The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  ‘Ryan Watson!’ the voice juddered. ‘You really are a prime buffoon!’

  Out of my eye’s corner, I saw the brother’s, Darren’s lips quiver as they tried to suppress their smirks.

  ‘As if I haven’t enough to do keeping that rabble in order’ – Weirton’s finger thrust at his class – ‘and trying to drum some knowledge into their dense skulls, you come along with your clumsiness! I accept it was an accident, but sometimes we need to be punished for our carelessness as well as our deliberate wrongdoing! Sometimes we need to have thrashed into us the lesson not to be so careless in future!’

  The hand twitched; the massive face gazed down. It seemed that face was considering – a tooth nipped a lip, the eyebrows arched and fell. Weirton’s hand jerked towards me. He wagged his first finger not far from my nose.

  ‘But I’m a fair man,’ Weirton said, ‘and you’re not normally a bad lad. I’ll let you off this once. But remember Ryan, any more displays of carelessness, and my hand will not be so restrained!’

  I was allowed to continue down the corridor. Though I hadn’t had the full whacking, my backside still hummed, my legs wobbled, my knees ached. In the bogs, as the rain pounded, played its melodies in the gutters, I repositioned that glove so my jeans clasped it more firmly. I gave it a couple of minutes then walked back to Perkins’s. I half-smiled at Jonathon – he understood I’d succeeded. When no one was looking, I raised my satchel from the ground, held it next to my jumper as I slipped the gauntlet in. I fastened that satchel up, knowing – for the moment at least – that glove was safe.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The Diary of James Ronald Weirton

  Wednesday, 21st September, 1983

  … and as I strode into the hall, I tried to convince myself what I’d seen in the briefcase was just a mirage. I had to believe it – I mean, how could the thing have got in there? To accept it as anything more than a hallucination really would mean I was going potty. Just too much stress, that’s all. I told myself my rational mind hadn’t deserted me yet even if my eyes insisted on tricking me! OK, at one point I did wonder if I should stride back to the staffroom, bring my briefcase into the hall, whip the gauntlet from it right before the startled kids, but I soon mastered myself, reminded myself that vision was no more than my nerves playing up. And, though those nerves sparked and fizzled, once I was in front of the children, I automatically slipped into an assured performance. My voice boomed, taking possession of the hall; it thundered through the first hymn in a way that could give the kids no doubt who was in charge. I told them about the theft. I’ll admit my oration was dramatic. Think it was partly my anger spilling over at that dreadful crime, at this horrendous modern world in which such things can take place. I’m also sure it was all the anxiety jostling through my body, but I couldn’t resist frightening them. Brought up Lucy’s demise – that made a few lips wobble. Gave some biblical examples of how the Lord dealt with human sins in the past – Sodom and Gomorrah, Cain scorched with his shameful mark, Noah’s Flood. And – by God! – looking out of those windows, anyone would have thought we were in for a second Deluge. The rain was slamming down, making – I thought – a great backdrop to my diatribe. And – who knows? – maybe one day the Lord really will lose patience with this wicked modern world and send plagues and catastrophes upon us. Perkins and Leigh exchanged a look as I raged and bellowed. Well, this is a Christian school, this is a Christian country so why shouldn’t I cite the Bible? Or nowadays can half-educated lady teachers question the Word of the Lord? Wanted to tell them there are more things in heaven and earth than their tiny minds could dream of. A thunderbolt from heaven could wipe the sneers from their faces quick smart! They’re the type I could quite happily see turned into pillars of salt for their female presumptions.

  I was still shaky when I started teaching my class. Couldn’t stop thinking about that damned glove. Kept seeing the thing in my briefcase. I decided that as soon as break came, I’d take my bag into the staffroom, have another look. Until then I’d keep the section in which I’d seen the gauntlet firmly zipped. Also couldn’t stop thinking about the rain. For hours it must have been hammering – belting with a fury unusual even for Emberfield. As I watched the heads of the pupils bent over their tasks, I couldn’t chase the idea from my brain that such a downpour really might be a punishment. Got me worrying about my own sins – Lucy, Marcus. Thank God some of the kids finished, and I had to go and check their work. Thank God we also had no outbreaks of bad behaviour, no kids triggering my rage by getting all their sums wrong. Even that numbskull Darren Hill got half his right – that hiding yesterday must have had some effect. We did, though, have a bit of entertainment in the morning’s first half, supplied by that buffoon Ryan Watson. The lad was walking down the corridor to the toilet when he managed to stumble over his own feet, lurch right into my room, trip himself up and end up sprawled on the floor. The clown even knocked over my briefcase – scattering pens, rubbers, bits of paper. Boy looked up with such a simpleton’s expression – eyes wide, mouth hanging – that I almost laughed despite my heavy mood. My class certainly had to fight their giggles, had to brandish my palm to make them stop sniggering. Actually, that joker’s antics did make me feel better, jerked me out of my nervous despondency. Jolted my brain into realising the obvious – that only papers and stationery could have been in that briefcase. He’s not a bad lad Ryan, doesn’t provoke my fury in the way Stubbs and Richard Johnson do. I just rounded off his little show, his comedy routine with a bit of ridicule and with three solid whacks when he was bent over after picking up the stuff he’d spilled. Think the poor lad feared I might give him a full walloping, but I let him go. Guess I was grateful to him for bringing me back to reality, for his clown-like capers making it so clear there was no way that awful glove could have been in my bag.

  I still wanted to check though, just to make sure. Break came, but – before I could get to the staffroom – I had to have a tiresome discussion with Perkins. She wanted the kids to stay inside as if a bit of rain would kill them. Getting increasingly presumptuous, Mrs Perkins is, questioning my decisions. Might have to have a word with her, put her in her place. Anyway, told her to shepherd the kids into the playground then strode to the staffroom. I urged myself not to show fear – as soon as I’d got the door closed, I yanked the briefcase open, unzipped that section. Absolutely nothing there. My lips let out a long stream of breath, my shoulders sagged in relief. Don’t know how I could have ever believed that glove was in there – it’s just the damned thing looked so solid, so real. Wiped my forehead and marched out to supervise the kids, grabbing my mac from its peg on the way. Knew we could have a riot if I left the children with Perkins too long! And that woman thinks she can tell me how to do my job! Mind you, when I got outside, I realised how wet it was – kids running and splashing on the water-glazed playground. Knew if it got much worse, I would have to keep them in. Thought what fun that would be – ninety hyperactive kids locked in a humid school! As the rain bashed my hood, I pondered the day’s events. Pretty worrying, those blasted hallucinations – wondered if I should tell the doc. Thought maybe I should keep them to myself – wouldn’t want to end up in the looney bin! Sometimes, though, I wonder if I might be better off there – it’d be more restful than that damned school and that’s a fact! Might have to go fishing this weekend, try to unwind. That’s if all the rivers aren’t flooded. Anyway, those sullen lowland rivers would never match the pure streams I fished in Montana. Where would one find such clear torrents on this pathetic island? Just in the mountains of Scotland, maybe.

  The rain went on crashing down and I had to relent, let the kids stay in during lunchtime and the afternoon break. School ended, and I got ready to set off home – though it’s not as if there’s much comfort there. Bad atmosphere in the house, our meals scoffed in silence. As I started up the car, I wondered if I should begin eating in my bedroom, if I really should get a little TV in there – better than trying to swallow when confro
nted with Sandra’s sour face, Nick’s sulkiness. Edged past the pond. The hateful thing was back to its old size, having greedily gobbled its share of rain. It’s reconquered all the land that got scorched and cracked in summer. I despise that damned pool, but somehow – as I inched by – I couldn’t yank my gaze from it. Some weird fascination made me stare at that pond as I shivered and sweat seeped. Was happy to be driving out of blasted Emberfield – even down a bendy road with so much water smashing onto my windscreen it was hard to see. Drove faster than I should – though it’s not as if I had anything worth speeding towards.

  Monday, 26th September, 1983

  Dreamt again of Marcus, the pond, Lucy, the gauntlet. Had that damned recurring nightmare of the church at Salton, with the bell tolling and the earth quaking over the graves. It’s not as if things aren’t apocalyptic enough. Those damned rains around Emberfield – never seen anything like it! Day after day the water just keeps dropping from the heavens. If it goes on much longer, we’ll have to start building an Ark! Forty days and nights of it and I’m sure the whole town will be swamped! Already some outlying farms and hamlets flooded. Not so bad here in Goldhill. Had the council on the phone, telling me I’m under no obligation to go in. Well, I’ll be damned if I abandon those kids, let a little water stop me doing my job. Do worry a bit when I run the car through those deep puddles on that windy lane, but I’m a man who’s faced down bears! I’m not going to be beaten by a foot or so of brown liquid! It’s ominous though when I’m teaching and the rain’s hammering with such fury hour after hour. If Emberfield was depressing before, it’s beyond miserable now. Just one dripping sodden dreary mess. You know, sometimes I think it wouldn’t be so bad if the Lord did drown that place! I feel guilty saying so, but my lips twitch into a smile when I imagine that town where I’ve spent so many unhappy hours under miles of water. And it does make me grin to picture all those dull office boys and prissy housewives thrashing around in the flood with their horrible children and tasteless garden gnomes, those thick bumpkins and inbred farmers struggling next to their sheep and cows. I’d love to see those kids who’ve streaked my hair with so much grey in deep water – Dennis Stubbs, Darren Hill, that simpering unbearable Suzie Green, that smug Helen Jacobs: they’d all be laughing on the other sides of their faces as they drowned in the waters of God’s wrath. Better stop thinking like that. Got bad enough with Marcus Jones. One drowned kid is more than sufficient for one teaching career!

  Mind you, when the rain crashes so mercilessly, you understand those primitives who wrote the early parts of the Bible. Really does feel like someone up there has got it in for you. Makes you wonder what you’ve done to anger Him. There’s plenty in Emberfield to provoke His rage. There’s what some adults – especially the ones who seem so prim, so holier-than-thou on parents’ evenings – get up to after a few drinks in the pub. Suppose adultery’s always been a small-town amusement, but these jokers with their ‘wife-swapping’ take the whole thing further. Even heard all the chaps put their car keys in a bowl then, with their eyes shut, draw a set out and acquire the owner’s spouse for the evening. And these are exactly the type who are always ranting about morals! Quite a few other small-town sins I’m sure God would like to punish – bit of wife-beating here and there, that hypocrite Davis swindling his customers. It’s not like their kids are much better – I’m amazed what wicked ideas they get in their heads despite my efforts to batter some decency into them. Scary thing is, elsewhere in our nation it’s much worse. Our cities are becoming modern-day Sodom and Gomorrahs, full of lust and violence. Wouldn’t surprise me if one day the Lord decided He’d had enough, drowned our country in a big tidal wave just like with Atlantis. Imagine all the prattling lefties, scrounging immigrants, striking workers, mincing gay boys silenced under miles of calm sea. What peace – what bliss! However, the Bible says we shouldn’t cast the first stone, and I do have my own sins to worry about. Hope if some Judgement Day is coming, I can face the Lord. But there were good reasons for me to act as I did – I just hope God will understand.

  Had a disturbing drive back from school. For a start, there was Marcus’s pond spread all over the road! It was even lapping the opposite pavement. It’s deeper and deeper each day – frays my nerves to hear the engine growling as I inch the car through it. Can’t help feeling that accursed boy – or what we might call his ‘spirit’ – could extract some revenge. Irrational, I know. Just have visions of the car being dragged into that pool, of it sinking, of the brown waters rising against the windows, of filthy trickles seeping inside. Saw the gauntlet on my way home. Just hanging there in the rain, a couple of metres in front of the car, looking as solid and real as the day I saw it in my briefcase. Third such vision since then. Really wonder if I should ask the doc for some pills, if any exist for such maladies. Add them to the damned chemist’s shop I’m swallowing every morning. Seeing the doc in a few days – don’t expect good news.

  Picked up the new TV on my way home. Hadn’t told Sandra or Nick about it. Strode through the house with the thing as their mouths dropped before marching into my room and banging the door. Like being a student again with my own bedsit – weird sort of confined freedom. New TV’s a bit of a triumph, especially as I’m in the doghouse with my family. Guess the walloping I gave Nick last night’s done little to improve relations. Sandra’s straining herself to show her disapproval even more theatrically. Well, let her playact all she wants – I can just turn up the telly, mask the sounds of her pacing about, sighing and slamming doors. At least I have one little space in which I can block everything out. Can’t shut out the rain though. Even with the telly on full blast, I heard it pounding. It’s still crashing down as I sit and write.

  Wednesday, 28th September, 1983

  Damned rain just gets worse. Had an odd experience on the way to school. Last night I’d had that recurring dream of trying to bury Lucy, but being unable to because the ground is too wet. Well, I glanced towards the cemetery as I was driving past and – the place was waterlogged! Headstones and crosses poking out of blasted pools! They’ll be sticking no stiffs in there for a while. Weird how I dreamt of it before it actually happened! Wonder if I’m developing some strange psychic sense. It’s unnerving! Does pressure the mind when you’ve got some bones you don’t know how to dispose of. Must have been insane to lumber myself with them. Seemed like a good idea at the time. I do have the odd dark chuckle after presenting her to the kids, watching their faces, seeing them gawp, imagining their little minds whirring. Good disciplinary tool and that’s a fact! But will I be stuck with that grinning skull forever, with Lucy’s rickety frame? Even when I’m teaching, I’m aware of her grimly hanging in the cupboard. Do wonder sometimes if that girl’s haunting my dreams, if her ghost’s getting its revenge. But how would I get rid of her? Couldn’t bury her in a field – if anyone discovered the skeleton, we could have a blasted manhunt! I might end up having to answer all kinds of tricky questions.

  Things didn’t lighten up when I got to school. Realised the pond had grown so much we had no option but to wade through it. I’d suspected this moment might come and at least we were prepared. Had to park further down the school lane, pull on the old gumboots. By the time the kids turned up, myself, Leigh and Perkins were ready to shepherd them through the water. Meant I had to spend around ten minutes with my feet in the shallows of that accursed pool. Dreadful! Thankfully, the stagnant smell had been diluted by the rain, but just looking down at those brown waters, hearing their slap against my wellies was bad enough. Had a horrible flashback. I was in the pond with Marcus, fighting, grappling, soaked with dirty liquid, the pool’s stench making me want to vomit. And my hand was on the boy’s head, and I was shoving that head down, down into those waters where at least there was peace, peace for me and peace for him. I imagined his mouth filling with filthy fluid. The fact that mouth could no longer jeer or snigger made me want to smile. I watched those bubbles spiralling up. I knew soon no more bubbles would come, but there was ju
st some force, some force coursing through my arm, making me keep his head under.

  I shook my face, tried to come back to the present. I was swaying on my feet – I feared for a moment I’d topple into the pool. I forced myself to focus on sights and sounds – the twittering kids tramping and splashing through the shallows in their wellies, Leigh and Perkins nagging as they guided them. For once, I was glad to hear Perkins’s jarring voice. I hauled my hand across my brow, sucked some deep breaths. I had to be a man, face up to bad memories. I made myself stare at that pond, right into the centre of it, at the dark waters that skulked there, at the very spot that damned incident happened. I breathed heavily, but didn’t let up my gaze. Sweat spouted from my armpits, slithered down my back, but I was determined to overcome my fears. And overcoming them I was – my eyes didn’t move from that patch of water.

  ‘Mr Weirton!’

  I looked round; it was Perkins. All the kids had gone through the pond. Leigh was guiding a bunch into the school building. Perkins was standing with another lot – both that teacher and those kids were gazing at me. I gawped at them for a few seconds then wagged my face. Thought I’d better boom extra loud to reassert my authority, stop any funny ideas forming in their heads.

  ‘Come on, what are you waiting for!? You all know how to walk, don’t you!? You’d better get into that school quick smart or this palm might swing behind you to give you some encouragement!’

  The day dragged past. The rain went on slamming down – beating on the roof, on the path outside in a way that was both monotonous and alarming. Day was enlivened by a bit of entertainment – I gave Stubbs a good walloping in the morning, Darren Hill a sound whacking in the afternoon. My hand thrashed out its impacts, complementing – I thought – the rain’s tempo. Been giving out a lot of hidings recently, like that whopper Richard Johnson copped yesterday. Boy could hardly stand afterwards. Don’t know what it is, why I should be thrashing them more than usual, but sometimes – as I’m battering their backsides in time with the rain – I get a sense it’s some strange appeasement to the Lord. Sounds weird, but when I’m beating away in my rhythmic trance, the idea floats into my brain that if we show God we’re capable of punishing sins ourselves, He’ll spare us His Deluge. Have to batter them long and hard to show Him that, so the sounds of those impacts float up to heaven, so they can be heard above the crashing downpour. Perkins used to nod in satisfaction as I gave out wallopings, but now she looks troubled, shocked. Her sour face reminds me of Sandra’s. Those blasted females would have us bring our lads up with no discipline. Then how would this world be? Plenty of lads have tasted my hand in the last week or so, even pupils who aren’t often in trouble. Only exceptions are Ryan Watson and the younger Browning boy. Those two are usually good lads though sometimes they do need setting right. It’s just that, when they annoy me, some odd force seems to stay my hand; a voice in my brain insists I let them off. Heaven knows why. Hope I’m not being too lax on them.