The Standing Water (15 page)

‘Hush Sarah!’ Dad
said, before his eyes returned to, his hand once more slapped his paper. ‘Shame
someone can’t give these strikers a good six of the best!’

‘Six of the besb!’
Sarah shouted.

We were quiet for
some moments, but then – with all the talk of whackings – my mind strayed back
to Marcus and Lucy.

‘Dad,’ I said, ‘Mr
Weirton told us that a girl called Lucy even
died
because she was
naughty all the time!’

‘Well, you see,’
Dad mumbled from behind his paper, ‘that’s why you should always be good.’

My heart thudded.
Did all the adults know how Lucy had met her end? Did they approve of Weirton
keeping her skeleton?

‘And Dad, do you
know what happened to Marcus?’

‘That Marcus Jones?
Can’t say I do; vanished suddenly, didn’t he? I’ll say one thing – I bet Mr
Weirton doesn’t miss him! Right little blighter that one!’

‘Must have set the
record for wallopings, that lad!’ Mum said. ‘Mr Weirton really had to give him
some good ones! Heard he got more than Dennis Stubbs and that Craig Browning
combined!’

Bedtime came and I
tramped unwillingly upstairs, passing the pictures of the orphans with their
bulging blue eyes, their outstretched hands, their battered tins I didn’t have
a coin for. I paused, examined their strange proportions, reckoned I could do
better if let loose with my pencils. I didn’t like bedtimes – lying in the deep
black of my room, jumping at the creaks and clanks which were probably made by
ghosts moving around our sleeping home. I often lay in bed shivering, eyes
clenched so I couldn’t see those spooks, but I’d still leap and twist as I felt
chill hands sliding under my covers, trying to grasp my toes. I’d also think of
the black streets of Emberfield, the dark flatlands beyond, of all the ghosts
they contained – of the witch’s hand freed from daylight to work its full
malevolence, of Marcus muddy and vengeful in his pond, of Lucy in her cupboard
in the silent school. I’d hear strange rattles and patters drifting over the
damp plains, fear the earth-shuddering strides of hungry monsters pacing across
the fields. I’d begged my parents for a lamp I could leave on – to scare off
the spooks the way fire-filled turnips did on Halloween, but they’d called my
fears ‘babyish’, said I should ‘grow up’. They weren’t the only ones to mock
them – Jonathon couldn’t understand my terror of the dark. He said he liked to
lie in the blackness and think, to imagine the set-outs he could build, to
enjoy the freedom from his Mum’s nagging, Weirton’s yells, his brother’s
antics, Stubbs’s provocations. But how he could think clearly when ghosts
floated through the house and monsters roamed outside I didn’t know. However,
as Christmas was coming, my fears had lessened a bit – surely the ogres and
ghouls would lie low in that holy season, scared of the angels that, I hoped,
were more widespread on the earth. I wondered again who might have seen them –
all the adults seemed cagey about admitting they had. I’d heard God didn’t like
boasting – perhaps that was why the grown-ups didn’t speak of such encounters.
But Christmas was approaching fast – I wondered if I might see angels that very
night.

I did something I’d
never have normally dared to. Heart booming, I slipped from my bed and stumbled
in the dark as my opened eyes began to make dusk out of the blackness. I stood
at my window, summoning the courage to twitch back the curtains. I trembled,
not sure which sight I’d fear most – drifting ghosts and dreadful bogies, or angels
lighting the sky with their brilliant glow. I reached my hand to the curtains
as my heart thudded louder, its beats shaking through me. I sucked a deep
breath, yanked the curtain back. I forced my eyes to look from the window. I
just saw Emberfield’s last street lamps, the orange triangles they shone down,
the little patch of road and next-door’s garden they illuminated, before there
stretched the endless dark of the plains beyond. I saw no angels, but at least
there was nothing more sinister. I guessed simply the threat of God’s
messengers appearing had made such things scarce.

The next day, the
orange ball of the sun shone bravely, though it was obviously weakening, hanging
low in the heavens. I trudged to the Brownings’ house. It was much like ours –
a redbrick semi, built at the same time, my mum said. One difference was their
gnome. It sat on a toadstool, beaming away in its bright cap yet I couldn’t see
why it was so happy when it didn’t have a pond. I felt smugness surge when I
considered how much better ours was – not that I’d have said that to Jonathon.
I tramped up his front garden path, neatly cleared by his father – I guessed –
before he went to work, and knocked on the door. Mrs Browning opened it, made
me take off my wellies and ushered me into the lounge. The Brownings had a
strange rule even my parents laughed at. No kids were allowed to sit on their
sofa. Jonathon and I, the brother and all his mates had to perch on the floor.
Mrs Browning – known for being house-proud – was apparently scared our childish
behinds would damage that settee so only adults were permitted to lower their
less destructive backsides onto that treasured couch. So it was cross-legged on
the floor, near the base of their Christmas tree, that I saw Jonathon.

‘All right?’ I
said.

‘All right –’
Jonathon waited till his mum had gone out ‘– guess what happened to my
brother?’

‘What?’

‘Remember he and
Darren Hill knacked in Stubbs. Well, later that evening, Stubbs’s mum came
round, dragging Dennis with her. Dennis was beefing his head off!’

‘Still beefing!?
Your brother and Darren must have really smashed him in!’

‘Well, actually,
that was cos Stubbs’s mum had whacked him after reading that letter from
Weirton. But, anyway, Stubbs’s face was all bruised where Darren and Craig had
punched him!’

‘Bloody hell!’ I
blurted, before clasping my hand to my mouth as if I hoped to catch those
words, gobble them down. I remembered the thrashings Mr Browning gave out if he
heard swearing from Jonathon or his brother.

‘Dad took one look
at Stubbs’s face and went mad! Do you know what he did? He took off his belt,
pulled my brother’s pants down, and – in front of Mrs Stubbs and Dennis – gave
Craig a good whacking right in the hallway!’

‘Really!?’

‘Yeah! Craig was
beefing like mad! Stubbs tried to whisper that he hadn’t wanted to grass, that
his mum had made him tell when she saw his face, but Craig says he’s gonna kill
him!’

‘Wouldn’t like to
be in Stubbs’s shoes when school starts again!’ I said.

At that moment,
Craig strode into the lounge. If there was any tenderness in his rump, he
didn’t show it as he flopped down on the sofa.

‘All right, lads?’

‘All right,’ I
answered.

‘Craig,’ said
Jonathon, ‘better not let Mum see you on that settee! She’ll tell Dad and you
know what he might do!’

Reluctantly, Craig
slid himself from the sofa.

‘Craig,’ I asked, ‘have
you ever seen an angel?’

Craig started
sniggering.

‘What are you
laughing for!?’ I said. ‘People
must
see them, because they’re in the
Bible, and Mr Weirton talked about them and the vicar! And, look, there’re
loads in here – at the top of the tree and in the windows and on the Christmas
cards! And over there!’

I pointed to the
nativity set – above the plaster sheep and goats, the humble shepherds and the
kings bowing their rich crowns, an angel had been blue-tacked onto the base of
a lamp.

‘Why would so many
decorations show angels if no one had seen one?’

‘Yeah –’ Craig
wiped his hand over his mouth, swept his sneer away ‘– sorry, I suppose you’re
right. I’ve never seen one though.’

‘Has Darren Hill?’

‘Nah, don’t reckon
he has.’

Mrs Browning walked
in with a tray of biscuits and milk.

‘Here you go,’ she
said, ‘but mind you don’t make a mess with any crumbs or you’ll have your dad to
answer to!’

‘It’s bad enough’ –
she turned her weary face to me, nodded at Jonathon – ‘that he insists on
turning his bedroom into such a pigsty, with his buildings blocks and toys and
what-not all over his floor – won’t let me clean up or owt!’

‘Mum,’ Jonathon
said, ‘you told me not to say “owt” – you said it’s common.’

‘Don’t you be
cheeky! Spreads his chaos all over his floor – he tells me there’s some kind of
order there, but
I
can’t see it! Well, you’ll have to get it tidied up
before New Year son – we’re not starting the New Year with all that mess in
there! If you don’t tidy the thing up yourself, my broom will knock it down for
you!’

Craig smirked;
Jonathon gulped; I thought I’d change the topic.

‘Mrs Browning, have
you ever seen an angel?’

‘Are you trying to
be funny? What sort of question’s that from a nice polite lad like you?’

‘It’s just that Mr
Weirton and the vicar said people have seen them, especially around Christmas.’

‘Oh, well then,
maybe some people have seen them, but I can’t say I have. Remember boys, no
crumbs on that floor! If I see any crumbs …’

Mrs Browning
shuffled backwards, chuntering her way out of the room. We munched our cookies,
sipped our milk. They were chocolate chip – my favourite: I loved the hard
crunch, that crunch turning to gooey sweetened dough, the way that delicious
mixture stuck to the teeth in clumps before the cool milk washed it down. The
sound of arguing jolted me from my enjoyment.

‘Do we have to
watch the cartoons? Cartoons are boring!’

‘If I say we watch them,
idiot, we watch them!’

‘I don’t want to!’

‘Do you want some
of what Stubbsy got? That what you want, eh?’

I looked up; the
brother was pulling Jonathon from his cross-legged station on the floor. Craig
got Jonathon in a headlock – Jonathon bucked and struggled, but couldn’t break
from his clasp. The two lurched round the room, Jonathon’s face reddening as
Craig squeezed his neck harder. They bashed into the tree – pine needles
showered, baubles plummeted.

‘Craig, stop! What
if Mum sees us and tells Dad!? It’s OK – you can watch the cartoons, just
stop!’

‘I think,’ said
Craig, ‘it’s time for a Chinese burn!’

His hands grabbed
Jonathon’s forearm, twisted the flesh in opposite ways. Pain scrunched
Jonathon’s face; his body bucked as agony jerked through it. He bit his lips
hard to stifle his screams.

‘Leave him, Craig!’
I hissed. ‘You heard what he said!’

I edged up to the
two grappling figures. Craig’s foot shot out; I twisted my body to the side;
the foot flew past my belly. Now Craig was dragging Jonathon to the half-open
door, his hands still giving the Chinese burn as Jonathon’s face bulged with
his bottled scream. Craig released the headlock, slammed two punches into
Jonathon’s belly then shoved his brother out into the hallway. Jonathon tumbled
and skidded over the tiles; Craig pushed me out too then slammed the door.
Jonathon glanced around – fearful, I guessed, of his mum’s rage. She was
thankfully in the garden – I saw her through the window, walking on the snowy
strip of the Brownings’ lawn. Jonathon picked himself up, wheezed and
spluttered as he got his breath back, clasped the skin where Craig had
inflicted his burn.

‘My bloody brother
– my arm wrecks!’

A cartoon blasted
from behind the living room door. Its bangs and cracks, its shouts and splurges
of music sounded intriguing, but Jonathon screwed his face up.

‘Boring!’ he said.
‘My bloody brother – he’s like my dad: wallop first and think later! Reckon I’m
the only one with any brains in this family!’

‘Wouldn’t be
difficult!’ I said.

We both sniggered.

‘Come on,’ said
Jonathon, ‘let’s leave Craig to his dull cartoon and look at my set-out.’

I didn’t know how
Jonathon’s mother couldn’t find any order in his creation. It appeared
meticulously planned to me. There were his broad roads, his soaring towers, his
hospitals, docks and warehouses, his magnificent temple rising in the middle of
it all. On its pedestal now, rather than the statue of the squirrel, a brave
knight stood, plated in armour, waving his sword high. I’d heard the legend of
Saint George – was he scanning the sky for dragons? But that soldier standing
courageous guard over Jonathon’s metropolis would be no match for his mum’s
broom.

‘Shame it’ll all
have to go before New Year,’ I said.

Jonathon’s chin
trembled – though with fear or rage I couldn’t tell.

I came round to
Jonathon’s the next day and on Christmas Eve. Craig wasn’t too bad, as long as
we let him watch his cartoons. We just kept out of his way, upstairs when he
was down and downstairs when he was up. We mooched around, our excitement
gathering as Christmas Day approached. We’d make up stories – one of us
narrating for perhaps half-an-hour until he got tired. Then the other would
take over till he got weary too after which the original narrator would pick it
up. We sculpted tales of lands and nations; told of battles, histories,
invasions, wars. There were spies, games, songs and ceremonies. I also sketched
a lot, while hoping Santa would bring me the ‘posh paint set’ – as my mum
called it – I’d asked for. I copied the Browning’s Christmas cards, the baubles
on their tree. And I thought about those baubles, the twinkling lights and
glittery stars, the fire dancing in the grate. Actually, I sometimes wondered
if part of the purpose of Christmas was to strengthen and encourage the
weakening sun – the shiny orbs we hung on the tree, our fairy lights: were they
not miniature suns and stars that glowed through those dim days to urge on that
flagging captain of the sky and remind him of his duties? Just as we lit our
bonfires in November when he first started to droop on his daily course around
our earth, was it not even more important to cheer him now at his lowest point?
Of course, Christmas as well saluted an even greater light – the coming of
Christ into our dark world, and our lamps and tinsel also shimmered in honour
of Him. But perhaps the celebration of one sun, or son, didn’t have to exclude
the other.

On Christmas Eve,
in our lounge, we sat around the fire as the spectral darkness spread outside –
spreading on that magical night over the shut-up houses, quiet fields. Mum was
putting a glass of sherry, two mince pies out for Santa, some carrots for the
reindeer.

‘Mum, there are
millions of children in the world. How does Santa get to all their homes on
just one night?’

‘Because he’s
magic, darling; that’s how he can do it.’

‘And does he really
eat a mince pie in
every
home? Millions of mince pies – he must be
really
fat!’

‘Santa’s fat!’ my
sister sang, bouncing on the sofa.

‘Stop that, Sarah!’
My dad’s look settled my sister down.

‘Well, if you look
at pictures of him, he is rather chubby,’ Mum said.

‘And all those
glasses of sherry – he must get
totally
drunk!’

‘Well, he is a
rather jolly type.’

‘Mum, have you ever
got drunk?’

‘No! And you
shouldn’t either!’

And so the evening
went on – the fire’s spits and crackles, the sharp crumpling noises from Dad’s
newspaper. After some time, I put another question.

‘Mum, is it true
that, not on Christmas Eve, but Christmas
Night
, animals can talk?’

‘So I’ve heard,
love.’

‘Maybe I should try
it and see. I could try with Richard Johnson’s dog.’

‘But,’ I went on, ‘the
dog’s very young – human babies can’t speak so why should Richard’s dog? Maybe
I should try it with the cows in the fields.’

‘You’re not going
near those bloody fields!’ my father said. ‘Don’t want you falling through the
ice into a ditch or spiking yourself with barbed wire!’

Knowing I couldn’t
chase that topic, I tried another.

‘Maybe we’ll see
angels tonight! It is Christmas Eve after all!’

‘Don’t you start
going on about that again!’ Dad said.

‘But it says in the
Bible
you can see them at Christmas!’

‘It says a lot of
things in the Bible, but it doesn’t mean they can happen round here!’ Dad said.
‘The most bloomin’ miraculous thing in Emberfield is we’re spared a lot of the rot
that’s taking over the country!’

Dad gave a vigorous
rattle of his newspaper, telling us the conversation was closed. In the last
couple of days, I’d had similar reactions – Mr Davis clipping me round the ear
with his ancient hand when I’d asked if he’d seen angels, Jonathon’s dad looking
at me as if I was crazy.

We were eventually
shunted off to bed and I lay in the blackness – exhausted by an excitement that
made sleep difficult. Rather than trembling with the fear of ghosts and
monsters, I listened with anxious breath for the scrape of reindeer hooves on
the housetop or the jangle of sleigh bells. And several times, I was jerked out
of my slumbers by what could have been the scratch of animal feet above. But
eventually sleep overcame me and I was content to snuggle into its dark
comfort.