“We were both runaways,” says Olly. “Tao saw us begging by the docks in Victoria Harbor.”
“Why’d you run away?”
Olly shrugs. “I just had people passing me along. I don’t think anyone noticed I left. Wink had a father, but . . .”
Wink begins glowering again, his cheek twitching.
“Anyway,” Olly hastily moves on, “Tao asked Captain Pibst to take us on as ship boys, and he did, except we busted a propeller in the Suez Canal. So then Atlantic Steam took us on, and that’s where we met the rest of the Johnnies.”
My nose wrinkles. “Why do you call yourselves Johnnies?”
“Bo was getting into fights every time someone called one of us a Johnny. So Jamie started calling us the Johnnies to poke fun at him. Then it became funny.”
I can’t help smiling, despite my annoyance at Jamie. He knows just how to save a cat without getting scratched.
Once, we saw a gent offer a hungry-looking man tuppence so he could buy himself a pie, but the man pushed the gent’s hand away. Jamie took the tuppence and said to the hungry man, “Sir, your coins fell out of your pocket.” The hungry man took the money. Jamie understood people. Me, I would’ve taken the tuppence and run. If that gent wanted to feed someone hungry, he had a willing person right there.
We reach the far staircase and climb to the poop deck. People crowd the rails, watching sea life pass below. The fresh air seems to shake the sand off the boys’ foul moods.
Up on the docking bridge, the same crewman with the sharp beret as yesterday stands with his legs and elbows in triangles, looking out to sea. “Do they ever let passengers up there?” The platform’s elevated position could provide a perfect stage for the upper-class passengers, who could see us clearly from across the well deck.
Olly glances at where I’m looking and stiffens. “No. That’s the quartermaster’s turf.”
“The QM bites,” adds Wink.
May we steer clear of him, then.
We descend back to the well deck with its lower profile—out of view of the docking bridge, in case juggling goes against regulations. At least it’s closer to the superstructure, where three tiers of first- and second-class passengers move about, ready for the shaking.
The sun bouncing off the water plays a cruel game of daggers with my eyes. Passersby give us a wide berth, as if they’re expecting trouble. A shot of nerves pours through me despite my earlier confidence. What if this crowd is not in the mood for entertainment? Unlike in St. James’s Park, space here is limited. Folks could sour on those who take up more than their fair share.
Well, there’s no turning back now.
“Ready, lads?”
Wink and Olly snap to attention, positioning themselves a few paces in front of me, one on either side. In the crowd milling about, eyes narrowed in suspicion begin to round, watching as I remove the pineapple from my slipper bag.
I exhale and roll back my shoulders. Then I hold up the pineapple.
“Afternoon, folks! I am Valor, the, er, Valorous.” My voice quavers, but I force myself to continue. “Today, I’m going to entertain you”—I pass the ungainly fruit from one hand to the other—“by juggling.”
A few people glare at me, as if to scold me for intruding on their afternoon, and I wilt a little. At least some from the upper decks peer down with curiosity. After everyone has gotten a good look-see at the pineapple, I toss it smartly from one hand to the other, back and forth, back and forth. “When it comes to juggling, I personally feel quality is more important than quantity.”
That gets a laugh, and I feel my limbs loosen. As the laughter dies down, I place the pineapple on my head, holding it there with two hands. “My father, God rest his soul, said life is a balancing act, and the better you get at juggling, the better you get at living.” Slowly, I let go with one hand, then the other. The boat sways, but I move with it, not letting the pineapple fall. “Of course, he never tried juggling on an ocean before.”
More smiles. Good. Ba always said even the best performer in the world won’t get a farthing if the audience doesn’t like you. But the relationship is a fickle one, and an audience can turn on you if you don’t deliver what you promised.
The deck heaves again, and the pineapple tips. With my hands held out, I slide in one direction, coaxing it back in place. A murmur ripples through the crowd. A lady in a seal fur coat covers her eyes, as if the sight of a crushed pineapple might be more than she can bear.
“But really, juggling is simply a series of throws and catches.”
I glance toward Olly. Instead of tossing me the bread heel like we rehearsed, Olly can’t seem to take his eyes off the pineapple. I jab him with another look, but he’s still watching my crown.
Cod’s sake. I shouldn’t have put the lads in the routine. I forgot how easy it is for first-timers to freeze up.
Wink hisses at his mate. Olly snaps out of it and tosses me the bread heels: one, two. That’s it, lad. I wink at Olly, glad his part is over.
I knock the heels together, making a clapping sound. “No, ladies and gentlemen, these are not chunks of granite. It’s the bread they served us for lunch today in third class.” A few disbelieving chuckles float from the audience. “I’m not sure why we haven’t sunk yet.” The chuckles take shape.
I begin tossing the heels up and letting them fall into the same hand. Up, down, nice and easy. Catch and throw, catch and throw. “Every day, life throws us . . . bread heels. The more we practice catching them, the more prepared we are when”—I begin tossing the heels across my center so that right catches left, and left catches right—“the heels change course.”
I let a few cycles pass, to allow folks to see the pattern, then glance at Wink. He tosses his heel. It goes high, and my pineapple wobbles!
Hands cover faces. Breaths are sucked in.
Wink’s heel falls into my hand. And just like that, the third player enters the ring. My hands move on their own, honed by years of practice with anything handy—shoes, rolled-up socks, tree pods, and, when Ba was on a winning streak, oranges, nature’s gold nuggets.
The heels reach their apex in front of my nose, tracing a sideways figure eight through the air. I bring them down to chest level, moving faster and faster. People begin to clap, and the clapping grows.
I slow down the juggling by tossing the heels higher. “Of course, sometimes life throws you more than you expect.” I glance at Wink, and more carefully this time, he lobs me his second heel.
Four heels whirl through the air. More gasps float on the salty breeze. “And you realize that what you were juggling before . . . wasn’t actually so bad.”