by Louise Beech
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.
Every mealtime, prick, pain, blood-reading. And again, prick, pain, blood-reading. Only the numbers differed; ten-point-seven, eight-point-six, eighteen-point-three. Then one hand squeezing her flesh, while the other injected. Over and over and over. Repetition can be a comfort. In difficult times you resort to habit. But this was one I’d never enjoy.
Before Rose scoffed thick custard and a slice of apple pie at teatime, I measured insulin and pumped it into her thigh, a favourite spot where pain is concerned. Then I read the roll call of the fourteen men on the lifeboat for the second time; I’d listed them that morning too. Then I’d described their various injuries, broken ribs and feet, cut heads and burnt skin. I’d told her how disheartening it was for them to watch a boat two of the men had arrived on sink, taking precious rations before they could do anything.
‘The roll call’s like the school register,’ Rose had said then. ‘Yes miss, no miss.’
‘How can you say no miss if you’re absent,’ I’d laughed.
‘So tell me all their names again,’ she said now, ‘even though I’ll have forgotten again by tomorrow.’
I did; I listed them, every one. They were:
Basil Scown, First Officer,
Unnamed Second Engineer,
Platten, Chief Steward,
John Arnold, Apprentice,
King, Apprentice,
Kenneth Cooke, Carpenter,
Colin Armitage, Able Seaman,
Davies, Able Seaman,
Weekes, Engineer’s mate,
Fowler, Cabin Boy,
Stewart, Cabin Boy,
Bamford, Army Gunner,
Bott, Army Gunner,
Leak, Army Gunner.
That morning I’d told Rose they had seen five vicious-looking, white-bellied sharks as soon as
they were all aboard the lifeboat. Though not too large at four feet long, the men knew what sharp teeth they possessed and were relieved to be safely – for now – aboard Colin’s lifeboat. They made no attempts that day to move the boat because Officer Scown said they’d managed to get an SOS signal out before the ship went down and if it had been heard by any nearby vessels they should hang around a while and keep a lookout.
‘Like in that film Jaws,’ said Rose, of the sharks.
‘I suppose,’ I said.
‘They’re the only animals I don’t much like.’
‘Neither did they,’ I said.
At lunchtime I’d opened Colin’s diary and read the letter that had been sent home to his family from the owners of the SS Lulworth Hill weeks after the ship went down.
Mrs R Armitage,
East Yorkshire.
Dear Madam,
We deeply regret to inform you that the vessel on which your son was serving is gravely overdue and we are now advised by the Admiralty that she must be presumed lost by enemy action on the 18th of March. Unfortunately no survivors have been reported, but should we receive any news, we will immediately communicate with you.
The directors and staff of this company wish to express to you their sympathy and understanding during this period of anxiety.
Yours faithfully,
The Counties Ship Management Company Ltd.
Colin described next to it tremendous feelings of sadness that his mother had received it. He wrote that had he known of its existence while on the lifeboat he might not have gone on, and certainly would have felt guilt at causing his mum grief she had already endured when Stan was lost at sea.
Now I tried to go on with the story. I feared not doing it right. I had been faltering at certain words, trying to find one that Rose would understand but also not berate me for patronising her. How did the professional writers that she so loved keep their readers hooked? I supposed it was because they knew the audience was out there, in the dark, waiting for words, for escape. They knew that audience trusted their ability.
But my small audience of one was critical.
‘Okay,’ I began, ‘so the sun came up very gently on …’
‘Don’t baby me!’
‘I’m not. The sun would have been gentle in a morning.’
‘Okay,’ she sighed.
‘The sun rose on day two … 150’
‘Are we definitely done with day one?’ asked Rose.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Not much happened really, apart from the men getting acquainted. They were tired, remember. Too tired to make proper plans yet. Relieved just to be out of the water, I imagine. To have found one another.’
Rose nodded, patiently, and said, ‘Now Colin. What about him?’
And so I told her.
11
MAYBE TODAY A SHIP
We have fourteen men on two rafts.
K.C.
Dawn on the second day and Colin grudgingly opened his eyes. He knew before he came fully conscious where he was. The boat’s persistent motion, his damp clothes after a night of spray, and the smell of salt meant no escape, not even in dreams. He had woken over and over to the crew’s cries of mum and help us. Perhaps today would bring rescue.
He said softly to himself, ‘Maybe today a ship.’
Ken close by asked gruffly, ‘What’s that, lad?’
‘We must keep watch all the time, Chippy.’
‘We are. Officer Scown ordered it.’
‘I know,’ said Colin. ‘But I’m watching even when I’m not on duty. We all should. Can’t rely on the younger ones.’
At sunset the previous night Officer Scown had suggested the men try and sleep, setting a rota of two on watch for four hours. Looking out for a ship round the clock, he said, was their most likely hope of rescue so far from land. But four hours proved too long for the men to stay awake. With nothing but black sky and sea, the sameness lulled them into lethargy.
‘Aye,’ said Ken now. ‘Some of the young ’uns are barely eighteen. This is their first voyage. We’ll need to look out for them as much as for a ship.’
‘Look lively,’ said Colin. ‘Some of ’em are stirring.’
It was a sorry-looking lot of men they beheld as the sun lit a new day; violent water and explosions had torn clothes. Barely recognisable faces were black with fuel oil, and many were already severely sunburnt by the mixture of salt and sun. But, despite an uncomfortable night where they couldn’t lie down in unison due to lack of space, most woke quite cheerful.
‘Where’s room service?’ demanded Weekes.
‘Shocking quarters they’ve given us on here.’ Colin continued the joke. ‘I mean to complain to the highest powers.’
‘Right, shake a leg,’ ordered Officer Scown, to exaggerated groans.
Last night he’d suggested they not issue food or water until dawn. ‘We’re not feeling too bad yet, lads,’ he’d said, ‘and we may have a long way to go. Also, I’ve still to assess rations.’ Quietly he’d admitted to Colin and Ken that he was afraid to look at what they had, both from Colin’s lifeboat and in the things they’d picked up from the sea through the first day.
‘Tomorrow,’ he’d said. ‘When we know what’s what.’
Scown had been the fourth survivor Ken and Colin found; he was swimming so weakly when they spotted him that they had known he was mere hours from death. He was a great seaman, a strong leader, a man who’d long earned his position as the ships’ first officer. Though weak for his first hours aboard the lifeboat, and unable to issue orders, he’d recovered enough by evening to take charge of the fourteen men.
Now, with everyone awake, Scown said he’d decided that since no one had the energy for a longer watch, it would just be a two-hour shift. ‘The gunners Bott, Leak and Bamford will only do days. They’re not accustomed like we are to night duty. Any objections?’ He paused as though bracing himself. ‘Right, let’s see what rations we’ve got.’
The men had endured over thirty-six hours without so much as a drop of water, during which time much effort had been made rowing, tying the two rafts together, and constantly bailing water out of the boat’s well. Due to excess weight, a slight dip meant seawater pooled quickly at their feet, rotting all it touched.
Hunger gnawed at Colin’s stomach. He imagined it as a living creature with teeth as sharp as blades and bloodshot eyes. Thirst hurt more; it fattened his tongue, dried out his lips, and thickened his blood.
‘A drink,’ he heard Young Fowler say softly. ‘Oh, for a drink.’
Officer Scown ordered Platten, the ship’s steward, to put together a list of what they had. At twenty-six, Platten had been a seaman for five years. Though a slightly built man with wiry arms and legs, he was incredibly strong, a father to twin girls at home. Stoically, he set about his assigned task.
Scown found a damp pencil in his pocket and asked who had paper. Most did but naturally it had been soaked to pulp by this point. Young John Arnold came forward with his bible. The seventeen-year-old was an apprentice from the south of England, and fervently religious. Many had mocked and bullied him for quoting from holy text so frequently. Now he held the book out with thin fingers – it too was soggy mush. But inside was a protected picture of the Virgin Mary.
Gratefully, Officer Scown took the card from its cover and let it dry for a few minutes in the sun. The men closed in and watched as though they might be witness to some spiritual vision. Colin was never sure what he believed. He supposed he believed in what he saw, what he could touch. But it was not lost on him that the Holy Mother had remained unaffected by the elements.
When the picture had dried Officer Scown drew a small-scale chart from memory, marking their last observed position on the angle formed by the lines of nine degrees south and nine degrees west of Greenwich. Like an artist, he sketched deftly, eyes narrowed, tongue slightly protruding.
‘I reckon we’re about ninety-five miles from the ship’s last definite position,’ he said. ‘That pu
ts us here.’ He marked a large X. ‘Which means Ascension Island is our nearest land. But we’ll never make it there – too hard to find. So our best hope is to find the coast of Africa.’
‘What about Pernambuco?’ asked Colin. ‘Couldn’t we pick up the southeast trades? Aren’t we right in the shipping lanes?’
The officer shook his head. ‘If we were a few more degrees south, maybe. No, the nearest mainland is Cape Palmas on the border of Liberia. Strong currents sweeping up the shores of Africa might bring us in line with the Europe-bound traffic. So that’s where we hope to reach – Africa.’
Bamford, one of the gunners, asked the question everyone dreaded knowing the answer to: ‘And how long will that take us?’
‘I estimate thirty days,’ said Officer Scown.
The words settled heavily on the crew. Thirty days. Four weeks. A month. Scown could have said forever and Colin doubted the men would feel more hopeless. Was it better not knowing?
No, survival at sea was about planning.
‘So that’s what we’ll set the rations for – thirty days,’ said Scown. ‘Any objections? If you have, make them now.’ Platten had totted up what food and water there was and quietly spoke with the officer. Grim-faced, Scown then addressed the men. ‘Right then, daily rations will be as follows – one biscuit, one ounce of Bovril, four Horlicks milk tablets, and three squares of chocolate. Water will be two ounces per man, three times daily.’
No one spoke. Even the sea seemed to listen, calm for a moment, its many colours merging into sparkling gold. Colin cut off thoughts beyond two days ahead. He was unable to imagine his hunger on so small an amount of food and so little water. Looking around at the craggy faces of his mates, he could see in their eyes the same fear. But it had to be. Much as the craving was there, they couldn’t eat more heartily for fear of how long rescue might be in coming.
‘Now,’ said Scown, ‘there are men on board with more serious injuries. The Second has nasty wounds on both feet and Davies has broken ribs. I suggest they’re allowed a few extra rations. Any objections?’
