The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  A strange shiver passes through me. It’s time to leave. I start the car, turn on the pub’s corner, getting one last glimpse of that stinking inn. I pass the Old School, Davis’s shop, the final few houses then I’m out of Emberfield. I accelerate down the lane, take the first bend, a bend that blocks any view back to my hometown, and I know I’ll never see it again. I just want to get away as fast as I can. I jerk the wheel, wrench the gearstick as I negotiate the road. My right hand’s starting to swell where I punched Dad. A couple more twists in the lane and I pass that eerie graveyard, where I used to think Weirton should bury Lucy. Seems absurd now – a human grave for a fake skeleton. I wind down the lane some more before joining the main road to Goldhill. I head along that, aiming to link up with the A1. The Great North Road. The car hums me efficiently through the flatlands. Over on my left I glimpse Salton – castle keep, church tower, the wall ringing the graveyard, the tips of tombstones poking above. Last I’ll see of Salton too. Again, it all seems smaller – a child’s toys on a carpet of green and brown. A little mist lies low on the land. I remember how I used to think it was mingled with ancient curses – the hexes of Knights Templars, the whispered spells of Scots. That shudder goes through me once more.

  I glance again at those timeworn buildings, evil strongholds rising above the evil land. My heart starts to thud; sweat trickles. I jam my foot down; the car picks up speed, whizzes me across the flatlands; away, away. I make that metal box fly, determined to leave behind the ghosts and curses of my childhood. I shoot past the silent farms, the lonely hamlets, the isolated churches pricking the cloud with their spires. Who knows how many stories the land holds, how many legends, secrets, skeletons? I just know those marshes, those fields, those damp hedgerows are things I have to escape from.

  I dip under the railway bridge. I’m again reminded how I used to think the trains’ clatters were the beats of the Drummer Boy. Another shiver jolts through me; my heart bangs harder; I speed up. I don’t begin to relax, breathe more easily till I see the A1 slicing across the landscape, see its four lanes of thundering traffic. Those cars and trucks hurtle. I can imagine them making the ancient churches and their worn graves quiver, shivering the old farmhouses, making the timeless bogs, the huge aged trees shake. I wonder what was unearthed when that road was built, what was scooped up by the shovels of snarling machines, what artefacts, what treasures, what bones were gouged from the land, dumped on the backs of lorries, what stories were carted away on those snorting trucks, stories we’ll never know.

  Soon I’m speeding down the slip-road, speeding towards the northbound carriageway. Yes, I’m heading north: far north, deep north, the north beyond the north, or what we call north in our little nation, on our small island. The monotonous hums and growls of the racing vehicles begin to soothe my nerves. My heart slows, and the weird feelings I had by the school and while driving past Salton now seem no more real than a strange nightmare. There’s something calming about the rush of bright uniform modernity, something calming about the way I charge past the landscape people have carved over painstaking centuries, past the churches and manor houses it took decades to build. My worries, my tensions fly away in the car’s slipstream; my clasp loosens on the wheel. After hurtling for an hour or so, I pull up at a service station. I sit in the canteen, sip a coffee. Again, I’m soothed – soothed by the plastic and neon, by the beeping of the tills, the shallow chatter of the customers. Coffee gulped, I stroll around. I enjoy the flashes, the synthetic shouts and roars coming from the videogames room, the disinfectant stink that wafts from the toilets, the harsh strip-lights gleaming on shiny products in the shop. I get outside, light a fag among the exhaust fumes. My view’s of the carpark, the busy carriageway beyond. It’s only when I turn, stare in the other direction that some of my uneasiness comes back. I see spreading fields ridged by Saxon furrows, old patient trees, crumbling farmhouses, another ancient church spiking the horizon. I throw my fag to the floor, grind it out, stride back to the car.

  I get above Newcastle. The landscape improves, and soon I’m driving through the pretty border county. I cross the frontier; something changes; there’s a different feel to the air that whips in through the slither of open window; a different vibe floating up from the land. Here are different stories, different legends, other myths. I weave through the Cheviot Hills, cut across the Central Belt, get round Glasgow, and head into the Highlands. The mountains rise up; the lochs form as if in response to my expectant eyes. The sun shoots its last rays through the clouds as it retires behind the peaks; the rays shatter then sparkle on the waves of the lochs. I pull up in a lay-bye, peer at the map. I need to skirt Loch Linnhe then a smaller lake called Loch Laich. Cottage is up a slope overlooking that watery expanse. Need to look out for Castle Stalker. But for a moment, I just sit and think. All the theatrics in Emberfield have jerked my mind away from my notions of confronting Weirton. Am I really going to tramp round the neighbourhood asking about him? What if I did meet the old bastard? I can’t believe I’m feeling fear, but my heart knocks, my skin tingles. Fury surges too, my hands start tightening into fists. What could I do to him, given the chance? I try to calm myself. I probably won’t find him. With any luck, the old git will have snuffed it long ago. If I don’t discover him, I just hope I can get something done up here. It’s certainly a change from London, a change from Emberfield. Hopefully, that change will jolt me into seeing what’s wrong with the book, seeing what it needs, seeing the slippery solutions that have been evading me.

  It’s dark when I get near the place. I pass the famous castle, my headlights granting it a flash of illumination as it sits above the black waters of the loch. Further along the road I pass a pub – could be a place for a late supper. I slow down to make sure I don’t miss my turning. I see it – a rusting signpost almost overgrown by the enthusiastic verge. I swing the car around; it labours up what’s little more than a farm track. My lights pick out a low, rather ramshackle dwelling. I clamber from my car, snuffle up the air, noticing it’s good – cool, mountain-clear, with a hint of salt from the sea loch. I’ve phoned ahead; someone’s there to let me in, give me the key. Inside its pretty much as I’d imagined – thick uneven walls, crooked floor, big fireplace. Soon I’m back in my vehicle, inching down the slope in search of the pub. I turn, skirt the quiet loch, and soon come to it.

  I’m striding towards an old-looking white building; a signboard swings and creaks in the breeze coming off the lake. I shove the door, walk in. Inside its dusky, partitioned; lamps hanging above the bar give out a soft light that gleams off mirrors, polished wood. There’s that stale-beer aroma that can be smelt in pubs up and down the land. Not many people are in – a young couple in one corner, two old men supping weary pints in a booth close to the bar. I order a pint of the local bitter, ask if they’re still serving food. The barman huffs and grumbles, but says he can rustle up a burger. I sit at the bar, sip my beer; when the burger’s plonked in front of me, I scoff it there too. There’s no telly in the pub, no music. As my teeth grind the soft bread, the chewy beef, for the lack of anything more interesting to do, I tune into the old blokes’ conversation. They’re going on about farming – sheep, turnips, the hay harvest, prices for livestock. Nothing engrossing, sort of stuff that used to bore me in Emberfield. As their words are dull, I focus instead on the rhythms of the local accent. It’s so different to how we speak in England’s north – the lengthy pauses before a statement’s clattered out in one long charge, the way the voice rises to a higher thinner pitch, slightly strangulated, to express important points. Except, now I’m listening carefully, one of the blokes sounds different. It’s like the Scots intonation is riding and whinnying above an earthier base. There are shades of northern England in that voice, mixed with something even slightly posh. I turn round, sneak a look at those men. It’s strange for a well-spoken bloke from the North to end up as a poor Scottish crofter, which is what I assume these guys are. They look tired, weather-beaten; there’s that stoop poverty
gives the aged. They don’t seem like landowners or well-off farmers. I watch the more English one. There’s something about the way he gesticulates. He’s pot-bellied, drooping-faced, sagging-shouldered; weak eyes peer from behind thick square glasses. His fingers tremble. But his movements have force; they command authority – the decisive sweeps of his hand, the shaking of the fist in a moment of agitation, the scowl that scrunches his features. His companion’s a little in awe of him. His eyes widen; he flinches back as the hand slashes the air; he offers rapid soothing words when the hand bunches into a fist or the face frowns. My heart begins to bash. I shiver, yank my stare from the men, hunch over the bar. I’m back in primary school, crouched on my chair, hoping to avoid that eagle gaze panning the class. I suck in deep breaths; I tell my galloping heart, my racing brain that it’s crazy to be frightened of a broken-down elderly man. What harm could he do me? I force myself to stand; I force myself to walk across the room, to walk in slow heavy steps up to the old blokes’ table.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  They look up. It’s unmistakable – the broad pink face, the blue eyes behind the glasses. The iron hairstyle’s gone – just a few wisps of grey lie over a bald crown, but it’s him; I’ve got no doubt.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you.’ I feel oddly detached from my voice as I send it out, as I hope that voice won’t quiver. ‘But I think I recognise you, Sir. Are you Mr Weirton who used to teach in Emberfield?’

  Weirton gulps; for a moment, the pink face goes white. He glances around as if searching for an escape route. He recovers himself, forces his lips into a smile. He stands up, peers at me. The voice is quieter, weaker than the boom I remember, but there’s still a hint of power vibrating in it.

  ‘My God, this is a blast from the past! Yes, I was the headmaster for some years of West Emberfield Primary School. Who are you? Don’t tell me you’re Marcus Jones!’

  ‘No Sir, I’m not Marcus; I’m Ryan Watson.’

  ‘Ryan Watson! Of course! I can see it now. By God, lad! This is a surprise!’

  Weirton clasps my hand, pumps it. His grip’s unexpectedly strong. He introduces his friend, Jimmy. I shake Jimmy’s hand too.

  ‘You were one of my favourite pupils, you know,’ Weirton says. ‘I remember enjoying your stories and paintings. So much better than the garbage the others produced! So, tell me how you are, my lad.’

  ‘I’m just up here for a few days’ break, but I live in London.’ I notice I’ve also forced a fake smile onto my face. ‘I’m an artist and writer. I’ve had one book published. Sales were disappointing, though.’

  ‘Really?’ says Weirton. ‘That is impressive! I’d imagine it’s an achievement to get published at all. Well done, Ryan! I hope I can boast of some small part in developing your talent. Nice to know I’ve done at least some good in the world. Shame you have to live in London, but I suppose that’s where everything’s concentrated in your field. What about your pal, that Jonathon Browning? Now he was a bright lad! He shone out among the dross like a star buried in a rubbish heap! What’s Jonathon up to these days?’

  I describe Jonathon’s disappointing career. Weirton frowns.

  ‘I’d have thought he’d have made more of himself. He had the talent. Must be the modern world with all its damned distractions – it’s easy for a lad to go off down the wrong path. No discipline, of course, nowadays. And, young Mr Watson, you know you can’t fault me on that score! I set all of you up well as far as that was concerned! Ho, ho –’ Weirton turns, grins at his mate ‘– I tanned his hide a good few times when he was a little scamp!’

  Weirton’s friend lets go a chesty chuckle.

  ‘Though what I gave him was nothing compared to the beltings I gave others! That Dennis Stubbs! That Craig Browning! I’m surprised my hand hasn’t dropped off after all the thrashings I gave those two!’

  Weirton and Jimmy chuckle some more. I’m ashamed to find my forced smile inching higher.

  ‘Well –’ Weirton shoots an exaggerated look at his watch ‘– it’s great to see you, my boy, but I’d better be going. I had a career change after leaving Emberfield. I run a croft up here now. Got to be up early tomorrow, as always. But it’d be great to catch up. I haven’t got a phone, but I’m sure a young chap like you must have one of those new-fangled mobiles. If you scribble down your number, I’ll try to give you a call.’

  I get a pen from the barman, write down the number I know Weirton will never ring. Weirton glances at his half-full pint. With some discomfort, he gulps all the beer straight down. He slams his glass on the table in a display of mock resolution, grabs my hand and pumps it once more.

  ‘Yes, great to see you, my boy! Keep that gadget of yours switched on and I’ll give you a bell. We can reminisce about old times, about how much better things were back in the good old days! Goodbye, lad!’

  ‘Think I’ll be going too,’ Jimmy says, before downing the remains of his beer with a lot less effort than Weirton.

  The two men walk to the door. Weirton, I guess, must be pushing seventy though he looks a bit older. He’s stooped, he’s hobbling somewhat, but there’s a certain energy in how he moves; some kind of a force still animates him. When the two have disappeared outside, I go back to sit at the bar. The shock of seeing my old teacher really strikes. My mind rocks; my heart bangs; I sway on my stool, have to grasp the bar for support. I can swallow no more of my beer or burger. A part of me is simply praying for Weirton to vanish into the night, for me to never see him again. But something nags me to force my shivering body, anxious mind to calm themselves. Something nags me not to allow Weirton to disappear, nags me to clutch the chance to resolve what’s unfinished between us. For a moment I sit, perched on the stool of my indecision. I take a glug of my pint, make myself swallow the bitter liquid. I slide off my stool, stride to the door. I pick up speed as I march; I thrust that door open. Weirton’s waving at a car driving off – a car I guess contains Jimmy. Weirton turns; he begins to shuffle in the opposite direction and away from the pub.

  ‘Mr Weirton!’ I call out.

  The headmaster stops, inches his body around to face me. I pace towards him across the carpark.

  ‘Ryan,’ Weirton says, ‘I’m afraid I must be getting home. What do you want?’

  ‘What do I want?’ My eager legs propel me right up to Weirton. ‘I want to give you this!’

  I pull my arm back, make a fist, slam it into Weirton’s gut. Weirton’s breath rushes from him in a spluttering gasp. His torso shoots forward; his eyes stick out. He’s winded; he wheezes as he tries to suck in air. I step back, swing a glorious roundhouse punch. That punch smashes into Weirton’s jaw. Weirton flies back, bounces and skids across the gravelly carpark. He comes to a halt, lying on his back, his eyes blinking rapidly.

  ‘You little bastard!’ he stutters.

  ‘You’re the bastard!’ I try to keep my voice down to avoid alerting the people in the pub. ‘You fucking deserved that! You deserve a lot more too for what you did to me, for what you did to us all! Get up you disgusting piece of scum! Fucking get up!’

  Weirton’s gob falls open; fear washes like a tide over his face. He doesn’t move, but just lies there panting. I grasp his coat, pull him off the ground. I plunge a jab into his belly, start him spluttering again. I grab his shoulders, bundle him towards my car.

  ‘What are you going to do with me?’ Weirton rasps.

  ‘I’m going to give you a lift home,’ I say. ‘I want to see where you live. See what you’ve made of your life after years of abusing and humiliating little lads and lasses!’

  ‘I think you’ll find that,’ Weirton stammers, ‘I haven’t made much of it. I’ve had plenty of blasted bad luck! And I’ve been relentlessly persecuted by this dreadful modern world for the crime of simply being a man trying to do his duty! It seems you’re the latest thing this damned modern world’s sent against me!’

  One nifty movement and Weirton’s slid out of my grasp. His fist flies up, crashes into my jaw. An anvil blow cl
angs in my head; I’m sent staggering back. I can’t believe that aged body’s just produced such a punch. I imagine the sort of strike Weirton could have delivered in his prime. Weirton scurries towards me, flings an uppercut. It socks my chin; a crack reverberates; my knees wobble; I teeter back. Weirton edges forward, his fists up. His mouth curves into a smile; eagerness swells in his eyes. It’s an eagerness I recognise from way back. I remember how his eyes would bulge, his lips curl just before a whacking as he gazed at the kid who shivered and squirmed. Weirton lunges at me, swings a punch, but I skip out of the way. His fist hurtles through empty air and I smash mine into the side of his head. The impact echoes; Weirton drops to the ground. I hoof a kick into his stomach then step back. I’m panting; my heart rushes; clanks echo in my brain after Weirton’s blows. I look down at the headmaster. He’s moaning, lying stretched out, rolling a little to one side then the other. He’s not in a great state, but he’ll live. I start to haul him from the ground.

  ‘Get up!’ I say. ‘You fucking bag of scum! You piece of human shit! Fucking stand up before I give you more!’

  I pull the groaning headmaster to his feet. I grasp his arm and wrap it around my shoulder, gripping his wrist with my hand. I put my other arm round his waist and guide him to my vehicle. It’s like supporting a drunkard. I prop Weirton against the side of the car, unlock the door and shove the teacher into the passenger seat. I get in at the driver’s side and flick the light on. Up close, under that electric bulb as opposed to the dim light of the pub, I clearly see the devastation on Weirton’s face. Yes, bruises will swell where I’ve thumped him, but they’ll be nothing compared to the pummelling the teacher has taken from time. The skin hangs on his neck, reminding me of the flesh of a chicken. Wrinkles cover the sagging face. They make a fascinating roadmap: a tangle of routes carved by grief, sickness, rage, disappointments, poverty. Lines radiate from his eyes, bunch around his mouth, shoot like the beams of little suns from dimples on his cheeks. Weirton’s head lolls: he’s woozy but conscious.