How To Be Brave (26 page)

‘Grab my legs,’ he said. ‘I’ll see if I can get them.’

‘What about Scarface?’

‘It’s worth the risk. What beauties they are.’ Colin paused and gave a bitter grunt. ‘What does it matter all that much if he
does
get me?’

Weak as they were, it was an operation of magnitude. Merely thinking about how to do it was exhausting. They first passed rope over Colin’s shoulders and fastened it to the mast. This alone needed a ten-minute rest. Then, doused with seawater to energise them, Colin edged himself over the gunnel while Ken used every scrap of energy to hold his legs. Getting the barnacles was no issue but bringing Colin back onto the boat proved hardest of all. When they did, it was worth it – he’d managed to retrieve five.

They ate them as slowly as possible, savouring every bit of liquid and meat. Satiated, they then slept a while. The faint beat of a plane again woke them. Colin sat up so fast he screamed in agony but Ken ignored him, cried, ‘Look, there, he’s coming directly towards us.’

So he was, not high, not low, speed neither fast nor slow, his wings black against the blue.

‘If
only
we had another smoke-float!’ cried Colin. ‘Why the hell did I let two off at once? He’ll pass so near he couldn’t possibly miss one if we had it!’

‘So we wave,’ said Ken.

Wave they did, barely able to stand, voices so dry their cries of help were likely not heard further away than ten yards. The plane passed directly over, so close they saw the underside of his wings. He continued his course, leaving only the dying sound of engines like distant thunder.

Ken dropped to his knees, muttering a prayer or curse at the heavens. Colin tried to remain standing another moment, watching the plane’s departure. As he began to turn away, to give in, something stopped him.

The plane was turning.

‘Ken,’ he cried. ‘He’s spotted us. Look, he’s coming back!’

The plane banked around in a slow, easy turn to port and continued circling until he’d made three complete rings around the lifeboat. Then, satisfied something warranted more investigation, he dropped to a lower altitude and passed right over. He dropped something that stained the nearby sea with red dye and Colin realised he was marking their position. Just to have been seen was enough.

‘They’re dropping something else,’ cried Ken.

A package landed close by.

‘Can we get it?’ said Colin, terrified it would sink or drift away.

‘The spear!’ cried Ken.

This time he leaned over the boat edge while Colin sat on his legs. He was able to fish it out of the water with his spike hooked into the wrapping. The package contained a kite, a wireless set, a balloon to support an aerial, and a rubber dinghy. Exaltation at being spotted gave way to despair at the drop not including water. They watched the plane depart and felt more alone than they had in a long time. Contact with another human – even inside an aircraft – brought such joy that when it ended, emptiness deepened.

The balloon was useless without gas to support it, so they could not work the wireless and get out a message. And what good was a rubber dinghy? Water was all they wanted. Exhaustion set in, and with it came anger, despair.

‘Perhaps we can fix the aerial to the mast,’ said Colin.

‘How the hell are we to do that?’ snapped Ken. ‘Stand on one another’s shoulders? We can barely support our own weight, lad.’

Neither could concentrate enough to think of another solution. They settled into the well of the boat.

‘We’ve been seen, Chippy,’ said Colin.

‘Aye, lad.’

‘That’s all that matters…’ Colin’s words trailed off as sleep stole speech.

‘Aye, lad.’

‘Now we … wait…’

It was all they had done.

‘Maybe tomorrow … a … ship…’

‘Maybe.’

Get up and keep looking, Grandad.’

There were two of us that night.

I wore old leggings and Rose had on her new lilac onesie covered in purple hearts. There was no ambulance, there were no paramedics asking questions, and no hospital trip.

Like Colin and Ken, we could not wait. At the beginning of the story I had paced the chapters, attached them to meals and injections, exchanged them for Rose’s blood. I had wanted us to slowly discover Colin, to meet Ken and the other twelve men who shared their journey. I’d let the days gently unfold. I’d tried to do it right. Tried to set the scene and build tension and describe characters.

Now we couldn’t wait for the end.

That morning I’d crossed 10th January off the calendar, just as Ken had marked the passing of their time on the canvas log. Each time I’d done it since Jake’s Christmas phone call I’d wondered when the next call might be, what news it would bring. Rose knew now that his homecoming might be delayed.

Two days ago she’d asked, ‘Why isn’t Dad here yet?’ and I’d had to tell her the truth. That I had no clue. She’d surprised me with her acceptance and said he was probably waiting for us to finish Colin’s story first.

And now we were almost done.

Rose came down with her diabetes box and looked at the book nook. She didn’t sit on a cushion though. I knew why. We were at the end. This was the last time we’d sit together and visit the ocean. The last time we’d be lit up by the string of colourful bulbs and the magic of what had happened. The last time we would see the lifeboat. I knew Rose would likely go back to reading secretly, under her covers, and our book nook would end up forsaken, dusty, haunted by words passed.

I saw then as clearly as a vision that we would pack her babyish hardbacks in a box for the loft and put the bookshelf and cinnamon cushions in her bedroom. We would clean the area, paint it and think of a new purpose for it. I might stand in the sunny corner and hear the sea if I tried. I might drink tea and look out onto the garden and feel the whip of breeze from the lifeboat’s sails. But I’d be looking back, and now it was time to look ahead.

This was our last supper.

Rose went into the book nook first and I followed with her piece of crusty bread covered in peanut butter. She broke it in half and said I should have some, that she was way too excited to eat it all. Then she patiently prepared the finger pricker and drew blood, rich and thick, which I gathered onto the strip. Five-point-two – it was the perfect reading, the number of someone without diabetes. She had, for now, conquered this complex and difficult and random condition.

I knew there would be difficult days ahead. I knew there would be times when she’d hate the injections, cry at her sore finger ends. Times when hypos would surprise us and debilitate her. When someone might point to her bruises and ask who had done it. When her eyesight might be affected. Her heart. Her kidneys.

But for now we had won.

‘I think I know why I got it,’ said Rose suddenly.

‘Got what?’ I asked.

‘Diabetes.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘I was thinking and thinking in bed last night and I think maybe I’m supposed to not never forget how thirsty Grandad Colin got at sea. Or how much we need to eat to survive. I think I needed to know that you always need one other person cos I’m so bad at having help. And I think it’s so I got to understand Colin and not never forget him.’

‘No,’ I argued. ‘It can’t be that at all. It’s just bad luck. Just a faulty pancreas. Not something you deserved or needed. Just one of those things.’

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ she said.

‘
Language
, Ro…’

‘No, I mean there’s no such thing as just one of those things.’

‘Maybe I didn’t eat the right things when I was pregnant with you,’ I said. It was something I’d thought about a great deal. That maybe I had done something that caused it.

‘No, it’s all for a good reason,’ insisted Rose. ‘I know it’s to do with Grandad Colin and you can’t say nowt that will stop me thinking so.’

‘Anything,’ I corrected.

‘Nowt,’ she repeated softly.

She measured the right dose of insulin; the creamy bubbles within the pen frothed like the sea. Then she held an area of tummy fat with one hand and pierced it with the needle in her other and pressed the lever in, as though she’d been doing it since the beginning of time, as though she’d known how all along and I was merely there to learn from her.

With lunch and tea we had shared days forty-eight and forty-nine on the lifeboat. Breakfast on day forty-eight had consisted of nothing – no water, no food. All rations had gone. Empty tins taunted them, clanking together in the boat’s motion. There was nothing to do but wait for death. At midday another plane had flown towards them but with no smoke-float, no energy and no belief that anything would result, Colin and Ken had merely watched it approach in delirium.

But this one had dropped supplies. Parcels fell, gifts from the heavens. Some dropped close enough so Ken could use his spear to retrieve them; others were too far to even try and get. They remembered the dinghy they’d harshly disregarded days earlier and realised it had was supposed to be used for picking up these provisions. But neither man had the energy to inflate it, navigate it, and get out of it again.

Amongst the supplies were cigarettes and matches. When Ken and Colin smoked they felt like civilised humans again. They coughed violently, but didn’t care. There were also boiled sweets and chocolate, and most deliciously of all, water. They rashly consumed a whole tin of water. Fearing the effects of overindulgence after starvation, they were slower with the food.

‘They might have tried to land,’ said Ken, angrily.

‘Shut up,’ snapped Colin. ‘Don’t be silly. What if they’d crashed? Not been able to get airborne again. Then where would be? Anyway, there’s a note. Here, read this, chum.’

Ken quietly read the words.

Sorry we can’t get down to pick you up – sea is too rough. Have sent signals from overhead for shore base to get a fix on you. If any shipping seen on the way back to base will direct them to you
.

The note sustained them through the rest of that day, and the next. Hopes of rescue were real now and they had another two days of food to nourish them. Sleep proved difficult though, with such expectation. Neither wanted to risk missing another drop of supplies or seeing a ship finally arrive, so they drifted in and out of dreams, in and out of conversation, each starting sentences that the other knew exactly how to finish, and so not having to say the words.

Now we were at day fifty.

Rose ate her portion of bread and I picked up the crumbs after her. I ate my slice, savouring the nut spread like it might be my last. Through a full mouth I began to say, ‘And so on da…’ when out of nowhere the coloured lights fizzled with a sharp snap and died. The kitchen light went too. Darkness swallowed us. I waited, expecting them to come back on.

After a moment Rose said, ‘What’s happened?’

‘It must be a power cut,’ I said. ‘Good job you’ve done your injection already.’

‘Ooh, exciting,’ she said.

‘Not really. The heating will go off. It’ll get cold quickly. Let me get you a blanket and see about some candles.’

I made my way upstairs, holding the bannister for guidance, and got Rose a blanket from the airing cupboard. Then, halfway across the kitchen tiles, a soft knock on the door stopped me. In the blackout it was hard to tell who stood on the doorstep, until April said, ‘Oh, yours are off too, lovey.’ I could just make out her curly hair against the sky.

‘Looks like it’s the whole street,’ she said. ‘It must be an electricity shortage. Do you need anything? Is Rose okay? Is she scared, lovey?’

‘I think she’s quite enjoying it actually,’ I said. ‘I’m just going to find some candles. Do you need any?’

‘No, I’ve got plenty. I’m going to go and sit with Winnie. I was right in the middle of “Coronation Street” too. I hope the power comes back on in time for the plus-one viewing.’

I laughed.

‘If it hasn’t come on in another hour I’ll bring you some lemon cake. That’ll cheer you both up.’

‘There’s really no need,’ I insisted.

I watched her black shadow depart.

‘April,’ I called, and she turned. ‘Thank you for everything.’

This was why I’d always favoured the dark. I loved its anonymity, its safety. Like the men on the boat, we’re all the same in the dark. None of us is less or more. We can all say thank-you here and ask for help.

‘You’re welcome, lovey,’ April said. ‘Look after that little girl of yours.’

I closed the door and went to find a candle. The only one in the drawer was from the pumpkin we’d made the night Rose went to the hospital. The one I’d worried would set the house alight. The one we were sure Colin had blown out. How perfect that I’d kept it. I felt about for a pack of matches and took them both back to the book nook.

‘I’m not scared at all,’ said Rose. ‘Even on my own.’

‘Of course,’ I said, smiling at her forced words.

I wrapped the blanket around her like I had when she was first born. In the dark I breathed in the scent of her hair, knowing she’d not see and shove me away. She smelt of her room, of wax crayon and bed and new material. I lit the candle and put it on a book between us. It blessed us both with its soft, mystical glow; everything flickered like sunlight does on waves.

‘Day fifty,’ said Rose.

‘I know,’ I said.

We were there. We were there and we could let go. Shelley had been wrong about the story being a crutch. Yes, we had needed it. It had given us hope, helped us get through the last weeks. But I knew we could live on it forever without having to go back.

‘I’m a bit scared,’ Rose admitted. ‘Well, not
scared
… never scared … more, you know, all twisty inside.’

I knew exactly what she meant. ‘It’s such a big day,’ I said.

Rose knew rescue was coming because I’d accidentally described the story as Colin’s fifty-day ordeal at the weekend. She had slammed her off-pink door and told me I’d ruined it. When we shared diary extracts, the pages had never randomly opened on Colin’s description of day fifty. I knew how the end happened; Rose didn’t.

Later she forgave me, admitting she’d known really and hadn’t wanted to tell me. Said Colin had whispered
fifty days
in a dream and now she knew what he meant.

‘I really hope Ken’s with him until the end,’ said Rose. ‘That’s all I’m wishing for now. That he can last as well because you always need two of you. Can you tell me if he gets there? Now, before we start? Please?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and find out.’

‘I’m ready then,’ she said.

I closed my eyes. Tried to go to that place I always did. To where I was Colin and knew all the words he’d never had the courage to record in his diary. Rose squeezed my hand, clammy and encouraging.

I opened my eyes again. Her face was gold in the candlelight. In the darkness behind her was someone else. I wasn’t afraid. He put a hand on her shoulder and she smiled. I couldn’t see his face, but I didn’t need to. I could hear the sea. Smell the salt. Feel the breeze. He whistled and I knew the song. He whistled and Rose tried to do the same but couldn’t and instead softly sang her own song, one made up from a top-ten hit and a hymn they once sang in Christmas assembly.

And we were on the lifeboat.