by Louise Beech
Now Ken stirred, muttering something about a decent cuppa. Colin opened his eyes. Far on the horizon he spotted something almost as welcome as a ship – a fat grey cloud, puffy no doubt with water. Just the thought of crystal liquid falling into his open mouth and waiting cup made him breathe harder. During the days the sky was mostly cloudless. It was the kind of weather those back home would celebrate, encourage them to run back inside to get deckchairs and jugs of lemonade. Here they longed desperately for rain.
‘See that, lad,’ Colin said to Ken.
‘What?’
‘That cloud. Think it’ll come this way?’
‘Don’t get your hopes up, chum.’
‘Never know.’ Colin willed it to float their way, deciding if it moved west they’d see a ship later.
Officer Scown ordered that Platten ‘serve the grub’ but it wasn’t met with the cheerful cries of yesterday. Apart from what was essential – like ‘pass the cup’ or ‘you’re up next’ – conversation was subdued. Swollen tongues and parched throats made it too painful. Growing hopelessness meant no words were worth hurting that much for. But once the meagre breakfast had been consumed the men perked up enough to make half-hearted conversation.
Colin studied his seawater-soaked biscuit. ‘It’s not nearly enough, Chippy,’ he said.
‘Barely enough for a small child,’ said Ken.
‘We’ll not last, you know.’ Colin looked at the mouthful of liquid in his tin cup. ‘Not on this amount of water.’
‘Shhh, lad.’ Ken shoved his mate, but less roughly than they had been doing days earlier. ‘Don’t let the younger ones hear you. They look to us, you know. And morale is bloody low this past twenty-four hours. It’s only been five days and they think we’re doomed. Didn’t you hear them last night?’ He softly mimicked their words. ‘We’ve had it, we’ve had it. We’ll never be picked up.’
‘Five days,’ said Colin. ‘Can you believe it? Feels like so many more. No wonder they feel desperate. It’s the Second I feel for.’
They both looked to the spot under the awning where the Second Engineer lolled, his face rubicund, beard salt-caked, eyes yellow, chest sunken and feet rotten. Gangrene was eating the flesh away and the smell was pungent, sweet yet sour. Still he bore it well, never emitting more than a grunt.
‘He won’t eat,’ said Ken. ‘There’s nowt anyone can do to make him. I know – I’ve tried. Sat with him yesterday and held the cup to his lips but the bloody fool refused. Not sure if he’s delirious.’
‘That’s why we’ve got to believe a ship’s coming,’ said Colin. ‘It makes us get up, lad, makes us eat.’
‘Them young ’uns don’t think so today.’
Ken looked over at Arnold, Fowler and King, their thin shoulders hunched over as though to protect what little bit of hope remained in their hearts.
‘Do you?’ asked Colin.
‘Do I what?’
‘Think a ship’ll come?’
Ken didn’t reply. He studied his roughened, cracked hands, turning them over as though looking for something in particular. Then he picked up the spear he always kept close by as if this was his answer.
‘Do you believe?’ repeated Colin.
‘What does it matter to you?’ snapped Ken. ‘Whether I do or not won’t bring a ship, will it, lad? Won’t change a thing. But keeping this spear sharp and doing a bit of fishing every day, that’ll maybe keep us alive. Believing isn’t enough unless you do something.’
‘I know that,’ said Colin, hoarsely. ‘That’s why I keep looking out. It’s the doing of it that keeps me going. I have to get home. Have to. Stan never did … I must.’
‘Stan?’
‘My brother,’ said Colin softly. ‘Never came home from sea.’
‘I’m sorry.’ There was nothing else to say.
Breakfast done, the day dragged on, its hot sun oblivious to the misery of the crew below. The morose monotony was broken only by inadequate meals, lookout shift change, swapping for a sheltered spot under the canvas, and a dark cloud that had promised rain but passed over without bearing a drop. Colin watched it disappear. He pursed his lips to whistle – unaware he’d even done so – but nothing emerged.
‘Give us a tune,’ croaked Davies. Five days of coping with broken ribs had left the seaman too weak to move. The others took rations to him at each meal and helped him to the foredeck when he insisted on lookout duty.
‘What?’ Colin frowned.
‘You were about to whistle.’
‘Was I?’ He pursed his lips again and tried. Nothing. ‘Nowt there,’ he said. ‘My throat’s too dried up, lad.’
Just after noon, when the sun bore down most unbearably, the gunners – Leak, Bott and Bamford – began complaining. It was understandable. The three weren’t true seamen like the others, having had less than six months’ ocean experience and being accustomed to working on farms and the city street. On top of that, all of their clothing was now so rough and caked in salt, it was an agony to wear, and seawater boils covered any skin exposed to the elements. Tempers flared when bodies collided and swearing regularly coloured the air.
But the gunners’ negative words had a huge impact on the younger lads, many of whom held their heads in their hands and moaned.
‘We’ll never find land, you know,’ said Bott. ‘Not on this thing. It’s bloody useless. We’re just drifting aimlessly. Going nowhere.’
‘We’ll not get picked up either,’ said Leak. ‘We’ve not seen one ship in five days! What does that tell us? There aren’t any bloody ships. What’s the point in looking out? Might as well curl up and die.’
‘We’ll all die on here, I tell you,’ Bamford wailed.
‘Stop it,’ sobbed Fowler. ‘Weekes told me we’ll be picked up.’
‘What does he know?’ demanded Bott. ‘He’s a bloody joker that one. He’s teasing you, lad!’
Before Weekes could intervene, Officer Scown did. ‘Right, that’s it,’ he snapped. ‘We’ve no room for moaning minnies on here!’ He swept his arm over the smaller second boat. ‘If I hear any of you buggers talking nonsense, I’ll put you aboard this boat, give you some rations, and untie it and set you adrift. Do you hear me? And you can go to hell.’
He didn’t raise his voice – likely he was unable – but something in his tone shushed the grumblers. Silence fell on the rowdy crew. And it was at that moment that a large, juicy flying fish chose to land with a delicious plop on the deck. For a stunned moment, no one moved. They watched it wriggle and flap, its silver skin sparkling like slimy sugar in the sun.
Then Ken cried, ‘Grab him, lads!’ and all hands came to life.
‘Fetch the knife,’ ordered Scown.
Platten smashed its head against the deck and then divided it into fourteen bloody portions, while watering mouths hung open in anticipation. Once shared, it wasn’t quite large enough to make a hearty meal but it was moist and fresh. Platten passed the small pieces around.
Young John Arnold shook his head, said, ‘Give mine to the Second. I think he could do with it more than me.’
Most had already eaten their piece, sucking vigorously on every bit of bone.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Officer Scown.
‘He’ll not take it,’ said Ken, quietly.
‘He’s not even eaten his own,’ said Weekes, sucking blood from his fingers. ‘Look, he’s dropped it. Might as well give it to someone.’
The Second had barely acknowledged the fish’s arrival. He sprawled against a bench, his rotten feet in the constant puddle of water that pooled there.
Arnold knelt by him and said, ‘You need to eat else you’ll not get better. I’ve prayed each night for God to cleanse your feet. Here, please let me help you.’
Other men joined in the encouragement, chorusing his appeals with cries of, ‘Go on, chum, it’ll do you good’, but the Second refused to eat. His eyes were dead and his thin mouth was clamped shut like two pages in a discarded book.
‘May as well e
at your piece, lad.’ Ken touched Arnold’s shoulder. ‘I’ll give the Second’s piece to Davies, if no one objects?’
Young Arnold ate but without the passion the other men had.
When they were all finished with their surprise morsels Ken nudged Colin, said, ‘I’m gonna do a bit of fishing again. Was a real bit of luck that fish landing on deck, but I mean to make us some luck from now on.’
Colin watched his mate take position; Ken knelt close to the edge, in what must have been a painful stance, so he could best reach a catch. Holding aloft the spear, his eyes never left the water. Some of the crew joined in, crying out at the sight of fish. Colin quietly played his game – if Ken caught one fish a ship would show by teatime, two and it would be in minutes.
He thought about Ken’s words earlier, that it was no good just believing something would happen, you had to actually do something about it. So he did something too. He held onto Ken’s shirt so he could lean even farther out, and cried, ‘There, Chippy, see that black one!’ along with the others.
Scarface put in an appearance after a while, two of his friends on either side. They swam alongside the boat, causing the crew to shrink back and move to the middle. After only minutes, the creatures disappeared beneath the waves.
‘I’d like to catch me one of them.’ Ken resumed his position, spear held aloft again.
‘Be hard to get the bugger aboard,’ said Colin.
‘You know the old superstition, don’t you?’ Ken said quietly to Colin. ‘A shark follows a vessel when they know death will visit.’
‘Now who’s despondent?’
‘It’s true.’
‘Maybe.’ Colin considered it. ‘But if that’s true, then dolphins mean protection and there’ve been plenty of ’em.’
He watched bubbles froth at the bow, spiralling and whirling as though dancing to a song he couldn’t hear. As if to prove him right, two dolphins surfaced just ahead. They leapt from the water in perfect unison, their sleek, grey bodies adorned with crystal dots. However low he felt, Colin never ceased to be awed by their beauty, by their clicking sounds bouncing off the water, by how they enjoyed play like small children, nudging and chasing one another.
‘Sharks’ll eat anything, you know,’ he said to Ken. ‘Nowt they won’t tackle. When I was in Sydney they caught one with a broken bloody chair inside it. Half a horse inside another and enough bones to feed a dog!’
‘I could eat a horse right now,’ said Ken. ‘Could eat anything. Could eat you.’
‘Wouldn’t taste good, mate.’
‘But a drink – oh, for a drink.’ Ken groaned.
‘Don’t. Just don’t.’
As though reminded of how little he’d eaten and drank, Ken put down the spear. ‘Enough for today,’ he said. ‘More tomorrow.’
Colin had lost another game.
In the evening, after another small meal revived them briefly, the men talked not just of home, but of love; of sweethearts, of fiancés, of wives, of girls they liked, girls they hoped to court, girls on the silver screen. Love revived more than their tiny cup of water. Even just imagining it irrigated the crew’s hopes of getting home. Platten had his wife and twins waiting there, Scown a wife and six-year-old daughter Wendy, and Ken had a girl, Kathleen, who had joined the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force and was in the Orkneys.
Colin didn’t have a girl but he liked listening to the others chat. Between their words he kept hearing the soft clacking of brass against teeth. Earlier, Scown had suggested sucking on a button to combat the endless thirst. He told the story of an old friend, who had sucked on a small stone, while in the desert, which kept the mouth from getting dry. Many of the lads had torn one from a cuff or collar and eagerly put it in their mouths. Colin’s was brown; he ripped it from his breast pocket. It helped a little, reducing his thirst by retaining what little moisture he had in his mouth. From then on he kept it to hand, in his worn top pocket, or nestled beneath his tongue.
‘My Kath’s probably just knocked off work,’ said Ken. ‘She might have got my last letter today. I hope so. She won’t be worried, at least. We’re not even missing yet.’
‘How come?’ asked Bamford.
‘It’s a few days until the Lulworth Hill would have arrived in England,’ said Officer Scown.
‘So they won’t even be looking,’ moaned Leak.
‘Don’t start that again. We got the SOS out. Let’s keep talk on pleasantries, shall we? Who’s waiting for you, Leak? A lovely lassie?’
Colin wondered if being needed back home gave one greater incentive to survive. He had no dependents, no family responsibilities, no wife and no children. Colin desperately wished that his mother would not have to relive the grief of losing a child, and having no body to bury.
She had five sons, Colin, Alf, Gordon, Stan and Eric. Though she would no doubt mourn Colin’s absence and feel as she had when Stan was missing, she had support. She was a strong woman. As an army sergeant major’s wife she was often alone; son Alf was in the merchant navy with Colin, Gordon was in the royal navy, and Eric the army. The Armitages had a long history of service, going back to Colin’s great, great grandfather, who served in the navy under Nelson.
Even without being needed back home, Colin missed it desperately. He didn’t speak of it as easily as some of the others, preferring not to appear overly sentimental. He’d never been given to emotional outbursts, perhaps even been brutal on the ship when a man cried with loneliness. But being on the lifeboat with nothing to do but think left Colin vulnerable to the same longings as the crew.
In the growing dark, he relived childhood days with his brothers. Out hunting for brambles and sticks, and adventures in the woods surrounding their Yorkshire village. Arguing over who got first dibs on a swing they’d made from metal pipes and rope. Squabbling over who got the biggest slice of apple pie their mother had packed for them. Jumping into the stream when they’d been told not to and coming back long after sunset. Colin could smell the apple pie, the woods, the brambles, so sharply that he opened his eyes expecting to see food and his brothers. He saw only the deteriorating black shapes of his ocean brothers.
Stan’s voice had always risen above those of his other siblings – ‘Catch me, Colin, I bet you can’t! I can run faster than the wind! Faster than fire!’ Colin missed him acutely yet felt somehow closer to him on the ocean. This was where he’d passed. They were together here.
‘You’re not saying much, Armitage,’ said Weekes. ‘We’re on lookout in a few hours. You gonna keep me awake or bore me to sleep?’
‘What’s that, lad? I’ll shove you over the edge – that should keep you awake.’
‘It’s pretty black tonight.’ Colin could barely make Weekes out as he spoke. ‘Must be a new moon. Gonna be hard to stay awake. At least we could smoke a few ciggies on the ship night shifts.’
‘There was tea and all,’ moaned Stewart.
‘How about a prayer, John?’ This time Ken’s request met no argument; the men were glad of a bedtime story, of words they didn’t have to think up, of something to lull them into oblivion.
Softly, Young Arnold recited a passage; his tremulous voice all that existed in the dark.
Glorious and gracious God, who dwellest in heaven but beholdest all things below, look down we beseech thee, and hear us calling out of the depth of misery, out of the jaws of this death, which is now ready to swallow us up. Save us Lord or else we perish. Send thy word of command to rebuke the raging winds and the roaring sea, that we are delivered from this distress and may live to serve thee and glorify thy Name all the days of our life.
Colin settled down in a spot between Ken and Weekes, knowing what sleep he might find would be brief, and he’d soon be shoved awake for lookout duty. He wondered where Fowler lay. He wanted to make some gesture to show his regret for the thump yesterday, but darkness shrouded them all.
When he fell into a fitful slumber, Colin dreamed again of books; a rainbow of books: green, gold, blue, turquoise, a
ll the colours of the sea. Among them was a brown one, the colour of his best suit hanging in the wardrobe at home. Colin wanted to pick it up but his dream fingers wouldn’t work.
Then he was no longer alone.
Someone came for the brown book. Someone turned, perhaps as aware of his presence as he was of hers. She – he realised it was a she – picked up the book and held it to her chest. Colin tried to speak, to ask who she was, to ask her to tell everyone he was at sea, and their ship had sunk.
But the harder he tried the fainter she grew, and the book and the girl disappeared, and Ken was shoving him, saying, ‘Go back to sleep, lad, you’re hallucinating, there’s no girl here, it’s just us, just us, just us.’
14
WISH-WISH-WISH
Looking for a ship every day and night by keeping one-hour watches. May God help us.
K.C.
The morning Rose returned to school she locked her bedroom door by pushing the bed up against it, and I lost my temper. Just over five weeks of diabetes, of arguing with her, of being on my own, built up like ice in a broken fridge and shattered in a chilling explosion of language and threats.
I woke feeling morose anyway because it was Jake’s birthday and he wasn’t home to celebrate it. The day would mean nothing to the army. Those in his platoon might pat him on the back and sing a few lines of ‘Happy Birthday’ but he’d not be permitted a call home and I couldn’t be sure the card I’d sent last week would have arrived to let him know I missed him.
We always put up the Christmas decorations on his birthday (the seventh of December) and I promised Rose we’d do it after school, so she’d gone to bed last night in a cheerful mood, saying I couldn’t put Mary or Joseph in the mini wooden stable because she liked to.
‘You always do them wrong,’ she said.
I got out of bed, soft dread ever present at the thought of more finger pricking and fight. Last night I’d hardly slept. I’d read a news article about a diabetic girl who had died in her sleep; her blood sugars had dropped so low, she simply stopped breathing. So now, on top of the midnight blood test, I was up and down in the dark, watching Rose, checking she was still breathing.