How To Be Brave (9 page)

‘Might still be more,’ said Colin, hopeful.

There were. Throughout the day more men joined them, making fourteen in total, all confined to a space designed for a dozen. Some were picked up from the sea during the afternoon, barely alive. Some were found clinging to another slowly sinking craft. All were cold and scared but able to find the strength to come aboard. All were greeted with joy, despite each of them meaning less water per man, less food, less room.

And then, as though they’d followed in the wake of the rescued men, tins of water and milk tablets and Bovril floated past too and were quickly retrieved.

By nightfall they knew the chance of finding anyone else was slim. The small crew was all that was left of the fifty-seven men who’d left Cape Town weeks earlier on the
SS Lulworth Hill
. Wordlessly they settled down to sleep, heads resting on one another’s shoulders, not enough room to lie down.

And so the first day on the raft ended as it had begun; more crowded but still with a sky full of stars.

After a day of stories Rose slept soundly. But she asked endless questions before climbing into bed. Was it okay if she liked Colin and Ken best because she’d met them first, just as she’d met Hannah and Jade first at infant school and so stuck with them since then? How old was Colin? How soon would he be saved? And was she really not at school tomorrow?

I responded as best I could. I said, yes, I supposed it was fine to like them best; Colin was twenty-one; and yes, she had to stay home. The rescue question I said I wouldn’t answer.

‘In a good story rescue never comes quickly’ was all I said.

At this she seemed to suddenly remember I was the enemy, the one who cut her finger ends and injected her flesh, and she turned the other way and pulled the duvet up over her head.

‘You’re still making the story easy,’ she said. ‘But I’m glad you said bastards.’

‘Well, it’s how the men would have spoken.’

‘Keep it like that,’ she said.

Silence again.

‘Do you want to read one of your books again?’ I asked her.

From under the covers I made out, ‘Won’t be about Grandad Colin.’

I supposed the fictional tales Rose had once enjoyed might now pale in comparison. I’d hoped to reignite her love of books while getting her to have injections but maybe I’d done the opposite. Still I suggested she put
War Horse
beneath her pillow just in case, but she grunted and I was dismissed.

I’d upheld my side of the bargain; I’d tried to be the storyteller, attempted to make magic, perhaps distracted her from diabetes.

As I headed to the door she lifted her head and said, ‘Anyway, I can just ask
him
when he’s rescued’

I frowned. ‘Who?’

‘Grandad Colin,’ she said. ‘He’ll tell me.’

‘How will you …’

But Rose had disappeared again. She faked a snoring sound, which made me smile. In her deepest slumber she never snored; she sometimes shouted and occasionally flapped her arms about but otherwise her night habits were gentle, quiet, childlike.

‘Remember when he told you to go to the shed?’ I’d tried asking her about that day often and she’d remained mute. ‘
How
did he tell you?’

Rose ignored me, continued fake snoring.

‘You said he came to see you in the dark. Did you mean when you were awake or maybe in your dreams?’

No answer.

‘Because I think I used to see him when I was little,’ I said. ‘And he came to talk to me when you were at the hospital. He sat with me while I waited. I didn’t know it was Colin then. I still don’t really know if I imagined it all.’

The fake snoring stopped but the shape beneath the duvet didn’t move.

‘I guess somehow he’s here,’ I said.

I think Rose fell asleep then.

I went back to my room but didn’t turn any lights on; I always saw better in the dark. After the day’s storytelling I was wide-awake, buzzing the way an actor must after a sell-out play. Suddenly, and despite my dread at mentioning Rose’s suspension, I longed to share it with Jake. I wished I could tell him I was more hopeful about coping until his return because I’d found something Rose was interested in. My heart sank; it would likely be weeks until he rang.

It occurred to me with sudden clarity that Jake must feel like Colin had on his boat. Surrounded by a platoon of men who’d no doubt now be firm friends, Jake must still miss home and at times feel alone in that strange land. While his tour of Afghanistan was supposed to last six months, there was always a chance that this could change. Like Colin, he’d never know when rescue might occur. Orders from high up didn’t care about feelings, about homesickness or about wives having temper tantrums. Colin had endured sharks and ruthless heat and not enough water; landmines and gunfire were Jake’s daily dangers, what might prevent him making it home.

In comparison, it was easy for me. At least I could escape if I wanted. I could walk to the countryside, visit my dad, call my mum, get a book from the library, or have coffee with Vonny.

I remembered the first time Jake went away – six years before, to the Falklands. Then I’d done all those things. Vonny had taken me and Rose, then only three, to stay at her mum’s villa in Tenerife. We’d sunbathed and caught colourful fish in rock pools and browsed quaint markets for gifts. I’d felt guilty that Jake was working while I had fun. I’d argued when he rang. I’d sworn that it was his fault he was away. I’d thoughtlessly rebuffed his suggestions of having someone stay with me, and I’d hung up on him twice.

In the dark, I realised with sudden light that being here with diabetes was not as bad as being away from it. I could conquer it face to face. Jake had to worry and wonder without the reassurance of seeing efforts take effect. I should make sure he returned to sanctuary after battle, to a strong woman after wounded men. To safety.

Get a grip
, I thought.
Your house is a disgusting mess, woman. You haven’t washed your hair in four days. Pull yourself together. Fight better. Fight like Colin had to, like Jake does every day. Like your daughter is.

I tidied the house. What example was I setting Rose by being so lazy while expecting her to manage diabetes? I washed pots that had been soaking since Monday. I picked up damp towels and three piles of dirty laundry and put them in the washer. I watered limp plants, polished dust-caked furniture, emptied bins, threw out newspapers and discarded food wrappers, mopped kitchen tiles, and vacuumed. It felt good; I was purged.

In the book nook I fluffed up the cinnamon cushions and dusted the shelf top and books. On the floor was Colin’s diary. I picked it up, sat in a cushion and sniffed the old pages. It was hard now to remember exactly the details of his face in the hospital. I’d not taken as much notice as I should have. Hindsight made me wish I’d listened more closely to all he’d said, studied him harder.

The writing inside his diary took me back to my childhood scribbled notes; I used to find comfort in jotting down thoughts. It was as though they somehow took better shape. A love of words had come down the generations, like a river through various countries; from Colin and his secret diary, to my father, an occasional songwriter, to my childhood scribbles, to Rose with her love of books.

I let a page fall open and Colin spoke to me, answered a question I didn’t even know I’d posed.

You think there’s weakness in it but I learned out there on the sea that asking for help is fine. I asked God for all manner of things while I tried to sleep to the sound of ailing men and angry ocean. I asked Him for things I knew He’d never be able to deliver and then cursed Him for proving me right. Wasn’t even sure I really believed? Never had before and today I’m even less sure. John Arnold told us,
Ask and Ye Shall Receive
. I realised maybe the asking was wrong. Ask for what you might receive and then you will. Drove me half mad thinking about it. So I asked for small things – small things a simple man might deserve. And looking back now, I suppose He delivered
.

I’ve always found it hard to ask for help. In our family we keep our problems to ourselves. We just get on with things. Jake is a private man too. But did I want Rose to grow up feeling she had to battle alone? Was it really so bad to admit when you’re not coping?

Hadn’t I cried out for help when Rose collapsed?

A man at war doesn’t fight alone – he has his comrades. A man lost at sea doesn’t survive without surrendering to the help of his crew. So I decided I’d call Shelley tomorrow and ask her to speak to Mrs White about Rose’s unfair dismissal. Shelley knew diabetes and would defend her better than I could.

Ask and Ye Shall Receive
.

I put the diary on the bookshelf and considered it a moment; I wondered again should I perhaps tell my dad about our discovery. Was it fair to keep it for just Rose and me? But I absolutely knew two things – one, that my dad would be happy we had the book; and two, Grandad Colin had guided us to it for a reason.

The following morning I called Shelley and told her what had happened at school. She listened, interjecting occasionally with a sympathetic ‘eh, pet’.

‘I’m sure I’m overreacting,’ I admitted. ‘I’m being too protective, making excuses. I want to protect Rose, but I can’t permit bad behaviour. I’m a strict mum but this wasn’t
like
her – she’s never pushed anyone or taken food.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Shelley. ‘She’s still in the very early days of coping with the changes that diabetes brings, not just to her body but to her physiological state. She’s anxious, depressed. I’ll speak to them today. Rose shouldn’t have been dismissed. No one is excusing anything. I’m sure an explanation to the parent of the other boy would be enough. Leave it with me, pet.’ She paused. ‘How are things other than that?’

It was a hard question to answer.

‘There’s a local support group,’ said Shelley. ‘A group of parents with children who have Type 1. Lovely people. I can give you their number.’

Though I’d realised that there was nothing wrong with asking for help, a support group wasn’t me. Sitting with strangers, discussing my intimate worries, it made me nervous. I could read stories on the internet if I needed them but I wasn’t comfortable sharing mine.

And anyway, we had Colin’s.

‘Remember you asked if there was anything Rose loved?’ I said. ‘Well, we found it – a story. Something she’s really enjoying. It hasn’t stopped her dislike of injections, I doubt anything can ever do that, but we haven’t missed any since that morning you were here.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Shelley. ‘There’s a girl I see whose mum sings songs as she injects her. Ever so funny. She does opera and all sorts. Everyone finds something. Well, I’ll get onto the school. Leave it with me and I’ll call you when I have any news.’

I was so indescribably grateful, but when I hung up realised I’d not said thank you.

Mid-morning, April came by with an apple pie, still warm. She wore her usual shoes that favoured practicality over style. She’d not bothered us since the shed incident. I let her in and she put the treat on the table and looked around, obviously admiring my now sparklingly clean kitchen.

‘I always do a spot of housework when I need to clear my head, lovey’ she said. ‘How’s young Rose? Ah, she’s here. Not at school?’

Rose came downstairs, empty cup in hand. I’d not seen her since breakfast. If I entered her room she responded to my friendly chat with basic replies, neither ignoring me nor interested.

‘I’m off all week,’ she told April.

‘Ah, there’re lots of bugs around. Best to take it easy.’

‘No, I got into trouble and they chucked me out.’

‘Rose,’ I snapped. ‘I’m sure April hasn’t got time for all that. Do you want another drink? Something else?’

‘Natalie’s just trying to get rid of me,’ Rose said to April.

‘Stop calling me that,’ I said. This was a new annoying habit she’d developed.

‘I have to go now anyway, run a few errands,’ said my nosy but harmless neighbour. ‘I made the apple pie without sugar so you can have some too, Rose.’

‘That’s very thoughtful,’ I said. ‘Now say thank you, Rose.’

‘Thank you Rose,’ said my unruly daughter, and she bounded up the stairs again.

‘She’s a real character,’ smiled April. I could tell she was itching to know what had happened at school but good manners preventing her asking.

‘Oh, she’s a character okay. Listen, it was very kind of you to make the pie. She can have a piece after tea.’ I remembered how thoughtful April had been when Rose went missing. I should thank her but was so useless at it. Felt like it was an admission of weakness. Of needing help. Silly, but true.

‘Well, I’ll get back to my jobs,’ she said. ‘May I have the pie dish back after you’re done, lovey? I made Winnie a chicken pie last month and she never did give me the dish back, so I’m one short.’

‘Of course.’ I went with April to the door, watched her walk to the end of our path. I still couldn’t thank her. What a hypocrite I was, insisting Rose say it, chiding her into good manners as most parents do.

‘April,’ I called.

She stopped, eyebrows arched in query.

‘I … I’ll make some sugar-free custard maybe for the pie.’

‘Perfect, lovey,’ she said, and disappeared.

Rose and I drifted through the rest of the day, floating on a sea of not knowing what to do without school’s anchor. We only found land in the book nook for our blood and words exchange. There dust particles danced around us in the winter sun. Rose gave up the fight, stopped calling me Natalie and surrendered to our history.

Colin’s story continued. Breakfast, lunch, tea and supper divided the chapters. His random diary entries merged with my whirlpool of words.

Just over a month of diabetes and already I held the finger-pricker and lancet as though I’d been doing it for years. Doing each many times a day, every day, meant no time to falter, no chance to forget. My hands mimicked this action at arbitrary moments; twist, click, test, press. Twist, click, test, press. I’d wake in the night with my fingers wrapped around an imaginary insulin pen.