How To Be Brave (15 page)

Scown had barely acknowledged the conversation and seemed contented with rocking back and forth, eyes half-closed.

‘It’s day ten,’ said Fowler. ‘So we’re maybe a third of the way there.’

‘It was only a guess,’ said King. ‘Could be wrong.’

‘If he is wrong, we’re doomed.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, we’ve rationed for thirty days.’ Fowler looked around at his companions. ‘If it’s longer – what then?’

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ said Ken, holding up a hand. ‘We’ve a bit extra for such emergencies and we’ve had a few fish land on deck, remember. I might yet catch something myself.’

‘Might not,’ snapped Bott.

‘There are lots of mights and might-nots,’ said Colin. ‘Best we talk only of the mights, eh, lads? Setting a target of thirty days gave us something to aim for.’

‘So it could be a lie?’ demanded King.

‘Not a lie,’ said Colin. ‘An estimate. A bloody good one too.’

‘Without summat to aim for, we flounder,’ said Ken. ‘So let’s be thankful for it. Now, Arnold, how about a prayer? I’m sure we could all use some of your good words.’

No one argued and Arnold nodded, dipped his head and spoke softly.

Lord God, ruler of land and ocean, bless those at sea. Be with them in fair weather and foul, in danger or distress. Strengthen them when weary, lift them up when down and comfort them when far from their loved ones. In this life, bring them safely to shore and, in the life to come, welcome them to your kingdom. For Jesus Christ’s sake, Amen
.

A chorus of Amens echoed Arnold’s. Whatever their beliefs, the evening prayer had become a part of daily life on the boat, as much as the battle with thirst, the boredom, the arguing, lookout and sleep. That evening, after much encouragement, Colin even managed to whistle. The Merry Whistler licked his parched lips and blew a cheery tune. It floated over the weary heads of the crew, over the softly undulating water, over the horizon to where ships might wait.

But it would be his last tune on the boat – he vowed inwardly that he would only whistle again when he saw home.

Night fell. Colin was on lookout with Ken from ten. They hadn’t spoken since Ken’s outburst. No one had bothered him much all day, leaving him to sullenly stare out to sea, spear held limp by his side. He’d tied a rope around the remaining water tins and attached it to his ankle, in fear of someone delirious stealing them. No one had argued about his obvious mistrust. Now Ken and Colin sat back to back, watching the water.

‘I lost it,’ admitted Ken.

‘We’ve all done it,’ said Colin.

‘But I’m supposed to be in charge.’

‘None of us are immune. We’re human.’

‘Scown put his faith in me.’

‘And rightly so,’ said Colin, glancing over at where the officer lay, muttering into his chest. ‘Bott, Leak and King have settled now. You’re keeping order. Spirits are up after that catch.’

‘But what about if we all lose it? What then? What about if there’s no one to stop it? What if I lose my mind for good?’

‘Can’t think too much,’ said Colin, patience wearing thin. If he’d had the strength he’d have shaken his chum. ‘Can’t beat yourself up about it. Get a grip, lad.’ He paused. ‘Let’s agree now.’

‘Agree what?’

‘When you start ranting, I’ll knock you over – and you do the same to me.’

Ken grimaced and Colin realised he was trying to smile. ‘Let’s suck our buttons.’ Ken reached into his pocket. Frowning, he felt about his body, looked around by his feet. ‘Must’ve dropped it,’ he said.

‘Here,’ said Colin. ‘Share mine.’

They took turns sucking on it during their hour lookout, sharing the tiny brown button like schoolboys with a last peppermint sweet. When Platten and Fowler took over, they nestled between the snoring shadows and tried to sleep.

Colin hoped to see the girl with sunlit straw hair; she hadn’t turned up for his daytime nap but maybe now she’d whisper in his ear. Instead his dreams were filled with jugs of water he could never reach, glistening pools of liquid that disappeared when he got to them.

So it was some relief when he woke to Ken shouting, ‘It’s raining! Wake up, lads, it’s raining I tell you!’

Colin sat up. Sure enough spatters of mist-fine rain hit his face in the darkness. No further coaxing was needed for those able to spring to life and shape the canvas awning into a pointed spout aimed at an empty water tin. But joy gave way to torment. It only rained long enough to coat the raft and canvas with a thin film of moisture. Sobs burst out from the younger men; the expectation and resulting disappointment was too much. Colin wanted to scream out,
what more can we take?

But he bit it back. He wouldn’t lose it.

‘Wait,’ said a voice in the blackness. It was Bott, the gunner who had never wanted to leave his farming job. ‘Something we could try. I’ve seen animals do it after a frost. Licking tree trunks and things. I’ve seen foxes and deer do it when they’re thirsty. Why not?’ He put his tongue on the moist rim of the raft. “Good. A bit salty, but good.’

And so the men knelt, as though praying, and licked whatever dampness remained. The fourteen scarecrows in a row, with feet either bare, black or adorned in salt-caked shoes, their smacking lips piercing the night, made a funny sight.

But no one laughed.

Christmas is only truly Christmas when you’re a child; when you believe the story, the cartoons, the songs, the magic. The minute you know the truth it dies. You stop listening for Santa on the stairs with your eyes squeezed tightly shut in case he knows you’re awake. You stop leaving out a carrot for Rudolph and the other reindeer. You stop trying to be good.

I stopped believing when I saw my mum carrying a new bike into our back room the Christmas Eve I was seven. I’d woken from a nightmare and tiptoed nervously across the landing in case Santa caught me being naughty. Even at that age I’d not sought comfort from my parents. I’m not sure whether it was down to nature or nurture but then as now I rarely asked for help.

Carrying a cup of water back to bed I heard a commotion downstairs and looked over the bannister. My mum had a red bike bedecked in a silver bow. It all clicked into place – Santa had never been and he’d never come again. I didn’t know for sure if Rose still believed. She was only nine, yet she was sharp; too sharp. She loved books – or at least she used to – but she knew what was a story and what was real.

Days after putting up the decorations we found a half-price gold tree and hung sparkly baubles all over. I asked if she’d like to go and see Santa at our local garden centre.

‘Not bothered,’ she said.

‘You always go,’ I reminded her.

‘I’m older now,’ she said.

‘We’re
all
older.’

‘Depends if I get a present.’

‘There’s always a gift,’ I said.

‘Maybe.’

‘You enjoyed decorating the tree,’ I said.

I wondered if she carried on pretending to believe in him for me. Maybe she thought I liked the Santa game; that I liked recreating the magic. Last year she’d hugged him tightly when he came to the school party. She told him she’d tried hard not to swear at next-door’s cat so he’d come on Christmas Eve. This year she was excited for the Big Day, as she called it, and enjoyed sitting near the lights each evening for Colin’s story. But I wasn’t sure she
really
believed in Santa.

Had diabetes made her more cynical? Was it because Jake was away? Maybe she
wanted
to believe but was afraid. Had her faith in happiness shattered when she got diagnosed? I should ask her but feared she would close up again, and I couldn’t risk that.

One evening after our teatime lifeboat chapter she joined me on the sofa for a festive episode of ‘Deal or No Deal’, and we laughed at the ostentatious costumes. Since my door smashing episode she had left her room to occasionally sit with me, something she’d often done before diabetes. She still gave brusque responses to my suggestions and slammed doors, but we seemed to have reached a stalemate in our battle.

‘Can I get a pink Santa hat for the school party?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’ I was pleased at her enthusiasm. ‘Do you need a full costume?’

‘No, we just have to make a hat. But I can’t be bothered. You can just buy me one – I’ve seen the one I want.’

I couldn’t ask whether she believed in Santa; I didn’t want the answer. Couldn’t face it in absolute black and white. So perhaps I
was
clinging to her youth. Perhaps I couldn’t accept the loss of her innocence along with the loss of her health. Even if she did believe, Christmas wouldn’t be the same now.

‘What will I do at the party?’ she asked. ‘Can I have cakes or just boring sandwiches?’

‘If it’s at lunchtime it won’t matter,’ I said. ‘You’ll just have your injection and maybe a bit extra insulin.’

‘It’s in the afternoon,’ she said. ‘Last lesson. You didn’t answer my question – can I have cakes?’

‘I’ll ask Shelley when we go to the clinic. I’m sure there’ll be a way around it. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get to have cake.’

‘I’d deal,’ she said.

‘What?’

She motioned to the TV. ‘Sixteen thousand is a good offer.’ We often played along to ‘Deal or No Deal’, me cautious and dealing early in the game, Rose more of a risk taker. Today we swapped roles; I gambled and lost.

‘I could invent a cure for diabetes with that much money,’ she said when the contestant won ten thousand.

I couldn’t tell her that millions of pounds of research hadn’t even come close yet. Instead I shuffled closer, hoping to sniff her sweet cheek, maybe get a hug. But she got up and went to her room.

When I tucked her into bed that night she asked from beneath the heap of covers, ‘How did you know the bit about me?’

‘What bit about you?’ I wondered if she was half-asleep, dream talking.

‘When you said in the story that I went to the boat and whispered in Grandad Colin’s ear.’

‘Did I say that?’ I had to think about it. Often when I was finished telling the story I could not recall my exact words. All that would remain was my fast-beating heart, Rose’s rapt face, and fragmented images of the men on the boat.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘How did you know?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t even remember saying it. Why?’

‘Because I’ve never told you about it,’ she said.

‘Told me what?’

‘That I’ve been to the boat.’ Her voice was so muffled that I knelt down by the bed. ‘Only twice,’ she said. Sleep began to steal her words. ‘I was just … tired … thinking about it … and I saw … the boat … him … Grandad…’

She drifted away.

I stayed for a while, staring at her slightly pink door illuminated by the light from my room. Would she tell me what she meant tomorrow? But Rose often said things as she fell asleep and then had no recollection of them in the morning.

More than ever I felt the story was bigger than a device to help Rose through diabetes. I wasn’t missing Jake as much this week. When had I stopped counting the days in my diary until his leave? I realised it was just over three weeks since he’d last rung so there might be a phone call anytime. Usually this had me restless, but the story was helping me forget real life as much as it was Rose.

In the morning I reminded Rose we were going to the diabetes clinic, anticipating arguments. I hid my nerves with a joke about wearing my lucky socks so it would go fine. But Rose just shrugged, took her diabetes box to the book nook, and switched on the lights so the depressing December morning twinkled.

With the blood test and injection I told her about when Ken confessed to Colin that he’d seen Christ in John Arnold’s face. It had disturbed him. Arnold’s gaunt cheeks and skinless forehead haunted him. But he was sure he saw someone else in those listless features. Death maybe? And then he realised it was Jesus; Jesus in his dying moment. Colin reassured Ken that the association was only because Arnold led the evening prayer, and believed most fervently in God. But afterwards Colin couldn’t speak to John Arnold without seeing the Lord too.

‘If you
really
believe in God then he exists, doesn’t he?’ said Rose.

I shrugged. ‘I suppose, yes.’

‘Do you?’

‘I don’t
not
believe,’ I said.

‘A bit like me with Santa,’ she said.

I smiled. ‘Well, whether or not you believe, I’m sure he’ll leave you a few presents on Christmas Day.’

‘He’d better.’

‘Okay, school. I’ll pick you up at lunchtime for the clinic appointment.’

She got ready without fuss and I watched her disappear around the hedge; every time she left a part of me aged, like an apple left too long in a bowl. The sweet faith in me soured. I feared a phone call from a teacher or from a stranger who’d found Rose unconscious and seen the medical bracelet and our number on it. I feared the sound of an ambulance. But I had to close the door and get on with my day, bite the apple and all its bruises.

I collected Rose just before lunch, our appointment in half an hour. Mrs White asked to speak with me and took me into her office like an unruly nine-year-old. I dreaded another locked door incident, punishment, though I could hardly complain after my recent behaviour.

‘Rose hasn’t done anything,’ she was quick to say. ‘I wanted to tell you personally in case you heard it via playground gossip. Our stand-in PE teacher – Mrs Brompton – came to me with concerns over the bruises on Rose’s legs. Obviously we all look out for such things. But she hadn’t been made aware then of Rose’s diabetes and so didn’t know that her injections cause this and not … well, not anything more alarming. She knows now. I just didn’t want you to hear about it and not know that we’ve since educated her.’

I was grateful she’d been more sensitive this time but sad when I imagined ignorant eyes thinking Rose’s bruises were the result of abuse. Sunny holidays spent in bikinis would now likely draw narrowed, suspicious eyes from other tourists, frowns asking who had hurt this poor, skinny kid. Who could blame them? At times her thighs did look like someone had hurt her.

‘It’s the Christmas party on Friday,’ said Mrs White. ‘Can Rose eat with the others or would you rather she …’

‘Was separated?’ I finished, always on the defence.

‘No, would you rather send in some sugar-free foods?’

‘No, I want her to have everything the other children do. I’ll ask at the clinic about extra insulin and come into school if needed.’

Mrs White seemed pleased – perhaps at my willingness to help, perhaps at my having got past her rash suspension of my daughter.

Rose was waiting in the corridor, one shoelace undone and fingernails filthy.

In the car I asked her, ‘Do you want to do your blood and eat lunch in the car park or in the hospital waiting room?’

‘But what about Colin’s diary?’

‘I brought it.’

‘In the car,’ she said. ‘Won’t be the same at someplace we don’t know.’ She was nervous now and trying to hide it by speaking in a more singsong voice. I wanted to squeeze her tightly but knew she’d rebuff it. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Park by the river. That’s right near the hospital. I’d like to look out at the ships.’

‘You won’t see many,’ I said.

‘You only need one,’ she said softly.

So I parked by the old docks and Rose scanned the brown water for ships while I got out the lancets and blood meter. It was trying to snow again so I left the engine on – cold fingers produce less blood.

‘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.