Heroine Of Her Own Life

1. Belfast, Ireland-2

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.