The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  ‘Bet it’s a shock seeing your old headmaster like this.’ A mumble comes from his slowly moving mouth. ‘I bet you had me fixed in your mind as old “Whacker Weirton”. Strength of a lion. Able to knock the toughest little rascal into the middle of next week. Old Whacker Weirton, eh?’

  ‘We never called you that, Sir.’

  Despite his daze, Weirton seems crestfallen.

  ‘But even the strongest of us are worn down by time,’ Weirton murmurs. ‘God calls us all back to Him in His own good way. If nothing else can topple the mighty and proud, natural decay and time’s relentless erosion will, as decreed by the Lord. Do you believe in God, Ryan?’

  ‘You’ve made it extremely hard for me to do so, Sir.’

  Weirton’s chest jolts; he gives a wheezy chuckle.

  ‘Not convinced by our pal Rodney the vicar, eh? Can’t say I blame you, boy. You always were brighter than the rest of those drones. But you’ve got to keep it simple for the masses, haven’t you? This is the truth, believe it! If you start saying this might have happened, but this probably didn’t, you’ve lost them. They stop coming to Church and spend their Sundays taking drugs and mugging old ladies! That’s what people don’t understand in this damned modern world! The simple masses need simple certainties; otherwise, it all starts to crumble …’

  Tired of this mumbling monologue, I turn the key, start the car. Weirton’s body jerks; he jolts out of his semi-sleep, looks around.

  ‘Suppose you need,’ he says, ‘directions to my home.’

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  He tells me he lives half-a-mile away, along the shore of the loch. Can’t afford a car. Comes to the pub with a torch in his pocket for the dark tramp home. We skirt the night-time lake. I’m aware of its black bulk stretching away, of all that black water, so deep, so quiet. Weirton reels as I wind along the road, mumbling words that are lost beneath the sound of the engine. He waves his hand at me, summons the effort to raise his voice.

  ‘There’s a turning, a tiny track on the right. Twenty metres down there you’ll see a cottage.’

  I slow down, spot the track, swing the car onto it. The car bounces and rattles along a dirt road and, sure enough, a dilapidated dwelling appears in my headlights. I park, pull Weirton from the car; the teacher flicks on his torch; I hold him up as he leads me in a stumble towards his home. I can hear the lapping of the loch, but it’s hard to make out much with my eyes. The torch’s staggering beam alights on vegetable patches, a couple of fruit trees, wooden barrels I guess collect rainwater. That beam then falls on a ramshackle vehicle parked next to the cottage. Its windows are cracked; it’s rusting, propped up on bricks, its wheels probably taken long ago. I wonder why Weirton would keep such a wreck. The torch flicks across a bent and corroded Mercedes sign.

  ‘Your old car!’ I blurt.

  ‘Not looking too good, is it?’ Weirton mutters. ‘Remember driving it around Emberfield, how it stood out: a fine gleaming machine – black, powerful and sleek in those dreary flatlands. Look at it now, just look at it.’ Weirton wags his head. ‘Decay’s dismal work – not so different to what’s happened to its owner.’

  ‘Why do you keep it?’

  ‘I’m flogging it off bit-by-bit for spares. Occasionally, my neighbours need something, brings in a tiny bit of cash. Could sell the whole thing to a scrapyard, of course, but I can’t quite bring myself to.’

  We’ve now struggled up to the door. Weirton drunkenly searches in his pockets for the key, lets us in, puts the light on. I suck in a gasp. We’ve entered straight into the living room, and it’s a mess. Outside the cottage seemed shabby but respectable, a low dwelling made of worn stones. In here not only does paint flake on the walls, but chunks of plaster have fallen off, revealing the raw stonework. My nose snuffles up a musty smell and I soon see where it’s coming from. Two of the room’s upper corners are black with blooms of mould; more fungi – greener in colour – dapple the ceiling. There’s a scratched table listing on the uneven floor, along with a couple of knackered wooden chairs. Dust lies thick on shelves and on the ancient TV: a device that a miracle of tangled wires appears to keep working. Clothes and other items are scattered across the ground. Through an open door, I see a cramped kitchen. Piles of food-encrusted plates teeter on surfaces; the sink houses a filthy swamp out of which the bottoms of pans stick like hulls of sunken boats. As I gaze around, Weirton watches my reactions.

  ‘I’m sorry you have to see the place like this.’ He forces his mouth into a sardonic smile. ‘I’d have tidied up if you’d told me you were coming! I’m afraid, as you can observe, I never got the hang of domesticity after my divorce.’

  I walk further into the room, picking my way across the floor’s debris. I look at the rickety bookshelves that line most of one wall. There are a few history books, tomes on farming and fishing, a big Bible. Surprisingly, those shelves also struggle to support rows of books about ancient civilisations and mythologies.

  ‘Didn’t know you were into all this stuff!’ I say.

  ‘There are quite a few things you don’t know about me, young man,’ Weirton says. ‘Yes, quite a few things you don’t know and are never going to find out!’

  I scan the shelves lower down while keeping half-an-eye on the teacher in case he tries a similar trick to the one he attempted in the carpark. But the headmaster just hovers near the cottage’s entrance. The only movement he makes is to close the front door. My eyes rove across books on boxing, teaching manuals with yellow pages, their covers browned by time. Then, on the bottom two shelves, I see lines of thick black diaries. The earliest is from 1951, the latest from last year.

  ‘An obsessive diarist,’ I say, ‘something else I wasn’t expecting.’

  ‘Important for a man to keep a record of his life and times,’ Weirton says, ‘especially a decent honest man trapped in this dreadful modern world.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Since I had my heart attack and decided to quit, everything’s been going wrong for me. I thought the move up here would be great, a new start, but – oh on – it seems that for the crime of being a man who holds traditional values I must be continually punished! Everything, everything, has gone wrong!’

  ‘Like what?’

  Weirton totters over from the door, seats himself on one of his flimsy chairs. It’s a dangerous move – he’s leaving himself open should I choose to attack. Something about his sagging demeanour suggests he might not care if I did.

  ‘I wanted to live a simple life in contact with nature. That’s why I came up here – to escape the filthy rot that is modern Britain, that evil cancer that was spreading out from our cities and even beginning to affect places like Emberfield! I deliberately chose one of the most remote, traditional parts of the country. And do you know what I found? The rot had even spread up here! Unbelievable! It was worse than Emberfield in some ways – at least there the parents believed in the value of discipline!’

  ‘Go on,’ I say.

  ‘I had to do supply teaching to make ends meet. I wasn’t naïve enough to think I could live just by running a croft. Didn’t go too badly at first – I gave out a few wallopings as necessary, but then one day I gave a little rascal a damned good hiding that was thoroughly deserved. And the parents complained! And some other parents complained because I scared their kids with a rather graphic anatomy lesson. That’s what I hate about this modern world – you can’t say what’s what! You can’t state the facts – you have to skirt around them in some namby-pamby, politically correct dance! Of course we’ve got bones beneath our flesh! Of course that’s how we’ll all end up! What’s wrong with simply saying it!?’

  Weirton’s rage has shaken him out of his woozy trance.

  ‘I remember your famous anatomy lessons,’ I say. ‘For ages I couldn’t decide whether Lucy was real.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you say hello to her?’ Weirton smiles. ‘See what you think now.’

  He slouches over to a cupboard, yanks the
door open.

  ‘Lucy!’ I say.

  I peer at the skeleton. She’s smaller than I remember, the bones a little more yellow.

  ‘I must admit, she is realistic,’ I say. ‘I’m not surprised I was bamboozled. I’ve a feeling you’ve got quite a few skeletons in your closet, Mr Weirton.’

  ‘What man hasn’t?’ Weirton shuts the cupboard, hobbles back to his chair. ‘What real man, I mean, a man who’s truly lived, not the pathetic excuses for men promoted by this modern world. We’ve all got skeletons in our closets and that’s where they should stay.’

  For a moment, my eyes wander over to those diaries. I wonder what secrets could be buried under the press of their pages, sealed beneath their rigid covers. Weirton pipes up again, and I swing my eyes back to him.

  ‘So I was struck off, forbidden to teach, just like that! There was this awful leftie show trial of an enquiry, at which I wasn’t properly allowed to defend myself. And that was it! Condemned to a life of poverty! Trying to scratch a living from this place! Gradual decay – struggling to make repairs to the house, couldn’t afford to run or tax the car, had to sell the boat, meaning I can only fish from the loch’s shore. Can’t heat the place properly in winter – it’s a miserable, miserable life! OK, I get my pension now, but even a lot of that gets swallowed up by the farm.’

  ‘Don’t you have any family that can help you out?’

  ‘Family?’ A sarcastic chuckle splutters up from Weirton. ‘Family? Is there such a thing nowadays? The family – another fine institution we’ve lost! I’ll tell you about my family. My wife divorced me for trying to raise my boy with some boundaries. Next it was my parents – my own parents – who stabbed me in the back! Cut me out of their wills – left everything to my son and ex-wife! I didn’t get a damned penny! My father loved my son, Nick. Used to fascinate the boy with his tall stories about what he’d done during the War. Very much an army man, my father. Well, it all backfired – I can tell you that!’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I couldn’t be around for my lad! I couldn’t be there to guide him. Nick came up here to stay with me one summer. The lad was whinging all the time, saying it was uncomfortable, saying he was bored. His mother had mollycoddled and spoiled him. The lad took no pleasure in manly pursuits, in getting back to nature. Just wanted to be with his mum watching drivel on TV. I had to show him a bit of discipline; my ex-wife found out, banned the boy from coming up here. After losing the teaching work, I couldn’t afford to go down there. Just got occasional letters.’

  Weirton pauses. One hand knots into a fist; rage shakes the slack flesh under his jaw.

  ‘The boy’s grandfather had too much damned influence on him! He was just a naïve lad, couldn’t see what a bullshit merchant the old man was! Always filling the boy’s head with his rubbish! Nick imitated him in everything. He was devastated by his granddad’s death, inconsolable at the funeral. Copied him even to the extent of starting smoking! The very thing that killed his grandfather! The thing I’d always forbidden him to do upon the pain of receiving the most tremendous hiding known to Man! Such a shame I wasn’t there to give it to him when he began drawing that damned filth into his lungs!’

  ‘You seem to hate smoking,’ I say.

  I can’t resist it; I take my cigarettes from my coat. I ostentatiously light one up, stroll around the cottage, breathing smoke into every corner, breathing it over everything. I grab the other chair, pull it close to Weirton, sit on it, take long inhalations, puff them over the headmaster. I’m aware I’m in striking distance – I’ve seen how quick Weirton’s fists can be, but I can’t stop myself. Weirton coughs, waves away the stinking clouds.

  ‘Go on and torture me,’ he says, ‘just like every other damned manifestation of this modern world. But Nick wasn’t content just to risk his life inhaling that poison. Oh no, he had to go much further than that!’

  ‘How?’ I let another cloud roll over Weirton.

  ‘He joined the army! Can you believe it, my whiny son in the army!? That’s how much he copied his grandad! Of course, I’ve nothing against such a career in principle. It’s an honourable thing to defend your country, to pursue its interests abroad. It’s just that …’

  Weirton trails off. It takes another stream of smoke, some more wafting of his hands to get him going again.

  ‘First of all –’ Weirton’s fists clench; the loose skin on his face quivers “– it’s barely our country to defend anymore, is it? It’s full of darkies, Muslims, immigrants, whining women who call themselves feminists, mincing gays who insist on shoving their so-called sexuality down your throat! It’s hard to see why a true Englishman would risk his life to defend that lot! If anything, we should invite in the foreign planes – a damned good bombing raid would be the best thing for them! And look at our politicians who bravely order our men into battle! Corrupt bunch of cowards the lot of them – snouts stuck firmly in the Westminster trough! New Labour, they call themselves – bunch of bloody communists I’d say! And it’s not like the opposition’s much of an alternative – they’d just sell the country out to the highest bidder. Then there’re those blasted traitors in the SNP up here! Why should my son, my son, risk his life for that lot! Nick was in Iraq and Afghanistan – those damned fool wars!’

  Weirton coughs, shakes more before going on.

  ‘Damned fool wars! It’s not like he was fighting to protect his country or extend the Empire overseas – that would have been worth it! They were trying to bring democracy to the Muslims! It’s hilarious, isn’t it? Bring democracy to the Muslims! It barely works here – it’s got no chance among those savages! They need a firm hand …’

  I let Weirton waffle for a while before I cut in.

  ‘Did your son get killed?’

  Weirton trembles violently, though whether with rage or grief I can’t tell. He lets his face fall into his hands then looks at me.

  ‘No, but I reckon he’s maimed for life – not in his body, but his mind. Captain Nicholas James Weirton was honourably discharged due to mental problems. Post-traumatic stress disorder – shellshock they used to call it. All because of those damned communists and their idiot wars! They didn’t send their own sons into battle, did they? I tried to talk Nick out of joining up, but he wouldn’t listen.’

  I feel my first pricks of sympathy for the teacher. I even throw my cigarette to the floor, grind it out.

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘at least Nick’s got his parents to support him.’

  A laugh wheezes out of Weirton.

  ‘He won’t speak to me. He won’t speak to me! Idolises his grandfather who put all those crazy notions in his head, but he won’t have the slightest contact with his old dad!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He claims the roots of his trauma, as he calls it, pre-date the wars. He claims they were caused by me, me! He claims I traumatised him just by giving him a little discipline. What I gave my son is nothing compared to what my dad gave me! Give a child the slightest slap nowadays and they’ll claim you’ve ruined their life. My boy won’t speak to me; my ex-wife won’t speak to me; my parents betrayed me and now they’re dead! I’ve no brothers or sisters. That’s my family! I’m all alone up here.’

  A wave of anger rises, swamping any empathy. ‘I can imagine the sort of thrashings you gave your son. I had plenty myself! They do affect you for life!’

  ‘And why do you think I gave them to you?’ Weirton’s smile curves up.

  ‘Because of your insane ideas about how to keep discipline?’

  ‘Yes, partly that, of course, though I wouldn’t call my ideas “insane”.’

  Weirton slowly stands, starts hobbling around the room. It’s a woeful imitation of the way he used to pace about when he wanted to make a point back in Emberfield.

  ‘With the rascals I had to deal with – Dennis Stubbs, Craig Browning, Marcus Jones – iron discipline was essential! But even if my pupils hadn’t behaved so outrageously, I’d have still needed to wallop them.’r />
  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because people need to know what’s what! They need to know what their role is in life, what’s expected of them. If people don’t know those things, if such facts aren’t demonstrated in the most simple, the most direct, the most powerful fashion, we’ll have chaos, anarchy – precisely the sort of things that are happening now! It’s all because people don’t know their place anymore! The socialists and liberals fill people’s heads with talk of ambitions, aspirations, rights, opportunities, social mobility. All rot! Does a lot more harm than good in the long run! With working class kids, with lower-middle class kids like yourselves, it has to be driven into them where they stand. Literally driven into them! Any bright ideas must be knocked from them quick smart! Of course, discipline’s essential in all tiers of the social hierarchy, but it becomes more and more so as you near the bottom.’

  I just nod; I don’t know what to say. Weirton hobbles up and down for a while. The only sound’s his heavy breath. He stretches a shaking finger towards his bookcase.

  ‘The most glittering civilisations from the past – Egypt, Babylon, ancient India, the wonderful Celtic civilisation we had in this part of the world. Do you think there’s any way they could have endured for thousands of years without the strictest social classifications? It was even embedded in the religions of Egypt and India. A king was a king, a lord a lord, a priest a priest, a peasant a peasant. How much healthier than the dreadful muddle we’ve got ourselves into today!’