He jerks, and his eyes pop open. “Huh? Val, what the bloody hell?” He sticks his face in the pillow, but I wrangle it away.
“Did you gamble last night?”
He hoists up an eyelid, wincing at the sunlight.
“You gambled, even though you swore not to. I heard Bledig telling Skeleton he got swindled by a Johnny, and I know it was you. Just say it.” My voice stretches taut, and even though I’m trying to keep quiet for the sake of the lads, my hurt has grown wings and a stinger. “You want to be rid of me.”
Jamie rubs his eyes. “I didn’t gamble, Sis,” he says more gently. The beds rustle and squeak as the lads awake.
“Then who—”
“I did.” Bo’s words hit me just like the pinecone I didn’t see coming.
“How much did you make?” Wink asks, all business, even fresh from the land of Nod.
Bo doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. Bledig lost his shirt, a shirt worth... “Two pounds,” I say wearily.
“So that’s two pounds, plus their four shillings from yesterday. Theytiedus.” Olly’s voice goes round with amazement. Wink scowls.
Jamie, fully awake now, works his mouth but can’t seem to find the right words. Bo stares guiltily at his feet.
“Well, Jamie, I hope you’ll be very happy stumbling around that thicket.”
“What are you on about, Sis?”
“Ask your mate.”
The doorknob slips in my slick grip, but I give it a hard twist, needing out. And though a goldfish has as good a chance of outswimming its bowl as I have of fleeing this ship, I bolt.
17
I scurry down Scotland Road on the balls of my feet, tempted to remove the pumps and throw them out the nearest porthole. The drone from the boiler casings competes with the noise in my head. Why would anyone choose a job doing the same bone-wearying thing day after dreary day, a job that slowly pickles you with soot? Where’s the creativity in that?
Acrobatics may be physically challenging, but at least you have something at the end of the day—a new routine, a new feat, some way to leave your mark. And Jamie is so naturally gifted, he nearly somersaulted out of Mum’s womb, with me grabbing his ankle for a lift. In America, the opportunities will be endless. We aren’t traditionally educated, but Jamie is smart enough to be a clerk. Maybe even a scholar.
Well, he can throw his life down the can, but he won’t throw mine. I have five days to find and impress Mr. Stewart. Maybe fewer, if they’re trying to break records for this “Blue Riband.” My stomach contracts, feeling like an unripe lemon.
If Mr. Stewart is a dead end, perhaps I can bribe an official to let me into America. I’ll need more pineapples to juggle.Plans always half-baked.
Passing one of the companionways off Scotland Road, I’msurprised to see the seaman with the shaved head, Ming Lai, and the Russian girl half talking, half gesturing at each other, too immersed in their conversation to notice me.
The closest cabin door opens, and the girl’s parents emerge. The mother is a slighter version of her broad-faced daughter, who inherited her father’s sturdier build. Now, that is one father I would not want to offend, with his bulging muscles and thick neck roped with veins. All four head away from me, back toward the Dining Saloon.
It seems as if the threads of their friendship are continuing to weave together more tightly, despite the unlikely pairing. How nice it must be to have her parents’ approval. Or perhaps knowing the acquaintance is only temporary relaxes the rules. Might as well make merry.
The brisk air slaps sense into me when I finally reach the poop deck. Few people are out this early. A different crewman—but just as puffish as yesterday’s QM—paces the docking bridge, his gaze darting around as sharp as a Doberman pinscher’s.
If Jamie had won the bet outright, would he have forced me back to London? Chinese tradition expects the oldest boy to take over the patriarchy, with duties like arranging his sister’s future. But when have I ever taken orders from him? According to Bo, it’s the other way around. Anyway, the Jamie I knew always valued my opinion. Like the time I suggested we pay a kid to bark up business for our show, which more than paid for itself. Or when I told him to stop wearing his pants so short because it made him look like a jack-a-dandy.
Maybe I did order him around a bit. But I never did it to be superior, only to make things go easier. I didn’t want him to get his nose punched for looking like a dandy. Was that so wrong? But now he doesn’t need me anymore. He has mates to make sure he keeps his beak out of trouble. And I have no one.
My mind returns to that bleak day when I fell into a coal hole while fetching Jamie from the widow’s house where Mum sent him to help her pull weeds. Jamie found me hours later. He slid down the chute, and while I wept, held me close enough for me to feel his heart beating beside mine, just as in Mum’s belly. He’s always been there for me. But not anymore.
I bite down on my lip, which has started to tremble, and focus on the sky. A few clouds break up the blue. Trailing us, a lone seabird bobs and ducks invisible blows. I shall be like that bird. Whatever current life blows in my face, I will plow on to the next bit of sky.
“Little Sister,” says a voice in Cantonese, startling me from my thoughts. The seaman with the quick hands, Drummer, slides in beside me. He removes from his belt a “whirling drum”—a double-sided cylinder with two corded beads on a stick. He twists the drum, and the beads lightly rap against the stretched leather. “There is much sorrow in your face.”
I wipe my eyes with my sleeves. “Why aren’t you eating with the others?”
