The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  Though most kids appeared to be enjoying their attempts at art, only Craig seemed to completely relax, to let the joy of the moment shine in his gormless grin. The other children would shoot glances at the door, fire nervous looks over their shoulders. They’d smile, but those smiles would wobble with anxiety. Weirton had been pacing between the classrooms inspecting the kids’ work. He’d been next door for a while and now we heard the steady boom of his voice through the wall. Though that boom lacked anger, it still made the kids’ hands quiver, made their lips shake as they forced their eyes to look down at their dismal decorations. For the first time, Craig’s grin faltered, his eyes widened as I guessed the realisation dawned that his enthusiastic yet slapdash efforts might not be looked at favourably by Weirton. Jonathon sighed, leaned over to look at his brother’s work. He picked up his pencil and ruler, and had soon measured out a series of neat stars from Craig’s misshapen effort, stars which he then cut out for his brother. Craig’s open mouth twitched back into a smile; he gazed in gratitude at his sibling. I’d made quite a few angels by now so I decided to have a little variation. I created some fairies. They weren’t so different to the angels really – I just swapped halos for wands then capped each with a star, which was a Christmassy symbol anyway. I knew angels had heralded Christ’s birth – I wondered if perhaps fairies had too. Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Kids jumped in their seats, snatched up pencils, brushes, strove to look busy. The door creaked, Weirton’s vast face appeared and he paced into the room. That face peered down; the eyes swelled behind the square glasses as the teacher moved slowly along our table.

  He rested his hand on Jonathon’s shoulder, nodded at his stars, murmuring, ‘good, good.’ He walked on, skirting our long rectangle. Dennis Stubbs, Richard Johnson looked up at Weirton, looked down at their misshapen baubles; their lips quivered; their hands trembled but Weirton just beamed, moved on. I really wondered if an angel was walking beside him, putting him in such a good mood. Normally, for work of that quality, a lad could expect to be blasted by shouts, to be wrenched into the air, battered by the swooping palm. Now the teacher was striding down my side of the table. It was my turn to shiver. I reckoned my work was good, but with Weirton you never knew. I’d heard legends of him being sympathetic when lads had got all their sums wrong, but on other occasions flinging down tremendous hidings when boys had only made a couple of errors. A force bashed my back, knocking the breath from my body, sending my torso shooting over my desk. That force flung my arms out; my hands only narrowly missed pots of glitter, glue. I looked up, saw the grinning pink face. The massive palm once more slammed onto my back.

  ‘That’s great!’ the voice boomed. ‘I really love those angels and those fairies! Must be the best decorations I’ve seen today! Keep it up, young Ryan! We’ll make sure your angels and fairies get the best places on the tree!’

  I felt my face redden as satisfaction rose, as warmth glowed in my stomach, chest at Weirton’s kind words. Stubbs, Darren Hill snarled at me. I knew I might get it later, but this only seemed to add to the smug happiness I felt. Weirton was now praising Helen’s Christmas puddings. My jealousy burned as he exclaimed over her holly sprigs, her custard dollops, the exactness of her ovals. Helen smiled, though it seemed to me a smile that expected such praise, that was pleased to see things going on in their normal course. But still, I thought, though Weirton’s voice boomed out its compliments, there was something lacking in the teacher’s tones. His praise seemed mechanical; it was almost as if he had to do it; his voice didn’t rumble with the same enthusiasm it had about my pieces. Lastly, Weirton came to Suzie Green: a girl pale, mouse-like, dim, who often triggered his wrath, who’d often – after being blasted by the headmaster – find herself draped over Perkins’s knee. Weirton looked down at Suzie’s work; Suzie’s grey shivering face looked up at him. I understood why she was worried. Her effort was worse than Craig’s had been. A jagged indistinct shape had been hacked from card, daubed – seemingly at random – with paint and glue, encrusted with a bumpy landscape of glitter. Weirton went on staring at it; Suzie now shook violently. The atmosphere in the room got denser; we all braced ourselves for an explosion. But Weirton’s good angel really must have been with him. Smiling, he bent down, took Suzie’s scissors, and started sculpting her misbegotten creation into a respectable – though, I have to say, off-centre – star. Suzie’s face lit up with gratitude; her eyes widened in relief.

  The final day of term came and we trudged into assembly. In the last week or so, I’d become more and more convinced the vicar was right – that angels did walk among us, especially at such a sacred time of year. I thought it really might explain why Weirton had been in a good mood all week. He’d only given out one whacking – to Craig Browning, not surprisingly – and all that lad had got had been six of the best and two for luck: nothing compared to some of the legendary wallopings Weirton had hurled down not long ago. Of course, the school looking so festive put us all in a happy state. In the hall, the tree gleamed and glimmered in its corner – shining out its sacred light against the day’s duskiness. I was sure – when I peered from my cross-legged position midway down the hall – I could catch the shimmer on the wings of those angels I’d sculpted. The hall’s sides, the corridors, the classrooms were festooned with paper chains – I remembered Weirton beaming as Stubbs, Darren Hill balanced and teetered on stools, stretching to put them up. But I suspected the teacher’s unusual jollity must have been caused by more than our decorations. And what I’d hear in that assembly would make my suspicions firmer. Weirton was pacing at the front. When we’d all got settled down, he halted his stride, swivelled round and hurled his pointing finger out over our rows.

  ‘Children!’ the voice boomed. ‘Let’s begin with a hymn. Yes, a hymn to celebrate the joyous start of our most holy Christmas holiday. Page forty in your books!’

  Despite Weirton’s merry mood, the books were still scrabbled urgently along our rows. Perkins turned to the piano, bashed out her chords and we all shuffled to our feet. Those chords, as usual, were heavy, sombre, but joyful lighter notes skipped above their gloom. Soon we were roaring out the song.

  ‘Ding dong merrily on high! In heaven bells are ringing!’

  Did they have bells in heaven? Surely bells were heavy – wouldn’t they fall down? Now I thought about it, I’d heard legends of people being hit by bits of metal falling from the sky. Or perhaps God kept those bells floating with His magic or some unfortunate angels had the job of holding them up.

  ‘Ding dong merrily the sky! In heaven angels singing!’

  Angels! So maybe I’d been right about them keeping those bells hovering. I sucked a deep breath – I knew what would come.

  ‘Glooooooooria! Hosanna in excelsis!’

  I panted, drew air into my famished lungs, but I was proud I’d made it to the end of that long phrase. What did those words mean? Maybe we’d never know. Perhaps they formed part of some mysterious language only teachers and angels understood. Perkins plinked on. I again pulled in breath as that phrase approached.

  ‘Gloooooooria! Hosanna in excelsis!’

  Perkins went on plonking and we roared out our happy words until the song’s end came, and our voices and Perkins’s plinks dwindled.

  ‘Sit down children!’ Weirton said.

  Weirton paced till we’d all got seated on the floor. The vast face scrunched as if he was thinking hard; his teeth clamped his lower lip. He turned to us.

  ‘Children,’ the voice rumbled, ‘as I’m sure you know, there is a special reason why we sing these songs at this holy time, why we hang up these beautiful decorations.’ The huge hand gestured towards our sparkling tree. ‘Yes, we follow these wonderful traditions to celebrate the birth of our saviour Jesus Christ!’

  ‘Now –’ Weirton’s eyes panned our rows ‘– before Jesus was born the world was a very dark place!’

  I’d heard that said before. When I was in the infants, I’d believed that before Christ came it was
always night and everybody had to trudge around with burning torches constantly. But after Jesus arrived, we began to have days too. Yet Mrs Leigh had laughed, told me I’d got it wrong. It wasn’t really ‘dark’ she’d said, ‘dark’ was just a way of saying people were mean and treated each other badly. So I gained the much more accurate impression that people had gone around hitting each other over the head with stone clubs, but after Jesus they’d all decided it would be much better to be nice and be friends instead. It was long ago so I imagined a time of people living in caves, with probably a few dinosaurs around. What Weirton went on to say seemed to confirm this.

  ‘Yes, it was very dark. Do you know what happened with Adam and Eve, the first man and woman? I’m sure you do.’

  Weirton allowed a pause. He resumed his pacing, let his next words judder out.

  ‘Adam and Eve were very lucky because God made them a beautiful garden to live in. It was wonderful – full of lush grass, huge ferns and lovely trees.’

  I could just picture it. How different, I thought, to the land round Emberfield. I glanced from the window. Since the day of my walloping it hadn’t snowed, but the snow hadn’t melted either. It just lay around in sullen dirty clumps. I gazed at the bleak land outside – the naked hedgerows, the skeletal trees, the dark fields speckled with snow. Perhaps having to live in Emberfield was God’s punishment for our sins.

  ‘And in that garden,’ Weirton said, ‘there was no hate, no violence. Everything and everybody lived peacefully together. The lion lay down with the lamb; the spider didn’t hunt the fly. And God told Adam and Eve they could eat from any of the wonderful trees expect one!’

  Weirton’s finger shot up. In silence, he paced for some seconds.

  ‘The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil! Now, the Devil was jealous of this paradise God had made – he wanted to spoil it! So he took the form of a serpent and sneaked into the garden. And the snake persuaded Eve to eat of that forbidden tree and she persuaded Adam to do the same! As a punishment, God threw Adam and Eve out of their lovely garden and they were never allowed to go back! God sent some angels with a flaming sword to guard the gate so they could never get back in!’

  Angels again! Surely I could have no more doubts those beings were on earth among us!

  ‘Adam and Eve could no longer live by just picking fruit from trees. Because of their great sin, they had to work hard to farm the land – they had to labour and toil to bring forth their food from the miserable earth!’

  I looked out of the window at Emberfield’s sombre flatlands and nodded.

  ‘And the animals that had been peaceful became fierce and nasty – they started killing and eating one another! And the snake – God had a special punishment for him!’

  ‘Maybe God whacked him,’ I thought.

  ‘You see, at first, children, the snake had legs. He used to move about on legs like all the other animals.’

  A centipede snake, with scores of spindly legs, appeared in my mind.

  ‘God took the snake’s legs away! He told him he and all his children had to crawl on their bellies and eat dust! So, you see children, that’s why snakes have no legs.’

  ‘But things got even worse!’ Weirton had stop pacing; his arm jolted his pointing finger as he waved it over us. ‘Adam and Eve had two sons, Cain and Abel.’

  Weirton told us about the brothers’ sacrifices, about their smoke drifting up to the Lord in heaven, about God deciding He preferred the lamb to wheat.

  ‘And Cain grew jealous of his brother Abel!’ Weirton’s face was reddening, his hand knotted itself into a fist, that fist started to shake. ‘And Cain began to hate his brother in his heart! Who could be evil enough to hate his own brother!?’

  I glanced over at Jonathon. He was staring straight ahead at Weirton, but his lips quivered slightly. I sometimes wondered if he hated Craig. I’d understand if he did, especially after things like the ice-ball incident, though in the last few days the brothers had been getting on.

  ‘Who –’ Weirton’s fist shook harder, bashed his thigh ‘– could hate his own brother!?’

  I didn’t know. I had a little sister, but as she was just a girl maybe she didn’t count.

  ‘Well’ – the voice rumbled, boomed around the hall – ‘Cain went even beyond the sin of hatred. Oh yes, he committed a far greater evil! He actually murdered his brother!’

  All the children gasped. Far more than the vicar’s gentle words had, Weirton’s waving fists and juddering voice brought home to me the horrors of Cain’s sin. Though I hated my sister sometimes, I could never murder her. I again looked over at Jonathon. He was still staring at Weirton, but his lips were wobbling more. His eyes were wide though whether with horror, fascination or a mixture of the two I couldn’t tell. His hand rested on his thigh – a hand which, I noticed, was shaking.

  ‘Who could be evil enough,’ Weirton yelled, ‘to murder his brother!?’

  Weirton told us about Cain’s punishment, about him receiving his dreadful mark.

  ‘And he could never get it off!’ Weirton’s fist went on waving; it swooped to bash his thigh; his face had shaded into a deeper red. ‘He had to wander all his life branded with that mark everyone would know him by, shun him because of! All his life he was nothing but a wanderer on the earth – that, children, is the consequence of sin, of violence, of disobedience!’

  Weirton allowed a pause. The hall was hushed – the children were pale: everyone seemed in awe of God’s justice, shocked at Cain’s sin. Weirton was panting after all his shouting, his exertions, his rage. He let a couple of minutes pass before he said softly.

  ‘But into this terrible world, into this world of darkness so evil brothers murdered one another, there came a light!’

  ‘Thank goodness for that!’ I thought.

  ‘There were many signs and portents Jesus would be special. The Three Wise Men came to visit Him after walking for days and days, miles and miles following their star so they could bring Him presents.’

  ‘Why not just Santa Claus?’ I thought.

  ‘An angel appeared to some shepherds who were guarding their flocks. Can you imagine how those simple shepherds must have felt, seeing this incredible being surrounded by dazzling light? They were terrified! But the angel told them not to be afraid and to go and visit Jesus!’

  My mouth dropped – angels again: how would it be to stand and gape before their shimmering glow? I hoped I wouldn’t be frightened, and that – if I was – Dennis Stubbs wouldn’t find out. Maybe many people saw those wondrous beings around Christmas, but I couldn’t think of anyone who had, except perhaps Mr Weirton. He certainly knew a lot about angels.

  ‘Well,’ said Weirton, looking at his watch, ‘what did Jesus teach us? He came to lead us out of all that darkness. He told us to be kind to one another; He spoke against violence; He told us to love our brothers – not kill them! He told us to be peaceful, to be patient, to be understanding, to forgive – if someone does something bad to us, we shouldn’t seek revenge, we shouldn’t try to hurt them back, but we should try to forgive.’

  ‘He was pretty different to God,’ I thought, as confusion wrinkled my face.

  ‘And do you know what else He told us?’ Weirton’s smile was broad; his finger waved; his arm still jerked, but joy rather than rage jolted it. ‘He said we just have to believe in Him and that – if we do – when we die, we will go to live in Heaven forever. Now Heaven is a wonderful place, children, full of love and light – even better than the garden God planted for Adam and Eve. And – if we believe in Jesus and try to follow His teachings – we can live in this happy place with all our friends and families for ever and evermore.’

  It sounded good to me; I just hoped Stubbs wouldn’t be there. I wondered if people got whacked in heaven – probably not, I reasoned.

  ‘You see, children, Jesus was God’s present to us – the first ever and best Christmas present. So when you’re enjoying yourselves on Christmas morning – unwrapping your gifts, ri
ding your new bikes, just spare a moment to think of the precious gift God gave us that first Christmas.’

  We rounded things off by belting out another carol then headed back to our classes. As the surge of children bulged through the hall doors, I overheard Suzie Green whispering to Helen Jacobs.

  ‘Jesus didn’t live for very long, did He?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Helen, as always refined and sensible.

  ‘Well, He was born at Christmas and died at Easter.’

  ‘Not in the same year, silly! He died many years later.’

  ‘So, how old was He?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly, but very old – maybe even fourteen.’

  ‘Fourteen!’

  We laboured through a dull morning with Perkins, but I was at least aware of each joyful tick of the clock counting us down to the holidays. As I ploughed through my drab yet easy sums, I pondered. Weirton had been so kind recently. I thought of the way he’d spoken in assembly about Jesus and heaven, the way he’d praised our decorations and even shown patience with dimbos like Suzie Green. And it was a while since he’d given out a tremendous hiding. Even that one he’d given me – maybe it had seemed worse at the time than it really was. After all, I’d never seen anyone die or get injured from his thrashings. It now seemed foolish to have believed he’d caused the deaths of Lucy and Marcus. However those kids had met their ends, I was sure it wasn’t the teacher’s doing.

  Lunchtime came and we trooped into the hall for the school’s Christmas dinner. Weirton beamed as we tugged our crackers, topped our heads with paper crowns. My nostrils joyfully sucked in the smell of sprouts, the sludgy aroma of gravy, the cloying scent of the huge turkeys as the dinner ladies bore them to our tables. I remember the gravy-soaked stuffing coating my tongue, gluing itself gloriously to the roof of my mouth, my joy at savouring its herby salty taste and that taste mixing deliciously with the sweeter cranberry sauce. I looked across the table. Craig was ladling sprouts from a big metal container, heaping them on Jonathon’s plate, making sure his brother got enough. I wasn’t sure how Jonathon would make his way through that mountain of green, but he still smiled gratefully at the brother’s efforts. Next Craig snatched up a gravy boat and gave Jonathon’s plate a soaking. With his enthusiastic movements, he managed to trail his jumper’s cuffs in that brown liquid, but still Jonathon smiled at his brother’s helpfulness. It was good to see them so friendly. They’d had their tensions since the day the brother had nearly blinded Jonathon. They’d teased each other, bickered, shouted, wrestled, had fistfights – fights which left Jonathon bleeding and bruised, howling and sobbing. But now I was reminded of how well they used to get on.