Heroine Of Her Own Life

BELFAST, IRELAND 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. “b***h,” 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.