Promise Me This (5 page)

Michael dreamed again of Megan Marie—of soft black ringlets framing her pale face, her wide blue orbs growing wider still as they stood alone on the dock, nearly swamped in the early-morning fog. Her small fingers curled around Michael’s larger ones, warm and trusting, and he wrapped his arm around his sister.

And then Jack Deegan and Uncle Tom stumbled toward them, down the thudding planks, arguing, deep in their cups. Someone else—a man with a tall black hat and coat and a silver stick—walked up to Megan Marie and Michael. He twisted their faces first one way and then another. He frowned and narrowed his eyes. When he let them go, Megan Marie clung harder to Michael, whimpering, her face buried in his sleeve. The man pulled from his pocket the biggest wad of pound notes Michael had ever seen and shoved them into Jack Deegan’s hands. Then he knelt before Megan Marie and Michael with a peppermint stick in each hand, holding one close to draw Megan Marie near him and extending the other to keep Michael at arm’s length.

Hungry, they were both so hungry. Megan Marie let go of Michael’s sleeve to reach for the peppermint stick, but Michael did not notice, for he reached toward the other. In a sudden swoop the man lifted Megan Marie from the dock, and Uncle Tom raised Michael by his collar, his feet dangling in the air, and punched him in the stomach.

Megan Marie screamed Michael’s name, but all Michael could see was the back of the stranger’s cape, running, running down the dock, Megan Marie’s small hand raised in her pleas. “Michael! Michael!”

Michael squirmed, bit Uncle Tom, and dropped to the dock. But before he could race after Megan Marie, Jack Deegan lifted him by his britches and threadbare coat and threw him into the sea. Michael thrashed and thrashed, not knowing how to swim, and all the while the cries of Megan Marie pierced his soul.

And then he was lifted, lifted, and tumbled again. Only he wasn’t fighting, scrabbling against the water; he was clawing the bare, hard ground.

Gasping, still half-asleep, Michael sprang to his feet and staggered backward, covering his face with his arm to stave off the beating.

“Whoa, lad! Whoa!” A man reached for Michael, but Michael tripped and fell.

Now fully awake, he scrambled, crab-walking backward. “Leave her! Leave her alone!” Michael shouted.

The man before him stepped back, raising his hands, surely as astonished as Michael himself. “Leave who? You’re caught in the dreaming, lad.”

Michael’s chest heaved. He couldn’t get his breath or stop his heart from pounding against his ribs. The tall young man before him looked nothing like the man in the dream, nothing like Uncle Tom or Jack Deegan.

“Get off!” Michael spat.

“Steady, lad. Steady on, now.” The man spread his hands as though gentling a wild beast. He raised the tarp. “Have you slept here the whole night, then? Out here in the cold?”

Michael couldn’t get his bearings, couldn’t answer for the rattling of his teeth.

“The shrubs will do. It didn’t freeze last night. We’re lucky, that way.” The man’s frown deepened. “But surely you’re nigh frozen!”

Michael looked from the man to the tarp, to the bushes, back to the tarp, and then to the man. “I . . . I’m sorry, sir,” he chattered. “I didn’t know it was wanted. I didn’t take it all the night. Just after midnight—not even all of that.” He stood, edged along the wall, one eye on the man, one eye on his route of escape. “I’ll be going now. Begging your pardon for the trouble, sir.”

But he tripped over the man’s lunch pail and sent the precious contents skittering along the ground. It was too much. “Ach! I’m sorry.” Michael stooped to pick up the buttered bread, the cheese tossed from its cloth, but the moment he leaned over, his eyes spun back in his head and he dropped to one side.

Strong fingers grabbed him before he slumped to the ground.

“Wake up, lad! Wake up!”

A burning shot through Michael’s limbs and chest as the man lifted him upright by his armpits. He cried out.

The man nearly dropped him.

Michael felt himself drowning, drowning, but forced his eyes open, willed them to focus.

The man shoved his face close to Michael’s but turned away in a grimace. “Have you been after the drink, then? And here you’ve come to sleep it off!”

Michael swiped his lips with his sleeve. Anger swelled in his chest—to be accused of following in Uncle Tom’s footsteps by a stranger! “I never—!” And then he caught himself. “I took a drop but only to warm me through. Let go of me now. I’ll be on my way.”

But Michael stopped, looked down at the ground at the man’s lunch still spread across the soil, and groaned. “I am sorry for your lunch, sir. I never meant . . .”

The man stood back, considered Michael. He frowned and rubbed his chin. “Well, it’s more than I can eat, anyhow, and it’s no good shoving it back in the pail now it’s soiled. I’ll have to toss it away.”

Michael’s panic brought a light to the man’s eyes.

“If you can use it, take it up. But sit yourself down on this slab to eat it.”

Michael’s mouth watered at the thought. “I’ve nothing to pay you for it, sir.” It was more a plea than an apology.

“No need to pay me—”

Before the words were fully spoken, Michael had grabbed the bread and torn into it with fervor.

The man’s jaw dropped, but he turned away and busied himself with the righting of the tarps.

Michael gulped the smooth cheese until he choked, and when he couldn’t seem to get hold of himself, the man turned and slapped him on the back until the bulge of bread and cheese dislodged itself from his throat.

Michael knew he meant it kindly, but it didn’t keep him from crying aloud—just as if the man had clubbed him.

“Take it easy, lad. The bread’s not walking away. You’ve all the time in the world to eat it.”

Michael tried to nod, to reassure the man he was all right.

“Just off a ship, are you?” the man asked.

Michael nodded, never slowing his chew, but cast the man a worried glance. He couldn’t afford so many questions. He cursed his Irish brogue.

“And do you have family here?” The man asked casually enough, but Michael knew he was curious.

He swallowed, wiped his sleeve across his mouth again. “Me granddad’s off to London. I’m waiting for him to come back.”

It was a pitiful lie. Michael knew by the tilt of the man’s head that he didn’t believe him. But he chewed on, barely slowing for air.

The man, tall and broad of shoulder, sat down next to Michael. He tossed a stone from hand to hand and stared into the distance. “I suppose you’ll be needing a place to stay until then.”

Michael stopped his eating, sure he hadn’t heard rightly. He looked at the man, taking his measure in half a moment. “I will, sir.”

“And I suppose you’ll be needing food and a job to earn your way—just until your granddad returns.”

Michael nearly choked again. “I will, sir. I’m a good worker, sir. I’ve swept chimneys and hauled coke for years, sir!”

The man nodded again, his eyes on Michael’s calloused hands. Grime under broken nails surely showed he was fit for hard labor.

“Do you know of anyone needing a hand, sir?” Michael tried not to hope.

The man stood. “Well, I might. But it’s sober work and hard. I can give you no wages, but I could share my lunch and the room where I board.”

Michael stared at the man, not quite believing he was real. “Do you mean it, sir?”

“I do.” The man looked away. “But you must work hard, and it’s only for the week. I’ll be sailing on
Titanic
, come 10 April.”

Michael gasped. “
Titanic
? You’re sailing on
Titanic
?”

“I am,” the man replied, frank as a butcher.

Michael blinked. “To America?”

“Yes, I’ve work in New Jersey. Why do—?”

“She’s a lovely ship, governor,” Michael interrupted. “You’ll have a wondrous sail; I’m sure of it.”

The man half smiled, his brow furrowed in question. “So you’ve seen the grand lady, have you?” He tossed his stone to the ground. “I thought she’d only docked.”

Now Michael looked away. “Yes, sir. Well, you hear things—don’t you, sir?”

“That you do. My name’s Owen Allen, and I’m pleased to meet you.” The man extended a strong hand. “What is your name, lad, and do you go to school?”

Michael swallowed hard, wiped his hand on his britches, and clasped Owen’s hand in return. “Me name’s Tim, sir—Tim Delaney. And I have gone to school, when I get the chance. But I’m smart enough—reading and writing and all of that—if you’re worried. I’ll not be slack on the job!”

Owen shook his head. “I’m not worried, Tim. The job doesn’t require it. You just seem an odd mix.”

“Oh, I’m a veritable prodigal with the books and ciphers, sir!”

“A prodigal?” Owen puzzled, then nodded, clearly amused. “A prodigy, perhaps?”

“Yes, sir! That, sir! I learned to read at me mother’s knee when I was just a lad.”

“Well then, young prodigy—” Owen straightened his grin—“if you’ve finished eating my lunch, what do you say we remove the rest of these tarps and set to work?”

“Yes, sir!” Michael wiped his mouth a final time and set the lunch pail carefully against the wall.

All morning the two worked a steady pace. By noon the sun shone bright. They’d dug holes, finished planting and watering the shrubs, and had piled the extra planks next to the road to be collected by the rags-and-bones wagon the next day. Michael knew his work had pleased Owen. He could see it in the grin Owen gave him from time to time, hear it in the ragtime tunes he whistled.

When Owen tugged a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his brow, Michael laid down his spade.

“Do you think you could stomach a bite to eat, then, Mr. Tim?”

Michael dragged the last of the unwanted roots to the rubbish heap and pulled his sleeve across his forehead. “I could, sir.” His stomach rumbled. “Only I’ve eaten your lunch, sir.”

Owen took coins from his vest pocket. “I believe I’ve enough for two cups of tea and the sharing of a fish pie, God bless us. What do you say?”

Michael felt his eyes widen in disbelief. “I say that’s a wonder, sir!”

Owen laughed out loud. “All the world’s a wonder!” He cuffed Michael gently on the back.

Michael winced and pulled away.

Rebuked, Owen stood back, cocked his head, and squinted. But he asked no questions, and Michael was glad to follow behind.

The moment Owen stepped into the boarding school kitchen, Annie pulled him to the table and sat him down across from her. Carefully she set a pot of steaming tea, her plate of warm orange-and-currant scones, and crocks of marmalade and Devonshire cream between them.

“Cook said my first batch came out ‘rather like chimney bricks—’” Annie imitated the gruff lady, wagging her finger in Owen’s face—“and that they were ‘a waste of good ingredients, those.’”

Owen burst into a fit of laughter. “Well, you’ve certainly put your brick-making days behind you, my lady.” He bit into the buttery warmth. “Mmm. The best I’ve ever tasted.”

Annie smiled, and her pink cheeks dimpled. “Well, Cook helped me some with the second batch.”
Once she understood that I was baking them for the “handsome rose gardener,” she couldn’t bring the butter and sugar out fast enough.

Owen winked. “God bless her, then.”

“What did you say is his name, Owen?” Annie poured milk for her brother’s tea. She didn’t know whether to be pleased that Owen had finished work early the night before and had more time for her or to be annoyed that all he could speak of was some new boy who had helped him all day in the town hall gardens.

“He says his name is Tim—Tim Delaney.” Owen hesitated. “But I don’t believe him.”

“Why should he lie about such a thing?”
And why would you bother with such a boy?

Owen furrowed his brow. “I don’t know, really. I’m thinking he’s run away.” He pushed his chair from the table. “All I know for certain is that I called him by name a couple of times . . . and he never even looked up. Makes me think Tim is not likely his name.”

“Maybe he’s deaf or simply not paying attention.”

Owen looked at her. “That sounds like something Aunt Eleanor would say.”

She colored. She was tempted to “harrumph” him but realized that, too, was something Aunt Eleanor would do. The thought made her shudder.

“Now, I didn’t mean that so unkindly as it sounds, Annie. It’s just that we should do all we can for this boy while we’re able. You’ll feel the same once you meet him.”

“But you’re leaving in a few days, Owen. We need our time together. And what good will a week’s worth of work do him? He needs a steady job, doesn’t he? You cannot supply that.”

“I’ll see if Bealing’s can use him, once we’ve finished the town hall gardens. With the coal strike over, they’ll have steady work again supplying the liners with potted plants and fresh flowers. And spring brings more outdoor work in the fields.” Owen rapped the table. “I’ll speak with Mr. Bealing today. I think they’ll take him on.”

He crammed the last of his scone into his mouth and stood, pulling his coat over his shirtsleeves. “I’ll bring him round before services tomorrow morning so you can meet him. He can join us for Easter Day.”