How To Be Brave (5 page)

Who could blame her?

‘Rose!’ I screamed now.

I searched the house again, looking in the airing cupboard and my wardrobe. Then I called Hannah’s mum, and Jade’s. Both women said their daughters had gone off to school as usual, no sign of Rose, but that they’d ring me immediately if she turned up there. Hannah’s mum paused and added, ‘I’m so sorry to hear about Rose. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you.’

I called Rose’s school, in case she’d woken and decided to head there without telling me, but the headmistress, Mrs White, assured me she’d not been registered that morning, and promised to call should she turn up.

‘Rose!’ I screamed again.

Find the book
.

The words appeared in my head, like soldiers on the horizon, just as in the hospital when I’d gripped the bed end while hearing,
You’re going to be picked up
. I didn’t think these phrases: they marched into my head.

A knock on the front door and I rushed to it, heart expectant and arms ready for Rose. April stood on the step with a biscuit tin. She’d made an effort to apply blue mascara but most of it had clogged in the corner of her eye.

‘Well?’ I willed her to have good news.

‘I couldn’t find her.’ She came into the hall, utilising my dilemma and gaining access to a house she’d previously tried to enter with promises of gossip and homemade wares.

‘Shit.’ I didn’t think I could bear another minute of worry.

April followed me into the kitchen, sniffed at what I knew was the stench of old food and pursed her lips at the overflowing sink, as though my slovenliness was the cause of Rose’s disappearance. I’d fallen into lazy habits, leaving pots in the sink for days and forgetting to turn taps off, so water flowed down kitchen cupboards. I had found Rose one afternoon watching my forgotten froth and whispering softly. I don’t even think she could see the water and she’d barely responded when I moved her upstairs.

‘Let’s think where she might be,’ said April, putting her tin on the table.

‘She needs her insulin,’ I said. ‘She’ll get ill without it.’

‘When did she last have some?’

‘After supper last night. She has four shots a day, with breakfast, lunch, tea and supper.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be okay for a few hours more.’ April opened her tin. ‘Now why don’t you put the kettle on and I’ll wash your pots and we can have a nice biscuit and think where else she’ll be.’

‘I can’t sit around eating biscuits!’ I cried. ‘I’ve got to find her.’

‘You should stay here in case she comes home,’ said April. ‘My Jenny went missing when she was about ten. I bit off most of my nails with worry. Then she walked in bold as you like, said she’d been “picking daisies with Mary in the next street.” Rose will turn up.’

‘It’s not the same,’ I snapped. ‘Your daughter wasn’t diabetic. What if she’s hurt somewhere? What if she fell over and she’s injured under a bush or something and it gets colder. She’s not just any child.’

‘I know,’ said April. ‘She’s
your
child.’

‘No, I mean she’s vulnerable.’

April found a clean plate in my cupboard and put five biscuits on it. ‘Let’s wait ten minutes. She’ll come home when she’s hungry and she can have one of these. I put real lemon in them, you know.’

‘She can’t eat fucking biscuits!’ I grabbed the plate, spilling the biscuits all over my gravy-stained work surface.

She barely blinked at my outburst. Suddenly I felt warmth towards her, bad for ruining her lemony bakes.

‘Have you definitely checked everywhere?’ she asked, practical, unmovable, solid: just what I needed.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Cupboards? Wardrobes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Garden? Shed?’

‘Yes.’ I stopped. ‘Well, not the shed.’

‘Why not, lovey?’

‘We never use it. It’s just full of junk and spiders. Rose hates spiders. She’d never go in there and besides she can’t reach the bolt.’

‘Can’t hurt to check,’ said April.

She was right. So I walked the length of our skinny garden, gold leaves sticking to my slippers and breath smoky in the chill air. Our wooden shed hid behind a holly tree, as though embarrassed. Every winter Jake patched it up, hoping to get another year out of it. Wood overlapped wood, nails stuck out like bookmarks, and the roof sank at the back where wet leaves from April’s oak tree had weighed it down over the years. I looked towards the house; April stood on the step.

One week over, still no ship
.

‘What?’ I called.

‘Didn’t say anything, lovey,’ she said.

I reached for the shed’s bolt and realised it had been pulled back already; the door swung open easily with a little shove. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. Fustiness and the smell of doors-closed-too-long hit my nostrils first. Then I saw her – at the back, on a pile of old carpet. Rose. Curled up, shivering, dressed only in a yellow onesie. Relief rendered me briefly speechless.

I knelt down beside her. ‘What on earth are you doing? You must be absolutely frozen, you silly girl.’

She elbowed me away. The whites of her eyes shone like a warning in the darkness. ‘I’m all right!’ she hissed. ‘I’m just waiting.’

April called from the house, asked if all was well, and I shouted back that Rose was there, we’d just be a moment.

‘What do you mean you’re waiting?’ I tried to help her up. ‘It’s past breakfast time. You must be starving.’

‘No,’ she insisted. ‘I’m waiting for him! He told me to come here!’

‘Who did?’ I demanded.

I asked who, but didn’t I already know?

‘He comes to see me in the dark,’ she whispered. ‘He smells kind of … you know, like the fish and chips at Hornsea? He said last night that he’d meet me in here, near the boxes.’ She had pushed four cardboard boxes together as if to form a barricade on each side. But she’d let me in. I loved that she was talking to me again, so freely, so excitedly. I didn’t care how cold it was. It was just us two, sharing stories once more, like in the book nook. ‘You
know
him anyways so stop being silly. It’s the man in the brown suit. He said he saw you at the hospital.’

I sat back on my heels. If I had imagined the familiar stranger – his whiskers against my cheek – then how was he inside Rose’s head too?

‘He might not come if
you
’re here,’ Rose said, and the moment was over. She looked away, crossed her arms, difficult again.

I looked back at the shed door swinging back and forth on rusty hinges and realised something. ‘How did you reach the bolt?’

‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘He said he’d undo it for me.’

I shivered. Beyond the open door soft light fell hard; November’s morning haze gave the grass a contrasting sharpness, its overgrown blades uneven, angry. I’d meant to cut it one last time in October; but winter had crept up on me like old age.

‘Rose.’ I grabbed her small hands. ‘Your fingers are blue and you haven’t eaten since yesterday. I’m sure the man in the brown suit would want you to come inside.’

‘You think I’m stupid.’

I shook my head. ‘Not at all.’ I realised she had something hidden inside her onesie. It was book-shaped. I smiled. Was she going to start reading again?

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

She crossed her arms over it, ignored me.

‘Did you take that book I said you couldn’t read?’ I asked.

‘You get all the best books,’ she snapped.

‘Give it to me.’

‘No.’

‘Now,’ I demanded.

‘He said you’d want it.’

‘Who?’

I heard my phone ringing on the table and called to April to get it for me.

‘Give me the book,’ I said, sweeping away cobwebs that dangled by her hair, ‘and I’ll make you anything you want for breakfast.’

‘Anything at all?’

‘The book,’ I said. My knees were damp from the rotten floor.

She pulled it out and handed it over with a scowl.

April shouted from the back doorstep. ‘It’s Jake on the phone!’

‘Dad!’ cried Rose, leaping to her feet.

This man was more important to her than the nameless one who appeared in the dark; she pushed me aside and raced back to the house. I called up the garden for April to let Rose tell her father she was okay.

Then I looked at the book.

It wasn’t the one full of bad words.

Bound in leather as dark as rosewood, cracked like it’d been sitting too long in the sun, it was smooth but in my hands it felt as heavy as if it had contained every story written. Where had she found it?

One of the boxes was open. Dust and damp patches and stains covered the cardboard, like the land and seas on a map. I looked inside. On top were birthday cards bound with a rubber band. I opened one; my handwriting filled a page, each different-coloured letter bigger than the one before. I remembered how I’d felt I
must
fill in every bit of space when I was little. I rummaged further; found familiar photos of Christmas and school days, and strange items like an envelope of old stamps, a weatherworn wallet, and a lock of hair tied with parcel string.

I realised it was the box I’d been given when my grandma died seven years earlier. Too sad to look inside, I’d asked Jake to hide it somewhere, anywhere, I hadn’t cared where.

I looked again at the book.

Two thick ribbons tied in multiple knots meant the pages were impossible to open. I fiddled a little, then gave up and turned it over carefully, like I’d just found a prize. The only thing differentiating the back from the front was in the bottom right corner – two inky initials: C.A.

Colin Armitage.

I smiled.

Find the book
.

I knew I had.

After Rose handed over the book I put it in my bedside table drawer, next to a photo of Jake in his uniform and some rosary beads my grandmother left me. During the night, after exhausting finger-prick tests, I would open the drawer and put one hand on the soft leather. In the dark, as though instinct would guide me, I began trying to tackle the knots.

There was no time during the day because after the morning in the shed, I lost Rose again.

She didn’t leave the house this time, just me. She wouldn’t acknowledge me for the dreaded finger-prick test but her hands spoke clearly;
I will not submit
, they said. She sat on them, refusing to let me pierce her finger ends. Again I cajoled. I whispered promises of pet rabbits and trips to theme parks. I pleaded, got angry, calmed down, said sorry, and then began all over again. My life was a series of circles, spinning faster, faster.

‘Do you think I
want
to do this?’ I said to Rose. ‘I hate it too, but I
have
to do it. If we just do it quickly, then it’s done.’

Somehow I managed. I pulled her hands from under her bottom as firmly as I dared without causing more bruises, and did what I had to. Prick, pain, blood. Harvest the crimson flow onto the strip. Read black numerical digits on the machine; usually still high enough to cause concern but dropping slowly, like a plane losing altitude. Then a meal or snack and an injection, the dose of insulin depending on how her blood sugar readings were doing.

You’ve found the book
.

But Rose’s logbook demanded my time too. It slowly filled with numbers; twelve-point-two, fourteen-point-three, seventeen, fifteen-point-four. We needed to achieve less than ten but Shelley assured us we were doing well. I’d decorated the logbook cover with a picture of Doctor Who, hoping it might make Rose smile, but she turned away.

On one of her routine visits Shelley said, ‘No family finds a diabetes diagnosis easy and it must be especially hard that Rose’s dad is away. Are your family nearby? Is there anyone who can come and stay, give you a break for a few days.’

Rose sat wordlessly between us.

I shook my head vigorously. ‘My mum lives on the Isle of Wight and I don’t want to disrupt her life when there’s no need. I saw my dad last week, took Rose there for a few hours. I’ve got my friend Vonny. Jake rings when he can and he’ll be home in about seven weeks. I don’t need anyone else. We’re
fine
.’

Shelley suggested Rose give us a moment. When she had stomped off, Shelley said, ‘Have you thought about counselling, pet?’

‘God, no. She’s only nine. She’d be terrified. She’d
never
talk to a stranger.’

‘I meant for you,’ said Shelley.

‘Me? Why would I need it?’

‘Natalie, there’s nothing wrong with admitting how hard this is. You’re the only mum I’ve ever visited who didn’t break down and cry.’

I felt it was a criticism. That she saw me as cold, emotionless. Why must I prove that I had feelings? Indignant, I said, ‘I’ll be sure to weep for you next time.’

Shelley closed her file. ‘I didn’t mean to … Look, it’ll get easier, pet.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ I sighed, ‘but it’ll get harder first?’

She left and I tried to rescue Rose with the only lifejacket in my possession; the man in the brown suit. In the shed her face had glowed when she’d talked about him, and we had somehow shared a curious communication with him.

So I asked, ‘What did he say when he suggested you go to the shed?’

‘Can’t remember,’ she shrugged.

‘Was it in a dream?’

Another shrug.

‘What did he look like? How did he talk?’

I was sure I saw light flash in Rose’s eyes for a brief, hopeful moment, but it died as soon as it was born. Then she went upstairs and shut the bedroom door softly and stayed there until her next injection.

When I dragged Rose to the supermarket later I looked for the man in the brown suit myself – in windows, in faces, in bus passengers. Would I ever see him again the way I had at the hospital? Had Rose and I both conjured him up to come and rescue us, and now find we must save ourselves?

You’ve found the book
.

I awaited the night, when my fingers continued to work at the ribbons.

Another day passed. Another prick, pain, blood, prick, pain, blood; another meal or snack eaten quietly while I forced cheery chitchat; another injection in a resistant too-thin thigh or tummy; bleak silence after silence after silence.

Only the dark was kind to me. At night, because she was half asleep, I managed to sneak in and do Rose’s two nightly blood tests, before she realised and scratched me and cursed.

In between it all, there was a call from Jake: he mostly talked to Rose about going back to school. He was the only person she would open up to. Though envious that she found words for her dad, I loved hearing her description of why school was rubbish and she shouldn’t have to go. If I closed my eyes and ignored the lancets on the kitchen worktop and the logbook on the table, it could almost be that we had gone back in time.

When I got five minutes with Jake, he said, ‘She’s quiet, isn’t she?’

‘Quiet? That was chatty compared with usual these days.’

Jake paused. ‘You sound different too,’ he said.

‘I
am
different,’ I said. ‘It’s all different, isn’t it?’

‘I wish I was home,’ he said.

‘So do I,’ I admitted.

‘Why don’t you ask my mum to come and stay a while,’ he suggested. ‘You know she wouldn’t mind.’

‘I don’t need anyone.’ Jake’s mum Krista was sweet, a little bossy but well meaning. I didn’t want her taking over. ‘If someone helps me it’s only delaying the inevitable – that there’s just me. Just me and Rose. I’d rather face it straight away. Rip off the plaster fast.’

‘Time will fly,’ said Jake. ‘I’ll be back before you know it.’

When I hung up I felt sure for a moment that someone stood behind me. I spun about, expecting Rose. No one. Just a room full of things I had to do and emptiness I had to face.

You’ve found the book
. The thought that later I would continue trying to unravel the knots to get inside it kept me going.

Rose returned to school and I had no idea how she felt about it. Shelley educated the staff on Rose’s needs and, having arranged to take three months off work, I went into school at lunchtime to do the necessary finger prick and injection.

We sat in the school office amongst grey files and boxes of footballs and lost PE kits. If a teacher entered, Rose gave me her hand, but never her gaze. Small heads bobbed past the sliding window, some jumping up to peer in and see what we were up to. I realised how different Rose must feel, having to think always about what she should or shouldn’t eat, worrying about not-yet-experienced hypos and bruises and the new pink medical alert bracelet we’d bought.

One lunchtime I looked for her friends Jade and Hannah in the cloakroom. I wanted to ask how she seemed but Rose saw me first and found the voice she never gave me anymore. ‘Mum, what are you
doing
here?’

‘I was only going to ask your friends if you’re okay,’ I said, wearily. ‘You never tell me anything and I’m just worried.’

‘Mum, you can’t,’ she said, distressed. ‘I don’t tell them about diabetes.’ She whispered the D word like something terrible would happen if it reached ears beyond ours. ‘I don’t want them to know.’

‘They’ll know,’ I said softly, relishing our conversation, however fraught. ‘Their mums probably told them.’

The potent smell of socks and plimsolls and floor polish made me feel as though I too were nine again. I recalled how important it was to fit in. How hard I’d tried to laugh at the jokes everyone else did and to do well at games.

‘We don’t talk about it.’ Rose closed her eyes as though to make me disappear. ‘We talk about stuff that I want to talk about. Stay away from my friends!’

‘They
need
to know,’ I said. ‘They might have to help you someday – if you collapse or you have one of those hypos.’

‘I wish you were dead!’ she screamed, and ran back up the corridor.

For a moment, so did I. I turned and walked the long way back, not wanting to get home. The sea followed me. The smell was so powerful I wondered if I was losing my mind. Once home, without work or Jake or Rose to fuss over, I hardly knew what to do with myself.

I went upstairs to get the book.

Over seven nights I had patiently worked at the black ribbons; releasing each knot gave me the thrill of feeling closer to my prize. I couldn’t bear to cut them. I felt that if such knots had been twisted into it over and over then I should have it not easily. I was supposed to work for it. When I was small I’d often scribbled stories in those five-year diaries that had a tiny silver padlock. Then I’d lose the key and not be able to access the words that I’d strung together. Now I worked to find words that I was sure my grandad, Colin Armitage, had written.

Rose had eyed the brown book on the bedside table when we did her late blood test one evening. I watched her sneak another glance as I prepared the finger pricker. I smiled privately.

The next evening I made sure I spent a little longer fiddling with the ribbons, looking up to see if she was watching. Immediately she turned away. Perhaps it was good that something had piqued her interest. But I wasn’t about to offer her, even let her look at what she found so intriguing; I didn’t want the appeal to end too soon.

And so the book took on more weight; maybe Rose’s interest would mean she settled. I shouldn’t have felt so optimistic.

One morning, she left for school before we’d even done the injection. I lectured her about not having done homework, went into the dining room to get her maths book, came back, and she’d gone, leaving the door open and Bran Flakes strewn like soil on the table. I hurled the bowl at the wall. As abruptly as it came, my frustration went. It slid with the cereal pulp down our lilac wallpaper. I’d no energy to chase her, to go to the school, to do any of it anymore.

Like a weary soldier home from a long march, I slumped into a chair and put my head in my hands.

‘Is it a bad time, pet?’

I jumped. Shelley stood in the open doorway. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Yes.
No
. I thought you were coming on Wednesday?’

‘It
is
Wednesday,’ she said, coming into the kitchen.

‘Is it?’ I looked at the clock like that might help me. ‘I lose track sometimes. I can stick to the injection schedule but days run away from me.’

‘Can I sit down?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is Rose here?’ she asked.

‘She went to school without doing her injection.’ I held my hand up, expecting a telling off. ‘Yes, I know, I’m
trying
! I do everything the way I’m supposed to. It’s been three weeks nearly and
still
she resists.’

‘Shall I talk to her?’ asked Shelley, gently.

‘Look what happened last time!’ Rose had sung ‘Baa, Baa Black Sheep’ while Shelley tried patiently to engage her, and I’d yelled that she was a rude madam.

‘If it makes you feel any better, this behaviour is normal. Children her age who get diabetes often behave differently. She’s likely depressed, anxious. With you, she’ll get through it though, pet.’ Shelley paused. ‘What does she like?’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘What does she enjoy? What hobbies does she have?’

I looked off towards the book nook in the dining room. The cushions spat dust now when you sat in them and the jackets of most of the books had faded from sitting too long in the same spot, like they had floated adrift in the sun.

‘She used to love reading,’ I said, softly. I’d was still trying to recapture her imagination, sneaking paperbacks under her sleeping head. In the morning they’d be upside down in the bin.

‘Could you read together while you do her injection?’

‘I’ve suggested that,’ I sighed. ‘She’s not interested. And anyway she’s not stupid – she knows it’s just a ruse to get her to do what she doesn’t want.’

‘Is there anything at all that she loves?’ asked Shelley. ‘Anything, no matter how small or seemingly silly?’

For a moment I heard the sea swelling and falling, felt the tickle of its breeze about my bare ankles. Gentle – like the spray in my recent dreams – it swirled around my calves, climbed higher, caressed my knees, as familiar now to me as my own face. But this time it was just leaves near the back door being teased by the wind. I got up and closed it.

‘There might be something,’ I said. ‘Some
one
.’

‘Might they come and stay for a while, pet?’

I knew it would be impossible to explain to Shelley; I hardly understood it myself. So I just said, ‘Yes, maybe.’ Then we looked at Rose’s logbook for a while, discussed upping each dose of insulin a tad, and she said she’d only come now if I requested it. Though her visits sometimes felt intrusive, as I waved her off I felt like I was being abandoned. No more hospital, no more nurses, no more help. Just us. Though I’d told Jake I wanted to face the injury under the plaster full on, I still felt sick.