The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  The snow squeaked and crunched under my wellies as I breathed rapid puffs. But it was hard to walk too briskly through that enchanted blankness. I saw those little lumps in the snow that appeared every winter: Dennis Stubbs claimed birds slept in those white barrows – the types we’d noticed went away when it started getting cold. Richard Johnson – however – said they housed giant bees. I leant over and stared at those humps, but couldn’t work out which boy was right and didn’t have the nerve to kick the snow from them. My heart thumped harder to tell me not to hang around and soon I was striding through that land of magical white. I passed the brick hut of the bus shelter, sucked in breath at the line of icicles hanging from its roof. I paused, shuffled up to that little house, and – rather than noticing the usual things such as the pong of pee, the strange words scrawled on the walls – I stared at the glassy fangs suspended from its eaves. They tapered to sharp points, like the teeth of a wolf or vampire. But again my heart’s drum began to urge me on and soon I was pacing down our patch of town’s main street, kicking up powdery snow. Yet I couldn’t help looking around me at Emberfield transformed: the dull houses now Christmas card cottages, the drab fields plains of breathless white stretching to horizons sealed with snow-stuffed cloud. Dunghills had been turned into the summits of high mountains. Even our community hall – a ramshackle wooden structure – had been magicked with its snow-heavy roof, its line of icy daggers dangling from that roof’s edge. I left the straight route I should have gone down, slipped into that hall’s little garden – the only patch of ground in our part of Emberfield not forbidden by gates, walls, barbed wire. I gazed, dumbfounded, at its crust of snow – its perfection only pitted by cautious fox paws, three-pronged sparrows’ steps. Hawthorn curled around the garden’s crooked fence. I looked at its frost-hardened spikes, snow-lined leaves, and remembered some legend of a wizard being trapped forever by a spell under a hawthorn bush. I wondered if he could be beneath the very plant I was staring at: there was something odd about it, something ancient and knowing in its spiny limbs, treacherous thorns. Cobwebs stretched between the hawthorn’s strands, and those strands and the snow-topped fence, and I soon became engrossed – looking at the mummified spiders, the black specs of their prey now cocooned with ice as well as web. But my mind was jolted from its contemplations, my heart bashed and I had to leave that garden.

  As I strode, my nose and mouth hastily sucked in air – there was a smell on it, like milk ice-lollies, which my mum said meant more snow. The clouds certainly bulged with promise. Avoiding the parts of the snow already marked by feet, I tramped through virgin whiteness, rejoicing in its squeak and crush – loving its unsullied beauty while at the same time delighting in despoiling it. I looked back with pride at the procession of my footsteps before coming to the gap with the witch’s hand. Icicles dangled from the gutters above. I knew that hand could work some dread magic, send one of those frozen swords plummeting to piece my neck, but I couldn’t resist stepping up to that crack. Shivering with more than cold, I looked and saw the hand was there – its fingers rigid with ice. I scooted away before that hand could cast any hexes, but soon my speed had slowed as I paused to stare at different things – the stripes of snow crowning the planks of a bench, the brittle paper in a litter bin, the white cushion on that bin’s raised lid. I reached the pub, its beery smell struggling against the snow’s milky aroma, and steered myself round its corner and up the school lane towards Marcus’s pond.

  Apart from a slight hollow in the land, you’d have hardly known the pool was there. There was just a dip carpeted with snow. But I knew that under that white was a frozen disc and under that disc lurked Marcus. I thought of how our sacrifices of sweets had worked: neither Jonathon nor I had been walloped though recently there’d been some explosive displays with the brother and Stubbs, with Darren Hill and Richard Johnson. But now Marcus was buried beneath snow and ice: ice which – due to the biting chill – must have been far thicker than that Stubbs had fallen through. I just hoped that frozen cap wouldn’t prevent his power helping us.

  I stared for some time at the pond – its snow was also dotted with fox feet, bird steps, one daring line of child shoeprints. After uttering my thanks to Marcus, along with pleas to keep on protecting us, I moved away and sailed on the final part of my wintry voyage through the school gates. I wandered past the car park – Weirton’s huge car, in glossy funereal black, was there, past the staff area, and in through the cloakroom doors. I felt the blast of the central heating before I was rounded on by a tutting and fussing Mrs Perkins who propelled me through that humid chamber of wet gloves, drying parka coats and the swirling patterns of hundreds of footprints on the floor. Perkins’s long-nailed hand guided me into the assembly, her head of fluffy hair twitching as her red-painted lips nagged. I saw the cross-legged rows of children, Weirton pacing and waving arms at the front, and realised I was late. My mouth fell; a shiver passed over my skin; my heart’s thuds resounded. I’d seen Weirton erupt over lateness before – could he grab me now, thrash me in front of the whole school? Weirton’s eyes flicked towards Perkins as she bustled me in, but he just nodded to her. She rushed me to my place, hissing about not disturbing the assembly – as her urgent whispers, the raps of her high heels caused kids to look up. Weirton was giving a speech about something yet Perkins’s little performance didn’t make him pause and the hall just went on quivering to the regular undulations of his baritone. Perkins shoved me to the floor, I squeezed in next to Jonathon and soon I was made drowsy by the fuggy air, by the voice that boomed on at its steadiest pitch. Jonathon had to elbow me a couple of times to stop me slipping into daydreams.

  We stood and thundered out a hymn – a satisfyingly gloomy effort from the Olden Days – before we sat down again, clasped our hands and mumbled a prayer. This marked the assembly’s end and soon we were filing back to our classes. We walked into our lower juniors’ room. I barely saw the grey carpet, Perkins’s huge chair and desk, the rows of our more sensibly-sized seats and tables, the kids’ drawings – mainly crap – pinned on the walls. I barely saw them because the vast windows at the room’s end framed a sight that made my heart vault.

  ‘More snow!’ Stubbs blurted.

  Down it came in big feathery flakes. I’d heard a legend each flake was different, that each had its own pattern uniquely carved by God’s hand. Didn’t He get tired of sculpting them? But they just kept falling, a shower of God’s never-ending kindness.

  ‘Yeah, snow!’ Jonathon shouted, waving his arms before those windows.

  I wondered what would happen if it never stopped – if it went on for forty days and nights like the rain had in the Bible. I pictured the pure beauty of a deathly blanket lying over Emberfield – the school, all our houses buried beneath. It was an image that surprised me by making my lips curl up, by summoning a warm gush from my heart. What could we do if God punished our wickedness in this way? Even an ark like Noah’s would be no use – it’d just sink into that suffocating powder. The prissy tap of Perkins’s heels in the passageway startled me from my thoughts. She blustered into the room.

  ‘Get yourselves sat down!’ The curly head wobbled; the red nail of her finger wagged. ‘Honestly, people would think you’d never seen snow before! It’s not that amazing, is it?’

  Quelling our excitement, we slipped into our seats. That first class was reading so after the register we pulled our books from the metal rack on the wall. I took down my dull novel – an interminable tale of boy detectives. The only alternatives were the girly books wrapped in glittery pink covers we’d never be seen holding. My book was easier than the papers in Davis’s shop, but of far less interest. The tedium of my plough through its pages was only enlivened by the comical noises of my classmates who still read in the old infant way. They’d stand next to Perkins at her desk, fingers tracing the big letters of their baby books as their robotic voices chanted. Jonathon and I – already, along with Helen Jacobs, allowed to read the older kids’ books – would glan
ce at each other, try to keep our sniggers down. Our triumph was sweetened by the fact Stubbs hadn’t yet been permitted to make that change. We loved to smile at him as we read with fluent and varied tones from our smaller print as we stood next to Perkins.

  And so the morning wore on – my drab book and the monotone dirges of the students bringing me again into a kind of trance. It was like my mind had sunk between two walls of tedium – one built of printed, the other of spoken words. Down it went, as I dropped deeper into that dank shaft of boredom. I leapt and shuddered as a voice rumbled through the class.

  ‘R-r-yan Watson!’

  I looked up, mouth hanging, like someone shaken from a dream.

  ‘R-r-yan Wat-son!’

  Louder the voice quivered – swelling and juddering. Perkins had gone – somehow it was Weirton who sat at her desk. My heart started to bang. His blue eyes drilled into me. I lowered mine, sombrely, with respect, in the hope this might halt whatever could be coming. Out of my eyes’ corners, I saw students swap glances – those glances wavered; their lips trembled though whether through fear or eagerness I didn’t know.

  Weirton manoeuvred his bulk out from the cover of the desk and began to pace. I inched my eyes up, followed his strides – all was silent except for the sweep and rustle of his trousers. His feet performed their familiar swivel when they neared the walls. My heart pounded louder; it knocked at my ribcage; my body started shivering. My leg muscles began to jerk, making my feet drum. My mind begged Marcus to help me, to make sure it would be just a telling off.

  ‘Ryan Watson!’ Weirton didn’t halt in his stride, but his first finger thrust to signal the start of his speech. ‘I wonder if you could answer a little question. When does school start?’

  I had to master my spasming mouth before I could reply, ‘Eight thirty, Sir.’

  ‘Precisely!’ The stride quickened; again there was the rustle of Weirton’s dark suit. ‘And, Ryan Watson, would you be so kind to tell me what time the students must arrive at school?’

  I froze with confusion at Weirton’s labyrinthine words – why would he ask me to be kind to him? Anyway, I stammered, ‘Eight twenty, Sir.’

  ‘Very good!’ Weirton paused in his pacing, stood in front of Perkins’s desk. ‘And, Ryan Watson, I wonder if you might inform us what time YOU made it into school this morning.’

  ‘Well … erm … I’m not exactly sure, Sir.’

  ‘NOT EXACTLY SURE!?’

  Weirton flung his huge body into the air – rage propelled him up, before his bulk crashed back down. I swear chairs, tables, the rack of books on the wall trembled. My mouth dropped open; my heart broke into a stampede. Weirton leapt again, enormous fists bashing his thighs. The face was reddening; sweat ran down his cheeks. He went on leaping and banging till it seemed he was choking on the froth of his fury. The face turned scarlet; wet patches spread under his arms.

  ‘NOT EXACTLY SURE!? I watched you, my lad! Oh yes, I saw you dawdling and dreaming down the street, stopping to gaze at ordinary objects like some imbecile! And then, when you’d finally made it down the school lane, you for some reason spent five minutes staring at that accursed pond!’

  The dark-suited body continued to leap; the fists went on battering the thighs. Sweaty rivers now poured down the face, flowed into one another; the patches grew beneath the arms.

  ‘Oh yes, drifting down the road like the village idiot, as if you’ve got all the time in the world! If you’re “not exactly sure, Sir” when you arrived, let me enlighten you! You were THIRTEEN MINUTES LATE! THIRTEEN WHOLE MINUTES!’

  Weirton’s jumping stopped – his breath loud and heavy, he leant on Perkins’s desk, straight arms supporting his torso. Face still bright, his fat cheeks quivered as he sucked in air. He panted and rasped for some time before straightening up. How he suddenly towered over us – his beacon face glowing so far above his pupils. He swallowed more air, swiped a sleeve across his face to soak up sweat then, voice calmer, he went on.

  ‘Yes, Ryan Watson, a whole thirteen minutes late – do you think this is acceptable?’

  ‘No, Sir,’ I muttered.

  ‘I quite agree – acceptable it is not! So, you understand, Ryan, the punishment … must be … severe!’

  Weirton let those last words hang. They floated above the class, buoyed on air thick with tension, thick with expectancy. He stood at the front, motionless apart from the rhythmic rising of his chest. I gulped; my heart bashed faster in its mad gallop; my legs jolted under the table as if in a panicked sprint. I prayed to God, begged Marcus a walloping wouldn’t come, tried to convince my frantic mind that after all those sweets Marcus must protect me. Weirton stayed still, just calmly moving his gaze across the blank-faced rows of kids.

  Weirton sprang. One nimble leap and he was in front of me. His arm thrust out; his fingers clasped my wrist. Pain flowed down my arm: the teacher’s grip was crushing yet sweaty – oily liquid oozed from his hand as it squeezed. More pain flashed as Weirton yanked me from my seat and I floated up. My body dangled, my feet scrambling for a floor now far below. The air whistled; Weirton’s free hand crashed into me. The whump resounded; pain exploded across my rear; the breath jolted from my lungs; I sailed up. My feet flew till my body lay flat on a bed of air then my stomach dropped as I was tugged back. I hurtled, gaining speed on the downward curve. The hand smashed onto my backside – flinging me on my upward voyage. All breath forced out; I grasped for air, lips twitching like those of a grounded fish. As I raced down, I glimpsed the pupils’ faces: the open mouths of some, the kindling of delight in the eyes of Johnson, Stubbs. The hand banged into me – my vision shattered; any breath I’d scrabbled together was hurled from my lungs. Up again on that dizzying flight; my mouth spasming, water massing behind my eyes. I wasn’t going to cry, I wasn’t going to cry, not in front of everybody. The hand swept; I braced myself. It smashed onto my rump. I lurched up on that curve, squeezing my eyes to hold my tears in. I flew down; that palm slammed into me – salt water burst out: tears arced across the room. Sobs welled up from my chest, clogged my gulping throat: making it impossible to get breath in. The palm bashed into me; again, I sailed up. No air could get down my windpipe; pain tore at the arm I hung from; my arse throbbed. I was sure I’d had the habitual six of the best, but the hand crashed onto my behind once more. The impact echoed; I floated up, spraying the room with tears. My empty lungs ached; nausea sloshed in my stomach. The hand rushed again, hurling my body up; more teardrops flew. The sobs still clotted my throat; agony now squeezed my lungs. I remembered what Stubbs had said, pleaded with Marcus to save me, not to let me choke, not to let me die as I spluttered and swung. But the palm kept on swooping, kept on bashing out any scraps of air my mouth had managed to gather. My lungs burned, squeezed tighter; they shot flames of panic, the most horrifying panic, through my whole body. I wondered how far I was from death, how long my pain-crushed lungs could hold out. As the hand slammed into me, I once more prayed to God, pleaded with Marcus, begging him to remember the sweets I’d chucked him, promising him more presents as soon as his ice thawed. Three more times the hand swept; three more times the noise resounded; three more times I was hurled on my airy arc. The strikes stopped, and I swung in smaller and smaller swoops till I came to a halt. Weirton dangled me for some seconds before he stepped back and I felt myself lowered. My feet touched the pitching floor. Weirton let go of my arm: I crumpled, like a puppet cut from its strings. I swayed and drooped, trying to orientate myself, trying to put my cracked blurred vision back together as my backside ached. I managed – between sobs – to get some air down to my famished lungs. They stung as each breath forced them to expand. My right arm was strangely stretched; my left oddly pain-free. As my sight cleared, I saw the rows of staring eyes, the silent faces of my classmates, wondered what was going on in their minds. Weirton was next to me, his body hunched over his bent legs, his arms leaning on his thighs. Sweat dripped from his scarlet face; his breath rasped and jolted as he struggled to steady
it. He eventually straightened himself; the huge eyes clasped me.

  ‘Come on, Ryan Watson!’ Weirton yelled as his finger thrust at my desk. ‘We haven’t got all day – get back to your seat!’

  But my legs bounced and swayed as if carved from rubber. My mind urged those legs to move, but they just wobbled, free of my brain’s control. I stayed where I was – upper body bobbing and shaking on those clown’s limbs. The eyes of my classmates swelled – what would happen if I couldn’t make myself move? I felt Weirton’s stare harden, drill into me – a gaze equally fascinated. The room’s air got thicker, more humid. My chest jolted; an immense hiccup lurched out. Laughter burst from the rows.

  ‘Quiet!’ Weirton shouted. ‘You’ll all be quiet or –by God – this hand will give out more today! And, Ryan Watson – I won’t tell you again! Get back to your seat!’

  I desperately laboured, trying to forge a link between brain and body. I was able to lift a leg, move it forward in a clumsy arc, repeat this action with the other. I staggered across that floor as more hiccups blurted. Stubbs, Johnson clamped their lips with their teeth as they battled their sniggers. With bow-legged strides, I dodged tables, teetered round chairs. Eventually, I reached my own. I paused and – gripping my chair’s back for support – looked up at Weirton. His head came down in a nod and I had to lower my stinging arse onto the seat’s hard plastic. Weirton’s sweat-drenched face beamed in triumph. He loomed – like some huge monument – over our lowly class.