At least he isn’t going soft on me. I have half a mind to skip lunch and get cooking as well.
“Well, if you’re that worried . . .” I toss out.
He laughs, not taking the bait. “Bo’ll take you to the Dining Saloon. And lads”—he gives Wink’s and Olly’s caps a tweak—“stay salty.” Then he slips out the door.
After Jamie leaves, an awkward silence descends between Bo and me, punctuated by the swish-slap of the lads’ slippers. From the window, a gust of salty air belches in my face. What exactly was your plan again, you cocky-boots? Bo and Jamie have the advantage. Not only do they both fill out their clothes, being actual men, but there are two of them.
Well, lads, I will be smarter.
“We wait outside,” Bo grunts.
Wink lines up his slippers under his bed, while Olly throws his in a heap by the sink. Stepping into their shoes, they start to follow Bo out the door. But before exiting, Olly squats, his attention caught by something on the floor.
Glancing up at me, his humor vanishes, like it was knocked off his face.
“What is it?” On the floor is a feather. I pick it up, a small white quill I recognize from the toque. Probably I broke one of the feathers when pinning the veil to the brim.
Olly gives Wink the kind of look you use when you’re holding a picnic hamper and thunder claps. “It was pointing to twelve o’clock,” he whispers.
I twirl the feather in front of Olly, but he nearly trips over himself backing away and out the door.
11
Wink and Olly flank me, Valora the seaman, as we follow Bo to the Dining Saloon one deck below. Jamie said an extra place setting would look suspicious. But what about a different diner? Then again, Jamie thinks it’s safe, and he’s the conservative twin. I crank my seaman’s cap lower on my head.
“We want in on the bet, too,” Wink announces. The taffies in his pocket make crinkly sounds with each clomp of his oversized boots.
“Yeah, two against one isn’t fair. And Wink and I count as another person.”
The sight of the lads’ earnest faces, turned up like sunflowers, squeezes my heart. “Well, what can you do?”
They furrow their brows as if they’re looking deep inside their heads for hidden talents.
“Wink knows how to shine shoes,” Olly pipes up.
Wink’s boots tell a different story with their scuffed tips and a crack along the side that looks glued up. “Olly knows how to do armpit chuffs on the backs of his knees.”
Stopping in the middle of the corridor, Olly snakes a hand up one of his trouser legs, then begins cupping the back of his knee, producing a symphony of musical flatulence. Wink adds harmony using the more traditional armpit.
Bo throws back a dubious glance. “Yes, do that. That will empty pockets for sure.”
“Mind your own business,” Wink growls.
“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. Johnny is 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.