How To Be Brave (12 page)

And then he rode off into the night, leaving me cold and warm and speechless and full of silent words. I closed the door and stood in the dark, my safe place.

Now when I worried that his absence would kill my love I thought of that night. I’d told Rose the story before she was ill and she’d said it was like one of those princess stories (which she’d never liked) but much nicer because it was real and Dad sounded cool.

And so it came to Friday, the end of Rose’s week off, and we reached day five on the lifeboat. At breakfast Rose came to the book nook with her diabetes box and half a bottle of water. Nothing changed in our story corner, only the shape of the cinnamon cushions after we’d sat in them. The many books remained on the shelves, still ignored by Rose.

‘Are you thirsty?’ I asked, concerned.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I just want it with me.’

‘Oh.’ I looked at it, felt guilt at remembering when Rose told me she was thirsty over and over, and I’d suggested she carry one around.

As I prepared the finger-pricker, she asked, ‘Do you think the rocking boat would have been nice at night? I do. I wish my bed rocked.’

‘Sadly, the bouncing boat just hurt their burnt skin and broken bones.’

I knelt at her feet to prick her finger end. She barely flinched now, just squeezed her eyes shut. Her blood read nine-point-two so I prepared the injection and continued the story.

‘The men slept very little,’ I said. ‘Was it any wonder? Imagine being starving hungry and desperately thirsty, and sleeping half sitting up on a cramped wooden floor?’

‘You’re asking
me
?’ Rose shook her head, held up the water bottle. ‘You forget I
know
what it’s like to be that thirsty! It’s totally crap. And I told you that bed at the hospital was too hard.’

‘Of course. I’m sorry.’

‘I used to dream about big jugs of icy water,’ she said. ‘I used to get up in the night and drink your Fanta. But it didn’t work. Nothing did. I was so so so thirsty. Would Colin have felt like that?’

‘Yes, like that,’ I said. So softly,
yes, like that
.

‘Fanta must be like how seawater is,’ said Rose. ‘Just makes you want more but not feel no better.’

‘
Any
better,’ I corrected gently.

I’d explained yesterday how drinking seawater was lethal; that the excess salt made you urinate more than the water gained from drinking it, so increasing dehydration. ‘Like the sugar in my blood making me wee so much,’ Rose had said, excited that she understood.

‘So how long would I live on a boat like that?’ she asked now. ‘Like without my insulin and stuff?’

There were various answers, none of them optimistic. In as little as twenty-four hours diabetic ketoacidosis would occur without insulin. Vomitting would follow, then dehydration, breathlessness, and confusion. Coma would eventually result. It might take hours, days, even weeks with the little food that the men on Grandad Colin’s boat had. But – as with all humans – the lack of water would be most dangerous, leaving Rose’s blood even thicker with sugars.

I wouldn’t sing the lines that answered her question. I wouldn’t give my daughter
that
hopeless story.

‘Tell me,’ she insisted.

‘But we don’t
need
to know,’ I said. ‘You’re never going to be in such a situation. Now, let’s do your injection and we can get on with the chapter.’

‘You don’t know that I won’t end up there.’

She was right; I didn’t. But I couldn’t spend my life imagining such scenarios. I felt sick now at the thought of her wasting away again, lost at sea. This week the colour had returned to her cheeks. She was the Little Pink that we’d almost called her when she was born. I wasn’t sure if it was her body returning to a more normal state or that she so loved Colin’s story.

Was he bringing her back to life as much as the insulin?

‘You’re a coward then, Natalie,’ said Rose.

‘Stop calling me that,’ I snapped. ‘I’m not Natalie, I’m your
mum
.’ I paused. ‘I suppose, I am a coward. I’m not as brave as you, but I’m trying. Now the injection and then your Bran Flakes.’

She looked away, her beautiful hazel irises dull as December evenings, her freckles like scattered red glitter.

‘Come on,’ I said, ‘you know we have to.’

Rose had to always eat a meal rich in starch and fibre, then and tomorrow and forever, or she would not last. Every day I’d have to urge her to eat. Even when she didn’t feel like it, even when she was ill. A sickness bug might mean a hospital stay again. But I wouldn’t think about that. I had to shrug off worries and open myself up to Colin’s story again.

‘Tell me then,’ she snapped. ‘Which day are we up to now?’

‘You know it’s day five,’ I said.

‘Just checking
you
bloody know,’ she said.

‘
Language
.’

‘
Story
.’

‘I imagine,’ I said, ‘that day five felt like the hundredth.’

I pushed Rose’s skirt up, gently squeezed her flesh and administered the injection, avoiding bruises. They’re curious, often appearing long after pinprick. Yellow the old ones, purple newer. We had to watch out for a more serious issue; lumps under the skin caused by having to have many pricked into the same spot.

‘Natalie, the story,’ urged my daughter.

I hadn’t the energy to berate her again.

‘When Colin woke that day,’ I said, ‘he felt utterly wretched, certain he couldn’t go on much longer. His tongue was swollen fat in his mouth with dehydration. It made it difficult at times to talk. Salt-water boils covered his arms and legs. But staying asleep was never an option…’

Once again I closed my eyes. I sank into the cushion and let the words wash over me. I saw the colours of the sea the way Colin had tried to describe – divine gold, vibrant green, purest blue.

And we were transported back to the lifeboat.

Back to the sea.

There was a game Colin played on the lifeboat to pass time. When looking back months later, he realised it had also prevented him jumping overboard. This game involved finishing a task or counting a certain number of things, and praying the reward was a ship on the horizon. So, if he managed to count sixteen blue fish while on lookout duty, say, a ship would arrive by lunchtime. Or if he saw a solitary dolphin, he’d see a ship at teatime. Or when it was his turn to hand out rations he’d decide that if he got it done without a single grumble from any of the crew, a ship would certainly arrive in minutes.

Each time Colin lost, he fought the desire to give in. Instead he decided he’d just been looking for the wrong thing. It wasn’t meant to be a dolphin but a shark. It was supposed to be eight
black
fish not sixteen
blue
ones. And the men always moaned so a day they didn’t definitely meant salvation.

In the absence of a notepad, the game replaced letter writing. It kept Colin’s thoughts in order, made him look forward. So he never stopped playing. Just one ship and he’d have won.

Sunrise on the fifth day and he whispered his game’s title –
Maybe today a ship
. But he was afraid to open his eyes and actually look. Nearby Ken muttered something and turned over, sleep still protecting him from reality. Colin never had the heart to wake a sleeping man from his temporary escape.

Last night, when his lookout duty ended, his partner, Officer Scown had told him to wake King for duty. The lad had looked so peaceful that Colin couldn’t do it. He chose to leave King sleep longer, yet hours earlier he’d thumped Young Fowler for spilling valuable water drops on the deck. Being on the lifeboat made the men both kind and cruel. Fatigue and dehydration drove the punch; regret filled the gap afterwards. Fowler – who reminded Colin of his brother Eric – rubbed his thin arm and turned away. Colin tried to say something but it stuck in his throat with the pieces of hard biscuit.

‘I’ll do lookout for another hour,’ Colin had told Scown last night in the dark. ‘Let’s leave King. I don’t think I’ll sleep anyway. I’m not tired.’

He felt wretched about Fowler. Also the boat had been particularly violent all night, rocking back and forth, splashing the men with water and pushing them into each other. Shrill screams dotted the black like gunfire as wood hit bones and rough material chafed bare skin. It was a miracle King had slept at all and Colin couldn’t disturb him.

Scown had looked at Platten, somehow also sleeping, and said he’d do another hour too. So he and Colin remained on the foredeck until the soft sameness lulled them to lethargy and they
had
to wake the other men.

Now Ken stirred, muttering something about a decent cuppa. Colin opened his eyes. Far on the horizon he spotted something almost as welcome as a ship – a fat grey cloud, puffy no doubt with water. Just the thought of crystal liquid falling into his open mouth and waiting cup made him breathe harder. During the days the sky was mostly cloudless. It was the kind of weather those back home would celebrate, encourage them to run back inside to get deckchairs and jugs of lemonade. Here they longed desperately for rain.

‘See that, lad,’ Colin said to Ken.

‘What?’

‘That cloud. Think it’ll come this way?’

‘Don’t get your hopes up, chum.’

‘Never know.’ Colin willed it to float their way, deciding if it moved west they’d see a ship later.

Officer Scown ordered that Platten ‘serve the grub’ but it wasn’t met with the cheerful cries of yesterday. Apart from what was essential – like ‘pass the cup’ or ‘you’re up next’ – conversation was subdued. Swollen tongues and parched throats made it too painful. Growing hopelessness meant no words were worth hurting that much for. But once the meagre breakfast had been consumed the men perked up enough to make half-hearted conversation.

Colin studied his seawater-soaked biscuit. ‘It’s not nearly enough, Chippy,’ he said.

‘Barely enough for a small child,’ said Ken.

‘We’ll not last, you know.’ Colin looked at the mouthful of liquid in his tin cup. ‘Not on this amount of water.’

‘Shhh, lad.’ Ken shoved his mate, but less roughly than they had been doing days earlier. ‘Don’t let the younger ones hear you. They look to us, you know. And morale is bloody low this past twenty-four hours. It’s only been five days and they think we’re doomed. Didn’t you hear them last night?’ He softly mimicked their words. ‘We’ve had it, we’ve had it. We’ll never be picked up.’

‘Five days,’ said Colin. ‘Can you believe it? Feels like so many more. No wonder they feel desperate. It’s the Second I feel for.’

They both looked to the spot under the awning where the Second Engineer lolled, his face rubicund, beard salt-caked, eyes yellow, chest sunken and feet rotten. Gangrene was eating the flesh away and the smell was pungent, sweet yet sour. Still he bore it well, never emitting more than a grunt.

‘He won’t eat,’ said Ken. ‘There’s nowt anyone can do to make him. I know – I’ve tried. Sat with him yesterday and held the cup to his lips but the bloody fool refused. Not sure if he’s delirious.’

‘That’s why we’ve got to believe a ship’s coming,’ said Colin. ‘It makes us get up, lad, makes us eat.’

‘Them young ’uns don’t think so today.’

Ken looked over at Arnold, Fowler and King, their thin shoulders hunched over as though to protect what little bit of hope remained in their hearts.

‘Do you?’ asked Colin.

‘Do I what?’

‘Think a ship’ll come?’

Ken didn’t reply. He studied his roughened, cracked hands, turning them over as though looking for something in particular. Then he picked up the spear he always kept close by as if this was his answer.

‘Do you
believe
?’ repeated Colin.

‘What does it matter to you?’ snapped Ken. ‘Whether I do or not won’t bring a ship, will it, lad? Won’t change a thing. But keeping this spear sharp and doing a bit of fishing every day, that’ll maybe keep us alive. Believing isn’t enough unless you
do
something.’

‘I know that,’ said Colin, hoarsely. ‘That’s why I keep looking out. It’s the doing of it that keeps me going. I have to get home.
Have
to. Stan never did … I
must
.’

‘Stan?’

‘My brother,’ said Colin softly. ‘Never came home from sea.’

‘I’m sorry.’ There was nothing else to say.

Breakfast done, the day dragged on, its hot sun oblivious to the misery of the crew below. The morose monotony was broken only by inadequate meals, lookout shift change, swapping for a sheltered spot under the canvas, and a dark cloud that had promised rain but passed over without bearing a drop. Colin watched it disappear. He pursed his lips to whistle – unaware he’d even done so – but nothing emerged.

‘Give us a tune,’ croaked Davies. Five days of coping with broken ribs had left the seaman too weak to move. The others took rations to him at each meal and helped him to the foredeck when he insisted on lookout duty.

‘What?’ Colin frowned.

‘You were about to whistle.’

‘Was I?’ He pursed his lips again and tried. Nothing. ‘Nowt there,’ he said. ‘My throat’s too dried up, lad.’

Just after noon, when the sun bore down most unbearably, the gunners – Leak, Bott and Bamford – began complaining. It was understandable. The three weren’t true seamen like the others, having had less than six months’ ocean experience and being accustomed to working on farms and the city street. On top of that, all of their clothing was now so rough and caked in salt, it was an agony to wear, and seawater boils covered any skin exposed to the elements. Tempers flared when bodies collided and swearing regularly coloured the air.

But the gunners’ negative words had a huge impact on the younger lads, many of whom held their heads in their hands and moaned.

‘We’ll never find land, you know,’ said Bott. ‘Not on this thing. It’s bloody useless. We’re just drifting aimlessly. Going nowhere.’

‘We’ll not get picked up either,’ said Leak. ‘We’ve not seen one ship in five days! What does that tell us? There aren’t any bloody ships. What’s the point in looking out? Might as well curl up and die.’

‘We’ll all die on here, I tell you,’ Bamford wailed.

‘Stop it,’ sobbed Fowler. ‘Weekes told me we’ll be picked up.’

‘What does he know?’ demanded Bott. ‘He’s a bloody joker that one. He’s teasing you, lad!’

Before Weekes could intervene, Officer Scown did. ‘Right, that’s it,’ he snapped. ‘We’ve no room for moaning minnies on here!’ He swept his arm over the smaller second boat. ‘If I hear any of you buggers talking nonsense, I’ll put you aboard
this
boat, give you some rations, and untie it and set you adrift. Do you hear me? And you can go to hell.’

He didn’t raise his voice – likely he was unable – but something in his tone shushed the grumblers. Silence fell on the rowdy crew. And it was at that moment that a large, juicy flying fish chose to land with a delicious plop on the deck. For a stunned moment, no one moved. They watched it wriggle and flap, its silver skin sparkling like slimy sugar in the sun.

Then Ken cried, ‘Grab him, lads!’ and all hands came to life.

‘Fetch the knife,’ ordered Scown.

Platten smashed its head against the deck and then divided it into fourteen bloody portions, while watering mouths hung open in anticipation. Once shared, it wasn’t quite large enough to make a hearty meal but it was moist and fresh. Platten passed the small pieces around.

Young John Arnold shook his head, said, ‘Give mine to the Second. I think he could do with it more than me.’

Most had already eaten their piece, sucking vigorously on every bit of bone.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Officer Scown.

‘He’ll not take it,’ said Ken, quietly.

‘He’s not even eaten his own,’ said Weekes, sucking blood from his fingers. ‘Look, he’s dropped it. Might as well give it to someone.’

The Second had barely acknowledged the fish’s arrival. He sprawled against a bench, his rotten feet in the constant puddle of water that pooled there.

Arnold knelt by him and said, ‘You need to eat else you’ll not get better. I’ve prayed each night for God to cleanse your feet. Here, please let me help you.’

Other men joined in the encouragement, chorusing his appeals with cries of, ‘Go on, chum, it’ll do you good’, but the Second refused to eat. His eyes were dead and his thin mouth was clamped shut like two pages in a discarded book.

‘May as well eat your piece, lad.’ Ken touched Arnold’s shoulder. ‘I’ll give the Second’s piece to Davies, if no one objects?’

Young Arnold ate but without the passion the other men had.

When they were all finished with their surprise morsels Ken nudged Colin, said, ‘I’m gonna do a bit of fishing again. Was a real bit of luck that fish landing on deck, but I mean to
make
us some luck from now on.’

Colin watched his mate take position; Ken knelt close to the edge, in what must have been a painful stance, so he could best reach a catch. Holding aloft the spear, his eyes never left the water. Some of the crew joined in, crying out at the sight of fish. Colin quietly played his game – if Ken caught one fish a ship would show by teatime, two and it would be in minutes.

He thought about Ken’s words earlier, that it was no good just believing something would happen, you had to actually do something about it. So he did something too. He held onto Ken’s shirt so he could lean even farther out, and cried, ‘There, Chippy, see that black one!’ along with the others.

Scarface put in an appearance after a while, two of his friends on either side. They swam alongside the boat, causing the crew to shrink back and move to the middle. After only minutes, the creatures disappeared beneath the waves.

‘I’d like to catch me one of them.’ Ken resumed his position, spear held aloft again.

‘Be hard to get the bugger aboard,’ said Colin.

‘You know the old superstition, don’t you?’ Ken said quietly to Colin. ‘A shark follows a vessel when they know death will visit.’

‘Now who’s despondent?’

‘It’s true.’

‘Maybe.’ Colin considered it. ‘But if that’s true, then dolphins mean protection and there’ve been plenty of ’em.’

He watched bubbles froth at the bow, spiralling and whirling as though dancing to a song he couldn’t hear. As if to prove him right, two dolphins surfaced just ahead. They leapt from the water in perfect unison, their sleek, grey bodies adorned with crystal dots. However low he felt, Colin never ceased to be awed by their beauty, by their clicking sounds bouncing off the water, by how they enjoyed play like small children, nudging and chasing one another.

‘Sharks’ll eat anything, you know,’ he said to Ken. ‘Nowt they won’t tackle. When I was in Sydney they caught one with a broken bloody chair inside it. Half a horse inside another and enough bones to feed a dog!’

‘I could eat a horse right now,’ said Ken. ‘Could eat anything. Could eat you.’

‘Wouldn’t taste good, mate.’

‘But a drink – oh, for a drink.’ Ken groaned.

‘Don’t. Just don’t.’

As though reminded of how little he’d eaten and drank, Ken put down the spear. ‘Enough for today,’ he said. ‘More tomorrow.’

Colin had lost another game.

In the evening, after another small meal revived them briefly, the men talked not just of home, but of love; of sweethearts, of fiancés, of wives, of girls they liked, girls they hoped to court, girls on the silver screen. Love revived more than their tiny cup of water. Even just imagining it irrigated the crew’s hopes of getting home. Platten had his wife and twins waiting there, Scown a wife and six-year-old daughter Wendy, and Ken had a girl, Kathleen, who had joined the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force and was in the Orkneys.

Colin didn’t have a girl but he liked listening to the others chat. Between their words he kept hearing the soft clacking of brass against teeth. Earlier, Scown had suggested sucking on a button to combat the endless thirst. He told the story of an old friend, who had sucked on a small stone, while in the desert, which kept the mouth from getting dry. Many of the lads had torn one from a cuff or collar and eagerly put it in their mouths. Colin’s was brown; he ripped it from his breast pocket. It helped a little, reducing his thirst by retaining what little moisture he had in his mouth. From then on he kept it to hand, in his worn top pocket, or nestled beneath his tongue.