The teenage girl invites Bibi and me to sit on her blanket.
We find a spot easily because all the people around us move back. I’m not sure if it’s because they’re sorry for us or because they don’t want to be sitting too close to a person with bare legs and green lips.
A woman near us offers me her tin of soup. I’m about to take it for Bibi, but then I see the woman has three small children. They don’t look hungry now, but who knows when there’ll be more soup.
I hesitate, then give the woman a grateful smile and shake my head.
Luckily Bibi doesn’t see. She’s looking over at the soup pot with a mixture of longing and hatred.
The teenage girl pats Bibi’s arm.
‘That camel-snot needs someone to teach him a lesson,’ says the girl, glaring over at the horrible sailor. ‘Starting with the news that yellow is a very unfashionable colour.’
I grin, despite my headache and sunburn.
‘I’m Rashida,’ says the teenage girl.
We tell her our names.
Bibi looks at her, puzzled. ‘Rashida’s a boy’s name,’ she says.
Rashida is tightening the laces of her construction worker boots. ‘My brother died when he was a baby,’ she says. ‘So when I came along I got his name.’
‘What horrible parents,’ says a voice. ‘You must hate them.’
It’s Omar, the kid who thinks he owns half my soccer ball, back from leaning over the side.
Sadness stabs me in the chest as he mentions parents.
Rashida looks up at him. Her green lips are quivering. ‘I don’t hate them,’ she says, ‘I love them very much. They saved for years for this trip, and when they found they could only afford one ticket, they gave it to me.’
She blinks a few times and I don’t think it’s the makeup getting in her eyes because I’m blinking myself and I’m not wearing makeup.
‘Now leave us alone,’ says Rashida to Omar.
‘Um …’ I whisper. ‘I’m afraid he’s with us.’
Omar squeezes himself onto a corner of the blanket and starts fiddling with a bit of fluff. I hope he’s planning to collect a large wad of it and stuff it in his mouth.
‘Do any of you have anything to eat?’ says Rashida.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Sorry. Our parents have got it all.’
Miserably I look at the horizon for the millionth time. Still no sign of the other boat.
‘My parents have got it all too,’ says Omar.
Rashida unzips a large pink suitcase. She takes out a plastic bottle of water and a can of sardines. She opens the can and gives me and Bibi and Omar a sardine each.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
I’m starving. I gulp my sardine down. Rashida takes a swig of water and passes the bottle to me.
I want to tell her how I’ve never met anyone like her before, and not just because all the teenage girls in our village had to stay indoors. I don’t in case it embarrasses her. Also I can see Bibi is in trouble. She’s really hungry, but she hates sardines.
‘Swallow it whole in a mouthful of water,’ says Rashida. ‘You won’t taste it as much.’
Bibi follows her advice.
‘Thanks,’ says Bibi. ‘I’m glad we met you.’
‘So am I,’ says Rashida. ‘You’re a nice kid.’
‘My sister’s really nice too,’ says Omar. ‘And she can play the nose flute.’
We all ignore him.
‘When we get to Australia,’ I say to Rashida, ‘my parents will repay you for the food, but for now I’d like to give you something.’
I pick up the soccer ball.
‘Hey, that’s half mine,’ says Omar.
I show Rashida how I can keep the ball bouncing from knee to knee while I’m sitting down.
‘Would you like me to teach you that?’ I ask her.
She grins and nods. ‘I would,’ she says. ‘Nothing like learning new skills to pass the time on a long and boring sea voyage.’
‘It won’t be boring if we’re attacked by sharks,’ says Omar gloomily. ‘Or whales. Or if a huge storm blows up and giant waves smash onto the deck. Or if a typhoon –’
‘Omar,’ says Bibi. ‘Shut up.’
Nobody says anything for a few moments while we think about what Omar has just said. Then Rashida sits back and bends her knees.
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Show me how to do it.’
I do, gratefully. Bibi helps me. Bouncing a ball between your knees isn’t just a skill, it’s a really good way of forgetting about your fears.
For a while.
After a bit, Rashida takes her eyes off the ball and peers at me and Bibi.
‘You two are sunburnt,’ she says. ‘Here, put some of this on.’
She unzips her suitcase and hands me a bottle of sun protection cream.
‘I’m sunburnt too,’ says Omar.
‘Sorry,’ says Rashida. ‘I didn’t notice under all the dirt.’
I’m only half-listening to what they’re saying because I’m peeking into Rashida’s suitcase. I know it’s rude, but I can’t stop myself. Our survival could depend on whether she’s got more sardines.
She hasn’t.
All I can see, in among the clothes, is a big knotted plastic bag of something.
Something, I realise with a jolt of excitement, more precious to us right now than gold or Manchester United season tickets.
Flour.