The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  ‘But the Ark story must have happened even if we’re not sure how! Remember in assembly Mr Weirton told us you can find seashells in rocks on high mountains – he said that means there must have been a Flood!’

  ‘Oh …’ the class muttered. With nods we accepted this unquestionable evidence. The vicar’s scrunched forehead slackened; his eyes stopped their twitching.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Jonathon,’ he said, ‘now, if we can just get back to the story …’

  We flipped the page in our booklets. The Ark floated on an eerie expanse of water – a desert of pastel blue.

  ‘Just imagine,’ the vicar said, ‘deep under that water is our normal world. Cities and towns, shops and houses, hills, fields … all deep, deep under those waters God flung down from heaven in his anger.’

  ‘Be great if it happened in Emberfield!’ I whispered to Jonathon.

  My heart thudded as the vicar’s frown told me he’d overheard.

  ‘I don’t think it would be great, Ryan! Just imagine – your house, your school, your town, all the land around it beneath miles of water: all the poor animals and people drowned. I don’t think you’d like that very much, would you?’

  I gave a shake to my head – a shake propelled by some dishonesty.

  ‘Anyway,’ the vicar said, ‘the Ark floated for a long time. The waters finally started to go down, and after seven months the Ark ended up on top of a mountain, called Mount Ararat. After ten months, Noah sent a dove and raven out to see what they could find. Only the dove came back. Noah waited seven days and sent the dove out again. It returned with an olive branch in its beak – showing more land must have been uncovered. The next time Noah sent the dove out it didn’t come back, telling them they could come off the Ark and live on the new land – the beautiful new land washed free of sin.’

  ‘And then God did something very special. He allowed a rainbow to appear in the heavens and told Noah it was a sign of peace. God said that never again would He destroy the earth with water – that was His promise to Man. Don’t you think that was ever so kind of Him?’

  Stubbs smiled – screwing his features into a look of infuriating smugness. He put up his hand.

  ‘So, Sir, God will never again send a flood that’ll cover the whole world?’

  ‘That’s right, Dennis.’

  ‘So it’d be very silly if someone tried to make a boat like the Ark?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it would.’

  Stubbs brought his smug face down in a slow nod while gazing at me. My fists gripped under the table, aching to smash his annoying mug. Then I remembered what I’d thought seeing the snow earlier.

  ‘Sir,’ I asked, ‘God said He’d never destroy the earth with rain, but what about snow? If He was very angry, would He allow it to just keep snowing?’

  The vicar’s finger floated to his chin. He stared for some time from the window, at the thousands of flakes falling on their spidery courses down. I stared from the window too, at the ground’s covering of endless white – imagining Emberfield buried under its cold purity.

  ‘Er … no, I don’t think so Ryan,’ the vicar finally said. ‘I suppose snow counts as a kind of water.’

  Stubbs once more fixed his gloating gaze on me.

  ‘And I think …’ the vicar’s eyes flicked to his watch. ‘Do we have time? Yes, it seems we just about do … I think I should point out that God is always with us in the world and He remembers his promises – or covenants, in biblical language. Because of His great kindness and love, never again shall He destroy us … er … at least not with water. I just want you to see something else before we finish.’

  We flipped a few pages ahead in our booklets. A man lay sleeping on a rug on desert ground. The curved heavens around him shone with stars. And from the tip of the sky’s dome a spiral staircase descended. Up and down it moved winged figures robed in white. A strange light glowed from them out into the darkness.

  ‘That man sleeping is a prophet called Jacob,’ the vicar said, ‘and one night he lay in the desert and dreamed that a ladder – or stairway – reached down to the earth from heaven and up and down that ladder angels were passing …’

  Up my hand leapt.

  ‘Sir – does that mean that we might see angels sometimes?’

  ‘I suppose we might,’ the vicar said, ‘although such visions are rare. But yes, if we look at the drawing, I think it tells us God is always with us – the link between heaven and earth is not completely broken. Though most of us can’t see them, He still loves us enough to send His angels among us.’

  I stared at those long-limbed figures, their wings, their robes the colour of vanilla ice-cream. I wondered what it might be like to see one.

  ‘Angels among us to protect, to guide …’ the vicar said.

  It was a nice thought that those angels moved through Emberfield’s damp streets, floated above our marshes and flat fields, hovered over Marcus’s pond, the Old School, maybe even brought comfort to Lucy in her cupboard. It was nice of God, amongst all the dread and thunder of His judgements, to send us sights so uplifting. But to see one – that would be incredible. I wondered if anyone I knew had – my parents, the vicar, Davis, Mr Weirton. I resolved to find out.

  Chapter Ten

  After the vicar finished, it was lunchtime. The flakes went on falling; the jibes went on flying from Stubbs, Johnson, the brother, Darren Hill over my walloping and my suffocating shove down into the snow. In the playground, Stubbs took off Jonathon – staggering and moaning in mock blindness – while the brother and Darren laughed. I itched to lamp Stubbsy, but with Weirton striding on his platform, we could only taunt him back – reminding him of his plunge through Marcus’s ice, the massive wallopings he did indeed get from both his mum and dad that day.

  School ended about the time those flakes stopped coming down, and – loving the brittle crunches our boots made as they ruptured the snow’s fresh surface – we trudged towards Davis’s shop. I snuffled up the smell of milky purity, a smell that managed to overwhelm the stench of beer from the pub, the pong of dunghills and chimney smoke. Pushing Davis’s door, clanging the bell, we left that shining world of white and entered the shopkeeper’s deathly realm. There were the cold slabs of ham behind the meat counter, the coffin-like freezers, the mummified flies from summer still on the window ledge, the crown of the Queen – our pharaoh – over the post-office section. We ordered our ten-penny mixtures, went through the usual routine with Davis dangling tongs over jars as our mouths gushed the sweet spit of our longings. Davis had by now worked out the sweets we loved best – he teased me for ages with fizzy cola bottles, tortured Jonathon by keeping his tongs over the chocolate footballs before slamming the lid shut without having fished out any of those delicious spheres. He lumbered Jonathon with a cherry-red string, knowing he wasn’t keen on those, but I thought we’d get our own back as we could just swap it later. He taunted us both with the flying saucers – moving the tongs nearer to and farther from their jar – but neither of us got one of those spaceships. As he was piling shrimps into my bag, he turned his drooping face and his watery eyes grasped me.

  ‘Now young Mr Watson,’ the aged voice trembled. ‘Hear you got taught a good lesson today.’

  I looked blankly at Davis. Surely he couldn’t be talking about the tedium of Perkins’s classes.

  ‘Oh yes, it was a great one by the sounds of it – won’t be able to sit down for a week, that’s what I heard! You’ll think twice before being late again!’

  ‘How did you find out about that so quickly!?’ I blurted.

  ‘Oh, as you should know, I find out everything round here and quick smart as well! Hope it taught you a good lesson – keep going on that way and you’ll end up like Lucy …’

  Chuntering, Davis turned back to his jars.

  ‘Wipe the smile off his face if he ends up like that Lucy. That’s where bad behaviour leads them … he should thank Mr Weirton for his guidance … doesn’t want to end up a pile of bones …’


  I gulped and shivered; my heart started its thud. Was I really wandering down Lucy’s doomed track?

  ‘Please, Mr Davis, was Lucy often late?’

  ‘Oh, she was, she was, all the time – Mr Weirton tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t take any notice. And this one had better watch out too …’

  The old face nodded at Jonathon.

  ‘I always said Mr Weirton should give you a few licks to stop you following in the footsteps of your brother. He’s a right handful that Craig – had Mrs Browning in here earlier complaining about him, about how your dad had to give him a few strokes yesterday. Should give you a few too from what I’ve heard – covering your bedroom floor with your mess, not letting your poor mum clean up …’

  Jonathon frowned as Davis plopped a shrimp into his sachet as a punishment. Grateful that for a time Davis wasn’t waffling about me, I let my eyes scan the folded newspapers on his counter. There were those words again – strikes, un-employ-ment, in-flation – with a few new ones: hard-ship, pov-ert-y. bombs, shoot-ings. I struggled with the tiny print as Davis wagged his tongs and waffled. I was jerked from my studies by the plonking of two swollen bags on the counter. I looked up; the ancient blue eyes had fastened themselves on me.

  ‘Well, wonders will never cease – a young lad here actually trying to read the papers! A good thing, I suppose, a youngster interested in current affairs – as long as they don’t fill their heads with strange ideas, end up voting for the wrong side when they get older. But you want to watch yourself, my lad – make sure we don’t have any more dawdling down the street, dreaming about heaven knows what, making yourself late. Remember what happened to Lucy!’

  ‘And Marcus too?’ Jonathon asked.

  ‘Quite possibly, quite possibly –’ hanging skin flopped as Davis nodded, ‘– can’t say I know exactly what happened to him, but he came to a sticky end, I’m sure. Always in trouble with Mr Weirton that one …’

  Back out on the street, Jonathon and I drifted past the Old School, got rid of a few shrimps by lobbing them into the shattered playground for the ghostly kids. Though Marcus was impounded in ice, we guessed the spooks of those children could still scrabble for sweets despite the piercing cold. I turned to Jonathon.

  ‘Good job Davis warned me to be careful – I could soon end up like Marcus and Lucy! Felt I wasn’t far off today – Jonathon, have you ever gone for a long time without air? I really thought Weirton might kill me.’

  ‘Nah, but you’re lucky Weirton didn’t kill you, and you’re lucky Stubbs and my bloody brother didn’t either when they pushed you into the snow. You never know, maybe it was daft kids who bumped Marcus and Lucy off!’

  ‘Can you think of anything we can do to stop him – just in case it doesn’t work with Marcus?’

  ‘Stop who – Weirton or my brother?’

  ‘Weirton, I suppose.’

  ‘Nah, just have to trust Marcus. Ryan, Mr Davis is really old, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s ancient. Know what I reckon? Remember what the vicar was saying today about Noah’s Ark. I think Mr Davis might be one of Noah’s sons.’

  ‘Really!? You sure he’s that old?’

  ‘Yeah, reckon he’s about the right age. Next time we get some sweets we should ask him what it was like on Noah’s ship.’

  ‘Yeah, you should.’

  ‘No, you.’

  Chapter Eleven

  I thought more about what the vicar had said about angels. I often wondered if such beings were around us. Did angels really climb up and down ladders dangling from heaven, did they really stride among us as we studied in school, among our parents as they worked, cleaned our houses, shopped? Though I felt bad about questioning the vicar, I wondered about the angels in the same way I still occasionally wondered about the ghostly kids in the Old School, Lucy, even Marcus. But with Christmas edging nearer, would my doubts over those heavenly beings be eased? Indeed, I’d heard a legend people were more likely to see them at such a holy time of year.

  My excitement grew as each day took us closer to Christmas. One morning, we trooped into assembly and saw Weirton standing at the front next to a huge pine, its mighty branches still unbowed by gleaming baubles, tinsel manes. That pine stood in a massive pot, one I was sure it would have taken twenty strong men to lift. Weirton started to pace; he went on striding till we’d all got settled cross-legged on the floor.

  ‘You will notice’ – Weirton stopped, swivelled, flung his finger at the pine – ‘we have our magnificent Christmas tree here, which we will decorate according to our holy traditions; traditions it is of the greatest importance to keep up! Yes, we’ll take the box of decorations from the store cupboard …’

  I sucked in a quiet gasp as I remembered that magical box which only came out once a year, that box filled with lights, glitter, baubles, decorations in the most fantastic shapes, and – if I remembered rightly – angels: angels blowing trumpets, angels unfurling strip-like banners written with magic words in some mystical language, angels with circles of tinsel propped on little sticks over their heads. Why would people, I told myself, make decorations modelled on such beings if no one ever saw them? I thought of that enchanted box, of that box of wonders that skulked so mysteriously the rest of the year in that cupboard’s depths. But then I sucked another, louder breath – causing some kids near me to turn round, causing even the vast face of Weirton – I thought, for a moment – to twitch in my direction. That same cupboard, of course, contained Lucy. I imagined her hanging so silently in the dark, her skull grinning into the blackness. Who would dare venture into that haunted space to retrieve our Christmas box? I prayed Mr Weirton wouldn’t order me to do it.

  ‘Yes, we’ll trim up the school –’ Weirton beamed ‘– the hall, the corridors, the classrooms. And, of course, you’ll all have the chance to make decorations. This afternoon, we’ll cover all the tables, get out the card, glitter, paint and glue, and we’ll make our stars, our baubles, our own blessed angels to praise God and His son, to make sure our great traditions live even in this modern world!’

  Weirton grinned at us. He turned his head as his eyes scanned our rows. Those eyes were warm and kind behind their glasses – warm and kindly rather than angry and hard. Ever since Weirton had walked into the hall he’d been smiling. He was obviously affected by the holiness of that time of year. Maybe his usually irritation, his ever-present twitching rage had been soothed by the angels that even at that moment might have been walking among us. I just wished that, if they were indeed there, my eyes could learn to see their shimmering presence.

  So, that afternoon, newspapers covered the tables, and the paint and glue came out. The two junior groups mingled, going in and out of each other’s classes. I laboured on a big table in Weirton’s room. I took a piece of card, and – doing my best with the blunt lances of our brushes, their bristles often gunged together, our round cakes of crumbly paints, spotted and stained with different colours – I mixed some blue with white, getting a lovely pale sky shade, a shade I thought had a holiness and purity most suitable for angels’ robes. I painted all my card in that colour then carved – as best I could with our clumsy scissors – my angel shapes from it: skilfully sculpting the curves of the wings, with their bumpy outlines of feathers below, the rims of the halos, the edges of the robes, the sandal-shod feet sticking out under them. I mixed more paints then shaded in the pink of the face, the blond hair, the robes’ creases before adding a carefully judged sprinkling of glitter to ape the angels’ heavenly radiance. When I’d got a few done, I sat back, scrutinised my work. I nodded, gave a smile – it was certainly impressive.

  I glanced around our table. The same couldn’t be said for the others’ creations. The brother sat opposite me. Face lit by a dopey smile, he was ramming his blunt-ended brush into a jam-jar of glue. He then smeared huge amounts of that gloopy liquid over some shape he’d hacked from a sheet of card though what that shape was meant to be I couldn’t guess. When he’d smothered it
with glue – in the process sticking a good quarter of it to the table’s newspaper covering – he grabbed a whole pot of glitter, tipped it upside down so an immense cloud of twinkling flakes plummeted over his work. He gazed down at it, his mouth hanging; his joy at his excess made that open mouth morph into a huge grin. Seated next to Craig, Jonathon was doing somewhat better. He was making stars. He had his ruler, his pencil – that pencil sharpened to a precise point. A tooth bit his lip; he stared down as he drew his star on the card, each beam a triangle expertly measured. As best he could with our blunt scissors, he then carefully cut it out. He gazed at the glue, scrutinising its jam-jar as he – I supposed – was estimating exactly how much he’d use. He dipped his brush’s tip into that sticky substance and smeared a light coating of it onto his star. He next gazed at the glitter. His eyes flickered as it again seemed he was calculating the precise amount required. He dipped his fingers in the pot then applied a judicious sprinkling – just what was needed but no more, just enough to make his star shimmer enticingly. Jonathon picked up ruler and pencil again, went to work on his next star as my eyes moved on from him. Next to his brother, Craig still worked – still thrusting his brush, lavishing his glue, lunging across the table to grab another pot of glitter, his open-gobbed moronic smile still set on his face. Most of the other kids were doing better than Craig, but not much. We had a table of misshapen Santas, off-centre angels, baubles bulging out at odd angles, attempts at reindeer that looked more like deformed cows. Only Helen Jacobs was producing anything decent. She was carving neat ovals from her card, ovals topped with holly spikes. Those shapes she transformed into Christmas puddings: painted brown, dotted with specs of black, with glowing green holly leaves and ripe red berries, with – below those crowning sprigs – dollops of bright custard to top those sweet ovals. Though well-made, they looked like no Christmas puddings I’d ever seen. Everything was too perfect – the oval too neat, the currents scattered too regularly, even the custard oozed with a kind of good-girl tidiness. Helen held up one of her finished puds, smiled smugly and went on to make some more.