by Louise Beech
There were none.
The Second was an engineer, a quiet, morose man who had never made any close friends, and therefore no one on the lifeboat ever knew his name; everyone called him the Second or occasionally the commonly used nickname, chum. Extremely good at his job, he was well respected. He met the constant pain his injured feet must have caused with silence, never grumbling or asking for help. Being thrown by the constant movement of the raft caused those injured or most severely sunburnt to cry out as they hit wood or each other. But not the Second.
‘Right, we’ll have breakfast,’ said Scown. ‘Platten will issue it.’
‘About time,’ joked Weekes. ‘Make mine three eggs.’
Scown held up a plastic cup. ‘This’ll measure the water,’ he said. ‘It’s marked with ounces so no man will get more or less than another. And this spoon will measure out the Bovril.’
Food was eaten and water consumed, with no joy. It hardly took the edge off Colin’s hunger. So small a meal only served to remind him how much he needed.
‘I’d give anything for a nice cuppa now,’ joked Weekes. Colin knew he was trying to lessen their misery but many swore.
‘Aye, milky and sweet,’ continued Ken.
‘No, strong, a good brew,’ insisted Platten.
‘Oh, for a ciggie,’ said Leak, one of the gunners. ‘Why can’t them rations include cigs?’
‘Stop will you,’ snapped Bott. ‘Just stop it!’
His words worked; the men fell quiet again and resumed their positions about the boat. Time passed slowly, as it does when nothing changes. The sun kept up her persistent baking temperature. Only six men at a time could shelter under the canvas awning, so they took turns escaping the heat, panting unanimously.
Mid-morning during his lookout shift Weekes leapt from his position on the foredeck and cried out. Colin expected a ship on the horizon and when it didn’t materialise he very much wanted to punch Weekes.
‘Another boat!’ cried Weekes. ‘One of ours. Down wind, to port. Look there. Low in the water, mind. I reckon it’s slowly sinking.’
‘How far do you think it is?’ asked Ken.
‘Maybe a few hundred yards,’ said Officer Scown.
‘Reckon we can get to it,’ wondered Colin. ‘Might we use our smaller raft?’ Two men had slept on it last night to make more room on the bigger boat but it could easily be untied again.
‘Reckon there’ll be anyone on it?’ asked Young Arnold.
‘Maybe,’ said Scown, ‘but it’s what else is aboard that I’m thinking of.’
Extra rations might mean the difference between life and death. Though this was not spoken, they all knew it. Officer Scown asked for volunteers to go out to it and Ken, Weekes and Colin offered.
In unison they rowed the smaller boat for ten minutes and retrieved what felt like an abundance of tins. Exhaustion set in halfway back and they had to encourage one another to keep going. Weekes joked about lemonade waiting in the luxury quarters and received a hearty slap or two. Back at the lifeboat the men patted them on the back for the gifts they brought.
‘No need to open these to see what they are,’ said Platten. ‘I know these tins alright, biscuits most of them, and water the rest.’
‘They’ll cover unforeseeable events,’ said Officer Scown. ‘And as extra for those most injured.’
Colin, Ken and Weekes were spent and rested briefly, flopping like marooned fish on the deck. Platten and Bamford tied the small raft to the big one. Though the smaller boat could be rowed easily, the big craft was entirely unnavigable. Throughout the day everyone tried a hand with the broken steering oar but to no avail; the sails took them where the wind chose.
Colin hated that they were ruled by the elements and must go where they were taken. He liked to take charge. At least when it came to his turn for lookout duty he had something of substance to occupy him.
Young Fowler, the cabin boy, joined him. Officer Scown teamed more experienced men with the younger lads. Colin and Fowler took positions on the foredeck, one concentrating on the south, the other the north, each occasionally looking east and west.
Astern of the boat half a dozen dolphins followed in their wake, darting left and right, seeking prey. Shoals of flying fish shot out of the water, followed by streaks of silver lightning as the dolphins sought lunch. Colin knew that sea lore hailed dolphins as a symbol of protection. There were many tales of them helping those in peril at sea, but he reckoned these creatures were just after a good meal.
‘I should like a piece of fish very much,’ said Young Fowler, his pale face a picture of desperate longing.
‘Ken told me last night that he’s going to make some sort of spear,’ said Colin. ‘He hopes to catch us something. I think all of us would like to sink out teeth into a meaty morsel, lad.’
‘Do you think we’ll get picked up?’ asked Young Fowler.
‘We have to think so don’t we, lad, or else what’s the point in going on?’
‘But what do you think?’
Colin realised that though he was only maybe three years older than the boy, Fowler thought the gap was much bigger. The blunt truth came to his lips; God only knew. But he bit the words down. Better to give the lad a meaty morsel of hope. ‘I think there’s a very good chance of it,’ he said.
Young Fowler seemed happy with this; he settled back and spoke little for the rest of their watch. Colin whistled gently, unaware he was doing so until Weekes spoke up.
‘For God’s sake, make it a cheery one – we’re not at a funeral.’
With a grin, Colin whistled a ridiculously upbeat melody. Some of the men joined in, though it must have hurt their throats, until the entire crew were following Colin’s lead. Like a band of soldiers marching merrily home from war, they whistled, the tune rising and falling like the endless ocean. When the song died, the silence was somehow louder.
Officer Scown broke it. ‘Right, let’s check the flare tins.’
Platten dragged them from under a bench. ‘Water’s got in ’em,’ he said.
‘Better dry them out, just in case,’ said Scown. ‘Our lives may depend on it. You’d better make a list of what we’ve got in the firework line even if you keep it in your head.’
There were twenty-four Port Flare Type Red Distress Flares and three smoke-floats.
‘Take charge of them, Platten,’ ordered Scown. ‘See that one is always handy. Men on watch will, upon seeing a vessel of any description, set off a flare without awaiting orders. Understood?’
Colin eyed the flares and imagined grabbing one at the sight of a ship on the horizon. How quickly could he let it off? Would they still work after having been damp? No point dwelling on it. They’d find out when the event arose.
With the sun at its highest point, some of the men stripped off and dried their damp clothing on the deck. Their grey garments looked like squares of faded paper awaiting words. Colin thought again about the last letter he’d written his mother when he was still aboard the Lulworth Hill. He wished for a notepad. Wished he could reassure her there was hope, he was alive, not gone like Stan.
Food and water were, of course, what all the men craved most. But sitting to record his thoughts at the end of the day, losing everything in the act of doing so, had been heaven. It somehow put the hours to rest.
Colin settled back for the last ten minutes of their lookout, but Young Fowler grabbed his arm and pointed wordlessly astern.
‘Shark,’ he said softly, as though the creature might hear and attack.
A triangular fin approached the boat, cutting through the water with expert precision, a metal blade pulled towards their magnet. Once it reached the craft, the shark circled slowly as though assessing what was to be had. Perhaps fifteen feet long, his hefty body was scarred. One wound cut his face almost in two, like a forward slash dividing lines of poetry. One of the lads – Colin was never sure who – cried out Scarface. And so he was named. They would see him often. He became as constant a companion as the sea and sky and
thirst.
This time Scarface merely circled the boat and swam back off in the direction he’d arrived. Silence fell upon the crew at his departure.
Colin knew their inner questions must echo his. What had stopped him attacking? Maybe their number? He was sure the creature would return. He’d heard of cases of sharks attacking boats up to ten yards in length, much bigger than theirs. But it wasn’t common. Humans are not preferred prey for sharks but that didn’t mean they were safe.
‘Right, next lookout,’ announced Officer Scown. ‘Ken and John, you’re up.’
Colin retired from his duty wishing he could continue. Looking for a ship was all he wanted to do. Even with men on shift, he scanned the horizon, only stopping when Officer Scown announced the evening meal. Platten measured the rations and they ate. Despite the day’s cruel heat, the roughness of their salty clothes and the small portions, the men chatted contentedly afterwards as though it was a tea break aboard the Lulworth Hill.
‘I wonder how long it’ll be before we get another cig,’ said Leak, one of the gunners. He’d lost his dentures when the ship sank and the words whistled and vibrated against his bare gums.
‘Who knows?’ said Stewart. He’d been stark naked save for his life jacket when Ken and Colin fished him out of the water yesterday. The men had ribbed him for it since, laughing as they shared spare clothes with him.
‘I think we’ll be picked up,’ said Weekes.
‘The Lulworth Hill was an unlucky ship,’ said Bott.
‘I’ll not have you talk about her that way.’ Officer Scown held up a hand. ‘She was a fine ship. One of the best I sailed in. No ship could have outdone that U-boat, I tell you.’
Most nodded an agreement, some adding that they had enjoyed every moment aboard her. They talked of happy days going about their duties while heading home. Behind them the sun began its descent, snatching Colin’s good mood and taking it down too.
Two days and no ship. He had to imagine day three would bring one or else he’d not want to wake in the morning.
Ken had fashioned a good spear and in the evening’s softer light he jabbed viciously at the water, while the crew encouraged him with hearty cries of, ‘Go on, lad!’ But he caught nothing and gave up after ten minutes, the fatigue at engaging in such a simple act too much now.
Ken, like Colin, preferred to keep occupied. He tore pieces of material from the sail and began a log, writing as follows:
Sunk 19th March by U-boat. Time 3.40am. Two torpedoes hit nos. 1 and 2 holds. Ship sunk in 1 and a half minutes. Many went down with ship. We have 14 men on two rafts. We are about 800 miles from land, so will try to make it. Expect rescue anytime now.
Darkness suffocated the boat, put out the day and hushed words. The moon’s absence balanced them. Black shadows they all became, none older or younger or hungrier or less injured than the next man.
After a while Ken said to John Arnold, ‘Say a prayer, lad,’ arousing crude insults.
‘What harm in it?’ demanded Ken. ‘I could use some peaceful words to calm my mind.’
‘God can’t help us now,’ said Bott.
‘Maybe not,’ said Platten, ‘but maybe it’ll help us help ourselves.’
‘Aye, let him say something,’ said Colin.
And so a peace settled again over the crew and Young Arnold recited a bible passage from memory. And God said, let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life. And God created great whales and every living creature that moveth. God saw that it was good. And God blessed them, saying, be fruitful and multiply and fill the waters in the seas.
Then Arnold asked God to receive those who had perished on the Lulworth Hill and to bless those who had survived and help them find their way home again. Murmurs of Amen concluded his words, and then twelve men groaned and turned over and tried to find a comfortable spot.
Scown and King began their night lookout shift. Colin tried to sleep, squashed hard between Ken and Davies, whose broken ribs caused him to cry out constantly. Scown had tried to bind his chest with trousers but it can’t have lessened his suffering much.
The sea got up quite a storm and pushed and pulled at their boat, like a tired parent rocking a sleepless baby too hard. Colin dozed fitfully.
Curious visions punctuated brief moments of sleep. A place he’d not seen before but that felt somehow familiar. Not home, but somewhere homely. A place with books, ones he’d never beheld before. Their spines were more colourful than the royal blue and burgundy ones in the ship’s library. He longed to look at one but, as is the way with dreams, he found his hands stupid and clumsy.
Then Colin realised he wasn’t alone. Someone came for the books. Someone turned, perhaps aware of him. He tried desperately to hang on to the dream but it dissolved, the way Bovril tablets do in boiling water. Colin woke with words in his mouth, with names, questions, desperate appeals.
‘What’s that, lad?’ said Ken, his voice muffled.
‘I … she…’ He realised he had no idea. ‘Just a dream.’
‘Go back to sleep,’ said his chum. ‘You’re on shift at dawn.’
But Colin didn’t sleep again. When shreds of orange peel announced day three on the horizon, he was relieved to begin another lookout. It was like the act of watching for a ship encouraged one to arrive. If he turned away, even for a moment, it might pass by unseen.
Hold on, hold on, just hold on, he thought. Maybe a ship, maybe a ship, maybe today a ship.
12
COLOURS LIKE THOSE AT SEA
Men getting downhearted.
K.C.
December arrived quietly. Like a wintry tooth fairy, she sneaked in and put frosty days under my pillow. I only realised when I tore a page from the Cute Animals calendar Rose had picked, revealing puppies in Santa hats. What had happened to November? She had passed on a choppy sea of needles and numbers and insulin measurements and battles with Rose and school problems.
It was the month I had become a storyteller. I had tried to choose the right language for a nine-year-old, and insulted my clever daughter. Then I’d worried that I was summarising too much, giving little background, painting in broad strokes, repeating descriptions previously used.
But somehow I took us to the ocean.
Now my private, frenzied reading of Grandad Colin’s diary, newspaper articles and letters, along with Rose’s sharp, probing questions and a rise in confidence that my words were helping her, meant I looked forward to finding out about him. I think Rose did too, secretly. She might fight and ignore and call me Natalie to irritate the rest of the time, but in the book nook she was mine.
During her forced time at home our story-sharing fell into a comfortable routine. I called it story-sharing that week because her questions after each chapter proved how much she’d listened, taken in, enjoyed; this participation meant she contributed to my putting paragraphs together and inspired future prose.
We split the ocean days in three; one day on the raft we made last through breakfast, tea and supper. Then at lunchtime we let Colin’s diary pages fall open and took turns reading aloud. His words rose and fell in the sunlit book nook corner. His thoughts of those difficult days were a mix of comical memories and sad observations and confused conclusions.
On Tuesday, from a page marked sixteen in faint pencil, Rose read aloud, slowly and carefully.
There were some funny moments – not too many, it has to be said, but a few scattered through the darker times. It must be hard for anyone to imagine it, but we found humour in silly inconsequential things, like when we’d all taken our shoes off to dry them a bit and then didn’t know which ones belonged to whom. We were all trying them on and remarking over the good feel of the better ones, as though we had just been paid and were in a shoe shop on Anlaby Road. One of the lads said he wasn’t even sure if his own feet were actually his. It doesn’t sound that funny now. Sounds silly. But we laughed. It might have been the last time we did.
Rose giggled too, a mel
ody of undulating notes. How I’d missed the sound.
I smiled, said, ‘Even when things are hard people can always laugh. It does actually make you feel better, you know.’
‘Mrs Kemp never thinks so when we laugh in her lessons,’ said Rose.
‘That’s not a time for silliness,’ I chided.
‘It is when Jade’s drawn something rude on the desk,’ said Rose.
I wanted our giggly sharing to last but too soon Rose wandered back to her bedroom until our next story chapter.
At teatime I told her about day three on the lifeboat, describing their discussion of how to eat the very hard ship-issue biscuits without breaking their teeth. Parched throats meant they could barely swallow the hateful things. Leak, who had of course lost his dentures, sobbed as he tried to eat one. They smashed one with a boot heel, then wrapped another in cloth and banged it against the boat edge.
‘Who invented such a nasty biscuit?’ asked Rose.
In the end Stewart the cabin boy suggested they soak it in a very small amount of seawater. It worked. But Colin longed for something moist to eat. He watched with the others as Ken continued to jab his spear at the water, some mocking cruelly when he failed to catch anything. Colin felt despair at Ken’s failure, wanted to shake his friend by the now thin scruff of his neck and scream his misery at him. But he didn’t.
After the chapter Rose asked, ‘I can’t remember exactly who’s who. Good stories shouldn’t just chuck totally loads of characters at you all at once.’
‘I had to cos they all arrived that way,’ I said.
Then we talked about the crew, trying to imagine exactly what each of them looked like.
‘It’s easy to recall the unusual ones,’ I said.
‘Like John Arnold cos he does all that bible stuff,’ she said. ‘I see him as kind of skinny and with a squeaky voice.’
I nodded. ‘I remember the injured ones most. Like Davies with his broken ribs and the Second with bad feet. I can’t imagine their pain.’
‘But that Second is boring,’ snapped Rose. ‘I like Weekes cos he’s a joker. He’d be real good fun. I’d want him on my boat.’ She paused. ‘Grandad Colin is the best though,’ she said, softly.