Furious waves crashed against the hull as the ship rolled and pitched. The wind outside our cabin shook the steel doors and whistled through the crevices of the portholes. A light flickered above Mummy’s head.
She was making sticky, impossible fudge, stirring butter, sugar, saffron and condensed milk together while the ship swayed to and fro. Taking a pinch of saffron, she ground it between her fingertips. The crushed flecks looked like stars dancing in a caramel sea. The electric frying pan was on high, and smoke swirled around the low metal ceiling of her makeshift galley. Meanwhile, I was holding on to a mattress, tied to either side of the floor, my pink and white polka-dot nightie soaked with tears.