The Standing Water (26 page)

‘For God’s sake!’
Weirton jerked his good arm. ‘Come out of there! Are you going to kneel there
all day staring like an imbecile? You’re not badly hurt – are you – despite
your brother’s best efforts!?’

The brother – still
in some kind of trance – levered himself to his feet. He laboriously picked his
way from the stream, trying to dodge its various obstacles. His clumsy foot kicked
the ball, sending it off rolling with the current. His other shoe knocked the fish
– allowing the glittering corpse to be borne away. I thought about shouting
down to him, asking if he’d bring up the breastplate, but I was afraid of any
further provoking of Weirton. Next came the nettle-tangled bank. Weirton’s eyes
gripped the boy as he sprinted up the slope. Winces flashed across the
brother’s face as he scrambled through that smarting thicket. His feet slipped;
he tumbled. We all suppressed a snigger as he landed on his arse back in the
stream.

‘I won’t tell you
again!’ Weirton bellowed. ‘Get a move on!’

The brother dragged
himself up, readied himself. He charged at the bank, scrabbled up it. Agony
screwed his features as those evil weeds prodded their barbs at his fingers,
neck, face. Near the top, in danger of falling back, he had to grasp a large
plant with both hands. I cringed as I imagined an electric throb of pain
pulsing through the boy. There was a tearing sound as the brother’s weight ripped
at the roots, but the nettle – its wickedness long-entrenched in the soil –
held, and Craig was able to haul himself onto level ground and re-join us on
the bridge. Weirton led us back to the school. No one spoke; the only noises
from our procession were Jonathon’s sobs and howls. I walked next to the
brother, who still seemed stupefied. The stench of mud and sewage floated from
him. I looked up to heaven. There was no lightning bolt. Still Emberfield’s swollen
clouds didn’t part.

The Diary of James Ronald Weirton

Monday, 9
^th
May, 1983

And I’d hoped today
would be a good one. Pleasant outing to Salton, teach the kids some stuff. All
started off OK: gathered outside the school, me in a practical though – I hope
– also stylish get-up, appropriate for the rough track, the mud I suspected
we’d have to wade through. I sighed when I saw Mrs Perkins in her heels.
Totally unsuitable, but that’s Mrs Perkins for you. Got set off, herding the
kids through town, in a good mood for a change – nice to get away from that blasted
school, from that accursed pond lurking just outside. Have some wider horizons
rather than being boxed in that dreary classroom. Quite like it down Salton –
air fresher than in smoky Emberfield, history, myth round ever corner, connects
you to past ages, your forebears. Might not be quite the pyramids, but it’s the
best this dull patch of England can muster. In such a good mood, I didn’t even
clobber Jonathon Browning when I caught him acting up – little buffoon had
somehow got himself sprawled over the grass verge just before Slaton’s gates.
Mistake on my part, it turned out.

Strode past those copses
of trees and over the Bunt. Told the kids a few facts about that drab stream.
Hardly a Ganges or Nile, I know, but that trickle of brown water is the most
Emberfield can offer us. All sorts of trash in there – bricks, rotting fish
corpse, filthy child’s ball, what looked like a rusting part of some tractor.
Marched further down the track, told them all the old wives’ tales – the ghost
of good old Henry VIII, the Little Drummer Boy, Knights Templars’ curses, the
spooks of the slain Scots ready to rise up and haunt the town if anyone dares
disturb their lands. Load of old tosh! If
I
was a ghostly Scot, I wouldn’t
hang around in this dismal place – I’d be legging it up towards the border as
fast as my phantom legs could go. Still got some real wilderness up there, some
real people – not like round here: these tame hemmed-in fields, tame hemmed-in
inhabitants. Calling this place the country is a joke – I remember my time in
Montana: that was some
proper
countryside. Anyway, I needed something to
entertain the kids so I repeated all those far-fetched legends that spew from
the gossips of Emberfield. Funny thing was, as I was narrating all that stuff,
I did get a queer feeling. Shiver surged up my backbone as I told them of the
Knights Templar curse. Same happened when I was talking about the Scots. This
is going to sound weird, but I could imagine some misty
presence
coming
up from the land, some evil
miasma
hovering over the town and fields. As
if that curse still lingered, as if all those long-buried Scots still breathed
up resentful clouds of corpse gas. There
is
an odd atmosphere round the
place, something spooky and melancholic. Never would have admitted it at the
time, but I think it was one reason why I chose to live in Goldhill rather than
Emberfield. Felt strange later in the church too. All those bodies piled up in
the graveyard, those long-weathered stones, that damned gauntlet suspended within
– awful thing just
hanging
there! And yet at the same time, I like all
that stuff in a bizarre sort of way, quite fond of the gothic, the macabre.
Partly why I keep Lucy. Fine old tradition in times gone by, keeping skulls and
bones, momento-mori and all that, not like this squeamish, effeminate modern
age. It’s how we’ll all end up, reminds us of what’s what. Thought I’d enjoy
our visit to the church, but somehow today … felt those emblems of mortality
were a little
too
close. Have to get to the doctor for a check-up, see
if those damned pills are having any effect at all.

Anyway, Ryan Watson
did some cracking drawings – found a fantastic stone to sketch in the
graveyard, did a great picture of that white tomb in the church. Pretty much
the only decent work produced today. Suzie Green’s pictures were terrible.
Enraged me so much, I pulled her from the church, marched her to the graveyard
to make her look at a stone she’d sketched, to see how different it was from
the appalling mess on her page. Drives me mad that one! Simpering grey
creature, nervous of her own shadow, won’t look anyone in the eye. So dense I’m
astounded she can murmur her own name, dim even by Emberfield’s standards. Made
sure Mrs Perkins gave her a good hiding. Can’t stand that sort – trembling and
hesitant, mumbling and fidgety. Got to teach them to talk straight, walk
straight, meet people’s gazes. Ashamed to say my boy’s a bit like that. Don’t
know what’s the matter with Nick – never comes out straight and says things,
and if he does it’s in this infuriating whine. Hovers about the house like some
vapid ghost. Maybe it’s that school he goes to – namby-pamby place, no discipline,
head reluctant to hit the kids. All too common nowadays, just have to make up
for it at home. Often thought about transferring him here, but he’d have a
rough time, being the headmaster’s lad. That friend of Suzie’s, that Helen
Jacobs – she drives me up the wall too! She’s a smug one and no mistake,
sitting there all composed as she gets all her sums correct, as Perkins gushes
praises on her. Love to see her over Mrs Perkins’s knee!  Her drawings were
dreadful – all happy cartoon snails and shiny grey stones, nothing like
reality. Would have liked to have seen Perkins beating her backside. Wouldn’t
be a good idea – father’s some bigwig on the council, could cause me vast
quantities of trouble. Really need to be careful, especially after the Marcus Jones
episode.

I’m rambling again,
have to be off to bed soon, rest up for another tedious day in Emberfield.
Better just jot down the important things that happened. Speaking of which, it
hurts to write. Have to force my swollen hand to grip the pen, push it
painfully across the page. Not that I’d let pain stop me – let anything prevent
me keeping up my duties, my routines, this diary included. Don’t know how I’d
cope without it – it’s not like there’s anyone I can really
talk
to,
tell how I feel. Vicar’s the only one I can get any sense out of, but he’s a
busy bloke, difficult for him to meet up for our chats, keeps cancelling at the
last minute. So I set it all down here – the private thoughts of an honest
decent man in a fast-decaying country. Newspapers every day – terrible, this
joke of a government’s barely any better than the last, whatever the kids’
parents might think. Stick a blue rosette on a donkey and it’d get elected in
Emberfield; where I taught before it’d be the same with a red one. That’s
democracy for you. Both parties full of liars and traitors, milksops and
windbags.

But back to the red
balloon of my hand. We were walking over the field to the church and this horse
insisted on blocking our way. Aggressive thing, magnificent creature –
racehorse probably, sleek pelt, bulging muscles, pumped up with testosterone. I
wasn’t going to let some
animal
send me into a retreat, not in front of
the kids, so I decided to stare it down. Did the same a few times in Montana,
you know. Once I was walking in the mountains with my friends and – what did we
see? – but some grizzly lumbering down the path towards us. Massive thing. It
clocked us, stared, started scraping the ground with its paw. Don’t know what
came over me, but I found myself stepping away from my buddies and towards the
animal. Got so close I could smell it, so close that with one bound and sweep
of its claws half of me could have been ripped open. Of course, I was scared,
heart booming away, but somehow my fear formed a shell around me, keeping me in
the moment, stopping me fretting over what might happen next. I locked eyes
with the beast and stared, stared into those huge dark animal eyes. I was
pulled into them, hypnotised, aware of nothing but the sound of my heavy
breath, a voice in my brain saying, ‘Don’t blink, James, don’t blink, don’t
look down, do that and you’re a goner!’ Strangest feeling, like I was floating
over a void, floating in a bubble – a bubble happily tripping over death’s
surface, a bubble which any second could burst, but – while it did not – was
filled with the airy intoxicating sweetness of life. Can only really appreciate
life when there’s a chance you might lose it. I stared and stared at those deep
eyes, keeping my gaze solid, looking right into the bear’s face: its shaggy fur,
its doglike muzzle. The stink of devoured meat on its breath. Don’t know how long
we faced off for, but suddenly doubt flickered in its eyes. The thing hung its
head like a puppy in disgrace. It turned its vast bulk and away it trotted,
like some mongrel called by its master. My friends were upon me, slapping my
back as my head swirled, as my knees buckled. So much in shock they had to hold
me up. Admiration though – thought they’d never stop going on about it, telling
everybody. They all looked differently at me then – the farmer, the old hands
who’d dismissed me as some Limey upstart. Telling all the blokes in the bars,
people buying me drinks, wanting to hear the story. What wonderful days – wish
I could have stayed there. Want to kill my old man sometimes. I could face down
a bear, but couldn’t say no to Ronald Weirton, coughing in his cardigan,
barking down the phone from Leeds.

Anyway, this horse,
not quite a grizzly – to be honest, don’t think I could confront one of
those
nowadays, blood pressure wouldn’t stand it.
Another
thing I’ve got to
thank my father for. But a horse I could still manage, knew it wouldn’t kill
me, at worst I’d have got a nasty kick, a trample. Plenty of experience of
breaking the things in Montana. But this was a stubborn beast. I stared and
stared; the animal wouldn’t budge. We didn’t have much time so I tried a trick
I’d used back in the States. As that horse gazed at me, as it surrounded itself
with angry puffs of mist, I moved my arm back, knotted up my fingers. Again, I
was in a different place, away from Emberfield’s drab flatlands, the crowd of
gormless kids behind me: there was just my pounding heart, the struggle for
mastery, the struggle of animal and man, the need to assert the dominance God
has given us. The sneaky knowledge of what I knew was coming and the dumb horse
didn’t, the knowledge I could feel making my lips curve. Bang! Fist hurtled
into the horse’s jaw. Good loud crack, beast went mental, neighing and rearing
up, kicking out its legs. Thought for one dreadful minute it might hoof its
back feet into me, but it trotted off crestfallen to join its mate by the
castle. Another victory for James Ronald Weirton! Like breaking a boy, really –
same principle, don’t stop till they’re utterly crushed. Just easier with
horses – poor beasts don’t have the deviousness of Dennis Stubbs, the brains of
Ryan Watson, the sheer bloody persistence of Marcus Jones. Have to figure out
the best way to break each lad. Speaking of boys, as soon as I’d cracked that
horse, I felt their admiring eyes on me. Knew it would send me up in their
estimations while increasing their fear. Like snagging two fish with one hook.
Beamed as I led our parade over the field. But pretty soon I knew I’d whacked
the thing too hard. Felt the hand ache and swell as I stood in the cemetery
giving instructions. Of course, I hadn’t punched the horse with all my power.
I’m not daft, didn’t want fractured fingers. No broken bones, but still I gave
that horse a fair old wallop. Stuck my hand under the graveyard tap as soon as
I could, wrapped it up in my tie. Chatted to Ryan Watson while I did so. He’s a
nice lad, most of the time. Sometimes feel bad about thrashing him, but I know
he needs it. Need to keep him in line, stop too many bright ideas congregating in
his head. Would be no good for anyone if that happened.

I paced around that
churchyard, my triumph glowing from my face, shining out into the mist. The way
the children regarded me took me back to how my mates looked at me after
fights. Those bars in Montana, they could get rough after a lot of drinking had
been done, and
I
was no trembling wimp, let me tell you: I was right at
the forefront of any action. Sometimes my friends had to haul me off, saying
the chap had had enough. Not that there’s any excuse for brawls and disorder,
but self-defence is no crime, not even in this namby-pamby modern world.
Anyway, strode through the graveyard, enjoying the kids’ approval even as my
hand stung and throbbed. Told them I’d inspect their pictures, not because I
intended to peer at their awful creations but just to make them look sharp.
Then I started feeling odd, a bit queasy with all that death around me so I took
the kids into the church but began feeling weird there too. We had the Suzie
Green episode then I herded them back out, gave them five minutes to finish off
their drawings and marched them away from that gloomy place. Strode across the
field – noticed that damn stallion wasn’t bothering us
then
! Back onto
the path – legged it down that track at quite a clip: thought of the curses
lingering, the bodies buried on each side. So damned spooky and silent down
Salton sometimes – just hear the coos of pigeons, the caws of crows echoing
across the land, floating on the mist. For once I wished the children would
start up their chatter, but they were too busy and breathless trying to keep up
with me.

Got to the bridge
and took a breather, waiting for all the kids to catch up. Craig Browning and
his mates squatting on the bridge’s edge, pointing at stuff down in the Bunt –
God
knows
what they found so fascinating in that dreary stream. The rest
of the kids arrived; I was just about to get us moving again when the most
incredible thing happened. Little Jonathon Browning dashed up and shoved his
sibling into the river! Couldn’t believe it! Down Craig plummeted! I just wrote
‘plummeted’, but the drop wasn’t really that great. But still – in that short
space – that idiot boy managed to do some sort of summersault , hurtle
headfirst into the stream. Guess his hands took most of the impact, but the
buffoon still got a gash on his forehead. Frightening thing was he just lay
motionless in the flow for some seconds. For a horrible heart-thudding moment,
I thought he was dead. Image rushed through my mind of the incident with
Marcus. Then the clown started to move and soon his gormless face was staring
back at the bridge. And the funny thing was – Browning really
did
look
like a clown, like some mud-smeared jester. His face was caked in dirt with
just two circles of white for his eyes to gawp out of. The kids cracked up.
Can’t say I blamed them. Lad should have been on the Minstrel Show. Didn’t laugh
myself, can only see the amusing side in retrospect. I was shivering – cold
sweat gushing from my armpits, running down my back. My mind would flick from
the sight of Browning’s moronic face to images of Marcus struggling in the
pond, thrashing in that brown water, spitting out streams of filth as he grappled
for breath.