How To Be Brave

by Louise Beech

  He did but his reaction was one of indifference. ‘Just another day,’ he said. ‘No more chance today of a ship or land than there was yesterday or the day before or will be tomorrow or the next day.’

  The previous night Ken had caught a large ray, a beautiful creature that fought hard to escape the spear. They shared and devoured him desperately, licking and sucking every bit of flesh. Afterwards – revived as though they’d had a few brandies – Ken had been optimistic, saying that if they caught more fish they could well last until they reached land or sighted a ship, whichever came first. Colin, in a slump then, had wanted to say that when the water ran out it wouldn’t matter how many fish they caught. But he’d stopped himself.

  Now Colin felt hopeful and Ken dismissed him. So went their relationship aboard the lifeboat; when one man gave up, the other pushed ahead.

  Day thirty wore on with mind-numbing tedium. Colin was determined he’d be the first to see that hazy hint of land. He lay on the foredeck, drifting in and out of sleep, where brutal dreams offered a ship that was only clouds, and consciousness gave the girl with Titian hair, who urged him on and called him Grandad.

  When the sun had reached her cruel heights and all were sprawled in the bottom of the boat, Bott suddenly leapt to his feet, shrieking maniacally. For a brief, wonderful moment Colin thought he had sighted land.

  But with superhuman strength Bott grabbed the two nearest men – Weekes and Leak – and jumped overboard. The whole thing happened so fast and yet unfolded sluggishly before Colin’s fatigued eyes. He saw it like slowed-down film footage; like the time he’d gone to the picture house with his brother Eric and the film broke.

  ‘Grab them!’ yelled Ken, rushing to the boat edge.

  Colin and Platten joined him, calling at those who had barely moved, ‘Men overboard! Men overboard!’

  Sharks had already closed in. By some fluke Leak floated near the boat and was hauled back in. He was so stunned that Colin felt he wasn’t even sure what had happened.

  Platten stood, put a foot on the edge, ready to go. Colin did too.

  ‘It’s suicide.’ Ken stopped them. ‘They’re too far to reach. There’s nothing you can do now!’

  ‘But we have to …’ Platten appeared not to know what they had to do.

  A shark flashed through the water like the sub that had taken the Lulworth Hill down and attacked Weekes. His scream ripped through them all. Bott was flailing about madly and had managed to keep them off, but now the grey shapes closed in. Ken turned away and covered his ears, his face a picture of misery and guilt. Platten and Colin did too, the three of them like the See No Evil, Hear No Evil monkeys. But nothing blocked out those final screams or the wild whirling water.

  Afterwards they offered Leak a drink, but he pushed them off, swore and curled up to sleep.

  ‘We should’ve…’ Colin wasn’t sure what he meant to say.

  ‘Should’ve what?’ cried Ken. ‘Bloody jumped too? We did what we had to do! If we’d saved them, how could we have closed any wounds? They’d have bled to death in minutes, lad. We had to let them die or die ourselves, so we did what we did and only God knows if it was the right thing.’

  ‘Weekes was trying so hard,’ said Colin, angry. ‘He just said to me last night that he really thought he might get home. Bott had no right to take him like that. Jump if you must but don’t take others with you. The bastard.’ He paused. ‘What can we tell their families?’

  ‘We lie,’ said Ken. ‘Say they died peacefully, a mate at their side.’

  Colin nodded. ‘What good would the truth do?’

  Platten said, ‘If I don’t make it I want you to tell my twin girls that …’ He stopped, hand gripping his lapel. ‘However I go I want you not to dwell on that, but to tell them they were in my thoughts at all times. And tell my wife – tell her she made me very happy.’

  There were only six of them now. Leak and Davies were semi-conscious but Stewart joined in the conversation. ‘Tell my mum,’ the young lad said, with effort. ‘Tell her I did my best.’

  Ken looked at Colin. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘What should we tell your family if … you know?’

  ‘I’ll tell them myself,’ he snapped, and went to the foredeck to look for land.

  By dark he gave up. No land or ship appeared on the thirtieth day. He cursed Scown for giving them false hope, cursed Bott for taking the cheerful Weekes overboard, and cursed himself for letting any of it happen.

  In the morning Leak died, his tongue by then so black and swollen that he choked to death. It was another name added to the many now in the death log, leaving just five men, all wondering who might be next.’

  ‘I just can’t imagine watching all your friends die like that,’ said Rose. ‘Fourteen is half my class so like if I was on a boat with the girls from 5F I’d have to watch them die one after another. But I’d be first wouldn’t I? Cos I’d have no insulin. No, I want to say it! That’s how it would happen. Might be good to go first. Not watch all your friends die. By day thirty-three Grandad Colin had lost eleven friends. I know he liked some better than others. I definitely do. Like at school Rebecca Hartley is totally annoying but I’d be sad if she died. Anyway, by the end of day thirty-three there was just Colin, Ken and Platten. A whole month – that’s such a long time to live on a small boat and look at the same stuff every day. I’ve had diabetes two months now and that seems like millions of years already. I reckon when you do the same thing over and over it makes time drag. Don’t you? And they don’t even know how long they’ve got to go, do they?’

  I received today a letter from the Ministry of Information, which I have filed with all other correspondences relating to the sinking of the SS Lulworth Hill. It read, in part, as follows – ‘I would like to stress the importance of your giving your account entirely in your own way, and would ask you, therefore, to regard these (enclosed) notes as nothing more than sketchy suggestions. There will be many points, which will benefit by being illustrated by your own reminiscences. I hope to have the opportunity of arranging for you to visit one or more of our factories in the near future, and will communicate with you on this point a little later.’ I think in relaying the facts of what happened, as I have had to do on numerous occasions and to a variety of organisations, the true story gets lost. But I am happier with the facts. I dwell too much on the reasons and they drive me half mad. I think it would make a good story. I think maybe somebody one day might tell it far better than I ever could. They might find more poetry and meaning and artistry in it than I.

  ‘On day thirty-four the heat reached its most intolerable intensity yet. It was the end of April now and the sun’s rays scorched everything below. The only solace was that the awning provided ample shelter for the tiny party.

  Beneath it, the three remaining men formed a triangle as though trying to fill the boat in the absence of the others. Platten was the weakest now and slumped against a mast with his chin on his chest. Colin wanted desperately to go and watch for a ship but the heat that day rendered them all immobile.

  Ken called a conference, which merely meant he an nounced – without moving – that they should talk about rations now they were just three.

  ‘What does each man think of an ounce of extra water?’ he asked, his words a dry rasp.

  Platten looked up. ‘Is there enough left?’

  ‘Now we’re three I think we’ve got another week’s worth. Food too, though biscuits are low.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we try and make rations last ten more days?’ asked Platten.

  ‘What does it matter?’ said Colin. ‘What’s the use of trying to make the rations last longer than we can? Food’s no good to a dead man. Nor is water. If we’re not picked up soon, we shall be dead. I’m sure of that, yes. Let’s take a chance on it and up the rations quite a bit, Chippy.’

  Ken drew up a new list, determining they could now have two ounces of Bovril, six malted milk tablets, and four squares of choc
olate. Biscuits could not be increased as they were running out. No one cared much for them anyway. Ken’s examination of the water situation raised hopes a little; having been so careful with the stuff meant they still had a good few tins of it.

  ‘I think,’ said Ken, ‘that we’re safe to set water rations at three ounces, three times a day. What do you think? This seem fair?’

  It sounded heavenly. ‘I won’t argue with that,’ said Platten.

  ‘Nor I,’ said Colin.

  As it was midday Ken issued the water and Colin studied his slightly fuller cup with thirsty eyes. It was hard to know how to best use the water; dry lips longed for its moisture, baked throats craved lubrication, blood screamed for liquid, and fried brains cried for relief. But thirst dictated Colin down it as quickly as possible.

  ‘What about the grub?’ he said. ‘Since we’ve decided to go rash with the supplies, how about starting now with a meal?’

  They ate their Bovril Pemmican and milk tablets in silence.

  ‘I think,’ said Ken, ‘with today’s oppressive heat, that we should rest until the sun goes down and resume lookout with the cool of the evening.’

  Who could argue? The act of talking and issuing rations had drained them and even Colin had no heart for watch duty. While they dozed, Scarface tailed the boat, maybe waiting for another body to be released to the sea, maybe weighing up how he might overturn the vessel, or maybe he somehow knew who was going to survive and he wanted to be there at the end too.

  I remember waking on the thirty-fifth day to Ken shaking Platten roughly. It is the most vivid day I can recall, apart from one other. It is the one that I think of most often, apart from one other. I shouted at Ken to give over and when he did, Platten fell with a heavy thud. The man had died. We were stunned, even after the eleven deaths we had witnessed by then. It was not only that he had been so well the day before, but that now we were just two. We clasped hands, I remember. We looked at one another for a long time, hardly believing it. It had begun with Ken and I, and now we thought it might end with us two. We were so very sad for Platten – he’d been a grand chap. His quiet personality had done a lot for the crew and he’d been known as Fair Play Platten aboard the SS Lulworth Hill. We tried hard to give him a dignified and worthy send-off, but our sapped strength meant we had to kick him overboard and then sit and listen to the sharks tearing him apart. I wonder now how we survived so long and the other men did not. Over and over I think of it. Ken and I were not any bigger or stronger or better or fitter than the other men. We did not pray any harder or believe any more than they did or do any more. We were not more worthy. It does not seem fair. But I realised out on the ocean that fair doesn’t come into it. There is nothing fair about any of it. Fair is something we men have invented to try and make sense of it all. But there is no sense. There is only what you do.

  ‘So there was just two of them,’ said Rose. ‘It always was really, wasn’t it? Just like us. You always need two, you know. One of you to be sad and one of you to be happy, and then you’ll both be brave together.’

  23

  NEW YEAR, NEW BOOK

  We think our speed about twenty miles a day. If we can stick it out we should make land. I think we can, with God with us.

  K.C.

  I’ve always liked New Year’s Day so much more than New Year’s Eve. You get to start all over again. You’re bursting with hope, like a new term at school when you decide to write neatly in your blank exercise book and not make any mistakes or rush homework.

  New Year’s Eve is an ending, the full stop that concludes a book. New Year’s Day, the new book. That year I was glad to say goodbye to it and knew I’d not look back with particular fondness. This one will be better, I told myself. That was my self-promise: hopeful, non-specific, just better.

  Rose and I spent it quietly. A quick visit to my dad, a few hours with Vonny, a brief look around the sales at more remnants for Rose to stitch, and then back home for an evening of TV, roast beef, story time and watching the fireworks from my bedroom window.

  At midnight flashes of fire lit the sky above our shed, scattering gold dust and ice-white stars, boom, pop, boom, pop.

  ‘Is that what a flare looks like?’ asked Rose, nose up against the glass.

  ‘You mean at sea? I’m not sure. It’d have to be bright though, wouldn’t it? To be seen from afar.’

  ‘Everything to do with danger is totally bright,’ she said. ‘Lighthouses and police sirens and those red warning signs in movies when the bad guys have set bombs off.’ She paused, her breath smoking the glass. ‘Will Dad have fireworks?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘How many sleeps until he’s back?’ she asked.

  ‘Maybe, um, nine or ten.’

  ‘Maybe?’ demanded Rose.

  ‘It just might not be exactly the day he said. Because of the army and how long the journey is. It’ll be soon. That’s all you need to know.’

  Soon wasn’t a lie, it was the story she needed. Or was it the one I needed? Weeks ago I’d threatened that I’d tell Jake how badly Rose had behaved and make sure he didn’t come home again. Now it felt like I was being punished for my behaviour that day, for breaking up the door.

  ‘Tomorrow I’m going to do two of my injections,’ she said. ‘Cos I don’t want you coming into school at lunchtime when I’m back next week, and I want to go on the Year Five trip to Whitby in summer and I’ll look like a total idiot if I have to have my mum come too!’

  ‘Please don’t call yourself an idiot,’ I sighed. ‘And even if it isn’t me, someone will always have to watch you when you do everything. In case you measure the wrong dose or you’re low and can’t hold it.’

  I should have felt glad at her huge efforts toward independence. But part of me died. Let her go, said my head; I can’t, said my heart.

  In the last week she had done five injections, with difficulty. The angle was different when self-injecting as opposed to having someone else do it. I was able to go straight into the flesh, clean, in and out. She had to bend her arm while squeezing a small bit of tummy flesh with her other hand and pressing the pen lever at the same time. At times she panicked and pulled the needle out before the full insulin dose was released, meaning her blood sugars rose. Or she couldn’t press the lever at the same time and had to start again, meaning more bruises. It would never be easy, no matter how old she got or how long she had diabetes. Each time I offered to take over Rose shoved me away, determined to conquer it.

  ‘Don’t suffocate me,’ she yelled. ‘Stop watching me all the time. You’re putting me off.’

  ‘You should be glad,’ she said now. ‘You can go back to work and stuff. You must be bored being at home. I would be if I was stuck in all the time like a little rat in a box.’

  An emerald firework splattered across the sky like sparkly grass cuttings spat from a lawnmower. Rose was right. It was time to think about going back to work. I’d soon be totally redundant from my role as storyteller, blood reader and injector – and what then?

  I glanced at the clock on my bedside table: twelve fifteen. ‘Bedtime now,’ I said. ‘You’ve seen in the New Year.’

  ‘Did you make a wish?’ she asked as I tucked her in.

  ‘Not really,’ I admitted. ‘More of a self-promise. Did you?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t tell you or it won’t come true.’

  I went to kiss her forehead but she wrinkled her nose and turned away, a child one minute, a mystery the next.

  ‘How will I be able to do Colin’s diary at lunchtime if I don’t come into school anymore?’ I asked her.

  ‘Mum, the story’s going to be over by then,’ she said, exasperated, as if I should have known. And I did, I just didn’t want to think about it yet. I had worried how she would cope when it finished, but I’d never really thought about how I’d feel – until now.

  When I pulled away something fell from under the pillow – a book. It was The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I remembered how
desperate I’d been at the hospital to get her to take one.

  ‘You’re reading again,’ I said, pleased.

  ‘Not yet.’ I could tell she was half-asleep. ‘I put it there ready.’

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘For when Grandad Colin’s story is over.’

  ‘That could be another week,’ I said. ‘We’re still only at day thirty-nine.’

  ‘I’m … just … getting … prepared…’ she said, the words separated by sleepiness.

  I put the book back under her pillow, sniffed her hair. It was all warmth and sleep and faint coconut shampoo. I turned out the light. In my bedroom I watched the dying fireworks and wondered why I wasn’t elated. I’d done it. We’d done it. She had done it.

  Rose had not only accepted her blood tests and injections but she had done some herself. And now at last the little girl whose first words were ‘book, book, want book’ was returning to her beloved stories.

  I’d called Shelley a few days ago and told her about Rose’s first self-administered injection. ‘You must be overjoyed,’ she’d said to me.

  So why wasn’t I?

  The year had been a tough one but tomorrow, I self-promised, would be better. I looked at my phone, knowing I wouldn’t have missed a call from Jake, but hoping anyway. There were Happy New Year texts from my mum and encouraging words and offers of help from Vonny.

  Perhaps Jake still being away was why the fireworks hadn’t made me clap my hands and jump the way Rose had earlier. And, of course, we hadn’t finished Colin’s story yet. I knew we were coming up to the most difficult chapters and I feared their effect on Rose. Might his worst suffering undo all that we’d achieved? It had helped so far but now came the greatest test of his life.

  I closed the curtains and crawled into bed.

  In the morning we woke late and I made eggs and bacon and we took them into the book nook. Rose switched on the fairy lights, said, ‘Can we keep these here? I like them so much.’

  ‘They’re Christmas lights,’ I said. ‘I’ll be taking them down tomorrow.’

  ‘They could be lights for lots of reasons,’ she snapped. ‘Reading lights. Summer lights. Just lights, like, in general.’