Page 24 of The New Girl

‘NO NO NO NO!’ Robbie roared.

The kitchen door opened, and Suzie’s head appeared. ‘Sorry, girls, any chance you could come in and talk to Robbie? He’s very off form today.’

Ruby and Orla both stood up. Safa followed them into the lounge. There in the corner of the room, in a wheelchair, was a blond, blue-eyed child shouting at the top of his voice. Orla and Ruby rushed over to calm him down. But he was kicking his legs and waving his arms and his shouting just kept getting louder.

Safa’s mind went back to that awful night on the overcrowded rubber dinghy in the middle of the ocean trying to get from Turkey to Greece. She could hear the woman’s voice in her head, screaming, ‘We’re all going to die!’ Over and over. They all tried to talk to her to calm the woman down, but it was only when the old lady sang that she stopped.

Safa opened her mouth and began to sing. It was a well-known Syrian lullaby, the same one the old lady had sung to calm the frightened woman on that dark night. Safa closed her eyes and sang it for Robbie, for Ruby, for Orla, for Mama and Baba and everyone whose life was not fair.

Safa lost herself in the song. She could no longer hear Robbie shouting. She was no longer in this house in Ireland. She was far away, feeling the sun on her back as she ran up the path to her grandparents’ house. She was young and free and happy.

When she finished the song, she opened her eyes. Complete silence. Four pairs of eyes were staring at her, and four mouths were open.

‘Who is this magician and can she come every week?’ Suzie beamed at her.

‘Oh my God, that was incredible,’ Orla said.

‘Safa!’ Ruby gasped. ‘You can sing. That was ... like magic.’

A shout came from the corner. ‘AGAIN!’ Robbie said, beaming at her.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ruby

Ruby looked out at the rain pouring down outside. Miss Ingle was droning on about photosynthesis, which was so boring.

She peeped over at Safa, presuming she’d be leaning forward taking notes, but she wasn’t. She was looking out of the window. She looked sad. Like, really sad, deep-down sad.

Ruby scribbled down a note and passed it to Safa.

Safa scribbled a reply and passed it back. ‘I’m sad because it’s my dad’s birthday. He’s forty-two today and we haven’t heard from him in a while.’

Ruby’s heart sank. Poor Safa. She had to do something.

At breaktime, while Safa went to the bathroom, Ruby pulled Clara and Denise aside. ‘We have to help Safa. It’s her dad’s birthday and she’s gutted.’

‘Did you talk to your mum?’ Denise asked Clara.

‘Yeah, but she’s all stressed about some big, huge case she’s working on and she’s hardly ever home, so I didn’t ask her to help us, I just pretended I was curious for no particular reason. Anyway, Mum said it’s the Minister for Justice who makes the decisions about refugees and their families.’

‘OK, so how do we find the Minister?’ Ruby asked.

‘I Googled it. The Minister is a man and his name is Gary O’Gorman and he is really old and bald, and he looks a bit scary, but he is the person who makes the decisions so we need to write to him.’

‘Like an email?’ Denise asked.

‘No, I think we need to write an actual letter,’ Clara said.

‘Like in the old days?’ Ruby asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Should we buy a card and write him a card? We could get one of those adorable ones with a kitten or a puppy on it and then beg him to let Safa’s dad come to Ireland and he’d never be able to say no to that,’ Ruby suggested.

Clara bit her thumbnail. ‘He’s a politician, Ruby, not a kid. He doesn’t care about cute kitten cards.’

Ruby bristled. ‘OK, then, what do you want to write it on?’

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