The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  Father gave some chesty chuckles, which soon turned into a coughing attack. He hacked and spluttered as we all rushed round for glasses of water. He tottered to the bathroom, from where we heard the disgusting noises of him dredging filth up from his lungs and spitting it out. He finally reappeared, got settled down and went on with his story.

  ‘So he was fawning over these rich Yanks in his little bowtie, but he seemed to enjoy the experience from what he told me. It was a cruise round the Med, stopping off at all these archaeological sites. He’d sneak off the ship to look at them and soon found himself hooked.’

  The old head nodded at me.

  ‘Even now he’s obsessed with all that stuff, from what Sandra says. When he’s not ticking and crossing the little exercise books of the little boys and girls, his head’s buried in some book about what some darkies or nig-nogs did hundreds or thousands of years ago in some part of the world or other.’

  Everyone smiled, nodded some more; Sandra rolled her eyes in a way I think was meant to be comical.

  ‘Can’t see what he finds so fascinating about it all – no civilisation’s ever matched the British Empire! And no civilisation ever will – least of all what we’re doing now on this pathetic island, especially if the damned unions and socialists and peaceniks get their way! But, anyway, when that lad got back to Britain, I gave him a stark choice. It’s teaching or the army, James! He mumbled something about studying ancient history, but I told him you needed brains for that!’

  Everyone sniggered some more. I noticed, especially, that Nick’s face lit up – so much for loyalty! Father waffled on.

  ‘He chose teaching – surprised me, I have to say! So, now he’s got a good twenty years or more of ticking and crossing ahead of him, of tanning the hides of naughty little scamps! And I’ll let you know a secret …’

  Father glanced around conspiratorially; Nick giggled.

  ‘His hide got tanned enough when he was a nipper – I can tell you that!’

  Later we went for a stroll with Mother. Father stopped at home. Starts coughing and wheezing if he walks much more than a hundred metres. Old fool was probably lounging in the garden, sucking on one of his dreadful cigars. We went to a big park, one I used to play in as a lad. Nick ran and skipped ahead – thought it was nice for him to have somewhere to let free his energies, unlike Goldhill, where it seems every scrap of land is hidden behind a wall or sealed off with barbed wire. As Sandra and Mother twittered – ‘How’s Ronald’s ..?’ ‘And did Ronald ..?’ – I thought about Father. That man drives me beyond the frontiers of patience! Humiliating me just like when I was a child. Wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to pull me across his lap and spank me in front of everyone. Sometimes I feel like grabbing the conceited old goat, wrenching him from his chair and beating the old bugger until … Not that I ever would, of course. Respect for parents, for the elderly – one of our society’s foundation stones: not enough of it around, sort of thing I try to hammer into the kids at school. But sometimes with Ronald Weirton … as his cynical mouth spews its endless criticisms, I feel my fists tightening, my feet itching to leap in his direction. Reckon I could hoist him up and give him a good walloping – he’s so shrunken and frail these days. Hard to believe he was so tall and strong in his prime. Knocked me into the middle of the next week a good few times, I can tell you.

  More fun and games in the evening. Father took it upon himself to entertain everyone by reading out my old school reports. Far from glowing, I admit, I was never a great scholar. Father described how he’d punish me for them and various other misdemeanours – with the slipper for minor offences; for more serious ones he kept a good stout stick, and used his belt, of course. In the most spectacular of his chastisements – his whacking of whackings – he even employed a cricket bat. I remember that one well! Even with just the hand he could knock the stuffing out of you. In fact, I learned much of my technique from him – the wrist clasp, the lift, the expert timing of the collision of hand and backside. As Father waffled, everyone was chortling away; Nick’s high voice was singing, ‘Daddy got whacked! Daddy got whacked!’ I itched to give him a taste of the beatings I’d endured, but felt Father wouldn’t approve so I had –literally – to grin and bear it. Father also told everyone how I got plenty at school, each – according to him – thoroughly deserved. Don’t suppose I can complain, seeing what I got up to. At first, I had little choice, had to defend myself against the bullies, show them I wasn’t the sort of sap they could shove around. Then, reputation established, I felt called on to maintain it. Always some nutcase or smartarse eager to have a go. Bit addictive, really, putting people in their place – crushing them while everybody watches, fascinated. Got tempted to pick fights for the sake of it – sometimes, crazily, with the oldest and hardest lads, feeling the fear and adrenalin rush through my body as we readied ourselves for the scrap. Often came off worst, but sometimes I’d surprise my schoolmates. Loved to see them nodding, shocked, impressed, see the esteem for me rise in their eyes. Could also be fun to pick on some weakling – the satisfaction of the easy victory, of knowing the person’s totally in your power: that it’s totally your decision whether you let them scuttle off or beat them up. Seeing them beg, shiver, even sob, knowing it’s you who’s caused all that. Bit similar now – a certain pleasure in thrashing a tough little rascal like Craig Browning or Dennis Stubbs, feeling my heart thump, my body strain: wondering if it will hold out till I get them bawling. But there’s also a satisfaction in crushing someone like Suzie Green – feeling one’s power as she trembles or even wails as soon as I bark the first words at her. Watching her dissolve into some weeping grey mush as I weigh up whether to send her to Perkins to be smacked – knowing it’s entirely up to me whether I let the sword of justice swoop or watch her gratefulness gush as I grant a reprieve.

  I’m rambling. Better get off to bed – early start and a long drive tomorrow. Be glad, to be honest, to get away from this place. Reckon I’ll cheer up with every mile the car speeds us down south – away from sneering Ronald Weirton, away from the drab plains and drab minds of Emberfield and Goldhill.

  Wednesday, 27th July, 1983

  We piled in the car and were soon zooming down the M1, away from Father’s cynical pronouncements and spluttering sarcasm. As we bombed along the motorway, Nicholas for once quiet in the back, I got thinking. People might see motorways as quite new-fangled inventions, but they’re not – the English motorway system is more-or-less based on the network of Roman roads that once straddled the country. Damned efficient those Romans, and those roads were the motorways of their time – just chaps marched on them instead of driving vehicles. Could get from A to B pretty quickly, and that’s a fact. That’s discipline for you. Amazing it’s taken us one-and-a-half millennia to get back to the same level. Wonder how long it’ll take us to claw our way back to civilisation if this society falls – as it will, of course, if the socialists and unions and bleeding-heart liberals and gay boys and lesbians and all that lot get their way, not to mention all the damned barbarians streaming in from the ex-Empire.

  Skirted London and got to Brighton for late afternoon. Still time for Nick to run down the pebble beach and plunge into the water – it was nice to see the lad enjoying himself. Ignoring Sandra’s protestations, I decided to join him. Slipped my clothes off and trunks on under a towel. Have to admit I strutted on the beach before heading to the sea. Almost a public service. Show everyone a fellow doesn’t have to go to seed when he gets past his mid-thirties. Forty-three and I’ve still got strong arms, a good broad chest. A furry pumpkin pushes out below that, but at least it’s only a little one, nothing compared to the acres of flesh I saw flopping about around me. Don’t cut a bad figure for my age – full head of blond hair, though it’s getting greyer, especially lately. Anyway, snatched up a little ball and jogged down to the surf. Hit the water and thought for a moment Sandra had good reason for her prudence. Cold sent damned tingles all over my body. Could feel my face glow, my he
art begin its boom. But there was no way I could turn and slope out, let a little water defeat me. I did the opposite and plunged straight in. Woah! Chills everywhere, heart bashing crazily as it tried to get the body to adjust. But, after some time, it all settled down. Nick was wriggling through the waves – he turned, saw me, grinned. That felt good – tossed him the ball, and soon we were chucking it back and forth, splashing and laughing. Sandra came to the shore to watch us and even her face twitched into a smile. So much for female caution – sometimes you have to be manly and just dive into whatever it is you want to do. Whole society’s getting over-feminised. Can’t imagine any Scott of the Antarctic or David Livingstone emerging nowadays, let alone an Alexander the Great.

  Got back to the hotel then went out for dinner. Brighton’s a nice place, but a lot of the people are distasteful – loud-mouthed Londoners with tattoos, blasted hippies, a colony of queers that has established itself. I was dreading Nick asking who those strange men were, but thankfully he didn’t. Always a sign of the beginning of the end, harbingers of doom. Did for Greece and Rome, that sort. If I had my way, I’d lock them up somewhere they could do their filthy things to each other without having to affect the rest of society. At least the government’s finally getting tougher with regards to them.

  Oh well, off to bed. Never know – Sandra’s good mood might translate into … Let’s see if I’m lucky.

  Thursday, 28th July, 1983

  No luck last night. But today started well. Pleasant breakfast in a beachside café followed by a dip. Water was invigorating – body seemed even more shocked to be plunging into it in the morning, heart going mad, tingles rushing all over, but I was damned if I’d let such things stop me having a good time with my son. Got dried off, dragged Nick from the beach as the boy started up his whining. But into the car we went, and we were soon driving through Sussex – the rolling downs such a contrast to the miserable marshes round Emberfield. Education doesn’t stop just because we’re not in school, and I intend this trip to be educational for us all. Boy’s got to learn about his land’s history.

  Rounded a bend, and we saw the thing – magnificent! Nearly seventy metres tall, carved into the chalk hillside. The Long Man of Wilmington they call it, but it’s also known as the Wilmington Giant or Green Man. Abstract outline of a huge chap, holding two big staves. All sorts of ideas about him, according to what I’ve read – could be a pilgrim carved by monks, a representation of that stave-bearing wanderer Odin sculpted by Saxons, or a stone-age figure from some star-gazing religion, meant to mirror the constellations wheeling over the ridge above. Whatever it is, it’s ancient and it’s British – a piece of folk-art gouged into the earth, using our blessed landscape as its canvas. We parked up, admired it from afar then strode closer to investigate. I tried to focus on that wonderful artefact, tried to block out Nick’s whinging – he was bored, he wanted to go back to the beach. My hands tightened into fists; I was tempted to pick him up and clobber him, but didn’t want to spoil what had been so far a successful holiday. We walked around that amazing effigy, but – having consulted my Ordnance Survey map – I decided on a different route back to the car. Our path turned out to be a bit overgrown, we had to leap styles and chase off packs of inquisitive sheep, but – despite the grating refrain of Nick’s whining behind me – I could see it was a swifter way back to our vehicle. Only problem was – when we were nearly back on the road – this yokel-type came striding up, told us we were on private land and we’d have to go back the way we’d come. I tried to reason with the bumpkin, showed him the map, on which our route was marked as a public right-of-way, told him that even if it wasn’t it’d be quicker for us to continue on to the car as we were almost there. He wasn’t having any of it; he stood, shaking his head, baring our path. Muttered something about city people not understanding country ways, about us bothering the sheep. I tried to tell the rustic clown we were country people too, but it didn’t seem to penetrate his thick head. Well, I wasn’t going to be ordered around by some farmhand so I paced along the track and brushed past him. Next thing I knew, that rural buffoon had grabbed my arm, and was trying to wrench it up behind my back and frogmarch me away. I slipped my arm free easily enough, spun round and landed a solid punch on the bumpkin’s jaw. It was a long way short of full power, but enough to send that joker stumbling into a pile of sheep droppings.

  ‘Let that be a lesson to you…’ I began, but the ignorant clown scrambled up, and – wagging his finger in my face – poured out a tirade of foul abuse, right in front of the boy. I told him to watch his mouth, but this incensed him even more. He hopped up and down, red-faced, waving his fists. Then he lunged towards me, swinging a roundhouse punch. I sidestepped the blow with ease and gave him a powerful push in the chest. The buffoon teetered, arms waving, trying to rescue his balance, and – in those few seconds – I saw my opportunity. Of course, we could have just hurried off, we could have got back to the road by the time that numbskull had fallen and picked himself up, but somehow I couldn’t leave it there. That feeling rose in me, that strange mix of anger and fascination, and all I could focus on was the wobbling chin of that tottering rustic. Bang! I planted a punch upon it, sending the clown flying back. He lay sprawled on the turf, blinking up at me as – I guessed – his usual bumpkin world of fields and sheep rotated around him. He shook his face, edged his body back, palm held high – as if that would have stopped anything. He shivered, his eyes swelling with fear. I lurched towards him, eager to haul him from the ground, finish what I’d begun. A grin inched up my face as I moved in on him.

  ‘James, no!’

  Sandra’s hand was on my arm, trying to pull me away. I brushed it off, wrenched the trembling rustic to his feet, drew back my fist. Excitement, fury boiled in me.

  ‘James, no!’ Sandra’s voice was firmer now – it brought me back to my senses a bit. I turned to her.

  ‘This damned bumpkin needs a lesson!’ I shouted. ‘Swearing at and manhandling his betters! By God, I’ll thrash it into him never to do that!’

  ‘James, someone could get hurt; the police could get involved – think what you could lose! Come on, let’s just go.’

  I looked around – Nick was white, eyes anxious. Thought he might enjoy the sight of his dad standing up for his family, but he’s never been much of a scrapper – not like I was at his age. I sucked in breath to calm my heart’s eager bang, to cool my simmering bloodlust. I turned back to the bumpkin, gave him an almighty shove. He went tumbling to the ground, where he ended up on his hands and knees, backside in the air. I ran, lashed a kick at his behind. He was soon sprawled on the grass, and – I do believe – I heard the man sobbing. In triumph – but rapid triumph as more of my senses returned – I led us back to the car. Luckily, where it was parked wasn’t visible from the site of our confrontation though I doubted our rustic friend would call the police. He’d be mocked by his pals if they heard he’d been overpowered by some stuck-up townie. Even so, I drove us swiftly back to Brighton.

  As I drove, I calmed down more – my breathing stabilised, my heart’s thud slowed. My warm feeling of victory slipped away as I noticed the atmosphere in the car. Nick was quiet; a glance back showed the boy was still pale, eyes wide with what seemed a mix of fear and wonderment. Sandra was breathing in angry gasps, her disbelieving stare fixed on me. I suddenly felt sheepish. Strange how all our strutting triumph can flee under a woman’s scorn. As an ache in my finger bones, a throb in the flesh around them began to punish my rashness, I braced myself for a nagging diatribe. And, sure enough, it was all soon spilling out – what kind of example was I to the boy, couldn’t I control myself? I explained the bumpkin had started it, but she asked why I’d lowered myself to his level, whether I was nothing more than a common thug. Then it was all about trouble with the police, losing my job, how we’d pay the mortgage or feed ourselves if that happened, how in places like Emberfield and Goldhill it’d be all round town and no one would want to employ a criminal or hooligan. I sig
hed as she went on – her tirade was like a storm: raging away before calming for a moment then blowing furiously again. Women! Despite what they say, they know little about us blokes. If the world could be all nice and peaceful like they think it should be, it would be pleasant, of course, but surely it would lack that vital spark, that creative-destructive rage that fires us on as a species, that burns down the useless and scorches the sickly. If it was up to women, we’d probably still be sitting in caves, having a nice chat as we sewed our animal skins before croaking it at the age of thirty-five. Sometimes a man can’t back down, sometimes he has to risk everything. How could I look at myself in the mirror if I’d let some yokel push me around? How would I face my boy? Rather risk it all than shuffle through life as some simpering coward. The numbskulls I teach back in Emberfield, that sort are the common troops – they should be meek, obedient, inoffensive. It’s different for people like Father and me – we’re officer class!

  But as Sandra nagged on, I found myself admitting there was some truth in her words. I do need to watch myself. Nothing wrong with a bit of physical force when necessary, but one shouldn’t lose control. That is descending to the level of the thug. I don’t know, sometimes it’s like something grabs me, takes me over. I’m wrenched into some other sphere and I’m often surprised at what I’ve done afterwards. Like what happened with Marcus Jones. Happened a good few times when I’ve been walloping the likes of Richard Johnson or Ryan Watson or the Browning boys, though thankfully not to the same extent. Only mean to give them six of the best and one for luck then the mist clears and they’re bawling and hiccupping and struggling for breath, and the rest of the class are hanging-mouthed though a few smiles are flickering on some little rascals’ faces at seeing what their enemies have gone through. Not that I believe it’s done them any harm – good to set them straight, show them what’s what, teach them lessons they won’t forget. Just wish I could stop when what they’ve had is sufficient. Wouldn’t want another Marcus.