she was tired and for her bed, but she readily agreed to William going, she was only too pleased to be shot of them and have some peace. And so they buttoned themselves into their jackets and set out, leaving Helen to finish her pie in blessed silence.
Helen was settling down to finish the last of the whisky in the piggy when there came a chap at the door. Sighing, she got up to open it, expecting to see William, back again and ready to drag her out, but instead she was met with a filthy face and a grin from which several important teeth were missing.
‘Is Mister Burke there?’ the apparition asked. ‘I’ve got leather for him.’
‘No, Effy,’ Helen said, and then she took pity on the woman. ‘In you come, you can show me.’
Evidently afraid that the invitation might be rescinded, Effy bolted inside, depositing a collection of filthy articles inside the door – two sacks, a riddle, a short-handled rake and a trowel. These were the tools of her trade, gathering ashes to sell on as fertiliser, and raking through the rubbish in the ash-carts in hope of finding scraps of things to sell. She visited William regularly with small pieces of leather, scavenged from the tips outside the tanners’ shops. William bought these for a few pennies, using them to make repairs for his poorest customers.
Effy sat herself at the table and Helen sat down opposite, offering her a cup of ale.
‘Have you any whisky?’ Effy asked, looking pointedly at the measure in Helen’s cup.
Helen sighed and poured her a good-sized dram and Effy took a slug and swallowed, closing her eyes in delight. It was hard to tell the age of her, she might have been anything from thirty to fifty or even older.
‘You must meet most folk in these parts,’ Helen said.
‘Aye,’ Effy agreed. ‘A goodly number, onywey.’
‘Margaret Laird,’ Helen said. ‘Do you know her? She has a lodging house in Tanner’s Close.’
Effy frowned. ‘Laird . . .’ she said, and shook her head. ‘I dinnae think so. The only lodging house in Tanner’s Close is Logue’s place.’ She took another swig of her whisky and wiped her mouth, leaving a smear in the dirt across her face. ‘Maybe his wife is called Margaret . . . Aye, I think she is. She always cries hersel Mistress Logue, ken.’
‘That’s it,’ Nelly said, remembering William Hare’s stories about the woman’s husband. ‘Margaret Logue is her married name. Her own name was Laird.’
Effy sucked at her gums.
‘She’s a targer, that one,’ she said. ‘Hard-faced, wi a wee thin mooth so she aye looks in a temper. Did you ken she worked as a navvy on the canal at Falkirk?’
Helen snorted. ‘Never,’ she said.
‘Did so,’ Effy said. ‘Happed hersel in a pair of breeks and signed up as a man.’
Nelly remembered well how badly William had stood up to the work, and she knew fine no woman could have shifted the weight of muck those men moved. Maybe she’d been one of the women that lived among them, though, that seemed more likely. If she had, she mightn’t have wanted it known, and Helen couldn’t blame her for that.
‘What sort of house is it she keeps?’ she asked Effy, although as she said the words, she realised Effy was unlikely ever to have been welcomed inside.
‘Fine enough, I’m sure,’ Effy said. ‘Logue’s a guid man, he lets me kip in the stable when it’s cauld out. The woman takes in bairns as well as lodgers.’
‘Takes them in?’ Helen said. ‘What for?’
‘Ken, if their mothers cannae keep them,’ Effy said. ‘She watches them for a few weeks or helps find new folk for them.’
‘Why?’ Helen asked. She had never heard of anyone taking in a bairnie that wasn’t kin.
Effy snorted. ‘For coin,’ she said. ‘Why else does anybody do anything?’
That was true enough, Helen thought. Edinburgh wasn’t like Redding, life was hard enough there but it was harder still here, this far from the land, and folk had to make their way as best they could. Like herself and William, with his cobbling and her trading. She no longer did laying-outs, there were too many folk here who did that already, women who would deliver a baby, nurse the sick or wash a corpse. Maybe she would like to live at the Logue house, she thought, if there were bairnies there. It might salve the sorrow at not having her own – although, somewhere in her heart, Helen hoped that Maisie and wee Annie might still come to live with her, one day, when they were old enough and the business with the fire forgotten at last.
There was still no sign of William when the whisky was finished, and Effy shooed out into the night with tuppence to buy herself a dinner. Helen often spent the first part of the night by herself, and now she wondered if she might like to be in a house with other folk she knew. She might get on with this Margaret; she had gone about the navvies’ camp too, after all. The only thing that worried her was Hare, she was afraid of him. He was poorly named, no gentle beast at all, but more like a fox with his leering grin and sharp teeth. But then again, she would be with William, and what harm would he ever let come to his Nelly when he was near?