The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  I’m rambling again, have to be off to bed soon, rest up for another tedious day in Emberfield. Better just jot down the important things that happened. Speaking of which, it hurts to write. Have to force my swollen hand to grip the pen, push it painfully across the page. Not that I’d let pain stop me – let anything prevent me keeping up my duties, my routines, this diary included. Don’t know how I’d cope without it – it’s not like there’s anyone I can really talk to, tell how I feel. Vicar’s the only one I can get any sense out of, but he’s a busy bloke, difficult for him to meet up for our chats, keeps cancelling at the last minute. So I set it all down here – the private thoughts of an honest decent man in a fast-decaying country. Newspapers every day – terrible, this joke of a government’s barely any better than the last, whatever the kids’ parents might think. Stick a blue rosette on a donkey and it’d get elected in Emberfield; where I taught before it’d be the same with a red one. That’s democracy for you. Both parties full of liars and traitors, milksops and windbags.

  But back to the red balloon of my hand. We were walking over the field to the church and this horse insisted on blocking our way. Aggressive thing, magnificent creature – racehorse probably, sleek pelt, bulging muscles, pumped up with testosterone. I wasn’t going to let some animal send me into a retreat, not in front of the kids, so I decided to stare it down. Did the same a few times in Montana, you know. Once I was walking in the mountains with my friends and – what did we see? – but some grizzly lumbering down the path towards us. Massive thing. It clocked us, stared, started scraping the ground with its paw. Don’t know what came over me, but I found myself stepping away from my buddies and towards the animal. Got so close I could smell it, so close that with one bound and sweep of its claws half of me could have been ripped open. Of course, I was scared, heart booming away, but somehow my fear formed a shell around me, keeping me in the moment, stopping me fretting over what might happen next. I locked eyes with the beast and stared, stared into those huge dark animal eyes. I was pulled into them, hypnotised, aware of nothing but the sound of my heavy breath, a voice in my brain saying, ‘Don’t blink, James, don’t blink, don’t look down, do that and you’re a goner!’ Strangest feeling, like I was floating over a void, floating in a bubble – a bubble happily tripping over death’s surface, a bubble which any second could burst, but – while it did not – was filled with the airy intoxicating sweetness of life. Can only really appreciate life when there’s a chance you might lose it. I stared and stared at those deep eyes, keeping my gaze solid, looking right into the bear’s face: its shaggy fur, its doglike muzzle. The stink of devoured meat on its breath. Don’t know how long we faced off for, but suddenly doubt flickered in its eyes. The thing hung its head like a puppy in disgrace. It turned its vast bulk and away it trotted, like some mongrel called by its master. My friends were upon me, slapping my back as my head swirled, as my knees buckled. So much in shock they had to hold me up. Admiration though – thought they’d never stop going on about it, telling everybody. They all looked differently at me then – the farmer, the old hands who’d dismissed me as some Limey upstart. Telling all the blokes in the bars, people buying me drinks, wanting to hear the story. What wonderful days – wish I could have stayed there. Want to kill my old man sometimes. I could face down a bear, but couldn’t say no to Ronald Weirton, coughing in his cardigan, barking down the phone from Leeds.

  Anyway, this horse, not quite a grizzly – to be honest, don’t think I could confront one of those nowadays, blood pressure wouldn’t stand it. Another thing I’ve got to thank my father for. But a horse I could still manage, knew it wouldn’t kill me, at worst I’d have got a nasty kick, a trample. Plenty of experience of breaking the things in Montana. But this was a stubborn beast. I stared and stared; the animal wouldn’t budge. We didn’t have much time so I tried a trick I’d used back in the States. As that horse gazed at me, as it surrounded itself with angry puffs of mist, I moved my arm back, knotted up my fingers. Again, I was in a different place, away from Emberfield’s drab flatlands, the crowd of gormless kids behind me: there was just my pounding heart, the struggle for mastery, the struggle of animal and man, the need to assert the dominance God has given us. The sneaky knowledge of what I knew was coming and the dumb horse didn’t, the knowledge I could feel making my lips curve. Bang! Fist hurtled into the horse’s jaw. Good loud crack, beast went mental, neighing and rearing up, kicking out its legs. Thought for one dreadful minute it might hoof its back feet into me, but it trotted off crestfallen to join its mate by the castle. Another victory for James Ronald Weirton! Like breaking a boy, really – same principle, don’t stop till they’re utterly crushed. Just easier with horses – poor beasts don’t have the deviousness of Dennis Stubbs, the brains of Ryan Watson, the sheer bloody persistence of Marcus Jones. Have to figure out the best way to break each lad. Speaking of boys, as soon as I’d cracked that horse, I felt their admiring eyes on me. Knew it would send me up in their estimations while increasing their fear. Like snagging two fish with one hook. Beamed as I led our parade over the field. But pretty soon I knew I’d whacked the thing too hard. Felt the hand ache and swell as I stood in the cemetery giving instructions. Of course, I hadn’t punched the horse with all my power. I’m not daft, didn’t want fractured fingers. No broken bones, but still I gave that horse a fair old wallop. Stuck my hand under the graveyard tap as soon as I could, wrapped it up in my tie. Chatted to Ryan Watson while I did so. He’s a nice lad, most of the time. Sometimes feel bad about thrashing him, but I know he needs it. Need to keep him in line, stop too many bright ideas congregating in his head. Would be no good for anyone if that happened.

  I paced around that churchyard, my triumph glowing from my face, shining out into the mist. The way the children regarded me took me back to how my mates looked at me after fights. Those bars in Montana, they could get rough after a lot of drinking had been done, and I was no trembling wimp, let me tell you: I was right at the forefront of any action. Sometimes my friends had to haul me off, saying the chap had had enough. Not that there’s any excuse for brawls and disorder, but self-defence is no crime, not even in this namby-pamby modern world. Anyway, strode through the graveyard, enjoying the kids’ approval even as my hand stung and throbbed. Told them I’d inspect their pictures, not because I intended to peer at their awful creations but just to make them look sharp. Then I started feeling odd, a bit queasy with all that death around me so I took the kids into the church but began feeling weird there too. We had the Suzie Green episode then I herded them back out, gave them five minutes to finish off their drawings and marched them away from that gloomy place. Strode across the field – noticed that damn stallion wasn’t bothering us then! Back onto the path – legged it down that track at quite a clip: thought of the curses lingering, the bodies buried on each side. So damned spooky and silent down Salton sometimes – just hear the coos of pigeons, the caws of crows echoing across the land, floating on the mist. For once I wished the children would start up their chatter, but they were too busy and breathless trying to keep up with me.

  Got to the bridge and took a breather, waiting for all the kids to catch up. Craig Browning and his mates squatting on the bridge’s edge, pointing at stuff down in the Bunt – God knows what they found so fascinating in that dreary stream. The rest of the kids arrived; I was just about to get us moving again when the most incredible thing happened. Little Jonathon Browning dashed up and shoved his sibling into the river! Couldn’t believe it! Down Craig plummeted! I just wrote ‘plummeted’, but the drop wasn’t really that great. But still – in that short space – that idiot boy managed to do some sort of summersault , hurtle headfirst into the stream. Guess his hands took most of the impact, but the buffoon still got a gash on his forehead. Frightening thing was he just lay motionless in the flow for some seconds. For a horrible heart-thudding moment, I thought he was dead. Image rushed through my mind of the incident with Marcus. Then the clown started to move and soon his gorm
less face was staring back at the bridge. And the funny thing was – Browning really did look like a clown, like some mud-smeared jester. His face was caked in dirt with just two circles of white for his eyes to gawp out of. The kids cracked up. Can’t say I blamed them. Lad should have been on the Minstrel Show. Didn’t laugh myself, can only see the amusing side in retrospect. I was shivering – cold sweat gushing from my armpits, running down my back. My mind would flick from the sight of Browning’s moronic face to images of Marcus struggling in the pond, thrashing in that brown water, spitting out streams of filth as he grappled for breath.

  But I snapped back to reality and didn’t lose a second. Before he knew it, Jonathon was hoisted up, held out over that river. I wanted to teach the little fool a lesson – let him know the horror of plunging, vertigo. I let him fall, caught him again, gave him the hiding of his life. I beat and beat him – beat on through his sobs, his flying tears, his mouth grasping for the breath my hand expelled. Beat on through the ominous thuds of my own heart, thuds that pounded faster as the whacking went on. I beat on, ignoring the tingles racing over my skin, the sweat my body spewed, my lungs jerking as I also struggled for breath. I got into a strange rhythm – my beating hand was all I could think about. I just wanted to thrash out all the bad stuff – whatever demons had made Browning push his brother off the bridge, all my memories of Marcus his prank had summoned. Locked in my tempo, I tried to bash them all out – the way a beater thrashes filth from a carpet. I came to myself again, gave him a few ultra-forceful ones to finish off and set him back on the bridge. For one terrible second I thought I’d gone too far again. Jonathon was deathly white. I didn’t show it to the kids, but I was worried. As he jerked air into his starved lungs, I willed every breath in, praying to God the boy would be fine. But his breathing steadied, pink came back into his cheeks and it was myself I started to fret about. Something didn’t feel right within. My breath wheezed alarmingly, my heart wouldn’t stop its boom, my head swelled as that heart rushed surges of blood through my body. Yet my breathing stabilised, my heart’s thud grew more regular and I guessed I’d be OK.

  I straightened up and only then realised it was my bad hand I’d walloped the boy with. My tie-bandage lay at my feet in a puddle. Hand hurt hellishly, throbbing and aching. Then I remembered Craig was still down in the river. Idiot boy just kneeling there, staring up, as if waiting for the clouds to part and the voice of God to bellow down some instructions. Well, I don’t think even the Lord would be capable of dividing Emberfield’s clouds at their thickest so I had to step in. Shouted down to Craig to get himself out of the stream. Felt sorry for the lad, wasn’t his fault for once, but what could I do? Only way out was to charge up that bank forested with nettles. Took a couple of attempts and a good few stings for the lad to conquer it. Good lesson for him, I suppose – we can’t dodge life’s difficulties: sometimes we just have to charge into a situation and take whatever pain it dishes out. At one point, the poor boy really did have to ‘grasp the nettle’ – hold onto a whole plant to stop himself falling back, hang onto it as agony buzzed through him. Was impressed he didn’t let go – must be of more robust character than I’d thought.

  Marched them all back to school – another potentially pleasant day ruined by the kids’ idiocy. Like Dennis Stubbs spoiling the last afternoon before the Christmas break. But it’s not like Jonathon to play pranks, especially dangerous ones. Usually a more thoughtful, serious sort of lad. Must be that brother’s influence. Have to give him a few more wallopings to thrash it out of him. I’ll start with one in assembly tomorrow. Nothing excessive this time, just six of the best and a couple for luck. Do it in front of all the classes, show them I won’t tolerate such buffoonery, let them know what’s what. Don’t think there was any evil intention behind what Jonathon did. Just a joke that went wrong. Hardly a Cain and Abel story. We’re not like those city schools – kids stabbing one another, badly beating each other up. At least here there’s still some respect for civilised Christian values. But I’ll give him that hiding tomorrow, let them all know violence will never be accepted here.

  Got them back to school. Perkins was fussing about taking Craig to hospital, saying he might need stitches. Load of old rot! Dabbed plenty of disinfectant on his gash, the boy squirming as I thrust the cotton pad drenched with that liquid onto the cut then kept it pressed there. Stuck a plaster on, and knew the lad would be fine. Sent him home, though, for the rest of the day with a note explaining what had happened. Made Jonathon stand in a corner then do all his work out in the corridor. Gave him three weeks of detentions at lunchtime and during breaks. As the day went on, my hand swelled more – palm and fingers bulging, a good angry red. Kept it wrapped in cold cloths. Perkins also started fussing about that. Doctor would just tell me to do the same – what would be the point in seeing one? Plus having to describe how I’d injured the thing. Same when I got home, Sandra flapping about it. Women! Nagging me to let someone take a look. Made a change, though, to see her animated. Better, I think, than her usual cool politeness that makes me boil inside, as if nothing could rupture the porcelain composure of her face. She’d certainly never let a smile crack it! The cold disapproval I feel from her when I have to discipline Nicholas. If she doesn’t like it, I’d prefer her to come out and say so! She just makes a show of comforting him afterwards – ‘Daddy feels he has to …’ ‘Daddy really thinks he must …’ – as the milksop sobs away. Maybe her babying the boy is half the problem! That’s what we get, I suppose, for disobeying the Lord’s commandments. There’s a lot to be said for the Church’s teachings on sexual morals, believe you me.

  Time for bed. Damn hand’s burning and stinging, but I hope it lets me sleep.

  Tuesday, 10th May, 1983

  Bad dreams last night. In the first one, I was in the damned church at Salton. It was dusky, twilight outside, I guessed, candles on the altar and at the end of the pews. Bell tolling as if for a funeral – shuddering its echoes right through the church, right through my body. And suspended before the altar was that horrible gauntlet. I couldn’t prevent my eyes staring at it. Its colour started to change. It was reddening, beginning to glow, as if something was heating it up. I ran from the church, staggered into the graveyard. Saw those old stones, those yews silhouetted against the darkening sky. Bell still clanging away. All around was a feeling of death – or at least of something drawing to a close – a feeling so strong I could smell and taste it. Retreated from the churchyard, over the field, that horse watching me – silent, its eyes reproachful, puffing out clouds of resentful breath. Got through the field and back onto the path, and things got worse. Bell went on bashing and this strange singing joined it. Thundering, mournful, it reverberated across the land. And then, from both sides of the track, mist began to rise – from where all those Scots soldiers were buried, from where ancient curses skulked. The mist floated high into the air as I stood on the path and stared up, as all the while that bell tolled, that singing boomed away. The mist formed itself into a huge sword and its end thrust down at me – its point hovering inches from my head.

  In the second dream, I was in the school, in front of the store cupboard. The door creaked open by itself, and Lucy was in there, just staring at me, her skull fixed in its grinning gape. She didn’t move, but somehow I knew it was her who’d made the door swing. I fled from the school, paced from the gates, but felt myself drawn towards the pond. I couldn’t pass it; I had to stand and gaze at its brown waters. There were bubbles coming up – spheres of breath too large for any fish. I didn’t see Marcus. The dream didn’t match the horrors of what had really happened – we weren’t twisting and grappling in those stinking waters, my palm ready, held flat, trembling in its eagerness to shove the boy’s head down. There was no scene of me beating and beating him on the bank. Just those bubbles spiralling up – evil, vengeful, accusatory.

  The rest of the day was pretty tame in comparison to what had gone on in my head at night. I had Jonathon standing at the front in
assembly as I leapt and ranted about his antics of yesterday. I then grabbed the boy and clobbered him. I’d intended not to give him too many, but – somehow – after that build-up, it would have felt like an anti-climax if I’d reined myself in. So my hand flew; the boy’s tears sprayed. I slipped into my pounding trance, thrashing and thrashing the lad until almost all my strength had seeped from my body. He sobbed, spluttered and hiccupped, bobbed and swayed on bouncy legs afterwards. Felt a bit bad about it later, knew I’d got carried away. Not sure how many he really needed – if I know Mr Browning, Jonathon would have got a few licks last night as well. But they have to learn. Rather give too much chastisement than not enough. When I got home, read something in one of my books – in ancient Mesopotamia, they had schools to teach the boys who were destined to become scribes. Not so different, really, from the kids I’m teaching here. Four-thousand years ago and that mighty civilisation had an alphabet of over six-hundred signs. Such societies were built on discipline! No namby-pamby stuff with just the hand. They whipped the kids – for talking in class, for standing up at the wrong time, for bad work. Don’t build wonders of the world without everyone knowing their place, knowing what’s what. And these bleeding-heart liberals want to change the fine traditions that have made civilisations flourish for millennia. Can only lead to decadence, decay, chaos! All this brought me to my senses, made me feel better about Jonathon.