How To Be Brave (27 page)

There were no dreams that morning. There were no heavenly signs. No calm. No extra glorious sunrise. The light came up as it had every day. The stars died. The boat rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell. No relent, no clouds.

Colin woke in great pain and doused his eyes with seawater just so they would open. His burnt hand throbbed ceaselessly but acceptance dulled the pain in his head. It wasn’t surrender. He did not give in. Rather, in the deepest black of night he had realised that there might be far worse ways for a man to go. He could live a hundred years and not witness what the lifeboat had shown him in seven weeks. He could make a thousand friends and not know mates like the thirteen men he’d known here. He could travel to every land on earth and not see such beauty and brutality as on the ocean.

If a ship didn’t show today Colin had not lost. How could a man who had looked so hard for one die with regret? If no one came he was not alone. He never had been. One truly great friend was worth a dozen more.

With an agonised groan he rolled over, looked around the lifeboat. A place that eyes have beheld so many times becomes forever imprinted there. He knew that wherever he went he would be able to see it as clearly as if he were still here. The wood caked in salt, the rows of empty tins, the life jackets of mates gone, the greying sails hanging limp from their masts, the foredeck where hope of a ship drove each man on lookout; and Ken.

His friend slept in the well, curled tightly, feet bare and black as the fireback at home. Colin knew that calling out would not rouse him; there was not enough strength in his voice now. So, bracing himself for more pain, he crawled across the wood. At Ken’s side he rested a moment and then poked him. Nothing. Again, he jabbed his friend in the back.

Nothing.

‘Wake up, Ken,’ he croaked.

Nothing.

Colin put his head on his mate’s shoulder. There was nothing to rest against but bone. They must have each lost a quarter of their body weight, their fat and muscle wasting away like butter in the sun.

Colin remembered how back home he had occasionally criticised his mother’s stew, moaning about some bit of gristle or hard carrot. How he longed now to taste that meaty meal. To thank her profusely for making it.

Perhaps it was better he never got home. What pitiful sight would he make? How much would he scare his mother with his burnt skin and gaunt frame? Though he so wanted to get there, to see her again, might it be kinder to go as Stan had – forever young.

The boat moved suddenly and Colin fell off Ken, cracking his head on a bench. He sat up and looked for Scarface but the sea was shark free, gently rolling and dotted with amber diamonds.

‘If you’re gonna wake a man, wake him with a ciggy.’ It was Ken. Ken had moved, not the boat.

‘Christ,’ said Colin. ‘I thought you were a goner, mate.’

‘Any cigs then?’

Colin reached for the tins. ‘Two left,’ he said. He opened one of the water tins they had retrieved from the plane drop, poured a cupful and passed it to Ken.

‘You first,’ said Ken, but Colin made him drink.

Then he had a full cup, savouring the plentiful portion. He found some chocolate in the new rations and they shared a piece, the sugary chunk giving Colin and Ken the energy to scan the horizon, east to west, then west to east, seeing only the unmerciful expanse of the rolling Atlantic. The sharks were increasing in number, led by Scarface. Rows of sleek fins cut through the surf. Colin once read somewhere that a shark’s fins are used for balance, that their movement is much like an aircraft’s flight and if they stop moving they sink.

‘So what about them cigs,’ said Ken.

‘Should we save them?’ said Colin.

‘For what? How many tomorrows do you think there are now, lad?’

‘What say we share one and save one?’

‘Suppose, lad.’ Ken lit one and inhaled, coughing hard but shaking his hand at Colin when he tried to take the cigarette off him. ‘No, I don’t care,’ he said. ‘So what if it kills me.’

Colin took his turn. Their smoke spiralled into the blue like an Indian signal for help. Around the boat the sharks continued their surveillance. It occurred to Colin that they sensed something. Perhaps Scarface knew the two of them could not last much longer and had invited his friends to the feast. What a disappointing meal he and Ken would make.

When their eyes grew tired of scanning the sea, they crawled to the foredeck – at least if they slept they were eternally in position for lookout.

Half-heartedly, Colin played his game. He counted waves hitting the boat edge – one, two, three, four, five, six, and lost count and started again. If he could just get to ten he’d see a ship. One, two, three, four … Come on, lad, get to ten, and a ship. Try again. He’d keep trying until he died or a ship turned up, whichever came first. One, two, three…

‘Today a ship,’ he said, sleepily.

‘You said it wrong.’

‘What?’

‘You missed out … the … maybe,’ said Ken.

‘Did I?’

‘Yes … chum.’

‘Couldn’t … think of … it…’

And so they fell asleep again. When they woke, in unison, the sun still watched over them, a cruel but constant guardian. Sharks continued circling on all sides. One of Ken’s most painful saltwater boils had come to a head and burst. Wearily, he cleaned it with a bit of rag and threw the dressing over the side.

What resulted was a frenzy and it very nearly killed both men. The water around the material reddened as blood merged with salt. A small shark swam to investigate. In a watery flash Scarface was upon the creature, rows of vicious teeth smashing together. Water churned and the small shark raced off, blood streaming from an injury hidden below the surface. He got no farther than a few feet before sharks, large and small, devoured him.

Around them the water frothed and bubbled. Colin recalled each of their mates’ sea burials and how the water had whipped that way then. He covered his ears, realised Ken had done the same.

‘They’ll turn the bloody boat over,’ mouthed Ken.

Perhaps it was best. Perhaps it had all come to this. Perhaps Scarface, their constant companion, would be their end. Perhaps he was Death and not the sunlit-straw-haired girl.

Where
was
she? Why hadn’t he seen her since yesterday? Had it been yesterday or the day before that? Maybe she had given up. No longer believed he’d get home. No longer cared.

And then he saw Scarface, away from the others and heading straight for the boat’s stern. He hit before Ken had seen and the two men fell into the boat’s well. They grabbed the gunnel and pulled themselves to their knees, in time to see him returning at speed. At the last minute he dived beneath the boat.

‘Where’d he go?’ cried Ken, eyes full of horror.

‘Christ! He means to sink us!’

Fight returned to Colin. He got Ken’s spear to fend the brute off if he resurfaced, but realised the fight was only in his head. His body was still as weak as ever, and he dropped the weapon.

Scarface lashed out with his tail, spinning the lifeboat on its axis for two complete circles. Pausing as though to tease them, he then dove beneath before emerging to strike mammoth blows to the side. Finally he dropped back to his usual position, swimming astern, watching. Then he disappeared.

‘He’s leaving,’ croaked Ken.

‘Thank God,’ said Colin.

‘He’ll have us by the end of this day, I tell you.’

‘He knows it’s his last chance,’ said Colin.

‘How could he know that?’ snapped Ken. ‘You’re talking daft, lad. It’s just another day to him.’

‘I just
know
it,’ said Colin.

‘I’m all in.’ Ken slumped in the well. ‘How can we keep on with this? How can we do it anymore? They’re not coming for us. Don’t you realise it? So what if another plane comes. They can’t land, can’t pick us up. What they gonna do – keep dropping bits of water and food. They’ll be dropping it for corpses soon.’ He paused. ‘I’m all in, chum. All in. Tell my Kath I was…’

‘No.’ Colin grasped Ken’s arms, hard.

He couldn’t bear the thought of another night with no ship. The feeling was so acute he thought he might pass right out. Where could he find the strength to hope when all muscle had gone? How could he find enough for two if Ken didn’t believe?

‘No,’ he said. ‘I won’t hear any more messages. Do you understand, I won’t hear it. You’ll tell her yourself and I’m going to be with you, do you hear me?’

But Ken had fallen asleep.

‘Do you hear me?’ Colin said softly. ‘You and I are going to get home, lad, either when a ship comes or because we reach land.’

He crawled to the foredeck and fell asleep there, posed for watch. And this time he dreamed, not of home or a kitchen or a strange book-filled place, but of the lifeboat. All the men were present and they were as healthy and well as when they’d been on the
SS Lulworth Hill
.

Weekes wore his hat the wrong way for comic effect and joked about their quarters not having flush toilets. On a bench the young gunners, Bott, Bamford and Leak, shared a ciggie and teased one another. Nearby King listened to them with a smile. The Second sat astern, quietly mending his trousers. Stewart played a game of cards with Platten, arguing back and forth about whose hand was better. Davies, his ribs not broken, lounged against a mast, contentedly reading a book. John Arnold stood, reading a passage from his bible, and Officer Scown sat on the boat edge and cleaned his boots to a shine and smiled at the men before him. Only Ken slept, curled up in the well, perhaps dreaming this very vision himself, perhaps watching Colin sleep on the foredeck.

In the middle of the boat was Young Fowler.

He watched Colin. His hair was brushed flat as though for church and his cheeks pink with health. Joy filled Colin’s chest.

He said over and over, ‘Am I ever glad I got to see you again! By, lad, you do look good! I really wanted to say … well, I really … I never meant to…’

‘No need to say anything,’ smiled Fowler. ‘I know it. We went through a shocking time, mate, but we’re over the worst now. You’ve got a bit to get through yet though. You have to wake up.’

Colin didn’t want to wake. This felt like home now. It would be easy to surrender and stay here, among friends. He looked down at his hands and they were smooth, not blackened or burnt or calloused. He touched his stomach and it was muscled, firm and well fed. His clothes were the day-to-day uniform he’d worn on the ship. And he was not hungry or thirsty.

You have to wake up, Grandad
.

Colin turned around.

On the foredeck sat the girl. She wore a strange kind of one-piece suit made of fur-like material, with a zip up the front. It was the colour of his mother’s garden lilacs and had purple hearts all over it. She squinted in the sun and pointed out across a sea so calm he leaned over and looked at his face in its mirror. No beard, no sunburn, no shrunken skull. He was a young man again.

‘You have to wake up, Grandad,’ she said again.

‘Am I really your great grandfather?’ Colin smiled at her and there was no pain in the action.

‘Yes, you will be, but only if you wake up and see the ship.’

‘I don’t want to wake up.’ Colin’s voice was strong. ‘It’s good here.’

‘It
is
good here.’ She smiled, her hazel eyes flecked with gold. ‘But you’re not supposed to stay. You’ve still got stuff to do.’

She jumped up then and came to him. ‘I wanted to stay asleep one time,’ she said. ‘But then there was this amazing story that I just had to get up for and it’s about to end now and if you don’t wake up it won’t end right.’

Colin wanted to pat her head but felt shy. He’d never had much to do with children, especially girls. Boys he knew. Brothers he’d plenty of.

‘Let’s get to ten,’ she said, tugging on his sleeve.

‘Ten?’

‘The waves,’ she said. ‘You said if you could just get to ten…’

She led him to the foredeck, her small hand around his larger one. Colin sat next to her and she began counting waves. Behind them the crew began singing a sailor’s hymn that Colin knew well. Young Fowler whistled and Officer Scown ruffled his flat hair.

‘One…’ said the girl. ‘Two … three…’

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Rose,’ she said. ‘Four … five…’

‘Like my mother,’ he said.

‘Is it?’ She seemed surprised.

‘Yes. Six … seven … eight …’ He paused.

‘No, you finish,’ she said.

‘Nine…’

Colin woke. Pain again. Raw skin. Dry eyes. Tight bones. Empty belly. Burnt hand. No girl. No Fowler. Just the sun beating down and the waves moving the boat. Waves. He opened his eyes. Watched one break at the bow.

‘Ten,’ he croaked.

Then he looked to the horizon, at the shimmering heat. Nothing. That’s what he had woken for. Nothing. He sat up with difficulty. Saw Ken sitting opposite him, staring morosely out to sea. Had he died sitting there, eyes forever open? Was he going to have to put his friend to sea? He could not do it.

Behind Ken, far away: something.

Something
.

Colin got to his knees, shaded his eyes and lo oked harder. Grey against blue.

‘A ship.’

Colin realised his voice had failed altogether.

‘A ship.’

Excitement had killed his words.

‘A ship,’ he managed to croak.

Ken turned. He was not gone. He looked at Colin and then towards the horizon. His face broke into a gash of a smile. With the aid of the mast, Colin got halfway to his feet. It surely was a ship. It could not be a vision like all the others he’d seen on the lifeboat, not when Ken had seen it too. It could not be a cruel mind trick. If it was then the dream and the girl – Rose, her name was Rose – had lied, and that was more than he could bear.

No, it was a ship, on the horizon. Today a ship. Today a magnificent white ship cutting through the water, heading their way.

Colin had won the game.

‘A ship,’ he cried. ‘A ship, Ken, a ship!’

‘She’s heading this way.’ Ken crawled to the mast. ‘She must have seen us. She knows we’re here.’