Promise Me This (8 page)

“‘The Roast Beef of Old England’!” shouted a boy not much older than Michael on the deck above.

“The call for midday meal.” A woman Michael took to be the boy’s mother linked his arm. “Have your ticket at the ready, Teddy. No ticket, no seating!”

Passengers hurried to separate themselves into decks and dining halls according to class, eager for their first meal aboard the lavish ship. Michael, having no ticket and careful to avoid running into Owen, sauntered a few steps behind a group of seasoned travelers who remained on deck, sentimentally pointing out the disappearing sights until they’d passed the Isle of Wight.

Michael wondered, a bit surprised, if leaving England was the best plan, after all. But he’d cast his boat upon the sea and could not pull it back.

“Rice soup, corned beef and cabbage, boiled potatoes, and, oh—that tasty peach dessert! Never was a ship so grand—even in steerage! Why, it’s as posh as second class!” a Yorkshire woman broadly proclaimed.

Michael wondered how she knew, doubted if she’d ever made a voyage besides this one. He closed his eyes. His stomach groaned again as he listened to the satisfied moans of diners who, willing at last to leave their tables, straggled to the deck in groups of common language.

Despite the rising breeze, a mix of families, young men playing cards in the sunshine, two pretty girls—arms linked—out for a stroll, and couples, clearly courting, took up posts along the deck and up and down the promenade.

Michael eyed the families with envy and watched the girls with shy appreciation. What it would be to attach himself to such a group—to be smiled upon and wanted and cared for. Then he turned away. Such a fancy did not belong to him.

As
Titanic
neared Cherbourg, the sun splayed its late-afternoon rays—amber, orange, and copper—across the water. It might be his only chance to see the coast of France. But he’d have to watch from someplace Owen would not.

Michael climbed the stairwell to the deck above. Keeping his cap pulled low and eyes upon his shoes, he made his way toward the new deck.

“A moment, young man!”

Michael started, nearly colliding with a young woman in uniform—a woman who looked for all the world to Michael like a flame-haired sergeant major, backlit and haloed by the late-day sun. He turned to bolt, but she grabbed him by the nape of his neck.

“Let me go!” Michael squealed. Nimble and quick, he yanked away. But the sergeant major, fully his match, reeled him in.

“And have you pilfering from the café the moment my back is turned?” The woman lowered her voice to something less than a howl. “Just what do you think you’re doing here, anyway, and how did you get up here? These are first-class quarters! Where are your parents?”

Michael felt as much as saw the dozens of pairs of eyes riveted on the commotion, peering at him with curiosity, amusement, and finally disgust. He jerked away. “I haven’t any.”

“No parents?” The woman momentarily relaxed her hold. “Who are you traveling with, lad?” She twisted Michael round to face her.

And Michael’s eyes locked on Owen’s, his jaw agape, on the deck below.

“Answer me!” the woman demanded.

Owen turned away, and Michael saw him flee toward the stairwell.
He must hate me—be ashamed to know me.
Michael could feel the heat begin in his toes, race up his legs and torso to the tip of his head.
Why, why didn’t I go back to the hold?

“Answer me, I said!” The woman, every bit a White Star Line stewardess, shook Michael until he thought his teeth might rattle right out of his head.

Michael could not think up a lie quick enough but stared helplessly at the deck between his shoes.

“A stowaway, then,” she pronounced.

“No!” he fairly shrieked, the fear of God rising within.
We’re not really to sea—not to Cherbourg, let alone Queenstown! Will they dump me—send me ashore?

A gentleman, just exiting the Palm Court, turned raised eyebrows toward the scene.

The stewardess, with a firm hold on Michael’s elbow, led him nearer the railing. “Calm down, lad! I’ll not eat you. What is your name?”

“Lucy!” Owen called, and Michael’s heart sank lower yet at the sound of his friend’s voice. Owen crossed the deck in long strides, bound directly for them.

The sergeant major stewardess straightened, tugging the hem of her jacket. “Your name!” she insisted.

Michael felt his features crumple, every light within him dimmed. “Michael. Michael Dunnagan,” he whispered as Owen reached his shoulder.

“There you are, Tim! Where have you been, Cousin? I’ve been searching the decks high and low for you! Look at you! Filthy!” he charged. “You’ve not been larking about the stoker hole, have you? How many times have I told you it’s dangerous down there?”

And then Owen urged, “Remove your cap when speaking to a lady—such a charming lady. Mrs. Lucy Snape, I believe.” With one flick of the wrist Owen knocked the cap from Michael’s head, flipping it through the air and landing it neatly in his trembling hands, then swept a fine bow and a wink before the stewardess.

The fire in the young stewardess’s hair paled beside the fire in her cheek.

Michael blinked, uncertain.

“You are the . . . Here, now, what are you doing here? Do you know this boy?” she sputtered but loosed her grip on Michael’s collar and smoothed her skirt.

“Indeed, Mrs. Snape. And I thank you for finding and keeping my adventurous young cousin safe.”

“Your cousin? I did not know you had a cousin.”

“Most of us have cousins tucked away here and there, Mrs. Snape.”

She colored all the more. “You called him Tim. He said his name is Michael—Michael Dunnagan, did you say?”

“Well, of course it is! Some call him Tim; some call him Michael. Isn’t that so, Timothy Michael Dunnagan?” Owen, all six feet and fourteen stone of him, turned and winked at Michael.

Michael nodded vigorously even as he swallowed convulsively.

“Timothy Michael Dunnagan.” The stewardess chanted the mouthful and tipped her head to one side, clearly not believing. “And where do you hail from, Timothy Michael Dunnagan?”

“Southampton,” Owen said, but not fast enough to drown out Michael’s feeble “Belfast, mum.”

Now we’ll both be caught lying!

“Belfast or Southampton? Which is it, Mr. Allen?” She turned to Owen, frowning.

“Owen George Allen, at your service, mum. I’m flattered you remember me.”

“I have seen you every week in Southampton these past months, as you well know. But how is it I did not see you with your Irish cousin, Mr. Allen?”

He ignored the question. “Ah—the lad needs a fresh start in a fresh country. Born wrong side of the blanket,” he whispered to the fiercely blushing Lucy. “Nothing to be proud of, surely, but just as surely not the boy’s doing.”

Lucy bristled, tugging the hem of her uniform jacket again, but stepped back. “I shall check the passenger list. In the meantime, Mr. Allen, please keep your cousin on the decks to which you are assigned. This—” she pointed to the deck—“is first class.” She lifted a pert nose. “He’s old enough to know better.”

“Absolutely, mum, and my sincere apologies. It’s a trouble with growing boys—always famished and in search of a bite to eat. But you needn’t worry. I shall deal with him directly.” Owen bowed again. “I’m ever so glad you’ve been promoted to first class, Mrs. Snape. God bless you.”

Lucy’s color burned, and even Michael realized that she, too, was not in the place assigned her. Owen grinned, grabbed Michael by the ear, and led him away.

“Ow! Let go!” Michael whimpered.

“Walk with me, Tim lad, or you’ll likely walk the plank,” Owen whispered cheerily, directing them rapidly to the deck below. Michael felt Lucy Snape’s eyes boring into the backs of their heads. “So how did you get here and what the devil do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m not stowing away. I’m—”

But Owen raised a brow and tugged the harder.

“All right!” Michael sputtered, pulling back. “I’m going to America—like you. There’s nothing for me, not in Belfast and not in England.”

“Nothing but a job you promised to do for Mr. Bealing—a job I’ve staked my reputation on, not to mention the grandfather you were waiting for—or more likely a mother and father somewhere, worried out of their skins!”

“Dead,” Michael shot back. “Both dead of the fever, six years past.”

Owen stopped short and frowned. But Michael saw no anger in his eyes. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve fended for yourself these six years? Truth, lad.”

“No.” Michael hesitated. “I mean, no, I’ve not fended for myself altogether. I lived with my uncle Tom in Belfast since. But he’s gone away to sea—sort of.”

“Sort of—is he here? You followed him on
Titanic
, then?” Owen pushed.

“No.” Michael turned away in pain and frustration. He did not want to tell Owen he’d been bullied and beaten for years on end. He would not say aloud that he was no better than a wharf rat.

“They’ve Marconi operators aboard. We can send word wherever he is.”

“No!” Michael grabbed Owen’s sleeve. “I’m running away for good and all. I can’t go back. You don’t know what it’s like!”

Michael felt Owen stiffen and followed his eyes to the deck above, where Lucy Snape beckoned. But Owen turned, rubbing the late-day stubble on his jaw, and Michael knew he pretended not to have seen her. When Owen pulled Michael from the railing and led him toward a far stairwell, Michael followed meekly. Running would do no good, and hadn’t Owen just saved him—again? Still, he dared not hope.

“Suppose you tell me exactly what it is like, then. And suppose you begin by telling me your real name—the truth this time!”

They traveled stairwells and corridors until they reached the door of a third-class cabin.

“In here—my cabin.” Owen pushed open the door. “I share with a Swede—doesn’t speak a word of English. While he’s out, I want an explanation. From the beginning.” Owen closed the door and crossed his arms.

“Michael. Michael Timothy Dunnagan. That’s my name.”

Owen’s chin rose.

“God’s truth.”

Owen’s mouth formed a grim line. “I don’t know if you would recognize God’s truth if it jumped up and chomped your mutton. How old are you?”

“Fifteen. I’ll be sixteen on Michaelmas.”

“You don’t look a day over twelve, thirteen at best.”

Michael looked down. He felt the weariness of the world weigh upon his chest. Truth or lie, what did it matter? Owen would never believe him now.

Owen sighed. “So. Michael, is it? Why didn’t you tell me the truth from the beginning?” His tone had lost some of its gruffness.

“I was afraid,” Michael confessed. “Afraid you’d send for my uncle Tom, afraid you’d turn me over to the constable.”

“I’m thinking that’s where you belong.”

Panic fought pain for the upper hand in Michael’s chest. But he set his jaw.

Owen tilted his head. Michael knew he was being weighed in the balances.

“Did your uncle do this?” Owen traced a line across his own cheek to mirror the scar on Michael’s, an old scar, but long.

Michael felt the familiar heat run up his neck and looked away. A minute passed before he said, “Sometimes when he’s so drunk he can’t stand up in his shoes, he . . .” Michael couldn’t finish.

Still, Owen did not speak.

“Uncle Tom left Ireland on a trade. He as good as sold me to Jack Deegan. I didn’t know what to do. And then, at the last moment, I was helping load chairs on
Titanic
, and suddenly there I was, standing alone.”

Michael rambled on with his long and convoluted story of hiding in the lifeboat, of sneaking off the ship in Southampton, of climbing through a pub window in search of warmth from a drop of ale in a glass, and the greater blessing of fish heads discovered in the rubbish bin.

“You offered me food and a job, Mr. Owen. It was the best I’ve had since Mam and Da.”

“So you thought you would follow me to America?”

Michael shrugged helplessly.

“How did you get aboard?” When Michael looked away, Owen grasped his shoulder. “Answer me.”

Michael gasped, winced, and cringed.

“Are you hurt, lad?” Owen’s voice lowered.

Michael would not answer but felt the blood drain from his face; he swayed.

“Steady.” Owen guided him to the bunk. “Have you slept or eaten?”

“When I stayed with you.”

“That’s nearly two days, man! No wonder you’re off your kilter.” Owen dug through his pockets and pulled out a handkerchief, spreading its contents of bread and cabin biscuits before Michael. “Eat these and sleep awhile. When they call for tea, I’ll fill my pockets and bring all I can.”

Michael tore into the bread and biscuits as though he’d not eaten in a month. Owen lifted Michael’s feet to the bed and tugged his boots from his feet even as he ate, then pulled the red-and-white coverlet over him.

It was the most wondrous soft and clean bed Michael had ever lain upon, and he sank gratefully into the pillow, licking the last of the crumbs from his fingers and shirtfront. Whatever lay ahead, he could better face it now.

“Thank you, Mr. Owen. Thank you.” Michael was sincere, but a taint of panic rose in his heart. “Will ya be turning me over, sir?”