The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  Speaking of our ship, it was progressing well, but there were still a few things we weren’t sure about. I’d thought about just nailing our sheet to the mast, but Jonathon had now read in his encyclopaedia that sails were controlled by a complex system of ropes that could magically cause them to catch the wind and so send the ship any way you wanted. But the encyclopaedia didn’t tell us much, and even Jonathon couldn’t figure out how such ropes would work – some experiments with his dad’s garden string hadn’t been successful. Also, though the two sides of our hull were finished, there were gaps between the planks through which water would come. The encyclopaedia said some stuff called tar kept ships waterproof, but didn't tell us how to make it. These problems were not just minor hitches – we really had to get our ship seaworthy. The rain still lashed down; the clouds still crowded above. People were building sandbag walls around their houses. If we couldn’t get our boat ready, it might soon be too late.

  ‘Damn,’ said Jonathon, as we stood in my garage, ‘we’re so close, but if we can’t work these things out, we’ll never get the ark to sail.’

  ‘But what can we do?’ I said.

  ‘Well, if there’s a sol-ut-ion –’ Jonathon glanced up as rain crashed on the roof ‘– we’ll have to find it fast!’

  ‘Got it,’ I said. ‘Who’s the only person round here who knows about boats?’

  ‘Mr Davis, of course!’ said Jonathon. ‘He is one of Noah’s sons! Or … at least he probably is.’

  ‘Course he is! How else could he be so old? Let’s go and ask his advice.’

  Soon we were trudging up the main street to Davis’s shop. The road was two gushing streams – the strip in the middle narrower than ever, only wide enough for one car to squeeze down. The waters also covered a good half of the pavement, and we had to squash ourselves against fences and walls as we edged along the street. We paused to look for the witch’s hand, peering down into its crack – it was there: a dread black outline against a slip of dark sky. We passed the pub, outside which planks served as crude bridges to allow the wicked customers to get to that inn: customers who had obviously not learned the lessons of God’s wrath, who still – sadly – provoked Him into flinging down more rain. We crossed the road – the water swirling above our rubber encased ankles – before we stopped by the Old School. Rain pelted through its smashed roof and broken windows; spurted from a dangling gutter. The playground was now a lake enclosed by crumbling walls, by the high step that led down to it.

  ‘Feel sorry for those kids,’ I said. ‘They have to put up with the ghostly teacher and now all this rain!’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jonathon, ‘but do you think rain bothers ghosts much? I mean, they don’t have bodies to get wet, do they?’

  ‘See what you mean,’ I said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Must still be pretty miserable for them. We’ll have to give them some of the sweets we buy in the shop.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jonathon, ‘though if they don’t have bodies, I’m not sure how they could eat them.’

  He was right, I supposed, though it felt odd to think about it that way. I wondered if there was any point in going on with our practice of lobbing sweets to those poor kids. They were worse off than I’d thought if they couldn’t even enjoy those candies. Yet, on the good side, I guessed it meant more sweets for us. We tramped on to the shop. The bell announced our entrance, our exit from the pounding rain. Davis looked up. Seeing his face – so ancient, so deeply gouged with lines – made it seem mad Jonathon could have doubted Noah was his father.

  ‘What can I get you lads?’ the aged voice quavered as the loose skin around the mouth shook.

  ‘Two ten-penny mixtures, please,’ Jonathon said.

  Davis went through his routine of screwing lids off and putting them back on, hovering tongs above jars as the old eyes watched for longing, for dismay in our faces. But that day Davis would be disappointed. We’d far more on our minds than sweets. I’d walked in full of the intention of asking Davis outright how they’d built the Ark, but now I felt shy. I didn’t know why – it wasn’t a rude question, but my heart started to knock. My lips quivered; my throat tightened. Jonathon looked uncertain too. His eyes jerked around nervously; his teeth clamped his lower lip. Davis went on with his usual show – piling shrimps into bags, opening jars of cola bottles before slamming them shut having fished out no sweets, dangling his tongs for ages over the flying saucers before lifting one out. But, his face frowning when he realised this was having no effect, he quickened up, and we actually got a good selection of candies, as the puzzled and resentful tongs fumbled them into our bags. The two bulging sachets were laid on the counter.

  ‘That’ll be ten pence each, then lads.’

  The timeworn tremble of that voice reminded me of our mission. I pressed my silver token into Davis’s hand. As his watery eyes clasped me, I tried to haul up the courage to ask my question.

  ‘Er … Mr Davis …’ I said.

  ‘Yes, son.’

  I couldn’t form my words – my brain and lips couldn’t connect though I was sure my query was reasonable enough. In the end, it was Jonathon who blurted, ‘Mr Davis, you know when you were on Noah’s Ark, how did you –’

  ‘Noah’s Ark!? What on earth are you talking about? Why would I be on that?’

  ‘It’s just that you’re so old, we thought you must be one of Noah’s sons –’

  ‘Why … you cheeky little …’

  Davis’s face scowled; the flaps of skin wobbled. With a speed that shocked us both, Davis scooted around his counter and teetered towards us. The old palm slammed into the side of my head. It hit with surprising force – the store rocked, a little like Noah’s boat might have, before righting itself. Davis was already onto my friend. One wrinkled hand scrunched the top of his kagool and shoved Jonathon – with unbelievable strength – against the shop door. The other hand rained a storm of slaps onto his head.

  ‘You cheeky little blighters!’ The voice trembled as the hand beat on. ‘Reckon you’re funny, do you? If I was fifteen years younger, then – by God – I’d give you something to think about! I’d knock you both into the middle of next year, let alone next week! One of Noah’s sons!? On the Ark!? Never heard anything like it!’

  The aged yet iron clasp still gripped Jonathon. The other hand flew down, knocking his head one way then the next. Jonathon was white-faced – so shocked he didn’t even struggle. I too was motionless with surprise. But before I could stop them, my stupid lips murmured.

  ‘So, Mr Davis, you’re really not one of Noah’s sons?’

  ‘Course not you little rascal! You bloody well come here!’

  The hand untwisted itself from Jonathon’s kagool and Davis leapt at me. A flurry of slaps to the face and head made me stumble back.

  ‘Don’t think I won’t tell Mr Weirton! Don’t think I won’t tell your dads! As if we haven’t got enough to worry about with these floods, you come in here with your daft comments! Well, don’t think we won’t set you right – we’ll thrash all that cheek out of you!’

  Davis went to grab my coat in the same way he had Jonathon’s. I ducked the stiff grasping fingers, snatched our two bags from the counter.

  ‘Quick!’ I shouted.

  Jonathon and I lurched for the door. I fumbled it open as Davis hurled down more slaps. We slipped through and were outside, sprinting away in the rain. Davis leaned from his doorway, shook his fist, shouted after us.

  ‘Don’t think I won’t tell your dads and Mr Weirton! Don’t think that I won’t!’

  We ran till we were opposite the pub, where we splashed to a halt and spent a moment getting back our breath.

  ‘Blimey,’ I said, ‘wouldn’t have thought old Davis could be so strong!’

  Though it was nothing compared to the aftermath of one of Weirton’s wallopings, the sides of my skull ached, the world seemed to be batted back and forth in the way Davis had batted my head.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jonathon, ‘do you think he’ll really
tell Weirton and our parents?’

  ‘Probably, but so what? They won’t be able to whack us – not when we’re protected by the glove.’

  Yet, as I spoke those words, I couldn’t stop doubt sneaking into my mind. Actually, how would that gauntlet protect me from the swooping palms of Weirton and my dad? Unless it could send out some mysterious force which would freeze their hands.

  ‘Are you sure the glove will stop them thrashing us?’ Jonathon said. ‘The legend could be wrong – just like the legend about Davis being on the Ark.’

  I shrugged and we walked away. Though we now knew there was no point in tossing sweets to the kids in the Old School, we trudged up to Marcus’s pond to throw him some. Although we might have doubted some legends, there could be no dispute about Marcus being in there. Hadn’t we seen his head? Hadn’t we seen how he’d tried to grab Stubbs? We pitched a few sweets into Marcus’s waters – watching the precious candies plop or foam in his shallows – but we didn’t throw in too many as Marcus was now so massive we supposed he didn’t need much help to keep up his strength. He’d not only spread across the road and over its far pavement, but his waters were threatening to invade the pub carpark and even inch under the fence of the school.

  ‘Wow!’ I said. ‘Soon Marcus might drown the whole of Emberfield!’

  ‘Better get back to your garage,’ said Jonathon, as the rain beat down even harder, making the pool seethe as drops crashed into it, ‘might only have a couple of days left before we have to sail away, before all this is underwater!’

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The Diary of James Ronald Weirton

  Monday, 3rd October, 1983

  Night after night I’m tortured by bad dreams. And day and night the blasted rain keeps bashing. Each day I drive to and from school, urging my car over that damned ford, looking around me through the downpour at the drenched landscape. Sometimes it’s like the water’s not coming down in drops, but in continuous jets shooting from the sky. Often look like bars – damned grey bars of a prison cell. That’s how I feel about my life here. It’s times like this when I really long for my old life in Montana – just to feel the freshness of dry air against my skin instead of this clamminess that somehow grasps you. How I wish I could get out of this sodden dunghill of a place!

  Council sent a truck round Emberfield today handing out sandbags. Saw some residents struggling to build them into walls to protect their prissy houses and pathetic gardens. I found myself almost willing the waters over those barriers. Council on the phone, talking about closing the school. Told them – politely – to get lost. James Weirton doesn’t let a few drops of water defeat him; doesn’t let them stop him delivering knowledge and guidance to the children of Emberfield. Knowledge and guidance are two things those kids are undoubtedly in need of.

  Speaking of which, I battered the bums of a couple of ignorant buffoons today. In the past, when I gave out fewer whackings – two or three a week – a walloping could be a bit of entertainment, for me and I think for the kids as well, the high point of a dull day. Now they seem as regular as the rain’s monotonous bashing. But, if it’s what those kids require, you won’t find me holding back.

  This endless crashing rain though, it does something to you. Can’t shake the notion it is some sort of punishment – that God’s interrupted the universe’s smooth workings to teach us a lesson. Well, whatever penalty He has in mind, we’ll just have to take it. No time left to build an Ark. Maybe God could find no righteous men in Emberfield to warn in advance and tell to get hammering. Just decided to drown the whole damned place.

  Had to wade through that hateful pond – got to be my day’s worst part! Accursed thing’s getting deeper – even in its shallowest sections it’s nearing the tops of the children’s wellies. Can’t help thinking what might happen with just one slip. I walk through carefully, heart pounding, with jolting breath. But I can’t stop myself staring at those sombre waters. Maybe I need to do it – confront my terrors like a man.

  More jolly games at home. Sandra striding and banging outside my room as I tried to watch TV. Starting to feel like some fugitive in here! Heard her muttering about phoning a solicitor. As if I haven’t got enough to fret about without her female hysterics! OK, then, to bed. Let’s hope we don’t find tomorrow that the Lord has drowned us all!

  Wednesday, 5th October, 1983

  The monotonous pounding of the rain outside, the monotonous drag of the school day within. The monotonous blows of hand against buttocks – had to give out a grand total of four whackings today! Council on the phone again – talking of sandbagging the corner of the school grounds near the pond. Asked them why they didn’t drain the damned thing when they had the chance, why they didn’t fill in the blasted hollow so water couldn’t gather there. Got nothing but mumbled excuses and buck-passing – typical! These floods are getting serious though – saw some footage of outlying villages badly hit on the news. No one flooded in Emberfield yet though those waters are lapping ominously against the sandbag walls.

  Only diverting thing that happened today was when I popped into Davis’s for a paper. Could see something had got the old goat upset. Not that he’s a joyous sunbeam normally, but today it was obvious he was put out. His repulsive floppy face darkened then he went into this chuntering monologue about the insolence of the young, about the importance of people having respect for their elders. I nodded, said I agreed, but the buffoon just went on, his fragile body trembling with rage. He said the community was so lucky to have a headmaster like me – someone who still believed in the value of old-fashioned discipline, who wasn’t afraid to employ his right hand. Said all the parents felt the same. I nodded again, told him I was glad they approved. Then the clown leant over his counter, lowered his voice in the way he does when confiding a secret or giving some momentous news though heaven knows why because there’s usually no one else in there. The aged rascal let it all spill out, told me why he was so furious. It took every muscle in my face to hold down my smile. Those scamps Ryan Watson and Jonathon Browning had been in his shop, and had asked him whether he was one of Noah’s sons and had been on the Ark! The cheek of it snatched the breath from my mouth! But it was a cheek that was creative, inventive, and – let’s face it – we rarely see much of those two qualities round here! Davis couldn’t see anything funny about that incident. He was hobbling in a weird dance as anger jerked through his body, looking like some decrepit puppet jolted on its strings. Told him I’d deal with those two miscreants. As he tottered in his shaking jig, the old rogue said, ‘I’m happy to hear that Mr Weirton; I’m most happy to hear you’ll take those two lads in hand. It’s obvious they need it! Don’t you hold back, Mr Weirton, you thrash it into them never ever to insult their elders!’

  I promised those boys would feel the full force of my justice.

  ‘That’s good, that’s good!’ the aged lips spluttered, still spasming in fury. ‘You know, Mr Weirton, you’ve been far from lax on the discipline front lately. I hear about it all the time – you clobbering Darren Hill one day, Dennis Stubbs the next. And a good thing too, but I haven’t heard of you chastising those two comedians who insulted me today for a while. I’d never dream of telling you how to do your job, Mr Weirton, but you know what young lads are like. Ease off the discipline for even the shortest time and they’re running riot! So, don’t you hold back, Sir, don’t you hold back!’

  I nodded gravely, left the shop clutching my ‘Telegraph’. Once outside I was able to chuckle into the rain. Those two wags! They won’t be laughing tomorrow, but you’ve got to hand it to them – they do have a gift for comedy! Old Davis on Noah’s Ark – that was just priceless! But as I edged the car out of Emberfield, as the wipers strained to clear the cascades on the windscreen, as I saw the stacked sandbags looking puny against the rising waters, I began to understand Davis’s point. It’s appalling really – lads insulting a man of his age. Can’t be having things like that or Emberfield will be joining the rest of the country
in its slide towards moral ruin. As the rain beat on the car roof, my amusement gave way to surging anger. I mean, how dare they, how simply dare they! The wittiness of their remarks added to my rage. Like so many of these smart-arsed liberals you see on telly – thinking that because people giggle at their cheap jokes, they can trash and insult the venerable and sacred things in our culture! Sort of mentality that leads to idiots stealing from churches. Need to crack down on that kind of thing fast! Lack of respect for the elderly is just the type of sin that caused God to send the first Flood. And, as the rain hammered, I reflected that such crimes are unlikely to ease His fury now.

  Chapter Forty

  We left Marcus’s pond, got back to my garage and worked as quickly as we could. I knocked nails and sawed planks, sanded down cabin walls as Jonathon pondered the mysteries of sails and tar. He couldn’t come up with any answers, but a little later he was cobbling together some bits of wood to be something called a ‘rudder’, which he said would steer the boat. He claimed such things were controlled by the ship’s wheel, a bit like how my dad’s steering wheel guided his car. Jonathon was eyeing up the wheel of an old bike, trying to work out how he could link it to the rudder. We had to break off when it was time for tea. I tramped towards my house, passing stacks of sandbags, before plodding through our drenched garden. Our gnome now sat exactly on the water level, his toadstool hid by the flood. Not that the increase in water had given him any more success in catching fish, but his hook still dangled patiently. We ate in the kitchen as the rain drummed and gurgled above, as out of the window it slapped onto our soaked lawn. As well as fearing we could drown if our Ark wasn’t ready in time, I was afraid Davis might have told Mum and Dad about what we’d said in the shop. Would my father clear his throat, give me a telling off before following it up with a spanking? But as we sliced and chopped our way through dinner, Dad didn’t speak of that incident. He grumbled and ranted about the floods, about ‘lefties’ – whoever they were, about ‘immigration’ – whatever that was, and about the ‘declining moral standards’ that had led someone to steal from Salton Church. The mention of that gauntlet made me gulp, made my heart strike up a heavy beat, but then I thought of how this was an example of that gauntlet protecting me. Dad hadn’t heard about our outrage in the shop because that glove was shielding us from violence. That meant Weirton wouldn’t hear of it either – we wouldn’t have to worry about his whackings, even about the possibility of him murdering us. OK, the glove hadn’t stopped Davis’s onslaught of slaps, but I guessed the legend referred to real violence of the sort Weirton could dish out rather than the tottering assaults of an old man.