Propelled through unfamiliar streets, Mary bobbed ahead of the assembled Trades and Friendly Societies: sawyers, cork cutters, boiler makers. She’d be late for work, taking up her barmaid’s place behind the taps. It would be worth it. The throng swept her towards the tower of the new bridge. Opening day.
When the gunshot came, the scream of a policeman’s whistle, Mary ran. A man’s pounding footfalls behind her; she risked a backwards glance. Several men. Dark-browed, determined. They had the advantage: trousers, flat-soled shoes, while she fought a whalebone corset for every breath of tar-reeking air. She hoisted fistfuls of skirt above her knees, French heels drumming. Dear God, let the buttons hold! Her hair ribbons loosened and flew out behind.
Ahead, the sheer cliffs of the gorge plunged three hundred feet to the river. A dizzying sweep, water sucked to sea. Above, black clouds shouldered and seethed like the dark throngs that packed her bar, night after night. Men. Their foul breath and assumptions.
A tide turned inside. Mary, head high, heard gulls shriek – Now! Her stride lengthened. Pulling away, her every step stretched from this world to the next.
Far ahead, a cluster of women moved into her path. Mary ran hard into their outstretched arms. Her followers boomed past.
Mary gasped. ‘Did I make it?’
‘Yes, missus.’ An older woman held her at arms’ length, beaming. ‘You did.’
Mary turned to look back. At the crowd on the opposite bank, cheering near the cut ribbon. At the marching band setting off between geometries of column and cable.
One of her pursuers doubled back. Leant on his knees, panting. Beamed up at her.
‘First across, Miss.’ He offered her his hand to shake. ‘Well won.’
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First published in The MacGuffin, Issue 37.1, Winter 2021.
A great atmospheric account of the historic race.
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