The Standing Water (32 page)

After lunch, we sat
around in the lounge, father puffing on a cigar, humouring Nicholas, boy
hanging on his words in a way he never seems to with mine. Started up with his
war stories – the boy was fascinated. Telling him about all the Gerries, Ities
and Japs he claims he’s killed. These reminiscences always end in the same way
– and today was no exception. Father pointed a shaking finger at me and said, ‘As
for
that
one,
he
never joined the army!’

Mother, Sandra,
Nick all grinned; I forced myself to smile.

‘Prefers a life of
teaching little lads and lasses their sums to defending his country!’

Everyone laughed;
my face muscles trembled as they held my smile in place. I’d love to see how
Father
would cope day-in-day-out with Dennis Stubbs and Darren Hill, never mind Marcus
Jones! You might risk your life in hand-to-hand combat with a Gerry or Jap, fair
enough, but when it’s over it’s over – you don’t have to see them every day for
years. Just despatch them with your bayonet and it’s done – can’t do
that
with the mob I’m responsible for though sometimes I’m sorely tempted. Don’t
want to go down
that
path – already wandered too far along it with
Marcus.

‘He was a bit of a
drifter when he was younger,’ Father wheezed. ‘Worked on a farm in Montana of
all places, owned by a friend of mine, chap I’d met during the War …’

Everyone nodded
though we’d heard the tale many times.

‘Turned into a
right little Yank he did. Wanted to stay there, buy some land, take up farming.
I ordered him back to England on the double! “I didn’t pay for an expensive
education,” I told him, “So you could become a Yankee farmhand!”’

The laughter
chorused again; I kept wearily winching my grin up.

‘Promised he’d come
back, but you know what the little blighter did? He only went and got himself a
job on a cruise ship and sailed leisurely back to England that way. A waiter,
would you believe, a waiter? A son of mine – I thought he couldn’t stoop any
lower than being a Yankee farmhand, but he managed it!’

Father gave some
chesty chuckles, which soon turned into a coughing attack. He hacked and
spluttered as we all rushed round for glasses of water. He tottered to the
bathroom, from where we heard the disgusting noises of him dredging filth up
from his lungs and spitting it out. He finally reappeared, got settled down and
went on with his story.

‘So he was fawning
over these rich Yanks in his little bowtie, but he seemed to enjoy the
experience from what he told me. It was a cruise round the Med, stopping off at
all these archaeological sites. He’d sneak off the ship to look at them and
soon found himself hooked.’

The old head nodded
at me.

‘Even now he’s
obsessed with all that stuff, from what Sandra says. When he’s not ticking and
crossing the little exercise books of the little boys and girls, his head’s
buried in some book about what some darkies or nig-nogs did hundreds or
thousands of years ago in some part of the world or other.’

Everyone smiled,
nodded some more; Sandra rolled her eyes in a way I think was meant to be
comical.

‘Can’t see what he
finds so fascinating about it all – no civilisation’s
ever
matched the
British Empire! And no civilisation ever
will
– least of all what we’re
doing now on this pathetic island, especially if the damned unions and
socialists and peaceniks get their way! But, anyway, when that lad got back to
Britain, I gave him a stark choice. It’s teaching or the army, James! He mumbled
something about studying ancient history, but I told him you needed brains for
that!’

Everyone sniggered
some more. I noticed, especially, that Nick’s face lit up – so much for
loyalty! Father waffled on.

‘He chose teaching
– surprised me, I have to say! So, now he’s got a good twenty years or more of
ticking and crossing ahead of him, of tanning the hides of naughty little
scamps! And I’ll let you know a secret …’

Father glanced
around conspiratorially; Nick giggled.

‘
His
hide
got tanned enough when he was a nipper – I can tell you that!’

Later we went for a
stroll with Mother. Father stopped at home. Starts coughing and wheezing if he
walks much more than a hundred metres. Old fool was probably lounging in the
garden, sucking on one of his dreadful cigars. We went to a big park, one I
used to play in as a lad. Nick ran and skipped ahead – thought it was nice for
him to have somewhere to let free his energies, unlike Goldhill, where it seems
every scrap of land is hidden behind a wall or sealed off with barbed wire. As
Sandra and Mother twittered – ‘How’s Ronald’s ..?’ ‘And did Ronald ..?’ – I
thought about Father. That man drives me beyond the frontiers of patience!
Humiliating me just like when I was a child. Wouldn’t be surprised if he tried
to pull me across his lap and spank me in front of everyone. Sometimes I feel
like grabbing the conceited old goat, wrenching him from his chair and beating
the old bugger until … Not that I ever would, of course. Respect for parents,
for the elderly – one of our society’s foundation stones: not enough of it
around, sort of thing I try to hammer into the kids at school. But sometimes
with Ronald Weirton … as his cynical mouth spews its endless criticisms, I feel
my fists tightening, my feet itching to leap in his direction. Reckon I could
hoist him up and give him a good walloping – he’s so shrunken and frail these
days. Hard to believe he was so tall and strong in his prime. Knocked me into
the middle of the next week a good few times, I can tell you.

More fun and games
in the evening. Father took it upon himself to entertain everyone by reading
out my old school reports. Far from glowing, I admit, I was never a great
scholar. Father described how he’d punish me for them and various other
misdemeanours – with the slipper for minor offences; for more serious ones he
kept a good stout stick, and used his belt, of course. In the most spectacular
of his chastisements – his whacking of whackings – he even employed a cricket
bat. I remember
that
one well! Even with just the hand he could knock
the stuffing out of you. In fact, I learned much of my technique from him – the
wrist clasp, the lift, the expert timing of the collision of hand and backside.
As Father waffled, everyone was chortling away; Nick’s high voice was singing,
‘Daddy got whacked! Daddy got whacked!’ I itched to give him a taste of the
beatings I’d endured, but felt Father wouldn’t approve so I had –literally – to
grin and bear it. Father also told everyone how I got plenty at school, each –
according to him – thoroughly deserved. Don’t suppose I can complain, seeing
what I got up to. At first, I had little choice, had to defend myself against
the bullies, show them I wasn’t the sort of sap they could shove around. Then,
reputation established, I felt called on to maintain it. Always some nutcase or
smartarse eager to have a go. Bit addictive, really, putting people in their
place – crushing them while everybody watches, fascinated. Got tempted to pick
fights for the sake of it – sometimes, crazily, with the oldest and hardest
lads, feeling the fear and adrenalin rush through my body as we readied
ourselves for the scrap. Often came off worst, but sometimes I’d surprise my
schoolmates. Loved to see them nodding, shocked, impressed, see the esteem for
me rise in their eyes. Could also be fun to pick on some weakling – the
satisfaction of the easy victory, of knowing the person’s totally in your
power: that it’s totally your decision whether you let them scuttle off or beat
them up. Seeing them beg, shiver, even sob, knowing it’s
you
who’s
caused all that. Bit similar now – a certain pleasure in thrashing a tough
little rascal like Craig Browning or Dennis Stubbs, feeling my heart thump, my
body strain: wondering if it will hold out till I get them bawling. But there’s
also a satisfaction in crushing someone like Suzie Green – feeling one’s power
as she trembles or even wails as soon as I bark the first words at her.
Watching her dissolve into some weeping grey mush as I weigh up whether to send
her to Perkins to be smacked – knowing it’s entirely up to me whether I let the
sword of justice swoop or watch her gratefulness gush as I grant a reprieve.

I’m rambling.
Better get off to bed – early start and a long drive tomorrow. Be glad, to be
honest, to get away from this place. Reckon I’ll cheer up with every mile the
car speeds us down south – away from sneering Ronald Weirton, away from the
drab plains and drab minds of Emberfield and Goldhill.

Wednesday, 27
^th
July,
1983

We piled in the car
and were soon zooming down the M1, away from Father’s cynical pronouncements
and spluttering sarcasm. As we bombed along the motorway, Nicholas for once
quiet in the back, I got thinking. People might see motorways as quite
new-fangled inventions, but they’re not – the English motorway system is
more-or-less based on the network of Roman roads that once straddled the
country. Damned efficient those Romans, and those roads were the motorways of
their time – just chaps marched on them instead of driving vehicles. Could get
from A to B pretty quickly, and that’s a fact. That’s discipline for you.
Amazing it’s taken us one-and-a-half millennia to get back to the same level.
Wonder how long it’ll take us to claw our way back to civilisation if
this
society falls – as it
will
, of course, if the socialists and unions and
bleeding-heart liberals and gay boys and lesbians and all that lot get their
way, not to mention all the damned barbarians streaming in from the ex-Empire.

Skirted London and
got to Brighton for late afternoon. Still time for Nick to run down the pebble
beach and plunge into the water – it was nice to see the lad enjoying himself.
Ignoring Sandra’s protestations, I decided to join him. Slipped my clothes off
and trunks on under a towel. Have to admit I strutted on the beach before
heading to the sea. Almost a public service. Show everyone a fellow doesn’t
have to go to seed when he gets past his mid-thirties. Forty-three and I’ve
still got strong arms, a good broad chest. A furry pumpkin pushes out below
that, but at least it’s only a little one, nothing compared to the acres of
flesh I saw flopping about around me. Don’t cut a bad figure for my age – full
head of blond hair, though it’s getting greyer, especially lately. Anyway,
snatched up a little ball and jogged down to the surf. Hit the water and
thought for a moment Sandra had good reason for her prudence. Cold sent damned
tingles all over my body. Could feel my face glow, my heart begin its boom. But
there was no way I could turn and slope out, let a little water defeat me. I
did the opposite and plunged straight in. Woah! Chills everywhere, heart
bashing crazily as it tried to get the body to adjust. But, after some time, it
all settled down. Nick was wriggling through the waves – he turned, saw me,
grinned. That felt good – tossed him the ball, and soon we were chucking it
back and forth, splashing and laughing. Sandra came to the shore to watch us
and even her face twitched into a smile. So much for female caution – sometimes
you have to be manly and just dive into whatever it is you want to do. Whole
society’s getting over-feminised. Can’t imagine any Scott of the Antarctic or
David Livingstone emerging nowadays, let alone an Alexander the Great.

Got back to the
hotel then went out for dinner. Brighton’s a nice place, but a lot of the
people are distasteful – loud-mouthed Londoners with tattoos, blasted hippies, a
colony of queers that has established itself. I was dreading Nick asking who
those strange men were, but thankfully he didn’t. Always a sign of the
beginning of the end, harbingers of doom. Did for Greece and Rome, that sort.
If I had my way, I’d lock them up somewhere they could do their filthy things
to each other without having to affect the rest of society. At least the
government’s finally getting tougher with regards to them.

Oh well, off to
bed. Never know – Sandra’s good mood might translate into … Let’s see if I’m
lucky.

Thursday, 28
^th
July,
1983

No luck last night.
But today started well. Pleasant breakfast in a beachside café followed by a
dip. Water was invigorating – body seemed even more shocked to be plunging into
it in the morning, heart going mad, tingles rushing all over, but I was damned
if I’d let such things stop me having a good time with my son. Got dried off,
dragged Nick from the beach as the boy started up his whining. But into the car
we went, and we were soon driving through Sussex – the rolling downs such a
contrast to the miserable marshes round Emberfield. Education doesn’t stop just
because we’re not in school, and I intend this trip to be educational for us
all. Boy’s got to learn about his land’s history.

Rounded a bend, and
we saw the thing – magnificent! Nearly seventy metres tall, carved into the
chalk hillside. The Long Man of Wilmington they call it, but it’s also known as
the Wilmington Giant or Green Man. Abstract outline of a huge chap, holding two
big staves. All sorts of ideas about him, according to what I’ve read – could
be a pilgrim carved by monks, a representation of that stave-bearing wanderer
Odin sculpted by Saxons, or a stone-age figure from some star-gazing religion,
meant to mirror the constellations wheeling over the ridge above. Whatever it
is, it’s ancient and it’s British – a piece of folk-art gouged into the earth,
using our blessed landscape as its canvas. We parked up, admired it from afar
then strode closer to investigate. I tried to focus on that wonderful artefact,
tried to block out Nick’s whinging – he was bored, he wanted to go back to the
beach. My hands tightened into fists; I was tempted to pick him up and clobber
him, but didn’t want to spoil what had been so far a successful holiday. We walked
around that amazing effigy, but – having consulted my Ordnance Survey map – I
decided on a different route back to the car. Our path turned out to be a bit
overgrown, we had to leap styles and chase off packs of inquisitive sheep, but
– despite the grating refrain of Nick’s whining behind me – I could see it
was
a swifter way back to our vehicle. Only problem was – when we were nearly back
on the road – this yokel-type came striding up, told us we were on private land
and we’d have to go back the way we’d come. I tried to reason with the bumpkin,
showed him the map, on which our route was marked as a public right-of-way,
told him that even if it wasn’t it’d be quicker for us to continue on to the
car as we were almost there. He wasn’t having any of it; he stood, shaking his
head, baring our path. Muttered something about city people not understanding
country ways, about us bothering the sheep. I tried to tell the rustic clown we
were country people too, but it didn’t seem to penetrate his thick head. Well,
I wasn’t going to be ordered around by some farmhand so I paced along the track
and brushed past him. Next thing I knew, that rural buffoon had grabbed my arm,
and was trying to wrench it up behind my back and frogmarch me away. I slipped
my arm free easily enough, spun round and landed a solid punch on the bumpkin’s
jaw. It was a long way short of full power, but enough to send that joker
stumbling into a pile of sheep droppings.