How To Be Brave

by Louise Beech

  In the last twenty-four hours Colin had felt the will to live leaving his body as acutely as if he were physically bleeding. He no longer cared that he didn’t care. He did not count fish or sharks or clouds. He did not miss food or water or home. He did not see his brothers, all different sizes and heights and colours, united by the subtle family trait of firm chin and heavy brow.

  It was easier to give in and sleep. To wake only to sip the tiny bit of water Ken made him take and nibble on scraps of chocolate given. Each man would, upon finding the other alive, nod weakly. Colin was not sure he would care now if he woke alone, left drifting on the lifeboat until someone came for him.

  Who would that be?

  Not his mum; he had called her many times, but she never came. Maybe the sunlit-straw-haired girl would take him. She came often. Maybe she was Death prettied up in his head to make his end gentler? Maybe Colin had hallucinated her. Maybe he had hallucinated the whole journey, every one of the six weeks, and he was still on the Lulworth Hill, whistling and writing letters home?

  But no. There was Ken, skeletal, desperate Ken. His friend.

  Ken crawled now to the final water tin and came back with it, no moisture left in his body even to sweat after the action. He opened the lid as carefully as they had each one, lest a single drop got wasted. The temptation to drink it all in violent gulps never died; that they hadn’t was probably the only reason they still existed. They looked into the clear liquid now, their grim faces reflected back more kindly in its mirror.

  ‘Two ounces,’ croaked Ken. ‘Two ounces four times a day might get us to another five days.’

  ‘No … point…’

  ‘No?’

  ‘We’ll be dead by…’ Colin couldn’t finish.

  Ken appeared to think about this. ‘You’re right, lad. You were right that other time and saw us through.’ It took him a few minutes just to say these words, saying only two at a time and pausing for breath between. The heat shimmering on the midday deck drained every last bit of energy they had. ‘We’ll have four ounces now then. Assess what we can get by with each time we serve it up. You go first, chum.’

  ‘No, you,’ croaked Colin, and so they argued back and forth until Ken took his share.

  It barely wet their throats.

  ‘Rest,’ said Ken. ‘Then … watch.’

  ‘But … the dream,’ Colin said. The memory of it sparked sudden hope.

  ‘The dream?’

  ‘She said … get up … and keep looking.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘That girl. The one … who said … Grandad.’

  ‘Chum.’ Ken closed his eyes. ‘If I believed all the dreams I’d had on here, we’d have been picked up weeks ago and I’d be in Kath’s arms now.’ A dry sob broke from Ken’s chest. ‘Kath,’ he said. ‘Kath, why don’t you help us? Please help us. You’re with the RAF. Send someone. Send a ship. Help us.’ And then he passed clean out.

  Colin tried hard to stay awake. He took the brown button from his pocket and sucked on it. Not so much to lessen the endless thirst – which, really, it had probably never done – but to do something physical that would prevent sleep but not overly exhaust him. He turned the button over in his mouth – click, clack, click – and watched the water until his eyelids began to droop.

  Remember the bird and what it meant. Get up and keep looking, Grandad.

  Click, clack, click.

  ‘I’m trying,’ he muttered. ‘I’m trying hard.’

  But in the end he fell asleep.

  A persistent buzzing noise woke him. It throbbed in his head like a fly had got stuck there. He decided he had gone mad; that the occasional drinking of seawater and lack of food and too much sun had finally fried his brain. But then the lifeboat was moving in a way it never had and a rhythmic thudding that kept time with the sound in his head made Colin open his eyes.

  Ken was pointing, his face one of joy that even parched skin could not dull. ‘Can you hear it?’ he cried. ‘Can you hear it? A plane, a plane!’

  Together they searched the clear skies, methodically, from port to starboard, up a few degrees and then starboard to port, seaman on watch again, on proper duty, eyes tired but eager.

  ‘There she is!’ Colin and Ken broke into insane laughter at the realisation that they had spoken at exactly the same time.

  The plane was astern of them, flying very high. Ken clapped his hands and slapped Colin on the back, who in turn shoved him almost over the side. Wasting no time, Colin grabbed one of the three smoke-floats. He pulled the firing-tape and dropped it into the water. Like two children watching a bonfire, they smiled as the dense red smoke drifted in the breeze.

  Scarface surfaced to investigate the smoke-pall but disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived when no food materialised.

  ‘No plane can miss that,’ cried Ken.

  ‘No matter how high,’ said Colin.

  ‘I reckon that smoke could even be seen from below the horizon!’

  They clasped hands together, jubilant. The plane continued her journey. Was she going to slow down? Circle overhead? Signal an acknowledgement somehow? She must, she must.

  ‘Where are you going?’ whispered Colin.

  ‘Don’t leave us,’ begged Ken, and Colin felt sadder for his chum in that moment than for himself.

  Not wanting to believe their eyes, they watched the aircraft grow smaller and smaller until it was a dot in the sky and faded from ear and then eventually sight.

  ‘They left us,’ said Ken.

  Colin could not look at him; could not stand to see in his friend’s face the desolation that crushed his own chest. He turned instead to port where the dying smoke-float slowly drifted, increasing distance from the lifeboat, until with a few sputtering gasps of smoke it died.

  With it went all hope.

  Ken flopped to the deck, head in hands. Colin had no words. He sat too, the exertion of joy leaving him broken. Neither man spoke all afternoon. Scarface trailed the boat as though also waiting for the plane to come back. The sun began her descent. Water was consumed, chocolate eaten.

  Colin picked up the length of line and ran it through his fingers in grim silence. Ken watched him, knew his thoughts. How quick it would be to lash themselves together and go over. Colin twisted the line, over and over, wrapping it about his arm and then letting it slide through his fingers again.

  He looked at Ken.

  ‘It’s the quickest way home,’ Ken said.

  ‘Are you ready to go there?’

  Ken didn’t answer.

  ‘I don’t think I’m ready yet,’ said Colin. ‘We can’t let our friends down, can we?’ He looked about the boat; he saw Weekes joking about eggs for breakfast, Fowler on watch, Platten issuing rations, Arnold praying fervently, and Officer Scown in his final moments. He saw them all chatting after rations, egging Ken on with his spear, sleeping, praying, surviving, living, dying.

  ‘Who else will tell everyone how brave they were, Ken? We owe it to them. How will anyone ever know what went on here. What we all endured. What we saw. Who we were.’ He paused. ‘I don’t think I’m ready yet.’

  Colin put down the line and closed his eyes. How long he was out can’t be known but buzzing disturbed his slumber again. Not daring to open his eyes, he thought he must be dreaming about the plane.

  But the sound continued.

  Then Ken shook him. ‘Two more!’ he cried. ‘There, two more planes!’

  Colin leapt to his feet. Energy returned so fast when immediate survival required it. He set off the last two smoke-floats, hoping this would make certain that they were seen. In his haste, one ignited while he still held onto it. Yelping in pain, he went to plunge his hand into the sea, but Ken grabbed him and pulled him back.

  ‘Scarface,’ he said.

  Once again, as Colin nursed agonising burns, the two planes continued overhead and eventually disappeared, oblivious to the smoky red signals that died like the other had. Colin’s hand swelled up and blistered fa
st. They had nothing to ease it. No creams, no bandages, and only saltwater to pour on it, which caused greater hurt. But the pain lifted Colin as though any feeling, even bad, was something.

  ‘We may see more planes,’ he insisted. ‘Look Ken, we’ve been forty-three days on this lifeboat without seeing another sign of human life. Then in one day we spot three planes. Maybe we’re in a patrol area. It’s a good sign.’ He paused. ‘You do think so too, don’t you Ken?’

  Ken nodded with effort. ‘Of course, you’re right. We’ll be picked up tomorrow, you’ll see. Tomorrow.’

  When they retired at sundown, Ken wrote on the torn canvas.

  30th April – 3pm – Two more aircraft passed over but gave no sign of seeing us. But we have greater hopes now. If there are any tomorrow, we shall know it for the RAF Coast Patrol, and then we can expect to be sighted any day. We are both very ill.

  Morning brought 1st May. Colin wasn’t sure what prompted his thinking of the date for he’d hardly noted the others. Time had become meaningless. He watched their limp sail hanging from the mast, a forlorn and colourless Maypole. He thought about those back home, celebrating under England’s gentle skies. Oh, for kind weather, for less heat.

  He must have spoken the words because Ken croaked, ‘Without the heat we’d have been dead long ago.’

  Colin knew it to be true. If their journey had been through the Arctic it would have been much shorter. Immersion in those seas resulted in quick death. Still, he longed for cold, for cool air, for icy drinks.

  The men drifted through day forty-four, eyes closed to the sun’s cruel glare, ears open for another plane. When they felt strong enough to talk it was mainly of planes; when they might return, if they’d been spotted, and what might result.

  During midday rations Ken watched a young dolphin swim playfully alongside the boat. He nudged Colin and the two men enjoyed the gorgeous creature’s dance. How silvery his skin shimmered beneath the waves, how his tail flashed through surf. Joy was tempered by concern that Scarface would appear.

  ‘Go swim away,’ whispered Colin. ‘Sharks here.’ He leaned over the boat edge to watch the dolphin dive there and saw a cluster of four large goose barnacles attached to the wood. ‘Ken,’ he cried. ‘More barnacles! Look!’

  Ken leaned over. ‘They’re a good foot away,’ he groaned. They looked so juicy and succulent that Colin’s jaws automatically moved, imagining the delicious meat in his mouth.

  ‘Grab my legs,’ he said. ‘I’ll see if I can get them.’

  ‘What about Scarface?’

  ‘It’s worth the risk. What beauties they are.’ Colin paused and gave a bitter grunt. ‘What does it matter all that much if he does get me?’

  Weak as they were, it was an operation of magnitude. Merely thinking about how to do it was exhausting. They first passed rope over Colin’s shoulders and fastened it to the mast. This alone needed a ten-minute rest. Then, doused with seawater to energise them, Colin edged himself over the gunnel while Ken used every scrap of energy to hold his legs. Getting the barnacles was no issue but bringing Colin back onto the boat proved hardest of all. When they did, it was worth it – he’d managed to retrieve five.

  They ate them as slowly as possible, savouring every bit of liquid and meat. Satiated, they then slept a while. The faint beat of a plane again woke them. Colin sat up so fast he screamed in agony but Ken ignored him, cried, ‘Look, there, he’s coming directly towards us.’

  So he was, not high, not low, speed neither fast nor slow, his wings black against the blue.

  ‘If only we had another smoke-float!’ cried Colin. ‘Why the hell did I let two off at once? He’ll pass so near he couldn’t possibly miss one if we had it!’

  ‘So we wave,’ said Ken.

  Wave they did, barely able to stand, voices so dry their cries of help were likely not heard further away than ten yards. The plane passed directly over, so close they saw the underside of his wings. He continued his course, leaving only the dying sound of engines like distant thunder.

  Ken dropped to his knees, muttering a prayer or curse at the heavens. Colin tried to remain standing another moment, watching the plane’s departure. As he began to turn away, to give in, something stopped him.

  The plane was turning.

  ‘Ken,’ he cried. ‘He’s spotted us. Look, he’s coming back!’

  The plane banked around in a slow, easy turn to port and continued circling until he’d made three complete rings around the lifeboat. Then, satisfied something warranted more investigation, he dropped to a lower altitude and passed right over. He dropped something that stained the nearby sea with red dye and Colin realised he was marking their position. Just to have been seen was enough.

  ‘They’re dropping something else,’ cried Ken.

  A package landed close by.

  ‘Can we get it?’ said Colin, terrified it would sink or drift away.

  ‘The spear!’ cried Ken.

  This time he leaned over the boat edge while Colin sat on his legs. He was able to fish it out of the water with his spike hooked into the wrapping. The package contained a kite, a wireless set, a balloon to support an aerial, and a rubber dinghy. Exaltation at being spotted gave way to despair at the drop not including water. They watched the plane depart and felt more alone than they had in a long time. Contact with another human – even inside an aircraft – brought such joy that when it ended, emptiness deepened.

  The balloon was useless without gas to support it, so they could not work the wireless and get out a message. And what good was a rubber dinghy? Water was all they wanted. Exhaustion set in, and with it came anger, despair.

  ‘Perhaps we can fix the aerial to the mast,’ said Colin.

  ‘How the hell are we to do that?’ snapped Ken. ‘Stand on one another’s shoulders? We can barely support our own weight, lad.’

  Neither could concentrate enough to think of another solution. They settled into the well of the boat.

  ‘We’ve been seen, Chippy,’ said Colin.

  ‘Aye, lad.’

  ‘That’s all that matters…’ Colin’s words trailed off as sleep stole speech.

  ‘Aye, lad.’

  ‘Now we … wait…’

  It was all they had done.

  ‘Maybe tomorrow … a … ship…’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Get up and keep looking, Grandad.’

  27

  THE LAST SUPPER

  Have been expecting to be rescued today but no luck.

  K.C.

  There were two of us that night.

  I wore old leggings and Rose had on her new lilac onesie covered in purple hearts. There was no ambulance, there were no paramedics asking questions, and no hospital trip.

  Like Colin and Ken, we could not wait. At the beginning of the story I had paced the chapters, attached them to meals and injections, exchanged them for Rose’s blood. I had wanted us to slowly discover Colin, to meet Ken and the other twelve men who shared their journey. I’d let the days gently unfold. I’d tried to do it right. Tried to set the scene and build tension and describe characters.

  Now we couldn’t wait for the end.

  That morning I’d crossed 10th January off the calendar, just as Ken had marked the passing of their time on the canvas log. Each time I’d done it since Jake’s Christmas phone call I’d wondered when the next call might be, what news it would bring. Rose knew now that his homecoming might be delayed.

  Two days ago she’d asked, ‘Why isn’t Dad here yet?’ and I’d had to tell her the truth. That I had no clue. She’d surprised me with her acceptance and said he was probably waiting for us to finish Colin’s story first.

  And now we were almost done.

  Rose came down with her diabetes box and looked at the book nook. She didn’t sit on a cushion though. I knew why. We were at the end. This was the last time we’d sit together and visit the ocean. The last time we’d be lit up by the string of colourful bulbs and the magic of what had happened. The
last time we would see the lifeboat. I knew Rose would likely go back to reading secretly, under her covers, and our book nook would end up forsaken, dusty, haunted by words passed.

  I saw then as clearly as a vision that we would pack her babyish hardbacks in a box for the loft and put the bookshelf and cinnamon cushions in her bedroom. We would clean the area, paint it and think of a new purpose for it. I might stand in the sunny corner and hear the sea if I tried. I might drink tea and look out onto the garden and feel the whip of breeze from the lifeboat’s sails. But I’d be looking back, and now it was time to look ahead.

  This was our last supper.

  Rose went into the book nook first and I followed with her piece of crusty bread covered in peanut butter. She broke it in half and said I should have some, that she was way too excited to eat it all. Then she patiently prepared the finger pricker and drew blood, rich and thick, which I gathered onto the strip. Five-point-two – it was the perfect reading, the number of someone without diabetes. She had, for now, conquered this complex and difficult and random condition.

  I knew there would be difficult days ahead. I knew there would be times when she’d hate the injections, cry at her sore finger ends. Times when hypos would surprise us and debilitate her. When someone might point to her bruises and ask who had done it. When her eyesight might be affected. Her heart. Her kidneys.

  But for now we had won.

  ‘I think I know why I got it,’ said Rose suddenly.

  ‘Got what?’ I asked.

  ‘Diabetes.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘I was thinking and thinking in bed last night and I think maybe I’m supposed to not never forget how thirsty Grandad Colin got at sea. Or how much we need to eat to survive. I think I needed to know that you always need one other person cos I’m so bad at having help. And I think it’s so I got to understand Colin and not never forget him.’

  ‘No,’ I argued. ‘It can’t be that at all. It’s just bad luck. Just a faulty pancreas. Not something you deserved or needed. Just one of those things.’