Heroine Of Her Own Life

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Book excerpt

Chapter One - Belfast, Ireland

1916

A breath warmed her ear before Meg heard the whispered, “Meet me in five minutes.” Amy’s hand brushed Meg’s arm as she walked past. Five minutes—half eleven by the Harland and Wolff clock. Meg’s young heart bounded.

Around her, cooks called out orders, pans sizzled and popped, and waiters hurried to serve the last luncheon of the week to the shipyard executives. The air was tense, hot, and filled with noise, but sixteen-year-old Meg was on her own in this world, peeling potatoes with vigor, and continually checking the clock.

“Hiya.” Bill, a kitchen porter, was standing close enough that she could smell the sweat staining his simple grey tunic.

Meg looked up to see him bare his tobacco-stained teeth.

“Can I take them potatoes to the cook?”

“No. I have more to peel.”

 After eyeing her for several seconds, he moved on.

She counted four minutes, pushed stray strands of brown frizzy hair under her cap, and walked briskly to the storeroom. Inside, she scanned the quiet, dim room before scampering to the last aisle of shelving, their secret spot. The heavy scent of Amy’s rosewater infused the still air.

Silently, Amy caught Meg from behind and twirled her around, hands firmly on her back, her full lips brushing, pressing. Trembling, Meg responded, kissing with abandon, until Amy pulled her face back.

Meg felt something disturb the air behind her.

“Mmm,” a man’s voice murmured, his arm slithering around her slender waist.

Meg sprang from Amy’s arms and tried to dart away, but he held her fast.

“Here she is, Bill,” said Amy, squeezing Meg’s wrists together.

He kissed Amy’s lips hungrily before turning his attention to Meg. Clasping her arms, he twisted her back and down, the tendons and muscles in his wiry forearms flexed.

Her arms useless in his vicious grip, Meg kicked his shins.

Amy hitched the back of Meg’s long skirt and pulled it up. “No!” Meg shouted and finding a reserve of wild strength, clawed his face.

He jerked his head back. “Bitch,” he hissed.

The writhing trio heard the door open. Bill shoved Meg back into Amy and, crouching, loped up a side aisle toward the door. Amy clamped her hand over Meg’s mouth until Meg stomped on her foot.

“Ow! You …”

“Alright in here? Who’s there?” the interloper called across the vast room.

“Me!” Meg ran. She struck her slender hip on the corner of the shelving, but didn’t slow until she reached the starched and erect Miss Simpson, waiting near the door.

“Ah, here you are, Meg. I’ve looked everywhere for you.”

Panting, Meg found that she couldn’t speak.

“What is it? What’s happened?” Meg’s anguished face was reflected in Miss Simpson’s as she placed her hands gently on Meg’s shoulders. “You’re shaking!”

 She couldn’t utter a word. I scratched his rotten face. Someone will see—someone will know.

Miss Simpson looked toward the back of the room. “You there! I see you.” Instructing Meg to wait for her, she bustled to the last row of the storeroom, arms churning, long black skirt and white apron rustling.

Amy limped into the main aisle, propelled by Miss Simpson’s hand.

Meg turned to see Bill’s thin figure slip out.

“Amy Lyon. I’ve warned you about loitering. Go to my office and wait.”

Amy’s cap was askew, her thick blonde hair loose on her shoulders. Meg looked away as she passed by.

Miss Simpson asked, “Will you tell me what happened later? We mustn’t keep Chef Lazio waiting—he has good news for you. Come to my office at the bell.”

Avoiding middle-aged Miss Simpson’s kind gaze, Meg croaked “yes” and trotted behind the rail-thin woman to Chef Lazio’s office.

* * *

Meg walked slowly back to her station after leaving the chef’s office, eyeing the landscape warily for Amy or Bill. Finding the kitchen full of busy workers and free of those two, she resumed peeling potatoes with shaking hands, pausing often to wipe the tears that blurred her vision.

Miss Simpson saved me today, but what if she hadn’t been looking for me? I can’t tell her what happened in the storeroom—I can’t even tell my sisters—what will I say?

At the closing bell, she studied the sharp peeling knife with the H&W on its handle before sliding it into a skirt pocket. Throwing the last potato into the huge pot of salted water, she hurried to Miss Simpson’s office.

* * *

The door was closed. Meg could hear women’s voices from within, one raised, so she dared not knock. It was a relief not to face Miss Simpson and lie to her; the woman who’d campaigned for Meg’s promotion and her rise in the ranks above potato peeler.

Meg paced the corridor, unsure what to do about Miss Simpson, but as the corridors emptied for the Saturday half-holiday, she became frightened. It might be Amy in Miss Simpson’s office, or it might not. Amy and Bill could be waiting for her in a lonely spot. She felt the knife in her pocket and ran to the girls’ locker room.

Hesitating until she heard several girls’ voices, she pushed open the door and walked to the toilet through a double line of chattering girls. Standing at the mirror, she pulled off her cap and smoothed her unruly hair before tying it at the back. Purple smudges underlined her hazel eyes.

Using the nailbrush chained to the sink, she scrubbed at the dried blood under her nails until she heard the girls leaving the locker room. Meg grabbed her coat and hurried to leave with them.

Scanning the noisy crowd as she walked, she stayed with a group of girls she knew. They laughed and joked in happy anticipation of a free day and a half, but Meg felt increasingly worse as they made their way across the Queen’s Bridge. She could no longer deny the clenching pain in her stomach.

Meg wrapped her long, brown coat tightly around her as cutting March winds whipped up the Lagan River from the Belfast Lough and the sea beyond. Threatening ash-grey rain clouds scudded overhead.

“Are you alright, Meggie? You look out of sorts,” asked one girl.

“I think I might be sick.” Just as she said it, she doubled over and threw up, right there on the bridge, splattering her boots.

“Here, Meg, take my handkerchief. You poor wee thing.”

“We’ll walk you home, Meg.” Two girls hooked her arms, ignored her flinch of pain, and marched her home.

* * *

She lay on one of two feather beds in the room, a cool damp cloth on her forehead. Her four sisters surrounded her in the small bedroom they shared. Her sister Jinny, the eldest of eight siblings, pressed her for details, but Meg could only sob. Older sisters Florence and Lizzie took turns questioning her. Annie, the youngest sister, was simply told to be quiet.

Meg closed her eyes against the barrage of questions.

Florence pulled Jinny to one side, while Lizzie and Annie remained propped against the brass bedposts at the foot of the bed the three youngest girls shared. Lizzie played with the tassels of the ancient quilt as Annie ate a bruised apple.

Although years apart in age—Annie fifteen and Lizzie nearly twenty—they looked like twins, their shining blue-black hair worn loose to the shoulders. Their dark glittering eyes were trained on Meg. The clash of their handed-down tartan dresses—bright Kyle-blue for Annie, Lawson green and red for Lizzie—made Meg queasy. She turned her head and watched Jinny and Florence conferring, dressed in high-waisted, long tea-brown skirts and the plain white blouses they’d worn to work that morning. Their complicated chignons jiggled as they nodded and spoke in low voices in the corner of the dim room.

“Meg, you can tell us—have you been sacked?” whispered Lizzie.

“We know you’re in trouble,” added Annie. “It’ll come out.” Her Cupid’s bow lips parted to bite into the apple.

Meg closed her eyes again. More tears joined the pool in the dip of her neck.

A soft knock on the door was followed by their youngest brother David’s voice. “Miss Simpson is here—she’s worried and wanted to make sure Meg’s home safe.”

Florence asked, “Why on earth would she worry so? Ask her up, David.”

Meg’s teary gaze connected with David’s worried one before he left.

Jinny said softly, “Dear, tell us.”

Miss Simpson and David squeezed into the room.

Meg pulled a sleeve up over her freckled elbow.

“Oh! Would you look at them bruises,” said Jinny, stunned. Her hand flew up to her mouth.

Looking at Miss Simpson, Meg softly said, “Bill twisted my arms. Amy helped him hurt me.”

“The storeroom—Amy Lyon did this? Bill the porter? The thin one?”

Overcoming her fear, Meg whispered, “yes.”

Miss Simpson touched Meg’s hand. “Leave this with me. They won’t hurt you again. Rest now and I’ll see you Monday morning. I’ll meet you at the gate myself. You’ve nothing to fear.”

She turned to Jinny. “Perhaps we could talk downstairs?”

* * *

Meg woke in piercingly bright daylight, alone in the bedroom. The other bed had been made, but hers was a jumble of her sisters’ nightgowns, crumpled sheets, and pillows. The faded red-and-white patchwork quilt was half off the bed.

The door opened quietly and Jinny came into the room, wearing a bright floral apron over a severe grey church dress. “Ah, you’re awake. Good. It’s past noon. We let you miss church, though Father wasn’t well pleased, but we told him you were ill. It’s only the truth. You must be parched. Come downstairs and have something. Florrie’s heated enough water for your bath. You like baths on Sunday. She sprinkled some salts in for the bruises. Come on now. Let’s get your dressing gown on. I’ll bring your underthings.”

Her mouth felt like it was filled with sand, but she managed, “I’m coming.”

Jinny helped her up. “You’ll feel better with something warm inside you. Annie’s made scones.”

When Jinny’s hand rested on Meg’s forehead for a moment, Meg felt a great bubble in her throat threaten to flow forth, but she clamped her lips together. I’ll never let anything like that happen again, never ever. I’ll never let anyone near me again. Ever!

* * *

Meg patted her arms gently and dried the rest of her body quickly. As she struggled into the undergarments and wrapped herself in the dressing gown, she heard the family gathering in the kitchen.

“Meg?” Jinny called over the screen.

“Nearly ready.” Meg stood on tiptoe and peered in the small mirror tacked high on the wall for their father’s shaving. Strange, so much has changed, but I look the same.

Pushing up loose sleeves she winced at the deepening purple encircling her upper arms, black in some places, with blue and purple rings on her forearms. A jolt of fear accompanied the memory of that brute twisting her arms. Everything hurt, from her arms to her hip to her lower back, strained by the struggle against the assault. She pushed damp feet into slippers.

* * *

Meg sat down at the oak kitchen table, gleaming from years of beeswax polish rubbed in with a chamois cloth. Jinny draped her crocheted shawl over Meg’s shoulders. Her four sisters sat at the table, simultaneously stirring milk-infused tea in the thick white mugs inherited from their grandfather’s coffee shop.

The three brothers, Will, Bob, and David, stood in a line, leaning against the Belfast stone sink. The tall young men looked remarkably like their father, from broad shoulders and chests to heads of thick raven-black hair. Home on leave after six months at the front in France, Will and Bob were dressed in the khaki of the 36th Ulster Division. David wore his one good suit, now short in the legs and sleeves, a starched white shirt, hard collar, and black tie.

Everyone watched her.

Meg had to clear her throat to ask, “Where’s Father?” She blew on her tea and sipped. The harsh, black Belfast blend felt like rough cloth on her tongue. She reached for the sugar bowl and Florence pushed the milk pitcher forward.

“Orange Hall,” said Lizzie.

Jinny smiled encouragingly. “Miss Simpson assured us that you’ll have no more trouble from those creatures who hurt you. She told us she’ll talk to your chef about sacking them first thing tomorrow—they both have black marks against them already, very black indeed—and the guards will be told not to let them near the yard. She suggested we walk with you to work and back for a wee while, and we agreed. We’ll take turns and …”

“Here,” interrupted Will, the eldest brother, as he straightened to his full height, “What’s this blackguard’s surname?”

Turning to him, Jinny said firmly, “Now we don’t want more trouble, so let’s just keep her safe and not stir up anything. You three boys will walk her back and forth this week. Send a message to anyone wanting to hurt her.”