The Standing Water (12 page)

I looked around at
our scene of peace and happiness. The tree glimmered in the corner, sending out
its cheerful light into the tired day that already appeared to be fading. Stubbs,
Richard Johnson scoffed contentedly as Helen and Suzie giggled together. I
thought how silly Jonathon had been to suspect our classmates of causing the
deaths of Lucy and Marcus. Surely those two must have just perished in
accidents. At the end of our table sat Weirton. He glanced around, grinning at
our enjoyment. Though we all wore paper crowns, he didn’t need one – so kingly
did he seem, enthroned on his seat, his head topped by his own crown of his
iron hairstyle. I thought angels really must be walking among us, that they
must be spreading the peace Christ had brought to earth that first Christmas.
How else could Weirton’s rage be soothed, could Stubbs and Darren Hill be
munching in harmony, could Perkins be uttering soft words rather than her usual
shrill cries? How I longed to see those wonderful beings. I squinted up my eyes
as I’d heard a legend doing so could help you glimpse the otherworld. No angels
appeared, but I didn’t lose faith that one day I might see them.

That afternoon,
everything changed. It turned out Stubbs had stolen two decorations from the
tree. Helen Jacobs had seen him do it and reported him to Weirton. Weirton had
looked in Stubbs’s satchel and found the shameful evidence. Weirton paced in
our hushed classroom as that evidence lay on Perkins’s desk for all to see –
one of my angels and one of Helen’s Christmas puds. My heart beat hard as I
wondered what would happen to Stubbsy. After all Weirton had said in assembly
about forgiveness and peace, after all he’d said about it being such a blessed
time of year, would Weirton really give Dennis a massive walloping? Weirton
scowled; his face was already tinging red; the eyes looked rage-filled behind
the glasses. I just prayed the message of understanding and love he’d preached
might hold back his hand. And what about the angels that walked among us? Would
they simple stand by, at such a sacred time, and let violence be done? Dennis
stood at the front. He was pallid; his lips quivered; he gazed at the ground.
Weirton stopped pacing, swung his body, thrust his finger at Dennis.

‘Look children!’
Weirton yelled. ‘Take a good look at this joker, this
buffoon
!’

Despite my fear,
despite my concern for Stubbsy, I felt giggles welling up at Weirton’s words. I
strove to shove them down. If angels were really there, what would they think
about me sniggering at another person’s distress? And, if Weirton saw me
laughing, any hammering Stubbs would get would be nothing compared to what he’d
give me.

‘This
dunce
who got it into his thick head to commit the disgraceful crime of
theft
!
Theft – the sin of
theft
, and at such a holy time as well!’

I nodded. The
seriousness of Stubbs’s crime was sinking in. I still hoped Weirton wouldn’t go
too far – that he wouldn’t shatter the joyful peace of the last few days.
Weirton paced; his face grew redder; he stared at Stubbs.

‘Now Dennis!’ the
voice rumbled. ‘Think carefully! Can you give me a good reason why you stole
those decorations?’

A whole side of
Stubbs’s body now shook. His trembling face stared down, as if he hoped to find
something in the carpet that could rescue him. Surely Weirton – after his words
of kindness, his generous acts – would restrain himself. Surely any angels
present would stay that right hand. Dennis was dim enough to be honest.

‘Please, Sir,’
Stubbs mumbled, ‘I suppose I took them because they looked so nice. And because
… because I thought my mum might like them.’

‘Because they
looked so nice!?’

Weirton leapt. Up
and down the vast body thudded. His fists battered his thighs. The face shaded
to maroon. Weirton kept leaping, kept hammering. His cheeks poured with sweat.
The face was now scarlet. The teacher was so overcome with rage he struggled to
speak. His lips spasmed. Weirton jumped, pounded his legs some more before he
blurted.

‘Because they
looked nice! By God, boy! What do you think this world would be like if
everybody stole things just because they looked nice!? But you never do think,
do you!? You’ve got a brain the size of a pea!’

Weirton went on
leaping, bashing his legs. Sweat gushed; wet patches had formed on his jacket’s
underarms.

‘If only you had a
fraction
of the brains and talents of Ryan Watson and Helen Jacobs! But, no, being the
buffoon you are you could never make such beautiful things so you have to steal
them!’

Despite my thudding
heart, my hanging mouth, I felt pride surge at this praise.

‘And saying you
wanted them for your mother! As if a good woman like her would want stolen
goods! By God, I’ll send a letter home with you telling her what you’ve done! I
think you know how she’ll respond to
that
!’

Now Stubbs’s entire
body shook. But surely the angels wouldn’t let anything too bad happen.

‘Or would you have
lied to her and told her you’d made them yourself ? Lying as well as stealing,
another sin against God’s law! You, you clown!’

Weirton sprang
forward. Like a blur, his hand shot out, clasped Dennis’s wrist. Weirton hauled
Stubbs high into the air. Weirton’s left arm held him up; already the right
hand was swooping. It collided with Stubbs’s rump. A tremendous impact rang.
Dennis swung up, his body sailing till he was almost horizontal. His face was
white, his gob a gash of shock. His feet kicked feebly before he began his
journey down. Weirton’s hand was already diving. It ploughed onto his rear; the
noise resounded; again Dennis flew up. I shook my head, amazed by Weirton’s
power – my memory hadn’t exaggerated that hiding I’d had. I was sure a massive
enough walloping could knock the life from a lad or lass. I thought of Marcus,
Lucy. The palm raced again, crashed onto the behind. Up Dennis floated; his
eyes bulged with panic; an awful queasiness sloshed in them. Dennis fell back
to meet the speeding palm. Another impact echoed. Though Stubbs was deathly
white, no tears had come. But Weirton stepped further back; he raised his hand
higher; for a second his face looked like he was calculating. He flung his hand
down; it smashed onto the backside; the noise blasted out – and Dennis’s tears
flew, pitching in all directions. A smile split the scarlet face, Weirton hurled
down more whacks and a strange thing happened. The headmaster seemed to be
slipping into a trance. His grin was set; his eyes were hungry, huge – and
those eyes appeared to glaze as the teacher thrashed on. Again and again the
palm swept; again and again the impacts reverberated as Stubbs fell and flew,
as his tears were flung. The palm hammered on and on, and I knew the stage the
whacking was getting towards. Sure enough, Dennis was struggling for breath.
His lips spasmed frantically as he tried to suck it in. But – the sobs jerking
his chest, clogging his windpipe – he couldn’t get enough air down. Locked in
his daze, the teacher beat on. Streams of sweat coursed down his face; that
face glowed, but the hand didn’t stop. Stubbs’s eyes swelled; desperation
scrunched his face; those shaking lips battled for air. But any breath Stubbs
could suck in was thrown out by that relentless hand. Another whack slammed
down then another then more still. An extra-hard wallop woke Weirton from his
trance. He blinked, gave his head a shake, seemed to remember where he was. I
guessed the teacher was now aware of his pouring sweat, of how much he was
panting. But he moulded his face into a determined scowl, steeled his body,
sucked in more air and readied himself to fling down more blows. I begged God,
begged all the angels, begged Marcus to make him stop, to stop him before he
did anything really bad to Stubbsy. But still that palm plunged; still it
thudded onto the backside; still Dennis choked and gurgled as his mouth
scrabbled for the air that merciless hand knocked out. I thought of Lucy in her
cupboard, Marcus in his pond – maybe just such a whacking had caused them to
end up in those places.

Another wallop was
hurled down then another enormous strike bashed onto the buttocks and the
whacks ceased. Weirton let Dennis swing to a stop. Stubbs dangled for a few
seconds before Weirton lowered him. Dennis’s feet touched the floor. Weirton
let go of Stubbs’s arm. Stubbs swayed, his legs wobbled, he lurched from
side-to-side and I wondered for a moment if he’d be able to stand. But he
stayed on his feet as he sucked greedy gulps of breath into empty lungs, as
tears ran down his sheet-white face. A giant hiccup leapt from him. Another
hiccup jumped out, which kick-started his bawling. Soon Stubbs was howling away
– filling the room with chugging sobs, the higher-pitched rhythms of his wails.
Yet, if anything, Weirton was in a worse state. His body bent over, he also
laboured to get air into his lungs. The teacher panted; his face shone; sweat
still gushed down it, dropping in fat beads to the floor. Huge damp patches
stained the underarms of his jacket, had spread on his white shirt. For a time,
the sounds of the boy and teacher mingled strangely – the gasps and wheezes of
Weirton jerking rhythmically around the sobs and wails of Stubbs. These noises
would build together to a shivering peak before subsiding then starting their
climb again. Eventually, Weirton managed to straighten up. He pulled a hankie
from his pocket, wiped his glasses, face. He took a couple more breaths to
steady himself before he let his voice boom.

‘Dennis Stubbs! Go
back to your seat!’

The arm, the
pointing finger thrust to show the way. Dennis was able to start himself, but –
just as I had – he rolled and teetered in an ungainly walk. More hiccups
lurched out as his legs bounced and quaked. Dennis weaved around chairs and
tables in this woozy stagger and finally got to his seat. Weirton nodded at him.
Still bawling, Dennis had to lower his arse onto the plastic – a contact that
summoned a fresh surge of howls. Dennis sat as his tears poured, as sobs
shuddered through him. Weirton’s eyes panned over our class.

‘Remember I told
you,’ the voice rumbled, ‘to look at this joker, this
buffoon
’– the
finger thrust at Stubbs – ‘before his punishment began. Well, look at him now
children! Look at that imbecile sobbing and wailing and remember him! Remember
well the punishment that awaits the liar, the cheat, the
thief
!’

A hiccup jumped
from Stubbs as if in eager support of Weirton’s words. The headmaster’s eyes
swept over us again. He nodded at Perkins and strode from our class. Perkins
settled us down, gave us some maths to get on with as the air in the room –
which Weirton’s rage had whipped up like a storm might the sea – also gradually
settled. Dennis went on sobbing and howling, but his weeping soon subsided into
a steady rhythm, a predictable chug, which after a while we got used to. Just
the hiccups that leapt from him would jolt us from our concentration. Actually,
our sums were so simple my mind was soon straying onto other matters. My heart
began to bang; I trembled as I wondered how close to death Stubbsy had been.
I’d seen how white his face was, how desperately he was struggling for air. I’d
heard a legend that if you went without breath for four minutes you’d die.
Surely Stubbs had been close to that mark! And I’d seen the strange trance the
teacher had slipped into. Perhaps sometimes in the past he’d stayed in that
daze a few seconds too long, leading to deaths like those of Marcus and Lucy.
And what about the angels? Maybe they did bring peace to earth at
Christmastime, perhaps they really walked among us, but they hadn’t succeeded
in bringing peace into our little school. Maybe the angels felt tempted to
ignore Emberfield. With its bleak frozen plains, its naked trees, bare
hedgerows maybe it was just too far from Paradise for them to stand visiting.

We worked on. Now
just a snivelling came from Stubbs. But Dennis’s ordeal wasn’t over. The door
swung open; we all jumped at its creak. Weirton’s massive face, enormous body
appeared and he strode into the room. The teacher’s right hand grasped a neat
brown envelope.

‘Dennis Stubbs!’
the voice juddered. ‘Take
that
home to your parents!’

The hand tossed the
envelope. It arced across the room, landed with a smack on Stubbs’s desk.
Stubbs’s shivering face looked up, but the headmaster was already turning,
retreating from our room. Stubbs looked down at that envelope. He shook more, a
new surge of sobs welled up and soon we were working once more to the tempo of
Stubbs’s howls.

The mood in the
class did start to become jollier as the clock ticked us towards the holidays.
And, outside the window, something happened that caused faces to lift, lips to
smile, eyes to broaden. Snow was coming down. From the heavens it fell in
saucer-sized flakes. I gazed at it fluttering in its starry patterns. Perkins
shouted at us to keep concentrating, and – afraid her shouts could provoke
Weirton – we hunched ourselves over our work. But I still sneaked glimpses at
the clock – twenty minutes to go then fifteen, ten. Five, one and we were out
of there, shoving and bickering in the cloakroom as we pulled on scarves and
gloves before running outside into that cold feathery world. We danced and
skipped, holding our arms up to heaven as those flakes poured down, as the snow
– already a good inch deep – scrunched under our shoes, as we celebrated our
upcoming days of freedom. Myself, Jonathon, Darren, the brother, loads of other
kids skipped and sang. There was no sign of Stubbs then I saw him, staggering out
of the cloakroom doors, reeling and tottering through the snow, trying to
balance on his still unruly legs – a task made harder by the slippery ground.
His face was still splashed with tears; another hiccup leapt from him. But we
were not concerned with Stubbsy. We just wanted to dance in the snow.

‘God’s combing his
hair!’ Richard Johnson shouted.

‘What?’ I said.

‘God’s combing his
hair – this is all the dandruff coming down!’

‘But it’s not like
my dad’s dandruff,’ Jonathon said. ‘It’s much nicer.’

‘Well, it would be,
wouldn’t it?’ yelled Johnson. ‘It’s holy! God’s combing his hair! God’s combing
his hair!’

Johnson skipped out
of the gate, twirling around and swinging his arms as he pranced past the pond.
I didn’t know whether the snow was God’s dandruff, but I still thanked the Lord
for it. Even if His angels wouldn’t visit Emberfield, even if Christmas cheer
couldn’t seep over our flatlands at least God had sent the snow to transform
our little town – for a while at least – into a cold paradise.