by Louise Beech
Remembering it, Colin eagerly told Ken the details. ‘I dreamt about that young lass again. I don’t know her yet but she’s so familiar to me. You know when you get déjà vu – it’s like that. She looked sad. Had this box on her knee – don’t know what it was, like. Couldn’t see. But she didn’t seem to like it very much. She was making something. Something that looked like an ink pen and had all sorts of attachments. Then she looked right at me and said something dead strange. She said, “I’ll have to do it myself one day.” What does it mean, Ken?’
‘Means you’re stark raving mad, Armitage.’ Ken shook his head. ‘Only joking, lad. Who knows what such dreams mean? I think we have ’em more vividly out here cos we’ve so little else to do. And God, to have something to talk about – something that isn’t home or rations or ships.’
‘You’re a bit more chipper today,’ Colin said. ‘I’ve been worried about you.’
‘Wouldn’t call it chipper.’
‘We’re still all here to face another day.’ Colin wasn’t sure if he said the words in relief or with dread.
The other men began to stir, twelve skeletons wearing tattered garments and agonised expressions. Colin knew he must look how they did. Never a vain man, he knew he’d been called a good-looking chap, if in a rough, coarse kind of way. He had dark eyes that looked into a person with unnerving directness, open, warm, honest. He wondered how he’d look if he ever got off the boat. Would his hair regain its colour? He’d noticed in others that the sun had bleached the blackest hair grey. Would his mother recognise him? Would he find a sweetheart looking this way? What did any of it matter if he couldn’t last until a ship?
‘I bet most lads slept better with the calm,’ said Ken.
‘Doubt it,’ said Colin. ‘Not with all the noise.’
Most of the crew had called out in the night, more than usual, their discordant lyrics at odds with the sea’s soft symphony.
‘Never heard it,’ said Ken.
‘Lucky you. I thought Bott was gonna kill someone. Officer Scown tried to go over but he’s so weak now that Weekes only had to put a hand out to stop him.’ Colin paused. ‘I didn’t know whether to…’
‘What, lad?’
‘You know … just let him go.’
‘Soon there’ll be no one with the strength to stop him.’
Ken tried to stand and when his legs gave out he refused to look at Colin, perhaps embarrassed at his increasing weakness. He half crawled, half staggered to the rations, announcing that breakfast was up.
Few bucked up at this declaration now. Tongues stuck like gangrene to teeth and to the roofs of mouths. The men were so parched that the ounce of water issued barely went past their throats, leaving bodies desperately dehydrated, heads fried, and blood syrupy. Colin hated how thick and foul-tasting his saliva was. How tight his face felt as his skin shrivelled.
He knew those unable to drink – like Scown and the Second, who refused – would have ceased generating saliva at all, the tongue hardening until it swung on the still-soft root like a tiny wrecking ball.
That morning they let John Arnold say a prayer. Then Bott, Leak, Stewart and King began their daily drinking of seawater, a habit Ken had given up railing against. It was hard enough finding the strength to issue rations, choosing men still well enough for lookout, and making sure no one jumped overboard.
Three days earlier Ken had screamed at them. ‘You lot drinking seawater – knock it off! It’ll do you no good. Christ, as if it’s not enough living without much water, I have to watch you lot! We’ve got to look out for each other. Keep strong! You lose it and we all bloody lose it. Damn you all to hell!’
It had made no difference and now Ken ignored them.
Colin approached Officer Scown. The man lay in the well, his head propped up with a life jacket. He wore a hat Weekes had made from a trouser leg. His breathing was so shallow that at first Colin paused, afraid to approach, until Scown muttered some desperate plea into his chest.
‘Should we give him water?’ Colin asked Ken. ‘He refused breakfast. We ought to make him take some.’
Colin held Scown’s head with two hands while Ken measured two ounces into the cup and put it to the officer’s lips. Colin imagined the water reviving, sparking like electricity, regenerating. But most trickled down his chin.
‘For God’s sake, drink,’ Colin urged.
‘Some must’ve gone down,’ said Ken. ‘Nowt more we can do. Most can’t swallow anymore. What’s the point in issuing meals? And them buggers drinking seawater – to hell with them. Let ’em drown in it.’
Desperate to keep Ken’s mood up Colin said, ‘Come on, Chippy, you don’t mean it. The only thing that keeps us going is a meal. We live the day by it. Even if there were nowt left to eat we’d make the pretence of preparing it just to … just to go on.’
‘But would we?’
Ken returned to his place at the stern, spear in hand. He hadn’t caught a single thing. Colin had consoled him by saying that he’d not won his game either, the one where counting a certain number of fish or clouds or stars resulted in a ship. Ken had insisted he’d succeed first.
Mid-afternoon Officer Scown sat up, appeared lucid. He smiled at those around him and began idle conversation. Perhaps he had taken in some of the water earlier or maybe covering his head had reduced the effects of the sun. Ken glanced at the crew and was answered by a row of nodding heads. So he measured another two ounces and helped the officer drink it.
‘You’re a good crew,’ Scown said. ‘As good a crowd as I’ve ever sailed with. No, better I tell you. I thank God for it. One bad character could easily have been the death of us all.’
‘You’re a good man too,’ said Platten. The small, strong father of twin girls had skin so dry now that his eyes appeared like two raisins in dark dough. ‘You’ve been a splendid officer, sir.’
He had. Sober habits and strict discipline meant Scown had been highly regarded and respected by all aboard the SS Lulworth Hill. His orders always came sharp, and he never watched them executed, showing confidence in the crew.
During his time on the lifeboat, he often spoke proudly of his daughter Wendy back home. However, he rarely mentioned the bike he’d bought for her in Africa, intended to be a seventh birthday gift. It had gone down with the ship. Nor did he speak of the tiny knitting needles and wool she had gifted him before he set sail – to keep him busy, she had said. The loss of these items upset Scown greatly.
That the men were upset about items lost didn’t mean that they didn’t care for men lost, rather it was perhaps easier to think only of bikes and knitting needles forever on the ocean floor.
Scown raised the empty cup. ‘I thank you all for keeping a good ship.’
‘To you, sir,’ said Young Fowler, weakly.
‘To you,’ chorused the crew.
‘To my daughter,’ Scown said softly. ‘My wife.’
Colin joined in but felt he watched from a distance. All day he’d felt like he wasn’t part of the crew. Like he was hearing them through cotton wool. Through gauzy fabric. At times his heart pounded so fast that his head spun. When he raised his arm with an imaginary cup to salute Scown, and his weatherworn sleeve slipped down, he was shocked at the visible bones and absent veins.
This isn’t my body, he thought. I don’t want to live in it.
‘Maybe now he’ll sleep peacefully,’ said Ken, making Colin jump.
Scown lowered himself onto his back and a smile fluttered about his lips, a butterfly that danced only a moment and flew off. Stewart sat next to him. Colin hadn’t the energy to leave his spot on the bench and he watched Stewart take Scown’s hand and lean close as though to listen to his heart.
‘I see Mum,’ whispered Scown. ‘There’s Mum.’
Suddenly the young cabin boy screamed and began beating Scown about the head with his fists. Platten pulled him free and slapped him, breaking his hysteria. Tears replaced the violence.
‘He’s dead,’ sobbed Stewa
rt. ‘Mr Scown’s dead, I tell you.’
Ken approached the officer and knelt before him. Colin followed. Scown’s mouth hung open, showing the remnants of six or so malted milk tablets. He’d not had the saliva to dissolve them. Ken tried to shut his lips, afford him some dignity. Platten lifted Scown’s lids to reveal eyes devoid of life. John Arnold gently unbuttoned the officer’s shirt as though opening an unwanted gift and put an ear to his sunken chest. One glance at the men spoke a hundred words.
He began to pray.
‘Not Scown,’ sobbed Stewart.
No one moved or uttered a sound for an hour. A heavy blanket of shock settled on the crew, suffocating all words, muffling all movement. It seemed impossible that one of them had gone. Even though Scown had been ill, some still in their delirium thought he might be sleeping and wake for rations at tea.
Colin was haunted by Scown’s final words: I see Mum, there’s Mum. He knew the other lads – what was left of them, what was still human – longed for their mothers. Most cried out ‘Mum!’ as they slept. Colin wondered if he did.
Sometimes he walked around his mother’s back room in his dreams, as though he was actually there. Maybe he was. But if so, why wasn’t she there? If he had called out for her, why hadn’t she responded? A mother was the first person to hold you at birth – it made sense that she might come at the end. Who would hold Colin if he passed here?
He wouldn’t pass here – that was all there was to it.
When it came to evening rations, Platten nudged Ken and pointed to Scown and then looked out to sea. Colin thought about Scarface. An hour earlier he’d followed the boat like he was tethered to it. Did he know? Had he smelt death?
‘We can’t,’ said Ken, softly.
‘We’ve got to put him to sea.’ Platten gripped Ken’s arm. “We can’t keep him on here, Cooke. You know it.’
Ken looked pained. “We can’t let him go, not yet. It wouldn’t be decent. I’ll not give the order.’
Colin understood – it was too final.
Platten spoke more harshly. ‘It might not be decent if we don’t. He’s flesh and blood, and there are thirteen starving men on board.’ He paused. ‘You must give the order.’
Ken looked around at the crew. ‘Right, lads,’ he said softly. ‘Let’s, with dignity, move our officer.’ He looked at Colin and Platten. They needed no instruction. The three men tried to lift Officer Scown. Wasted as he was, it proved impossible. They simply hadn’t the strength.
‘The canvas,’ said Ken.
Gently, they rolled Scown into a section of it and positioned him on the gunnel while Arnold said a few words in prayer.
‘We commit his body to the deep, looking for the resurrection of the body and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who at his coming shall change our body that it may be like his glorious body. In accordance with the mighty working. Amen.’
As the young boy finished his words, Platten and Colin freed Scown; Ken held fast, unable to let the officer go. Scown’s shirt ripped and Ken was left with it in his hand as the body slipped into the water so quietly it was like he’d never been there at all. Colin put a hand on Ken’s shoulder. Ken showed him the cloth with a brass button still attached and put it in his pocket and patted it.
‘Won’t be the same without him,’ he said.
In the dying light afterwards rations were issued with even less enthusiasm than usual. Colin could barely swallow his Bovril tablet, even though his belly cried out for food. He hadn’t looked at the sea since they’d cast Scown into it; he knew Scarface would be there with his friends but couldn’t think about what they might be doing with the officer’s body deep below the surface.
Ken took the brass button from his pocket and turned it over in his palm, like it might cast a spell. In the fading day it was all that shone. ‘They died that you might live,’ he said.
‘What’s that, chum?’ asked Colin.
‘I don’t quite know.’ Ken looked baffled. ‘I thought I heard Scown say it. Just now. I really did. I can’t get it out of my head. Did you hear it?’
‘No.’ Though he hadn’t, Colin didn’t dismiss Ken’s words. He knew how real such voices and sights could be. The girl with sunlit straw hair had appeared to him as true as any of the crew.
‘What does it mean?’ wondered Ken.
‘What does any of it mean?’
Without warning, Ken sat up. Seemingly strengthened, he got his spear, ordered Platten to fetch some line, and tied the brass button tightly to the end.
‘Right,’ he said to Colin. ‘You drag this through the water, keeping it within my reach. Understand? The sharks will be attracted to the gold colour – you’ll see. We shall have one. Oh, I’ll catch us one.’
Caught up in Ken’s infectious enthusiasm, Colin took the line and leaned over the boat edge to dangle it in the water. Those strong enough joined them, urging Ken to be ready with his spear. Before long a young shark emerged from the depths. The flashing yellow must have been like a mermaid song beckoning him.
Bott gripped the boat edge, muttering, ‘Come on, come on, come on.’
With a swift movement Ken stabbed the creature, piercing its side, disabling it. How fiercely it wriggled and squirmed to escape, all snapping teeth and thrashing tail. But these were desperate men, driven by hunger, and Ken, Bott and Platten held fast and heaved the shark aboard.
What a fine supper he made. Being big, he was enough to serve each of the now thirteen men a steak-sized piece, and perfectly moist. Blood was drained into a tin and shared around as a drink and as lip balm. The meal did much to lift them, even with Scown gone. The stronger ones made sure the Second got plenty of sustenance, though he barely seemed to recognise his mates now. Perhaps Scown’s refusal to take water near the end compelled them to make sure others in a bad state did. Whatever the reason, Leak and Bamford sat with the Second until they felt sure he’d consumed enough blood.
‘I’ll take the first watch,’ said Ken. ‘Who’s with me?’
Despite the nutritious meal, Colin still felt weak. Like his body existed but his head was elsewhere – or perhaps the other way around. None of it felt right. He didn’t think he could stare at the horizon in search of a ship that didn’t materialise without joining Scown.
‘I’ll watch for an hour,’ said Weekes. ‘If you’ve got a ciggie we can share.’ Jokes had been rare recently, but he got a few smiles.
‘I win,’ Ken said to Colin, in joy rather than with oneupmanship.
‘You do?’ Colin’s lips glistened bloody red like he’d taken wine as communion.
‘The catch,’ said Ken. ‘Thanks to Officer Scown.’
‘To Officer Scown,’ a few of the men chorused again.
‘Told you I’d succeed first.’ Ken paused, maybe realising that if Colin won they all would. ‘Now it’s your turn. I’ve done what I set out to do.’
Colin turned away, the weight of the game he’d created dragging him from the others. Fight gone, he found a solitary spot under the canvas and surrendered to sleep. There he dreamt of the girl with hair and eyes that gleamed as brightly as the sea. It was a vision so powerful it followed him into dawn and consciousness.
This time she came to the boat.
She smelt clean amidst the rotten stench of gangrene and decaying wood; she glowed like an angel. She leaned down by his ear and said, ‘No, don’t wake up. Stay asleep. Dream about nice things and you won’t be sad. But it’s okay to be sad cos that’s part of being brave – I just can’t remember the other part right now.’
Colin didn’t want to wake unless it meant he was home or in the silver kitchen or in the place with all the books.
When he opened his eyes on another day in hell, the girl had gone. But her words lingered, ebbing and flowing with the sea.
It’s okay to be sad cos that’s part of being brave – I just can’t remember the other part right now.
Ken recorded his own words on a torn sail that formed another
page in the on-going log.
SS Lulworth Hill – Deaths – Scown. Mate. 4.30pm. 6th April.
20
HOW TO BE BRAVE
Expect rescue anytime now.
K.C.
Midnight on Christmas Eve and wine had made me melancholy; the sweet tang that initially brought song and smiles and silliness had died, leaving me tearful. Sparkling wine is like insulin; if consumed in small doses it lifts, but too much leaves a person low afterwards. My bubbles had burst.
I put my half-empty glass on the table near the remains of the buffet I’d excitedly prepared earlier for the friends I’d invited over. My thoughts turned to Jake. I missed him. What he’d said the last time we spoke – about Rose and I being cooped up alone and getting morbid over Colin’s story – was haunting me.
Now that school was finished for Christmas I also grew concerned that Rose might feel isolated, home with me all the time. So I’d let her invite Hannah and Jade for a sleepover last night. Maybe my mum’s concerns and April’s words had influenced me too, and I decided Rose should be a child, that foolery and fun should flood the house again.
She’d loved sleeping on the blow-up bed with her friends, watching Doctor Who, telling ghost stories, being allowed to stay up until midnight and have sugary popcorn for once.
‘We won’t tell Shelley,’ I said, away from Hannah and Jade, ‘and if your blood’s a little high in the morning, it’s just one time.’
In the middle of the night I’d looked in on them all, breathing in comradely unison, three fluffy heads sticking out of the green camping duvet like flowers in a spring bed.
Since the hypo at the shops I’d been watching Rose constantly, analysing every colour change, every mood swing, every word use. I’d told Shelley about it and she said I’d always remember the first one. They would catch me out again but I’d never again feel quite so helpless. A bit like when your heart breaks the first time; that’s it, it’s broken.
I was exhausted from watching her all the time, but witnessing Rose’s joy at a simple sleepover had lifted me and I’d decided to have my own little party.
Rose and I left out cake for Santa. Then Vonny, her friend Jane, and my boss Sarah came for festive drinks. We cracked open bottles of Prosecco and played music and ate April’s cake and talked about men, holidays, childhood and life. For a while I forgot blood tests and lifeboats and needles and hunger; I felt thirty-five again instead of three hundred.