bamboo. Jas scouts around but can’t find a way through.
“We’ll have to go back—the light’s fading,” says Mrs. Campbell. I am so disappointed. All we have to show, apart from cuts and scratches and sore legs, are beanpods, the feather, and some dry sticks and hairy lichens that will make good tinder, according to Mrs. Campbell. We follow our trail back the way we came. The Glossies don’t even ask how we got on. Hope is scratching at her legs and has long red marks on her arms where she has scratched too hard. She looks miserable. I wonder if the Glossies have been giving her a hard time while we’ve been away. I wouldn’t put it past them. The juniors are listless, too, not playing or talking, just curled up together by the cooling fire. I get my journal out and go and sit away from the others.
DAY 6 CONTINUED:
I have thought of a name for the forest—Nitnoi Forest.
Nitnoi
means “very small.” The Prince of Thailand has a poodle called Nitnoi. He came to the yacht club at Pattaya once with his poodle, and I met him. I quite liked the poodle.
While we’ve been gone Hope has somehow dragged the outboard motor up the beach by herself and placed it close to the fire: to dry it out, she explains.
“You don’t think we could get it to work, do you?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “M-m-maybe. Who knows?” She looks disappointed at my lack of enthusiasm.
“Hope, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Are those stupid girls being horrible to you?”
“M-m-may and Arl-l-l-lene? No, no m-m-more than usual.” She tries to smile.
“You should stand up to them,” I say. I mean to sound sympathetic, but it sounds like an accusation. Jas does these things so much better than I do.
The fire is useless as a signal—no flames, only a thin wispy smoke trail, which is immediately dispersed by the strong wind. Hope points to the juniors. They’re making their way back along the beach, their arms full of coconut husks and, more important, coconuts. I still can’t summon the energy to respond as brightly as I know Hope wishes I would, but Mrs. Campbell saves the moment.
“That’s great, girls,” she calls to them. “With coconuts we won’t go hungry or thirsty.” And she sets about opening one of the shells, hitting it with the boatman’s blade. Eventually it cracks open and we all have a sip of the milk, a thin white liquid that tastes sweet and refreshing. The flesh is half set, a jelly-like substance like yogurt, rather disgusting, but we eat it ravenously. What I wouldn’t do for a glass of iced star-fruit juice.
I reopen my journal and write:
If we ever leave here I am never going to eat another coconut as long as I live.
And then I tuck it away.
Mrs. Campbell opens another coconut shell and takes it to give to Natalie. She is back in a moment.
“Where’s Natalie?”
“We put her over there. We couldn’t stand the smell.” Arlene shrugs her pink shoulders and makes a face. She points to a blue sleeping bag farther along the top of the beach.
“You did what?” Mrs. Campbell runs to where they’ve left the little girl, under the wispy shade of the casuarina trees. I follow. The smell
is
pretty unbearable. Mrs. Campbell is leaning over the child, holding her head up to give her the liquid. Natalie splutters and the milk trickles out the side of her mouth. She looks awful, flushed and dry-mouthed. Mrs. Campbell presses more milk to her lips, and this time she takes a little.
“I’ll have to change her dressing.”
“I’ll help, Mrs. Campbell. Should I heat some water?”
“And just what will you heat it in?” The sarcasm in her voice is hurtful.
“Coconut shells? They’ll hold more than Jas’s clam shell.”
“Good idea, Bonnie—brilliant!” One moment she’s being horrid and the next she’s trying to be nice. I don’t get her.
I stand the shells, jammed between rocks, over the embers of the fire, and the water soon warms up. The difficult thing is carrying the
“We’ll have to go back—the light’s fading,” says Mrs. Campbell. I am so disappointed. All we have to show, apart from cuts and scratches and sore legs, are beanpods, the feather, and some dry sticks and hairy lichens that will make good tinder, according to Mrs. Campbell. We follow our trail back the way we came. The Glossies don’t even ask how we got on. Hope is scratching at her legs and has long red marks on her arms where she has scratched too hard. She looks miserable. I wonder if the Glossies have been giving her a hard time while we’ve been away. I wouldn’t put it past them. The juniors are listless, too, not playing or talking, just curled up together by the cooling fire. I get my journal out and go and sit away from the others.
DAY 6 CONTINUED:
I have thought of a name for the forest—Nitnoi Forest.
Nitnoi
means “very small.” The Prince of Thailand has a poodle called Nitnoi. He came to the yacht club at Pattaya once with his poodle, and I met him. I quite liked the poodle.
While we’ve been gone Hope has somehow dragged the outboard motor up the beach by herself and placed it close to the fire: to dry it out, she explains.
“You don’t think we could get it to work, do you?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “M-m-maybe. Who knows?” She looks disappointed at my lack of enthusiasm.
“Hope, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Are those stupid girls being horrible to you?”
“M-m-may and Arl-l-l-lene? No, no m-m-more than usual.” She tries to smile.
“You should stand up to them,” I say. I mean to sound sympathetic, but it sounds like an accusation. Jas does these things so much better than I do.
The fire is useless as a signal—no flames, only a thin wispy smoke trail, which is immediately dispersed by the strong wind. Hope points to the juniors. They’re making their way back along the beach, their arms full of coconut husks and, more important, coconuts. I still can’t summon the energy to respond as brightly as I know Hope wishes I would, but Mrs. Campbell saves the moment.
“That’s great, girls,” she calls to them. “With coconuts we won’t go hungry or thirsty.” And she sets about opening one of the shells, hitting it with the boatman’s blade. Eventually it cracks open and we all have a sip of the milk, a thin white liquid that tastes sweet and refreshing. The flesh is half set, a jelly-like substance like yogurt, rather disgusting, but we eat it ravenously. What I wouldn’t do for a glass of iced star-fruit juice.
I reopen my journal and write:
If we ever leave here I am never going to eat another coconut as long as I live.
And then I tuck it away.
Mrs. Campbell opens another coconut shell and takes it to give to Natalie. She is back in a moment.
“Where’s Natalie?”
“We put her over there. We couldn’t stand the smell.” Arlene shrugs her pink shoulders and makes a face. She points to a blue sleeping bag farther along the top of the beach.
“You did what?” Mrs. Campbell runs to where they’ve left the little girl, under the wispy shade of the casuarina trees. I follow. The smell
is
pretty unbearable. Mrs. Campbell is leaning over the child, holding her head up to give her the liquid. Natalie splutters and the milk trickles out the side of her mouth. She looks awful, flushed and dry-mouthed. Mrs. Campbell presses more milk to her lips, and this time she takes a little.
“I’ll have to change her dressing.”
“I’ll help, Mrs. Campbell. Should I heat some water?”
“And just what will you heat it in?” The sarcasm in her voice is hurtful.
“Coconut shells? They’ll hold more than Jas’s clam shell.”
“Good idea, Bonnie—brilliant!” One moment she’s being horrid and the next she’s trying to be nice. I don’t get her.
I stand the shells, jammed between rocks, over the embers of the fire, and the water soon warms up. The difficult thing is carrying the
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