Heroine Of Her Own Life E-Book

Constance Emmett

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In early 20th century Belfast, working class Meg Preston struggles to accept her own sexuality and yearns for forbidden love.

Battling the customs and hardships of their time, Meg pursues a relationship with her childhood friend, Lillian Watson. But soon, tribulations of war, violence, and emigration threaten to tear everything apart.

Seeking refuge for herself, her love, and her family, can Meg find the courage to become the heroine of her own life?

Leseprobe

HEROINE OF HER OWN LIFE

A NOVEL

CONSTANCE EMMETT

CONTENTS

1. Belfast, Ireland

2. The Shipyard

3. Two Up, Two Down

4. Standing On The Edge Of The World

5. The Bargain

6. The Back Of Beyond

7. We’ll Take a Cup of Kindness Yet

8. Step We Gaily On We Go,

9. Firelight

10. Cinderella

11. A Change In Plan

12. The Confab

13. In Dublin’s Fair City, Where the Girls Are So Pretty

14. Bracknamuckley

15. Pro Tanto Quid Retribuamus

16. Return To Portstewart

17. Happy Families

18. Surprise!

19. Setting Sail

20. A Fine Day

21. 1939: War

22. 1941: The Belfast Blitz

23. 1941: Firestorm

24. 1941: Escape

25. 1944

Acknowledgments

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2019 Constance Emmett

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Tyler Colins

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

For Suzy, my heroine

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. “Bitch,” 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.

* * *

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.

* * *

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.

* * *

Meg sat down at the oak kitchen table, gleaming from years of beeswax polish rubbed in with a chamois cloth. Jinny draped her crocheted shawl over Meg’s shoulders. Her four sisters sat at the table, simultaneously stirring milk-infused tea in the thick white mugs inherited from their grandfather’s coffee shop.

The three brothers, Will, Bob, and David, stood in a line, leaning against the Belfast stone sink. The tall young men looked remarkably like their father, from broad shoulders and chests to heads of thick raven-black hair. Home on leave after six months at the front in France, Will and Bob were dressed in the khaki of the 36th Ulster Division. David wore his one good suit, now short in the legs and sleeves, a starched white shirt, hard collar, and black tie.

Everyone watched her.

Meg had to clear her throat to ask, “Where’s Father?” She blew on her tea and sipped. The harsh, black Belfast blend felt like rough cloth on her tongue. She reached for the sugar bowl and Florence pushed the milk pitcher forward.

“Orange Hall,” said Lizzie.

Jinny smiled encouragingly. “Miss Simpson assured us that you’ll have no more trouble from those creatures who hurt you. She told us she’ll talk to your chef about sacking them first thing tomorrow—they both have black marks against them already, very black indeed—and the guards will be told not to let them near the yard. She suggested we walk with you to work and back for a wee while, and we agreed. We’ll take turns and …”

“Here,” interrupted Will, the eldest brother, as he straightened to his full height, “What’s this blackguard’s surname?”

Turning to him, Jinny said firmly, “Now we don’t want more trouble, so let’s just keep her safe and not stir up anything. You three boys will walk her back and forth this week. Send a message to anyone wanting to hurt her.”

He slouched back against the sink and muttered, “It’s only we won’t be here much longer and we ought to set this fella straight.”

Jinny turned back, patted Meg’s hand, and smiled.

“You won’t tell Father … anything?” asked Meg worriedly.

“No,” said Jinny with another pat.

“You can tell him about your promotion, Meggie. Miss Simpson told us,” offered Florence happily.

“Aye, he’ll like that, more money in the coffers,” Bob laughed.

“Well done, Meg.” David pulled himself up straight and stretched until his fingertips touched the low ceiling, yellowed from years of smoke. “Why don’t we go for a walk? It’s a fine day.”

She shifted her gaze to the kitchen window. The light stung her eyes and she winced. “Alright.”

“Now David, not too far, mind,” said Jinny.

“Just a wee dander. The air’ll do her good. We’ll walk through the gardens to the river.”

“You two, all you ever think of is tramping about,” observed Annie, helping herself to another scone.

Meg felt so comforted by this familial scene, she almost smiled when she left the kitchen to dress. It wasn’t until she pulled on the skirt and felt the weight of the small knife that the terror of the attack hit her again: the writhing, the bruising, Bill’s smell, and Amy’s betrayal. Tears threatened to spill again and she wiped them impatiently.

Struggling to brush and shape her hair, she thought: put Amy and Bill out of your mind for good … especially Amy. She stopped brushing and shuddered, knowing Amy would get her back for the sacking. Stricken, she sat on the edge of the bed, the hairbrush useless in her hand.

David called up the stairs. “Meg, come on … come down.”

She didn’t move, even after she heard his steps on the stairs.

After a soft knock, David opened the door and stuck his hand inside to wave. Waggling his fingers, he said, “Come on Meggie, you’ll feel better. I’ll buy us mushy peas at the place on the river—the one at the boathouse. We can watch the fellas row the wee boats.”

Meg rose and opened the door wide.

“That’s it.” He crooked his arm to escort her down. She wasn’t sure how he made her laugh, but he always did. At the bottom of the stairs, he said, “You sit down and I’ll lace up your boots for you.” He held up a boot. “Milady?”

Somebody’s cleaned my boots for me.

While he laced, Jinny came into the hallway. “That’s the ticket. David’ll care for you. You enjoy your walk and forget all about them vile creatures.”

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?”

* * *

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.”

* * *

Once through the gate, the women walked toward the Queen’s Bridge, spanning the Lagan River and leading to the centre of the city.

“I don’t know what I would have done without you this morning, Lillian.”

“You’d have waited until they stopped roaring like wild beasts and gone into the building, but my way seemed quicker.” Lillian smiled at Meg. It was an anemic version of her usual brilliant one, but Meg, who hadn’t smiled all day, returned a weak smile.

“I’ve worked at this yard since they built the Titanic. I was eleven, a scullion in the kitchens, nearly twelve years that is now, but I’ve never seen such a thing.” Thinking for a moment, she added, “I was here when the men from the Wee Yard chased our yard’s Catholics out on the quay, but I didn’t see any of it—hearing about it was bad enough.”

“Wicked men must’ve riled the others that day, and today. You know these lads aren’t evil, but today … there was certainly evil there. Did you see how many hung back? They looked as upset as us.” Lillian shook her shoulders as if throwing off a chill.

Meg glanced at her straight-backed friend, who had shot past Meg in height while they were still at Sunday school. Lillian’s face, usually open and cheerful, was set in an unnaturally hard line. The face, as familiar to Meg as her own sisters’ faces, seemed like a stranger’s just then. “But I did recognize some of them from our yard, and they’d the man’s blood on their pants.”

“Oh.” Lillian’s voice dropped along with her chin to rest inside the large upturned collar of her overcoat.

Meg asked, “How did you not … I mean, I just fell apart a wee bit.”

Lillian turned to look at Meg. “Did you see him, the man?”

“I did.” Meg could taste brass again.

“That’ll be it then. I didn’t see him, the state of him.”

On the bridge, a woman pushing a pram passed them, her toddler waving and smiling. Waving at the child, Meg and Lillian smiled at each other. Lillian squared her shoulders as if to reject the horror of the morning. “I wish that I could walk you home, Meg. Are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“It’s only that I’m due at Mildred’s birthday party, you know … Mildred next door to us?”

“I remember her from when we were children playing at your house. She organized games for all the children on your street. Mildred’s nice.”

“She is. Her mother invited our family for cake and I wouldn’t like to be late. My mother wouldn’t like it, and I don’t want to tell her about what happened today. I mean, if you’re sure you can get home on your own? I don’t suppose it matters if I’m late …”

Meg said, “No, I’ll be fine, really.”

“Why don’t we hop on a tram at City Hall? At least you’ll be able to sit down for a while.”

Meg’s brow furrowed, “I want to save the fare.”

“It’ll be my treat! I’m worried about you. Come on now, you’d do it for me.”

* * *

On the top of the crowded tram, Lillian swayed as she bent over the seated Meg to ask, “Why not come to our football match tomorrow? We can have a meal after. It’s only up the road at Windsor Park. The fresh air will do you good.”

Lillian had become a bit of a joke to Meg’s sisters when she took up ladies’ football as an adolescent, but Meg had been grateful for her skills in the chaos of the shipyard that morning.

“Thanks. I would, but I’m going with David to walk his dogs, you know, for his job.”

“You two can tramp for miles. Off to Donegal and back, are you?”

“Not quite, we’re due to take the train to Portrush and walk to Portstewart and back.”

“Portstewart? I’ve an auntie and cousin up there. My aunt’s the postmistress.”

“Aye, I remember now— you go up there for your holidays.”

“Agnes Kerr, she’s my mother’s sister—the family are from there. Stop in and say hello. Auntie Agnes and Cousin Alice live above the post office. But Meg, don’t tell your sisters about my match tomorrow, especially your Annie.” Lillian, colour restored, winked at her friend, making Meg laugh.

She remembered that while her three older sisters made affectionate fun of Lillian and her football, Annie probed the subject without mercy.

“Here’s my call,” said Lillian before she turned and rushed to the stairs.

“Enjoy your match tomorrow,” shouted Meg.

Just before climbing down the stairs, Lillian shouted, “Enjoy the walk. Say hiya to Portstewart for me.”

Meg waved, but her smile quickly disappeared. After Lillian climbed off the tram, Meg watched her walk down the street until the tram sped away. She thought about Lillian Watson—who’d been allowed to stay in school until she was sixteen—and her family holidays. While the jolly Watsons—Lillian, her sister Beryl, their mother, and father— were able to afford train fare for holidays, and made a point of doing so; such outings were out of the question for the dour Prestons.

Worry seized her that Lillian had heard what those rough women had shouted at her. Meg had never talked to Lillian about the lingering harm Amy had done her with gossip, let alone Amy’s and Bill’s attack. Other girls, once friends, had stopped talking to her years ago.

Lillian’s remained a true friend, and yet, she must have heard the rumours, mustn’t she?

Meg tried to cheer herself with the fact that she and her brother were due for an outing the next day, but she could find no cheer, only worry and the memory of the man’s pulpy face and bloodied hair. Quickly she pulled the bell cord to stop the swaying tram as her stomach turned.

TWO UP, TWO DOWN

The lamplighter passed with his ladder and long rod as Meg entered Moore’s Place, a narrow street long enough to only hold four small houses, one with a shop on the ground floor. He turned the gaslight on, illuminating the rope swing the children of the street had attached to the lamppost.

Pushing open the paint-cracked green door to their house, she heard her sisters’ voices in the kitchen. Once inside, she was able to glimpse Annie and Jinny sidling around the oak kitchen table, laying it for the evening meal. Her father’s ancient black work boots sat on a newspaper by the door, cleaned of coal dust and polished for the next workday. He sat with his broad back to her before a small coal fire in the parlour, relaxing after his day at the gasworks, reading yesterday’s newspaper, and puffing on a pipe. His feet, shod in woolen slippers, pointed toward the fire in the grate. He wore the light-grey cardigan his wife had knitted for him thirty years before, one his daughters repaired for its continued use.

“Here’s Queenie, home from the fray, Daddy,” Annie stated gaily, entering the parlour while drying her hands with a dishtowel.

Meg’s shoulders sagged with exhaustion. “Not tonight, Annie. It’s been a terrible day.” She looked at her father and youngest sister. Tall, raven-haired people. Large, thick people. Big-bosomed women and deep-voiced men. They filled the rooms of the small house like hot-air balloons.

“The Spaniards” was what the neighbors on Moore’s Place called the Prestons. Her father and seven siblings had hair the colour of jet, eyes nearly black with thick dark lashes. Meg envied the pale olive colour of their skin; hers was milky, freckled, and turned pink at the slightest provocation. A slim woman—the ungenerous might have said stringy, as Annie had—of medium height, Meg was the only sibling with hazel eyes. Her hair wasn’t raven and straight, but russet-brown and frizzy. In looks, Meg took after her mother, while the others were one-hundred percent Preston.

Meg glanced at the back of her father’s sizable, dark head. Perhaps that’s why he’s never liked me.

“Tea, Da,” Annie announced.

Their father grunted as he stiffly rose. The wooden mantel clock struck half six.

Meg followed them into the kitchen as Jinny placed an enormous metal teapot on a trivet on the table.

“Howareya, Meggie?” Jinny asked, red-faced with the effort of heaving the thing from the hob to the table. She wiped her hands on a faded floral apron. Greying and shrinking at an alarming rate, the eldest sibling was no longer as raven-haired and large as she’d once been.

“Tired. An awful day.”

Mismatched chairs scraped the worn wooden floor as they sat. Jinny stood and poured milk and tea, and passed mugs while the others passed sugar and food-laden plates to one another.

Mugs delivered, Jinny took a seat. Mouths too busy chewing to talk, the room filled with the clatter of cutlery on plates. Their father focused on the food before him. Meg tried and failed to eat the boiled ham and cabbage, floury potatoes, stale bread and butter. Sitting back, she warmed her hands on the white chipped mug as she watched Annie dip bread ends into the full mug before eating them.

“I saw a man kicked to death this morning,” Meg said softly.

Her father’s fork hovered in midair as an odd look of incomprehension skewed his face. He swallowed loudly. “What are you on about?”

“A man, kicked to death, right outside the yard this morning by a group of shipyard men. Boiler men and fitters—I recognized some of them.” And I saw the blood on their pants after they’d done it.

Jinny looked upset. “Why?”

“Because he was working at the yard.” The man’s pulpy, bloodied face flashed in front of her.

“What d’ya mean?” asked Annie, her head raised like a dog on a scent.

Meg looked from one face to the next. “Because he was a Catholic. He was found out.”

Annie’s face blanched and she looked down quickly.

Their father snorted. “Serves him right. We ought to start here and go south—kick them all to death. Burning houses down and … and stealing land! Those … those Free Staters, whatever they call themselves … I call them traitors, the lot of them. Britain should keep Ireland all one by force, under the King. Thank God we have men like Carson and Sir Craig with the sense to preserve the union up here!” He thumped the table with a big, hairy fist and set the crockery rattling.

A startled Jinny dropped her fork with a terrible clatter.

Gazing up at her father’s treasured portrait of the bewigged Dutch and English King William of Orange seated on a rearing white steed, Meg sighed inwardly. This was a routine rant, one that often ended with a resounding, “No Home Rule here! No Pope here!” Her father’s life-long hatred of Catholics was in the air they breathed, but as far as she knew, he’d never known many Catholics to speak to, and they’d never taken any bread out of his mouth, forbidden as they were to work in the gasworks alongside him … forbidden as they were to work alongside her at the shipyard.

Annie, her eyes glittering, looked hard at Meg, who held her gaze and shook her head. Your secret is safe with me.

Annie’s face relaxed.

“Oh, but that’s awful, Meg,” said Jinny with a shake of her head.

Meg reached over and patted her hand.

“It’s nothing of the sort. He asked for it,” said their father, glowering at them, smoothing his huge black mustache with a thick, scarred index finger and unknowingly flicking a piece of ham onto the floor.

Aware that she was playing with fire, Meg turned away and quietly said, “You didn’t see him, Father.”

“What does that mean?” he demanded, his face darkening with anger.

She met his furious glare. “It means that seeing the men do what they did today … and seeing the man after … it … is different to talking about it.” Meg braced for what was sure to be an explosion, with possible violence following the tirade, but the front door opening and closing distracted him.

David, the only son left at home, whistled merrily as his heavy footsteps rang down the short hall to the kitchen.

“Take those boots off! Covered in sawdust from some pub, are they?” their father shouted without looking at him.

David rolled his eyes at Jinny behind their father’s back, and she giggled.

“What is it now then? Crying over a Fenian liar one minute, then giggling the next?” roared the father. “And you,” he warned, pointing his knife at Meg. “I won’t tolerate any rotten Protestants under my roof any more than I’d tolerate Catholics. Not for five minutes. Know that, wee lass.”

The smile disappeared from David’s face and he disappeared back down the hall, and reappeared in stocking feet. He silently folded his large frame into a spindly chair next to Jinny. He kept his eyes cast down as he accepted a mug and a plate of food from her.

Watching Annie, who’d stopped eating, Meg was reminded of the heartbroken nine-year-old girl, the baby of the family, when their mother died in 1910. She brought herself back to the present to see Jinny eyeing her full plate.

“Lovely ham, Jinny,” she said with a reassuring nod, as Jinny did the lion’s share of the housekeeping. “Isn’t it, Father? Isn’t it lovely ham?” Meg looked at him as though from a great height. Annoyed and exhausted by his tirade, she wanted an end to this part of their evening.

He looked at her, suspiciously she thought. “Eh? I don’t know. You could read through the slice I was given.”

“Here Da, have some more,” said Jinny. A small tremor disturbed her hands as she sliced a thick piece and handed it forward.

He snatched the plate.

“You eat me out of house and home, the lot of you. Why don’t you find men to take you off my hands, like your sisters, like decent, normal women?” He spat the meanness out with his words.

Meg dared not wonder if he was singling her out, or lumping his three spinster daughters together. We pay more into the house than he does now. She thought she detected a look of relief on David’s face.

“And you. What kind of man are you? You’re worse than the little girls yon. Hadn’t the courage to enlist and fight for Britain like your brothers, to show them Home Rulers, had you? No wife and a job that wouldn’t keep one. Your mother would be ashamed of youse … the lot of youse.”

David’s smooth, young face flushed and he pulled his hands off the table. Watching Jinny place her hands over her face, Meg felt a surge of rage toward the man. Her face burned, but she held herself still as her gaze swept around the table. Annie’s pallor had turned a pale grey again and they fell back into silence.

Feeling smothered by the stillness, Meg looked anywhere but at her father. Avoiding King Billy’s portrait, her gaze slid to the framed picture of the Titanic she’d received as a young girl from the shipwright, Mr Andrews. A young and handsome man, he’d invited the kitchen staff to celebrate the Titanic’s launch, and signed copies of the ship’s portrait for everyone, from Chef Lazio down to scullions like herself. She’d presented the picture to her father that evening, and he’d seemed pleased and proud of her. He’d found the frame for it, she recalled, and had helped her frame it.

* * *

After their father left for his nightly walk, David rose and put an arm around Jinny’s shoulder. “Whew. Try to ignore the old misery, girls. He’s mad.” He straightened and stretched, his fingers touching the ceiling. “I’m off, then.”

“Oh yes? Where to?” asked Annie with a grim smile.

“The Orange Hall, of course, a prayer meeting for bachelors,” joked David, winking. He kissed Jinny’s cheek.

“Mind you don’t get caught out after curfew.” Worry lines creased her already lined face.

“It’s just half eight, I’ll be back before ten,” David promised.

“You’d better be, and not too much stout, mind. We’ve a train to catch in the morning,” said Meg.

“Oh, aye, I won’t. Listen, my pal Martin is driving his cart over tomorrow for us. He’ll bring the dogs from the kennel and drive us to the station. It’ll save time.”

“Ha! I can’t wait to see Meggie sitting on a wee cart with your dogs.” Annie roared with laughter.

Meg ignored her. “As long as this Martin arrives on time. Tell him not to take too much drink tonight.”

“My sister, the police constable. I’ll have you know that Martin is very reliable. Nighty-night.”

Once the front door creaked shut, Jinny sighed and shook her head. “I worry about him. There’s so much trouble out in them streets …”

“If he ruins our trip, he’ll have me to deal with,” Meg said with a wry smile and gestured to the ham plate and hers. “I’ll make some sandwiches for our lunch out of these.”

“Aren’t you hungry? You’ve hardly eaten a thing.”

“My stomach’s off, from seeing … from today. I’ll be fine tomorrow. Sorry, Jinny, it looks tasty.”

“Oh. I hope so, Meg. I’ll make farl from what’s left of the potatoes. You can have it for your breakfast.” Jinny gathered plates, then stopped. “Oh, I’d forgot to tell ye that Florrie came by today.”

Meg and Annie perked up and glanced at each other.

“Oh yes? I wish she’d come when I’m at home,” Meg complained. Annie nodded in agreement. Florence was the great favourite in the family, but since she’d married Ralph Henderson, they’d seen little of her.

“What did she have to say?” Annie asked with some exasperation.

“Florrie wants you to help her pick out paper for their parlour walls tomorrow—said she’d come here with Lizzie in the morning.” Jinny hesitated a moment before asking, “Could I come with youse then?”

Meg regarded Annie, willing her to say yes.

“Of course you can,” Annie assured her.

Pleasure brightened Jinny’s face. “That’ll be grand.”

Meg and Annie rose and brought dishes to the old stone sink while Jinny began to roll out leftover potatoes in flour.

As the clock struck nine, their father returned from his constitutional. He padded through the kitchen to visit the outdoor facility—or “the library” as it was called in their family.

Meg washed and Annie dried while he stepped into old shoes by the door, and lit the candle left there for the trips. He went out in silence, closing the door quietly.

“I’ve saved enough from my wages, so I’m ready to shop for fabric anyways. I’m going to make a new dress,” Annie stated casually, grabbing the last plate.

“What kind?” Meg asked, placing cutlery she’d just dried into the fork and knife butler.

“I’ll show you. I cut a picture out of the newspaper.”

Meg glanced at her sister drying a dish with ferocity that belied the look of detachment on her face.

Their father returned from the great outdoors, blew out the candle, and put it back on the narrow shelf by the door. “Night, night,” he said quietly and left the kitchen.

The sisters wished him a good night in return.

The stairs creaked, marking his climb to his bedroom above.

“I swear to heaven, the only time the old misery’s happy is when he’s in the wee library outside,” Annie smirked.

The three sisters pealed with laughter. Jinny muffled hers with a dishtowel, then stopped laughing abruptly and sighed. “Poor Father.”

As they had since they were girls, they waited in the kitchen for each one to make a trip to the library, and took turns brushing their teeth at the kitchen sink.

Jinny banked the embers in the range. They turned all the gas lamps off, save the one turned low in the parlour to guide David’s return, and headed up the narrow wooden stairs by candlelight.

* * *

Once in the room the three women shared, they spoke in low voices.

Annie picked up a hairbrush. “Brush my hair for me, Jinny.”

The eldest sister obliged by stroking Annie’s lustrous black hair for several minutes.

When she was done, she turned to Meg. “Would you like yours brushed?”

“It would do mine no good,” said Meg with a rueful smile, arranging her clothes for the next day at the bottom of the bed. “I’m an owl looking out of an ivy bush.” She pulled back the covers, nearly falling into the bed she still shared with Annie, the one they’d shared with sister Lizzie until she’d left to marry Tom Kyle.

“Brushing is exactly what’s needed, that and some Brilliantine,” said Annie. “Because it’s a lovely color, Meggie. Russet, I’d call it. And you should eat more fat.”

“Hmm-mm.” Meg closed her eyes.

“Where are you walking? Up in the Glens?” Jinny asked.

She yawned. “By train to Portrush, and then we’ll walk to Portstewart and back, along the cliffs and the strand. David wants to run the dogs in the water.”

“Well, that will be nice for you, if the weather’s fine, but I wish you’d come with us. I like it when we’re all together.”

“Pity you didn’t think that when I was sent away as a girl,” Annie hissed.

Meg opened her eyes.

Jinny’s face contorted with pain and surprise. “Oh, Annie … you know how sorry I was.” She choked on the slap of her sister’s words.

Meg sat up and looked at two Annies: the corporeal one and her shadow. Recounting the story with patience, she began, “Annie, it was either stay here and work in the linen mill, or go live with Aunt Polly and Uncle Jack. We thought they’d treat you like a jewel, and we knew that the mill would be terrible.” Pausing for a second to collect herself, she drew a deep breath and whispered, “We didn’t know he was a monster.”

“He was that and her no better. Why couldn’t I have stayed and gone to school, like you? At least the half-timers in the mills went to school.” Ire was audible in the whisper. “Lucky me. The aunt and uncle weren’t bad enough, but I had to work in that awful tea factory when I came back.”

“That was Father who thought you had to work, not us. He thought his sister would be good to you—we all thought so. Anyway, I was out of school and in the shipyard kitchen by then and …” Meg shrugged limply when her words ran dry.

Jinny sniffled into a handkerchief and sat on the bed.

“We all regret it, we do … and if I’d been older, with a proper job, it wouldn’t have happened. We’d have kept you with us.”

“What about you, Jinny?” Annie demanded. “You were older, you were working. And Florence? Lizzie? Will was working—what about him? And Bob?”

Jinny eyed her pleadingly. “I am sorry Annie. We did think it would be better for you. We loved our Aunt Polly … before.” She blew her nose and climbed into bed. “Your letters were so cheerful and painted a picture of a nice life. A healthy one.”

Annie’s voice tightened with anger. “She made sure I wrote what she wanted you to think.” She returned to whispering. “And thank you very much for telling us about the Catholic man kicked to death, Meg. Now I’ve no chance of Father considering my marriage to Ned—you got him that good and riled. You wouldn’t understand, would you, never showing any interest in marriage and children. You’ve no real feelings, no normal ones.”

“Ah, leave her be, Annie, leave her be,” ordered Jinny, her voice thick.

Butthere was never a chance he’d relent about your marrying a Catholic man. Exhausted, Meg sighed and flopped back down. Still, she had to admit that she’d gone too far; she’d seen the fear on Annie’s agonized face as their father had ranted.

Annie threw the hairbrush across the room. It caromed off the armoire and clattered on the floor.

Startled, Meg sat up again. “Annie!”

“You’ve no idea what it was like. You never visited me. You left me there with them, with him … and he …” Annie’s rage was spent, her sorrow beginning.