The second man holds the post of one of the bunk beds, peering at me through hooded eyes. Under his seaman’s cap, his hair hangs oily and black around his round face, which is creased with discontent.
One is like water, and the other like smoke. They’re probably in their fifties, though they look more like they’re in their sixties.
Favoring his left foot, the grumpy man limps forward, blocking the bright light from the porthole as well as the cool ocean breeze. A top incisor tooth swings out a tad too far, like a single fang, and the knees of his sea slops are worn and patched. “Jamie never said he had a sister.”
I cough in disbelief. “Well, he does. We’re twins.”
The sound of people cheering from the docks below mimics the pounding of my own heart. So these men do know Jamie. I am close.
Tao tugs at his whale-blue kerchief, embroidered with the letters ASC. Atlantic Steam Company. Grumpy also wears the kerchief.
I lift my veil, and Tao’s honest face takes on the look of one sighting a rare bird. He points with a finger that is missing its tip, and I try not to stare. “Same narrow ears as Jamie.”
“Narrow ears doesn’t mean they are related.” Grumpy bats Tao’s shoulder. “Why is she here? She probably wants money. Women always want money.”
“She is wearing nice clothes. Why would she need money?”
“To buy more nice clothes, of course! She looks shifty. Women cannot be trusted.” Grumpy pushes Tao aside and grabs the doorknob. A whiff of tobacco makes me wince.
“But I have traveled a long way to see him. Please, is he on this boat? Where can I find him?”
“He is not here.” Grumpy closes the door in my face.
“You almost hit her, Fong,” Tao protests. “Negative energy will return to you.”
The lock snickers closed.
A heavy stone of dread sinks in me. “He is not here here, or he is not on this boat?” No one answers. “Please, Uncles, if you do see him, could you tell him his sister is looking for him?”
Tao begins to speak, but Fong cuts him off with a hacking sound. “Don’t talk! You just encourage her to stay longer.”
My face burns under my veil. Fong mentioned two other men—Ming Lai and someone named Drummer. Has one of them substituted for Jamie? If Jamie isn’t on the Titanic, then I am in for one long ride.
Three stout notes, blown from somewhere above, form a chord that rumbles through my body. The floor begins to move as the ship sets sail. The trumpets that herald us out to sea remain in my ear, sounding more like the howl of the hounds when the fox slips through their grasp.
4
Chin up. I cannot despair until I have checked every corner of this ship. I shall start with the poop deck, where the third class air themselves. Perhaps Jamie is watching the ship depart.
I slog down Scotland Road—the spine of the fish—a brightly lit and bustling hall of slatted wood. The white enamel walls ring with a mishmash of languages, making my head hurt. I stop at a drinking fountain, and its cool offering is a tender mercy. Then I continue, nearly tripping on the raised sill of a doorway marked “watertight.”
On my left, the humming walls bear signs that read “Boiler Casing”—from 6 to 1—and feel warm to the touch. Those must extend to the boiler rooms on the bottom deck, where the firemen feed the furnaces.
On my right, crew dormitories are arranged by pecking order—beginning with stewards by class, then engineers, cooks, dishwashers, and potato peelers. Then the dorms give way to passenger cabins. Doors open and shut, offering glimpses of families settling into serviceable rooms with tidy bunks, even a few with sinks and mirrors. The furnishings are nicer than one would expect in third class and fit perfectly in the cozy spaces. Everything belongs somewhere.
Except me.
I slow, watching two kids jump off a top bunk. Their mum whips around and pinches them by the ears. “Jump off again, and I’ll have them lock you in the brig.”
After what feels like miles, I reach the last staircase and follow the crowds toward the scent of the ocean.
Two decks up, people move in and out of the public rooms like bees to a hive. One, the Smoking Room, emits a pungent blue haze. The other, a second General Room, vibrates with the sound of a banjo player. No Jamie in either.
The ocean air blows its breath onto my face when I step out onto the aft well deck, which, together with the one at the bow, bookends the superstructure. I climb a final staircase to the rearmost deck, the ingloriously named poop deck. There again, a woman’s opinion would’ve been helpful, as one cannot help but think of the toilet every time one refers to it.
I draw a horseshoe-shaped path around the deck. Folks bundled in their plain wool coats and thick sweaters step aside at my approach. Some men even tip their hats to me. It seems wearing a veil does improve how I’m treated.
A raised catwalk called the docking bridge spans the width of the deck, on which a crewman grips a steering wheel. When I explained to Mrs. Sloane that they steered from the docking bridge when the Titanic had to go backward, she declared herself sold. If a big boat like the Titanic could go backward, it was safe enough for her.
The crewman at the wheel spots me, and his short forehead crimps under a beret straight enough to cut timber.
I stop breathing. Has he seen through my veil? Or will he chase me away for being on the wrong deck?
But then he acknowledges me with a touch of his hat and begins polishing his brass instruments with quick movements of his short limbs.
Behind us, Southampton has shrunk to fit in a doll’s house, chasing a thrill up my spine. I wipe the sea mist from the railing on my skirt.
Farewell, England. Farewell, land.
A thread of fear tickles my back. This is my first time on a boat. Suddenly, the idea of trusting a box of steel to float thousands of miles across water seems as ludicrous as flying by balloon. But people do this every day, don’t they? Besides, I am on the newest—and, therefore, safest—ship on the Atlantic. And I have more important things to worry about right now, like finding Jamie.
I lower myself onto one of the benches arranged bow to stern and try to come up with a new plan.
“They charge a shilling if you want a room key,” says a woman on the bench behind me. “That’s banditry.”
“We don’t need a key,” replies the man beside her. “What do we have worth stealing?”
“My mother’s Spanish hairnet.”
“As I said.”
If they charge for keys, I could try every unlocked door until I found Jamie. Though I might not get very far before I was branded a deviant and thrown in the brig, if there really is one.