The headwaiter stops at our table. His lapel bears a fresh rose. “Sirs, one of our first-class passengers sends these with her thanks for valiantly defending her person and property from harm. Captain Smith commends you for your, ahem,heroism.” That last word seems as hard to get out as a corn kernel stuck between his teeth.
Jamie’s honest face wrinkles in confusion. “Oh, we didn’t—”
I kick him under the table. “We didn’t expect this, but we are ever so grateful,” I cut in.
A murmur rises up as the news circles the room. The platter is set before us.
“What’s this?” Fong sniffs a sliver of tangerine, then pops it in his mouth. “Tastes like the sunset over Lisbon.” He smacks his lips at me as I gape. Who knew the old goat has a poetic streak?
Wink surveys the platter for the biggest fruit, a plum, and pinches it from the hoard before Olly can get to it. Using a tiny pair of silver tongs, Olly serves himself two cherries. Ming Lai holds the platter for the Domenics, who nod their thanks. Drummer chews his fruit with quick beats, and a smile crests his face.
The other diners return to their own now-diminished meals, though several sneak looks back at us.Take that, all you Johnny haters.
I hold up a cross section of lime to Jamie. “This one’s for you, you limey. Mrs. Sloane is clearly a woman of exquisite taste.”
Jamie gives me a weary look and doesn’t take the fruit. “Congratulations. Now everyone hates us even more than they already did.”
I eat Jamie’s lime myself, then lick my fingers. “Go on, sourpuss. The captain called us heroes. Now doesn’t that tune your fiddle?”
“Some here look like they want to break our fiddles,” he says, eyeing a woman with a tight bun who casts us murderous looks as she wrestles her young daughter back into her chair. The girl points at our table and wails, her wavy dark hair spilling into her large eyes. Folks start staring at us anew. The mother unleashes a flurry of foreign words in a language that reminds me of the Syrian spice sellers in the Borough Market.
Jamie appraises our fruits, then cuts his gaze to Bo, who’s chewing with an almost-baffled look on his face. Bo shrugs.
I know exactly what Jamie intends before he stands. He wants us to share the spoils, a gesture that makes the waterworks in my mouth dry up. We owe these folks nothing except for a good thump with a bread heel.
“Let’s go, Mrs. Sloane, before your generosity gets us beat up.”
“Leave it,” I growl. “You’re not the fruit fairy.”
Jamie glances at Bo. With a sigh, Bo wipes his mouth on a napkin, then pushes out his chair. If Bo goes, thenIwill be the bread heel.
With a grumble, I grab the platter. I suppose it isn’t the child’s fault that the waiters gave us the bread heels. Still, why are we always called upon to show greater generosity of spirit?
The Syrian girl’s wailing dries up as I approach, and her mouth becomes a red lifesaver.
“Hello, poppet. Which one would you like?”
The girl points to a cherry. Jamie picks it up with the tongs, but before the girl can take it, he flips it up into the air andcatches it behind his back with the tongs again. Her face, which has gone from outraged to baffled, now lights up with delight. Even her mother smiles as Jamie drops the cherry into the girl’s damp-looking palm.
Before moving on to a bunch of knee-biters at the next table, I can’t help noticing that the Syrian group’s basket is filled with bread heels, too. Somehow, it makes me feel better that we aren’t the only ones who receive poor treatment, but also worse that something as mundane as a bread heel can have so much power.
A few turn their noses up at our fruits, and I feel snubbed all over again. But all the children, and some adults, too, gladly take what we offer. I hope goodwill is like bay leaves, where just a few are enough to flavor a whole pot of stew.
We breeze by the bottom cutters without offering them any. After Jamie flipped them off, it just doesn’t seem sincere.
Once all our plates are licked clean, Jamie returns to the cargo hold to practice, while Bo and I hike to one of the enameled doors off Scotland Road marked “Emergency Only” that leads into the first-class area on E-Deck. I doubt needing a haircut qualifies as an emergency, but I can hardly beg off now.
“I’ll give you a two-minute lead,” I tell Bo briskly. “We’ll be less noticeable if we travel separately.”
Bo, watching a moth buzz around a light fixture, nods. When Scotland Road clears of people, he ducks through the door.
I hold my breath, not sure if I’m more worried that the door will open again and he’ll be tossed out, or that it won’t andI’ll have to go through with this bloody haircut after all. But when nothing happens after two minutes of pacing, I follow.
I try to walk as naturally as possible through the well-lit corridor. Jamie was right. The halls are empty.
Finding the barbershop, I slip inside and shut the door behind me. The bracing scent of musk and pine fills my nose. I feign an air of indifference, though my pulse clamors in my neck.
Bo leans against one of two patent-leather swivel chairs, his arms crossed, gazing up at an assortment of souvenirs hanging from the ceiling: pennants with the White Star logo, dolls, caps, toy boats. Against the wall, a display cabinet holds wallets, cups, and playing cards, tuppence a deck.
