‘Maybe he’ll put the coat on in the afternoon break,’ Jonathon said.
‘Wouldn’t bet on it – not if the weather stays like this.’
‘And what if he takes his coat home at the end of the day!?’
‘Yeah, and he doesn’t always wear the same coat – it might just hang in his cupboard for ages!’
‘We’ve got to get that glove back!’
‘But how?’
The solution was actually simple. Leigh was now patrolling the playground while Weirton stood on his promontory. I asked her if I could go inside to use the loo.
‘Eeh, didn’t you go before lunch?’
‘I did, Mrs Leigh, but I need to go again.’
‘Eeh, you’re like a dripping tap, you are, Ryan Watson!’ Leigh’s shrill voice cut through the noise of playing children. Weirton glanced at us then something else captured his interest. ‘You’re just like my infants! First one has to go then another then another one’s sprung a leak!’
‘Sorry, Mrs Leigh.’
‘All right, go on, but be quick about it!’
I hurried through the cloakroom, down the corridor. The only noise was the burble through the walls of kids running, squawking, chattering. Our classroom faced the school field so I had to squat down below the level of the window. No kids were hanging around outside, but now and then one ran past and if they happened to glance in, I knew they might spot me. I crouched by Weirton’s coat, my shaking hands drew the glove from his pocket. As I moved in a crablike crouch across the eerily empty room towards my satchel, I cursed our lost opportunity. Perkins could be back tomorrow; Weirton would again be booming and bashing next door, making it much harder to get the glove on him. I was just about to slip it back in my bag when I glimpsed something by Weirton’s desk. My eyes fastened on it, knowing it was the answer. Weirton’s briefcase sat open on the floor next to his chair. Keeping hold of the gauntlet, I shuffled over to his bag. The briefcase smelled of leather, but new shiny leather, unlike the ancient material that bound our bibles and hymnbooks. Heart thudding, I peered inside. Flaps divided it into sections – some held papers and books, others bottles and boxes of what I guessed might be sweets. From the drawings on the cardboard, and what I could see through the brown plastic of the bottles, it seemed the contents did resemble candies. I thought about gobbling a few to get back at Weirton. I knew I’d hate it if someone stole my sweets. I grasped a packet, but then Stubbs charged past the window, dangerously close. If he’d glanced in, he might have spied me. Reminded I’d no time to squander, I let go of the package and chose a part of the briefcase filled with papers with maths exercises on: the sort I could imagine Weirton handing out that afternoon. I eased the glove into that bit of Weirton’s bag. With all those pages in there, it was a cramped fit, but I managed to squeeze it in and get the flaps closed so it couldn’t be seen from above. Only by thrusting his hand down would Weirton discover that gauntlet. Along the top of the flaps was a zip. I did it up, leaving only the part above the gauntlet open, making it even more likely his hand would go in there. I hurried down the corridor, and was soon out in the playground telling Jonathon what I’d done.
Back in the classroom, Weirton banged and strode, lecturing some lads about playing football too roughly in the break though I’d seen the game and it’d looked normal enough to me. As he flung his pointing finger towards the field then thrust it at the guilty boys, as he sweated and bawled, I was again reminded of how he’d changed, of how the tiniest thing now set him off, of how he seemed to be looking for stuff to rant about. I wondered if he’d cap his tirade with a walloping, but – after panning his eyes around the room, a room hushed and humid with tension – he picked his chalk up and turned to the board. To my joy, the chalk – squeaking its pain as Weirton drove it hard – was carving numbers, sums, mathematical signs onto that suffering oblong of black.
‘Now!’ Weirton turned his vast body towards us, his finger wagged. ‘Make sure you listen and listen well because I’ll soon be handing out some maths exercises and I’ll expect you to get them right!’
More joy, nervous joy leapt in me – that joy jumping like the jets of a fountain, a fountain powered by my pounding heart. Weirton went on barking out his explanations, his chalk went on squealing as he gouged numerals into the board. He stopped, put the chalk down, bent towards his briefcase. He thrust his hand deep into that bag. He wrenched that hand out. That hand gripped a sheaf of papers, with exercises printed on. They weren’t the pages I’d seen earlier. Any jets of joy within me plummeted. Weirton strode round the class handing those papers out, hurling them across our desks with an irritated twitch of his wrist. Thirty heads were soon down, thirty pencils scratching their way through the tasks. Weirton paced the room peering down at our progress. He loomed above Suzie Green, drilling his finger into her head as she struggled over one particular sum, his voice rumbling, his voice rising to a yell as her tears began to drop, smudging her page. A couple of minutes later, Stubbs was getting the same treatment. We battled on through the rest of the exercises. Though the sums weren’t hard, I still felt I was struggling against the heavy atmosphere – like I was swimming through air thick with Weirton’s anger. I cursed the fact he hadn’t reached into the section with the gauntlet, but what he said as the afternoon break came near gave me some hope.
‘Now, I can see most of you need a lot more practice at this – mentioning no names Suzie Green, Dennis Stubbs and Darren Hill! I’ve got plenty more exercises in my bag –’ the finger thrust at the briefcase ‘– which you dunces will keep doing until you get them right! Let’s see how we all get on after break. But, I’ll tell you this, my patience has limits! And some of you are very close to those limits right now! Just bear that in mind when you come back in here!’
Jonathon and I found a quiet patch of the playground.
‘Can’t believe he hasn’t put his hand into the gauntlet!’ said Jonathon.
‘Me too!’ I said. ‘But you know what? I reckon the next exercises he gets out will be from the bit of the bag with the glove in!’
‘Let’s hope so!’ said Jonathon. ‘Then it’ll be bye-bye Weirton! If the magic works, that is. If it doesn’t, there’s still my robot.’
‘Course it’ll work! You’ve heard all the legends! We’ll only need your robot if he doesn’t put the glove on. Magic’s much more powerful than science, but I suppose science is useful sometimes as a sort of back-up.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jonathon, ‘suppose.’
Weirton’s whistle blast signalled the end of break and we filed in.
‘OK –’ back in the classroom, Weirton stood wagging his finger ‘– I’ll give you the next set of exercises. I hope during the break you numbskulls have been able to give your tiny minds a rest because I really do expect you to get these right. No excuses this time!’
Weirton strode to his desk, stooped, reached a hand down to his briefcase. My whole body tense, I fixed my eyes on his blind fingers. Those fingers found the section that contained the gauntlet. They fumbled the zip open; the hand thrust inside. Weirton whipped his hand out. It held the wad of exercises I’d seen before. Weirton smartly zipped that section up – the gauntlet still within. He handed out the papers as my body sagged, as all hope streamed out of me. How could his hand have dodged that gauntlet, not even brushed against it? He must have missed it by millimetres. There was no more stuff in that section – Weirton had no reason to delve into it again. What could we do? For the moment, we could only lower our heads, crack on with the exercises, hope we made no mistakes that would enrage the teacher.
In the classroom’s dense silence, I searched my brain, trying to think of schemes to get back that glove. I was on the final task, the clock was ticking down the minutes to home-time when I realised the only thing I could try was to raise my hand, ask again to go to the loo and attempt to grab the glove on my way. I stuck my arm up, but Weirton didn’t see it as he prowled round the class peering down at the answers nervous hands were
scratching. The clock showed there was less than five minutes left. I kept my hand high, but couldn’t get the teacher to notice me. Weirton paused to examine the work of Darren Hill. The eyes stared at his sums; the face reddened; the fists gripped.
‘Darren Hill!’ Weirton yelled. ‘You … you stupid boy! You’ve somehow managed to get every sum wrong – every single sum!’
The hand shot out, caught Darren’s wrist, wrenched the boy from his chair. Soon massive impacts reverberated round the room; soon Darren’s tears flew, and it was not long until Darren was battling to get breath down his sob-filled throat. More wallops echoed out and when the howling hiccupping boy was lowered it was already home-time, but we had to wait some moments as Darren wept and spluttered, as Weirton shivered and panted, his body bent, his face soaked in sweat, his cheeks scarlet. When, finally, the headmaster had recovered, he paced back to his desk, picked up his briefcase and – placing it on his table – packed his things in it, all the while not opening the part that held the glove. We filed out as Weirton stood by his desk, hands resting on the briefcase. Once out of the school, Jonathon and I dawdled behind the others.
‘What are we gonna do?’ I whispered.
‘Dunno,’ said Jonathon, ‘maybe wait till Weirton leaves. If he doesn’t take the briefcase with him, we can sneak into the school and get the gauntlet back.’
We waited by Marcus’s pond, which was now – replenished with autumn showers – perhaps a third of its former size. After a few minutes, Jonathon hissed, ‘Weirton!’
We ducked behind some tall grasses, watched the headmaster stride out of the school. I gulped; fear tugged my stomach down. The teacher marched up to his funereal car, put the briefcase in the back then manoeuvred his bulk into the driver’s seat. The engine roared; he reversed out of his parking space; he drove past us, turned on the pub’s stinking corner and was gone, carrying with him the briefcase, carrying with him that dread glove.
Chapter Thirty-four
The Diary of James Ronald Weirton
Tuesday, 20th September, 1983
The bad dreams won’t stop. All the usual stuff was playing in my head last night – that damned church at Salton, that blasted glove hanging there, swinging with some mysterious force as I sat rooted to a pew, heart thudding. Damned bell ringing out its funereal tolls. Might really be clanging for me if these nightly tortures don’t cease. Always wake by jolting upright, old ticker racing. Anyway, there I was, some strange power holding me on that bench, the same power forcing my eyes to stare at that glove. Couldn’t close them. I summoned up all my strength, and – with a tremendous effort – I tore myself from that pew and sprinted away. I dashed from the building, but what I saw outside was even more horrific. The ground in the churchyard was moving – the grass above each grave heaving and shifting as if the sleeper beneath was battling to claw himself out. As the bell went on booming, I stared across those accursed flatlands – across the field in which I’d punched that horse, over to where the bones of those Scots soldiers lie. And that ground was rippling and quaking too – as if a whole damned regiment was determined to dig itself up. I ran back into the church. No sanctuary there – that white marble tomb was cracking, chunks were splintering, falling down. A skeletal hand, its fingers covered with loose rings, thrust itself through one of the gaps, groping around as if just woken from sleep. I really thought the Day of Doom had arrived and – right then – there came the trumpet blast, just like in the Bible. The sound was like no earthly instrument – it shook the church, made the floor shudder. It juddered every bone and cell in my body, almost threw me off my feet. That blast blew again, windows shattered, stones fell from the walls, an explosion of soil and bones erupted outside as an earthquake ripped through the churchyard. One more blast and I was awake, upright in bed, heart thumping, jerky breath, pyjamas drenched. Took a good few minutes to bring myself back to reality. Have to admit that dream really shook me, couldn’t chase it from my mind – it’s been spooking me all day.
Got back off to sleep, but had more nightmares. Not quite so apocalyptic, but equally disturbing in their own fashion. Dreamt of Marcus Jones – didn’t see him, just kept staring at his pond. Rain pelted down, the pond grew. I was somehow stuck to the pavement on the other side of the road. I could only watch as the rain hammered and that pool crept towards me. I knew that if I couldn’t get away, I’d drown. Soon those filthy waters were lapping at my feet, running into my shoes and soaking my socks. At that point I woke, sitting right up in bed as my heart bashed. If only I hadn’t gone and plunged that boy into that pool! No peace from that memory day or night!
I also had a dream about Lucy. I’d decided to do the decent thing and bury her remains. I wanted to put them in that little cemetery between Emberfield and Goldhill. I carried her bones from the school, carefully laid them on the backseat on my car, realising – with a strange shiver – for the first time how hearse-like that vehicle is. I drove her out along the winding lane, hoping that if her spirit couldn’t rest, it would be confused by all those curves and wouldn’t try to wreak its vengeance on me. But as I drove along that road – much longer in my dream than in waking life – the windows of heaven opened and sheets of rain poured down. I struggled on through the deluge; the windscreen wipers heaved torrents from the glass; the engine growled as the car forded deep puddles. When we got to the graveyard, it was flooded, with pools around the crosses and headstones. I hadn’t brought a spade. I tried to dig a grave for Lucy with my hands. But any soil I scooped out would slither and slop back into the hole. The rain beat down; I worked on, my fingers getting frantic. I stacked the earth by the hole’s side – forced on by a desperate idea I had misdeeds I must bury. Yet as soon as that mound of mud got to a certain height, it all slipped back into the grave and I had to begin once more.
It was the alarm that saved me from that impossible task. It took some time to remove myself from that drenched graveyard, readjust to the familiar surroundings of my bedroom. Dream so damned vivid I swear I still felt the dirt on my hands, the rain lashing my back. Might as well have been rained on I sweated so much. Heart banging and galloping as I tried to steady my breath. When I’d calmed myself a bit, I got out of bed, went downstairs to make coffee. Sandra and Nick still asleep. Still haven’t got used to sleeping on my own. Remember Sandra after we got back from that blasted holiday, ostentatiously moving her stuff into the spare room. Barely a word between us since. I wonder when that woman will grow up. Well over a month now and she’s still in her sulk! Guess reconciliation’s not helped by the fact I haven’t changed my ideas about discipline. Nick’s had a few hidings in recent weeks, but each one’s been deserved! What on earth does that woman want me to do when he’s acting up? If I let his sullen cheek go unchecked, his tantrums unremarked, he’ll just get worse. Damned good thrashing stops all that, at least for some time, and if I close the bedroom door afterwards I can shut out most of the boy’s blubbering and Sandra’s babying of the lad. Think I’ll buy myself a TV to put in that room, drown them out completely, when they start up just flick on a bit of boxing or tennis. Maybe not the news though – life’s depressing enough without hearing of the country’s decay. Anyway, back to Nick – I don’t know what’s wrong with that boy: whinging about this, whining about that. He’s either sulky and obstinate or he’s too timid: stuttering and hesitating, not looking people in the eye. Lad takes after his mum – he’s developing the sort of face a smile would shatter. Never grateful for anything. Sometimes wonder if the boy’s even mine – find myself thinking back to the time Sandra made her ‘announcement’, whether she’d had any boyfriends just before we started dating. But no, he’s my son; there’s a shape to his features which is undeniable. When it comes to character though it amazes me that lad’s my child just as I can barely admit I leapt from the loins of Ronald Weirton! Funny old things, families are.
I scoffed my breakfast, got ready and strode from the house. It seemed a pleasant day – a warm one for mid-September in this p
art of the world. That was a relief – a day of black clouds and pelting rain would have reminded me too much of those nightmares. Still, I couldn’t suppress a shudder as I drove past the graveyard, as I rolled my car through the gates opposite Marcus’s pond. I wasn’t around to see it, but yesterday Mrs Perkins was saying the damned thing dried up in summer. Apparently, it was no more than a crater of cracked mud. But come autumn the showers fell and now that accursed pool’s a third of its old size. Well, whether under cracked mud or stagnant water as long as that pond’s secrets are submerged it’s OK with me. But I can’t help shiver each time I pass.
I tried to keep my focus on the sunny day. Countryside’s so much nicer than when under dark clouds and downpours. Landscape’s so green it glows. Your chest expands – you feel you can really breathe rather than having to hunch against low cloud and rain. So mild I didn’t even put my coat on for the breaks, just stood there in shirt and jacket feeling the warmth seep into me. But though the day did its best, the frustration of being stuck in that school began to win out. Mrs Perkins was sick so I took her group while a supply teacher taught mine. Tried to teach those numbskulls some maths – it was depressing to find how little they’d learnt with Perkins. Even the simplest things many of them struggled to get. And that was when I began to feel it – the tiredness, my mind aching from those bad dreams, the irritation that twitched from all my problems at home. Whatever the weather was doing outside, black clouds clogged my brain. My finger drilled the heads of Dennis Stubbs and Suzie Green in the hope that – if words couldn’t penetrate their thick skulls – perhaps I could bore my way through. More fun with Suzie at lunchtime – let’s just say she was given some ‘persuasion’ to eat her sausages. But it was Darren Hill who really triggered the storm. (I’d been merciful to the supply teacher by taking that lad and Craig Browning with me to Perkins’s class.) When I checked his work, that buffoon had managed to get every sum wrong. Thunder peeled, the clouds in my mind burst, let go a deluge of fury – and soon the boy was swinging as my hand thrashed. Is there any hope for the likes of Darren? Maybe where explanations fail, pain can drive at least some knowledge into such pupils. It’s worth a try, I suppose.
The Standing Water Page 36
