The Standing Water (31 page)

This made Weirton
look even more uneasy. The teacher continued.

‘Well, what should
a person, a Christian person, do when he’s in a situation where he … where he
knows
he has a certain duty, but everything within him – right from his peace of mind
to his physical health –
revolts
against performing that duty
day-after-day!’

I thought I saw the
briefest of smiles flicker over the vicar’s face, but then that face locked
back into its serious expression.

‘A man tries his
best!’ Weirton’s fist bashed into his palm, causing the vicar to jump. ‘A man
has the best of intentions, but still … that man can get no peace! Not at work,
not at home, not even at night! Vicar, sorry Rodney, recently I haven’t even
had the peace of blessed darkness when I close my eyes! I’m being plagued by
bad dreams!’

The vicar nodded,
mumbled comfortingly.

‘I’m not the
selfish type who’d simply throw it all up and just take off, like so many
pathetic excuses for men do in this blasted modern world! I
know
I’ve
got responsibilities – to my wife, my son, my aged father who’s in poor health:
though none of them would ever think to thank me for what I do for them. Then
there are the kids in the school – I
know
it’s my duty to mould them
into shape, to make them aware of where their place is in life and what’s
expected of them, to instil them with the
discipline
that will stand
them in good stead. At least their
parents
appreciate what I do, at
least I get some thanks from someone, but still … it’s
exhausting
dealing day-in-day-out with the likes of Dennis Stubbs, Craig Browning, Richard
Johnson! Even the bright lads like Ryan Watson and Craig’s brother can be a
right handful. And, I’m telling you Vicar, that Marcus Jones … before we got
rid of him, I think I was
that
close to being pushed over the edge!’

Weirton made a tiny
space with his thumb and forefinger; the vicar nodded, went on murmuring. Did
the priest know about Marcus!? I hadn’t understood much of what Weirton had
said, but he’d talked clearly about ‘getting rid of’ that boy. I readied my
ears to catch more about Marcus’s fate, but Weirton didn’t mention him again.

‘I’m a man who’s
faced down bears, Vicar, slaughtered massive bulls, but sometimes those lads
are harder work than wild animals! I just wonder, Vicar, where the line is. At
what point can a man who’s laboured for years to do his duty say, “That’s it!
Enough! I can do no more!”? Especially a
Christian
man who looks to the
shining example of Jesus and his great sacrifice!’

I was sure a smile
twitched over the vicar’s face again, but – voice weighted with sympathy – he
said, ‘Well James, of course we should try to imitate Christ, but – at the same
time – we need to remember that – unlike him – we’re only human, all too human.
Human beings aren’t perfect; humans can make mistakes, easily take wrong paths.
We need to forgive ourselves for our errors just as we forgive others. Perhaps
teaching just isn’t the right profession for you, perhaps Emberfield and
Goldhill aren’t the right places for you to be, and your body and mind are
trying to tell you this. Maybe you should consider …’

‘But, with all due
respect, Rodney!’ Weirton’s voice was beginning to boom through the church. ‘I can’t
just give it all up! Think of my duties to this community – if I resign, what
might happen to the school, the kids? There aren’t many left like me! I’m one
of the last of the old guard! My position could be taken by some modern trendy
and …’

Weirton’s face was
reddening over the lady’s praying hands, her cheeks of white. I didn’t know
what to do. Any movement could alert the increasingly animated teacher, but I
couldn’t stay there. The ache in my legs had got worse; those limbs were
tortured by a thousand needle pricks and pin jabs. Hopefully, Weirton – so
wrapped up in his speech – wouldn’t notice us sneaking away; hopefully, the
vicar wouldn’t hear us now the church echoed to the teacher’s voice. I silently
thanked the lady for shielding us, pleaded with her ghost to forgive any
disturbance and gestured to Jonathon we should get away. We crawled along the
space between the wall and the edge of the pews. I begged God I wouldn’t sneeze
from any dust we’d stir up, that the men wouldn’t hear the shuffling of our
jeans on the floor. I glanced back at the teacher. His fist was waving –
somehow in time with the words gushing from his gob. He seemed completely
caught up in his oratory.

‘… I have to be
honest, the place depresses me,’ he was shouting. ‘Those endless boggy fields,
the fog that weighs upon them just as it does on the spirit …’

The vicar’s head
nodded, bobbing the grey curls that surrounded his bare scalp, as if each nod
gave Weirton permission to pour out more complaints. We quickened our crawl,
got past the final row of pews and were just about to scuttle for the doors
when Weirton said, ‘What’s that?’

‘What?’ said the
vicar.

‘I thought I heard
a noise – some sort of shuffling.’

Weirton stood up,
swept the church in quick glances. My heart bashed frantically; my whole body
shuddered. We must have been shielded by the last of those benches because he
didn’t spot us.

‘I’m sure I heard a
noise,’ Weirton said, and started striding towards the end of his pew,
intending – I guessed – to march along the space we’d just crawled down. He’d
be upon us in seconds.

‘Don’t worry about
it, James,’ said the vicar. ‘It’s probably just mice – they get in off the
fields sometimes.’

Weirton moved back
down the pew, sat next to the vicar and the two were soon talking again.
Jonathon and I crept to the door, which the vicar had thankfully left ajar, and
crawled around it into the porch. We sneaked out into the churchyard, got back
the wellies we’d mercifully thought to hide and began to tug them on.

‘Better get going,’
Jonathon said, his white face still not blotched by the pink of relief. ‘If
Weirton comes out he might see us going over the fields or even spot us on the
track. Won’t really be safe till we get to the woods with the water tower.’

I hobbled as my
shivering hands pulled on my boots. I thought of our vicar and how mighty his
magic was – how even Weirton was polite and humble before him. As well as his dread
powers concerning the altar’s rituals, I’d heard other legends. If anybody
killed themselves, they had to be buried round the back of the church, in the
building’s shadow. And the vicar had to drive a stake through the corpse’s
heart to stop the ghost wandering! It was difficult to imagine our mild vicar
wielding some huge mallet, bashing the stake in as ribs splintered and blood
splurged. But I supposed – as it was part of his job – he’d have to do it and
make sure the evil ghost was pinned by that stake enchanted with his magic.
Despite our panicked rush, curiosity nearly pulled me to the church’s shadow
side, but now Jonathon was tugging my arm, and we were soon running under the
iron arch and out of the church’s sacred enclosure. Over the fields we went in
a stumbling sprint, watched by the two horses who looked confused at our sudden
speed. Back on the path, near the Drummer Boy’s stone, Weirton’s funereal car
was parked. That urged us on and we ran – despite the stitch that started
throbbing in my side – till we reached the shelter of the trees. There we
stood, mouths grasping air in big gulps. I stroked my elbow, trying to sooth
it, though there was already a good swelling there I’d have to hide from Mum
and Dad. When our breathing was more stable, Jonathon said, ‘Did you understand
much of what they were talking about?’

‘Not really, just
seemed to be Weirton telling the vicar how bad all the kids are, how much we
knacker him.’

‘Yeah,’ said Jonathon,
‘you know how he looks after he’s walloped someone. Looks like he’s just run
five miles!’

‘Did you hear what
he said about Marcus though?’

‘Yeah,’ Jonathon
replied, ‘he said he got rid of him – right in front of the vicar!’

‘We’ll definitely have
to kill Weirton now,’ I said, ‘before he gets rid of someone else!’

‘Well,’ said
Jonathon, ‘might not mind so much if it was Stubbs he got rid of. But, yeah, shame
we didn’t get the gauntlet.’

‘Nearly did! Just
have to come back and try another time.’

‘Yeah,’ said
Jonathon.

The Diary of James Ronald Weirton

Saturday, 25
^th
June,
1983

Spoke with the
vicar today. Of all places, we had to meet in that damned church at Salton.
Only place he could do it, had an appointment there afterwards. Couldn’t very
well tell him that church gives me the shudders, that it’s popped up in my
nightmares – wouldn’t want him thinking I’m a looney. Just told him I’d been
having bad dreams, that was enough – didn’t divulge the specifics. Course I
arrived first – damned place set me shivering as soon as I walked in. Got sat
down on a pew, glanced about. That church is meant to be God’s house, but it’s
festooned with these bits of heathen superstition – that awful gauntlet hanging
there, the crosses painted on the walls that are supposed to scare off devils.
Didn’t frighten away
my
demons – I can tell you that! Had a really weird
experience. I looked towards the altar, and I swear that gauntlet was swinging
on its chain! Nearly jumped out of the pew and ran right out of there! Swinging
with more vigour than could be explained by any draught. I tried to calm
myself. ‘Now, now James,’ I thought, ‘it’s just your nerves. Close your eyes,
take some deep breaths and it’ll go away.’ Well, that’s just what I did, and
when I looked again, the thing was still. Odd! Sometimes I think I’m really
cracking. Thank the Lord it’s the summer holiday soon. Not that it’s all fun
and merriment at home, far from it, but at least it’s more restful than having
to confront that rabble at school every day. A good few weeks without seeing
Craig Browning’s gormless mug, without having to wonder what Stubbs will get up
to next, without the simpering dimness of Suzie Green, and without that
smugness of Helen Jacobs that just makes me want to erupt. And, of course,
there’s our family trip to look forward to. Get away from these damn foggy
marshes for a couple of weeks at least.

Anyway, the vicar
came and I was soon spilling it all out to him. Hadn’t intended to reveal so
much, but the priest has this
way
about him – he just gently draws it
out of you. Be good on the other side that chap, could picture him in the
confession box, getting all those Catholics to spew up their filthy sins then
soothing them with his mumbled hocus pocus. Should be glad he’s batting on our
team. So I was soon saying how unhappy I was at work, how unhappy in this
dreary corner of our country. Sure he guessed I’m also unhappy at home. If I
understood the chap right, he seemed to be suggesting I just got out – left the
damned job, left Goldhill and Emberfield. Can’t imagine a vicar would recommend
I leave my marriage, but he didn’t
exactly
counsel against it either.
Not that I’d consider doing such a thing – those vows are for
life
,
whatever the modern trendies and blasted liberals say, vows made solemnly
before God, the community and the law. Whole society would fall apart if people
just cleared off whenever they had an urge to. Seen enough of it where I taught
before, the terrible effects of broken families. Not too much of that round
here yet, thank God, still a healthy respect for tradition. But even if I could
never leave Sandra – and, by
God
, sometimes I am tempted – what about
ditching the job, getting away from these damned depressing towns? Love to just
get a bit of land somewhere, do some farming like I planned to in Montana, live
close to nature –
real
nature, not the drab muddy fields round here, but
mountains, lakes, true wilderness. Amazing to think even
here
once it
would have all been forested: bears and wolves roaming, wild boar and mighty
stags. Only place remotely like that left in this country is the north of
Scotland, as far as I know. Would
love
to move away from here, but it’s
all a dream, a fantasy. What would I do for work? Got the mortgage to pay,
bills, have to put food into ungrateful mouths. Romantic dreams are all very
well, but they don’t stand up to much scrutiny. Best leave them to the blasted
hippies and all the other irresponsibles. It’s on the shoulders of men like me
that the nation’s welfare depends.

Anyway, poured it
all out to the vicar – and did feel better afterwards. Still, a little too much
sneaked out – why the hell did I have to mention Marcus Jones? Even used the
words ‘got rid of’ for heaven’s sake! Vicar didn’t react – just kept nodding,
murmuring in that soothing way of his. I’m sure he doesn’t know what really
happened. But I get a feeling the vicar’s sharper than we all think – seems a
bit of a bumbling fool at first, a holy innocent, still happy to teach the
truth of the blessed Bible unmolested by Darwin’s devilish ingenuities. Sort of
faith only a saint or idiot could have nowadays. Good for the kids though,
teaches them what’s what, wouldn’t want them concerning
their
little
heads with the fiddly details of science and theology. Their place is to
follow, not lead – would be like the blind leading the damned blind if they
did! But, anyway, reckon their might be a shrewd mind under that bald head and those
buffoon-like curls, behind that blank open face. Have to be more wary what I
say in future,
especially
anything about Marcus or Lucy! But I think I
got away with it. So nervous, though, in that awful church – even thought I
heard a noise at one point. I almost sprang out of my skin, though, of course,
I didn’t show the vicar I was frightened. He reckoned it was just mice – didn’t
sound like mice to
me
! More like someone – or
something
–
shuffling around though I knew well enough we were the only people in there.
Eerie! I’d be happy never to stray anywhere near the whole of Salton again.

Oh well, off to bed
soon. Hope I have a restful night. Think we should go to Church tomorrow. Been
a good few weeks – been taking off fishing on Sundays recently. Find it
relaxing, though the fat lowland rivers and sombre gravel pits round here could
never match the clear gushing streams of Montana. But tomorrow we’ll be off to
sing our hymns and say our prayers. Of course, Nick will whinge – say Church is
boring. What does he expect – a bloody pantomime!? The young think everything
should be entertaining nowadays. Well, I’ll entertain his backside with my hand
if he makes too much fuss! Sandra will be flapping around, wondering what hat
to wear, threatening to make us late. Speaking of Sandra, I think the best I
can hope for
is
a restful night. Not like anything else is likely to
happen. It’s not that I’m obsessed with
that
– this permissive modern
world puts too much emphasis on it – but it would be nice,
sometimes
. Even
the Church believes it’s an important part of our marital duties. Try telling
that to Sandra. Either it’s some excuse, or she’s fast asleep, or she has to go
and baby Nick because he’s scared of ghosts or some such nonsense, or she
doesn’t even
try
to make an excuse and just gives me that sour face. So
it’s off to bed, with no more hope than the Lord will see fit to guard me from
bad dreams.

Tuesday, 26
^th
July,
1983

Sit writing this in
Father’s spare room. Got set off on holiday today – we’re visiting my parents on
our way down south. Goldhill lies about fifteen miles northwest of York so it’s
not too far to drop down to Leeds. Had to journey through more depressing
country – doesn’t really improve till you reach the Pennines on Leeds’s other
side. Up round Hebden Bridge and Haworth’s nice though – of course – it hardly
compares to the
real
countryside I’ve seen. Hit Leeds around midday,
Nick in the back whinging about feeling hungry. Couldn’t shut him up with my
shouts. My hands squeezed the steering wheel, just itching to batter the boy
into silence or at least change his nauseating whine for the regular chug of
sobs. Could have always clobbered him when we got to Father’s, but somehow felt
the old man would disapprove – though he was never slow to wallop
me
and
sometimes for much lesser offences. Seems to be a strange bond between him and
the boy. Anyway, head aching from the whinging coming from the backseat, I
piloted the car through the city to my parents’ house on the outskirts. We
drove through Chapeltown – dreadful, full of immigrants: blacks, Pakistanis,
Sikhs. Even made me glad for a moment we live in Goldhill. It’s all very well
protecting people from foreign invasions in the Falklands, but we could do with
some of that protection here. The socialists and liberals try to convince us –
and themselves – that these people can be quickly transformed into civilised
Brits. What rot! I bet in thirty years’ time those Asians will still be
stumbling around in their pyjamas, mumbling their superstitions and fiddling
with their prayer beads, and those blacks will have found little other gainful
employment than mugging old ladies. Not that the places they come from have
always been totally backward. India’s had its great civilisations, and we could
learn a thing or two from the Hindus about social structures and keeping people
in their place. Even Africa’s had a few impressive societies. But that was all
long ago, before decadence set in, and – anyway – this is England and we don’t
want such things set up in the middle of Bradford or Birmingham.

Had lunch with the
folks, Nick stuffing himself like he hadn’t eaten for a week. Had to remind him
of his table manners. Father told me to let him be, said he’s a growing lad.
Would have bashed and battered me if I’d gobbled that greedily at Nick’s age.
I’m much more lenient on Nick than Father ever was on me. Father sat there
wheezing and spluttering, launching into coughing fits. Hard to feel much
sympathy for the old rascal – it’s mainly his own fault: those damned
cigarettes and cigars he’s been sucking on most of his life. Think he was
disappointed I didn’t start smoking, think he felt it made me less of a man.
Can’t see what’s so manly about gasping and spluttering if you have to walk
more than a few yards, but that’s Father for you. That tobacconist’s shop the
old devil opened when he left the army – probably put plenty of blokes in the
same condition, cost a damn fortune for the NHS. Made a good few pennies out of
ruining the nation’s health, the old man did. I hate tobacco, despise it – I’d
ban the filthy stuff if it was up to me, throw those who sell it in jail like
drug dealers. Still, despite a lifetime of abstinence, I’ve inherited some of
Father’s breathing problems, the same blood pressure that has a tendency to
zoom off the chart. Wouldn’t surprise me if it was all the damn smoke I sucked
in growing up here. Not that Father would ever apologise – don’t think I’ve
heard that rascal say sorry for anything. His spluttering, tobacco-stained lips
probably couldn’t even form the word. If I ever catch Nick with a cigarette in
his mouth, I’ll thrash him till every spec of that disgusting stuff’s been
hurled out of his lungs. Speaking of health, have to remember to take those new
pills tomorrow – just can’t let Father see, don’t want to show any weakness.
Doc shaking his head, telling me they were the strongest they could prescribe,
that he didn’t know what they could do if these ones didn’t work – apart from what
he called ‘lifestyle changes’, as if we could all click our fingers and change
our lives overnight: as if I could suddenly stop worrying about Father, as if
my marriage would bloom into something joyous, as if Dennis Stubbs and Craig
Browning wouldn’t require regular beatings, as if I could just forget all that
happened with Marcus and know what to do with Lucy’s remains. Speaking of
pills, Father gets through a whole pharmacy every morning – you wouldn’t think
he’d have much to say about me popping a couple of tablets. But Father’s just
that
way
– I can hardly flex a finger without him criticising me. He’d
be prying into all the details of my health, grinning and nodding when I told
him what was wrong. Strange mentality – if he has to suffer, we all should
suffer too.

When I was at the
doc’s, enquired about sleeping pills. Asked me what the problem was, told him
bad dreams, asked if there was anything that could quieten the mind when I’m asleep.
Said he could prescribe something, but didn’t like the sound of it – I’d still
dream whatever, just wouldn’t keep waking up. There’d be no blasted escape then
– like being locked in a cinema showing horror films all night. Strangely, ever
since that day I talked to the vicar, the dreams have got worse, more frequent.
All kinds of weird stuff. Like someone’s raised up all the spooks in Salton and
Emberfield and set them on me. Keep dreaming of dead Scots, of whispering
curses lying over the land. Or I’m in that damned church, staring at that
gauntlet or that white tomb as the bell tolls away. Most unsavoury practice
really, burying the dead
inside
the church – Romans had the right idea,
stick them outside town. Anyway, that bell clangs and I can’t stop looking at
that damned glove – which means death, or those awful carved figures, which
represent death too. I’m thinking how white they are, how motionless, how
final
their rest is. The worst, though, are the dreams with Marcus. Those I can’t say
are just the imagination’s outpourings. We’re in the pool, grappling, twisting
in those stinking waters. At times, I’m held down in them, that awful brown
liquid flooding into my mouth, my nostrils, seeing nothing but filth and
darkness. But the dream always ends with me carrying the boy from the pond –
body floppy, face absolutely white, boy bloated with all the stagnant water
that’s poured into him. I lay him on the bank, just look at him, lying there
lifeless. Doesn’t occur to me to try to save him, give him the kiss of life,
but dreams are funny like that.