IT WAS DARK WHEN ABIGAIL SIMPSON LEFT to meet the carter at the crossroads in the village, and cold; the sun rose late in February and it would be an hour and more till dawn. But Abigail had been up and working for long enough to dispel any stiffness in her bones, finishing the business of packaging salt in twists of cloth to sell for thruppence, and wrapping pennyworths of clay for the housewives of Edinburgh to whiten their flagstones and the steps to their door. She bought the clay from a quarry, and the salt came from her daughter Bess. Bess was married to a salter in Joppa and carried the salt on her back up through Niddrie Marischal and Craigmillar, Little France, and Liberton, skirting the southern edges of the city and calling at every house she passed until her wares were gone. If anything was left by Gilmerton, she sold it half-price to Abigail, and rested a while by the fire before she shouldered her empty creel and began the long trek home. Salt wives, they called the women who did this work and they were a hardy crew indeed, second only in reputation to the fishwives who hauled the catch each week from Fisherrow and Newhaven. There were fewer and fewer of the salt wives on the road now, though, since the salt duties had ended and cheap stuff begun to pour in from England and France. Abigail didn’t know how much longer Bessie would be able to pass on a share of her meagre margin; perhaps the day would come that she would stop her tramping altogether. Abigail didn’t like to think of that; her pension wouldn’t keep her on its own, and she looked forward to Bess’s visits more than she owned even to herself.
Foolish old woman to dwell on things that might never happen, Abigail scolded herself, as she loaded her wares into baskets, smoored the fire and happed herself in her blue and white shawl. She bided only a few minutes’ walk from the crossroads and as she approached she saw the horse in the lamplight, breath steaming in the chilly air. The cart was well laden and as she heaved up her baskets and then herself, the carter told her they would make their first stop at the big house at Gracemount, where he was to deliver flour and malt.
The carter was a taciturn man and said nothing to Abigail as they made their way west and then north towards the city. They turned off the main road after a mile or so and followed a long drive to a house where lamps burned and a serving laddie scuttled out to direct the carter to a door in back. Abigail had never been there before and was a little disappointed by the house itself, truth be told, for it was squat and square and she had imagined something much taller and grander, with turrets perhaps, or a great stair tower. She was more interested in what she took to be a walled garden a little way down the drive, and while the carter was busy unloading, she wandered down to investigate. The gate was ajar and Abigail stepped inside, seeing signs of industry everywhere in the pre-dawn light, fruit trees with their roots bound in sacking, ready for planting, beds half dug and neat piles of branches and twigs bundled up for burning from the winter pruning. The place was deserted and had there been anything to take Abigail would have had it in her pocket, quick as you like, but there was nothing this early in the year that might supplant her meagre diet. As she breathed in the smell of the soil, a thought stirred that perhaps she could turn forager, and mix herbs in with her salt to sell. That could add a ha’penny to the price at no extra cost but time. She mulled this over as she wandered back up the drive to the cart.
The carter was hauling himself up and turned to offer Abigail a hand into her own perch behind him. He clicked his tongue to the horse and they made their steady way down the drive. There was a mouthwatering smell of meat and pastry, and Abigail’s stomach rumbled. They must have fed him his breakfast in the kitchen of the great house. By the smell of it, he had eaten better that morning than she had for many weeks together.
At the end of the drive they turned north again, towards the Kirk Brae, but before they began the steep descent, the carter directed the horse off to the side of the road. He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and brought out a kerchief which he unfolded to reveal two slices of meat pie. One of these he handed to Abigail.
‘The cook is my father’s sister,’ he said. ‘She always saves me something.’ He pulled out a stoneware bottle and offered it, too. ‘Ale,’ he says. ‘My own.’
They ate and drank in companiable silence, watching the sunrise from their vantage point high above the city. It cast its glow over the great hulking form of Arthur’s Seat and the Salisbury Crags beyond, reaching west to light the skyline of the Old Town, perched precariously on the ridge of the High Street leading steeply up to the Castle Rock, and the low streets of the New Town beyond.
Abigail had meant to save some of the pie for later, but before she knew it, it was gone. The carter wiped his mouth and picked up the reins again, and they set off down the brae. Replete for the first time in as long as she could remember, Abigail nodded off as they climbed past Blackford Hill. When she awoke they were already past the common grazing land at the Meadows and almost in the West Port.
This was where they must part, and Abigail climbed down, stiff again after her sleep. She handed over the price of her journey, and then in thanks for the food she bound up the contents of two packs of salt tightly in cloth to make a lick for the horse. The carter nodded his gratitude.
‘I’ll tak ye hame the nicht an a, Mistress Simpson,’ he said. ‘Meet me here at five.’
‘Och no, I’ll walk,’ said Abigail. ‘After I’ve selt my salt it’s easy. Nae weight tae cairry, and it’s no even five miles hame. There wis a day I’d run the hale way and even noo I could walk as far again gin I had tae.’
‘It’ll be dark, though,’ the carter protested. ‘I dinna like tae think of ye walking alane in the dark.’
Abigail thanked him for his concern and agreed that if she was done by five, she would meet him in the same place, but she made him promise that if she wasn’t there, he wouldn’t wait. He frowned but he had no more time to argue, he had many more miles to travel before his day would be done. He turned his horse west and Abigail made her way through the narrow streets into the heart of the Old Town.
Although she was born and bred in the country, Abigail felt most alive on her incursions into the city and today, with her belly full of pie, she felt especially buoyed up by the life erupting on all sides of her. By the time she reached the Grassmarket she had already sold four twists of salt and one of clay, and met a regular customer and caught up on the woman’s news. On the corner of King’s Stables Road, a tavern brawl spilled out into the street and Abigail stood and watched until the innkeeper at last came out and broke it up. He was a massive individual who separated the combatants by dint of lifting one in each hand so their feet were fully off the ground. They glared at one another as they dangled, taking the occasional fruitless swing. Quite the crowd had gathered and they cheered the innkeeper who took a bow before sending one of the would-be antagonists on his way and ushering the other ahead of him into the tavern with stern admonishments about his future conduct.
The crowd dispersed and Abigail walked on, holding her wares above her head and announcing their quality for all to hear.
‘Fine Scottish salt,’ she proclaimed, ‘fresh panned at Joppa. The best that money can buy.’
A well-dressed woman approached and asked for three twists and Abigail chanced her arm and asked for sixpence a packet.
‘I’ll gie ye anither ane for free, Mistress,’ she said, and the woman professed herself delighted. Abigail couldn’t believe her luck, for even with the free twist she had made sixpence more than the usual price. She had no need to buy herself a dinner now, either, and so the day looked set to be a profitable one.
And so it turned out. By late afternoon Abigail had made enough to buy a large can of dripping that would eke out bread and stews for weeks, and still she had money left over. All her salt had gone, although for some reason the clay had not shifted as well. The can of dripping was heavy and she was tempted to take the carter up on his offer of a ride home. It was only four o’ clock, though, and so she decided to ask around the taverns for someone to take the clay at bulk price.
By the third tavern Abigail had given up hope of shifting the clay but she had decided she had a thirst that might be slaked by a cup of ale. She counted out the pennies for the tavern keeper, gratified to see she still had the well-to-do woman’s shilling and sixpence and more, and took a seat to drink her drink. When she had sat down, she suddenly realised she was more tired than she had known. She downed a draft of the ale and rubbed her eyes.
When Abigail dropped her hands, she was looking directly at a couple at the next table. They were Bess’s age, or younger, although when she looked again she saw the woman might be the elder and the man the younger, although it was clear that they were husband and wife, or might as well have been at any rate. They saw Abigail looking at them and the woman smiled. She nudged her partner and they both rose and came to sit with Abigail. He introduced himself as William and the woman said her name was Margaret. From their speech Abigail thought they were Irish.
The woman asked what Abigail’s business was in town, and Abigail explained about the clay. The woman said that they might be able to take it, if it would help Abigail out and if she could give them a good price. They ran a boarding house, she explained, and so always had need of cleaning materials. She prattled on about the slovenly habits of their lodgers and the laziness of their cleaning woman until the man stood and said he was going to buy two more cups of ale. Could he buy one for Abigail too, he asked, to seal their agreement on the clay? Abigail started to say that she must go, she had to meet the carter who was to take her home at the West Port at five, she’d never manage to carry the can of dripping she had bought all the way back to Gilmerton without a lift. The woman sucked her teeth and says she didn’t think Abigail could make it to the West Port for five, and was she sure the carter would wait? Abigail said no, she had told him to go if she wasn’t there on the hour.
‘A shame to go then,’ the woman said, ‘and risk missing him after carrying the can all that way.’ And then her face lit up and she said she had an idea: Abigail could come home with them and sleep in their lodging house. They had spare beds that night, and if Abigail could give them a few pence off the clay, they could call it even. And their place was at the West Port, Abigail would be sure to find a carter going back to Gilmerton from there the next day.
By this time Abigail was halfway through her second glass of ale and she readily agreed – she couldn’t run to the West Port if she wanted to, her legs seemed to be drunker than the rest of her. And so they stayed for another round – she used the last of her pennies to buy it and had only her shilling and sixpence left – and then William carried her dripping and Margaret carried her clay and each took one of her arms so she was supported between them as they wove their way along the Cowgate and through the Grassmarket and into a close past the West Port. It was full dark by then, but there were lights high above them in the sky and Abigail looked up and pointed and asked what that was, and Margaret laughed and said she must be half cut indeed, sure wasn’t that the great Edinburgh Castle? And Abigail laughed at her own foolishness.
Inside they sat in the kitchen and called for their friend who was minding the lodging house, another William. He turned out to be a smallish man with a kindly face. He came and set out oatcakes for them all, and poured out tots of some awful-tasting stuff that made Abigail cough and splutter. And they had quite a merry night of it, all in all, exchanging stories of the village where Abigail lived and the places they grew up, far west of here and across the sea in Ireland. They asked about her family, and she said she had a daughter, Bess, a bonnie lass and strong, too, and the first William said perhaps he should marry her and inherit all Abigail’s great wealth for himself. Abigail laughed and laughed, for wasn’t Bessie already married to a salter, and William to Margaret, and what did Abigail have to leave in any case except the clothes she stood up in and a few sticks of furniture fit only for burning?
‘I’ll have your pension then,’ William said, good-naturedly, ‘although you’re right there, Abigail, the fact that Bess has a husband and I have a wife is an obstacle right enough, no matter how you look at it. Or is it, William? Have you not a wife at home and a hoor here to warm your bed, for all you walk the streets of Edinburgh with a Bible under your arm like any good Presbyterian?’ He roared with laughter although Abigail didn’t think the other William enjoyed the joke much, nor even Margaret. She tried to ask the second William about his wife in Ireland, but it seemed her tongue would no longer do her bidding.
They fried some bread in dripping then, from Abigail’s can, but she didn’t mind, there was enough of it to go around. After that her memory went hazy, but somehow she found herself in bed, in her shift, in an unfamiliar room that spun till she thought she might be sick, but then that passed and she fell asleep.
Abigail wakes in panic, in the grey light of morning. Burning vomit fills her mouth. She catches what she can of the foul stream in her hand, but a dribble escapes through her fingers to stain the front of her shift. She sees a basin on a rough chest by the window and scrambles out of bed towards it, her joints creaking in protest. The vomit spatters into the basin and she coughs and coughs again. She tries to clean her mouth with water from the ewer, rinsing her hands and scrubbing at the mess on her front but before she can finish, her gorge rises and she vomits and vomits again until there is nothing left but bile.
Shaking, Abigail crawls back into the bed and closes her eyes. She remembers meeting William and Margaret, remembers coming with them to a close off the West Port, but she cannot remember what happened then. She should get up, get dressed, retrieve her things and go home, but she is worried she will void herself again. She closes her eyes and tries to focus on slowing the beat of her heart.
The door of the room opens and closes and Abigail hears a murmur of voices. Men – William and another. She thinks she has heard the voice before but she can’t be sure. Had it been only William she might have spoken, but before a stranger she is embarrassed and so she feigns sleep, lying with her eyes closed, breathing as steadily as she can.
William exclaims in disgust at the mess in the basin. They confer in low voices – it seems William’s companion is protesting about something – and then Abigail hears the sound of liquid sloshing in a cup. The smell of strong drink reaches her and she almost retches again, but then she feels a hand on her face. It slides down her forehead and the fingers pinch her nose closed. Her jaw is clamped in an iron grip and a crushing weight lands on her chest.
Abigail is an old woman, inebriated and dehydrated. In her already weakened state, shock takes hold quickly and spares her much of the horror of the few minutes of consciousness she has remaining. She does not relive her life. She does not think of her home, or her beloved Bess, or Tam who loved her and was taken from her so many years ago, when she was too young to know how good she had had it. Only one face comes to her in her final seconds, calm and comforting and kind. The carter. She knows he waited, long past five.