How To Be Brave (7 page)

What had he done? How must he have felt? What must it have been like?

I closed my eyes.
Let it in
, I thought.
Let him in. You know this story
. Rose tugged my arm roughly. She pulled up her nightie, revealed a small area of skinny thigh so I could inject her. Now
she
closed her eyes.

‘I’ll tell you,’ I said.

As I began to tell her the story of Colin, we no longer sat in the book nook. The early sun no longer landed gently like an appeasing mother’s hand on our heads; orange cushions no longer supported our bodies; Rose no longer argued and scowled and frowned.

And I no longer struggled to find the right words, to find the character. When I spoke I was Colin and the verses came easily, like the lyrics to a song I’d never forgotten. I spoke for him, and I could smell salt and oil and fire, and the ship rocked and tipped and rolled, and we were there.

Once upon a time there was a ship called the
SS Lulworth Hill
. She was a very smart ship and she was on her way back to England, across the South Atlantic Sea. World War II had started four years earlier, on Colin’s seventeenth birthday, and many men had been lost fighting all over the world. Now though, as the
Lulworth Hill
made her way steadily across the sea, the allies were beginning to defeat the Germans.

One sunny afternoon in March all the men were hard at work, painting and cleaning the decks. This is the tradition on a ship that’s on its way home. Colin polished the rails until they looked like silver, and he whistled happily. The men had always called him the Merry Whistler. ‘Give us a tune,’ they would say on quiet days. And if he was in a jolly mood Colin would reward them with a bright melody. But if they caught him on a grumpy day, they would regret asking, and the air would be filled with an angry tune.

Today’s song was
Whistle While You Work
.

Whistle, whistle, whistle
.

When the crew finished cleaning the ship that afternoon they were worn out. They sat on the deck with cigarettes and mugs of tea. Colin mended his shirt, and enjoyed the cool of the evening and the crew’s chatter. Being only nine degrees from the equator meant it was very hot all day, so they counted the minutes until the sun sank. Spirits were high tonight because they were heading back to Hull and travelling at twelve knots meant it would only take a week.

Proceed independently for homeport at all speed
, the Captain had ordered.

In the glow of the setting sun, the men began to talk about loved ones waiting at home. They poked fun at a young lad who said there would be a letters from film star Lana Turner awaiting him.

Then they all sang a song about the white cliffs of Dover.

Colin’s parents were anxious for his return. He felt he travelled too much to find a girl. He had been all over the world, seen New York and much of Africa. He knew really that blaming travel was an excuse since so many of the other men had managed to find love.

Colin liked single life. He was happy as he was. The Merry Whistler.

He looked towards the horizon and wondered what his parents were doing. His mum had probably made tea hours ago and washed the pots by now. What day was it? Friday. Maybe they’d had fish. Or maybe strict war rationing meant just bread and jam. Food stamps were needed in England to buy meats, canned milk, cheese, butter and all tinned foods.

Colin could picture his dad smoking a pipe and reading the paper. Maybe he was seeing things too prettily. Life would be different there now. The war had changed even small things.

At seven-thirty a ship gunner cried, ‘Torpedo on the starboard beam!’ The shout broke into Colin’s happy thoughts.

A torpedo is a bomb that swims under water. All seamen are terrified of them. Never had the men finished a tea break so fast. Cups and biscuits scattered all over the deck. Men cursed and screamed and crashed into one another. Colin remained calm. He watched the torpedo speed past and gulped relief.

But they were not safe yet.

An enemy submarine surfaced two hundred yards away. The
Lulworth Hill
gunners took their positions and fired three shots, but missed. The sub disappeared in a fizz of bubble and foam. The Captain ordered more speed. Colin dressed more warmly and waited for orders by his lifeboat station.

He looked in the boat and tried to imagine living on it for a few days. What would it be like?

At ten o’clock the submarine surfaced four miles away. It was much faster than the ship so there was nothing they could do but wait to see what happened. The Captain told them to get some rest.
Sleep in your life jackets
, he ordered. Six men went on lookout, and the rest retired to their cabins.

In his room Colin wrote a letter to his mother. Writing always comforted him. He liked seeing the neat sentences after a hard day. And most days at sea were hard.

Colin was responsible for maintaining and repairing equipment. He kept deck areas right, and also did his fair share of lookout duty. He managed the cargo gear and the machinery, and he took care of lifesaving equipment. He loved being at sea. He took pride in everything he did.

In his letter Colin told his mother about the torpedo and how the men had irritated him with their silly behaviour. He knew he’d be home before she received the note, but still he wrote and wrote and wrote.

The last word was his name.

Then – surprisingly – he slept. Until he was thrown from his bunk when an explosion rocked the ship. He staggered to his feet. Then a second blast threw him against the wall. There was no time to waste. He had to get out, now.

On deck it was chaos.

‘We’re going to die!’ someone screamed.

‘Need to get out! Need to get out!’ yelled another.

There was grey smoke from the explosion and the sound of screeching metal as the ship strained.

‘God, help me!’ came another cry.

Men Colin had treated like family, who had enjoyed cups of tea last night, had changed in an instant. Through boiling steam, they yelled and attacked one another. Some had put on their best suits while others were dressed in warm layers with a life jacket on top. Some curled up on the deck floor and didn’t move.

Colin’s cabin mate was a Birmingham boy who often drank rather too much rum. He now ran about in just a vest and underpants. Then he climbed over the railings and leapt into the sea. Colin didn’t know if he’d never see him again.

But he knew he must abandon ship.

Get out, get out, get out
, he thought.

Seeing angry torrents of water just thirty feet below, he knew a second’s delay could be fatal. He ran desperately to his lifeboat station, but the boat-deck there was under water.

Through smoky mists came shrill cries for help. Shouts of ‘Jump, for God’s sake jump!’ guided Colin along the railing. He didn’t call out. He just looked for escape.

Get out, get out, get out
, he thought.

Colin reached the front of the ship, the bow. Opposite, the stern had disappeared into the sea. He heard another boom of fire and knew the ship would not last much longer. Smoke and oil smells filled the air. Waves rolled and roared. Men ran about the now sloping deck.

So little time had passed since the first torpedo that the propellers were still spinning, half in and half out of the water.

‘Don’t stand there gawping – jump!’

Colin didn’t know where the voice came from. Someone was crying nearby, but he couldn’t see them. Probably one of the very young lads. Some were only seventeen and away from home for the first time.

Get out, get out, get out
, he thought.

So Colin stopped gawping and he jumped.

He wrapped his arms around his chest, shut his eyes tightly and straightened his legs so he’d hit the water easily. As he plummeted through darkness he realised he might not survive. No one would go on after him. He’d be forgotten. One of many men lost at sea. He always gave solid advice and a shove in the arm when his friends felt down. Now he wished someone might do that to him.

I’m just going to go and lie in bed from now on and that’s it
.

Where did the words come from?

Stay there and wait for my long-forever sleep
.

What sleep? There would be no sleep now. What strange words. They must just be the rush of cold air. The approaching sound of surging water.

An icy blast forced the words from him.

Colin opened his eyes. In the bubbles he saw the letters in the note he’d written to his mum earlier. He saw pages drowning. Down, down, down he went. Deeper, darker, kicking hard, trying to surface. Turbulence pulled him.

When the
SS Lulworth Hill
sank she was greedy. She took those aboard and many who had jumped free. Turbulence happens when a ship sinks. It makes those who’ve escaped think they’re being sucked down too. But it’s just the water whirling. It soon stops. So if a seaman fights hard enough he will surface.

Colin did fight hard. He thought his lungs would give out. He had sucked them flat by the desperate need to breathe. Then, just when he was in danger of taking in water, he shot violently to the surface.

Gasping and coughing, Colin tried to stay afloat. Then he remembered his life jacket and allowed it to support him. The water circled wildly about, a mix of salt and sticky fuel oil.

Many cries of ‘Help me!’ pierced the night. Sound increases when it travels over water so Colin couldn’t tell if they were near or far.

‘Over here!’ he cried. ‘Ahoy there! Over here!’

It was hard to see through the wreckage and surf and mists. Bits of wood and boxes and bottles drifted past. Colin knew provisions would be needed to survive. Every box could carry them, but he couldn’t hold onto any. He bobbed about like a bit of twig caught in a river whirlpool.

Again he called, ‘Anyone there! Ahoy there! Over here!’ The effort made him retch.

Then he realised the turbulence was fading. His fight to swim grew easier. The
SS Lulworth Hill
must have gone.

Sadness stopped Colin’s vigorous paddling. Gone. The grand ship, only three years old, destroyed in minutes and heading for the ocean floor. A sinking ship is not only greedy but also heartless. She doesn’t care what she takes. Some say the sea doesn’t care, but ships care less. On board were men and gifts from various ports and photos and rum and sugar and memories.

Colin suddenly had a vivid memory. He saw First Officer Scown’s little girl, Wendy, waving the ship off. She had been allowed aboard and had jumped with excitement at the flush toilets. Not many people had such a thing. How long ago that seemed now.

Colin mentally punched himself.

Right, the ship’s gone
, he thought.
Don’t dwell on it. Get on with you
.

He swam backwards for speed. He hoped to find something to climb onto. Someone to share his search. It was best to swim away from the oil, but he hated leaving where others might be.

The voices died.

The stars overhead twinkled so cheerily they seemed laugh at Colin.
Where are you going, young man
, they smiled.
How will you survive, alone down there, cold and tired and hundreds of miles from land?

He wouldn’t think about the dangers. He wouldn’t think about the sharks that swam in these waters. Or if he would find some sort of boat. Or how long he’d last without fresh water and food. Or how hard it would be on his own.

Was he too far away from where the ship had sunk to hope for a lifeboat? How long had he been swimming? All Colin knew was aching legs, stomach muscles resisting the oil he’d swallowed, and the sting of salty water.

Then he knew pain – suddenly in the back of his head.

What the devil
?

Colin felt about in the dimness. It was some sort of boat. Maybe one of the smaller boats the
Lulworth Hill
had carried. Relief warmed Colin’s bones. Now he could escape the ocean, search for provisions and find others.

The life jacket made climbing aboard a struggle. So he undid the straps and threw it in first. Then he grabbed some rope and pulled himself in too.

The exertion left Colin sprawled on his back, panting. He was overjoyed to be on a solid surface again. When he’d caught his breath, he looked about. Listened. All was silent, except for the sea. The wind got up and made his shirt flap, so he put the life jacket back on and tied it tightly.

Was he the only one left?

The
Lulworth Hill
had left Hull with fifty-seven men aboard. Surely she couldn’t have taken them all to the ocean floor with her?

Colin’s brother Stan had been lost at sea two years ago when his ship, the
Trevarrack
was torpedoed and sank southwest of Cape Clear. A third officer at only twenty, Stan was one of forty-five that went down. Colin’s mum rarely spoke of it, but he knew she grieved deeply each time he left for the ocean. She cried when his older brother Alf, a ship Captain, left to sail too.

But both of them chose the sea for their life, a ship for their home, a cabin for their bedroom.

Now Colin’s home had gone.

‘Ahoy there!’ he called through cupped hands. ‘Anybody out there?’ His voice died on the wind. ‘Ahoy there! Someone,
anyone
!’

It seemed there wasn’t. There was nothing to do but wait. Nothing to do but watch the stars and try not to think about what morning might bring.

Despite being cold and wet, Colin’s eyes grew heavy. He curled up in the middle of the lifeboat. He wished he had a letter to write. He wondered if his parents were warm in bed. He imagined what Stan must have gone through. Was it better to have gone down with the ship?

Maybe Colin would sleep. Just for a moment. Then he would shout for the others again. Then he would look at the provisions.

Then he would fight.

I stopped talking. Really it had felt like reading, even without a book in front of me. Or recalling maybe. I looked at Rose. During the story I’d glanced at her, but just briefly, for fear of breaking the spell that sparked her eyes with gold and slackened her mouth like an old hammock. November sun had warmed her face; a strand of red-blonde hair had fallen from its clip; next-door’s ebony cat had perched on the windowsill and stared at us.

But Rose hadn’t noticed any of it.

Now she realised I’d stopped speaking, the magic died in a stormy, scowly puff. She looked around and seemed surprised to be in the book nook and not far out on an ocean. Reality clamped her lips tight again. She roughly pushed the loose strand of hair aside and squinted at me through the pathetic light.

‘That can’t be it,’ she said. ‘It was only two minutes long.’

The clock defied her; twenty minutes had slipped by like mast rope through a sailor’s hands. Rose’s quick change from contented, glowing child to scowling brat with flat eyebrows reminded me of an interview I’d watched once. Marilyn Monroe’s friend had described how she ‘became Marilyn as though a light switch had been flicked on’. Something mystical happened and her body lengthened, her voice changed, her skin lit up. With Rose, a light switch had been flicked off.

‘Did you enjoy it?’ I asked. ‘That’s why it felt quick.’

Stubbornly, she shrugged. ‘Suppose, yes. But you can’t do
once a bloody time
at the beginning again.’

‘
Language
.’

‘You’re telling it to me like I’m a baby.’

‘I’m not.’ I was hurt. ‘I’m just trying to do it the way you’ll like it.’

‘No, you’re doing it the way you
think
I should have it!’ She kicked at the bottom row of books. ‘You’re talking down to me. Just tell me the real story. I’m in the top English group, remember.’

‘But…’ Had I imagined the magic?

‘It got a bit better at the end. I’ve got more questions than answers. It’s not fair – I can’t just go to school with them all messy in my head!’

‘Surely the best stories leave you feeling that way,’ I said. ‘Remember you asked me things for weeks after we did the Narnia books.’

‘Is Colin going to be totally on his own forever now?’ she demanded. ‘You
have
to tell me or I won’t concentrate at school.’

‘You’ll be fine – it just means you have something to look forward to,’ I paused. ‘Did it make your injection hurt a bit less?’

‘No,’ she snapped, knocking over her empty cereal bowl, spilling the remains of milk on the cushion. ‘I want more and that might make it not hurt. Tell me if Colin finds any of his friends. Does he see any sharks? What will he eat? Why did…’

‘Rose,’ I said, making great effort to be patient. ‘We can find out tonight at tea time. It’s not
that
long to wait. Remember our agreement? I said I’d tell you everything about him if you stop messing around for blood tests and injections.’

‘I never agreed.’ She stood, arms crossed, eyes narrowed to slits. ‘I never actually said anything, remember?’

‘When you were sitting here this morning, I took that as your consent.’

‘I’m not going to school.’

‘Oh, you are,’ I said.

Where had the magic gone? How could words that had soothed and silenced her so much be forgotten this quickly? Be so harshly criticised? Was it going to be worth conjuring up paragraphs again if she fought so hard in between? How would I tell the story right? Without it I feared another visit in the night, another ghostly daughter telling me she wanted to fade away, another white face asking me to say goodbye to her dad.

‘I don’t like school,’ she said.

‘You
love
school.’

‘Not anymore,’ she said.

‘Why not?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Her voice was tiny now; the fight died.

‘It matters to me,’ I said softly. ‘Tell me why you …’

‘I’m going to get ready for school,’ she said, and headed towards the stairs.

‘But I thought you…’

She had gone. I stood in the book nook with the box of diabetes paraphernalia in my hand and the weight of failure in my head. Rose might have harshly critiqued my first attempt at telling this story, but I had felt amazing when I brought Colin to life. Something odd happened that I couldn’t explain; what I’d read and what I imagined merged like two paint shades on a palette. Maybe this was how the actors I’d watched at work pulled it together?

I went upstairs and stood at Rose’s bedroom door, watched her put books into her glittery Hello Kitty bag.

‘Don’t forget the glucose tablets, just in case,’ I said.

She’d not yet experienced the dreaded hypo. The nurse had explained how blood sugar levels of less than four make a diabetic dizzy, hungry, sweaty, and unable to concentrate. How this needs treating immediately with glucose. Now Rose’s blood sugars were slowly coming down to a more normal level, the risk of one grew.

I feared it happening at school and no one noticing, least of all Rose, who might not even realise what was going on. I found myself watching her for every sign, over-analysing every sudden tantrum, every yawn and expression of feeling odd.

‘I’ve got them,’ snapped Rose.

‘And put your medical bracelet on.’

‘I have.’

‘And remember your new phone.’ I’d bought her one, just in case.

‘Can’t you talk about anything else?’

I didn’t know what to say. Was there anything else right now?

So I went downstairs and sat at the table and listened to her activities. Only nine and she was more independent and contrary than any other child I knew. Perhaps there was one similar. I saw myself aged ten, listening while the lady next door explained how I should pick the garden flowers by cutting at an angle, so they lived longer. I saw myself nod politely and then wrench up roses with bare hands.

How would I have coped with diabetes? Would I have listened to the things adults suggested? Taken the pain without tantrum?

When Rose left to meet her friends on the corner, with no word of goodbye or glance my way, I sat for a long time at the table, staring at nothing. The house felt cold, even though the heating had just gone off. I rubbed my arms to warm them. I’d never felt so alone. I felt if I opened the door nothing else would exist, that the road and lawns would have been sucked into some void, leaving only me.

I put my head on my arms and closed my eyes. When I looked up there was a candle on the table, its flame flapping like a tiny orange butterfly. Not just any candle – the one I’d removed from the pumpkin.

He’ll get the candle
, Rose had said.

I looked around. Who’d put it there? Was Rose home?

Somewhere in the house was whistling; a merry tune I sort of recognised. Perhaps the window cleaner had turned up a week early. I looked outside. No one. Besides, the sound was too close and clear to belong to anyone beyond the walls. I went into the hallway, looked upstairs.

‘Is it you?’ I called. What was I saying? Who did I mean?

The whistling stopped. I listened. Radiators clicked, still emptying. The clock by the small window marked my wait.

‘Colin?’

I began up the stairs but the phone stopped me. I opened my eyes. Saw the kitchen. The table. No candle. I’d fallen asleep in the chair. How long had I been out? The phone continued ringing.

I picked it up. ‘Hello, Mrs Scott? It’s Mrs White.’ Rose’s headmistress. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an
incident
. Can you come into school?’

‘An incident? Is Rose okay?’ Visions of hypos and unconsciousness made me close my eyes.

‘Yes, she’s fine.’

‘Is it a hypo? Did she …’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘You can’t just ring and tell me vaguely that there’s been an incident when a child has diabetes!’ I cried. ‘I’ll imagine the worst.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs White, in the least apologetic voice possible. ‘I assure you Rose is physically fine but she’s locked herself in one of the toilet cubicles and she won’t come out. She also stole some food from the canteen, and she pushed another child and injured him.’

‘
Stole
is rather a strong word,’ I said. ‘We pay for school dinners so it’s hardly theft. I’ll come straight there.’

It took ten minutes to reach the school gates, another five to get through the office’s strict security, and a further two to find myself standing outside the toilets with Mrs White and her assistant head teacher, a long-haired man who looked about fifteen. Further up the corridor a group of twenty of so children had gathered, giggling and gossiping and gawping.

‘I must first explain that we
have
tried to reason with Rose,’ said Mrs White. She wore large tortoiseshell glasses that gripped her nose, and she closed her eyes briefly at the conclusion of each sentence she spoke. ‘We’re not in the habit of breaking down school doors, especially with a child on the other side. So there’s no way to get to her. Mr Copeland and I have tried all manner of reasoning but I’m afraid she shouts obscenities at us.’ Here Mrs White closed her eyes for an extra second or two. ‘Bradley Jones from 5M sustained a rather nasty bruise when Rose pushed him against a table.’

‘Can I just talk to my daughter?’ I asked.

Mrs White nodded her assent and followed me into the school toilets. The overuse of bleach made me gag. Soap dispensers were covered in blue liquid and one of the sinks was blocked and full of dirty water. The door to the last cubicle was shut. I knocked gently upon it.

‘Rose? It’s me. Are you okay?’

‘I’m ace,’ she said. ‘I’m just eating chocolate flapjack.’

‘Flapjack?’ I supressed a smile, despite knowing it would send her blood sugars rocketing.

‘That’s what she took from the canteen,’ said Mrs White. ‘
Eight
of them.’

‘Send me the bill then,’ I snapped. Then more softly so Rose wouldn’t hear, ‘Could you leave us? I’ll try and coax her out.’ How on earth did I think I could manage that? My daughter rarely did anything I asked at the moment.

‘Very well,’ said Mrs White. ‘Then bring her to my office please.’

Then once more it was just us – divided by a door. I perched on one of the unblocked sinks and sighed. How to piece together my words? What to say to make her come out? How had I created a story earlier and yet now had nothing?

‘Why did you take the flapjacks?’ I asked eventually.

No answer.

‘Mrs White isn’t here,’ I said.

‘Bran Flakes are shit,’ said Rose. ‘You made me have them this morning and every bastard morning. I wanted something nice.’

‘Rose, please! You can’t talk like that. You’re
nine
. What would your dad say?’

‘He’s not here,’ she said.

No, he wasn’t. How would things be different if he were? Would I be doing better? Would Rose be eating stolen flapjack in the school toilet if Jake were home to help us?

‘I’m
here,’ I said.

‘
You
swear like that all the time.’

‘Why did you hurt that boy?’ I asked.

‘Don’t change the subject.’

‘Rose, you can’t hurt people.’

No answer again. I feared I’d have to suggest to Mrs White that the caretaker remove the screws and take off the door. How long would that take? What if she did this again? I looked at the mould-stained ceiling as though the answers might be written in the dirt. Eventually Rose spoke.

‘Bradley called me a freak,’ she said quietly. ‘He said I’m going to die cos I’m so thin I’m like a skellington. He’s been saying it loads. He gets his friends to say it too. So I pushed him over. And I took the flapjacks cos I was totally starving. I wasn’t nicking them! They all went so mental that I ran in here.’

Tears tickled the corners of my eyes. Rage fired my heart. I wanted to grab the boy who’d called her a freak and shake him hard. He must have been the reason she said earlier that she didn’t like school.

All parents see their own children as the innocent ones, as perfect. Not me. I knew Rose’s flaws as well as I knew my own. But knowing them enlightened me; it shone a light more clearly on the dark parts of her nature. I’d punished her many times for over-ebullience at school that led to cheeking teachers. She’d once sat in her room for hours after swearing at next-door’s cat. But this time she had merely responded to being bullied, only taken food because her poor body dictated she should.

‘I promise I’ll explain it all to Mrs White,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this Bradley? I could have come in and sorted it out. You don’t have to push me away all the time. Why do you always fight me when we’re on the same side?’

No answer.

‘Shall I go and talk to Mrs White and come back for you?’

After a moment the sound of sliding latch bounced off the tiles and the door opened a crack. Rose peered out, her thin face smudged with chocolate flapjack. It was like I viewed her with new eyes. I saw how emaciated she still was, how lank her hair, how dark the lines beneath her eyes.

When Jake had been away for months and came home, I often saw new things in his features – new lines, new freckles, new whiskers, new life. Whatever absence does to the heart, it does more to the eyes. It opens them. It was as though Rose had been gone months too and now I saw her. Really saw her; what she was going through, her bravery, her flawed beauty.

My love bubbled to the surface. I felt sure she’d feel it too and held out arms for her to fall into. But she wiped her mouth and blew her hair off her face and said, ‘Mum, Mrs White hates me. She’s going to kill me.’

‘We’ll see,’ I said. ‘Come on, let’s go and sort this out. You do know your blood sugars will be high at lunchtime?’

‘Doesn’t matter. You said I get to look at Grandad Colin’s diary.’

I had forgotten it, neglected our lunchtime pact. ‘It’s at home,’ I said. ‘I left in such a rush. We’ll worry about that later.’

‘But you promised,’ she pouted. The bell sounded; feet scurried past the door, shook the tiles beneath us. ‘You can’t like say things and then …’