Yet eventually the showers ceased, and we were visited by somebody my mum called ‘Jack Frost’ – a sprite who etched his spiky likeness on both the outside and inside of our windows. I’d wake to find his ice intricately carved – resembling in its crystals the glass onto which it had been grafted. The earth was white-sprinkled, iron-ridged. In amazement, I banged my heel against it – astonished to discover the ground which had so been soggy hardened into that unyielding metal. Shells of ice formed on puddles and ditches, and on Marcus’s pond. Bonfire Night came round and we trudged in the cold to watch Emberfield’s display. I saw the guy crowning his mountain of wood, the great fire being lit. As the flames flickered around that effigy and threw their shadows over his face, I couldn’t help wondering if it was a real man we were burning. If Marcus and Lucy had met savage deaths in Emberfield, why shouldn’t someone else? Could we have some purpose in sending those fumes fed by his crackling skin, blazing hair up into the heavens? I had to calm myself, suck deep breaths of smoky air, remind myself of how I’d seen the guy just minutes earlier – the tell-tale straw poking from his shirt and trouser ends, his crudely sketched face. But still I wondered why we had Bonfire Night. Was it fear of winter approaching, was our huge fire meant to encourage the sun, who I’d noticed flagging lower each day on his weary journeys round our earth? Was our blaze to remind him of his responsibility to flame in the sky, our fireworks to urge him not to forget to shine and shimmer, to tell him to keep us warm in the cold months coming?
Despite our best efforts on November the fifth, we couldn’t hold off winter for long. It got chillier; Marcus’s ice thickened. Ignoring the warnings of our parents, the commands of Weirton, we had to go on it. We were, of course, enlivened by fear, but we also had the notion that ice-sheet might act as armour against any malevolence from Marcus, if indeed Marcus was there. And, if he was, he was hopefully trapped in the depths of his pool – imprisoned in an ice-block, his vengeful vision darkened by frozen sludge, his breath bubbles captured in those arctic waters. One afternoon, a group of us stood around the pond – Jonathon, myself, Dennis Stubbs, Richard Johnson, a few other classmates.
‘Who’s going first?’ Stubbs said.
No answer came from our circle.
‘I reckon it should be Watson,’ Stubbs said, after some more silent seconds.
‘Why me?’ I said. ‘Why not you?’
Stubbs’s face – infuriating at the best of times – moulded itself into that of a chicken: the chubby cheeks scrunching up, his thick National Health glasses jutting forwards, his nose twisting into a beak-like shape. Now – even more annoyingly – Stubbs repeatedly jerked his torso like a cat vomiting and brought up from his belly a convincing chicken noise.
‘Cluck cluck cluck cluk; cluuuck cluck cluck …’
The ring of boys laughed; only Jonathon came to my defence.
‘Don’t you know if the wind changes you’ll be stuck like that?’ he said.
‘Cluu-uck, cluck, cluck,’ Stubbs replied, jolting repulsively.
I indeed prayed for the wind to change, for Stubbs to have to pass his life with that grotesque mug. But there was no breeze – the air was held rigid with cold. We stood in its brittle frostiness – gloves and mittens, hats and scarves, the furry hoods of some parkas zipped right up: only giving a small porthole for the face to gaze out of.
‘Is Watson going or is Watson a chicken?’ Stubbs sang.
My muscles tensed; my blood simmered. I could either lamp Stubbsy and start a fight, or step out onto the pond and shut him up that way. The second choice seemed braver. Arms horizontal, I placed my right foot on the pool. I pushed my weight upon it as the other foot lifted from the shore. The ice creaked like old wood. It held, but a crackling spread under me. I moved my left foot slowly through the sting of delicate air before bringing it down. The ice gave a sigh, but there was no serious cracking. Arms still out, I concentrated to keep my balance on that slippery disk, thinking of Marcus, monarch of his polar empire, impounded in the ice so far below. Could he see a reflection in his cold mirror of a boy, arms out, above? How would he feel about that cross-like figure? All my doubts about his existence had fled. I was glad we’d given him those sweets – I made a silent pledge to give him more presents if my walk across that frozen moon should be successful. This gave me more confidence and I took another step. My weight again on just one foot, the ice creaked its discomfort. I heard the shattering of tiny joints and particles. No one spoke – I felt everyone’s concentration press on me. A glance back to the bank showed their tension-gripped stances, their nervous puffs of air. Fearing all that focus might add pressure to the ice, I made another careful step. I looked down as I did so. The ice was enchantingly patterned – light and dark swirls curved, sometimes mimicking objects such as plants and leaves. Beneath the surface, the corpses of real leaves were preserved – their spikes and veins exhibited as if in a glass museum case. The ghosts of twigs were also gripped by that glacial water; there were bubbles of various sizes seized by winter’s stealth. Had those bubbles come from Marcus? Another couple of steps and I reached the pond’s centre. The circle of boys watched – I felt the sceptical warmth of their admiration. I raised my arms – as a man might who’s conquered a mountain peak while knowing the perils of his journey down. So on that hazardous trek, I had to continue. I stepped forward – the ice shuddered out a moan, rending the brittle atmosphere.
‘It’s Marcus!’ a boy shouted. ‘He doesn’t like it!’
‘It’s just the ice, stupid!’ Stubbs’s palm collided with the boy’s head. ‘Marcus can’t do owt – he’s frozen at the bottom of his pond!’
Still, I quickened my walk. With prudent strides, I aimed for the pond’s far shore. Each step was answered by a warning creak.
‘Are you sure that’s not Marcus?’ Richard said, beneath his bobble hat.
‘Maybe it is,’ someone replied, ‘or perhaps the ice is just thinner over there.’
My throat gulped; my heart banged; I sweated into my thick coat. My racing mind promised Marcus sweets and toys – even my best ones. I lifted my feet in a couple more paces. Again the ice groaned. Out of my eye’s edge, I saw Stubbs walk around the pool. He soon stood facing me – on the spot on the shore towards which I headed. Now two thirds of the way across, I raised my leg for another stride. The ice moaned. Stubbs also lifted a foot. He kept it suspended as he sneered, staring at me. Surely he was just pretending – surely even Dennis couldn’t be crazy enough to do what I thought he had in mind. Stubbs slammed that foot down, bashing the ice. But the ice in those shallows must have been a glassy block – his foot slipped; he waved arms as he struggled to stay upright. All the boys laughed.
‘What’s Stubbsy up to?’ someone said.
His balance now rescued, Stubbs answered by stepping onto the ice. He stamped again, driving his heel into the pond’s surface. The zigzag of a small fissure appeared; a smile broke on Stubbs’s face. The heel slammed again; the crack lengthened, split wider. I took another step – Stubbs once more thrust his heel down. Like a slow fork of lightening, the crack snaked across the pond towards me. Smaller zigzags shot out from it – rendering the whole area around Stubbs unsafe. I peered across and down – indeed the ice was thinner on that side of the pool. Through it I could see the sulky brown of the imprisoned water. I’d by now paused on the ice – struggling to calm my galloping mind, quell my thudding heart, decide what to do. Stubbs had nothing to ponder; he hurled down his foot. That rupture slithered further across the pond. Now it was a metre from me – other splits spreading to its side like a primitive sketch of some spiky plant. I didn’t know how to go on. Stubbs’s gaze clamped mine. There was power in his look – contentment shone in his plump cheeks. His eyes glinted; his lips smirked: that infuriating face commending itself on its cunning. He raised his foot – feigned a stamp; I flinched; he chuckled. He again brought his foot high; sniggered at my twitch of panic. The other boys didn’t join in his laughter – they waited: their
eyes quizzical, concerned, intrigued.
‘Fancy going down?’ Stubbs shouted. ‘Fancy going down to Marcus? Reckon he’ll be pretty pleased with you!’
‘Yeah!’ Johnson blurted. ‘If Marcus gets Watson, he’ll probably leave us alone for the rest of winter. We could go on the pond without worrying at all!’
‘Yeah!’ a couple more lads echoed, before glancing around, as if unsure of what they’d said.
Stubbs drove down his foot – the crack became a chasm as it darted towards me. It was now six inches away. The ice between my feet started to moan. Stubbs gazed at me as he lifted his foot. He paused for some seconds – the foot hovering.
‘Is he really gonna do it?’ one of the lads asked.
‘Go on!’ someone called out. ‘Send him to Marcus!’
Stubbs thrust his heel down. There was a loud crack, a shattering. That line snaked closer to me, but Stubbs was now flapping his arms. His foot had gone through the ice; he teetered forward and back. Forward might have been better, but it was back he fell – landing on his arse on the frost-rigid bank. A howling chorus celebrated his topple – boys were doubled with laughter, their arms pointing at Dennis. I laughed too, but had my own problems to solve. The part of the pond I’d been walking towards was covered with cracks. I couldn’t retrace my journey across the firmer ice – that would be cowardice. Seizing the advantage of Stubbs’s fall, I headed for the shore at perhaps forty-five degrees. As quickly as I could, I shuffled and skidded across the frozen water. Seeing my strategy, Stubbs scrambled up. With one shoe and the bottom of a trouser leg dyed a deep muddy brown, he ran around the pond, racing to the part of the shore I was tottering to. He reached it; again – to my disbelief –he started bashing the ice. Before he could produce much of a break, I was on the bank. I shoved Stubbs; he staggered.
‘What the hell were you doing!?’ I shouted. ‘You idiot! I could’ve been killed!’
The exasperating face looked at me.
‘Oh, don’t beef!’ Stubbs said. ‘Oh, doooon’t beef!’
Stubbs repeated those words; those words became a song, a song of derision that dipped and flew up. The ring of lads glanced rapidly at each other, faces scrunched with what could have been worry. But then one started to sing and soon they were all reciting, ‘Oh, don’t beef! Oh, doooon’t beef!’
This refrain was becoming a rhythmic chant, a hypnotising hymn. The mockery’s momentum swelled. I could imagine the taunts being repeated for days – along with a quickly fashioned legend of ‘Watson on the Ice’. Stubbs’s chubby face grinned in triumph.
‘Oh, doooon’t beeeef!’
The sardonic sympathy fell and rose. Again it was Jonathon who rescued me.
‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Didn’t Ryan just walk across the ice?’
The chants halted.
‘That means it’s safe. If we don’t go near that bit Stubbsy cracked, we can all go on it!’
‘Yay!’ the boys yelled.
The scarves and hats, mittens and parkas, all shuffled and shoved their way onto the pool. Soon that pond’s surface was dotted with slithering, teetering boys. Gloved hands waved as we slid over that disk; as we bumped and barged one another. Boys would take run-ups on the shore and launch themselves to skid – on their shoes or backsides – across that shell. The floods which had gorged the pond made it big enough for us all. There were moans and squeaks yet we were confident of that ice – after all, it had been tested by me, and had even mostly withstood Stubbs’s attempts. But Stubbs was the sort who was never satisfied. He sidled up to me.
‘Dare you to jump up and down!’ he said.
‘It’s your turn for a dare, Stubbs. I walked across the pool.’
‘If I do it first, will you do the same?’
‘All right,’ I said, ‘you’re on.’
Stubbs gave three decent jumps. Snaps and cracks echoed, but the ice held. I bent my legs and arms, prepared them for their upward fling.
‘No!’ said Stubbs. ‘You can’t do it there – you have to jump exactly where I did!’
Stubbs stepped aside; I shuffled to the spot at which he pointed. As I stood there, the ice creaked. I jumped; thudded down. The ice gave a loud moan – the surface splintered yet didn’t split. Boys were crowding round to watch our game. Up I leapt into the fine crystal air; bashing back down I swear the ice sagged. A stream of snaps echoed, but the frozen water held.
‘You’ve got to go once more,’ Stubbs said, ‘just like I did.’
I took nervous tugs at the sharp air, hoped no one would see me shaking to my heart’s juddering beats. I flung myself up – jerking my knees right to my chest. The boys had now formed a ring around us: their pupils traced my upward flight, dropped as I fell. Thudding down, I slipped, pitched backwards. The boys scrambled away, making a gap in their circle. I banged down painfully. A crack rang out; fissures shot over the surface; the ice didn’t go through. Scrabbling up, I dusted off the frosty grains, and took a couple of sly steps back towards the bank.
‘Your turn again, Stubbsy,’ I said.
Stubbs’s lips quivered.
‘Go on.’ My finger pointed. ‘In the same place as before.’
Stubbs shuffled to that spot. I saw fear in the flicker of his eyes. But he took a big leap – wrenching his knees up to his chin. Down he crashed. A pane of ice tipped up – showing a wound of bare water. With Stubbs slipping on it, that patch of ice tilted higher – mud, slime and debris glued to its underside. Stubbs seemed caught in a sliding pose – legs askew, arms waving, mouth a hole of shock. He crashed sideways into the water – a splash of brown flew up. Boys scrambled from that fling of dirty liquid; rushed and teetered off the ice. Skidding onto the shore, I looked back. Stubbs had one arm, one leg and one side of his torso submerged. Both hands, one arm and one bent leg rested on the main ice-sheet, near its jagged rim. But with nothing to grasp, Stubbs was slipping into the water.
‘Help me!’ he screamed.
The boys stood on the bank, gawping at their classmate.
‘What can we do!?’
‘Marcus will get him!’
‘Marcus is frozen …. isn’t he?’
My heart boomed, but a flare of anger rose at Stubbs’s red quivering face. My hands itched to shove that head down into those dark waters.
‘If he drowns, we’ll all get in trouble!’
This shout shook me from my thoughts. I unwound my scarf, motioned Jonathon to do the same. We took some steps onto the pond then threw those woollen ropes to Stubbs. He gripped one with each hand and we pulled him across the ice. It crackled and complained as he was dragged. Nearing the bank, Stubbs scrabbled up and tottered onto the shore. Shivers jolted him; his teeth chattered a mad rhythm.
‘Get home!’ I shouted. ‘Warm up, before you freeze to death!’
‘How can I go home?’ His face shook; he stammered. “Look at me!’
One leg was coated in mud and green slime; the other stained with brown specs and splodges. One side of his parka was daubed with sludge, sodden with filthy water. Drops rained as Stubbs shivered. Yet he couldn’t shake off Marcus’s stagnant stink.
‘See what you mean,’ said Richard. ‘Wouldn’t like to be in your shoes when your mum and dad see you! I know just what you’ll get!’
‘The walloping of my life!’ Stubbs’s teeth clacked and jerked. ‘And not just one, two – a good hiding from my mum and an even worse one when my dad gets home!’
‘One of your dad’s famous tre-men-dous whackings!’ said Richard.
‘I’ve seen him get a few.’ Johnson turned to us. ‘They were incredible – almost as good as Weirton’s!’
Stubbs knew he had no choice. He turned and started his shuddering trudge home, leaving a single row of brown footprints on the pavement. We formed a sombre yet somehow celebratory procession behind. We’d got a short distance down the street when Jonathon shouted, ‘Look!’
He was pointing at Stubbs’s leg – the one which wasn’t totally covered with pond dirt.
We all stopped, stared at it. Among the muddy patches were five long daubs shooting from a squarish splodge – a pattern that looked like a handprint.
‘Marcus!’ Jonathon said.
A gasp went up from the boys.
‘He tried to get you!’ said Johnson. ‘He tried to drag you down!’
‘He must be angry with us!’ I said. ‘For tres-pass-ing on his pond.’
‘He’s probably been angry with Stubbsy since the day he threw that rock!’ said Jonathon.
‘I’m never going near that pond again – never!’ Stubbs wagged his head as the cold jerked his body.
Stubbs continued his plod home. We watched his sodden tramp up the path to his house – head drooping as he trudged towards the inevitable.
‘He’ll get one hell of a hiding!’ Johnson sagely said. ‘Doesn’t take much for his mum and dad to give them out. Stubbsy told me they sometimes even whack each other!’
The lads hurried off to their homes. Just Jonathon and I were left.
‘So much for having doubts about Marcus,’ I said. ‘Now we can be sure he’s in the pond!’
‘Yeah,’ said Jonathon, ‘love to know how he got there. Really reckon Weirton might have had something to do with it. Then again, maybe it was kids messing about – someone could have been killed today!’
‘What about Lucy?’ I asked. ‘Do you reckon she’s real?’
‘Yeah,’ Jonathon said, ‘if Marcus is in the pond, why can’t Lucy be in the cupboard?’
I shivered, rubbed my mittened hands, and we walked off through that cold day.
Chapter Seven
A crystal spider’s web – its strands frost-jewelled, its frozen weaver at its centre. I gazed at it – following the flickers of light in its glassy prisms, staring at the deathly perfection of its brittle geometry. The radio said, the adults complained our weather had come from Siberia – which I understood to be a vast and faraway land, where – by some strange magic – it was always winter. I loved it – the stinging fragile air, the snow-shrouded fields, the mysterious white dips that had only yesterday been ditches. But right then it was that cobweb that fascinated me – its shards and slivers of ice: each one of those diamonds different, each housing an endless array of lights and chambers. I thought it would be great to draw it. Eyes still on the cobweb, my fingers fumbled with the straps of my satchel, which held pencils and paper. But then a jolt shuddered through me, jerking me to my senses. My heart starting to thud, I walked off through the snow and left that cobweb stretched between a fencepost and rusty oil tank – knowing its perfection would never be recorded.
The Standing Water Page 6
