“Oh!” Olly slaps his cheeks. “We can help you start a sweepstakes like they have here. You put in a shilling, and then you get a chance to earn a boatload of money.”
I snort. That would be taking the express train to the crowbar hotel. “People will think we’re shaking them down. But I do like your enthusiasm. All right, you’re hired.”
The two start jumping like two ticks. Olly even clicks his heels.
“I’ll let you know the plan after lunch. We don’t want anyone overhearing our secrets.”
Ahead of us, Bo shakes his head.
The Dining Saloon is divided by sex, with families filling in both sides. Long mahogany tables feature white tablecloths, real china, and individual chairs, not those benches you find in the pubs.
In the back corner farthest from the windows, four heads of black hair stand out against light sea slops. It doesn’t surprise me that the Chinese are given the worst seats, though as someone who doesn’t want to stand out, I should be thankful. I stiffen at the sight of rude Fong, shoveling in his food with gusto, while Tao takes cautious sniffs of his own plate, his queue rippling like a waterfall down his back.
Gazes follow us, with obvious disapproval, and I feel myself grow smaller. One woman even holds her napkin to her nose as we pass. It’s not that different from what we experienced in London—more like taking a concentrated shot of bitters rather than having it fed in small doses. Yet, a vague sense of disappointment washes over me, and I screw my cap on tighter. Being in the same boat does not make us the same.
Two Chinese seamen I haven’t met yet, both in their twenties, attempt to converse with the Russian family next to them, a couple with a rosy-cheeked daughter about my age. One of the seamen, a wiry man with laughing eyes, mimics the shoveling of coal while the family looks on. At least the Russians don’t seem put out by our presence.
Seeing us approach, both men stand and make their way to us. I feel a pinch of apprehension. It shouldn’t matter, but I hope these two don’t reject me, like Bo and Fong.
The wiry man interlaces his knobby fingers together and bows. “I am pleased to meet you, honored sister Valora,” he says cheerfully in Cantonese. “You look like one of us Johnnies.” He says that last word in English, though I wonder if I heard right.Johnnyis a dodgy term people use to refer to any Chinese man, no matter his name. “I am Drummer, and this is Ming Lai.” He nods to his companion, a short man with a prematurely bald head and a clear, honest face.
“Jamie is lucky to have such a devoted sister,” Ming Lai says in a deep baritone that reminds me of the sound a conch shell makes when you blow through it.
I relax a notch. “Thank you.” If only Jamie saw things the same way. “Do you play the drum?” I ask Drummer. He’s a ball of energy, shifting from foot to foot as if he hears music in his head.
“He plays anything with a surface,” Ming Lai answers. His solidness is a perfect foil for Drummer’s restless energy.
“Like this one,” Drummer shoots back, slapping a few beats on the shorter man’s scalp before he can duck out of the way. “I believe you have met Tao and Fong. They don’t speak English.”
“Neither do you,” Ming Lai points out.
“Better than you.”
Tao gets up from his chair. His icicle beard tweaks forward as he bows. “Nice to meet you, Little Sister. We are sorry we closed the door on you.”
Fong, still seated and chewing, looks as sorry as a wood plank over which one has tripped.
“It is my fault, Uncle. You did not know.”
Olly and Wink hop into seats across from each other, leaving Bo and me to sit at the end, awkwardly facing each other. I keep my gaze squarely focused on the table while white-jacketed waiters hastily set down plates of roast beef, corn, and jacket potatoes. It becomes clear that I needn’t have worried over substituting for Jamie. The waiters barely glance at us as they serve, seeming more intent on getting away as fast as possible.
Meanwhile, the waiter at the next table, a man with arectangular “door-knocker” beard and a rose in his lapel, wags his chin with its occupants. “I’ll get you more bread at once.” He snaps his fingers, catching another waiter’s attention, and points at the basket. He must be the headwaiter here.
We don’t have bread baskets at our table, though we do have butter stamped with the White Star logo, just like the soap. Maybe it is an oversight. I blink through the glare of the overhead lights bouncing off the enameled walls. Do the Chinese have smaller portions than the other diners? With everyone already working their forks, I can’t be sure.
I should put my head to the trough. This is more food than I’ve seen in a long time, and it isn’t as if our bellies will go empty. I’m supposed to be keeping my chin tucked, after all. But what good is butter without bread?
My hand shoots up, before I can stop it. “Waiter?” The headwaiter frowns at me, then advances toward us with short strides of his stubby legs. “We would like some bread, too.”
Bo hefts an eyebrow. Beside me, Wink stiffens, and Olly puts down his potato. The diners within earshot spear us with disapproving looks, the kind reserved for sewer rats and unwashed feet.
Finding himself in the middle of a pileup of stares, the headwaiter angles his head in a mock bow. “I’ll see what I can find.”
Bo watches me with a mildly curious expression, as if watching a dog try to catch its shadow. I give him a satisfied smile. “Jamie would’ve asked, too.”
He shrugs. “I doubt it.” As he eats, he studies the framedposters of White Star ships on the wall behind me. Probably he’s wishing Jamie was here instead of me.
Glancing away, I catch Fong in the act of palming a pepper shaker. He slips it into his pocket, but Tao gives him a scolding look, and an under-the-table skirmish ensues between them.
