Heroine Of Her Own Life

2. The Shipyard-1

THE SHIPYARD

MAY 1922

As she did most workday mornings, Meg descended the bobbing tramcar stairs, knuckles white inside her brown leather gloves as she grasped the handrail, never releasing her hold until sure-footed on the slick pavers below. Head turning this way and that, she crossed the tramlines bisecting the street and sprinted forward to join the urgent crowd of workers funneling through the gate before the morning bell rang.

The jostling horde faced the shipyard gate with its straddling giants—the H&W gantries—behind. Some were enjoying a last smoke and laugh; others were wrapped in a blanket of quiet morning misery. The low-lying fog she’d stepped into when she left the house was burning off.

On the wrong side of the gate was a growing knot of men in identical tweed flat caps and woolen jackets, facing one another, their backs to the street and yard. As she neared, she found they weren’t moving toward the gate at all, and yet their agitated movement crackled in the air. A man rushed past to join them, hitting her with his shoulder. Others on the periphery began to shout and more ran chaotically, seemingly directionless.

The force of the crowd pushed her against a high iron fence. Grasping thick iron bars, she faced the moving throng, her gaze held by their kicking legs. The shipyard bell rang. One by one, the attackers peeled away to run toward the gate, leaving behind a dun-colored lump, splattered with startling crimson. But it wasn’t a lump; it was a man lying in the road. Blood covered what had been his face, battered to a pulpy mess. A dented metal lunch pail lay beside his splayed feet—steam rose from the warm food within. The taste of brass filled her mouth as nausea churned her stomach.

Forcing herself to turn away, she scanned the yard for a path through the crowd to her office building. Laughter drifted from farther down the fence over the din of the crowd, where a group of bareheaded women stood pointing at the man lying in the road.

Shuddering, Meg spotted her friend Lillian Watson standing at the end of the fence, waving her forward. Meg ran.

Pointing at Meg now, the laughing women formed a semi-circle across Meg’s path.

“Here girls, don’t let her come too near youse,” shouted one.

“Let me pass,” Meg demanded.

“Oo-oo, let me lady pass. She’s got girls to kiss, and more,” predicted a harsh-sounding woman.

Meg dimly recognized the vestiges of a young girl in the woman’s ravaged face, who pointed her nose in the air and pursed her lips, making the others laugh like hyenas. She tried to push her way out of the circle, but recoiled as another pushed her beet-red face into Meg’s.

“Here, touch her and we’ll beat you. Like what he got.” Spittle flying, she jerked her head towards the bloodied man in the road. The spray grazed Meg’s cheek.

“Aye, who knows where that hand’s been?” offered another with a loud snort.

Meg looked to the others for any flickers of conscience, but only found ugly sneers.

Taller than all of Meg’s captors, Lillian pushed her way through from behind, roughly prying apart two of the threatening women.

“Get off her,” Lillian shouted. “Come on!” Head down, one hand outstretched and the other holding Meg’s hand, Lillian led them through the chaos to the main entrance. Once in the narrow doorway, Lillian asked, “What were they on about? You should report them.”

Meg wiped her face with a handkerchief, squeezed it into a ball, and shoved it into her jacket pocket. Her voice was thick with disgust and fear. “I dunno. Their blood was up. What happened over there? Why did so many kick that poor man?”

“He was found out, a Catholic fella, working here,” explained Lillian, flushing. “Here, let’s get up to the office. We’re late.”

Meg nodded weakly, allowing Lillian to lead her away, too stunned to do anything else. They walked up the narrow back stairs to Meg’s office.

Lillian stood in the doorway, unbuttoning a heather tweed overcoat with haste. As she pulled off a soft hat, strands of straight and shiny chestnut hair formed a halo. “I’ve got to go. Get a strong cup of tea down your neck, lots of sugar.”

Trusting the familiar kindness in Lillian’s dark-blue eyes, Meg nodded contritely, ashamed of her own lack of composure.

“And if those ruffians bother you again, tell me at least, won’t you?”