How To Be Brave (14 page)

‘Yes,’ I said, softly. ‘And the ones you like most always understand.’

Rose opened her crisps and ate noisily. ‘Remember when I snapped all the needles up and put the insulin in the bin? Well, I was just trying not to smash the door up. Cos that’s what I
really
wanted to do.’ She paused. ‘Grandad Colin didn’t have a door to smash.’

‘Neither do you now,’ I said.

Rose looked at me with a smile in her eyes but not yet her mouth. I pursed my lips and tried not to smile first. It was a game we used to play called
First to Laugh Loses
. This time I didn’t care who lost and I smiled before she did.

‘I shouldn’t have lost my temper,’ I admitted.

‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re meant to set an example. I wasn’t scared though.’

‘No, of course.’

‘I wasn’t!’ she cried.

A soft knock on the door interrupted us; Mrs White wanted her office and it was time for Rose to go back to class.

I walked her so far before we parted at the main doors.

‘You know when you get my new door, Mum,’ she said. ‘Can I have a pink one with my name on it?’

‘We’ll see,’ I said.

I watched her walk to the classroom, trailing her bag along the dusty tiles, dawdling like time didn’t exist. It was only when I was in the car and had started the engine that I realised she’d called me Mum again. It gave me hope that we might get through.

A few days later I ordered a new white door to match the others; curiously, when it arrived it was unpainted pine with a tinge of pink, as though it had maybe been in the sun in a factory somewhere. I couldn’t be bothered to complain or to gloss it and anyway Rose rather liked it. We even got a sparkly name plaque. So, somehow, she got her wish.

When she got home from school that evening Rose was grumpy about her homework, a project about motorways. I loved how ordinary her problem was, that it had nothing to do with needles, and that she shared it with me.

‘Motorways?’ I asked. ‘I think I’d be put out too.’

‘Five hundred words,’ she said. ‘Like I haven’t got better words to think about?’

At the teatime injection I told her about when a shark rammed into Colin’s boat. Another flying fish had landed on the deck – big enough for quite a meal this time – and after cutting it up Ken had licked blood from the blade and then thoughtlessly dipped it into the ocean to wash it. Within moments the stream of blood enticed an eight-foot shark to seek prey. A powerful flick of his tail sent the boat sideways a good fathom.

‘What’s a fathom?’ asked Rose.

‘It’s an old imperial measurement,’ I said. ‘About two metres.’

‘So why not just say two metres?’

‘That’s the word they would’ve used,’ I said. ‘Just trying to make it more authentic. You wanted me to do it properly.’

‘If you say so.’

 ‘Voice is everything in a story, don’t you think?’

I continued telling her how quickly the men had grabbed oars from the second raft and so were ready when the shark butted his great heft at the boat again. Weakness meant their blows were only enough to scare him. He came at the raft again and again and again, then dove beneath, came up under the bow and knocked several planks adrift. Instinctively, Ken grabbed his spear and jabbed at whatever he could reach – it must have hit a tender spot because the brute swam off as quickly as he’d arrived.

Rose cheered and cried, ‘Go Ken! Spike that shark!’

Story and injection done, I opened the boxes on the table and took out strings of gold tinsel and garlands of fake holly. Rose danced around, clapping her hands, excited about Christmas. She took out wind-up reindeer and Santa snow globes, and oohed over them as though she’d never seen them before. Every year we added a new ornament; the garish trinkets were testament to the length of our marriage, each shiny bauble or singing snowman tribute to another year survived.

‘What about the tree?’ she asked.

‘I couldn’t find a good one online,’ I said. ‘We’ll get one at the weekend.’

‘Can I decorate it?’

Jake usually did. ‘Of course,’ I said.

Christmas might get us through until he returned. Rose wrapped a string of multi-coloured lights around the shelves in the book nook and plugged them in.

‘Did you ever meet Grandad Colin properly?’ she asked, holding her hands up near the tiny bulbs so they glowed red and green and purple.

‘What do you mean properly?’ I unravelled another string.

‘Like when he was alive. Not the way we’ve seen him. Cos you seem to know him as well as you know me and Dad.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Sadly he died long before I came along. Even my dad was only three. But I do think memories get passed on genetically and relive somehow in our DNA.’

I may have only read about Grandad Colin – had fleeting glances of him as a child – but I smelt his presence between the black printed paragraphs. The same smell he’d had at the hospital that night.

‘I know he survives the lifeboat,’ said Rose, thoughtfully. She knelt now before the lights and let them flash near her cheek, as though being blessed. ‘You said he didn’t have no children back at home. So like…’

‘Any children, Rose.
Any
children.’

‘So anyways Grandad Colin
has
to get back to England or he’ll never meet a girl and fall in love and have babies. Me and you wouldn’t even be doing this if he doesn’t get back. So when you tell me the story I’m like whispering in my head,
You must live, Grandad Colin, you must or I’ll disappear
.’

She looked at me, her eyes a million years old.

‘When’s Dad home?’

She asked softly, perhaps still hearing the echo of my unkind words earlier.
I’ll call the emergency number and tell your dad that he shouldn’t bother coming home again
. I would forever regret saying it.

‘Just after New Year,’ I said. ‘It’ll soon come – you break up from school in two weeks and then it’ll be Christmas and then…’

‘Won’t be the same without Dad,’ she said.

‘No, it won’t. But we’ll make it special.’

‘I won’t be able to have a Selection Box or mince pies, will I?’

I wasn’t sure so I gave her another story; one I hoped also came from truth. ‘You’ll have everything. I won’t let diabetes change a thing.’ I paused, wondering if she’d now answer the question I’d asked a few times. ‘You know when Grandad Colin told you to go to the shed? How did he tell you?’

‘He was at the end of my bed,’ said Rose, her face blue then orange then yellow, as though her emotions were now electricity powered. ‘Not right close cos I think he didn’t want to scare me. He doesn’t know I don’t get scared,
ever
. He wasn’t there like proper real people neither. Like if I’d blinked he’d have disappeared. I wasn’t dreaming cos I could smell him. Like when my shoes have been in the cupboard too long, except nicer than that. He talked but like it was in my head. Said there was something in the shed that had been there a long time and he’d meet me there. I said I couldn’t get in the door cos the lock’s too high and he said he’d do it.’ She paused, sad. ‘Then he didn’t come.’

‘But we found the diary,’ I said.

‘He doesn’t come as much now,’ she said. ‘In the night, I mean.’

‘Maybe that’s because he’s here in the book nook with us instead.’

‘Maybe.’ Rose got his diary from the shelf where we’d begun keeping it – between
Harry Potter
and
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
– and took his picture from the back. I joined her and we looked at it together, three generations quiet in the glow of festive lights.

The phone rang and reluctantly I returned to reality. It was Shelley. She asked how things were and reminded me about our first visit to the children’s diabetes clinic the following week. I hadn’t forgotten; it was circled in red on the calendar.

‘I want to suggest something,’ she said. ‘Something you can both aim for, pet. We can discuss it fully at the appointment but I want to run it by you first.’

‘Why do I think I won’t like it?’ I looked back at Rose, sprinkling white confetti on our windowsills to mimic snow.

‘It’s been six weeks since Rose was diagnosed. I’d say a good few weeks of you managing very nicely. Well, we do like to encourage youngsters to start sharing the responsibility of their diabetes as soon as we can. It gives them a bit more freedom. Means you don’t have to always be there with them.’

‘I
like
being with her,’ I said, ‘and we’ve just got into a routine that works.’

‘I know. I’m not suggesting she suddenly has to do everything – not at all – just that she helps more, pet. Like maybe she measures the insulin or prepares the finger pricker.’

‘Can’t she be a child a bit longer?’ I said the words to myself more than to Shelley. ‘Can’t she have a mum do it for her? She’s only nine.’

‘I know,’ said Shelley, kindly. ‘But you do her no favours in the long term if you don’t let her
try
. Maybe I can drop off some pamphlets that’ll hel…’

‘Bloody pamphlets – all theory and patronising suggestions.’

‘Is it a bad time? I can ring back, pet.’

‘No, it’s actually a good time,’ I said.

I had no desire to upset things again with the suggestion that Rose start doing her own injections.

‘I don’t know if she’s ready,’ I said.

‘I’ll talk to her at the clinic,’ said Shelley. ‘See what she says.’

‘If you must.’ I hung up, dreading the clinic even more now.

Instead, I turned my thoughts to the suppertime story. Colin’s adventure had become the highlight of my day. I sometimes wondered who I was really telling the story for. Rose brought her box of needles, eager too, and I measured and prepared the devices. Ten bubbles spoilt the smooth span of insulin, like barnacles beneath a boat; Rose’s blood read ten-point-ten; we were at day ten on the boat.

Every now and again she had asked for extra chapters between pinpricks, promising she could endure pain without words if this ended the story sooner, but I always said, ‘No, let’s wait. Let’s remain true to our trade.’

She had waited well and now I tried to recall the diary pages and newspaper clippings I’d browsed last night. I opened my heart to Colin’s voice while the facts filled my head. I had to make the story right for Rose while honouring our history. But most of all I wanted us to join him, relive it, understand it.

‘It’s getting better,’ said Rose. ‘No more
once upon a time
or simple words or talking to me like a baby.’

I smiled.

‘Day ten,’ I said. ‘And still no rain.’

‘Not a drop?’

‘No, not a drop. Officer Scown has put Ken in charge now beca…’

‘Why not Grandad Colin?’ demanded Rose.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said. Should I have made something up? No, I was honest and admitted I wasn’t sure. ‘Maybe Ken was more able, or maybe he offered to. But anyway Scown was in quite a bad way by this time so he couldn’t lead. His lips were so fat he couldn’t talk, his skin blistered, tongue blackened, and his headache never ending. Of course, they were
all
in a bad way, but he’d deteriorated faster. He was a good ten years older than most of them and these things matter in such circumstances. So just before morning, Ken and Grandad Colin were on lookout and Colin must’ve fallen asleep because when he woke … where was Ken?’

‘What? Ken’s gone?’ Rose cried. ‘No!’

A curious dream filled Colin’s guilty lookout duty sleep. In it a young girl with hair like sunlit straw tiptoed over the sleeping men, knelt down by his ear and whispered, ‘You
must
live, you must or I’ll disappear.’ He reached out to see if she was real or just a thirst-induced ghost and woke when his elbow hit the gunnel, miserable upon remembering where he was.

Nearby, the thin shapes made a pitiful sight. On the horizon grew the faint promise of another day.

But where was Ken? Hadn’t they been sharing the watch?

‘Chippy?’ The word escaped his parched throat.

Had he also fallen asleep mid-lookout? It was getting hard now to stay awake for two hours at a time, to scan the darkness for ships’ lights on the horizon with eyes dry and fed up of the endless nothing. Colin crawled through sleeping bodies and lifted heads to check for Ken. Some men continued napping, others swore at this rude awakening.

None was Ken.

Colin looked under the benches and near the diminishing supplies, fearing something more sinister than sleep. What if Ken had chosen an escape route one or two of the crew had discussed in recent days? In weak moments, between the paltry meals, some said they might leap overboard and wait there for sweet oblivion, whether by shark or drowning. Some even tried and were pulled back by their mates, arguing and begging to be let go.

‘Ken!’ called Colin. ‘Where in the hell are you?’

At this, a head popped up over the stern. It was Ken, wet hair accentuating his skull and making him appear skeletal. ‘I’m here!’ he cried.

‘What the hell, mate?’ Colin went to the boat edge. ‘Thought I’d lost you! Gave me such a bloody fright. What the devil are you doing in the water? Are you stupid, lad, there’s sharks about. You weren’t…?’

‘You dozed off,’ said Ken. ‘I needed to keep awake and fancied a dip. Imagined it’d feel good on my skin – and it does, so good. But I’m tired now. Can you help me?’

Colin hooked an arm under Ken’s and tried to haul him in, alarmed by how little strength he had. On the
Lulworth Hill
he’d been renowned for his ability to pull the winch in twice as fast as any other man, for his prowess when cranking the windlass. Now he trembled at the slightest exertion, even though he knew Ken was considerably lighter than he had been at the start of their time on the lifeboat.

‘Didn’t you think?’ he snapped at Ken. ‘We’ve no muscle now. We’re like bloody kittens. Can’t go lugging weights around.’

He tried again and failed. Ken gripped the boat and tried to hoist himself aboard and failed also. Dawn’s ginger streaks scratched farther across the sky. In its radiance Colin thought he saw a large black shape in the water, half a mile away.

‘What?’ Ken asked, following his gaze.

‘Nowt. Let’s just get you in.’

They struggled vigorously and finally Colin heaved Ken back into the boat. Utterly spent, they lolled on the deck for a long time before speaking again.

‘What did you see out there?’ Ken glistened in the morning light.

‘Can’t be sure.’ Colin sat up, surveyed the sea. ‘But it’s better off you’re out of the water. Bloody fool. You could’ve drowned while I was asleep.’ He paused. ‘Is that what you wanted?’

Ken shoved him. ‘Not ready to meet my maker yet.’ But the over-zealous response had Colin concerned. What had possessed him to go over when it was so risky, such a stupid thing to do? ‘It was
your
fault,’ snapped Ken. ‘You’re about as much use as a chocolate fireguard dozing off and leaving me!’

‘I never got any sleep yesterday,’ said Colin.

Officer Scown had been ranting much of the day and night, cursing the Germans and their ships. Leak and King had begun openly drinking seawater, having done it on the quiet for days, and were often delirious and quite violent towards anyone who intervened. It was difficult for a man to stop once he started drinking. So Ken – after having been given command – ordered that anyone caught doing so would be lectured and denied extra rations. It seemed to have little effect. Those addicted to drinking it cared little for such threats.

‘Maybe today a ship,’ said Colin softly.

‘You say it every bloody morning.’

‘Arnold says prayers every night. Guess this is mine.’

Men began to stir so Ken ordered breakfast. Platten – face drawn, shoulders two sharp nubs – issued the scanty portions. It was water that was most wanted. They’d have sacrificed biscuits and Bovril tablets for more of it. In frenzy, both Davies and Fowler reached for the same cup, almost knocking it from Platten’s hand. Then Bamford cried out that he needed more, had to have more, someone pass him the tin or he’d stab them all there and then.

‘Take it easy!’ cried Ken. ‘Get a bloody grip, lads. You can’t waste precious water like that. Rations is rations and ignoring them’ll be the death of us all. Do you hear me?’

‘Who says
you
get to decide!’ It was Weekes. Gone was pretence at being cheerful; his jokes had dried up like the last bit of a puddle on an August day.

‘I say we drink
more
water and to hell with it!’ King joined in the rebellion.

‘Who’s going to stop us?’ cried Bott.

‘Look, you all agreed for Ken to take over,’ said Colin. Weakly, he stood between Ken and the growing mutiny. ‘So let him do it. What he’s saying is true and you all know it.’

Yesterday Officer Scown had asked each survivor if they agreed to Ken’s charge, and upon receiving unanimous assent he simply said, ‘Right men, you’ve agreed Cooke shall lead you and it’s up to you to do what he says in every matter.’ The effort of talking had left Scown unable even to support his own head and they made sure he spent more time under the awning, out of the sun’s cruel blast.

‘Ranting at me does no good,’ said Ken now. ‘What’s decided is decided. Go rant at the sea, at the sky, at God. You’ll thank me for sticking to rations when it’s tomorrow and there’s still summat to bloody drink!’

He took the cup from Platten, asking first if Colin wanted it, and only drinking when his chum shook his head. He tried to go slowly but was unable, licking his lips and trying to make every bit of liquid last. Then he passed it to Colin, who drank greedily before pressing the cool mug to his forehead.

The rest of breakfast was consumed in glum silence, with no one voicing further opposition. Sunrise painted the ocean in all its morning colours, shades that most eyes now viewed with indifference and would one day forget. The chill of evening gave way once again to unbearable heat. The water’s reflection doubled the strength of the sun, hurting sore eyes further. Men often discussed which they dreaded more, the evening’s bone-numbing bite or the day’s suffocating heat – an answer was never quite agreed upon.

‘Right, Leak and Stewart are on lookout,’ said Ken. It should have been the Second but he was in such a state that he wasn’t capable of duty. His feet were as black as funeral apparel, propped up on empty tins. ‘I’m going to lessen the watch to just an hour,’ Ken added. ‘Most of you look exhausted after two.’

No one argued with this. Such physical decline meant two hours of concentration was too much and an efficient lookout was the only hope of spotting and being picked up by a ship. Colin knew his falling asleep earlier had pushed the decision and felt bad that he’d left Ken to shoulder the lookout burden alone.

He still felt terrible for thumping Fowler and had offered the boy an extra bit of his chocolate. He’d said he’d take over lookout when Fowler wilted, and offered his button to suck on when the boy lost his. But none of this appeased Colin’s pain. Guilt and anger flowed faster than hope on the lifeboat; optimism took effort, while rage had a life all its own.

‘I’m going to do a bit of fishing,’ said Ken.

‘I’ll see if the Second needs anything,’ said Colin.

‘Let me,’ said Young Arnold. ‘He calmed down yesterday when I prayed with him.’

‘I’ll sit with Officer Scown,’ said King.

There was little else for anyone to do. Meals and lookout were the only duties. Those still able helped others move around or tended injuries; those in a worse state dozed on and off, waking to cry out obscenities.

An appearance by Scarface mid-morning united the lethargic and alert into action and had the crew huddled together on the centre of the deck, waiting for him to attack or leave, spear and tins raised to fight if needed. Today they were lucky; it was the latter.

Time passed slowly otherwise. A huge whale swam by so close that they fancied they could smell its blood. It was pure torture. Unrippled sea and small swells meant a motionless boat, in which the heat gathered like flies on a corpse. Around lunchtime Bott, King and Leak began swigging seawater with wild abandon, shoving away those who tried to intervene. Young Fowler held his head in his hands and moaned while Weekes feebly warned them about the order not to.

‘Knock it off, lads!’ cried Ken, throwing down his spear. ‘It’s no example to set the younger ones!’ He tried to pull King back from the edge and was thrown onto the deck, surprised by the man’s strength. Desperation pumped up even the weakest muscles.

Ken stood again and gripped one of the masts to appear strong, show his authority. ‘Christ, if it’s not enough living without water, I have to watch you doing that.’ His voice was ragged and dry. ‘We’ve got to keep bloody strong.
You
lose it and we
all
lose it!’

‘Sit down, Chippy,’ said Colin from his seat by the foredeck. ‘No good you getting wound up.’

‘Let me be,’ cried Ken. ‘If I want to rant, I will. You lot can’t stop, why should I? I tell you, I curse that torpedo. I curse the men who designed it, the miners that built it, the officers and crew, and all their families.’

Colin approached his chum. ‘Ken, come on, it’s too hot. Not worth it.’

‘Get off me – can’t a man speak? I’m tired of trying to keep morale up. Tired of making the decisions. You can all bloody get on with it. Drink your seawater, finish the provisions, jump overboard. Why should I stop you?’ He paused, breathing hard, then said more softly, ‘It’s Sunday today, you know. They’ll all be praying for us back home. Praying for our wretched souls. But what good’s that if you don’t help yourselves?’

He flopped down, finally spent. Colin wasn’t sure whether to go and sit with him or let him rest. He decided upon the latter. He doubted there was anything he could say to appease Ken’s despair. It was hard now to get a grip of his own. Perhaps feeling bad for Ken – or maybe just having had their fill of seawater for the day – Bott, King and Leak abandoned their frenzied drinking. They returned to various positions on the lifeboat, barely aware of the men around them.

‘You’re doing well, lad,’ said Colin to Young Fowler.

The boy still held his head in bony hands. ‘I’m not,’ he moaned.

‘You
are
. It’s easier to give in and drink that water. I think of it all the time, of how cold it might be on my throat.’ Colin gulped; without any moisture it was agony. ‘Keep at it. Follow Ken’s orders. He means well for us all. So does Officer Scown. He’s seen us through this far.’

‘I want to go home.’ He said it so quietly that Colin took a few seconds to work out the words.

‘We all do,’ said Colin.

‘I can’t be here.’

‘You can. You’ll
have
to, lad, else you’ll not get back. If you want to go home you’ve got to keep at it. If you give in, you’ll never see England again. So keep away from the seawater and make sure you eat your meals.’

‘Want to see my mum again.’

‘You will,’ said Colin, because he had to.

Fowler didn’t respond. Colin left him. He’d said all he could.

Now he couldn’t stop thinking about his own mother. He closed his eyes and saw her abundant figure, her safe curves, her kind eyes; he smelt the cold cream she wore, the lavender perfume for special occasions; he heard her voice, patient and no nonsense. How could he see her so well when his mind was so exhausted? He wondered about his recurring dream. Maybe the young girl Colin had seen was his mother as a child? It would explain the familiarity, the feeling of comfort. With no sisters or girlfriend it could only be her.

Now there was no lookout duty until evening and nothing else to do, so he curled up and tried to sleep, to return home, to see the girl.

At about three o’clock two dolphins chased a school of flying fish past the stern and four landed aboard. It was the finest harvest they had yet collected. Platten cut them into generous portions and passed the bloody morsels around.

The effect of the extra meal was immediate and lasted hours. Colin felt invigorated by the juicy piece and spent a good fifteen minutes sucking every bit of blood from the bone. Followed with the regular portion of water and some chocolate chunks, the men felt they had eaten like kings. They sat in the dying sun, enjoying the brief hour when the temperature was neither too hot nor too cold but perfect on the face. Gentle conversation even got up.

‘When I get home I’m gonna go to our local and gonna buy me a pack of cigarettes and a pint of lemonade,’ said Weekes, the joker once more.

The
when I get home
sentence had begun many a chat, but usually only after a meal or some sleep.

‘Lemonade,’ spat Davies. ‘You a fairy?’

‘He’s right,’ said Stewart, softly. ‘I might never take another beer. Doesn’t quench thirst like a cold soft drink – or water.’

‘You’ll not be thirsty when you’re home,’ argued Davies. ‘There’ll be an abundance of water. Might be rations but plenty to drink. You’ll forget all this when you’ve been back a week. You’ll forget us.’

‘Oh, for the rations at home,’ groaned Fowler. ‘At least there’s butter. A bit of bread, an egg, some milk. A day’s ration there I’d swap for a week’s here.’

Many nodded. ‘I’d not turn down a beer,’ said Platten. ‘Sugar in it. Be good.’

Drinks often dominated any conversation that took place, painful though it was.

‘Twenty days,’ said Fowler, bleakly.

‘What you on about, lad?’ It was King.

‘Officer Scown said thirty days to the African coast.’