How To Be Brave (18 page)

I was so relieved to have her back that I hardly took in the account. Pink coloured her cheeks. Perhaps she’d had a vivid dream induced by the hypo. But hadn’t she said last week that she’d been to the boat. I’d asked her again about it but she’d shrugged and started talking about her motorway homework.

‘Do you feel okay now?’ I touched her forehead.

‘Yes, I feel good.’

‘Do you remember what you said?’ I asked. ‘While you were on the floor.’

‘I was on the floor?’

‘You don’t remember that?’

Rose looked genuinely surprised.

‘What’s the last thing you do recall?’ I asked.

She thought about it. ‘You told me to sit on the chair and went to look at something.’

I hadn’t the heart to tell her how she’d acted – she might be embarrassed and scared about it happening again.

‘The next thing I saw,’ she said, ‘was you reading Colin’s diary out to me.’

‘It’s my fault,’ I said. ‘I completely forgot to make sure you had a snack and then I went off and left you.’

I’d never do it again. In a rush of guilt I thought of Jake’s words, his concerns that Colin’s story was too much for Rose. Real life is hard enough, he’d said. He was right. It was. I was never going to get this diabetes right. I thought of Shelley’s suggestion that the story was a crutch. Maybe the weight of it had contributed to Rose’s hypo. Perhaps it was time to stop after all. Was it fair to continue reading a tale of dying men to a child recently almost unconscious?

I knew what was coming. Last night I’d skimmed newspaper cuttings and glanced at a letter Colin had sent to his mother once he was well enough. Could Rose handle day nineteen? Should I assess her bravery each day and miss a chapter if needed? Was it fair to exchange blood for pain in our trade?

‘Don’t look so gloomy,’ said Rose, clearly buzzing with sugar. ‘It’s Christmas soon. Can we go to McDonald’s?
Please
can we?’

I took her. I watched her devour a burger and slurp juice, determined I’d never stop watching her again. By the time we got home I was so exhausted from my constant watching that I could have gone to bed for the night then. Rose ran to her room and I went to mine. There I fell asleep for an hour, knew nothing, not a dream, not a sound, not a word.

When I woke the house was quiet. It was almost four and in the December evening’s half-light my bedroom appeared as depressed as I felt. Teatime, injection time and story time. For the first time in ages I wasn’t sure I could do it. Rose had had the hypo but I felt low. Still, I went to get the diabetes box.

It wasn’t there. Neither was Rose. The hint-of-pink door opened onto an empty room with a floor covered in cut-up Christmas cards and glitter. I panicked, ran downstairs.

There in the book nook, illuminated by the rainbow of lights, I found both Rose and the box. She was cross-legged on her cushion, and had prepared her finger pricker.

‘I’m keeping the box in my room now,’ she said.

‘Why?’ I sat opposite.

‘I want to be responsible for it. It is mine.’ She held it out. ‘It’s nearly empty by the way.’ Unlike on the lifeboat, our dwindling supplies could easily be ordered from the doctor and replaced.

‘I’ll look after it,’ I insisted. ‘You shouldn’t have to. I need t…’

‘Mum, I know you like to
think
you have to, but I’m old enough.’

‘I know that. But…’

‘What?’

‘I’m your mum.’

‘Colin kept going because of his mum and she wasn’t there, remember.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I said softly. Perhaps she was worried I’d go to another country like her dad? Who knew how children thought?

‘I know that!’ she snapped. ‘I’m just going to have a go at doing stuff!’

‘Are we still doing the story?’

‘Of course.’ She looked at the finger pricker, anxiety dimming her eyes. ‘Maybe you do it now and I will next time. But if I do, I’ll still need a chapter.’

I took Rose’s hand in mine. Before diabetes I’d felt sad that I never got to hold it now she was nine and said handholding was babyish. This was the only gift diabetes gave – being able to have her delicate fingers in mine again. I pierced the skin. Nothing. Some days blood wouldn’t flow, no matter how we tried. Rose bore it well when we tried again. But on the third attempt I cried inwardly. How much should a child go through?

‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘Being sad is how you start to be brave. I’ll do it.’

‘No, you shouldn’t have to.’

Before I could stop her, she grabbed the finger pricker and clicked it into her flesh. Red gushed from the end and she squealed, ‘Ow, ow, ow.’ I harvested the blood and she sucked her finger.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes,’ she insisted. ‘Just do the story.’

‘Were you really on the boat?’ I asked, before we set off.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘So don’t try and protect me. Tell me it exactly how it is.’

Rose would know if I deviated from the truth and doing so to cushion her wouldn’t be fair to either of us. We had begun; we would continue.

Maybe today a ship.

This prayer woke Colin on the nineteenth day. He wasn’t even sure if he’d said it or if it was merely the ocean singing her eternal song. He imagined the swish-swish-swish must be how mermaids sounded when they sang so beautifully that men leapt to certain death, just to get closer to the music.

‘I think you could be right, chum.’ It was Ken, at his feet.

So Colin must’ve said it aloud. He hardly believed there’d be a ship that morning though. Hardly wanted to open his cracked eyelids and look yet again upon the misery of his mates. Upon the now salt-caked lifeboat and the sparkling sea with its far away, ever empty horizon.

How many more mornings could he stand to see this? How long before the ocean’s song seduced and he too jumped?

‘I don’t feel so bad today,’ said Ken. ‘Wasn’t the night calm? What a relief to not have endless stinging spray. First time I think I really slept. Done me good, lad.’ He paused. ‘How about you?’

‘Not sure.’

Colin realised he must have slept a little because he’d dreamed. His sleep escapades were sometimes more real than daily existence on the boat. Certainly he preferred them. Last night he’d returned to the strange silver kitchen. Beyond the polished surfaces – in which he saw his face how it was before the ocean – was another room, one with a shelf from which he longed to pull the colourful books. Next to it sat the girl with hair like sunlit straw.

Remembering it, Colin eagerly told Ken the details. ‘I dreamt about that young lass again. I don’t know her yet but she’s so familiar to me. You know when you get déjà vu – it’s like that. She looked sad. Had this box on her knee – don’t know what it was, like. Couldn’t see. But she didn’t seem to like it very much. She was making something. Something that looked like an ink pen and had all sorts of attachments. Then she looked right at me and said something dead strange. She said, “I’ll have to do it myself one day.” What does it mean, Ken?’

‘Means you’re stark raving mad, Armitage.’ Ken shook his head. ‘Only joking, lad. Who knows what such dreams mean? I think we have ’em more vividly out here cos we’ve so little else to do. And God, to have something to talk about – something that isn’t home or rations or ships.’

‘You’re a bit more chipper today,’ Colin said. ‘I’ve been worried about you.’

‘Wouldn’t call it chipper.’

‘We’re still all here to face another day.’ Colin wasn’t sure if he said the words in relief or with dread.

The other men began to stir, twelve skeletons wearing tattered garments and agonised expressions. Colin knew he must look how they did. Never a vain man, he knew he’d been called a good-looking chap, if in a rough, coarse kind of way. He had dark eyes that looked into a person with unnerving directness, open, warm, honest. He wondered how he’d look if he ever got off the boat. Would his hair regain its colour? He’d noticed in others that the sun had bleached the blackest hair grey. Would his mother recognise him? Would he find a sweetheart looking this way? What did any of it matter if he couldn’t last until a ship?

‘I bet most lads slept better with the calm,’ said Ken.

‘Doubt it,’ said Colin. ‘Not with all the noise.’

Most of the crew had called out in the night, more than usual, their discordant lyrics at odds with the sea’s soft symphony.

‘Never heard it,’ said Ken.

‘Lucky you. I thought Bott was gonna kill someone. Officer Scown tried to go over but he’s so weak now that Weekes only had to put a hand out to stop him.’ Colin paused. ‘I didn’t know whether to…’

‘What, lad?’

‘You know … just let him go.’

‘Soon there’ll be no one with the strength to stop him.’

Ken tried to stand and when his legs gave out he refused to look at Colin, perhaps embarrassed at his increasing weakness. He half crawled, half staggered to the rations, announcing that breakfast was up.

Few bucked up at this declaration now. Tongues stuck like gangrene to teeth and to the roofs of mouths. The men were so parched that the ounce of water issued barely went past their throats, leaving bodies desperately dehydrated, heads fried, and blood syrupy. Colin hated how thick and foul-tasting his saliva was. How tight his face felt as his skin shrivelled.

He knew those unable to drink – like Scown and the Second, who refused – would have ceased generating saliva at all, the tongue hardening until it swung on the still-soft root like a tiny wrecking ball.

That morning they let John Arnold say a prayer. Then Bott, Leak, Stewart and King began their daily drinking of seawater, a habit Ken had given up railing against. It was hard enough finding the strength to issue rations, choosing men still well enough for lookout, and making sure no one jumped overboard.

Three days earlier Ken had screamed at them. ‘You lot drinking seawater – knock it off! It’ll do you no good. Christ, as if it’s not enough living without much water, I have to watch you lot! We’ve got to look out for each other. Keep strong!
You
lose it and we
all
bloody lose it. Damn you all to hell!’

It had made no difference and now Ken ignored them.

Colin approached Officer Scown. The man lay in the well, his head propped up with a life jacket. He wore a hat Weekes had made from a trouser leg. His breathing was so shallow that at first Colin paused, afraid to approach, until Scown muttered some desperate plea into his chest.

‘Should we give him water?’ Colin asked Ken. ‘He refused breakfast. We ought to make him take some.’

Colin held Scown’s head with two hands while Ken measured two ounces into the cup and put it to the officer’s lips. Colin imagined the water reviving, sparking like electricity, regenerating. But most trickled down his chin.

‘For God’s sake,
drink
,’ Colin urged.

‘Some must’ve gone down,’ said Ken. ‘Nowt more we can do. Most can’t swallow anymore. What’s the point in issuing meals? And them buggers drinking seawater – to hell with them. Let ’em drown in it.’

Desperate to keep Ken’s mood up Colin said, ‘Come on, Chippy, you don’t mean it. The only thing that keeps us going is a meal. We live the day by it. Even if there were nowt left to eat we’d make the pretence of preparing it just to … just to go on.’

‘But would we?’

Ken returned to his place at the stern, spear in hand. He hadn’t caught a single thing. Colin had consoled him by saying that he’d not won his game either, the one where counting a certain number of fish or clouds or stars resulted in a ship. Ken had insisted he’d succeed first.

Mid-afternoon Officer Scown sat up, appeared lucid. He smiled at those around him and began idle conversation. Perhaps he had taken in some of the water earlier or maybe covering his head had reduced the effects of the sun. Ken glanced at the crew and was answered by a row of nodding heads. So he measured another two ounces and helped the officer drink it.

‘You’re a good crew,’ Scown said. ‘As good a crowd as I’ve ever sailed with. No,
better
I tell you. I thank God for it. One bad character could easily have been the death of us all.’

‘You’re a good man too,’ said Platten. The small, strong father of twin girls had skin so dry now that his eyes appeared like two raisins in dark dough. ‘You’ve been a splendid officer, sir.’

He had. Sober habits and strict discipline meant Scown had been highly regarded and respected by all aboard the
SS Lulworth Hill
. His orders always came sharp, and he never watched them executed, showing confidence in the crew.

During his time on the lifeboat, he often spoke proudly of his daughter Wendy back home. However, he rarely mentioned the bike he’d bought for her in Africa, intended to be a seventh birthday gift. It had gone down with the ship. Nor did he speak of the tiny knitting needles and wool she had gifted him before he set sail – to keep him busy, she had said. The loss of these items upset Scown greatly.

That the men were upset about items lost didn’t mean that they didn’t care for men lost, rather it was perhaps easier to think only of bikes and knitting needles forever on the ocean floor.

Scown raised the empty cup. ‘I thank you all for keeping a good ship.’

‘To you, sir,’ said Young Fowler, weakly.

‘To you,’ chorused the crew.

‘To my daughter,’ Scown said softly. ‘My wife.’

Colin joined in but felt he watched from a distance. All day he’d felt like he wasn’t part of the crew. Like he was hearing them through cotton wool. Through gauzy fabric. At times his heart pounded so fast that his head spun. When he raised his arm with an imaginary cup to salute Scown, and his weatherworn sleeve slipped down, he was shocked at the visible bones and absent veins.

This isn’t my body
, he thought.
I don’t want to live in it
.

‘Maybe now he’ll sleep peacefully,’ said Ken, making Colin jump.

Scown lowered himself onto his back and a smile fluttered about his lips, a butterfly that danced only a moment and flew off. Stewart sat next to him. Colin hadn’t the energy to leave his spot on the bench and he watched Stewart take Scown’s hand and lean close as though to listen to his heart.

‘I see Mum,’ whispered Scown. ‘There’s Mum.’

Suddenly the young cabin boy screamed and began beating Scown about the head with his fists. Platten pulled him free and slapped him, breaking his hysteria. Tears replaced the violence.

‘He’s dead,’ sobbed Stewart. ‘Mr Scown’s dead, I tell you.’

Ken approached the officer and knelt before him. Colin followed. Scown’s mouth hung open, showing the remnants of six or so malted milk tablets. He’d not had the saliva to dissolve them. Ken tried to shut his lips, afford him some dignity. Platten lifted Scown’s lids to reveal eyes devoid of life. John Arnold gently unbuttoned the officer’s shirt as though opening an unwanted gift and put an ear to his sunken chest. One glance at the men spoke a hundred words.

He began to pray.

‘Not Scown,’ sobbed Stewart.

No one moved or uttered a sound for an hour. A heavy blanket of shock settled on the crew, suffocating all words, muffling all movement. It seemed impossible that one of them had gone. Even though Scown had been ill, some still in their delirium thought he might be sleeping and wake for rations at tea.

Colin was haunted by Scown’s final words:
I see Mum, there’s Mum
. He knew the other lads – what was left of them, what was still human – longed for their mothers. Most cried out ‘Mum!’ as they slept. Colin wondered if he did.

Sometimes he walked around his mother’s back room in his dreams, as though he was actually there. Maybe he was. But if so, why wasn’t
she
there? If he
had
called out for her, why hadn’t she responded? A mother was the first person to hold you at birth – it made sense that she might come at the end. Who would hold Colin if he passed here?

He wouldn’t pass here – that was all there was to it.

When it came to evening rations, Platten nudged Ken and pointed to Scown and then looked out to sea. Colin thought about Scarface. An hour earlier he’d followed the boat like he was tethered to it. Did he know? Had he smelt death?

‘We can’t,’ said Ken, softly.

‘We’ve got to put him to sea.’ Platten gripped Ken’s arm. “We can’t keep him on here, Cooke. You know it.’

Ken looked pained. “We can’t let him go, not yet. It wouldn’t be decent. I’ll not give the order.’

Colin understood – it was too final.

Platten spoke more harshly. ‘It might not be decent if we don’t. He’s flesh and blood, and there are thirteen starving men on board.’ He paused. ‘You
must
give the order.’

Ken looked around at the crew. ‘Right, lads,’ he said softly. ‘Let’s, with dignity, move our officer.’ He looked at Colin and Platten. They needed no instruction. The three men tried to lift Officer Scown. Wasted as he was, it proved impossible. They simply hadn’t the strength.

‘The canvas,’ said Ken.

Gently, they rolled Scown into a section of it and positioned him on the gunnel while Arnold said a few words in prayer.

‘We commit his body to the deep, looking for the resurrection of the body and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who at his coming shall change our body that it may be like his glorious body. In accordance with the mighty working. Amen.’

As the young boy finished his words, Platten and Colin freed Scown; Ken held fast, unable to let the officer go. Scown’s shirt ripped and Ken was left with it in his hand as the body slipped into the water so quietly it was like he’d never been there at all. Colin put a hand on Ken’s shoulder. Ken showed him the cloth with a brass button still attached and put it in his pocket and patted it.

‘Won’t be the same without him,’ he said.

In the dying light afterwards rations were issued with even less enthusiasm than usual. Colin could barely swallow his Bovril tablet, even though his belly cried out for food. He hadn’t looked at the sea since they’d cast Scown into it; he knew Scarface would be there with his friends but couldn’t think about what they might be doing with the officer’s body deep below the surface.

Ken took the brass button from his pocket and turned it over in his palm, like it might cast a spell. In the fading day it was all that shone. ‘They died that you might live,’ he said.

‘What’s that, chum?’ asked Colin.

‘I don’t quite know.’ Ken looked baffled. ‘I thought I heard Scown say it. Just now. I really did. I can’t get it out of my head. Did you hear it?’

‘No.’ Though he hadn’t, Colin didn’t dismiss Ken’s words. He knew how real such voices and sights could be. The girl with sunlit straw hair had appeared to him as true as any of the crew.

‘What does it mean?’ wondered Ken.

‘What does any of it mean?’

Without warning, Ken sat up. Seemingly strengthened, he got his spear, ordered Platten to fetch some line, and tied the brass button tightly to the end.

‘Right,’ he said to Colin. ‘You drag this through the water, keeping it within my reach. Understand? The sharks will be attracted to the gold colour – you’ll see. We shall have one. Oh, I’ll catch us one.’