“No. The Yanks would welcome you with open arms, especially as you’re refugees fleeing from Communism.”
“But we don’t know anyone in America,” said Alex.
“You do now,” said Dimitri, “because I’d do anything to help a fellow countryman escape from that repressive regime. No, it’s not the Americans who will be your problem, it’s Strelnikov. You’ve cut his workload in half, so he’ll do anything to prevent you getting off the ship.”
“But how can he stop us?”
“The same way he does Mr. Ling, who joined the crew in the Philippines over six years ago. Whenever we approach a port, Strelnikov locks him in the galley and doesn’t let him out until we’re back at sea. And I suspect that’s exactly what he has planned for you.”
“Then we must tell one of the officers,” said Elena.
“They don’t even know you’re on board,” said Dimitri. “Even if they did, it’s more than their life is worth to cross Strelnikov. But don’t panic, because I have an idea which I hope will see the cook ending up locked in his own galley.”
* * *
Although she was exhausted, it was some time before Elena fell asleep, as she couldn’t get used to the pitching and swaying of the lifeboat. After she had finally managed an hour, perhaps two, she opened her eyes to find Mr. Ling standing by her side. She clambered out of the boat and shook Alex, who was fast asleep on the deck. They accompanied Mr. Ling back down to the galley with only the moon to guide them. It was clear that they weren’t going to see the sun for the next ten days.
Breakfast consisted of two fried eggs and beans on toast for the officers, served on the same three plates as their meal the evening before, with cups of black coffee to accompany them, while the crew were handed two slices of bread and dripping, and a mug of tea, with no suggestion of sugar. No sooner had Elena, Alex, and Mr. Ling cleared up after breakfast than they had to begin preparing for lunch, while Strelnikov took his morning siesta. More sleep than Elena had managed the previous night.
Elena and Alex were given a short break after lunch, but were not allowed to go back on deck, as Strelnikov didn’t want the officers to find out they were on board. They sat alone in the corridor, hunched up against the wall, wondering how different things might have been if they had climbed into the other crate.
6
SASHA
En route to Southampton
By the end of their first week on board, Sasha had mastered the dumb-waiter so well that he even found time to help Fergal serve the passengers, although he wasn’t allowed anywhere near the captain’s table. Once they’d laid up for breakfast each night, Sasha would return to his mother’s cabin and regale her with what he’d overheard the passengers talking about, and what he’d said to them.
“But I thought you weren’t allowed to speak to the passengers.”
“I’m not, unless they ask a question. So now they all know you’re working in the kitchen and looking for a job in England, and if you haven’t got one by the time we dock at Southampton, we won’t be allowed past immigration, and will have to remain on board. And here’s the bad news. Once they’ve reloaded, and the new passengers have come on board, they’re going straight back to Leningrad.”
“We certainly can’t risk that. Have any of the passengers shown the slightest interest in our plight?”
“Not a dicky bird.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s cockney rhyming slang for ‘word.’”
“What’s a cockney?”
“Someone who’s born within the sound of Bow bells.”
“Where are these Bow bells?”
“No idea. But Fergal will know.”
“Are there any English passengers on board?” asked Elena.
“Only four, and they rarely speak to each other, let alone anyone as lowly as a waiter. They’re standoffish.”
“I’ve never heard that word before.”
“Fergal uses it a lot, particularly when he’s talking about the English. I looked it up in the dictionary. It means distant and cold in manner, unfriendly.”
“Perhaps they’re just shy,” suggested Elena.