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?”
“I finished already.” He pats his stomach, which is so flat, it’s concave. His laughing eyes are no longer bowed in merriment, but open and concerned. “When Jamie told us his twin sister was here, Tao was not surprised. He said twins always come together like ginger and garlic. They can stand by themselves, but they are always meeting in the same dish.” The sight of his grin tugs a brief one from me.
“The ginger and the garlic may be seasoning their own dishes from now on.”
“I hope not, Little Sister.”
My eyes grow misty again. I try to find the seabird, but it has flown away. Drummer is kind, but it’s rude to burden others with our troubles. “Are you a fireman or a drummer?”
“Both. The foreman on our last ship knew that my drumming helped others work harder.”
“That small thing?”
“I could not bring the big one with me.” He shrugs. “There are many ways to make music. You do not need a drum to drum. Just like you can smile without smiling, and cry without crying.”
A swath of brown-black hair falls from his cap, long enough to touch his peaky nose. Curiously, his face bears the dark streaks of those who work in the black gangs. He isn’t employed by White Star Line, though, so there’s no reason for him to be dusted with coal.
“Has Little Sister seen a boiler room?”
“No.” It’s hard to keep the bitterness from my voice.
“The ones here are much cleaner than the ones on Atlantic Steam.”
“How do you know that?”
A sly smile draws up his face. He cocks his head back, as if to get the full measure of me. “I will show you. Come.”
* * *
I follow Drummer back to Scotland Road, curiosity pulling me one way, unease pulling me the other. After falling down the coal hole, boiler rooms top my list of places to avoid, right up there with sewer tunnels and dark basements. But as distasteful as I find it, I want to see the hovel Jamie chose over his family. Over daylight, for cod’s sake.
Drummer’s eyes track the slatted road, and his arms swing like the corded beads of his whirling drum when he walks. The man is a ball of energy, like the sun, and just being around him warms me.
“Before I joined Atlantic Steam, I worked with the Titanic’s lead fireman on the SS Viscount. The night before we sailed, I ran into him at a bar, and we took a pint together. I told him I was crossing on the Titanic, and he asked if I would help him, well, soothe over the men, like I did on the Viscount.”
“Why do they need soothing?”
“Catholics and Protestants do not get along. Music puts men in good spirits. Plus, work gets done faster.”
“You mean White Star Line hired you?”
“Of course not. But it is my honor to help my friend. He will let you visit, too. But first, you need to put on sea slops.”
I shiver as the memory of the coal hole looms larger. “Actually, I avoid dark and small places.”
“Ah. Do not worry, Little Sister. The ceilings are very high, and there is much light.”
I find Room 14 empty. Before anyone returns, I slip out of my kimono and into my seaman’s garb. Then Drummer leads me to a door into Boiler Casing 6 off Scotland Road.
He appraises my plain cap, then takes off his own, which is embroidered with the Atlantic Steam Company insignia. “Wear this one.”
The cap droops over my ears and makes me look like an official Johnny.
A few passengers watch us disappear into the wall. We must look like we know what we’re doing, because no one protests.
Inside, a small room houses a metal ladder that descends into a hole in the floor. I follow Drummer down the ladder, and a trill of anticipation runs up my spine. I’m reminded of my trip down the cargo hatch, only this time, I’m not trying to escape. The shaft grows warmer with every floor we descend, and the scent of burned coal mingles with the smells of working bodies, grease, and seawater.
I’ve lost track of how many decks we’ve passed when we finally reach Boiler Room 6.
From my perch on the ladder, I see four grinning black dragons standing shoulder to shoulder, their triple furnaces blazing like two eyes and a mouth. Trimmers cart coal in wheelbarrows for the firemen to feed the dragons, while others sweep the floor plates or monitor valves and pipes and pulleys and, well, things I don’t have a name for. It’s another universe made of iron and fire and sweat and sinew, and, yes, light.
Drummer jumps lightly down to the metal floor grates, and I land beside him. “Welcome to Boiler Room 6.” He spreads his hand toward the dragons. “Aren’t they beauties?”
Our arrival causes a stir among the workers. Men of all ages size us up, though it’s hard to tell their expressions under the grime. One shakes Drummer’s hand, and others throw out greetings.
“Well, look what fell down the rabbit hole.” A fellow with biceps the size of my head claps me on the back so hard, it’s a wonder his hand doesn’t get trapped in my ribs.
Drummer bows to him and introduces us in cautious English: “Brandish, friend.”
Brandish pumps my hand. His hair is yellow, but the rest of him is coated in black, even his teeth. “Any friend of Drummer’s is a friend of mine, mucker.” His brogue is weathered and warm, the kind of voice that bounces children off knees. “Whenever Drummer’s around, we all get along. So, you rattlin’ our spirits today?”