How To Be Brave (16 page)

‘Your dad’s tall, so likely you will be.’

‘Tall is good.’ She paused. ‘Was Grandad Colin tall?’

‘I don’t think so. But we’re all getting taller, with evolution.’

Shelley called us then and took us into a small room where she pricked Rose’s finger end; Rose looked helpless and I knew it was because she was accustomed to Colin’s story helping her through it. Then Shelley explained how the blood would go into a big machine and we’d get what was called an HbA1c number, which gave a picture of Rose’s blood sugar levels in previous weeks, more accurately than our blood meter. It would take a few minutes so she took us in to Doctor Grey’s office to chat while we awaited the results.

Doctor Grey was everything you’d hope a paediatric doctor might be – rotund, rosy-cheeked, white-bearded, blue-eyed, like he’d just stepped out of a cheerful children’s story. But I knew it wouldn’t fool Rose.

He asked us about our routine and how she felt about everything, to which she just said okay. Whatever Doctor Grey or Shelley asked, this was her response; okay, okay, okay.

‘Rose,’ I said. ‘If you don’t answer with more detail, how can they help?’

S
oon they’re going to suggest something you really won’t like
, I thought.
Doing injections yourself
.

‘Do you want to get a cup of tea?’ Shelley asked me, clearly hoping I’d leave the room. Did she think Rose would reveal an agreeable face once I left?

But I stepped into the corridor anyway – then hovered near the door to listen. She was my daughter and I wanted to know what was being said in my absence.

‘Are you curious about maybe trying to read your blood yourself?’ Shelley asked her.

‘Not bothered,’ said Rose.

‘How about just preparing the pen so your mum can do it, pet?’

‘Not bothered.’

A pause. ‘Have you slept over at a friend’s house since you got diagnosed?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘You must know.’

No answer.

‘Would you like to be able to sleep over with friends like a big girl? No one wants their mum there
all
the time do they, pet? If you just started with something small like making up the pen or recording your blood sugars in the log, I think you’d quite like it. You’re a clever girl. Then you could work up to maybe even doing your own finger pricking. Does that sound exciting?’

‘You don’t have to talk to me like I’m five,’ said Rose.

‘No, of course.’ Shelley paused again, perhaps wondering how to get it right. ‘Shall I be frank then?’ she eventually asked.

‘Yes,’ said Rose, and I smiled.

‘Okay, I’ll let you into a secret – I don’t think your mum
wants
to let you do them. Of course it’s natural that she takes care of you. That’s what mums are like – they care, don’t they? But the sooner you have a go at things, the sooner you’ll have control of your diabetes, and that means more freedom – freedom to sleep over at your friends’ houses again or go away on school trips. The longer you leave it, the harder it will be.’

No response. I felt a bit sorry for Shelley. She’d been so helpful and I knew better than anyone how Rose could push buttons.

‘Would you like some nice pamphlets on h…’

‘No thank you,’ said Rose. ‘If I decide to do it, I’ll just do it. Don’t need a stupid pamphlet thing.’

‘Okay.’ Another silence. ‘Your mum tells me there’s a story she’s been reading to help with injections. Do you want to tell me about that?’

‘It’s totally amazing,’ said Rose. Now Shelley had her. ‘And it’s totally true. About our Grandad Colin who was dead brave. His ship sank and he had to live on this lifeboat.’

I decided it was time for me to return.

‘We were just talking about your book, pet,’ Shelley said to me.

‘It’s not a book,’ said Rose. ‘It’s out of Mum’s head. She does use Grandad Colin’s diary and some newspapers, but she puts it all together.’

I nodded, proud. ‘We do it a few times a day.’

‘Each time you do injections?’ asked Shelley.

I nodded. Shelley’s expression faltered a little but before I could question it, another nurse bought in the results of the big blood test – Rose’s HbA1c number was 10 percent, which Doctor Grey explained was good progress. The aim was to get closer to 6%, which he was sure we’d achieve at our next clinic appointment in three months.

As we left, Shelley held me back a moment. ‘Wait for me at the reception desk,’ I told Rose.

‘I think it’s great that you’re sharing this story, pet,’ she said. ‘But I’m just a little concerned that there will come a time when she’ll have to do injections without such distraction. You don’t want the story to become a crutch. Something she finds hard to give up.’

Indignant, I said, ‘But
you
suggested finding something she loved.’

‘I did but I meant perhaps for a week or two.’ She touched my arm. ‘Listen, I
know
how hard it is, how you must get tired of us health professionals suggesting things. We can’t possibly know what it’s like for you. I just think you should try
sometimes
without the story. See how it goes.’

‘We’ll see.’ It’s the answer we often give to children when they nag for something. When I said it to Rose she always grumbled that really I meant no. Did I mean no to Shelley? I wasn’t sure. I just knew how much I looked forward to our time in the book nook. To the smell of Rose’s warm forehead, the small pulse of her breath in the soft skin of her neck, the blinking orange and red and pink lights, and the words that calmed and lifted and united us.

When we got home the telephone was ringing, and I asked Rose to get it while I put the shopping we’d picked up on route away.

‘It’s Dad!’ she cried, and I closed my eyes and held a tin of beans to my chest. Now he’d called I suddenly missed him, felt joyful.

I unpacked, hearing only Rose’s side of the conversation. ‘Yes, yes, we’re fine! Yes, we’ve been to the clinic. No, totally boring. Mum’s been telling me this ace story. No, Dad, a proper true one. About her grandad – he’s called Colin. Yes, he was lost at sea in the war and they don’t have much to eat and only like a tiny bit to drink and these sharks keep tr… No, she’s been telling me it out of her head. Yes, she is. If you get home soon maybe you’ll hear some? When are you coming – is it long now? But I can’t wait until then.’ She paused. ‘No, I don’t want to talk about it. No, Dad. It makes me too sad. I said
no
.’ Pause. ‘Okay, I’ll get her.’

Rose brought the phone to me.

‘Jake,’ I said.

‘Natalie.’ His voice was warm, rich with happiness and misery at the same time.

‘How are you?’ I asked.

‘Tired,’ he admitted. ‘You?’

‘Same, but let’s not talk about that. Tell me what you’ve been doing? Did you get my birthday card? Are you excited to come home? Only three weeks!’

He told me about some of the local Afghan women he’d met that day and about his platoon’s main project, helping rebuild a local school. I closed my eyes and he could have been lying next to me, whispering the words in my ear. His stories soothed me, simply because they were his; he could have described a how he’d built a bomb and I’d be happy.

‘Rose won’t tell me about her injections,’ he said, and I opened my eyes again. ‘Is she okay? She only wanted to talk about this story you’re telling her. What made you choose it?’

‘Remember the box I got when my grandma died?’ I asked him. ‘She found my grandad’s diary in it. Did I ever mention him… that he survived his ship sinking? Well, he recorded his thoughts in this diary after coming home from sea.’ I wasn’t sure Jake would understand the strange experiences we’d had, seeing Colin, feeling him around us, having him lead us to his book. So I stuck with the facts. ‘I’ve been reading the newspaper cuttings about him too and putting it all together and then telling Rose the story to get her to have injections. It’s the only thing that’s worked. She loves it.’

‘Isn’t it a bit dark for a nine-year-old?’

‘I don’t think so.’ I was disappointed in Jake’s reaction. ‘I tell her it in a
hopeful
way. There are some beautiful parts and I don’t linger over the suffering too much. When things start to get really dark I’ll temper it with nicer things. Or maybe not – she keeps telling me off for making it too babyish.’ I paused. ‘She
should
know the story – it’s her ancestry.’

‘You wouldn’t let her buy
The Book Thief
because you thought it would be too much because it was sad and now you’re telling her a story about sharks and starving men. How’s that supposed to help her cope?’

‘It just is,’ I snapped. ‘She counts the minutes between our chapters. She doesn’t fight her finger prick or run away from injections.’

‘And what about when it’s finished?’

‘We’re not even halfway yet so there’s plenty to go.’

‘But what about when it is?’

‘Then we find something else,’ I snapped.

Shelley wanted us to do injections without it sometimes and now Jake seemed against it. I’d worried about telling him that Rose had been in trouble at school and that I’d broken her door, but I never thought our story would bother him.

‘I don’t mean to be negative,’ he said more gently. ‘No disrespect to your grandad and what he went through. It’s just that I feel protective of my daughter – she’s only nine and she’s been ill.’

‘So who better than her to understand such a story?’ I demanded.

‘I don’t like to think of the two of you cooped up alone, getting morbid. Isn’t it bad enough that I’m
here
? Don’t you think I keep some of the atrocities I’ve seen from you to protect
you
? It’s hell, Natalie. I saw one of our men die last week. Barely even a man. He was only nineteen, been out here two weeks. Routine patrol and he walked over an IED.’ I knew this was an Improvised Explosive Device – a bomb like a landmine but made from whatever materials are handy. ‘Lost both legs. And I was with him.’ Jake paused; he edited his story for me just as I did for Rose.

I wasn’t sure what to say, found only, ‘I’m sorry. That’s horrible. His poor parents.’

‘Real life is hard enough,’ he said.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine what you do there.’

‘Sometimes it’s better not to know.’

‘But you can always tell me.’ I said. ‘Never keep it in because you don’t want to worry or scare me. I’m tougher than that.’

‘Can’t you tell Rose a nice made-up story?’ he asked me.

‘She doesn’t want a nice made-up story,’ I said, softly. ‘She wants
this
one.’

We hung up with exchanges of affection and promises of exclusive thoughts, but the shadow of disagreement darkened our goodbyes. Rose skipped about, happy to have spoken to her father, excited about story time. When I’d made our barbeque chicken, I took her portion to the book nook. Rose was already sitting cross-legged on her cushion, as is good story-time tradition.

When I held her finger end ready to draw blood I asked, ‘Do you want a more festive story tonight?’

She frowned, pulled her hand away. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Perhaps we should do something more Christmassy.’

‘You mean about elves and stuff? No, thank you.’ She put her hand behind her back and all the dread I’d felt weeks earlier about getting her to do this returned.

‘One day Grandad Colin’s story will finish,’ I said softly.

‘I know
that
,’ she snapped. ‘All stories end. But you can’t just stop in the middle.’

‘Will you be okay when it does end?

‘Yes, cos I’ll know what happens!’

‘You’ll still do your injections?’

Rose paused. ‘Yes. Cos I’ll forever have this story in my head.’ She slowly held out her hand again. ‘So day fifteen – what else happened?’

I hadn’t wanted to read a Christmas story either, not really. It wasn’t that we didn’t believe in Santa or God, only that we didn’t
not
believe. With Grandad Colin it was simple – we knew absolutely that he had existed. And by sharing his story he never died; he lived on in my words, in Rose’s captivated face, in the sparkle of the lights, in the darkness, in the ocean, in the sky, forever.

Day fifteen on the lifeboat and dawn meant searching one another’s faces for signs of life. It was a morning ritual that no one spoke of but everyone did. Colin assessed each man by his eyes; the face might give cause for concern, with sunken cheeks and cracked lips, but if the eyes still focused, still fought to face the day, then there was hope.

The Second was in a pitifully weak state, his foot causing great pain. To Colin he hadn’t existed for a long time beyond his colourless irises. Young Fowler had in recent days also grown so weak that he barely left his position, and Colin was concerned that his eyes too had dimmed forever. Feeling guilty over punching the lad, he had tried often to engage with him, asking what he’d like to do with the rest of his life once he got home. But Fowler never answered.

Day fifteen also brought a birthday.

Resting his tired eyes after studying the men, Colin heard soft sobbing that stopped and started with the flapping masts. He opened his eyes and saw Ken go to John Arnold and sit with him. They bowed heads as though praying together. After a while Ken put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and Colin heard him say, ‘Don’t give in.’ Then he ordered Platten to issue breakfast and to make sure Arnold got a little extra today.

‘It’s his birthday,’ Ken told Colin as the water came around.

For those too weak to hold the tin cup a hand often helped. Those helpful hands also fought viciously when someone tried to take their tiny portion.

‘Eighteen years old,’ said Ken. ‘Imagine that? Eighteen and suffering like no man ever should. We can’t even sing him a song. No one has the energy.’

Colin shook his head. ‘What can you say? Happy birthday? Nowt happy about it.’ He looked across the sunlit water, at the glinting waves winking like an evil character in a fairy tale. ‘Who’d think such a beautiful view could mean such pain? That such colours could hurt so terribly.’

Ken studied him, then said, ‘You never said it this morning, chum.’

‘Said what?’

‘Maybe today a ship.’

‘Didn’t I?’

Colin was sure he’d thought it, even if the words hadn’t reached his lips. Or had he? Had he been too busy searching for death in his mates’ weathered faces? Too busy trying to shake off nightmares in which Death stalked the boat in a hooded black cloak, poking and prodding men as though deciding which one to take. Colin always cried out to warn them and scare Death, but his parched, bloody lips stuck together as though stitched up.

‘No, you didn’t,’ insisted Ken.

‘Maybe it’s someone else’s turn to say it.’

Colin turned away and ate his sea-water-moistened biscuit in silence. They’d all had little sleep. Some nights were better than others. Sometimes the boat stilled slightly and the spray ceased its severe onslaught, but even then the hard, wooden deck and cold dark meant little comfort. Last night Scown had woken everyone with his high-pitched screaming, angry words hurled into the darkness, some making sense, some senseless.

Yesterday he had asked Ken for the knife.

Afterwards Ken told Colin he’d demanded to know why he wanted it.

Officer Scown had said, ‘That’s my business.’

Trying to maintain his recently granted authority, Ken had insisted Scown stop talking rubbish. He said they could still be picked up any day, which only incited Scown further. He lashed out with surprising strength, grabbing Ken’s waist and pockets, searching for the weapon. All Ken could do was push him off roughly and watch as the man cried like a child.

Scown had spent the rest of yesterday afternoon ranting and cursing. His rage was understandable. As a man ten years older than the others, who had spent twenty hours in the water before being picked up, he’d done well to keep order for so long. Colin very much admired him.

Many of the crew ranted back at Scown and Colin feared there would be mutiny – such rage is contagious, especially among men so hungry, thirsty and tired. But fortunately Officer Scown ran out of steam for an hour and this broke the growing panic.

Now he lolled in the boat’s well, neither awake nor asleep, refusing his breakfast and ignoring everyone. So when he sat upright at around ten, perked up and called Ken over, Colin anticipated another outburst and braced himself to mediate. But the two men talked so quietly that he left them to it and tried to concentrate enough to watch the horizon for ships.

Watch duty had become so hard on the men that it now occurred as and when someone felt able. If a man was up to it, he offered. If no one spoke, they left their rescue to fate. Stewart had done an hour during the night with Platten, and Colin had shared a shift with King, though the man had kept saying there were lights, dozens of them, so very pretty, until Colin told him to knock it off.

Mid-morning Officer Scown beckoned Colin, bid him with a weak nod to move close so he could speak hoarsely in his ear. It made sense that the officer would call Ken – he was in charge now – but Colin wondered what he could possibly want with him. He expected demands for the knife.

But different words scraped from Scown’s throat, like fingernails on sandpaper. ‘I spoke with Cooke earlier,’ he said. ‘Gave him a message for my good wife back in Willerby – I know Cooke’s not far from there. You too.’ So this was why Colin had been chosen: geography. ‘I haven’t the energy or the heart to repeat that message to you,’ said Scown. ‘But I want you to make sure Cooke tells you it so that you can tell my wife if he doesn’t.’

‘I think you’ll be able to tell your wife yourself, sir,’ said Colin.

‘No. I’m done,’ he said. ‘I know I won’t last much longer so you have to promise me you’ll get that message off him.’ His calm talk contrasted so harshly with the wild ranting of previous days that Colin wondered if Scown even remembered those words.

‘Don’t talk rubbish, man!’ Colin said. All formality dissipated – this wasn’t the ship’s first officer now but a man who needed a vigorous shake and Colin would give it if needed.

‘I know how I feel,’ Scown said, so quietly that Colin took a moment to digest the words. Then he looked right at Colin, the effort of lifting his head causing a film of moisture to coat his brow. His eyes had lost all radiance, as though it was needed elsewhere in his ravaged body, and this Colin knew to be more hopeless than his words. ‘Promise me you’ll talk to Cooke. I’ll not know any peace until you promise it.’ He gripped Colin’s hand with such surprising strength that Colin nodded, agreed.

Then, as though all was now well and he had permission to surrender, Scown closed his eyes and slept. Colin waited a moment, fearing more than sleep, but the officer’s chest moved ever so slightly, up and down, up and down.

He approached Ken on the foredeck.

‘I don’t think Scown will get upset again,’ Colin said.

‘What did he say to you?’ asked Ken.

‘Not much.’

‘I thought he was gonna beg for his knife,’ said Ken. ‘But he said he could feel deep down that he’s not gonna live much longer. Said he’s made peace with it.’

‘The man’s delirious.’

‘Except he isn’t, is he? He’s calm.’

Colin had to agree.

‘He gave me a private message for his wife,’ said Ken. ‘I need to …’

Though he’d promised the officer he’d learn it, Colin shook his head. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

‘No, lad, you must. I have the signet ring his wife gave him too.’ Ken opened his palm. Two broken pieces sparkled within, gold half-moons. ‘He wants me to take it to her,’ he explained. ‘Some of the lads helped me cut it off with the jack-knife cos his finger’s so swollen and burnt. He reckons I’m gonna make it.’ He looked at Colin. ‘You too, chum.’

‘No,’ insisted Colin. ‘That message is private. Just for his wife.’

‘But what if I
don’t
make it? I think you will, lad, so I need to tell you. I’d like you to look after the ring bits for me. I’m so stupid I’ve lost all my buttons. Keep pulling ’em off, then I lose ’em. You’ll take care of the ring pieces well, I know.’

‘Keep the thing.’ Colin pushed him away, not sure why he was angry. Perhaps it was that their officer had resigned. Given in. Anger came from the fear that Colin too might surrender one day. No, he’d go on fighting. ‘The man needs to fight and give that message to his wife himself.’

‘He’s not as young as you or me,’ said Ken.

‘Then we up his rations!’

‘Just let me tell you hi…’

‘Keep it!’

Ken appeared to realise it was no good arguing further. He put the gold pieces in his pocket and resumed watching the water for fish, spear held close despite not having had any luck with it yet. Colin had to admire the man for never giving up; Ken had the spear and Colin had his game. But there were only so many times he could count sharks, hoping the fourth would bring a ship, and not lose hope altogether when it failed to happen.

Just before lunch, Scarface made an appearance.

He tracked the lifeboat most days now, seemed to be assessing the crew with his cold, steely eyes. Sometimes a friend joined him; occasionally they bumped into the stern as though warning those aboard that they were waiting. Waiting until they were too weak to fight them off. This time the appearance of grey sharks was silver-lined because they caused three more fish to land in the boat’s well.

‘Grab them!’ cried Ken, and those most able sprang to life.

Weekes held one down, Young Arnold another and Platten the third. Ken found the knife – he’d kept it close by after yesterday’s events – and cut the brawny creatures into fourteen wonderful pieces, so fast that Colin imagined a heart still beating when he ate it. The scraps were consumed in joyful silence, with much licking of blood and sucking of bone.

‘Happy birthday, lad,’ Ken said to John Arnold.

‘It’s your birthday?’ chorused Davies weakly.

‘Why didn’t you say?’ asked Weekes, slightly energised by the meal. ‘I’d have made you a cake and covered it in cream icing.’

Young Arnold managed a smile; it creased his face, threatened to tear the papery skin that barely clung to flesh. Colin couldn’t look at him without seeing Christ – without fearing that his own face now looked ten years older too.

‘You know what, lads,’ said Ken thoughtfully. ‘These fish are a different species to them that jumped aboard last week. Bigger, more colourful, different fins.’

‘So?’ demanded Bott. Since giving in to drinking seawater on and off most days he had become belligerent and argumentative. Maybe he gained some sustenance from doing it because he, King, Leak and Stewart (who indulged the most) seemed to be fitter than Scown, Fowler and the Second who hadn’t.

‘It must mean we’ve made progress,’ said Ken. ‘Different fish. We must be in new waters. Maybe we’re closer to land.’

‘Do you really think so?’ It was Fowler, barely audible. Platten had helped him eat his fish. Blood now stained his chin like raspberry juice.

‘Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.’

‘Doesn’t mean we’re nearer the coast,’ argued Leak. ‘Only that we’ve moved. We could be drifting farther out to sea.’

‘What the hell’s the point in saying that?’ demanded Colin. ‘I should come over there and thump you one.’

‘Just try it,’ said Leak. ‘I’ll break your bloody arm.’

But their words were far stronger than their bodies now and neither man attacked the other. While they argued, no one noticed that Officer Scown had crawled towards the foredeck and begun to climb over the edge.

Ken spotted him first, cried, ‘Scown! Grab him!’

Colin and Platten went for his legs; Ken pulled an arm so roughly he feared he had dislocated it. But Scown’s scream was merely one of rage at not succeeding in his suicide mission. He collapsed on the deck, red-faced and cursing, finally sobbing again.

‘What the hell are you thinking?’ asked Platten, panting with exertion.

‘You fool!’ cried Ken. ‘Scaring us all like that.’

‘Is he though?’ asked Colin, softly.

‘Yes, he is. Now they’ll all be at it and we’ll have to watch him all the time.’

Ken ordered that whoever was on lookout had to also keep an eye on Scown and give the alarm should he try and jump overboard again.

‘Should’ve let him go,’ said Colin quietly. ‘I reckon he doesn’t want to burden us. He’s an officer through and through. Without the energy to fulfil his duty I reckon he’d rather go. Should’ve just let him if he so wishes.’

‘What, and let everyone follow?’ Ken shook his head.

‘If they do, they do. Who are we to stop them?’

‘It’s what you
do
,’ snapped Ken. ‘They’re our friends.’

‘So shouldn’t we let them choose their own fate?’

‘Isn’t the will to survive stronger than the will to jump?’

‘Clearly not,’ said Colin.

‘But it
has
to be.’

‘With so little water … barely a mouthful … how can the will go on?’

‘It
has
to,’ insisted Ken.

‘It’s been two weeks,’ said Colin.

‘I know.’

‘What if it’s another two?’

Ken wouldn’t look at Colin. ‘Then we survive another two,’ he said.

‘And you think we can? On portions like these? On lucky bits of fish?’

‘What other option do we have?’ demanded Ken.

Colin nodded. ‘No, you’re right. We sink or swim. We give in or go on.’

‘I intend to swim, chum.’

‘So do I.’

The rest of the day passed relatively peacefully. Scown made no more attempts to abandon the boat. A gentle breeze got up that cooled the simmering heat and kissed hot skin. The sun did not hurt it quite so much now, having toughened it into leathery resilience. But dry throats still ached for liquid, any liquid – blood, water, rain, and of course seawater, which some continued to consume. Heads pounded from dehydration, bellies rumbled angrily for food.

The evening meal was eaten without conversation and Arnold’s customary prayer followed, the men devouring it as much as they had the fish earlier. Colin realised that comfort found at home in wives, girlfriends or mothers was now sought in the almighty Father.

It was a simple prayer that night, one that came from Young Arnold himself, one that concluded with fourteen faint Amens.