Heroine Of Her Own Life

2. The Shipyard-2

Meg pulled off her hat and sat down at her desk. For a moment, she covered her face with her hands, as if they could blot out what she’d seen, but the sound of male voices outside the door brought them back. Hastily, she retied one of her brown leather Oxfords before standing and straightening her suit jacket and smoothing her skirt.

Meg recognized her employer’s silhouette through the opaque glass door. She watched the oval brass doorknob, engraved with the shipyard name, turn, stop, then rotate as the conversation ended. Mr Worthy, Manager of the Executive and Staff Dining Rooms, entered.

“Good morning, Mr Worthy.”

“Good morning, Miss Preston.” He walked into his office and sat behind his desk.

Meg gathered her pad and pencil and followed, keeping to their custom.

“Terrible thing, eh, Miss Preston?” he asked as he pulled a pipe and tobacco pouch out of his jacket pocket.

“I saw him,” she whispered.

Mr Worthy nodded and filled his pipe; his gaze had yet to fall on her. “Fool! What was he thinking? Someone was bound to catch him out.”

Lighting the pipe and puffing mightily, he wreathed them both in tobacco smoke. Meg’s stomach clenched. He opened the ledger on the desk, and adjusted pince-nez on his thin nose. Bending over the ledger, the light of the electric lamp gleamed on his bald head. He kept a soft cloth in his desk for polishing his scalp; she’d seen him rubbing it through the frosted glass of the office door. She’d made her sisters roar with laughter when she imitated this habit for their entertainment. (“Hi Meg. Did Baldy polish his pate today? Come on, show us!”)

Thick grey hair, always neatly trimmed like his small gray mustache, ringed the bald circle. It was the color of some tribes of mice and, indeed, there was something of the rodent about him: the shape of those small ears, the way his slender hands scurried around in papers. He removed the pipe from his mouth. “Luncheon today is to be roast lamb with potatoes and so on … ah, and fresh peas, cheese platter, and a gooseberry fool.”

Meg nodded and wrote gooseberry fool.

Her boss frowned. “It’s early in the season for fresh peas and Mr Lamont is particular, so let’s make sure they are fresh, not dried.”

He hadn’t asked her to sit down and she desperately needed to, lightheaded as she felt.

“Go to the kitchens and ask. I’d like your report on the luncheon preparation, the state of the peas, within the hour,” he said with a brisk nod.

* * * *

Meg rushed downstairs to the white-tiled sanctuary of the women’s toilet. She gripped the sink for a moment. After the wave of nausea passed, she cupped cold water and rinsed her mouth. Looking into the mirror, she tried to smooth her hair, but gave up in frustration. As she raised an arm, she felt the ache from the hit her shoulder had taken, but she pulled her turned-under blouse collar up over the jacket of the chocolate-coloured suit, and sat on the chair provided for ladies who felt ill. After a few deep breaths, she stood and left the toilet, looking forward to a strong cup of tea in the kitchens.

* * * *

The bells of police vans pierced the workday. Meg tried to ignore the clamour, but each one startled her and set her heart racing. Finally, the bells became less frequent, and she was able to work quietly, tallying inventories and writing vendor bills. She registered the sound of the closing bell and looked up at the creak of the door opening.

Lillian peered in. “Hiya, can you leave? Shall we walk?”

“Let me see.” Meg moved to Mr Worthy’s open door. “I’ll leave now if I may, Mr Worthy?”

He looked at the clock before nodding.

“Good evening then, Mr Worthy.”