The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  ‘What?’ said the vicar.

  ‘I thought I heard a noise – some sort of shuffling.’

  Weirton stood up, swept the church in quick glances. My heart bashed frantically; my whole body shuddered. We must have been shielded by the last of those benches because he didn’t spot us.

  ‘I’m sure I heard a noise,’ Weirton said, and started striding towards the end of his pew, intending – I guessed – to march along the space we’d just crawled down. He’d be upon us in seconds.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, James,’ said the vicar. ‘It’s probably just mice – they get in off the fields sometimes.’

  Weirton moved back down the pew, sat next to the vicar and the two were soon talking again. Jonathon and I crept to the door, which the vicar had thankfully left ajar, and crawled around it into the porch. We sneaked out into the churchyard, got back the wellies we’d mercifully thought to hide and began to tug them on.

  ‘Better get going,’ Jonathon said, his white face still not blotched by the pink of relief. ‘If Weirton comes out he might see us going over the fields or even spot us on the track. Won’t really be safe till we get to the woods with the water tower.’

  I hobbled as my shivering hands pulled on my boots. I thought of our vicar and how mighty his magic was – how even Weirton was polite and humble before him. As well as his dread powers concerning the altar’s rituals, I’d heard other legends. If anybody killed themselves, they had to be buried round the back of the church, in the building’s shadow. And the vicar had to drive a stake through the corpse’s heart to stop the ghost wandering! It was difficult to imagine our mild vicar wielding some huge mallet, bashing the stake in as ribs splintered and blood splurged. But I supposed – as it was part of his job – he’d have to do it and make sure the evil ghost was pinned by that stake enchanted with his magic. Despite our panicked rush, curiosity nearly pulled me to the church’s shadow side, but now Jonathon was tugging my arm, and we were soon running under the iron arch and out of the church’s sacred enclosure. Over the fields we went in a stumbling sprint, watched by the two horses who looked confused at our sudden speed. Back on the path, near the Drummer Boy’s stone, Weirton’s funereal car was parked. That urged us on and we ran – despite the stitch that started throbbing in my side – till we reached the shelter of the trees. There we stood, mouths grasping air in big gulps. I stroked my elbow, trying to sooth it, though there was already a good swelling there I’d have to hide from Mum and Dad. When our breathing was more stable, Jonathon said, ‘Did you understand much of what they were talking about?’

  ‘Not really, just seemed to be Weirton telling the vicar how bad all the kids are, how much we knacker him.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jonathon, ‘you know how he looks after he’s walloped someone. Looks like he’s just run five miles!’

  ‘Did you hear what he said about Marcus though?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jonathon replied, ‘he said he got rid of him – right in front of the vicar!’

  ‘We’ll definitely have to kill Weirton now,’ I said, ‘before he gets rid of someone else!’

  ‘Well,’ said Jonathon, ‘might not mind so much if it was Stubbs he got rid of. But, yeah, shame we didn’t get the gauntlet.’

  ‘Nearly did! Just have to come back and try another time.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jonathon.

  Chapter Thirty

  The Diary of James Ronald Weirton

  Saturday, 25th June, 1983

  Spoke with the vicar today. Of all places, we had to meet in that damned church at Salton. Only place he could do it, had an appointment there afterwards. Couldn’t very well tell him that church gives me the shudders, that it’s popped up in my nightmares – wouldn’t want him thinking I’m a looney. Just told him I’d been having bad dreams, that was enough – didn’t divulge the specifics. Course I arrived first – damned place set me shivering as soon as I walked in. Got sat down on a pew, glanced about. That church is meant to be God’s house, but it’s festooned with these bits of heathen superstition – that awful gauntlet hanging there, the crosses painted on the walls that are supposed to scare off devils. Didn’t frighten away my demons – I can tell you that! Had a really weird experience. I looked towards the altar, and I swear that gauntlet was swinging on its chain! Nearly jumped out of the pew and ran right out of there! Swinging with more vigour than could be explained by any draught. I tried to calm myself. ‘Now, now James,’ I thought, ‘it’s just your nerves. Close your eyes, take some deep breaths and it’ll go away.’ Well, that’s just what I did, and when I looked again, the thing was still. Odd! Sometimes I think I’m really cracking. Thank the Lord it’s the summer holiday soon. Not that it’s all fun and merriment at home, far from it, but at least it’s more restful than having to confront that rabble at school every day. A good few weeks without seeing Craig Browning’s gormless mug, without having to wonder what Stubbs will get up to next, without the simpering dimness of Suzie Green, and without that smugness of Helen Jacobs that just makes me want to erupt. And, of course, there’s our family trip to look forward to. Get away from these damn foggy marshes for a couple of weeks at least.

  Anyway, the vicar came and I was soon spilling it all out to him. Hadn’t intended to reveal so much, but the priest has this way about him – he just gently draws it out of you. Be good on the other side that chap, could picture him in the confession box, getting all those Catholics to spew up their filthy sins then soothing them with his mumbled hocus pocus. Should be glad he’s batting on our team. So I was soon saying how unhappy I was at work, how unhappy in this dreary corner of our country. Sure he guessed I’m also unhappy at home. If I understood the chap right, he seemed to be suggesting I just got out – left the damned job, left Goldhill and Emberfield. Can’t imagine a vicar would recommend I leave my marriage, but he didn’t exactly counsel against it either. Not that I’d consider doing such a thing – those vows are for life, whatever the modern trendies and blasted liberals say, vows made solemnly before God, the community and the law. Whole society would fall apart if people just cleared off whenever they had an urge to. Seen enough of it where I taught before, the terrible effects of broken families. Not too much of that round here yet, thank God, still a healthy respect for tradition. But even if I could never leave Sandra – and, by God, sometimes I am tempted – what about ditching the job, getting away from these damned depressing towns? Love to just get a bit of land somewhere, do some farming like I planned to in Montana, live close to nature – real nature, not the drab muddy fields round here, but mountains, lakes, true wilderness. Amazing to think even here once it would have all been forested: bears and wolves roaming, wild boar and mighty stags. Only place remotely like that left in this country is the north of Scotland, as far as I know. Would love to move away from here, but it’s all a dream, a fantasy. What would I do for work? Got the mortgage to pay, bills, have to put food into ungrateful mouths. Romantic dreams are all very well, but they don’t stand up to much scrutiny. Best leave them to the blasted hippies and all the other irresponsibles. It’s on the shoulders of men like me that the nation’s welfare depends.

  Anyway, poured it all out to the vicar – and did feel better afterwards. Still, a little too much sneaked out – why the hell did I have to mention Marcus Jones? Even used the words ‘got rid of’ for heaven’s sake! Vicar didn’t react – just kept nodding, murmuring in that soothing way of his. I’m sure he doesn’t know what really happened. But I get a feeling the vicar’s sharper than we all think – seems a bit of a bumbling fool at first, a holy innocent, still happy to teach the truth of the blessed Bible unmolested by Darwin’s devilish ingenuities. Sort of faith only a saint or idiot could have nowadays. Good for the kids though, teaches them what’s what, wouldn’t want them concerning their little heads with the fiddly details of science and theology. Their place is to follow, not lead – would be like the blind leading the damned blind if they did! But, anyway, reckon their might be a shrewd mind under that
bald head and those buffoon-like curls, behind that blank open face. Have to be more wary what I say in future, especially anything about Marcus or Lucy! But I think I got away with it. So nervous, though, in that awful church – even thought I heard a noise at one point. I almost sprang out of my skin, though, of course, I didn’t show the vicar I was frightened. He reckoned it was just mice – didn’t sound like mice to me! More like someone – or something – shuffling around though I knew well enough we were the only people in there. Eerie! I’d be happy never to stray anywhere near the whole of Salton again.

  Oh well, off to bed soon. Hope I have a restful night. Think we should go to Church tomorrow. Been a good few weeks – been taking off fishing on Sundays recently. Find it relaxing, though the fat lowland rivers and sombre gravel pits round here could never match the clear gushing streams of Montana. But tomorrow we’ll be off to sing our hymns and say our prayers. Of course, Nick will whinge – say Church is boring. What does he expect – a bloody pantomime!? The young think everything should be entertaining nowadays. Well, I’ll entertain his backside with my hand if he makes too much fuss! Sandra will be flapping around, wondering what hat to wear, threatening to make us late. Speaking of Sandra, I think the best I can hope for is a restful night. Not like anything else is likely to happen. It’s not that I’m obsessed with that – this permissive modern world puts too much emphasis on it – but it would be nice, sometimes. Even the Church believes it’s an important part of our marital duties. Try telling that to Sandra. Either it’s some excuse, or she’s fast asleep, or she has to go and baby Nick because he’s scared of ghosts or some such nonsense, or she doesn’t even try to make an excuse and just gives me that sour face. So it’s off to bed, with no more hope than the Lord will see fit to guard me from bad dreams.

  Tuesday, 26th July, 1983

  Sit writing this in Father’s spare room. Got set off on holiday today – we’re visiting my parents on our way down south. Goldhill lies about fifteen miles northwest of York so it’s not too far to drop down to Leeds. Had to journey through more depressing country – doesn’t really improve till you reach the Pennines on Leeds’s other side. Up round Hebden Bridge and Haworth’s nice though – of course – it hardly compares to the real countryside I’ve seen. Hit Leeds around midday, Nick in the back whinging about feeling hungry. Couldn’t shut him up with my shouts. My hands squeezed the steering wheel, just itching to batter the boy into silence or at least change his nauseating whine for the regular chug of sobs. Could have always clobbered him when we got to Father’s, but somehow felt the old man would disapprove – though he was never slow to wallop me and sometimes for much lesser offences. Seems to be a strange bond between him and the boy. Anyway, head aching from the whinging coming from the backseat, I piloted the car through the city to my parents’ house on the outskirts. We drove through Chapeltown – dreadful, full of immigrants: blacks, Pakistanis, Sikhs. Even made me glad for a moment we live in Goldhill. It’s all very well protecting people from foreign invasions in the Falklands, but we could do with some of that protection here. The socialists and liberals try to convince us – and themselves – that these people can be quickly transformed into civilised Brits. What rot! I bet in thirty years’ time those Asians will still be stumbling around in their pyjamas, mumbling their superstitions and fiddling with their prayer beads, and those blacks will have found little other gainful employment than mugging old ladies. Not that the places they come from have always been totally backward. India’s had its great civilisations, and we could learn a thing or two from the Hindus about social structures and keeping people in their place. Even Africa’s had a few impressive societies. But that was all long ago, before decadence set in, and – anyway – this is England and we don’t want such things set up in the middle of Bradford or Birmingham.

  Had lunch with the folks, Nick stuffing himself like he hadn’t eaten for a week. Had to remind him of his table manners. Father told me to let him be, said he’s a growing lad. Would have bashed and battered me if I’d gobbled that greedily at Nick’s age. I’m much more lenient on Nick than Father ever was on me. Father sat there wheezing and spluttering, launching into coughing fits. Hard to feel much sympathy for the old rascal – it’s mainly his own fault: those damned cigarettes and cigars he’s been sucking on most of his life. Think he was disappointed I didn’t start smoking, think he felt it made me less of a man. Can’t see what’s so manly about gasping and spluttering if you have to walk more than a few yards, but that’s Father for you. That tobacconist’s shop the old devil opened when he left the army – probably put plenty of blokes in the same condition, cost a damn fortune for the NHS. Made a good few pennies out of ruining the nation’s health, the old man did. I hate tobacco, despise it – I’d ban the filthy stuff if it was up to me, throw those who sell it in jail like drug dealers. Still, despite a lifetime of abstinence, I’ve inherited some of Father’s breathing problems, the same blood pressure that has a tendency to zoom off the chart. Wouldn’t surprise me if it was all the damn smoke I sucked in growing up here. Not that Father would ever apologise – don’t think I’ve heard that rascal say sorry for anything. His spluttering, tobacco-stained lips probably couldn’t even form the word. If I ever catch Nick with a cigarette in his mouth, I’ll thrash him till every spec of that disgusting stuff’s been hurled out of his lungs. Speaking of health, have to remember to take those new pills tomorrow – just can’t let Father see, don’t want to show any weakness. Doc shaking his head, telling me they were the strongest they could prescribe, that he didn’t know what they could do if these ones didn’t work – apart from what he called ‘lifestyle changes’, as if we could all click our fingers and change our lives overnight: as if I could suddenly stop worrying about Father, as if my marriage would bloom into something joyous, as if Dennis Stubbs and Craig Browning wouldn’t require regular beatings, as if I could just forget all that happened with Marcus and know what to do with Lucy’s remains. Speaking of pills, Father gets through a whole pharmacy every morning – you wouldn’t think he’d have much to say about me popping a couple of tablets. But Father’s just that way – I can hardly flex a finger without him criticising me. He’d be prying into all the details of my health, grinning and nodding when I told him what was wrong. Strange mentality – if he has to suffer, we all should suffer too.

  When I was at the doc’s, enquired about sleeping pills. Asked me what the problem was, told him bad dreams, asked if there was anything that could quieten the mind when I’m asleep. Said he could prescribe something, but didn’t like the sound of it – I’d still dream whatever, just wouldn’t keep waking up. There’d be no blasted escape then – like being locked in a cinema showing horror films all night. Strangely, ever since that day I talked to the vicar, the dreams have got worse, more frequent. All kinds of weird stuff. Like someone’s raised up all the spooks in Salton and Emberfield and set them on me. Keep dreaming of dead Scots, of whispering curses lying over the land. Or I’m in that damned church, staring at that gauntlet or that white tomb as the bell tolls away. Most unsavoury practice really, burying the dead inside the church – Romans had the right idea, stick them outside town. Anyway, that bell clangs and I can’t stop looking at that damned glove – which means death, or those awful carved figures, which represent death too. I’m thinking how white they are, how motionless, how final their rest is. The worst, though, are the dreams with Marcus. Those I can’t say are just the imagination’s outpourings. We’re in the pool, grappling, twisting in those stinking waters. At times, I’m held down in them, that awful brown liquid flooding into my mouth, my nostrils, seeing nothing but filth and darkness. But the dream always ends with me carrying the boy from the pond – body floppy, face absolutely white, boy bloated with all the stagnant water that’s poured into him. I lay him on the bank, just look at him, lying there lifeless. Doesn’t occur to me to try to save him, give him the kiss of life, but dreams are funny like that.

  After lunch, we sat around i
n the lounge, father puffing on a cigar, humouring Nicholas, boy hanging on his words in a way he never seems to with mine. Started up with his war stories – the boy was fascinated. Telling him about all the Gerries, Ities and Japs he claims he’s killed. These reminiscences always end in the same way – and today was no exception. Father pointed a shaking finger at me and said, ‘As for that one, he never joined the army!’

  Mother, Sandra, Nick all grinned; I forced myself to smile.

  ‘Prefers a life of teaching little lads and lasses their sums to defending his country!’

  Everyone laughed; my face muscles trembled as they held my smile in place. I’d love to see how Father would cope day-in-day-out with Dennis Stubbs and Darren Hill, never mind Marcus Jones! You might risk your life in hand-to-hand combat with a Gerry or Jap, fair enough, but when it’s over it’s over – you don’t have to see them every day for years. Just despatch them with your bayonet and it’s done – can’t do that with the mob I’m responsible for though sometimes I’m sorely tempted. Don’t want to go down that path – already wandered too far along it with Marcus.

  ‘He was a bit of a drifter when he was younger,’ Father wheezed. ‘Worked on a farm in Montana of all places, owned by a friend of mine, chap I’d met during the War …’

  Everyone nodded though we’d heard the tale many times.

  ‘Turned into a right little Yank he did. Wanted to stay there, buy some land, take up farming. I ordered him back to England on the double! “I didn’t pay for an expensive education,” I told him, “So you could become a Yankee farmhand!”’

  The laughter chorused again; I kept wearily winching my grin up.

  ‘Promised he’d come back, but you know what the little blighter did? He only went and got himself a job on a cruise ship and sailed leisurely back to England that way. A waiter, would you believe, a waiter? A son of mine – I thought he couldn’t stoop any lower than being a Yankee farmhand, but he managed it!’