by Louise Beech
‘What’s that big one down there?’ Rose asked, pointing farther along the river.
‘That’s the ferry,’ I said. ‘It goes to Belgium.’
We pricked her finger end and the machine read six-point-eight. Rose’s sugar levels were getting better all the time. Our hard work had begun to pay off.
‘The diary,’ she said, sucking her finger end.
‘Does it hurt still?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ she snapped. ‘It never won’t, will it? Like if someone kept hitting you with a stick, would it get better the more they did it?’
She was right; suffering continuously never made it hurt less. You just adapted to it, perhaps learned to handle it better. I let Colin’s diary fall open and read aloud while Rose ate the cheese wrap I’d prepared.
I keep thinking of this proverb that says it’s darkest before dawn. It’s one of those sayings that’s supposed to lift you, make you believe that when things get very, very bad all will soon be well. I don’t think it is darkest before sunrise. It wasn’t out there on the sea. It was darkest when the sun had disappeared for the day. When light first went – that’s when it was darkest. Once we got past that nightly hour, our eyes grew accustomed to the blackness. I suppose I’m saying that proverbs should at least come from a bit of truth or else what hope do they offer? Help doesn’t always arrive when you’re at your worst, and trying to believe this only caused me great anguish on the lifeboat. I remember a night when it started to rain but stopped after minutes. We licked the canvas, desperate for any moisture. I thought then that things couldn’t get much worse, that surely dawn would bring a ship now. I was wrong. When a ship didn’t materialise I began to fear for all of us. But most of all I feared giving in to my fear and losing the only thing that kept me going – hope.
I closed Colin’s diary and let his words float on the simmering warmth the car heater pumped into our space.
‘Me and Dad watched this survival show once,’ said Rose, softly. ‘There was this man who was at sea for two weeks all totally by himself and he said that surviving doesn’t have anything to do with how strong you are, like, in your body but how strong you are in your head.’
‘It’s probably true,’ I said, thinking of Rose’s slight size. ‘No good being fit if you make a bad decision, I suppose.’ I paused. ‘We’d better go to the hospital or we’ll be late.’
‘Are they going to do anything horrible to me at the clinic?’ Rose sounded about five.
‘No,’ I reassured her. ‘Just a finger prick test like the one we do – and I think your weight and height.’
‘Promise?’ she asked.
‘Promise,’ I said.
We drove to the hospital. I realised the last time she’d been here was at diagnosis, so she probably viewed the ugly grey building with distrustful eyes. I hated it too; except for seeing Colin there. Inside we went, Rose gripping my hand for the first time since I could remember, me chatting about what we might do at the weekend, just like the old days.
The paediatric department was decorated appropriately; stuffed dragons and fat owls hung from the ceiling, bright bookshelves lined two walls, children’s paintings and information posters overlapped as though fighting for first place, and stacks of toys sat on a mat in the corner. Not wanting to be lumped in with the tots, Rose sat next to me, nose turned up at the infantile offerings. She was in that difficult no-child’s-land; too old for picture books and games but not quite old enough to sit still without some sort of entertainment.
A nurse called us into a room after ten minutes and Rose was weighed and measured. She’d grown a full inch and put back on all but three pounds of the weight she’d lost. I couldn’t help but think that as Colin lost weight, Rose gained, as though he gave it to her.
‘Perfect,’ said the nurse. ‘She’s going to be tall, isn’t she?’
‘Am I?’ asked Rose as we waited for Shelley to call us next.
‘Your dad’s tall, so likely you will be.’
‘Tall is good.’ She paused. ‘Was Grandad Colin tall?’
‘I don’t think so. But we’re all getting taller, with evolution.’
Shelley called us then and took us into a small room where she pricked Rose’s finger end; Rose looked helpless and I knew it was because she was accustomed to Colin’s story helping her through it. Then Shelley explained how the blood would go into a big machine and we’d get what was called an HbA1c number, which gave a picture of Rose’s blood sugar levels in previous weeks, more accurately than our blood meter. It would take a few minutes so she took us in to Doctor Grey’s office to chat while we awaited the results.
Doctor Grey was everything you’d hope a paediatric doctor might be – rotund, rosy-cheeked, white-bearded, blue-eyed, like he’d just stepped out of a cheerful children’s story. But I knew it wouldn’t fool Rose.
He asked us about our routine and how she felt about everything, to which she just said okay. Whatever Doctor Grey or Shelley asked, this was her response; okay, okay, okay.
‘Rose,’ I said. ‘If you don’t answer with more detail, how can they help?’
Soon they’re going to suggest something you really won’t like, I thought. Doing injections yourself.
‘Do you want to get a cup of tea?’ Shelley asked me, clearly hoping I’d leave the room. Did she think Rose would reveal an agreeable face once I left?
But I stepped into the corridor anyway – then hovered near the door to listen. She was my daughter and I wanted to know what was being said in my absence.
‘Are you curious about maybe trying to read your blood yourself?’ Shelley asked her.
‘Not bothered,’ said Rose.
‘How about just preparing the pen so your mum can do it, pet?’
‘Not bothered.’
A pause. ‘Have you slept over at a friend’s house since you got diagnosed?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘You must know.’
No answer.
‘Would you like to be able to sleep over with friends like a big girl? No one wants their mum there all the time do they, pet? If you just started with something small like making up the pen or recording your blood sugars in the log, I think you’d quite like it. You’re a clever girl. Then you could work up to maybe even doing your own finger pricking. Does that sound exciting?’
‘You don’t have to talk to me like I’m five,’ said Rose.
‘No, of course.’ Shelley paused again, perhaps wondering how to get it right. ‘Shall I be frank then?’ she eventually asked.
‘Yes,’ said Rose, and I smiled.
‘Okay, I’ll let you into a secret – I don’t think your mum wants to let you do them. Of course it’s natural that she takes care of you. That’s what mums are like – they care, don’t they? But the sooner you have a go at things, the sooner you’ll have control of your diabetes, and that means more freedom – freedom to sleep over at your friends’ houses again or go away on school trips. The longer you leave it, the harder it will be.’
No response. I felt a bit sorry for Shelley. She’d been so helpful and I knew better than anyone how Rose could push buttons.
‘Would you like some nice pamphlets on h…’
‘No thank you,’ said Rose. ‘If I decide to do it, I’ll just do it. Don’t need a stupid pamphlet thing.’
‘Okay.’ Another silence. ‘Your mum tells me there’s a story she’s been reading to help with injections. Do you want to tell me about that?’
‘It’s totally amazing,’ said Rose. Now Shelley had her. ‘And it’s totally true. About our Grandad Colin who was dead brave. His ship sank and he had to live on this lifeboat.’
I decided it was time for me to return.
‘We were just talking about your book, pet,’ Shelley said to me.
‘It’s not a book,’ said Rose. ‘It’s out of Mum’s head. She does use Grandad Colin’s diary and some newspapers, but she puts it all together.’
I nodded, proud. ‘We do it a f
ew times a day.’
‘Each time you do injections?’ asked Shelley.
I nodded. Shelley’s expression faltered a little but before I could question it, another nurse bought in the results of the big blood test – Rose’s HbA1c number was 10 percent, which Doctor Grey explained was good progress. The aim was to get closer to 6%, which he was sure we’d achieve at our next clinic appointment in three months.
As we left, Shelley held me back a moment. ‘Wait for me at the reception desk,’ I told Rose.
‘I think it’s great that you’re sharing this story, pet,’ she said. ‘But I’m just a little concerned that there will come a time when she’ll have to do injections without such distraction. You don’t want the story to become a crutch. Something she finds hard to give up.’
Indignant, I said, ‘But you suggested finding something she loved.’
‘I did but I meant perhaps for a week or two.’ She touched my arm. ‘Listen, I know how hard it is, how you must get tired of us health professionals suggesting things. We can’t possibly know what it’s like for you. I just think you should try sometimes without the story. See how it goes.’
‘We’ll see.’ It’s the answer we often give to children when they nag for something. When I said it to Rose she always grumbled that really I meant no. Did I mean no to Shelley? I wasn’t sure. I just knew how much I looked forward to our time in the book nook. To the smell of Rose’s warm forehead, the small pulse of her breath in the soft skin of her neck, the blinking orange and red and pink lights, and the words that calmed and lifted and united us.
When we got home the telephone was ringing, and I asked Rose to get it while I put the shopping we’d picked up on route away.
‘It’s Dad!’ she cried, and I closed my eyes and held a tin of beans to my chest. Now he’d called I suddenly missed him, felt joyful.
I unpacked, hearing only Rose’s side of the conversation. ‘Yes, yes, we’re fine! Yes, we’ve been to the clinic. No, totally boring. Mum’s been telling me this ace story. No, Dad, a proper true one. About her grandad – he’s called Colin. Yes, he was lost at sea in the war and they don’t have much to eat and only like a tiny bit to drink and these sharks keep tr… No, she’s been telling me it out of her head. Yes, she is. If you get home soon maybe you’ll hear some? When are you coming – is it long now? But I can’t wait until then.’ She paused. ‘No, I don’t want to talk about it. No, Dad. It makes me too sad. I said no.’ Pause. ‘Okay, I’ll get her.’
Rose brought the phone to me.
‘Jake,’ I said.
‘Natalie.’ His voice was warm, rich with happiness and misery at the same time.
‘How are you?’ I asked.
‘Tired,’ he admitted. ‘You?’
‘Same, but let’s not talk about that. Tell me what you’ve been doing? Did you get my birthday card? Are you excited to come home? Only three weeks!’
He told me about some of the local Afghan women he’d met that day and about his platoon’s main project, helping rebuild a local school. I closed my eyes and he could have been lying next to me, whispering the words in my ear. His stories soothed me, simply because they were his; he could have described a how he’d built a bomb and I’d be happy.
‘Rose won’t tell me about her injections,’ he said, and I opened my eyes again. ‘Is she okay? She only wanted to talk about this story you’re telling her. What made you choose it?’
‘Remember the box I got when my grandma died?’ I asked him. ‘She found my grandad’s diary in it. Did I ever mention him… that he survived his ship sinking? Well, he recorded his thoughts in this diary after coming home from sea.’ I wasn’t sure Jake would understand the strange experiences we’d had, seeing Colin, feeling him around us, having him lead us to his book. So I stuck with the facts. ‘I’ve been reading the newspaper cuttings about him too and putting it all together and then telling Rose the story to get her to have injections. It’s the only thing that’s worked. She loves it.’
‘Isn’t it a bit dark for a nine-year-old?’
‘I don’t think so.’ I was disappointed in Jake’s reaction. ‘I tell her it in a hopeful way. There are some beautiful parts and I don’t linger over the suffering too much. When things start to get really dark I’ll temper it with nicer things. Or maybe not – she keeps telling me off for making it too babyish.’ I paused. ‘She should know the story – it’s her ancestry.’
‘You wouldn’t let her buy The Book Thief because you thought it would be too much because it was sad and now you’re telling her a story about sharks and starving men. How’s that supposed to help her cope?’
‘It just is,’ I snapped. ‘She counts the minutes between our chapters. She doesn’t fight her finger prick or run away from injections.’
‘And what about when it’s finished?’
‘We’re not even halfway yet so there’s plenty to go.’
‘But what about when it is?’
‘Then we find something else,’ I snapped.
Shelley wanted us to do injections without it sometimes and now Jake seemed against it. I’d worried about telling him that Rose had been in trouble at school and that I’d broken her door, but I never thought our story would bother him.
‘I don’t mean to be negative,’ he said more gently. ‘No disrespect to your grandad and what he went through. It’s just that I feel protective of my daughter – she’s only nine and she’s been ill.’
‘So who better than her to understand such a story?’ I demanded.
‘I don’t like to think of the two of you cooped up alone, getting morbid. Isn’t it bad enough that I’m here? Don’t you think I keep some of the atrocities I’ve seen from you to protect you? It’s hell, Natalie. I saw one of our men die last week. Barely even a man. He was only nineteen, been out here two weeks. Routine patrol and he walked over an IED.’ I knew this was an Improvised Explosive Device – a bomb like a landmine but made from whatever materials are handy. ‘Lost both legs. And I was with him.’ Jake paused; he edited his story for me just as I did for Rose.
I wasn’t sure what to say, found only, ‘I’m sorry. That’s horrible. His poor parents.’
‘Real life is hard enough,’ he said.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine what you do there.’
‘Sometimes it’s better not to know.’
‘But you can always tell me.’ I said. ‘Never keep it in because you don’t want to worry or scare me. I’m tougher than that.’
‘Can’t you tell Rose a nice made-up story?’ he asked me.
‘She doesn’t want a nice made-up story,’ I said, softly. ‘She wants this one.’
We hung up with exchanges of affection and promises of exclusive thoughts, but the shadow of disagreement darkened our goodbyes. Rose skipped about, happy to have spoken to her father, excited about story time. When I’d made our barbeque chicken, I took her portion to the book nook. Rose was already sitting cross-legged on her cushion, as is good story-time tradition.
When I held her finger end ready to draw blood I asked, ‘Do you want a more festive story tonight?’
She frowned, pulled her hand away. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Perhaps we should do something more Christmassy.’
‘You mean about elves and stuff? No, thank you.’ She put her hand behind her back and all the dread I’d felt weeks earlier about getting her to do this returned.
‘One day Grandad Colin’s story will finish,’ I said softly.
‘I know that,’ she snapped. ‘All stories end. But you can’t just stop in the middle.’
‘Will you be okay when it does end?
‘Yes, cos I’ll know what happens!’
‘You’ll still do your injections?’
Rose paused. ‘Yes. Cos I’ll forever have this story in my head.’ She slowly held out her hand again. ‘So day fifteen – what else happened?’
I hadn’t wanted to read a Christmas story either, not really. It wasn’t that we did
n’t believe in Santa or God, only that we didn’t not believe. With Grandad Colin it was simple – we knew absolutely that he had existed. And by sharing his story he never died; he lived on in my words, in Rose’s captivated face, in the sparkle of the lights, in the darkness, in the ocean, in the sky, forever.
17
HE’LL GET THE CANDLE
One more week. Nothing seen. Where is our navy?
K.C.
Day fifteen on the lifeboat and dawn meant searching one another’s faces for signs of life. It was a morning ritual that no one spoke of but everyone did. Colin assessed each man by his eyes; the face might give cause for concern, with sunken cheeks and cracked lips, but if the eyes still focused, still fought to face the day, then there was hope.
The Second was in a pitifully weak state, his foot causing great pain. To Colin he hadn’t existed for a long time beyond his colourless irises. Young Fowler had in recent days also grown so weak that he barely left his position, and Colin was concerned that his eyes too had dimmed forever. Feeling guilty over punching the lad, he had tried often to engage with him, asking what he’d like to do with the rest of his life once he got home. But Fowler never answered.
Day fifteen also brought a birthday.
Resting his tired eyes after studying the men, Colin heard soft sobbing that stopped and started with the flapping masts. He opened his eyes and saw Ken go to John Arnold and sit with him. They bowed heads as though praying together. After a while Ken put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and Colin heard him say, ‘Don’t give in.’ Then he ordered Platten to issue breakfast and to make sure Arnold got a little extra today.
‘It’s his birthday,’ Ken told Colin as the water came around.
For those too weak to hold the tin cup a hand often helped. Those helpful hands also fought viciously when someone tried to take their tiny portion.
‘Eighteen years old,’ said Ken. ‘Imagine that? Eighteen and suffering like no man ever should. We can’t even sing him a song. No one has the energy.’
Colin shook his head. ‘What can you say? Happy birthday? Nowt happy about it.’ He looked across the sunlit water, at the glinting waves winking like an evil character in a fairy tale. ‘Who’d think such a beautiful view could mean such pain? That such colours could hurt so terribly.’
