The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  I looked around at our scene of peace and happiness. The tree glimmered in the corner, sending out its cheerful light into the tired day that already appeared to be fading. Stubbs, Richard Johnson scoffed contentedly as Helen and Suzie giggled together. I thought how silly Jonathon had been to suspect our classmates of causing the deaths of Lucy and Marcus. Surely those two must have just perished in accidents. At the end of our table sat Weirton. He glanced around, grinning at our enjoyment. Though we all wore paper crowns, he didn’t need one – so kingly did he seem, enthroned on his seat, his head topped by his own crown of his iron hairstyle. I thought angels really must be walking among us, that they must be spreading the peace Christ had brought to earth that first Christmas. How else could Weirton’s rage be soothed, could Stubbs and Darren Hill be munching in harmony, could Perkins be uttering soft words rather than her usual shrill cries? How I longed to see those wonderful beings. I squinted up my eyes as I’d heard a legend doing so could help you glimpse the otherworld. No angels appeared, but I didn’t lose faith that one day I might see them.

  Chapter Twelve

  That afternoon, everything changed. It turned out Stubbs had stolen two decorations from the tree. Helen Jacobs had seen him do it and reported him to Weirton. Weirton had looked in Stubbs’s satchel and found the shameful evidence. Weirton paced in our hushed classroom as that evidence lay on Perkins’s desk for all to see – one of my angels and one of Helen’s Christmas puds. My heart beat hard as I wondered what would happen to Stubbsy. After all Weirton had said in assembly about forgiveness and peace, after all he’d said about it being such a blessed time of year, would Weirton really give Dennis a massive walloping? Weirton scowled; his face was already tinging red; the eyes looked rage-filled behind the glasses. I just prayed the message of understanding and love he’d preached might hold back his hand. And what about the angels that walked among us? Would they simple stand by, at such a sacred time, and let violence be done? Dennis stood at the front. He was pallid; his lips quivered; he gazed at the ground. Weirton stopped pacing, swung his body, thrust his finger at Dennis.

  ‘Look children!’ Weirton yelled. ‘Take a good look at this joker, this buffoon!’

  Despite my fear, despite my concern for Stubbsy, I felt giggles welling up at Weirton’s words. I strove to shove them down. If angels were really there, what would they think about me sniggering at another person’s distress? And, if Weirton saw me laughing, any hammering Stubbs would get would be nothing compared to what he’d give me.

  ‘This dunce who got it into his thick head to commit the disgraceful crime of theft! Theft – the sin of theft, and at such a holy time as well!’

  I nodded. The seriousness of Stubbs’s crime was sinking in. I still hoped Weirton wouldn’t go too far – that he wouldn’t shatter the joyful peace of the last few days. Weirton paced; his face grew redder; he stared at Stubbs.

  ‘Now Dennis!’ the voice rumbled. ‘Think carefully! Can you give me a good reason why you stole those decorations?’

  A whole side of Stubbs’s body now shook. His trembling face stared down, as if he hoped to find something in the carpet that could rescue him. Surely Weirton – after his words of kindness, his generous acts – would restrain himself. Surely any angels present would stay that right hand. Dennis was dim enough to be honest.

  ‘Please, Sir,’ Stubbs mumbled, ‘I suppose I took them because they looked so nice. And because … because I thought my mum might like them.’

  ‘Because they looked so nice!?’

  Weirton leapt. Up and down the vast body thudded. His fists battered his thighs. The face shaded to maroon. Weirton kept leaping, kept hammering. His cheeks poured with sweat. The face was now scarlet. The teacher was so overcome with rage he struggled to speak. His lips spasmed. Weirton jumped, pounded his legs some more before he blurted.

  ‘Because they looked nice! By God, boy! What do you think this world would be like if everybody stole things just because they looked nice!? But you never do think, do you!? You’ve got a brain the size of a pea!’

  Weirton went on leaping, bashing his legs. Sweat gushed; wet patches had formed on his jacket’s underarms.

  ‘If only you had a fraction of the brains and talents of Ryan Watson and Helen Jacobs! But, no, being the buffoon you are you could never make such beautiful things so you have to steal them!’

  Despite my thudding heart, my hanging mouth, I felt pride surge at this praise.

  ‘And saying you wanted them for your mother! As if a good woman like her would want stolen goods! By God, I’ll send a letter home with you telling her what you’ve done! I think you know how she’ll respond to that!’

  Now Stubbs’s entire body shook. But surely the angels wouldn’t let anything too bad happen.

  ‘Or would you have lied to her and told her you’d made them yourself ? Lying as well as stealing, another sin against God’s law! You, you clown!’

  Weirton sprang forward. Like a blur, his hand shot out, clasped Dennis’s wrist. Weirton hauled Stubbs high into the air. Weirton’s left arm held him up; already the right hand was swooping. It collided with Stubbs’s rump. A tremendous impact rang. Dennis swung up, his body sailing till he was almost horizontal. His face was white, his gob a gash of shock. His feet kicked feebly before he began his journey down. Weirton’s hand was already diving. It ploughed onto his rear; the noise resounded; again Dennis flew up. I shook my head, amazed by Weirton’s power – my memory hadn’t exaggerated that hiding I’d had. I was sure a massive enough walloping could knock the life from a lad or lass. I thought of Marcus, Lucy. The palm raced again, crashed onto the behind. Up Dennis floated; his eyes bulged with panic; an awful queasiness sloshed in them. Dennis fell back to meet the speeding palm. Another impact echoed. Though Stubbs was deathly white, no tears had come. But Weirton stepped further back; he raised his hand higher; for a second his face looked like he was calculating. He flung his hand down; it smashed onto the backside; the noise blasted out – and Dennis’s tears flew, pitching in all directions. A smile split the scarlet face, Weirton hurled down more whacks and a strange thing happened. The headmaster seemed to be slipping into a trance. His grin was set; his eyes were hungry, huge – and those eyes appeared to glaze as the teacher thrashed on. Again and again the palm swept; again and again the impacts reverberated as Stubbs fell and flew, as his tears were flung. The palm hammered on and on, and I knew the stage the whacking was getting towards. Sure enough, Dennis was struggling for breath. His lips spasmed frantically as he tried to suck it in. But – the sobs jerking his chest, clogging his windpipe – he couldn’t get enough air down. Locked in his daze, the teacher beat on. Streams of sweat coursed down his face; that face glowed, but the hand didn’t stop. Stubbs’s eyes swelled; desperation scrunched his face; those shaking lips battled for air. But any breath Stubbs could suck in was thrown out by that relentless hand. Another whack slammed down then another then more still. An extra-hard wallop woke Weirton from his trance. He blinked, gave his head a shake, seemed to remember where he was. I guessed the teacher was now aware of his pouring sweat, of how much he was panting. But he moulded his face into a determined scowl, steeled his body, sucked in more air and readied himself to fling down more blows. I begged God, begged all the angels, begged Marcus to make him stop, to stop him before he did anything really bad to Stubbsy. But still that palm plunged; still it thudded onto the backside; still Dennis choked and gurgled as his mouth scrabbled for the air that merciless hand knocked out. I thought of Lucy in her cupboard, Marcus in his pond – maybe just such a whacking had caused them to end up in those places.

  Another wallop was hurled down then another enormous strike bashed onto the buttocks and the whacks ceased. Weirton let Dennis swing to a stop. Stubbs dangled for a few seconds before Weirton lowered him. Dennis’s feet touched the floor. Weirton let go of Stubbs’s arm. Stubbs swayed, his legs wobbled, he lurched from side-to-side and I wondered for a moment if he’d be able to stand. But he stayed o
n his feet as he sucked greedy gulps of breath into empty lungs, as tears ran down his sheet-white face. A giant hiccup leapt from him. Another hiccup jumped out, which kick-started his bawling. Soon Stubbs was howling away – filling the room with chugging sobs, the higher-pitched rhythms of his wails. Yet, if anything, Weirton was in a worse state. His body bent over, he also laboured to get air into his lungs. The teacher panted; his face shone; sweat still gushed down it, dropping in fat beads to the floor. Huge damp patches stained the underarms of his jacket, had spread on his white shirt. For a time, the sounds of the boy and teacher mingled strangely – the gasps and wheezes of Weirton jerking rhythmically around the sobs and wails of Stubbs. These noises would build together to a shivering peak before subsiding then starting their climb again. Eventually, Weirton managed to straighten up. He pulled a hankie from his pocket, wiped his glasses, face. He took a couple more breaths to steady himself before he let his voice boom.

  ‘Dennis Stubbs! Go back to your seat!’

  The arm, the pointing finger thrust to show the way. Dennis was able to start himself, but – just as I had – he rolled and teetered in an ungainly walk. More hiccups lurched out as his legs bounced and quaked. Dennis weaved around chairs and tables in this woozy stagger and finally got to his seat. Weirton nodded at him. Still bawling, Dennis had to lower his arse onto the plastic – a contact that summoned a fresh surge of howls. Dennis sat as his tears poured, as sobs shuddered through him. Weirton’s eyes panned over our class.

  ‘Remember I told you,’ the voice rumbled, ‘to look at this joker, this buffoon’– the finger thrust at Stubbs – ‘before his punishment began. Well, look at him now children! Look at that imbecile sobbing and wailing and remember him! Remember well the punishment that awaits the liar, the cheat, the thief!’

  A hiccup jumped from Stubbs as if in eager support of Weirton’s words. The headmaster’s eyes swept over us again. He nodded at Perkins and strode from our class. Perkins settled us down, gave us some maths to get on with as the air in the room – which Weirton’s rage had whipped up like a storm might the sea – also gradually settled. Dennis went on sobbing and howling, but his weeping soon subsided into a steady rhythm, a predictable chug, which after a while we got used to. Just the hiccups that leapt from him would jolt us from our concentration. Actually, our sums were so simple my mind was soon straying onto other matters. My heart began to bang; I trembled as I wondered how close to death Stubbsy had been. I’d seen how white his face was, how desperately he was struggling for air. I’d heard a legend that if you went without breath for four minutes you’d die. Surely Stubbs had been close to that mark! And I’d seen the strange trance the teacher had slipped into. Perhaps sometimes in the past he’d stayed in that daze a few seconds too long, leading to deaths like those of Marcus and Lucy. And what about the angels? Maybe they did bring peace to earth at Christmastime, perhaps they really walked among us, but they hadn’t succeeded in bringing peace into our little school. Maybe the angels felt tempted to ignore Emberfield. With its bleak frozen plains, its naked trees, bare hedgerows maybe it was just too far from Paradise for them to stand visiting.

  We worked on. Now just a snivelling came from Stubbs. But Dennis’s ordeal wasn’t over. The door swung open; we all jumped at its creak. Weirton’s massive face, enormous body appeared and he strode into the room. The teacher’s right hand grasped a neat brown envelope.

  ‘Dennis Stubbs!’ the voice juddered. ‘Take that home to your parents!’

  The hand tossed the envelope. It arced across the room, landed with a smack on Stubbs’s desk. Stubbs’s shivering face looked up, but the headmaster was already turning, retreating from our room. Stubbs looked down at that envelope. He shook more, a new surge of sobs welled up and soon we were working once more to the tempo of Stubbs’s howls.

  The mood in the class did start to become jollier as the clock ticked us towards the holidays. And, outside the window, something happened that caused faces to lift, lips to smile, eyes to broaden. Snow was coming down. From the heavens it fell in saucer-sized flakes. I gazed at it fluttering in its starry patterns. Perkins shouted at us to keep concentrating, and – afraid her shouts could provoke Weirton – we hunched ourselves over our work. But I still sneaked glimpses at the clock – twenty minutes to go then fifteen, ten. Five, one and we were out of there, shoving and bickering in the cloakroom as we pulled on scarves and gloves before running outside into that cold feathery world. We danced and skipped, holding our arms up to heaven as those flakes poured down, as the snow – already a good inch deep – scrunched under our shoes, as we celebrated our upcoming days of freedom. Myself, Jonathon, Darren, the brother, loads of other kids skipped and sang. There was no sign of Stubbs then I saw him, staggering out of the cloakroom doors, reeling and tottering through the snow, trying to balance on his still unruly legs – a task made harder by the slippery ground. His face was still splashed with tears; another hiccup leapt from him. But we were not concerned with Stubbsy. We just wanted to dance in the snow.

  ‘God’s combing his hair!’ Richard Johnson shouted.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘God’s combing his hair – this is all the dandruff coming down!’

  ‘But it’s not like my dad’s dandruff,’ Jonathon said. ‘It’s much nicer.’

  ‘Well, it would be, wouldn’t it?’ yelled Johnson. ‘It’s holy! God’s combing his hair! God’s combing his hair!’

  Johnson skipped out of the gate, twirling around and swinging his arms as he pranced past the pond. I didn’t know whether the snow was God’s dandruff, but I still thanked the Lord for it. Even if His angels wouldn’t visit Emberfield, even if Christmas cheer couldn’t seep over our flatlands at least God had sent the snow to transform our little town – for a while at least – into a cold paradise.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jonathon and I also skipped and danced through the school gates. We lingered for some moments to look at Marcus’s pond as most of the other kids joyfully hurried home. The pool was capped with ice, ice now covered with a snowy carpet. Obviously unable to give Marcus any sweets, we just prayed he’d keep protecting us, that he’d remember all the candies we’d chucked him. We had reason to hope – Weirton’s hand hadn’t swooped on either of us since that day the teacher had battered me. Our lips mumbled; we promised Marcus more gifts if he’d continue guarding us, more sweets, even toys. I’d seen what had just happened to Stubbsy. I knew very well what might have put Marcus in his pond, Lucy in her cupboard. We finished murmuring and just stared over the pool, stared at those snowflakes dropping down – flakes big enough for us to see their patterns: each one uniquely wrought by God’s hand.

  Laughter, shouts, squeals, sobs startled us from our contemplations. We turned. Between the pond and the gate were the brother, Darren Hill, Stubbs. The bigger lads had hold of Dennis. The brother was giving him one of his famous Chinese burns. Stubbs twisted and writhed, agony crumpled his face, but he couldn’t shake off the scorching manacle of the brother’s hands. Darren laughed. Torrents of tears swept down Stubbs’s cheeks. Darren bent down, scraped together a snowball. He moulded then thrust it into Stubbs face, scrunching and grinding it.

  ‘There! That’ll dry your tears!’ Darren shouted.

  Stubbs spat out crumbs of snow. His shaking hands took off his glasses – which had miraculously not flown off during the walloping – dusted them, fumbled them back on. Stubbs struck up a wail. The brother responded by unleashing a punch. It smashed into Stubbs’s jaw; a crack rang out. Stubbs swayed on his already wobbly legs – those legs making him bounce and bob like some absurd toy. Darren swung his foot, booted Stubbs in the stomach. Dennis’s torso shot forward; his neck thrust his face out, positioning it perfectly for Darren’s next move. He let go a roundhouse punch. It slammed onto Stubbs’s chin, sent Dennis flying back. Dennis crashed onto the road – there wasn’t even enough snow to soften his fall.

  ‘What you doing?’ I yelled above Stubbs’s bawling. ‘D
on’t you think he’s had enough from Weirton?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jonathon said, ‘Weirton gave him a tre-mend-ous walloping!’

  ‘We know.’ Darren grinned. ‘We heard it through the wall. This little baby was beefing like mad!’

  ‘Not surprising, really,’ I said. ‘Think it was the most enormous walloping I’ve ever seen! Really thought we might have another Marcus!’

  Darren sprang at Stubbs, hauled him from the ground. He held the weeping boy, Stubbs’s back to his front, locking Dennis’s arms with his own. The brother ploughed a couple of punches into Stubbs’s belly. Each time his face flew forward; each time his eyes bulged out. Stubbs was again grappling for breath – his face screwed with the strange agony of being winded. More tears surged.

  ‘Oh, don’t beef!’ Darren mocked.

  ‘Craig, he’s had enough,’ said Jonathon. ‘Why don’t you leave him alone?’

  ‘I’ll tell you why!’ shouted Craig. “Remember that last really tre-mend-ous one I got? All the lads were teasing me about what Weirton had said, about how much I’d beefed, the funny way I walked afterwards. And this little idiot –’