The Standing Water (14 page)

We walked on down
the street. I thought more about the knacking in of Stubbs. Maybe Marcus had
been beaten in a similar way; perhaps the lads who’d done it had then slipped
that dazed boy into the pond so no one would know they were responsible. But I
tried to get rid of such awful thoughts, to concentrate on enjoying the
approaching festivities. Jonathon turned off to his house and I continued on to
mine, tramping through the air that danced with dropping flakes, hearing my
shoes crunch the deepening snow. I came to my house, the last in Emberfield.
Darkness was coming down fast. After my home, just one streetlight shone down
its orange beam, and beyond stretched the marshes and plains, stretched the
flatlands beneath the air’s thickening gloom.

I approached my
garden gate. I half-expected to see an angel with a flaming sword barring the
way, but I could just walk through it normally. The light from the house
illuminated a patch of lawn and a tiny pond – ice-sheaved, snow-coated – above
which a gnome perched on a spotted toadstool merrily fishing. He grinned in
spite of the darkness and cold, in spite of the ice which had captured his
line, making it impossible to hook fish. The only effects of the winter weather
seemed to be the two circles of red that glowed on his cheeks. I took off my
shoes, coat, gloves and scarf, hung them up in our porch and trudged through
our hallway into the lounge. I pressed the button on the TV, flicked on a
cartoon, flopped on the sofa as our lounge was filled with bangs, wallops,
cracks, surges of music. My sister was running around. She gazed at me with
inquisitive eyes, her mouth comically stoppered by a dummy. She was three years
old: three – like my age of seven – a most blessed number. Weirton had told us
that God was somehow three people in one: something called a Trinity. And with
Mary and Joseph, Jesus had also formed a family of three when he’d lived here
on earth. And, when Jesus had died, three people had been nailed to three
crosses – Christ and the two thieves. And – of course – there were the three
wise men and the three gifts they’d carried. I supposed – reluctantly – I
thought of my sister as a gift. I watched her perky tottering run around the
lounge and failed to understand Cain. How someone could slaughter a sibling was
beyond me.

I lay back on the
sofa, glanced around our living room. Holly sprigs spiked the pictures showing
old cottages, misty country scenes. I’d often wondered about those – why did my
parents put up pictures of stuff we could see around Emberfield anyway, that
you could just stroll outside and get an eyeful of? At least the pictures on
the wall next to our staircase were a bit more interesting. Every time I
trudged to my bedroom, I’d pass those strange paintings of scruffy dogs and
ragged beggar boys with weirdly large heads and freakishly huge blue eyes,
those eyes gazing beseechingly at all who passed. Those boys held out hopeful
tins, making me feel guilty I didn’t have a coin to plop in them. But, anyway,
I went on looking around our lounge. More holly massed behind the big mirror
that hung over the mantelpiece. The holly bore red berries. I’d heard a legend
those berries were there to remind us of Christ’s blood. I supposed it was very
thoughtful of the holly plant to make such an effort for us at Christmas. In
the corner, our tree twinkled. It shimmered with stars, tinsel, baubles. In
front of its pot sat a pixie. He lolled cheekily in his glittery red suit, his
pointy hat. And the top of our tree was – of course – crowned with an angel:
blond hair, robed in white, tinsel halo. That got me thinking about angels
again. Why would we put them on our trees if no one ever saw them? How would we
even know what they looked like? Were they more likely to appear to adults than
us naughty kids? My eyes wandered from our tree and through the open door into
our hallway. Mistletoe dangled there – I’d be forced to kiss my mum if caught
under its white berries. But I’d heard a legend that in the Olden Days men had
cut the mistletoe from the oak using a golden knife because of its great magic.
It could only be cut with gold or else the magic wouldn’t work. I wondered if
ours had any magic or if all its enchantment had been lost because Mum had just
bought it from Emberfield market, where I doubted they cut it with anything
precious. As I was pondering all this, Mum came in, bringing me biscuits and
milk. Though curious about the mistletoe, I repeated a question I’d asked many
times before.

‘Mum, why do we
have to take the decorations down on January the sixth?’

‘Because its
tradition,’ she replied, laying her delicious cargo on a little table near me.

I wasn’t completely
sure what ‘tradition’ meant, but I knew my parents thought it was good. They
liked our school because it was ‘traditional’.

‘But what would
happen if we didn’t take them down?’

My sister’s mouth
twitched her dummy forward and back inquisitively.

‘Well,’ Mum said, ‘if
they’re not down by the end of the sixth, goblins will attack the house.’

‘Really!?’ I mimed
shock at the expected answer.

‘Yes.’

Mum scooted round
the lounge, picking up here, tidying there, on her way sweeping up my sister. I
thought of those goblins – where would they come from, where did they live?
Perhaps in the copse of trees behind Jonathon’s house – maybe that was why
barbed wire sealed it off. Was there a whole gibbering village of the creatures
in that thicket or did they live in ones and twos and small families in the
slime of ditches or undersides of hedgerows? Anyway, I could imagine the
troll-like rabble spilling from their hiding places and joining in a riotous
assault on any dwelling that didn’t take down their trimmings. It was a shame:
I liked the decorations, liked the colour they added to Emberfield’s usual greys,
greens and browns. I asked another obvious question.

‘Mum, why do you
put salt on the fire on New Year’s Eve?’

‘To burn the
witches out of the chimney.’

‘So do witches
normally live in the chimney?’

‘I suppose they
must.’

I wondered how
they’d fit up there. I’d heard legends of children being forced to crawl up
chimneys, but surely witches would be bigger than young kids. What did they do
with their brooms? I wasn’t sure Mum would know so I asked her something else.

‘And why do I have
to clean my room up on New Year’s Eve?’

‘Because if it’s
messy on New Year’s Eve, it’ll be messy for the rest of the year. Whatever
something’s like at midnight when the year turns, that’s how it’ll stay.’

‘And –’

Mum stood in the
lounge doorway, supporting my sister on the lattice of her arms. Plugged by
that rubber teat, my sister’s face still looked comically curious.

‘Ryan.’ Mum
scowled; she took one hand from under my sister, in a floppy motion flung it
up. ‘I’ve a million things to do! Why don’t you just watch TV?’

‘But just one more
thing, Mum –’ I grasped at the disappearing chance to find out something
genuinely new ‘– do lots of people see angels around Christmastime, like the
shepherds did?’

‘I honestly don’t
know Ryan. Now –’

‘What about Mr
Weirton? I bet he’s seen one!’

‘Ryan! I won’t tell
you again! Just be quiet and watch TV!’

Silently cursing my
lost chance to gain more knowledge, I returned my gaze to the telly. But my
mood soon improved due to the delights of that crate of marvels. As outside the
snow still fell – the huge flakes dropping with the descending dark – I thought
about that contraption. I’d used to wonder whether little people were contained
in that puppet box, and whether they always lived in there and how they managed
to change so quickly in size. Then I’d realised that exactly the same
programmes were watched by my classmates, so now I longed to know by what
strange magic those dancing and shimmering figures were beamed into our TVs.
But my mother wasn’t around to answer any more questions.

After some time,
another cartoon came on – a caped heroic mouse was flying between planets,
battling villains of various sizes and species. I was just getting absorbed in
his adventures when the front door opened and my father’s footsteps entered the
hall. I heard the familiar shuffle as he slipped off his raincoat, heard the
noise – subdued yet decisive – of his briefcase being put down. After greeting
Mum, Dad walked into the lounge.

‘Hello, son.’

‘Hi, Dad.’

Dad sat on the
sofa, settling himself on the same bit of the settee as always, on the bit we
knew not to occupy. He went through his evening ritual of crossing his legs and
unfurling his newspaper – unfurling it as always with a weary yet vigorous
snap. I got a glimpse of the large letters at the top of the first sheet as he
turned over the page. It was one of those sold in Davis’s shop. Did Mr Davis
give the adults the papers they asked for or did he take pleasure in refusing
their wishes like with us kids? Maybe he kept holding the paper out to them then
snatching it back. Dad sighed, lowered his paper. His face looking tired yet
dutiful, he turned to me.

‘How was school
today, Ryan?’

‘It was OK. In assembly,
we practised some carols.’

‘That’s good.’

‘And Mr Weirton
told us all about Adam and Eve, and Cain and Abel, and about Jesus being born.’

‘That’s very good.
I hope you listened.’

‘I did! He said an
angel
came down and told the shepherds all about the birth of Jesus!’

‘Good lad – I can see
you were paying attention.’

But Dad’s own
attention was slipping away, his eyes sliding back to the paper.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes, son.’

‘Have you ever seen
an angel?’

‘Can’t say I have,
son,’ Dad spoke from behind his paper shield.

‘I haven’t either,
but I’d really like to. Maybe Mr Weirton’s seen one – do you think he has?’

Dad looked up; a
flicker crossed his face.

‘Ryan, can’t you
turn that bloomin’ cartoon down? I’m trying to read here – I can hardly hear
myself think!’

I walked across to
the TV, swivelled the knob, trooped back to the sofa. But, now muted, the
cartoon had lost its appeal – it wasn’t the same without the crashes and
smashes and loud music. And my dad – simply by his presence – muted things too.
He seemed to send out waves of impatience, waves of irritable silence sometimes
crested with a tut or snort or rattle of the paper. I slipped off the sofa,
left the lounge. A little later we were all in the sitting room as the TV
blared out some grown-up show. I itched to ask more about angels, but knew the
subject for some reason annoyed my parents. Maybe they’d seen one, but just
didn’t want to tell me. I remembered something else I could ask about.

‘Dad, I read a
little of the papers in Mr Davis’s shop today. I saw some words I don’t know –
can I ask you what they mean?’

‘Aye, go on,
Mastermind will do his best.’

‘What are strikes?’

My father’s nose
pushed out air; his lips screwed themselves into a scowl.

‘A strike,’ he
said, ‘is when lazy people decide they can’t be bothered going to work!’

‘Strikes sound good
– we should have one at school!’

‘Don’t get any of those
funny ideas in your head!’ Dad said. ‘Or I’ll tan your backside!’

‘Tab your
backsibe!’ my sister gurgled gleefully.

‘And what’s
inflation?’ I asked.

‘It’s when the
prices of things go up very quickly,’ Mum said.

‘I don’t like the
sound of that!’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t like it if the sweets in Davis’s shop cost
a lot more!’

‘Mr Davis to you!’
my father said. ‘At least, thank God, we’ve got a new government. If that last
sorry lot had stayed in, you’d be walking down to that shop with a bloomin’
wheelbarrow
full of cash to buy your sweets!’

‘Bloobin’
wheebarrow!’ my sister echoed.

‘At least at the
school’ – Mum nodded – ‘we’ve got Mr Weirton to set them right!’

‘Aye,’ Dad said, ‘at
least
some
kids in this country still get a good disciplined Christian
education! Any fireworks with Mr Weirton today, Ryan?’

Fireworks – weren’t
they for Bonfire Night? But then I guessed what Dad meant.

‘Well, Dennis
Stubbs got whacked for stealing decorations from the Christmas tree.’

‘And so he should
have!’ Dad said. ‘Especially that Dennis Stubbs – always been a right handful
that one! Of course, there are namby-pamby liberals –’

Dad slapped the
newspaper as if the namby-pamby liberals – whoever they were – might be hiding
in there.

‘– who’d say you
shouldn’t give a lad a good hiding for stealing. But without proper discipline
they’ll just get worse – what will they say in ten years’ time when the same
lad’s mugging old ladies!? Shouldn’t go too far, like – Mr Weirton’s kind
enough to just use his hand. When I was at school, phew: some of the canings
the lads got – you wouldn’t sit down for a month after those!’

‘Woubn’t sit down
for a monf!’ my sister cried.