The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  Later, alone in my room, I drew the glove from its hiding place. I gazed at it, turning it as the light played across its dull scorched metal. Even though we’d abandoned our plot to put it on Weirton, it was worth keeping. Even if God’s fury was linked to the theft of the gauntlet, we’d hopefully have finished our ship by the time He’d drowned Emberfield and we could just sail off. I slipped the glove back in its bags, put it once more in its musty corner of my cupboard. That night I lay in the dark listening to the pounding rain. I supposed things had worked out well. The glove would keep us safe from Weirton’s rampages, from the punches of Richard Johnson and Stubbs, from Darren Hill running amok until the rain drowned all those troublemakers and we could just float away. And, when the downpour stopped for a short time, I even heard the rolls and patters of the Drummer Boy, his reassuring rattles drifting through the blackness, across the sodden land to encourage me. I thought about all the spooks of Emberfield and Salton and murmured my thanks to them. I wondered how they’d feel, having been swamped by the deluge – the bones of the Scots in the waterlogged earth, the Drummer in his flooded tunnel. But then, I supposed, if ghosts couldn’t eat, they couldn’t drown either so I guessed they wouldn’t have much to worry about.

  The next day I trudged to school with Jonathon, following the long line of kids marching up the strip of pavement as the streams of floodwater flowed down the road. There was more good news. Jonathon whispered that he thought he’d solved our problems – he’d found some waterproof paint in a corner of his dad’s shed he hoped might do the job of tar. As for sails, though he was no closer to figuring out how to rig them up, he’d discovered an ancient inflatable dingy lurking in the shed’s corner too. He suggested we could use the oars from that to paddle our ark. He’d take the sheet, the encyclopaedia and any bits of rope he could find, and – as our ship floated on the quiet waters – try to work out what to do about sails.

  The teachers marched us through the shallows of Marcus’s pond. After assembly, we sat in Perkins’s room, labouring through some maths as outside God’s fury bashed down. Weirton strode in.

  ‘Mrs Perkins,’ the voice rumbled. ‘I wonder if I might have a word with the children.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Weirton,’ Perkins’s simpering lips said.

  Weirton strode forward and back, taking possession of the classroom floor, which seemed suddenly tiny under his massive feet. The face stared down. It was its ordinary ham-like colour, but a frown hinted at some serious speech to come. The eyebrows then narrowed; the lips were pulled into a quivering snarl. Weirton paced some more before his first finger thrust up and the voice boomed.

  ‘Children! I would like to talk to you about the importance of …’ Weirton trailed off, strode without speaking, allowing hammering rain and running water to be the room’s only sounds ‘… the importance of respect for our elders!’

  My heart started to thud – had Davis told him? At least we had the glove to protect us. I glanced over at Jonathon. His face was white; his mouth gave a wobble, but he just kept on looking at Weirton.

  ‘Without children having respect for grown-ups –’ the voice was getting louder, angrier as it rolled and echoed round the room, ‘– what sort of world would we have? I’ll tell you!’ The arm jerked, hurled the first finger over us as Weirton started to yell. ‘A world full of rude, ungrateful boys and girls; a world full of children who never learn because they won’t listen to the wisdom of those who’ve lived long lives! A world of ignorant buffoons and rowdy clowns – dunces who are rowdy and ignorant because they haven’t learnt from the punishments and guidance of grown-ups! And …’ Weirton paused. ‘I have to say we have examples of such buffoons, such clowns sitting right here! Oh yes, you know who you are!’

  The eyes swept the class. The thuds of my heart shook me. Even if Weirton was talking about us, surely a telling-off would be the worst we’d get – the glove would protect us against the teacher’s violence.

  ‘Let me tell you about an incident that happened yesterday!’

  Weirton halted his stride. The red of his face was deepening. The hands bunched themselves into fists; those fists waved.

  ‘Two boys went into Mr Davis’s shop. And those boys thought it was funny, thought it would be a great laugh, to insult Mr Davis by … by …’

  The teacher threw his body into the air. He crashed down, leapt again, smashed down and jumped up as the huge fists bashed the thighs, as sweat ran down the shining face.

  ‘And those boys dared to ask him … they actually dared to ask him if … if … if he was one of Noah’s sons and had been on the Ark!’

  Out of my eye’s corner, I saw Stubbs clamping his lips with his teeth to contain a smirk.

  ‘Daring to insult him because of his age!’

  Under the table, my legs ran; my whole body trembled. There could be no doubt Weirton knew of our guilt. But with the glove in our possession, surely he could inflict no hurt on us.

  ‘And those boys know exactly who they are!’ The body went on leaping, the fists punching the thighs. ‘Mentioning no names – Jonathon Browning and Ryan Watson!’

  A gasp floated up from our classmates. Weirton stopped his jumping, thrust his finger at Jonathon then me.

  ‘Look at these imbeciles, these buffoons! Look at them now then look at them again after I’ve finished with them! And let what you’re about to see be a lesson to you never ever to insult your elders!’

  Weirton paused; he swayed and twitched for a moment; what looked like indecision crumpled the vast face. Weirton pounced, crashed down in front of me. The hand shot out, clasped my wrist. I was yanked from my chair and was soon dangling from Weirton’s upraised arm. In that still second, I prayed to God, begged all the spooks we’d made our pledges to for protection. I was sure the gauntlet would save me. The hand whistled down, carving a mighty arc through the air. It slammed into me, ripping its track of pain across my rear. I floated up, swung back – back to meet Weirton’s rushing palm. In my shock, I hadn’t steeled myself – tears exploded, shamefully, just on that second wallop. Out they arced as I swung up. My sobs started as I hurtled down. The palm smashed onto my behind – up again I was pitched as more tears sprayed. That palm went on bashing, hurling me high as tears were flung and sobs gurgled. On it beat, each whack shaking my bones, throwing out any breath my lungs had managed to suck in. As the hand swooped and crashed, the lack of air got worse – I felt that panicky vacuum. I fought to swallow breath, but my sob-filled throat couldn’t get it down. Another blow came; again I sailed up as my lips quivered and gasped. Each wallop jolted my vision, a vision that blurred and began to swim as my mind spun and tears swamped my eyes. Was this how Marcus and Lucy had met their ends? Despite my lack of sight, despite the pain of my behind, the pain of my wrenched arm, Weirton thrashed on. A massive blow slammed into me then another then more still. I slipped into a weird daze, a rotating dark world – airless, formless – whose only realities were pain and the hand’s constant thuds. Was this the world that bordered death’s kingdom, the world Marcus and Lucy had travelled through? On and on the palm bashed. There was nothing but the agony in my stretched arm; the agony rhythmic blows were driving onto my rear; the agony of starved lungs. My world was blackness, pain; this world now enclosed me and I didn’t know if I could ever get back. For some reason, I started to count the wallops. I got to six, seven and I was slipping, slipping from one state into another, as my head swirled, as I spiralled down and down, floating through this strange consciousness.

  I had a cloudy sensation of numb feet touching the floor. Weirton let go of my arm; my body just crumpled. I banged down onto my knees – two agonising jolts shook through me. I sucked in big shrieking gulps of air – my lungs aching as they stretched. I swept the sleeve of my jumper over my eyes, looked up. The tear-blurred room shuddered back into focus. I pushed myself from my knees up into a shaking stand. I sucked in more precious breath as I glanced around. My classmates stared – there was no hint of a sneer,
even on the faces of Stubbs and Johnson. Perkins stood rigid, her mouth a broad hole. There was no sign of the tight-lipped satisfaction with which she normally watched Weirton’s displays. Weirton was hunched over, his hands resting on shaking legs. The face was the brightest scarlet I’d ever seen. The huge chest heaved and strained as he hauled breath in, let it judder out. Sweat poured down the quivering cheeks, dropped to the carpet. Pain rumpled the teacher’s face. One hand moved from the thigh it clasped, inched up until it rested on the left side of Weirton’s chest. It grasped that area – perhaps hoping it could soothe the heart I was sure pounded within. More minutes went by as the teacher sweated and gasped, as his hand clutched his ribs. Finally, the massive body straightened up. Out came the hanky to mop his face. Weirton took off his steamed-up glasses, gave them a wipe too. Putting his specs back on, he gazed down at me. The arm thrust, the finger pointed, the voice rolled out, ordering me back to my chair. I lurched into a swaying walk, jerking and wobbling across the room on circus legs. The first hiccup leapt from me. For once, I saw no boys battling their amusement, no one fighting their sneers. The children were pale, their mouths open. Another hiccup jumped out as I steered myself towards my seat. I tried to lower my rear. My legs gave way – my backside crashed onto the chair, sending a surge of pain through me.

  ‘I told you,’ Weirton rumbled, ‘to look at this clown, this joker after I’d finished with him! So look well children, observe the rewards of the rude, the insolent, the rewards of idiot boys who don’t know how to talk to their elders!’

  ‘And –’ Weirton once more swept his hankie across his cheeks, forehead; I noticed the enormous sweaty patches under his jacket’s arms ‘– I’m afraid to say we have another joker, another clown in this class, another ignorant buffoon! So watch again children – watch how this character will soon be laughing on the other side of his face!’

  Weirton sprang at Jonathon. Again, the arm shot out; again it clasped the wrist. Jonathon was lifted out of his chair. The hand swooped, banged onto Jonathon’s rump. All Weirton’s exhaustion had slipped away; the hand floated up and powered down, sending Jonathon on his swinging flights. Perhaps the fourth time that hand smashed, Jonathon’s tears flew. I guessed – knowing what would come – he’d dammed them better than me. But now they gushed down his cheeks, were pitched across the room with each whack. Weirton’s face reddened once more into scarlet; sweat coursed down it as he thrashed on. The hand beat relentlessly – the wallops reverberating round the class. The only other noises were the rain’s bashing rhythm and my hiccups. Weirton slipped into a daze – his face setting itself into a determined expression though the eyes were elsewhere. The hand went on pounding. Jonathon flew, his sobs chugged, he gargled, and I knew the stage the whacking was getting towards. Sure enough, his lips began grasping for breath. Jonathon’s eyes spoke of his stomach’s nausea, his lungs’ agonising squeeze, but still the teacher hammered on. I prayed to God as my heart thumped, hoping He would rescue my friend even though He hadn’t listened to my pleas for myself. I begged all the spooks in Emberfield and Salton to help him even though that dread gauntlet had let us down. But these silent requests did nothing to stop Weirton. On he thrashed, ignoring his glowing face and rushing sweat, ignoring the desperate gurgles and spasming lips of his pupil. Again and again, the hand raced down, it beat and beat until a gargantuan wallop crashed onto the behind. The impact rang, throwing Weirton from his trance. He glanced around – at the hanging-mouthed kids, at Perkins standing stiffly, at the rain battering outside. He wagged his head – as if to wake himself – slammed a few more whacks into my friend then waited till Jonathon swung to a halt and set him down. Both teacher and boy panted, struggling to suck in breath. Weirton again was hunched, straight arms supporting his bulk as his hands rested on bent knees. As he rasped and sweated, one hand inched up to clutch that same part of his chest. I imagined how his heart must bash – it’d be like me running around the playground thirty times. Pain screwed the teacher’s face as he gripped his ribs harder. But eventually he was able to straighten himself. His cheeks still ran with sweat; the shirt beneath his jacket was soaked; his underarm patches had expanded. He thrust his finger; still gasping and spluttering, he ordered Jonathon back to his chair. Jonathon lurched and staggered on his bouncing legs; hiccups jumped from him. He lowered his rear onto his seat’s painful plastic. Weirton panted a little longer as his chest heaved. He brought out his grey sodden hankie, wiped it over his face. A couple more minutes of wheezing went by before Weirton waved his finger and the voice boomed.

  ‘So let that be a lesson to you, Jonathon Browning! Yes, let it be a lesson to you all! I don’t know what’s going wrong with our society! I used to think Emberfield was shielded from the immorality and decay going on elsewhere in our nation!’

  I didn’t understand all Weirton’s words, but the teacher just swiped his hankie across his face and continued.

  ‘But even here we see wickedness creeping in! Boys insulting their elders! Boys tricking each other into dropping bricks on their heads and pushing one another off bridges! People stealing from a church! A church, by God! Look at it out there!’

  The arm thrust the pointing finger at the window, out of which the rain still slammed.

  ‘Just look at it! It wouldn’t surprise me if the Lord had had enough and was drowning this sinful place, just like in the Bible!’

  Perkins, who’d been nodding at Weirton’s speech, now scrunched her lips into a frown. Perhaps she also didn’t understand all his long words.

  ‘By God, I wouldn’t blame the Lord if He did that! But, whatever punishments God might inflict, know that this hand’ – Weirton held up his palm – ‘will also penalise any wrongdoing! The Lord’s justice might work slowly and via crooked paths, but I can tell you mine is much speedier! If I hear of any of you – any of you! – cheeking your elders, the punishments I have just given out will seem like a walk in the park! I hope you all understand.’

  With that, Weirton turned on his heel and strode from our room. Outside the rain hammered even harder.

  We were kept in for the rest of the day through both breaks and lunchtime. As the rain pounded and burbled, I thought about what the teacher had said. Like us, he seemed in little doubt the downpours and floods were a punishment from God. Though Weirton hadn’t mentioned his own sins, he’d given a good summary of ours. And he’d really raged about the theft of the gauntlet. Maybe that was the main reason God was flinging His anger down! Now I thought about it, I’d have been annoyed if someone had walked into my house and taken something, and my house wasn’t even holy! And what if we couldn’t finish our ark in time and we died, struggling along with our neighbours in filthy water as the rain lashed us? As my heart knocked, I hoped, prayed it wouldn’t be too late to appease God’s fury.

  I couldn’t really talk to Jonathon till school ended. As usual, the teachers marched us through Marcus’s shallows then left us to wander home. I feared we might have to put up with some jibes, some shoves, slaps and punches from our classmates in celebration of Weirton’s display, but nothing much came. Even Stubbs only gave us some half-hearted taunting. When Stubbsy had tramped off down the increasingly narrow strip of pavement that stood above the water, I turned to my friend.

  ‘So, the gauntlet didn’t work.’

  ‘Yeah –’ Jonathon shrugged ‘– not that it matters much anyway, not if all this is gonna be drowned. Better get back to yours and crack on with our ark.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but there is something else we could try.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Since that glove’s no use, since it’s not magic after all, we might as well put it back.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You heard what Weirton said about God drowning us because He’s angry! Maybe if we promise we’ll put the gauntlet back, He’ll change his mind and not drown Emberfield!’

  ‘Could be worth a try,’ said Jonathon. ‘Though we shouldn’t stop making our ark till we’re s
ure the rain’s really finished.’

  Before we started banging, sawing, hammering, we got down on our knees. Through my jeans I felt the floor’s cold damp. We had to kneel at the back of the garage, near where we’d hidden our ark, because of the little waves lapping under the door. Though we hoped our prayer might soften God’s fury, He wasn’t showing any sign of relenting yet. The rain still battered its rage-filled rhythm. I spoke the words.

  ‘Dear Lord, we’re so sorry for stealing the gauntlet from Your house. We only did it to protect the kids from Weirton, but we know now it was wrong and we promise we’ll put it back as soon as we can. And we’re sorry for all our other sins. Please don’t drown Emberfield – well, apart from maybe Weirton, Dennis Stubbs and Richard Johnson if that’s Your will. Amen.’