Heroine Of Her Own Life

1. Belfast, Ireland-3

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.