The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  Anyway, there was no need for any of that today. I’m a fair man and I decided to reward them for their good work. Took them to the hall for a sing-along to the radio. Had them sitting down cross-legged, watched their faces light up as I wheeled the dusty old contraption out from behind its curtain, watched their smiles broaden as I fiddled with the dial. Then, we had it, good old folk and – especially – country tunes, all those high voices belting them out as mine rumbled beneath. Wonderful! The kids enjoyed it, and I was glad – I’m keen for them to think of me as a dispenser of pleasure as well as pain. Good for them to know rewards and punishments come from the same source. The country songs reminded me of my time in Montana – the soaring peaks, the air clear as pure water, not like the dark bogs and glowering clouds round here. Good times with my mates, going out to bars, them laughing as I stuck a cowboy hat on my Limey head to shield it from the sun. World away from Emberfield. But I like our cheerful singing sessions though I’m not usually one for cheery music. Beethoven and Wagner are the masters for me. I like good gloomy traditional Anglican hymns – none of your bouncy modern rot desecrating our old churches. Glad our vicar agrees – damn good chap, traditional he is, sticks to biblical basics. Teaches the kids every true sacred word of God’s holy book from Genesis right on. I wouldn’t stand for any modern trendy. Wonderfully poetic, those old hymns, in a miserable sort of way, perfectly sum up the mess our first parents left us when they sinned in the Garden. No point trying to disguise it. I make sure we sing plenty of them, let the kids know what’s what.

  Got the kids off home, endured of bit of Mrs Perkins’s tittle-tattle as she fussed about this and that before I managed to politely shunt her from the door too. Settled down in the quiet classroom to get some marking done. Amazing how tiny that room seems without the children. Felt like a bird shut in a box. If I had wings, there’d be no space to stretch them. As my pen etched ticks and crosses, I thought about how many hours of my life I must have spent in there, how many hours in that birdcage I’ll have to come – boxed by ceiling, walls, long window. Grey carpet, kids’ garbage on the walls we have to stick up to please the inspectors – dreadful poems, awful pictures. You’d think they’d be better by this age. Only kid who can write and draw reasonably well is Ryan Watson. Get Mrs Perkins to show me his stuff sometimes in the guise of routine checking. Lifts the spirits somewhat.

  I cracked on with the marking, knowing that when it was done I could escape, really let the weekend start. Prefer to get it finished at school – harder to concentrate at home with Sandra prattling on and Nicholas whining. I wrote ‘escape’ just now – not that escape’s a pleasing prospect when all you can run to is flat fields, rain-filled swamps, the lurking banks of clouds ready to throw down even more water. Only vaguely interesting place round here is Salton, for historical and – we could say – mythological reasons. Have to take the two upper classes down there for a walk one morning – make them see that even in these godforsaken marshes, even in these soul-destroying flatlands, even in this town as dull as the water in the ditches that gird it, heritage can be found and heritage is important.

  Marking over, I packed up the briefcase and strode out to the car. Nice little motor – like to think it makes me cut a dash: a sleek black bullet racing across the green farmland. Good price for a Mercedes – probably third or fourth hand, but it runs all right: good engineers, those Germans, know what’s what when it comes to cars. Not like our dreadful union-infested plants, but, anyway, it’s important for a man to make an effort – good car, smart clothes, well-groomed hair. Stand tall, walk straight. Not difficult to stand out here among the shabby farm labourers, the slouching office boys in their cheap suits. At six foot three, I’m literally head and shoulders above them.

  I edged the car out of the gate and past the pond. Those skulking brown waters seem … evil somehow. It’s a hazard, that pool – I’ve asked the council enough times to do something about it, but there it stands, year after year, just waiting for some daft kid to topple in and drown. As I was passing it, I thought about what had happened with Marcus Jones and I shivered violently. A big bead of cold sweat ran down my backbone. That accursed pond will always remind me of that accursed boy! How he contrived to get himself in there will never cease to surprise me.

  I wrenched my eyes from the pool, tried to push that awful incident from my mind. I turned on the pub’s corner, but before leaving Emberfield, I pulled up outside the shop. Nipped in for a paper. That shop gives me the creeps too – something somehow deathlike about it, with Mr Davis hovering like some obsequious undertaker. Can’t be far from the grave himself, don’t know why that man doesn’t just retire. Could have come off the Ark that chap! Fool’s probably addicted to the tittle-tattle of housewives. Terrible for gossip, these small towns. The buffoon shuffled and mumbled behind his counter, spilling it all out to me. He knew which boys I’d walloped and when, gave me details of their thrashings even I’d forgotten. The clown creaked and hobbled in a joyful jig as he celebrated those beatings, expecting me to join in. I just nodded and smiled – you ancient idiot, I thought, do you think I do this for fun? I don’t like hurting children, don’t like risking my health; I do it because it’s part of my duties. I was half-tempted to shoot out my hand, grasp the doddering bugger’s wrist, haul him over the counter and give him six of the best right there to let him know how it felt. Probably shatter his crumbly bones, find myself up on a murder charge. Don’t want to be straying down that road again. So I had no choice but to listen to his aged prattle. Boasted that he finds out everything in that patch of Emberfield, that nothing happens which escapes his attention. You old fool, I thought, there’re a couple of things you don’t know about me, a couple of skeletons I’m determined to keep in my closet! He’s a funny one that Davis, acting so righteous when I know for a fact he rips off the elderly people round here who can no longer totter to the high street for their groceries. Another, more amusing, thing I heard – the miserable wretch likes to refuse children the sweets they ask for, loads their bags up with stuff they don’t like instead, teases them by keeping his tongs suspended over their favourite jars of candies before slamming the lids shut. Bet the old numbskull gets great pleasure from that, probably as much as his little brain can cope with. Small towns breed small minds, as they say. Seen little in my years of teaching here to contradict that maxim. I cut Davis short by saying I really had to get home so I really had to get my paper. Wondered whether to go for the ‘Telegraph’ or ‘Mail’ – not that there was a lot of choice, unless I felt like descending the social ladder by taking the ‘Sun’. Fancying an intellectual challenge, I opted for the ‘Telegraph’. Don’t understand all those pompous journalists waffle about, but a man has to stretch his mind and there are precious few opportunities to do that round here. Davis and I joked that broadsheets are better than tabloids because they’re easier to hide from wives and kids behind.

  Paper purchased, I scooted from that shop. Emberfield’s air of smoke and dunghills actually smelt good after the tomblike stuffiness of Davis’s store. I hopped in the car and drove away from that dismal town though the open country wasn’t much more inspiring. Passed that gloomy little graveyard about a quarter of the way to Goldhill. Set me thinking about Lucy. I – jokingly – wondered if I should have a word with my pal the vicar, organise a Christian burial for the lass. It would be illicit, of course – no death certificate, probably have to stick her in the ground at night. Could be romantic – flaming torches, the vicar intoning his words into the dancing dusk, those words trailing away into the black silence of the fields beyond. The coffin containing frail Lucy, its varnished wood flickering in the firelight. Heard such burials were popular in the past. Fine old tradition, let’s revive it! Useful for slightly … unofficial cases like Lucy. Poor girl, maybe one day I’ll find a way to let her rest – in the bosom of the earth, in the bosom of her Maker.

  Friday, March 25th, 1983

  Had to wallop the Browning boy today. The younger
one for once, not the older. Somewhat spoiled our sing-along. I’d taken both the junior classes to the hall, partly as a treat before the Easter holidays, partly because this week they’d been well-behaved. Well, one thrashing for Stubbs and another for Ryan Watson, but – apart from that – no major incidents. First real hiding the younger Browning’s had – and not before time, when I think about it. Was getting a bit full of himself. Because he’s got a bit of a brain, he was starting to think himself superior. I’d glimpsed him a few times sniggering at classmates’ wrong answers, the babyish way in which some of those numbskulls still read. Even spotted him rolling his eyes when Mrs Perkins once got something wrong. Boy also needs firm guidance because of his brother. Bad example to him that lad, gives him more of a need for somebody to set him straight. Thrash out any notions of wandering down the same track. I’ve been too lax on him till now. Nice little lad, bit wrapped up in his own world, bright sort – especially good at maths and science, anything involving logic, responds well on the few occasions Mrs Perkins really teaches them something. All this maybe charmed me, blinded me to his needs. Well, that’s going to change from now on! That pal of his Ryan Watson could do with a few more licks too – he’s also been getting too big for his boots.

  Anyway, there we were in the hall, lovely country tune going full-blast, taking me back to the blissful times on the ranch in Montana: light dappling through the trees, friends voices around me, rifle bobbing on my shoulder, on the lookout for elk and deer. I was hearing the music of gushing streams, smelling the scent of pines when … laughter rang out, sucking me right back to dismal Emberfield. Anger surged as my eyes swept the cross-legged rows. And there was Jonathon Browning, sprawled forward, giggling away, his songbook a few feet in front of him, his hand trying to grasp it before my gaze might clock what he was up to. There was his brother sitting behind, his daft gob hanging open, though – for once – he was innocent. I didn’t waste a second. Luckily, Jonathon was in the front row. I leapt, sailed through the air – still full of its merry tune, landed right in front of him. My hand shot down, I hauled him up, gestured to the others to keep singing. As that bouncing tune rose, my hand swooped. Good satisfying collision with the backside, Jonathon floated up. Couple more solid whacks came, but then the song was fading out. Presenter prattled for some seconds before a new one started up – an old favourite of mine, ‘The Sweet Flower of Montana’. Soon the kids were singing it out, and as my hand rose and swept I found myself trying to match my strikes to the song’s beat. I managed to time the blows to the cymbal crash. He was tougher than I’d reckoned, that young Browning, thought he’d be sobbing straight away, but he held it in. Some impressive strength in that little body. Anyway, I threw more force into my strikes as the song went on:

  ‘The Sweet Flower of Montana,

  Is the one I long to see!

  Pure jewel of the forest,

  She’s the only girl for me …’

  My hand kept up with that cymbal, quite an effort, I can tell you. My sweat started to stream, heat gushed to my face. A little voice told me it would be better for me and him if I ended it – after all, we’d got well past six – but I wasn’t going to leave off till I saw his tears and, anyway, I was becoming locked in the rhythm of the song and my strikes. My hand beat on, Browning flew up and sailed down, but still no water came. Now a big bass drum thud was approaching to end the chorus. I tried to match that sound on my own instrument – twisted my body, pitched all I had into the impact. And – tears! Lots of them! That proud rascal must have been really damming them back. A shower of saltwater was hurled; his throaty sobs and gurgles started. Now I had my victory, I wondered if I should lower him, but that wouldn’t have been good form – the whole procedure would lack its finale, like an opera cut off before its climax. I slammed my hand into him as the children sang on, quickening my beats as the song built towards its last chorus, as Browning sprayed his classmates with more tears. And there it was – a cheery instrumental interlude, before the singer threw all his effort into celebrating his Sweet Flower and I threw all mine into my last whacks. My arm ached; my body trembled; though my hand’s tempo was good, my heart’s drum raced out of control. Damp spread under my arms, but I hammered on. Each cymbal smash had its corresponding wallop; the final bass drum thud was coming – I hurled everything into my strike: Jonathon hurled out what was – surely – all the water his eyes held. The happy tune trailed off and I put Browning down.

  Like they all do, he was wailing and sobbing, hiccupping and grasping for breath. Don’t know what it is with lads nowadays – when I got a walloping, and I got enough, I’m sure I gave no more than a few snivels. And in those days it was canes and belts, no namby-pamby stuff with just the hand. But Browning bawled and wept. Yelled at him to be quiet, but he just went on. Had to send him back to the classroom as his whining was spoiling the sing-along for the others. His selfishness irritated me so much I decided to cap his punishment by sending a letter home. Nodded at Mrs Perkins to watch the kids. I strode to the staffroom, knocked an angry note out, folded it in an envelope, marched to the classroom and flung it on Browning’s desk. His gob gaped like a tunnel; his face went even whiter. I know what his father’s like – won’t tolerate any nonsense, won’t Mr Browning. Can’t afford to, not with a son like Craig. But, oddly, my admiration for Jonathon’s increased – seems a frail little lad, but he held back well, at least at first. Of course, this made it all the more important to crush him. They’ve got to know their place. Won’t be larking about in singing practice for some time, I can tell you!

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Mind your dad gets that letter, young Mr Browning! Mind he gets it – or what Mr Weirton gave you today will seem like a picnic!’

  The bell, the closing door thankfully muffled Davis. Outside, I gladly sucked the damp air – flavoured by mud, mist, dirty water, smoke and the slight tang of dunghills: better than the dry breaths you drew in that funereal shop. We paused by the Old School, leant on its lichen-dappled wall, hurled in a few shrimps for the ghostly kids, and continued down the road.

  ‘Mr Davis is really old, isn’t he!?’ I said. ‘I’d really love to ask him what it was like in Noah’s Flood.’

  Jonathon didn’t reply. We turned on the corner of the school lane, the pub adding its beery wafts – both alluring and repulsive – to the air’s mix of pongs. Heading up that road, we soon reached Marcus’s pool. We started throwing sweets into his dark waters – watching them plop, watching the rings that spread on the filthy surface. We’d pitched in about half our bags when Jonathon said:

  ‘Do you still think Marcus can protect us? Didn’t help me much just now – or you on Monday!’

  ‘Well, you never know. Maybe Marcus can’t actually stop us getting whacked, but if Weirton walks too close to this pond … Or to any water, I suppose. Marcus is everywhere!’

  ‘Weirton likes fishing,’ Jonathon said. ‘Remember that time he talked to our class about how much he loved hooking the fish and slicing them up. You never know … maybe one day when he’s sitting by a river –’

  Jonathon dragged his finger across his neck, imitated a death rattle. I pictured Weirton sinking under a murky surface, the desperate hands stretching above the current, his last bubbles of breath spiralling up. A satisfying image.

  ‘But it’s not just Weirton, is it?’ Jonathon said. ‘It’s my bloody brother as well!’

  Jonathon spat the rude word he’d just overheard from Davis.

  ‘Yeah, my bloody brother! Suddenly tickling me – making me laugh and drop my book! It was his fault I got whacked! Then blabbering about the walloping in the shop: everyone round here will know about it soon, and when my dad finds out –’

  Jonathon swung his palm, whacked a body carved from air.

  ‘He’ll probably find out anyway,’ I said, ‘when he reads Weirton’s letter.’