The Standing Water (63 page)

I feel my first
pricks of sympathy for the teacher. I even throw my cigarette to the floor,
grind it out.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘at
least Nick’s got his parents to support him.’

A laugh wheezes out
of Weirton.

‘He won’t speak to
me. He won’t speak to me! Idolises his grandfather who put all those crazy
notions in his head, but he won’t have the slightest contact with his old dad!’

‘Why not?’

‘He claims the
roots of his trauma, as he calls it, pre-date the wars. He claims they were
caused by me,
me
! He claims I traumatised him just by giving him a
little discipline. What I gave my son is nothing compared to what my dad gave
me! Give a child the slightest slap nowadays and they’ll claim you’ve ruined
their life. My boy won’t speak to me; my ex-wife won’t speak to me; my parents
betrayed me and now they’re dead! I’ve no brothers or sisters.
That’s
my
family! I’m all alone up here.’

A wave of anger
rises, swamping any empathy. ‘I can imagine the sort of thrashings you gave
your son. I had plenty myself! They
do
affect you for life!’

‘And why do you
think I gave them to you?’ Weirton’s smile curves up.

‘Because of your
insane ideas about how to keep discipline?’

‘Yes, partly that,
of course, though I wouldn’t call my ideas “insane”.’

Weirton slowly
stands, starts hobbling around the room. It’s a woeful imitation of the way he
used to pace about when he wanted to make a point back in Emberfield.

‘With the rascals I
had to deal with – Dennis Stubbs, Craig Browning, Marcus Jones – iron
discipline was essential! But even if my pupils hadn’t behaved so outrageously,
I’d have still needed to wallop them.’

‘But why?’

‘Because people
need to know what’s what! They need to know what their role is in life, what’s
expected of them. If people don’t know those things, if such facts aren’t
demonstrated in the most simple, the most direct, the most powerful fashion,
we’ll have chaos, anarchy –
precisely
the sort of things that are
happening now! It’s all because people don’t know their place anymore! The
socialists and liberals fill people’s heads with talk of ambitions,
aspirations, rights, opportunities, social mobility. All rot! Does a lot more
harm than good in the long run! With working class kids, with lower-middle class
kids like yourselves, it has to be driven into them where they stand.
Literally
driven into them! Any bright ideas must be knocked from them quick smart! Of
course, discipline’s essential in all tiers of the social hierarchy, but it
becomes more and more so as you near the bottom.’

I just nod; I don’t
know what to say. Weirton hobbles up and down for a while. The only sound’s his
heavy breath. He stretches a shaking finger towards his bookcase.

‘The most
glittering civilisations from the past – Egypt, Babylon, ancient India, the
wonderful Celtic civilisation we had in this part of the world. Do you think
there’s any way they could have endured for thousands of years without the
strictest social classifications? It was even embedded in the religions of
Egypt and India. A king was a king, a lord a lord, a priest a priest, a peasant
a peasant. How much healthier than the dreadful muddle we’ve got ourselves into
today!’

Weirton goes on
with his teetering walk, his teeth pinching his wrinkled lip, preparing – I
suppose – for the next part of his diatribe.

‘Social structures
are too precious and – though they may appear otherwise – too fragile to let
too many smart-arsed individuals risk upsetting. Before we know it, the whole
lot could come crashing down! Look at Darwin – a genius, no doubt, but look at
the damage to the social fabric he’s caused. In little over a century, our
religion’s withered –
withered
! What society has
ever
survived
without the glue of religion to hold it together! What hope is there for us
today with every Tom, Dick or Harry believing what he wants?’

‘There’s the small
but important fact,’ I say, ‘that Darwin was right.’

‘Of
course
he was right! But why is that important? There’s truth and there’s truth! Maybe
his ideas should have been circulated among a select elite. But, oh no, they
had to be made available to the masses in the demented cause of progress!
Progress
!
Why on earth should we want
progress
? Far better to use our energies in
firming up the status quo! Progress is the disease of the modern world!’

‘The Japanese have
a saying,’ Weirton goes on, ‘that one Einstein is a blessing, but two are a
curse. Too many smarty-pants just cause a load of trouble! Look at that meddling
Jew Freud – the dreadful things he’s unearthed in our minds! Look at the
damnable ideas of Marx! Clever blokes, I’ll grant you, but look where their
cleverness has got us. The Japanese have another proverb – the nail that stands
out must be hammered down! And, by God boy, I hammered you lot! I beat you all
till you were embedded in your correct places! Unfortunately, that damned fool
Stone had to come along and undo some of my good work.’

Weirton’s panting
now, made tired by his hobbling marches. He again sits on his chair.

‘I’ll admit
something,’ he says. ‘I lied to you in the pub.’

‘How do you mean?’
I peer into his puffing face.

‘I lied when I said
I was disappointed about Jonathon. I’m actually glad he’s turned out the way he
has! I was
delighted
to hear it! OK, it would be better if he didn’t
wander around so much, if he settled down somewhere and raised a family – a
family of drones just like himself. But I’m pleased he hasn’t done more with
his life. Think of all the trouble an intellect like
that
could cause!
He could have turned our understanding of the world upside-down! Jonathon was a
nail that stuck out and – by God! – I made sure he was hammered right back into
place!’

‘You bastard!’ I
say.

‘I’m also glad
you’re such a miserable failure in your chosen field. Why should a pleb like
you get it into his head to write novels, be an artist? Your lack of success is
God trying to tell you something. Give it up, boy! Give it up and save yourself
and all of us a lot of grief! You’re not meant to do it! It’s like a pauper
being crowned king, a fish swimming in the air or a bird breathing water! Be
what you’re meant to be and just be satisfied! Be a dull drone like your
father! I could see your talent at school – I just never thought you’d have the
stupid idea to make a living from it. If I’d known, I’d have striven with every
fibre of my being to knock it from you! How I wish I’d thrashed you a lot more!’

I lunge forward; my
fist hurtles, catches Weirton on the chin. A crack echoes out, the teacher
flies backwards from his seat. Luckily for Weirton, he crashes into a pile of
dirty laundry. The teacher blinks up at me. That crack was so tremendous I
wonder if I might have broken his jaw, but – though his words are slurred –
that jaw soon starts moving again.

‘You’re a leftie,
aren’t you?’ Weirton murmurs. ‘I can tell just by looking at you. God knows how
someone like you emerged from Emberfield, but somehow you did. And, like all
lefties, you’re disgustingly hypocritical. You tell me …’

Weirton’s eyes
close for a moment. He seems to drift out of consciousness then float back in.

‘You tell me … you
lefties believe in the collective, the common good, what’s best for all. But
you’re also continually bleating about opportunities, about how people should
be encouraged to fulfil their potential. You can’t have both, boy, can you?
Either it’s the common good, with people forced to bow to society’s needs, or
it’s anarchy and individual selfishness!’

‘We won’t make
things better by strangling people’s talents!’ I say. ‘By forcing people to
play small! The fulfilled individual can benefit society – by deepening our
knowledge, making great art, contributing to the culture. But if you want a
world of drones, that’s exactly what you’ll get! A world of mediocrity and
stagnation, a world that will eventually start to rot and poison itself from
within! Maybe it’s for
those
reasons’ – I thrust my arm towards the
bookcase – ‘that your great civilisations crumbled!’

‘What you call
mediocrity and stagnation I call tradition and identity!’ Weirton’s groaning,
gasping, but seems determined to spit his words out. ‘It’s tradition that
sustains us through the ages! Not fads and novelties that are here today, gone tomorrow.
Yes, gone tomorrow, but each fad or fashion does its bit in nibbling away at
our culture. You talk about art, about expanding knowledge … so what? What’s
cutting-edge art today will be laughed at tomorrow … people in the future will
look at the crap filling our galleries, the rubbish people like you write in
books, and wonder what we were thinking! As for expanding knowledge, every
breakthrough gets overturned in a few decades. People are already saying half Einstein’s
theories are wrong. But
tradition
, if we keep tradition alive, it will
sustain us through it all – it will be like a sturdy ship, an ark to keep us
safe in the storms and raging seas of these dreadful modern times! An ark to
keep safe our blessed culture! What’s wrong with that? And, of course, we all
know that for any ship to function its crew must be subjected to the
strictest
discipline!’

I just shake my
head, let Weirton go on with his woozy waffle.

‘Three thousand
years, Ancient Egypt survived for, three thousand years. All based on the
strongest tradition, the most rigid hierarchy, each person knowing their place.
Three thousand years – it really isn’t bad, is it? Look at
our
civilisation – with its fads and fashions, its new ideas and novelties, its
opportunities and rights, its namby-pamby democracy. The mighty Empire’s
already gone – crumbled, just in my lifetime: in
less
than one lifetime!
I fear it’s this sad island that will crumble next.’

‘I didn’t come here
to listen to your fascist mumblings,’ I say. ‘I’m getting tired of your
drivel.’

‘Oh really –’ a
smile flickers weakly on Weirton’s lips ‘– what did you come here for?’

‘At first I wasn’t
sure, curiosity maybe. I must say I’m heartened by the fact your existence is
far more miserable than I’d imagined. But now, after hearing all the filth
that’s spewed from your gob, I’m tempted to beat you senseless. Beat and batter
you maybe even beyond the borders of this world! I think it’s time for
you
to receive an almighty thrashing!’

‘Go on!’ Weirton
mumbles. ‘Do it! I won’t resist! I’ve got nothing to live for! I tried to do
myself in once. Couldn’t quite go through with it, but I knew there was no
place for me in this blasted modern world then and I feel the same now. Kill
me, I beg you! I’m no more use to this world, and if it means a piece of
violent left-wing scum like you ends up in jail, so much the better! At least
you wouldn’t be able to write another dreadful book!’

My gaze has been
fixed on Weirton, my feet and hands itching to batter him, to rid the world of
his foul presence. But that last word he uttered – book – has jolted me out of
my trance. Without my brain thinking, my legs carry me over to Weirton’s
bookcase. My eyes scan over the books on Egypt and Mesopotamia, ancient China
and Japan, on Greek and Celtic mythologies, Aztec and Inca religion. They scan
down past the fishing manuals, the yellowing teaching guides till they come to
the rows of diaries. I realise, as if a sun’s dawned in my mind after a black
night, those diaries are what I need. I grab 1982, ’83, ’84 then also snatch
1985 for good measure. I wedge the weighty books under my arm and pace over to
Weirton.

‘I won’t kill you,’
I say, ‘as much as part of me would love to do that! The thing you’d most hate
would be for me to finish a damned good novel! I think these’ – I tap the
diaries – ‘will help me a lot more than anything my feet or fists could do to
you. And let’s just see, let’s see what endures if either of us live long
enough –
my
art or your fascist notions of tradition and obedience!’

Weirton groans,
rolls a little on the floor, but I’m already getting out of there. I turn the
key he’s left in the door, stride out into the night. I’ve no torch so I have
to fumble my way to the car. I chuck the diaries on the backseat. My mind’s
already working, wondering what more they might reveal about the teacher as I
inch the vehicle down Weirton’s dirt track. Soon I’m driving along the loch’s
shore, its dark, dark waters gleaming when touched by my headlights. Light
flickering on the surface of the blackest depths. Light playing for just a
moment, just a second, on the deep, deep standing water.