The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  After some time, another cartoon came on – a caped heroic mouse was flying between planets, battling villains of various sizes and species. I was just getting absorbed in his adventures when the front door opened and my father’s footsteps entered the hall. I heard the familiar shuffle as he slipped off his raincoat, heard the noise – subdued yet decisive – of his briefcase being put down. After greeting Mum, Dad walked into the lounge.

  ‘Hello, son.’

  ‘Hi, Dad.’

  Dad sat on the sofa, settling himself on the same bit of the settee as always, on the bit we knew not to occupy. He went through his evening ritual of crossing his legs and unfurling his newspaper – unfurling it as always with a weary yet vigorous snap. I got a glimpse of the large letters at the top of the first sheet as he turned over the page. It was one of those sold in Davis’s shop. Did Mr Davis give the adults the papers they asked for or did he take pleasure in refusing their wishes like with us kids? Maybe he kept holding the paper out to them then snatching it back. Dad sighed, lowered his paper. His face looking tired yet dutiful, he turned to me.

  ‘How was school today, Ryan?’

  ‘It was OK. In assembly, we practised some carols.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘And Mr Weirton told us all about Adam and Eve, and Cain and Abel, and about Jesus being born.’

  ‘That’s very good. I hope you listened.’

  ‘I did! He said an angel came down and told the shepherds all about the birth of Jesus!’

  ‘Good lad – I can see you were paying attention.’

  But Dad’s own attention was slipping away, his eyes sliding back to the paper.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yes, son.’

  ‘Have you ever seen an angel?’

  ‘Can’t say I have, son,’ Dad spoke from behind his paper shield.

  ‘I haven’t either, but I’d really like to. Maybe Mr Weirton’s seen one – do you think he has?’

  Dad looked up; a flicker crossed his face.

  ‘Ryan, can’t you turn that bloomin’ cartoon down? I’m trying to read here – I can hardly hear myself think!’

  I walked across to the TV, swivelled the knob, trooped back to the sofa. But, now muted, the cartoon had lost its appeal – it wasn’t the same without the crashes and smashes and loud music. And my dad – simply by his presence – muted things too. He seemed to send out waves of impatience, waves of irritable silence sometimes crested with a tut or snort or rattle of the paper. I slipped off the sofa, left the lounge. A little later we were all in the sitting room as the TV blared out some grown-up show. I itched to ask more about angels, but knew the subject for some reason annoyed my parents. Maybe they’d seen one, but just didn’t want to tell me. I remembered something else I could ask about.

  ‘Dad, I read a little of the papers in Mr Davis’s shop today. I saw some words I don’t know – can I ask you what they mean?’

  ‘Aye, go on, Mastermind will do his best.’

  ‘What are strikes?’

  My father’s nose pushed out air; his lips screwed themselves into a scowl.

  ‘A strike,’ he said, ‘is when lazy people decide they can’t be bothered going to work!’

  ‘Strikes sound good – we should have one at school!’

  ‘Don’t get any of those funny ideas in your head!’ Dad said. ‘Or I’ll tan your backside!’

  ‘Tab your backsibe!’ my sister gurgled gleefully.

  ‘And what’s inflation?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s when the prices of things go up very quickly,’ Mum said.

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that!’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t like it if the sweets in Davis’s shop cost a lot more!’

  ‘Mr Davis to you!’ my father said. ‘At least, thank God, we’ve got a new government. If that last sorry lot had stayed in, you’d be walking down to that shop with a bloomin’ wheelbarrow full of cash to buy your sweets!’

  ‘Bloobin’ wheebarrow!’ my sister echoed.

  ‘At least at the school’ – Mum nodded – ‘we’ve got Mr Weirton to set them right!’

  ‘Aye,’ Dad said, ‘at least some kids in this country still get a good disciplined Christian education! Any fireworks with Mr Weirton today, Ryan?’

  Fireworks – weren’t they for Bonfire Night? But then I guessed what Dad meant.

  ‘Well, Dennis Stubbs got whacked for stealing decorations from the Christmas tree.’

  ‘And so he should have!’ Dad said. ‘Especially that Dennis Stubbs – always been a right handful that one! Of course, there are namby-pamby liberals –’

  Dad slapped the newspaper as if the namby-pamby liberals – whoever they were – might be hiding in there.

  ‘– who’d say you shouldn’t give a lad a good hiding for stealing. But without proper discipline they’ll just get worse – what will they say in ten years’ time when the same lad’s mugging old ladies!? Shouldn’t go too far, like – Mr Weirton’s kind enough to just use his hand. When I was at school, phew: some of the canings the lads got – you wouldn’t sit down for a month after those!’

  ‘Woubn’t sit down for a monf!’ my sister cried.

  ‘Hush Sarah!’ Dad said, before his eyes returned to, his hand once more slapped his paper. ‘Shame someone can’t give these strikers a good six of the best!’

  ‘Six of the besb!’ Sarah shouted.

  We were quiet for some moments, but then – with all the talk of whackings – my mind strayed back to Marcus and Lucy.

  ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘Mr Weirton told us that a girl called Lucy even died because she was naughty all the time!’

  ‘Well, you see,’ Dad mumbled from behind his paper, ‘that’s why you should always be good.’

  My heart thudded. Did all the adults know how Lucy had met her end? Did they approve of Weirton keeping her skeleton?

  ‘And Dad, do you know what happened to Marcus?’

  ‘That Marcus Jones? Can’t say I do; vanished suddenly, didn’t he? I’ll say one thing – I bet Mr Weirton doesn’t miss him! Right little blighter that one!’

  ‘Must have set the record for wallopings, that lad!’ Mum said. ‘Mr Weirton really had to give him some good ones! Heard he got more than Dennis Stubbs and that Craig Browning combined!’

  Bedtime came and I tramped unwillingly upstairs, passing the pictures of the orphans with their bulging blue eyes, their outstretched hands, their battered tins I didn’t have a coin for. I paused, examined their strange proportions, reckoned I could do better if let loose with my pencils. I didn’t like bedtimes – lying in the deep black of my room, jumping at the creaks and clanks which were probably made by ghosts moving around our sleeping home. I often lay in bed shivering, eyes clenched so I couldn’t see those spooks, but I’d still leap and twist as I felt chill hands sliding under my covers, trying to grasp my toes. I’d also think of the black streets of Emberfield, the dark flatlands beyond, of all the ghosts they contained – of the witch’s hand freed from daylight to work its full malevolence, of Marcus muddy and vengeful in his pond, of Lucy in her cupboard in the silent school. I’d hear strange rattles and patters drifting over the damp plains, fear the earth-shuddering strides of hungry monsters pacing across the fields. I’d begged my parents for a lamp I could leave on – to scare off the spooks the way fire-filled turnips did on Halloween, but they’d called my fears ‘babyish’, said I should ‘grow up’. They weren’t the only ones to mock them – Jonathon couldn’t understand my terror of the dark. He said he liked to lie in the blackness and think, to imagine the set-outs he could build, to enjoy the freedom from his Mum’s nagging, Weirton’s yells, his brother’s antics, Stubbs’s provocations. But how he could think clearly when ghosts floated through the house and monsters roamed outside I didn’t know. However, as Christmas was coming, my fears had lessened a bit – surely the ogres and ghouls would lie low in that holy season, scared of the angels that, I hoped, were more widespread on the earth. I wondered again who might have seen th
em – all the adults seemed cagey about admitting they had. I’d heard God didn’t like boasting – perhaps that was why the grown-ups didn’t speak of such encounters. But Christmas was approaching fast – I wondered if I might see angels that very night.

  I did something I’d never have normally dared to. Heart booming, I slipped from my bed and stumbled in the dark as my opened eyes began to make dusk out of the blackness. I stood at my window, summoning the courage to twitch back the curtains. I trembled, not sure which sight I’d fear most – drifting ghosts and dreadful bogies, or angels lighting the sky with their brilliant glow. I reached my hand to the curtains as my heart thudded louder, its beats shaking through me. I sucked a deep breath, yanked the curtain back. I forced my eyes to look from the window. I just saw Emberfield’s last street lamps, the orange triangles they shone down, the little patch of road and next-door’s garden they illuminated, before there stretched the endless dark of the plains beyond. I saw no angels, but at least there was nothing more sinister. I guessed simply the threat of God’s messengers appearing had made such things scarce.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next day, the orange ball of the sun shone bravely, though it was obviously weakening, hanging low in the heavens. I trudged to the Brownings’ house. It was much like ours – a redbrick semi, built at the same time, my mum said. One difference was their gnome. It sat on a toadstool, beaming away in its bright cap yet I couldn’t see why it was so happy when it didn’t have a pond. I felt smugness surge when I considered how much better ours was – not that I’d have said that to Jonathon. I tramped up his front garden path, neatly cleared by his father – I guessed – before he went to work, and knocked on the door. Mrs Browning opened it, made me take off my wellies and ushered me into the lounge. The Brownings had a strange rule even my parents laughed at. No kids were allowed to sit on their sofa. Jonathon and I, the brother and all his mates had to perch on the floor. Mrs Browning – known for being house-proud – was apparently scared our childish behinds would damage that settee so only adults were permitted to lower their less destructive backsides onto that treasured couch. So it was cross-legged on the floor, near the base of their Christmas tree, that I saw Jonathon.

  ‘All right?’ I said.

  ‘All right –’ Jonathon waited till his mum had gone out ‘– guess what happened to my brother?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Remember he and Darren Hill knacked in Stubbs. Well, later that evening, Stubbs’s mum came round, dragging Dennis with her. Dennis was beefing his head off!’

  ‘Still beefing!? Your brother and Darren must have really smashed him in!’

  ‘Well, actually, that was cos Stubbs’s mum had whacked him after reading that letter from Weirton. But, anyway, Stubbs’s face was all bruised where Darren and Craig had punched him!’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ I blurted, before clasping my hand to my mouth as if I hoped to catch those words, gobble them down. I remembered the thrashings Mr Browning gave out if he heard swearing from Jonathon or his brother.

  ‘Dad took one look at Stubbs’s face and went mad! Do you know what he did? He took off his belt, pulled my brother’s pants down, and – in front of Mrs Stubbs and Dennis – gave Craig a good whacking right in the hallway!’

  ‘Really!?’

  ‘Yeah! Craig was beefing like mad! Stubbs tried to whisper that he hadn’t wanted to grass, that his mum had made him tell when she saw his face, but Craig says he’s gonna kill him!’

  ‘Wouldn’t like to be in Stubbs’s shoes when school starts again!’ I said.

  At that moment, Craig strode into the lounge. If there was any tenderness in his rump, he didn’t show it as he flopped down on the sofa.

  ‘All right, lads?’

  ‘All right,’ I answered.

  ‘Craig,’ said Jonathon, ‘better not let Mum see you on that settee! She’ll tell Dad and you know what he might do!’

  Reluctantly, Craig slid himself from the sofa.

  ‘Craig,’ I asked, ‘have you ever seen an angel?’

  Craig started sniggering.

  ‘What are you laughing for!?’ I said. ‘People must see them, because they’re in the Bible, and Mr Weirton talked about them and the vicar! And, look, there’re loads in here – at the top of the tree and in the windows and on the Christmas cards! And over there!’

  I pointed to the nativity set – above the plaster sheep and goats, the humble shepherds and the kings bowing their rich crowns, an angel had been blue-tacked onto the base of a lamp.

  ‘Why would so many decorations show angels if no one had seen one?’

  ‘Yeah –’ Craig wiped his hand over his mouth, swept his sneer away ‘– sorry, I suppose you’re right. I’ve never seen one though.’

  ‘Has Darren Hill?’

  ‘Nah, don’t reckon he has.’

  Mrs Browning walked in with a tray of biscuits and milk.

  ‘Here you go,’ she said, ‘but mind you don’t make a mess with any crumbs or you’ll have your dad to answer to!’

  ‘It’s bad enough’ – she turned her weary face to me, nodded at Jonathon – ‘that he insists on turning his bedroom into such a pigsty, with his buildings blocks and toys and what-not all over his floor – won’t let me clean up or owt!’

  ‘Mum,’ Jonathon said, ‘you told me not to say “owt” – you said it’s common.’

  ‘Don’t you be cheeky! Spreads his chaos all over his floor – he tells me there’s some kind of order there, but I can’t see it! Well, you’ll have to get it tidied up before New Year son – we’re not starting the New Year with all that mess in there! If you don’t tidy the thing up yourself, my broom will knock it down for you!’

  Craig smirked; Jonathon gulped; I thought I’d change the topic.

  ‘Mrs Browning, have you ever seen an angel?’

  ‘Are you trying to be funny? What sort of question’s that from a nice polite lad like you?’

  ‘It’s just that Mr Weirton and the vicar said people have seen them, especially around Christmas.’

  ‘Oh, well then, maybe some people have seen them, but I can’t say I have. Remember boys, no crumbs on that floor! If I see any crumbs …’

  Mrs Browning shuffled backwards, chuntering her way out of the room. We munched our cookies, sipped our milk. They were chocolate chip – my favourite: I loved the hard crunch, that crunch turning to gooey sweetened dough, the way that delicious mixture stuck to the teeth in clumps before the cool milk washed it down. The sound of arguing jolted me from my enjoyment.

  ‘Do we have to watch the cartoons? Cartoons are boring!’

  ‘If I say we watch them, idiot, we watch them!’

  ‘I don’t want to!’

  ‘Do you want some of what Stubbsy got? That what you want, eh?’

  I looked up; the brother was pulling Jonathon from his cross-legged station on the floor. Craig got Jonathon in a headlock – Jonathon bucked and struggled, but couldn’t break from his clasp. The two lurched round the room, Jonathon’s face reddening as Craig squeezed his neck harder. They bashed into the tree – pine needles showered, baubles plummeted.

  ‘Craig, stop! What if Mum sees us and tells Dad!? It’s OK – you can watch the cartoons, just stop!’

  ‘I think,’ said Craig, ‘it’s time for a Chinese burn!’

  His hands grabbed Jonathon’s forearm, twisted the flesh in opposite ways. Pain scrunched Jonathon’s face; his body bucked as agony jerked through it. He bit his lips hard to stifle his screams.

  ‘Leave him, Craig!’ I hissed. ‘You heard what he said!’

  I edged up to the two grappling figures. Craig’s foot shot out; I twisted my body to the side; the foot flew past my belly. Now Craig was dragging Jonathon to the half-open door, his hands still giving the Chinese burn as Jonathon’s face bulged with his bottled scream. Craig released the headlock, slammed two punches into Jonathon’s belly then shoved his brother out into the hallway. Jonathon tumbled and skidded over the tiles; Craig push
ed me out too then slammed the door. Jonathon glanced around – fearful, I guessed, of his mum’s rage. She was thankfully in the garden – I saw her through the window, walking on the snowy strip of the Brownings’ lawn. Jonathon picked himself up, wheezed and spluttered as he got his breath back, clasped the skin where Craig had inflicted his burn.

  ‘My bloody brother – my arm wrecks!’

  A cartoon blasted from behind the living room door. Its bangs and cracks, its shouts and splurges of music sounded intriguing, but Jonathon screwed his face up.

  ‘Boring!’ he said. ‘My bloody brother – he’s like my dad: wallop first and think later! Reckon I’m the only one with any brains in this family!’

  ‘Wouldn’t be difficult!’ I said.

  We both sniggered.

  ‘Come on,’ said Jonathon, ‘let’s leave Craig to his dull cartoon and look at my set-out.’

  I didn’t know how Jonathon’s mother couldn’t find any order in his creation. It appeared meticulously planned to me. There were his broad roads, his soaring towers, his hospitals, docks and warehouses, his magnificent temple rising in the middle of it all. On its pedestal now, rather than the statue of the squirrel, a brave knight stood, plated in armour, waving his sword high. I’d heard the legend of Saint George – was he scanning the sky for dragons? But that soldier standing courageous guard over Jonathon’s metropolis would be no match for his mum’s broom.

  ‘Shame it’ll all have to go before New Year,’ I said.

  Jonathon’s chin trembled – though with fear or rage I couldn’t tell.

  I came round to Jonathon’s the next day and on Christmas Eve. Craig wasn’t too bad, as long as we let him watch his cartoons. We just kept out of his way, upstairs when he was down and downstairs when he was up. We mooched around, our excitement gathering as Christmas Day approached. We’d make up stories – one of us narrating for perhaps half-an-hour until he got tired. Then the other would take over till he got weary too after which the original narrator would pick it up. We sculpted tales of lands and nations; told of battles, histories, invasions, wars. There were spies, games, songs and ceremonies. I also sketched a lot, while hoping Santa would bring me the ‘posh paint set’ – as my mum called it – I’d asked for. I copied the Browning’s Christmas cards, the baubles on their tree. And I thought about those baubles, the twinkling lights and glittery stars, the fire dancing in the grate. Actually, I sometimes wondered if part of the purpose of Christmas was to strengthen and encourage the weakening sun – the shiny orbs we hung on the tree, our fairy lights: were they not miniature suns and stars that glowed through those dim days to urge on that flagging captain of the sky and remind him of his duties? Just as we lit our bonfires in November when he first started to droop on his daily course around our earth, was it not even more important to cheer him now at his lowest point? Of course, Christmas as well saluted an even greater light – the coming of Christ into our dark world, and our lamps and tinsel also shimmered in honour of Him. But perhaps the celebration of one sun, or son, didn’t have to exclude the other.