The Standing Water (19 page)

I wrenched my eyes
from the pool, tried to push that awful incident from my mind. I turned on the
pub’s corner, but before leaving Emberfield, I pulled up outside the shop. Nipped
in for a paper. That shop gives me the creeps too – something somehow deathlike
about it, with Mr Davis hovering like some obsequious undertaker. Can’t be far
from the grave himself, don’t know why that man doesn’t just retire. Could have
come off the Ark that chap! Fool’s probably addicted to the tittle-tattle of
housewives. Terrible for gossip, these small towns. The buffoon shuffled and
mumbled behind his counter, spilling it all out to me. He knew which boys I’d
walloped and when, gave me details of their thrashings even
I’d
forgotten. The clown creaked and hobbled in a joyful jig as he celebrated those
beatings, expecting me to join in. I just nodded and smiled – you ancient
idiot, I thought, do you think I do this for fun? I don’t
like
hurting
children, don’t
like
risking my health; I do it because it’s part of my
duties. I was half-tempted to shoot out my hand, grasp the doddering bugger’s wrist,
haul him over the counter and give him six of the best right there to let him
know how it felt. Probably shatter his crumbly bones, find myself up on a
murder charge. Don’t want to be straying down
that
road again. So I had
no choice but to listen to his aged prattle. Boasted that he finds out
everything in that patch of Emberfield, that nothing happens which escapes his attention.
You old fool, I thought, there’re a couple of things you don’t know about
me
,
a couple of skeletons I’m determined to keep in my closet! He’s a funny one
that Davis, acting so righteous when I know for a fact he rips off the elderly
people round here who can no longer totter to the high street for their
groceries. Another, more amusing, thing I heard – the miserable wretch likes to
refuse children the sweets they ask for, loads their bags up with stuff they
don’t like instead, teases them by keeping his tongs suspended over their
favourite jars of candies before slamming the lids shut. Bet the old numbskull
gets great pleasure from that, probably as much as his little brain can cope
with. Small towns breed small minds, as they say. Seen little in my years of
teaching here to contradict that maxim. I cut Davis short by saying I really
had to get home so I really had to get my paper. Wondered whether to go for the
‘Telegraph’ or ‘Mail’ – not that there was a lot of choice, unless I felt like
descending the social ladder by taking the ‘Sun’. Fancying an intellectual
challenge, I opted for the ‘Telegraph’. Don’t understand all those pompous
journalists waffle about, but a man has to stretch his mind and there are precious
few opportunities to do that round here. Davis and I joked that broadsheets are
better than tabloids because they’re easier to hide from wives and kids behind.

Paper purchased, I
scooted from that shop. Emberfield’s air of smoke and dunghills actually smelt
good after the tomblike stuffiness of Davis’s store. I hopped in the car and
drove away from that dismal town though the open country wasn’t much more
inspiring. Passed that gloomy little graveyard about a quarter of the way to
Goldhill. Set me thinking about Lucy. I – jokingly – wondered if I should have
a word with my pal the vicar, organise a Christian burial for the lass. It
would be illicit, of course – no death certificate, probably have to stick her
in the ground at night. Could be romantic – flaming torches, the vicar intoning
his words into the dancing dusk, those words trailing away into the black
silence of the fields beyond. The coffin containing frail Lucy, its varnished
wood flickering in the firelight. Heard such burials were popular in the past.
Fine old tradition, let’s revive it! Useful for slightly …
unofficial
cases like Lucy. Poor girl, maybe one day I’ll find a way to let her rest – in
the bosom of the earth, in the bosom of her Maker.

Friday, March 25
^th
,
1983

Had to wallop the
Browning boy today. The younger one for once, not the older. Somewhat spoiled
our sing-along. I’d taken both the junior classes to the hall, partly as a
treat before the Easter holidays, partly because this week they’d been
well-behaved. Well, one thrashing for Stubbs and another for Ryan Watson, but –
apart from that – no major incidents. First real hiding the younger Browning’s
had – and not before time, when I think about it. Was getting a bit full of
himself. Because he’s got a bit of a brain, he was starting to think himself
superior. I’d glimpsed him a few times sniggering at classmates’ wrong answers,
the babyish way in which some of those numbskulls still read. Even spotted him
rolling his eyes when Mrs Perkins once got something wrong. Boy also needs firm
guidance because of his brother. Bad example to him that lad, gives him more of
a need for somebody to set him straight. Thrash out any notions of wandering
down the same track. I’ve been too lax on him till now. Nice little lad, bit
wrapped up in his own world, bright sort – especially good at maths and
science, anything involving logic, responds well on the few occasions Mrs
Perkins really teaches them something. All this maybe charmed me, blinded me to
his needs. Well, that’s going to change from now on! That pal of his Ryan
Watson could do with a few more licks too – he’s also been getting too big for
his boots.

Anyway, there we were
in the hall, lovely country tune going full-blast, taking me back to the
blissful times on the ranch in Montana: light dappling through the trees,
friends voices around me, rifle bobbing on my shoulder, on the lookout for elk
and deer. I was hearing the music of gushing streams, smelling the scent of
pines when … laughter rang out, sucking me right back to dismal Emberfield.
Anger surged as my eyes swept the cross-legged rows. And there was Jonathon
Browning, sprawled forward, giggling away, his songbook a few feet in front of
him, his hand trying to grasp it before my gaze might clock what he was up to. There
was his brother sitting behind, his daft gob hanging open, though – for once –
he was innocent. I didn’t waste a second. Luckily, Jonathon was in the front
row. I leapt, sailed through the air – still full of its merry tune, landed
right in front of him. My hand shot down, I hauled him up, gestured to the
others to keep singing. As that bouncing tune rose, my hand swooped. Good
satisfying collision with the backside, Jonathon floated up. Couple more solid
whacks came, but then the song was fading out. Presenter prattled for some
seconds before a new one started up – an old favourite of mine, ‘The Sweet
Flower of Montana’. Soon the kids were singing it out, and as my hand rose and
swept I found myself trying to match my strikes to the song’s beat. I managed
to time the blows to the cymbal crash. He was tougher than I’d reckoned, that
young Browning, thought he’d be sobbing straight away, but he held it in. Some
impressive strength in that little body. Anyway, I threw more force into my
strikes as the song went on:

‘The Sweet Flower
of Montana,

Is the one I long
to see!

Pure jewel of the
forest,

She’s the only girl
for me …’

My hand kept up
with that cymbal, quite an effort, I can tell you. My sweat started to stream,
heat gushed to my face. A little voice told me it would be better for me and
him if I ended it – after all, we’d got well past six – but I wasn’t going to
leave off till I saw his tears and, anyway, I was becoming locked in the rhythm
of the song and my strikes. My hand beat on, Browning flew up and sailed down,
but still no water came. Now a big bass drum thud was approaching to end the
chorus. I tried to match that sound on my own instrument – twisted my body,
pitched all I had into the impact. And – tears! Lots of them! That proud rascal
must have been really damming them back. A shower of saltwater was hurled; his
throaty sobs and gurgles started. Now I had my victory, I wondered if I should
lower him, but that wouldn’t have been good form – the whole procedure would
lack its finale, like an opera cut off before its climax. I slammed my hand
into him as the children sang on, quickening my beats as the song built towards
its last chorus, as Browning sprayed his classmates with more tears. And there
it was – a cheery instrumental interlude, before the singer threw all his effort
into celebrating his Sweet Flower and I threw all mine into my last whacks. My
arm ached; my body trembled; though my hand’s tempo was good, my heart’s drum
raced out of control. Damp spread under my arms, but I hammered on. Each cymbal
smash had its corresponding wallop; the final bass drum thud was coming – I hurled
everything into my strike: Jonathon hurled out what was – surely – all the
water his eyes held. The happy tune trailed off and I put Browning down.

Like they all do,
he was wailing and sobbing, hiccupping and grasping for breath. Don’t know what
it is with lads nowadays – when
I
got a walloping, and I got enough, I’m
sure I gave no more than a few snivels. And in
those
days it was canes
and belts, no namby-pamby stuff with just the hand. But Browning bawled and
wept. Yelled at him to be quiet, but he just went on. Had to send him back to
the classroom as his whining was spoiling the sing-along for the others. His
selfishness irritated me so much I decided to cap his punishment by sending a
letter home. Nodded at Mrs Perkins to watch the kids. I strode to the
staffroom, knocked an angry note out, folded it in an envelope, marched to the
classroom and flung it on Browning’s desk. His gob gaped like a tunnel; his
face went even whiter. I know what his father’s like – won’t tolerate any
nonsense, won’t Mr Browning. Can’t afford to, not with a son like Craig. But,
oddly, my admiration for Jonathon’s increased – seems a frail little lad, but he
held back well, at least at first. Of course, this made it all the more
important to crush him. They’ve got to know their place. Won’t be larking about
in singing practice for some time, I can tell you!

‘Mind your dad gets
that letter, young Mr Browning! Mind he gets it – or what Mr Weirton gave you
today will seem like a picnic!’

The bell, the
closing door thankfully muffled Davis. Outside, I gladly sucked the damp air –
flavoured by mud, mist, dirty water, smoke and the slight tang of dunghills:
better than the dry breaths you drew in that funereal shop. We paused by the
Old School, leant on its lichen-dappled wall, hurled in a few shrimps for the
ghostly kids, and continued down the road.

‘Mr Davis is
really
old, isn’t he!?’ I said. ‘I’d really love to ask him what it was like in Noah’s
Flood.’

Jonathon didn’t
reply. We turned on the corner of the school lane, the pub adding its beery
wafts – both alluring and repulsive – to the air’s mix of pongs. Heading up
that road, we soon reached Marcus’s pool. We started throwing sweets into his
dark waters – watching them plop, watching the rings that spread on the filthy
surface. We’d pitched in about half our bags when Jonathon said:

‘Do you still think
Marcus can protect us? Didn’t help me much just now – or you on Monday!’

‘Well, you never
know. Maybe Marcus can’t actually stop us getting whacked, but if Weirton walks
too close to this pond … Or to any water, I suppose. Marcus is everywhere!’

‘Weirton likes
fishing,’ Jonathon said. ‘Remember that time he talked to our class about how
much he loved hooking the fish and slicing them up. You never know … maybe one
day when he’s sitting by a river –’

Jonathon dragged
his finger across his neck, imitated a death rattle. I pictured Weirton sinking
under a murky surface, the desperate hands stretching above the current, his
last bubbles of breath spiralling up. A satisfying image.

‘But it’s not just
Weirton, is it?’ Jonathon said. ‘It’s my
bloody
brother as well!’

Jonathon spat the
rude word he’d just overheard from Davis.

‘Yeah, my bloody
brother! Suddenly tickling me – making me laugh and drop my book! It was
his
fault I got whacked! Then blabbering about the walloping in the shop: everyone
round here will know about it soon, and when my dad finds out –’

Jonathon swung his
palm, whacked a body carved from air.

‘He’ll probably
find out anyway,’ I said, ‘when he reads Weirton’s letter.’

Jonathon’s
shoulders sagged, his knees bent as that envelope got heavier in his satchel.

‘Then again, it
might be nothing,’ I said. ‘Remember when Weirton threw a letter at me, shouted
at me to take it home. I worried about it all day and it just said my parents
had to send some money for the next school trip.’

‘You saw how angry
he was,’ said Jonathon, forehead crinkling as his lips drooped.

He reached into his
bag, drew two more sweets from the rustling paper: the sparkling silver orb of
a chocolate football, and – delightfully studded with tiny explosive cubes – a
fizzy cola bottle. Jonathon pitched both into the greedy brown water, which
swallowed them with a gulp – the cola bottle briefly frothing before it was
sucked down. Jonathon clasped his hands like we did in prayers.

‘Please Marcus,’ he
said, ‘if you can, please kill both Mr Weirton and my brother; please, we’ll do
anything to help you do it! If you kill them, I’ll give you all the toys I
have! Amen.’

‘Amen,’ I murmured.

Though I mumbled my
support for Jonathon’s request, my heart beat out my unease. I understood
Jonathon’s hatred of the brother, but wasn’t killing your sibling a horrendous
sin? Even the Bible stated, in clear black and white, its awful consequences. I
searched my brain, tried to think of anything in the Bible about murdering a
teacher. I couldn’t – so maybe slaying Weirton would be less of a crime. But,
anyway, we were in Marcus’s presence so I didn’t blurt out my misgivings. I
just stood quietly, and after a few respectful moments, we left the sullen pond
and were soon turning back onto the main street. The dry weather had ended a
good week or so ago. The grass of the gardens was water-beaded; in the fields,
sheep breathed mist as they chewed. The rain-fat clouds scudded across the
sky’s low dome. Could all that water bring death to the figures we detested?

‘You should’ve told
him to sort out Stubbs too!’ I said, feeling the pleasant rush of my hatred of
Dennis while not being able to stop a queasy quiver inside.

‘Well, I can ask
Marcus next time,’ Jonathon said.

We walked on, not
pausing to look for the witch’s hand. The day felt doom-weighted enough. We
passed neat houses, with their enclosed squares of earth; passed the wet
twisted hawthorn – barbed-wire spiked – that sealed off the fields; passed the
manure piles sending steam into the air and the boggy plains that stretched off
to the legendary Salton.

‘Hey!’ said
Jonathon. ‘Why don’t you come to my house for a bit? It might make Mum and Dad
less likely to whack me.’

‘Could do,’ I said,
‘but I’ve got another idea – why don’t you just lose the letter?’

‘Lose it?’

‘Yeah, pretend you
dropped it by mistake.’

Jonathon pulled
down his eyebrows, twisted his face up.

‘Could do…’ he
said, ‘but I think they’ll find out anyway. Everyone finds out everything round
here. I’m sure Davis would tell them in the shop.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘and
remember when Stubbs got a letter to take home and he dropped it. A grown-up
found it and gave it back to Weirton. Stubbs got an
enormous
walloping
from Weirton and an even bigger one from his dad!’

‘I could, I
suppose,’ Jonathon said, ‘just keep it in my bag,
forget
to give it to
my parents.’

It was the best we
could come up with. I drifted with him towards his house – in the hope my
presence might put off the inevitable. The wet streets seemed to harbour gloom;
the lonely coos of pigeons called out dread.

We approached
Jonathon’s home. Its copse of trees stood behind it – skeletal branches
beginning to bud, the occasional lacklustre pine adding a slither of dark
green, all fenced off by barbed wire. We trudged up Jonathon’s path, passed his
sad gnome, entered the house. We perched as usual on the floor of the lounge,
where Mrs Browning brought us milk and biscuits. Rather than watch the
cartoons, Jonathon suggested we went up to see his set-out.

‘Oh, you don’t want
to bother with
that
, Ryan!’ the mother said. ‘Drive me mad, they do. All
these building blocks and toys and whatnot swarming all over the floor. Won’t
let me vacuum or owt – all that dust!’

Leaving Mrs
Browning chuntering, we headed for the stairs.

‘Well, it’ll have
to be tidied up and put away sooner or later son, you mark my words!’ Mrs
Browning called after us.

We tramped up the
steps, past paintings similar to those hanging in my house: scruffy dogs and
orphan boys peering out of the pictures with their oddly large heads and bizarrely
huge blue eyes. We got to Jonathon’s room; he edged the door ajar.

‘You have to be
careful coming in,’ he said, ‘make sure you don’t knock anything over.’

I squeezed between
the door and its frame, shuffling around that wooden panel in inch-long steps.
A vast city met my eyes. Of course, I stood only on the outskirts, but I
followed Jonathon as he picked his way through the suburbs to the centre. We
tiptoed over his roads, past factories and warehouses. Along the blue cord of
his river we crept – there were barges, big ships, fat-bellied tankers,
occasional interloping pirates with their cross-boned flags. The first of
Jonathon’s bridges came into view, before which – of course – were the busy
docks: the cranes, forklifts, patient lorries, porters. We moved on; the buildings
got taller: lofty structures which would surely gash Emberfield’s low sky,
bring down the deluge of God’s judgement like in the Bible. Perhaps if Jonathon
had a Noah, his ark would end up grounded on one of those thrusting towers.
Near the centre were shopping streets, parliaments, palaces, interspersed with
trees, parks, lakes. One space had a circus tent, around which bright-painted
wagons stood and elephants lumbered. Elsewhere was a fairground – a big wheel,
roundabouts, the looping tracks of a rollercoaster. In other places, theatres,
stadiums rose. It all seemed a lot more entertaining than Emberfield – if only
I could have shrunk myself, morphed my flesh into plastic, made myself part of
that city, submitted myself to Jonathon’s benevolent leadership. The wise ruler
really had provided everything – on the city’s other side, the furnaces of
industry flamed, chimneys climbed to head-spinning heights. Police cars and
heavy tanks ensured order and safety. And spiritual needs were not neglected –
as the centrepiece of his metropolis, his magnificent temple shimmered: a
stepped pyramid tapering to a dizzying summit.

‘Wow!’ I said. ‘Your
set-out’s grown – it’s great; don’t think I’ve ever seen it this good!’

‘I’ve been working
on it for days,’ Jonathon said. ‘Weeks, actually, ever since Mum smashed up my
last one.’

The city seemed to
sparkle in the electric light, to quiver in its glory, tremble in the knowledge
of how brief that glory would be. Its buildings teetered in their imposing
arrogance: an arrogance both reckless and resigned – resigned to the knowledge
of their inevitable passing.

‘Thing is,’ said
Jonathon, ‘when they read that letter, Dad will whack me and Mum will come straight
up here with the broom.’

Could the rumbles
of Weirton’s rage extend so far beyond the school – even shake down the
foundations of set-outs?

‘Still might not be
as bad as you think,’ I said. ‘Just keep the thing in your satchel and they
might never know about it.’

Jonathon’s
down-turned lips, his pale cheeks didn’t show much hope. I went on admiring his
set-out – every time my eyes swept over it I saw something new. Gazing at its
grandeur, contemplating its certain collapse made me think of the two cities
destroyed in the Bible, and that brought my mind back to that book’s unfortunate
brothers.

‘Jonathon,’ I said,
‘are you sure you want Marcus to kill Craig – remember what happened with Cain
and Abel?’

‘Don’t know –’
Jonathon’s lips trembled ‘– he
is dangerous
though, getting me in
trouble with Weirton. What an idiot – making me laugh like that! Why did he
have to come and sit behind me? Don’t want to get on the wrong side of Weirton
– you know what might have happened to Lucy and Marcus!’

‘Could just try to
kill Weirton, instead?’ I suggested, thinking of the two times now I’d swooped
and plummeted, gasping to fill desperate lungs, feeling myself just beginning
to slip from this life and towards the otherworld.

‘Yeah, maybe,’
Jonathon said, ‘we still don’t know for sure if he killed those two, but …
perhaps we shouldn’t take any chances. I guess we should keep trying to
per-suade Marcus to bump Weirton off before he murders us! Wouldn’t want to end
up like the kids in the Old School or Lucy in her cupboard! Imagine being stuck
in school forever!’

Mrs Browning phoned
my parents to tell them I’d stay for tea. By the time she’d got the meal ready
and called us downstairs, Jonathon’s father had got home. Like mine, he sat on
the living room sofa reading the newspaper; like with mine, it was one of those
from Davis’s shop. Like my dad, he skimmed the columns with hard eyes, tutted,
sighed, scowled, turned the pages, before flexing the paper with a crack. His
wife called him; to the kitchen table he came, half-muttering something about
unions – whatever they were – strikers and prison. Opposite us Craig sat. As
the mother went round putting the meat, peas and potatoes on our plates, the
brother picked up his fork, started to shovel the food into his mouth.

‘Hey!’ said the
father. ‘What’s happened to your manners? You wait till everybody’s served –
especially today. Can’t you see we’ve got a guest?’

He turned his stern
face from the brother, tossed a half-smile to me.

‘So, Ryan Watson,
how are you?’ he asked, in a semi-humorous tone.

‘I’m fine, thank
you,’ I said, wondering if Mr Browning was the type to halve everything.

‘Nice polite lad,
you see.’ He turned to the brother again. ‘You should take him as an example.’

The brother
manipulated his munching gob to send me a snarl. I knew I might get it later.

‘You’d have thought
Mr Weirton would have knocked his manners into him by now,’ the mother said.

‘Long slow
process,’ said Mr Browning. ‘Takes time to bring them up right, but between
myself and Mr Weirton, I think we’ll manage.’

He once more shot
me a semi-smile.

‘So Ryan,’ Mr
Browning said, ‘how do you like school?’

Something in my
mind cautioned me not to be honest. How could I convey to Mr Browning the
leaden hours, the fear of Weirton’s hand?

‘I quite like it,’
I said.

‘He’s lying!’ the
brother blurted. ‘He told me he absolutely hates school! He thinks it’s really
boring!’

Mr Browning twisted
his head towards the brother.