How To Be Brave by Louise Beech Read Free Book Online

sharp gold light, and I could finally see the vessel I’d drifted in night after night. It was a crude and weatherworn wooden lifeboat, perhaps twelve feet by eight. Masts at either end had greying sails attached, dangling forlorn in the windless air. The steering oar behind me was broken; without it navigation was impossible; and with the useless, threadbare sails, the travellers in this boat were at the mercy of the sea.
    Except for me, it was empty. I wished for my ethereal companion and looked about for him, but there was nowhere to hide on this small craft. I stared out over the sea, rippling with jade and turquoise and amber, and then settled back against the wood and waited.
    Water gently licked at the boat’s edge; kiss, kiss, kiss. High now, the sun hypnotised me. I closed my eyes briefly and when I opened them again, after what seemed like forever, a flash of burnt orange caught me by surprise. On the opposite bench was a cushion. I recognised it at once – how many times had Rose sat on it, cross-legged, pages open, waiting for a story in the book nook?
    But what was it doing here?
    Wasn’t I supposed to be looking for a book?
    I might have slept on longer, and discovered who’d brought the cushion from home, but my phone vibrated on the bedside cabinet and pulled me away from the cruel sun, watery kisses and confusion.
    ‘Hello,’ I croaked, my throat parched.
    How could a dream have such an effect? It felt like I hadn’t had a drink in days, even though I’d had half a glass of water after doing Rose’s finger-prick test at 3 a.m. Was this how Rose had felt?
    ‘It’s me,’ a male voice said.
    ‘Jake.’ I sat up straight, dreams forgotten. ‘Oh, Jake, I’m so sorry about how I was at the hos…’
    ‘Forget about that,’ he said, like I’d known he would. ‘I know how that must have been for you and I’ve felt bad that I couldn’t call sooner. Look, I might not have too long, so how are things? How’s Rose?’
    ‘She’s…’ I didn’t know how to describe it.
    The first three days back home Rose had ignored me, and the last three she had fought me as passionately as she’d previously disregarded me. At least in conflict I could see the child I knew before diabetes, the one who questioned everything I suggested and listened carefully to how I thought something should be done but then went and did it completely the opposite way.
    Her middle name should’ve been Wilful , I’d often said to Jake, knowing the moment I’d finished that last syllable he’d say, Just like you .
    Oh, she was headstrong. She challenged my patience. But this made her sweetness all the more potent. The times she’d stilled my hand from scrubbing a curry-stained pan or stolen my breath for a moment with some sensitive observation or compliment.
    ‘She’s…’ I tried again.
    ‘God, I feel so useless.’ Jake’s quiet words supressed what I knew was killing him. ‘I can’t even do any research on diabetes out here. I talked to a few of the lads – I had to – and one said his mum has it, but she lost her … well, you don’t want to know about that. Is Rose getting better? Is the insulin stuff working? Does she let you give her it?’
    I nodded, said, ‘Yes, we’re doing the insulin.’
    When she’d sat cross-legged on her bed the first morning at home, and held out a limp hand for finger pricking, I’d expected her to resist.
    ‘You’re okay with me doing it?’ I’d asked, scared to pierce her tiny finger.
    What if I did it wrong? How could I do properly what the nurses had been doing for years? I’d tried to think of anything except what I was about to inflict on her and my mind settled on the pumpkin still rotting on the kitchen work surface, its candle inside mysteriously dead. I saw the ridges and haphazard teeth and the crooked lid. Picturing it, I’d prepared the device, put the lancet in, clicked the lever back and held it clumsily, a student nurse trying to act like she’s a pro. I