Missing

Chapter Two

Ah, this took me a while...so I err...hope you like it! :)

Oh, and @Aricael, I'm in the process of going through the first chapter and adding some details in, so please don't think I've ignored what you've said! :) x

peace out.... ;)

Chapter Two

For three months I lived on the Prinzessin Victoria Luise without being detected. I slept in a storeroom with blankets I’d scavenged from foolishly unlocked rooms. I ate what I could, stolen again from unlocked rooms and from the kitchen bins after evening service.

   The ship returned to Plymouth on it’s return journey, but I didn’t get off. I knew then that my mother had purposely orchestrated my abandonment; money was tight and Mama was stretched to her limit, taking care of an incompetent Aunt and five children. Séamus barely made enough money in London to take care of himself and anything he did manage to send back to Ireland was worth scraps, if not less.

   Besides, I thought to myself as the ship pulled into the docks. I was fine. I was eating plenty, having worked out when the kitchen staff left the kitchens on their lunch break. I was finding lots to do; reading books in the library, relaxing on deck, pretending to have a father again to all the ship attendants who thought my wanderings were suspicious.

   My only fear was that I would be discovered as a stowaway. I knew from reading books that stowaways were abandoned at the next port...or even worse, thrown into the sea to be eaten by sharks.

   I used to dance in the empty smoking rooms in the morning. The rooms were only used after dinner and were not locked during the day. I practised all the steps I knew from ballet lessons, repeating them over and over again, both in my head and with my feet. I watched the dancers in the grand ballroom dancing in the evenings and I tried to copy them, holding my arms around an invisible partner.

   Once, I stole into the wings of the theatre, deep in the heart of the ship. There a different sort of crowd gathered, mostly men in evening suits, their eyes underlined with black ink and women in very tight, crimson corsets who sat on their laps. The dancing was different as well – the women wore structured leotards and fishnet tights. But their dancing was enchanting. On their toes they tiptoed around the stage, a smug grin on their dainty faces. They were all around the same height, blonde haired, red lipped, long limbed.

   There was a band playing on stage as well; accordion, cello, drum kit and ukulele. I recognised them as being the same string quartet that played during lunch service on a platform by the stern.

   They noticed me sitting, the first time I visited the under-deck theatre, on a small stall just out of sight of the audience. As they came off stage, they grinned at me, seemingly amused. The show was drawing to a close; I followed the band with my eyes, watching as they strode through the dimly lit wings, stowing their instruments away, laughing, play-punching. They were the first people to show me kindness, to simply smile at me.

   I followed them to their changing room. The door was left open and from inside, I could hear the gaudy sound of ukulele strings being plucked. I peered round the door, curious. The room was carpeted in fading red and the air was smoky from the cigarettes pursed in the lips of the band members. They laughed and chatted as one of them played the ukulele and then broke one of the strings.

   ‘Give it here.’ One of them snatched the ukulele away and began to restring the instrument with a length of string from an old tin box on the dressing table. Another grabbed a small leather bound notebook from a shelf and began to laboriously write something down in lead pencil...perhaps chords, perhaps something more.

   Someone came past me, a long-legged woman carrying a tray of drinks. She brushed past me and I jumped. She just looked down at me in uncertainty. I went away after that, silently escaping through the stage door, back out into the corridors, where I retired to my empty storeroom.

   In the morning, I was back to dancing in my smoking room, imitating some of the moves I’d seen the night before. I practised until my feet were sore, trying to perfect the movements I’d admired so much.

 *

The cruise ship completed her round trip to the Bahamas five times in the first three months. During each trip, I found it harder and harder to hide behind my lies.

   At first, the notion of my imaginary father amused me and so did the reactions from the various people who asked. But over time, the amusement faded and I began to remember my real father. He had died when I was seven, but I remembered him as clearly as anyone...his rough voice, singing a drunken lullaby. His rough hands, clumsily stroking the hair out of my eyes and his rough, chapped lips, pecking my forehead in a goodnight kiss. So often he would forget to kiss me goodnight, to even say it. So often he’d forget to come home after work, forget to help us with homework, to spend time with us at the weekend, but that never mattered to me. Thinking about him during my lonely nights in the storeroom just made the loneliness even more pressing and unbearable.

   I began to act more shrewdly; I learnt when the peak times were on deck, in the restaurants, the library and I avoided them, just as I avoided all contact with people, best I could.

   I became a shadow, haunting the ship. I slipped away from everyone’s view; people no longer came up to me and asked me where my father was. I became as non-existent as my made-up guardian.

   I also became strongly attached to my routine. I would wake early; the rays of ashen sunlight falling through the porthole were enough to wake me. Then, stealing along the corridors of the luxury liner, I would make my way into the kitchens, where I would scavenge and steal whatever I could to satisfy my unbearably empty stomach. Breakfast service wasn’t until half seven and the kitchen staff always left the kitchens at seven, for a short break, and then return at quarter past to heat up the readily prepared breakfast. I was quick, taking the occasional odd shaped muffin or croissant that no one would miss. It was in this short time gap that I had most of the day’s food; lunch and dinner service were always too busy to risk entering the kitchens, until after, when all that were left were scraps and the burnt, un-servable dishes.

   Then, as the kitchen staff began to enter in again, I would sneak out and round to the smoking rooms. There was one in particular I favoured. It was bigger than the rest, with mirrors panelling one side and windows the other, windows that faced straight out onto the ocean. They were windows no one ever looked in through.

   There I would practise all my moves, all the steps I’d seen and remembered from ballet lessons as a seven year old child. I'd practice moves from the shows down in the theatres as well, trying to remember the expressions on the girl's faces as they had raised their leg or ran their hands down the length of their bodies. It was not an expression I was familiar with.

  I had often considered leaving the ship when it docked in New York, or even in the Bahamas, but I began to realise how dependent I had become to the ship and its crew. Without them knowing, I relied on them for food, shelter and even entertainment. On land, I had none of the cruise ship's amenities or necessities. I was abandoned without even a penny for a phone call home. I could say with assureity, I was well and truly stuck on the ship. The worse part was I wasn’t physically stuck on the ship. It was just my lack of money and a plan that kept me haunting the decks, night and day. I began to come to terms with the fact that I was, in all truthfulness, a stowaway.

   But of course, nothing lasts forever.