A London Attack of Old

The events of last Sunday have brought on a lot of self-reflection and discussion about male/female roles.  My initial reaction that night was anger towards men; for not being there, for sleeping on the job, for being indifferent, for being the perpetrators. I simultaneously craved and resented them. But really, wasn't it kind of unfair? I was walking home alone, from dinner with girls. What was I expecting? Superman?

So, I thought a little more and realized it really tapped into a different event. An event from years ago in London – another attack, another intervention. That’s what I was truly reacting to....

It was a late Sunday afternoon in the summer and I was returning home after a weekend visiting my aunt and uncle. I was walking out of Ealing Broadway tube when I heard loud, angry voices – a man and woman.  There was something in the tone that made me hesitate. Something that said, don’t walk home, stick around.   

Even though they were on the same side of the street as me, I crossed the road to get a better view.  The man was stocky, tattooed, 5’10, dark hair. The woman with him was slight in build and backed into a corner. Their argument had already escalated. She had growing panic in her voice -  it echoed off the buildings. 

I stood beneath a bus shelter looking at all the other people, half waiting, half calculating. It was a gorgeous evening and there must have been dozens, if not a hundred or more people walking around. The common was nearby, along with 2 or 3 pubs and a number of shops. Plenty of people, plenty of potential rescuers.

Now there was terror in her voice. He had both her arms in his grip. She was screaming at him to let her go. I felt a charge. Time was up. I did not think. I just reacted. I marched off the curb and aimed for the man. I am only 5’6”. I was always scrawny. I was always weak. Skinny Lynnie. Thin Lynn. (Today maybe not so much.)  

There was a fair distance between us. I kept thinking -  Someone else will get there first. Some guy will get there first.

No one did.

I remember grabbing the man’s arm and digging my fingernails into his flesh. “Is there a problem here?” He just stared at me with the same anger he’d been pushing on her. “She asked you to let go of her.” There was an intensity, an uncertainty, and suddenly, another presence.  

A woman.

A woman had come and stood next to me. I never saw her, but I sensed she was plump and middle-aged, maybe a Sunday school teacher or mother. Frumpy. A brown jumper. The man looked from me to her. His eyes were hard, but then they changed. Her presence diffused him.

He let go. 

As the first woman ran off, I turned and looked back at the street. All the Sunday evening pedestrians were stopped in their places watching. Men, women, lads from the pub with their pints half raised. Dozens, if not a hundred or more people dotted the area surrounding us.  All of them watching, just me and another woman acting.

That night I cursed them all. I shamed them.  The adrenalin was gone and the fear and anger had set in. I shook. I cried. I blamed them. I blamed them all for forcing me to be the person to step in.  Where were the men? Where were the men?? I screamed it in my head – dozens, if not a hundred or more times. I threw a fist at my pillow. Where were the men??? I’m only small, I can’t defend myself. Why did they make me have to do that?

I never found out who the assisting woman was.  I never really saw her, I never ever thanked her. But to this day I am still so grateful. And to this day, I have never forgiven the men.