How To Be Brave

by Louise Beech

  Ken studied him, then said, ‘You never said it this morning, chum.’

  ‘Said what?’

  ‘Maybe today a ship.’

  ‘Didn’t I?’

  Colin was sure he’d thought it, even if the words hadn’t reached his lips. Or had he? Had he been too busy searching for death in his mates’ weathered faces? Too busy trying to shake off nightmares in which Death stalked the boat in a hooded black cloak, poking and prodding men as though deciding which one to take. Colin always cried out to warn them and scare Death, but his parched, bloody lips stuck together as though stitched up.

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ insisted Ken.

  ‘Maybe it’s someone else’s turn to say it.’

  Colin turned away and ate his seawater-moistened biscuit in silence. They’d all had little sleep. Some nights were better than others. Sometimes the boat stilled slightly and the spray ceased its severe onslaught, but even then the hard, wooden deck and cold dark meant little comfort. Last night Scown had woken everyone with his high-pitched screaming, angry words hurled into the darkness, some making sense, some senseless.

  Yesterday he had asked Ken for the knife.

  Afterwards Ken told Colin he’d demanded to know why he wanted it.

  Officer Scown had said, ‘That’s my business.’

  Trying to maintain his recently granted authority, Ken had insisted Scown stop talking rubbish. He said they could still be picked up any day, which only incited Scown further. He lashed out with surprising strength, grabbing Ken’s waist and pockets, searching for the weapon. All Ken could do was push him off roughly and watch as the man cried like a child.

  Scown had spent the rest of yesterday afternoon ranting and cursing. His rage was understandable. As a man ten years older than the others, who had spent twenty hours in the water before being picked up, he’d done well to keep order for so long. Colin very much admired him.

  Many of the crew ranted back at Scown and Colin feared there would be mutiny – such rage is contagious, especially among men so hungry, thirsty and tired. But fortunately Officer Scown ran out of steam for an hour and this broke the growing panic.

  Now he lolled in the boat’s well, neither awake nor asleep, refusing his breakfast and ignoring everyone. So when he sat upright at around ten, perked up and called Ken over, Colin anticipated another outburst and braced himself to mediate. But the two men talked so quietly that he left them to it and tried to concentrate enough to watch the horizon for ships.

  Watch duty had become so hard on the men that it now occurred as and when someone felt able. If a man was up to it, he offered. If no one spoke, they left their rescue to fate. Stewart had done an hour during the night with Platten, and Colin had shared a shift with King, though the man had kept saying there were lights, dozens of them, so very pretty, until Colin told him to knock it off.

  Mid-morning Officer Scown beckoned Colin, bid him with a weak nod to move close so he could speak hoarsely in his ear. It made sense that the officer would call Ken – he was in charge now – but Colin wondered what he could possibly want with him. He expected demands for the knife.

  But different words scraped from Scown’s throat, like fingernails on sandpaper. ‘I spoke with Cooke earlier,’ he said. ‘Gave him a message for my good wife back in Willerby – I know Cooke’s not far from there. You too.’ So this was why Colin had been chosen: geography. ‘I haven’t the energy or the heart to repeat that message to you,’ said Scown. ‘But I want you to make sure Cooke tells you it so that you can tell my wife if he doesn’t.’

  ‘I think you’ll be able to tell your wife yourself, sir,’ said Colin.

  ‘No. I’m done,’ he said. ‘I know I won’t last much longer so you have to promise me you’ll get that message off him.’ His calm talk contrasted so harshly with the wild ranting of previous days that Colin wondered if Scown even remembered those words.

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish, man!’ Colin said. All formality dissipated – this wasn’t the ship’s first officer now but a man who needed a vigorous shake and Colin would give it if needed.

  ‘I know how I feel,’ Scown said, so quietly that Colin took a moment to digest the words. Then he looked right at Colin, the effort of lifting his head causing a film of moisture to coat his brow. His eyes had lost all radiance, as though it was needed elsewhere in his ravaged body, and this Colin knew to be more hopeless than his words. ‘Promise me you’ll talk to Cooke. I’ll not know any peace until you promise it.’ He gripped Colin’s hand with such surprising strength that Colin nodded, agreed.

  Then, as though all was now well and he had permission to surrender, Scown closed his eyes and slept. Colin waited a moment, fearing more than sleep, but the officer’s chest moved ever so slightly, up and down, up and down.

  He approached Ken on the foredeck.

  ‘I don’t think Scown will get upset again,’ Colin said.

  ‘What did he say to you?’ asked Ken.

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘I thought he was gonna beg for his knife,’ said Ken. ‘But he said he could feel deep down that he’s not gonna live much longer. Said he’s made peace with it.’

  ‘The man’s delirious.’

  ‘Except he isn’t, is he? He’s calm.’

  Colin had to agree.

  ‘He gave me a private message for his wife,’ said Ken. ‘I need to …’

  Though he’d promised the officer he’d learn it, Colin shook his head. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

  ‘No, lad, you must. I have the signet ring his wife gave him too.’ Ken opened his palm. Two broken pieces sparkled within, gold half-moons. ‘He wants me to take it to her,’ he explained. ‘Some of the lads helped me cut it off with the jack-knife cos his finger’s so swollen and burnt. He reckons I’m gonna make it.’ He looked at Colin. ‘You too, chum.’

  ‘No,’ insisted Colin. ‘That message is private. Just for his wife.’

  ‘But what if I don’t make it? I think you will, lad, so I need to tell you. I’d like you to look after the ring bits for me. I’m so stupid I’ve lost all my buttons. Keep pulling ’em off, then I lose ’em. You’ll take care of the ring pieces well, I know.’

  ‘Keep the thing.’ Colin pushed him away, not sure why he was angry. Perhaps it was that their officer had resigned. Given in. Anger came from the fear that Colin too might surrender one day. No, he’d go on fighting. ‘The man needs to fight and give that message to his wife himself.’

  ‘He’s not as young as you or me,’ said Ken.

  ‘Then we up his rations!’

  ‘Just let me tell you hi…’

  ‘Keep it!’

  Ken appeared to realise it was no good arguing further. He put the gold pieces in his pocket and resumed watching the water for fish, spear held close despite not having had any luck with it yet. Colin had to admire the man for never giving up; Ken had the spear and Colin had his game. But there were only so many times he could count sharks, hoping the fourth would bring a ship, and not lose hope altogether when it failed to happen.

  Just before lunch, Scarface made an appearance.

  He tracked the lifeboat most days now, seemed to be assessing the crew with his cold, steely eyes. Sometimes a friend joined him; occasionally they bumped into the stern as though warning those aboard that they were waiting. Waiting until they were too weak to fight them off. This time the appearance of grey sharks was silver-lined because they caused three more fish to land in the boat’s well.

  ‘Grab them!’ cried Ken, and those most able sprang to life.

  Weekes held one down, Young Arnold another and Platten the third. Ken found the knife – he’d kept it close by after yesterday’s events – and cut the brawny creatures into fourteen wonderful pieces, so fast that Colin imagined a heart still beating when he ate it. The scraps were consumed in joyful silence, with much licking of blood and sucking of bone.

  ‘Happy birthday, lad,’ Ken said to John Arnold.

  ‘It’s your birthday?’ chorused D
avies weakly.

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’ asked Weekes, slightly energised by the meal. ‘I’d have made you a cake and covered it in cream icing.’

  Young Arnold managed a smile; it creased his face, threatened to tear the papery skin that barely clung to flesh. Colin couldn’t look at him without seeing Christ – without fearing that his own face now looked ten years older too.

  ‘You know what, lads,’ said Ken thoughtfully. ‘These fish are a different species to them that jumped aboard last week. Bigger, more colourful, different fins.’

  ‘So?’ demanded Bott. Since giving in to drinking seawater on and off most days he had become belligerent and argumentative. Maybe he gained some sustenance from doing it because he, King, Leak and Stewart (who indulged the most) seemed to be fitter than Scown, Fowler and the Second who hadn’t.

  ‘It must mean we’ve made progress,’ said Ken. ‘Different fish. We must be in new waters. Maybe we’re closer to land.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ It was Fowler, barely audible. Platten had helped him eat his fish. Blood now stained his chin like raspberry juice.

  ‘Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean we’re nearer the coast,’ argued Leak. ‘Only that we’ve moved. We could be drifting farther out to sea.’

  ‘What the hell’s the point in saying that?’ demanded Colin. ‘I should come over there and thump you one.’

  ‘Just try it,’ said Leak. ‘I’ll break your bloody arm.’

  But their words were far stronger than their bodies now and neither man attacked the other. While they argued, no one noticed that Officer Scown had crawled towards the foredeck and begun to climb over the edge.

  Ken spotted him first, cried, ‘Scown! Grab him!’

  Colin and Platten went for his legs; Ken pulled an arm so roughly he feared he had dislocated it. But Scown’s scream was merely one of rage at not succeeding in his suicide mission. He collapsed on the deck, red-faced and cursing, finally sobbing again.

  ‘What the hell are you thinking?’ asked Platten, panting with exertion.

  ‘You fool!’ cried Ken. ‘Scaring us all like that.’

  ‘Is he though?’ asked Colin, softly.

  ‘Yes, he is. Now they’ll all be at it and we’ll have to watch him all the time.’

  Ken ordered that whoever was on lookout had to also keep an eye on Scown and give the alarm should he try and jump overboard again.

  ‘Should’ve let him go,’ said Colin quietly. ‘I reckon he doesn’t want to burden us. He’s an officer through and through. Without the energy to fulfil his duty I reckon he’d rather go. Should’ve just let him if he so wishes.’

  ‘What, and let everyone follow?’ Ken shook his head.

  ‘If they do, they do. Who are we to stop them?’

  ‘It’s what you do,’ snapped Ken. ‘They’re our friends.’

  ‘So shouldn’t we let them choose their own fate?’

  ‘Isn’t the will to survive stronger than the will to jump?’

  ‘Clearly not,’ said Colin.

  ‘But it has to be.’

  ‘With so little water … barely a mouthful … how can the will go on?’

  ‘It has to,’ insisted Ken.

  ‘It’s been two weeks,’ said Colin.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What if it’s another two?’

  Ken wouldn’t look at Colin. ‘Then we survive another two,’ he said.

  ‘And you think we can? On portions like these? On lucky bits of fish?’

  ‘What other option do we have?’ demanded Ken.

  Colin nodded. ‘No, you’re right. We sink or swim. We give in or go on.’

  ‘I intend to swim, chum.’

  ‘So do I.’

  The rest of the day passed relatively peacefully. Scown made no more attempts to abandon the boat. A gentle breeze got up that cooled the simmering heat and kissed hot skin. The sun did not hurt it quite so much now, having toughened it into leathery resilience. But dry throats still ached for liquid, any liquid – blood, water, rain, and of course seawater, which some continued to consume. Heads pounded from dehydration, bellies rumbled angrily for food.

  The evening meal was eaten without conversation and Arnold’s customary prayer followed, the men devouring it as much as they had the fish earlier. Colin realised that comfort found at home in wives, girlfriends or mothers was now sought in the almighty Father.

  It was a simple prayer that night, one that came from Young Arnold himself, one that concluded with fourteen faint Amens.

  Dear Lord, look down on us here with mercy. See how much we need you, how very much we long to find our way home, how very desperate we are for your kindness in helping us get there.

  Ken took the evening’s first lookout with an unhappy Leak at his side. He kept awake for the first twenty minutes by writing in the log, which was now a piece of torn sail covered in neat dates and facts. When there was anything to report, Ken recorded it. No matter how burnt his fingers, he made sure everything that mattered made it to the improvised log. This he did for the duration of his time on the lifeboat.

  Colin tried to find a comfortable sleeping position in the boat’s well. With less meat on his bones now, and more bruises and cracks and cuts, sleeping proved agony. But while thirst caused insomnia, hunger meant exhaustion – and so he eventually slept, with an arm reaching out above his head as though clinging to hope.

  Dreams came gently that night. No vicious Death-filled nightmares. Colin found himself in a house, one different to any he’d seen before. It was a kitchen where the surfaces gleamed metallic, shinier than a ship’s polished railings. The oven top was silver as a new shilling; nothing like the stone one his mother cooked stew on and cleaned daily. In the alien beauty was chaos; crockery had been abandoned on the table, shoes were piled high in a corner and muddy footprints marked the floor tiles. It was as though whoever lived there had left in haste.

  On the counter sat a pumpkin.

  When Colin was young he’d carved out a turnip at Halloween because it was all they could afford; one between the five of them. This pumpkin was fat and rich orange. A candle still burned inside, illuminating disjointed eyes and teeth so the face leered at him with fiery life. Someone must have forgotten to blow it out.

  ‘He’ll get the candle.’

  The words came from nowhere, sweet and hopeful. Colin looked for the speaker. No one there. He was alone in this foreign yet familiar and welcoming kitchen. Perhaps he should blow the candle out. Perhaps whoever had departed in haste would be grateful he had.

  In one quick puff he extinguished the flame. On the lifeboat he blew into Bott’s ear, causing him to stir and cry out for his mum.

  Neither woke fully.

  In the ocean, on both sides of the boat, sharks followed.

  18

  OUR OWN SPECIAL GUEST

  Extra water and food keeping us going.

  K.C.

  It was a week until Christmas and no one wanted us to be alone. My mum rang from the Isle of Wight three times, reminding us we’d be welcome to go there for a few days. She’d first suggested it weeks ago and I said I’d think it over. But I knew now where I wanted to be – home.

  On recent mornings I’d felt happier than in weeks. When I crossed the landing, the diabetes box didn’t feel quite as heavy in my hand. I’d open Rose’s hint-of-pink door and she’d be sitting on her bed edge waiting and we’d go down to the book nook as though it was all we’d ever done.

  But my mum wasn’t having any of it.

  ‘It’ll be just you and Rose, all alone,’ she said, aghast at the idea. ‘There’ll be loads of us down here. George will cook turkey and our friends Carol and Jim are coming over and you can …’

  ‘Mum, we’re fine,’ I insisted. ‘Rose wants to be here. I do have friends as well you know.’ I was defensive; I’d always chosen friends carefully, preferring a few special ones to hordes of acquaintances. ‘I’ll invite people over if I nee
d to.’

  ‘I don’t like to think of you both there alone when Jake’s away. It doesn’t seem right. Christmas is about being with your family.’

  She didn’t know we’d be sharing it with family. How could I explain that we had our own special guest? That Rose’s great grandfather Colin was with us four times a day. Mum had said the word alone numerous times, yet I didn’t feel like we were. There was no point telling her.

  ‘Look,’ I insisted. ‘You’re kind, but Jake will be home just after New Year and I’d like to be here if he rings on Christmas Day. I’ll feel somehow farther away from him down there.’

  ‘That’s silly,’ laughed my mum. ‘He couldn’t be further away than in Afghanistan, so what does it matter if you’re down here or up there?’

  ‘I feel closer to him at home.’ I did. He was everywhere here – in pictures, in the TV unit he’d built, in the pile of boating magazines at the bottom of the wardrobe, reminding me of his watery sailing dreams. ‘Can’t you see that?’

  She acquiesced and said I had to do what I must but that she’d worry over Christmas. We parted with promises of a spring visit. My dad rang that evening suggesting in his customary don’t-mind-either-way manner that we could go there for Christmas lunch if we felt inclined. Vonny then texted, saying her home was open if we needed, and my boss Sarah left a message saying they were having a get-together the night before Christmas Eve and everyone hoped I’d go.

  They all understood that Rose and I had our own simple plans; a small chicken, our favourite vegetables, minty potatoes, Doctor Who crackers and a sugar-free sponge because neither of us liked Christmas pudding.

  Even April knocked on the door late morning with a fruity Christmas cake (‘sugar-free,’ she smiled) and offered her services. Frosted air left her mouth like magic dust. She was elated that she’d been invited to her daughter Jenny’s home at Christmas but said if we needed anything before then we should just knock.

  ‘I’m not interfering,’ she said quietly, as though others might be trying to learn our doorstep secrets. ‘But it’s a tough season to be on your own, lovey. I know – I’ve been there. My Gerald was often away on the rigs. It’s all about family and couples and … well, you can feel the odd one out, can’t you?’