The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  Chapter Fifty-five

  I step back from the window, let the curtains swing closed. I lie on the bed, try to read a book, but can’t concentrate. Try to steel myself for the awful hours waiting tomorrow. It’ll be Sunday; Mum’s going to cook a roast; my sister’s coming over. Another family member I don’t get on with. Sang about and celebrated Weirton’s whackings as a child, but by the time she started school Stone’s softer regime was in place. Think she felt cheated – robbed of witnessing her share of those legendary thrashings, those mythical head-drills, those volcanic tantrums, those elaborate humiliations the headmaster had inflicted. She picked up on Mum and Dad’s laments for the golden age of Mr Weirton. Having never been on the end of one of those wallopings, humiliations, eruptions herself, she didn’t know what it was like to experience them. She was one of the few kids who never took to Stone. Guess she felt the school’s calm predictable workings and the warm bubble of praise and acceptance in which Stone enclosed us lacked something. Grew up to be just like my folks. She married a local boy, had a couple of kids. Her husband’s a big ugly brute. He beats the children, almost as mercilessly as Weirton thrashed us, beats them with my sister’s encouragement. Thank God he’s not coming to the lunch. The moment my eyes rested on that repulsive oik, I’d want to rip him apart. I’d want to crash punches into him until he knew exactly what it’s like to be thrashed and humiliated. The problem is, he probably does already know. I can imagine the upbringing he’s had. I’m sure it’d startle him to discover some people manage to raise kids without resorting to their right hands. Be as much of a shock as finding out for the first time the earth orbits the sun. I reckon my folks and sister have kept him away from me. They probably made no conscious decision, but somewhere in the dim dungeons of their minds they knew something, or somebody, was likely to explode. I let out a long sigh as I think about that lunch tomorrow. At least when it’s over I can be off, driving away from here, towards the peace and clarity I hope await at my cottage. Or – if I find Weirton – then a confrontation, a forced explanation that might at least quieten certain demons and ghosts.

  So Sunday comes and the crisp yet cloying aroma of roast chicken fills the house along with the sludgy smell of gravy. Soon we’re seated around the kitchen table as the bloody radio crackles, vomiting out bad news in sharp wiry words. Dad snarls and scowls, but thankfully doesn’t launch into a full rant. I struggle to make bland conversation with Sarah, conversation in which I avoid asking too much about her kids. I’m so tense I have to battle to gulp down my meat; the sharp corners of the roast spuds snag in my throat. Our knives and forks click, scrape on china as the conversation flickers and flits between subjects – local affairs, family matters, the weather, cricket and football. I hope, as the last of the meat is sliced, as the last of the gravy is dribbled, as the boiled pudding sits ready, giving off its vanilla scents on the sideboard, that the meal will finish without any incidents, any arguments, any diatribes from Dad, declarations on discipline from Sarah. I just want to get my piece of that pudding inside, slurp a cup of polite coffee and be off: motoring away from Emberfield, the exhaust fumes and tarmac putting the miles between myself and this place that – however much I try to escape it – I always get hauled back to.

  For some moments, our mouths chew, our cutlery clacks, the radio crackles on and dad goes on murmuring his opinions, opinions that never change, views that just stagnate, like stinking ponds.

  ‘The man who never changes his opinion,’ Blake wrote, ‘is like the standing water and breeds reptiles of the mind.’

  I go on hoping we can reach the meal’s end having suffered nothing worse than our strained chats, Dad’s mumbled snarls. Such hopes, of course, are not realised. As our plates sit empty except for gooey pools and lakes of gravy, as our knives and forks lay exhausted side-by-side, as Mum bears the steaming pudding from the sideboard, the conversation has to move, lamentably and predictably, onto ‘old times’.

  ‘I remember you and your friends at school, Ryan,’ Mum says as she settles the pud on the table. ‘You were all real little boys. Mr Weirton had his hands full with you lot. You were all as lively as a bag of ferrets!’

  ‘Exactly as boys should be!’ Dad says. ‘Of course, they wouldn’t like it nowadays; it wouldn’t be politically correct! They’d want you all to be a bunch of sissies!’

  I suck in breath – this is a shock.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ I say. ‘You actually liked the way we were?’

  ‘Course we did,’ Dad says. ‘OK, some lads occasionally went too far: Craig Browning, Dennis Stubbs, and that Marcus Jones – he was a real tearaway! But any nonsense good old Mr Weirton clamped down on. Yet, by and large, you were like young lads should be – cheeky scamps getting into all sorts of scrapes then copping a damned good hiding when necessary!’

  ‘But wait,’ I say. ‘If you were so keen on how we were, why did Weirton have to whack us all the time to change us?’

  ‘Just the way it is.’ Dad shrugs. ‘Young lads need discipline. People have known that since the beginning of time …’

  Dad trails off. He’s been wrong-footed by my question, but won’t admit it. The pudding stays unserved as Mum slides into her seat, watching Dad think.

  ‘It’s like horses,’ he finally says. ‘Yes, horses. If you buy a young horse, you want one with a bit of fire, a bit of kick, a bit of spirit. But you also need to break that horse – otherwise, it’ll be no good. It won’t do the things you need it to. It’s the same with people, especially young lads. We need to break them, for want of a better word, so they can fit into society.’

  ‘And a good thing too,’ my sister pipes up. ‘Look how things are today – crime out of control, prisons full, millions of idlers on benefits! It’s no coincidence there’s been a decline in corporal punishment. I’m just glad my Steve’s a traditional kind of man.’

  ‘I know corporal punishment’s not especially pleasant,’ Dad goes on. ‘It does rather knock the stuffing out of people, as it’s supposed to. But, on balance, I think it’s a good thing!’

  I clench my teeth; my fists grip under the table. Mum notices my anger and switches the subject.

  ‘I saw Mrs Stubbs in town the other day. She was telling me about Dennis’s illness. It sounds terrible – he can hardly keep any food down. The doctors are still struggling to understand it.’

  ‘It’s the hatred!’ I blurt, surprising everyone, even myself. ‘All that hatred bubbling, fermenting inside him for so many years – that’s what’s caused it!’

  There’s shock in Dad’s eyes, but he manages to keep his face scornful yet calm as he turns to me.

  ‘What sort of New Age rubbish is this? Dennis’s illness isn’t the result of hatred or any other emotion. These things have proper scientific causes even if the doctors don’t understand them yet.’

  ‘Illnesses can have psychological and emotional roots,’ I say. ‘What about stress and high blood pressure?’

  ‘Yes, OK,’ says Dad. ‘But why would Dennis be filled with hatred? He had the best upbringing a boy could have, at least until Mr Stone got his way – good firm discipline at home and good firm discipline at school. What could be better for setting a young man up?’

  ‘A lot of things could be better!’ My voice is raised, fury echoes in it. ‘Corporal punishment, as you say, knocks the stuffing out of people. But it knocks out a lot of other things, good things, besides!’

  ‘Like what?’ Dad thrusts his angry sneering face across the table.

  ‘Confidence, compassion, creativity, individuality, motivation, self-control – all these things can be easily thrashed from you! Good things are beaten out and people are left as empty shells –’

  ‘They’re not empty shells – they’re fit for society. And I’d rather have people as “empty shells”, as you call them, than have them mugging old ladies. There has to be order! There has to be discipline! Without those things we’re lost! Sometimes the individual has to be sacrificed to the great
er good!’

  ‘And what fills that empty shell!?’ I shout, bash my fist on the table. ‘Except hatred, bitterness, anger, resentment! Don’t you wonder why Craig Browning, Darren Hill, Richard Johnson have turned out the way they have?’

  ‘Look, if we can just calm down –’ Mum says.

  ‘No, Jane.’ Dad stops her with his outstretched palm. ‘We might as well have this out. I can see what he’s doing. He’s trying to blame the failures of himself and his friends on the discipline their families and Mr Weirton gave them. The problem obviously wasn’t too much discipline, but not enough. It all started to go wrong with that damned Mr Stone then there was also a lack of discipline at that namby-pamby Big School. And look at him now.’ Dad jabs his finger at me. ‘Look what a failure he is! I can hardly believe he’s my son! He’s thirty-five; he’s got barely any money; he’s living in one room in a shared flat in dirty, disgusting, immigrant-ridden, gay-infested London! He’s writing books no one reads and painting pictures no bugger understands! It’s not what I’d call a life. When I was his age, I’d already got a mortgage on this house! The sad thing is there are buggers like him everywhere – pointless human beings with no aims, no direction, no purpose! That’s the consequence of society’s breakdown in discipline!’

  ‘You’re absolutely right, Dad …’ Sarah says, but I’m already standing up. I grab the tablecloth, tear it from the table. The wine bottle, glasses, plates, knives all somersault. The chicken turns and flips, as does the dish of stuffing, the pickle jars. The gravy boat spins, painting sludgy pictures on the air. I breathe heavily, my heart thumps though I feel strangely placid as I watch it all crash down. Mum, Dad, Sarah sit; their mouths hang; their eyes bulge as the bottle shatters, sprays out its acrid white blood, as the glasses break, the plates crack, jars smash, pickles scatter. The pud comes down in the table’s centre – its bowl ruptures, fingers of vanilla creep across the wood.

  ‘Well, I hope you’re proud of yourself!’ Dad says.

  ‘Yes, I am!’ I shout. ‘I’m proud of doing something I should have done years ago!’

  I run over to the sideboard, grab the teapot, hot and full beneath its Rasta hat. It burns my hands as I hurl it across the kitchen. It hurtles through the air – its spout dribbling a black streak. Mum and Sarah duck though it’s flying nowhere near them. It explodes against the wall, leaving a dripping stain, adding its bitter smell to the scents of unleashed vinegar, burst wine. The chicken’s fallen on the floor. I sprint, lash a kick at it. My foot shoots into the hole; I hop, yank the bird from my stuffing-coated boot. I have to laugh. No one else is smiling; their faces are pale, mouths still open as if waiting to catch insects. I run at the bird again, swing my foot. This time it flies, shitting pellets of stuffing before it thuds against the wall. It drops to the ground, leaving grease on the paintwork. I run to the table – that table around which my family are still seated. I grasp its edge and hurl it up. There’s a flying mosaic of shattered china, splintered glass, globs of pudding, shards of meat, spiralling forks and spoons. The table turns, bashes down on its side, bounces once then comes to rest. My family break into motion. Chairs fall; my Mum and sister are running around, waving their hands. Sarah’s screaming; Mum’s howling, tears streaming down their cheeks. Dad’s red, shaking with rage, his eyes fastened on me. He lunges in my direction, throws a punch. I duck. He fires a jab at my stomach; I sidestep it with ease. He attacks me with flailing fists; I skip out of his path. Dad blunders into my sister, almost thumps her, making her shriek even more hysterically. Though my heart thuds, I’m oddly calm, able to think in the chaos. My main worry is the neighbours will get the cops round. Like some angry old bull, Dad’s gazing at me. He’s sweating; his breath’s shaking his torso; his shameful belly’s hanging over his belt. He rushes at me. I can’t resist it. I slam my fist into the side of his skull. A wonderful impact rings; warm satisfaction gushes up from my gut. I smile; it’s the best moment of my life. I’ve hit him with nothing like my full power, but Dad crumples to the floor. He lies there as the women bawl and sob. A few seconds go by then Dad springs right back up. He’s twisting his head from side-to-side, trying – I suppose – to piece together what’s happened. His eyes widen as he takes in the upturned table, the smashed crockery, the tea bleeding down the wall.

  ‘You fucking little bastard!’ he says.

  ‘Well?’ I shout. ‘How did that feel? Want some more, do you? I’d be quite happy to give it to you! Not so much fun being on the end of a walloping yourself, is it!?’

  ‘Can’t you see you’re upsetting your mother!?’

  ‘What about all those times you allowed that maniac to upset me!?’

  Hate blazes in Dad’s eyes. He leaps at me, flings a roundhouse punch. I slap it away; crash my fist into his jaw. Dad’s sprawling on the ground, blinking, head resting on the chicken carcass. Bits of plate, slivers of glass, stray pickles are strewn around him. He stands up, much more slowly this time, gripping the sideboard for help. He hobbles out into the hallway – his walk a defeated totter, a meek shuffle.

  ‘Well?’ I follow him, shouting above the wails. ‘How does it feel having a stronger person beat you? Not so keen on it now, are you!?’

  Dad leans on the hall cabinet, fumbles for the phone. After a couple of attempts, he picks it up. His first finger shivers above the keypad.

  ‘Any more, Ryan,’ he stammers, ‘and I’m calling the police!’

  ‘I’d be very happy to give you more! And maybe –’ I turn, stare at my mum and sister ‘– I’ll save some for you two! Let you know exactly what it’s like!’

  Sarah lets go a louder, even higher-pitched howl. Dad’s finger comes down on the first nine.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘I’m going!’

  I run up to my bedroom, jog downstairs with my rucksack. Dad brandishes the receiver at me in the way a hunter might shake a club at a wild animal. I stride past him to the front door.

  ‘It’s a pity,’ Dad shouts as I hurl it open, ‘that Weirton didn’t thrash him harder!’

  I slam that door, march down the path, the car keys gripped in my hand – a hand I now notice is trembling. I’m about to pace out of the front garden when I see our gnome, still fishing patiently. I turn, stride across the lawn, boot the gnome hard. He shatters into bits of plaster and I realise he had nothing inside. His rod flies up, flutters down to land in his little pool. A neighbour’s head’s poked over the fence – he’s staring, gob open.

  ‘What the fuck are you looking at!?’ I yell.

  The head plummets below that barrier. I stride to the car, fling my rucksack on the backseat. I twist the key, the engine roars and I’m out of there.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  I pilot the car down our patch of town’s miserable main street. Probably the last time I’ll see it. Can’t imagine ever being welcome back here. My heart’s still pounding. It pumps a strange tingly joy through me. I’m nervous, euphoric – euphoric that I’ll never have to see this street again, that I’ll be free of this place forever. My hands tremble on the wheel; they sting where the teapot burned. I look around as I drive. There are the little redbrick houses, the bungalows roofed by grey cloud. I see the bleak gardens of those dwellings – their enclosed squares of English earth, their trimmed rectangles of grass. Some still have gnomes, even now. I’m approaching the pub’s corner. Some instinct forces me to swing the car around, drive up the school lane. It’s an instinct that makes my rational mind scream protests – I should be getting away in case Dad or the neighbours really do have the bright idea to call the cops. But I need to have one final look at this scrap of Emberfield. I pull up at the school gate, clamber out of the car.

  I gaze at the school first – an evil-looking building, low, redbrick. Seems so much smaller than it used to – the foreboding edifice of my childhood now looks comically tiny: as if someone could pick it up, pack it away in a box. I think of all the wickedness, all the violence that went on in there, of all the wickedness and vio
lence that place inspired in us. I wonder if such memories might make the place grow, enable some devilish power to morph it back into its old size, but it stays as it is – small, squat, its evil seeping out into the landscape. Stone’s long gone. A couple of years ago, I was upset to hear he’d passed away. He was getting on a bit when he taught us – must have been his last job before he retired. There’s a headmistress there now – never hits the kids, of course, no matter how much Sarah and her husband might like her to. And even if she wanted to swing her right hand, it would be restrained by law.

  I stare at the school for long minutes. A part of my mind worries I’ll hear sirens, see a police car flashing past, but I just keep gazing. Perhaps I’m trying to stare down the school’s malevolence, scare away the ghosts of past times, the throng of evil spirits that must still haunt the place. But, however much I stare, nothing alters. It’s just like the rest of Emberfield. That same stubborn resistance to change – change comes slowly here: as ages pass away elsewhere they’re only beginning in our town. Change takes as long as it takes soft rain to erode a rock.

  I turn from the school and look at where Marcus’s pond stood. It’s still sealed under the tarmac of the road. But the steady rains have leached that tarmac from deep black to dark grey. I look at the houses on the estate beyond – the brightness, the modern harshness of their redbrick has also faded; they’ve become worn, shabbier, more a part of the landscape. No one’s around; it’s quiet except for the odd pigeon coo – a lonely echo across the land. I walk into the middle of the road till I’m standing right where the pond’s centre used to be. That pond too would have seemed much bigger to us kids than it was. But that circle of sullen water could work wickedness. I remember Stubbs’s plummet through the ice; Weirton thrashing and writhing in that deadly pool. And I can still, somehow, feel the pond’s presence. Its evil is buried beneath the modern world’s progress, but it’s still there, just waiting, biding its time. One day, I know, those houses will be abandoned, those houses will crumble, the road will wash away and the pond – once more – will start to form. The eager rain will carve out its hollow, and the standing water will gather there.