The Standing Water (33 page)

‘Let that be a lesson
to you…’ I began, but the ignorant clown scrambled up, and – wagging his finger
in my face – poured out a tirade of foul abuse, right in front of the boy. I
told him to watch his mouth, but this incensed him even more. He hopped up and
down, red-faced, waving his fists. Then he lunged towards me, swinging a
roundhouse punch. I sidestepped the blow with ease and gave him a powerful push
in the chest. The buffoon teetered, arms waving, trying to rescue his balance,
and – in those few seconds – I saw my opportunity. Of course, we could have
just hurried off, we could have got back to the road by the time that numbskull
had fallen and picked himself up, but somehow I couldn’t leave it there. That
feeling rose in me, that strange mix of anger and fascination, and all I could
focus on was the wobbling chin of that tottering rustic. Bang! I planted a
punch upon it, sending the clown flying back. He lay sprawled on the turf,
blinking up at me as – I guessed – his usual bumpkin world of fields and sheep rotated
around him. He shook his face, edged his body back, palm held high – as if that
would have stopped anything. He shivered, his eyes swelling with fear. I
lurched towards him, eager to haul him from the ground, finish what I’d begun. A
grin inched up my face as I moved in on him.

‘James, no!’

Sandra’s hand was
on my arm, trying to pull me away. I brushed it off, wrenched the trembling
rustic to his feet, drew back my fist. Excitement, fury boiled in me.

‘James, no!’ Sandra’s
voice was firmer now – it brought me back to my senses a bit. I turned to her.

‘This damned
bumpkin needs a lesson!’ I shouted. ‘Swearing at and manhandling his betters!
By God, I’ll thrash it into him never to do that!’

‘James, someone
could get hurt; the police could get involved – think what you could lose! Come
on, let’s just go.’

I looked around –
Nick was white, eyes anxious. Thought he might enjoy the sight of his dad
standing up for his family, but he’s never been much of a scrapper – not like I
was at his age. I sucked in breath to calm my heart’s eager bang, to cool my
simmering bloodlust. I turned back to the bumpkin, gave him an almighty shove.
He went tumbling to the ground, where he ended up on his hands and knees,
backside in the air. I ran, lashed a kick at his behind. He was soon sprawled
on the grass, and – I do believe – I heard the man sobbing. In triumph – but
rapid triumph as more of my senses returned – I led us back to the car.
Luckily, where it was parked wasn’t visible from the site of our confrontation
though I doubted our rustic friend would call the police. He’d be mocked by his
pals if they heard he’d been overpowered by some stuck-up townie. Even so, I
drove us swiftly back to Brighton.

As I drove, I
calmed down more – my breathing stabilised, my heart’s thud slowed. My warm
feeling of victory slipped away as I noticed the atmosphere in the car. Nick
was quiet; a glance back showed the boy was still pale, eyes wide with what
seemed a mix of fear and wonderment. Sandra was breathing in angry gasps, her
disbelieving stare fixed on me. I suddenly felt sheepish. Strange how all our
strutting triumph can flee under a woman’s scorn. As an ache in my finger
bones, a throb in the flesh around them began to punish my rashness, I braced
myself for a nagging diatribe. And, sure enough, it was all soon spilling out –
what kind of example was I to the boy, couldn’t I control myself? I explained
the bumpkin had started it, but she asked why I’d lowered myself to his level,
whether I was nothing more than a common thug. Then it was all about trouble
with the police, losing my job, how we’d pay the mortgage or feed ourselves if
that happened, how in places like Emberfield and Goldhill it’d be all round
town and no one would want to employ a criminal or hooligan. I sighed as she
went on – her tirade was like a storm: raging away before calming for a moment
then blowing furiously again. Women! Despite what they say, they know little
about us blokes. If the world could be all nice and peaceful like they think it
should be, it would be pleasant, of course, but surely it would lack that vital
spark, that creative-destructive rage that fires us on as a species, that burns
down the useless and scorches the sickly. If it was up to women, we’d probably
still be sitting in caves, having a nice chat as we sewed our animal skins
before croaking it at the age of thirty-five. Sometimes a man
can’t
back
down, sometimes he
has
to risk everything. How could I look at myself in
the mirror if I’d let some
yokel
push me around? How would I face my
boy? Rather risk it all than shuffle through life as some simpering coward. The
numbskulls I teach back in Emberfield, that sort are the common troops –
they
should be meek, obedient, inoffensive. It’s different for people like Father
and me – we’re officer class!

But as Sandra
nagged on, I found myself admitting there was some truth in her words. I do
need to watch myself. Nothing wrong with a bit of physical force when
necessary, but one shouldn’t lose control. That
is
descending to the
level of the thug. I don’t know, sometimes it’s like something grabs me, takes
me over. I’m wrenched into some other sphere and I’m often surprised at what
I’ve done afterwards. Like what happened with Marcus Jones. Happened a good few
times when I’ve been walloping the likes of Richard Johnson or Ryan Watson or
the Browning boys, though thankfully not to the same extent. Only mean to give
them six of the best and one for luck then the mist clears and they’re bawling
and hiccupping and struggling for breath, and the rest of the class are
hanging-mouthed though a few smiles are flickering on some little rascals’
faces at seeing what their enemies have gone through. Not that I believe it’s
done them any harm – good to set them straight, show them what’s what, teach
them lessons they won’t forget. Just wish I could stop when what they’ve had is
sufficient. Wouldn’t want another Marcus.

It’s not just with
kids – happened a few times with chaps too. Remember when I was on the ship. Didn’t
spend much time with the waiters – bunch of milksops, the lot of them. I hung
around with the crew. There was one crew member everybody hated, and one day we
ambushed him. It was down in the engine room, six of us jumping out. Should
have seen his face – like he wanted that metal floor to wrench open and gulp
him down. That floor didn’t oblige, and soon I was watching the lads lay into
him – the clown cowering behind raised hands as the fists and insults flew. The
lads gave him a few blows, but then it looked like they were ready to slope off
with the fool having hardly been taught a lesson. His face was even twitching
into a sneer, as if he was gloating that he’d survived our worst. Well, no one
smirks at me. In seconds, I was upon him, fists driving like pistons, punching
all the air from his belly. He clasped his stomach, body stooped, terror
widening his eyes. One look at his pale frightened mug, and that feeling
engulfed me. My fist slammed into his chin, my knee powered into his balls, and
– the next I knew – my mates were pulling me away, telling me he’d had enough.
And there he was – gasping, bleeding, trembling on the floor. Looked shocked,
my friends did, but it put me up in their estimations. They regarded me
afterwards with wary respect; there were no more jokes about being a weakling
waiter.

Left the ship –
sadly, I have to say – in Gibraltar, and bought my ticket back to England.
Spent a couple of days in that colony waiting for my boat. Was soon impressed
by the place – a chunk of Britain in the sun, the people’s patriotism was rock
solid, unlike all the liberal nonsense infesting England at that time. Fell in
with a group of servicemen, had a couple of good drinking sessions. On my last
night, we came across two Spaniards in a bar. God knows how they’d got into
Gibraltar, but there they were, declaring in their bad English the Rock was
Spanish soil. An argument got started, and soon we were escorting them out the
back to impress into them more forcefully the territory’s status. Unlike my
friends on the ship, those servicemen didn’t hold back, and I pitched in with
all my might too. No one hauled me off and it was wonderful – thrashing into
those greasy apes a lesson in politics they’d always remember. Should have seen
them when we’d finished – two bloodied broken lumps, gasping and twitching on
the ground, looking barely human. Though befuddled with drink and bloodlust, we
knew we’d better scarper. It was late, just a couple of hours till my
early-morning boat. I scooted back to the hotel, grabbed my stuff and was soon on
the ship as it sailed through the bright morning out of the harbour. My friends
weren’t so lucky – read something in ‘The Times’ a couple of days later, all
about the military police, court martials. For the next few weeks I was
terrified of a knock on the door, but it never came.

Got back to
Brighton. Sandra took Nick off to the beach though his whining to go there had
ceased long ago. Wordlessly, she made it clear I shouldn’t accompany them.
Dinner was eaten in silence. I sit here writing as my wife sleeps.

Sunday, 31
^st
July,
1983

Until today, things
had been improving. Apologised to Sandra for the scrap with the rustic,
promised her I’d exercise more caution in future. Spent a couple of pleasant
days in Brighton, mainly swimming, hanging around the beach. Though we were
doing what Nick wanted, he couldn’t completely cap his whining – the chips in a
café weren’t cooked right, the beach ball I bought him wasn’t as big as some
other lad’s. He even complained the sea was cold – as if
I
could do
anything about it. When his whinging was at its worst, I admit I simmered, my
hands gripped into fists, they itched to sweep the ungrateful wretch up and
hammer him, but I remembered my promise to Sandra and restrained myself. Nick’s
laments would cease, my anger would pass and we’d all be smiling again. Even
felt me and the boy were getting closer, understanding each other more.

Left Brighton this
morning and drove north-west, causing another outbreak of whining from
Nicholas. I longed to pull the car over, beat into the boy the virtues of gratitude,
but one look at Sandra sobered me. We headed into Oxfordshire, to a sight I
hoped might intrigue him. It would have me at his age, but I was always a
history buff, even as a lad. The journey took a bit longer than I thought, but
finally we came upon it – magnificent! Vast white horse carved out of the grass
on a chalk hillside. Unlike our Long Man, there’s little doubt about its age –
3,000 years old at least. Startling achievement, for the time. Heard primitive
people saw horses as messengers from the otherworld, their speed enabling them
to gallop between our realm and the gods’. Parked up and climbed the hill
towards that wonderful outline. Disappointed Nick didn’t seem impressed, and –
sure enough – he soon started up the grating song of his whinging, saying he
was tired when we’d barely walked a quarter of a mile. Suppose he’d rather have
been plonked in front of the TV gorging on crisps and sweets or playing one of
those new-fangled computer games, instead of getting some exercise in the fresh
air while discovering his nation’s heritage. My hand yearned to exercise itself
on his sulky backside, but I tried to block him out by remembering facts about
that beast gouged from the land by our forebears. It’s inspired all kinds of
legends. The steep-sided valley below the hill is known as the Manger – it’s said
that on moonlit nights the horse comes alive and grazes in it. Below the horse
is a hillock called ‘Dragon Hill’ where St George supposedly slayed the dragon.
Some claim the horse isn’t a horse at all, but a representation of that fiery
monster. And after walking round the horse’s ancient outline, it was Dragon
Hill we climbed up – much to Nick’s discomfort as he complained of a stitch,
stiff legs. I’ll admit I set a vigorous pace: my heart boomed away, I was
sweating in the midday heat, but I thought such exertions would be good for us
all. I tried to explain to Nick about the legend, about England’s patron saint
yet he seems as knuckleheaded as his grandfather when it comes to learning.
Remembering that old man made me clench my teeth for a moment, but, anyway –
possibly by sheer willpower – I hauled us up that slope. Soon we stood on that
hill’s flat top: artificial, apparently, perhaps made so for ritual purposes. I
pointed out the patch of bare chalk where it’s said grass will never sprout –
supposed to be where the dragon’s noxious blood fell. We stood for some time
admiring the view – those lovely dry chalk hills so different to the soggy
plains around our home. Even the air’s different – breezy and clear, not
oppressive like in Emberfield, not weighted with fogs, with the heavy scents of
mud, coal smoke and dunghills. I breathed in all that pureness, wished I could
stay there. As small white clouds scudded across the sky – so unlike the
lugubrious ceiling of black and grey that hangs over Emberfield – I thought of
time stretching back to the days of our ancestors, how they’d perhaps stood
right there watching the horse being sculpted, knowing that holy outline would
bind them to their people, their land, their gods, their otherworld.

I was jerked out of
that blissful moment. Nick was defiling that sacred hilltop with a tantrum. Up
and down he leapt, his little fists battering his thighs. His high voice yelled
a stream of complaints. The usual list – he was tired, hungry, bored, why had
we left the beach? I pounced across to him. Sandra had no time to protest. Up
Nick was yanked, and my palm was slicing a whistling arc through that lovely
clear air. It slammed onto the boy’s backside – a pleasing impact, which I
swear reverberated through the valley, around the hills. Encouraged by this, I
brought my arm back as Nick swung up, and hurled my hand down to meet the boy’s
rear as he fell. That wonderful sound echoed again; my lips curled into a
smile. Nick sped up, feet kicking wildly over the beautiful landscape. The lad
had certainly stopped his moaning, and a voice in my brain said I should just
give him a couple more and set him down. I powered another whack into him –
still no tears:
that
made my face screw up with displeasure. So I
summoned all my strength for the final blow. My hand crashed onto the backside;
the noise resounded – and out Nick’s tears flew! Rather than lower him, I
couldn’t resist flinging down more strikes. Anger gushed as I recalled all his
complaints from the last few days, all the times I’d held my twitching hands
back as his whinging tormented my ears. Well, I’d give him something to really
whinge about – I smashed more blows into him to ensure he’d had a good lesson.
I was putting the lad down when an image of Father flashed through my mind. We
were in his lounge, he was recounting some of my boyhood wallopings, everyone
was laughing, Nick’s voice was high, taunting, singing about his daddy getting
whacked. Well, I thought, if Nick wants to know what a good whacking’s like,
I’ll show him. I jerked the boy back up, slammed an immense blow onto his
behind. His breath whoosh out before it was captured by the wind. Tears flew –
vaulting through the pristine air: some were blown away on the breeze, others
fell onto the hill, onto the patch scorched by the dragon’s blood so long ago.
I wondered – strangely – if his tears could cause that arid spot to bloom, but
then my mind was back to Ronald Weirton’s mocking voice, Nick’s celebratory song,
and my hand was thrashing him almost of its own accord.

I glimpsed Sandra –
arm outstretched towards us, oddly frozen, mouth slack. Well, I thought, if she
could laugh about my hidings, let her chortle at this one. My hand beat and
beat – it was like some ritual now: the regular thud of my palm, the echoing
land around us, the rhythm of Nick’s sobs, their tempo just broken by his gasps
for air. On and on I thrashed, but eventually I started to feel the strain – my
heart galloped and banged; tingles rushed over my body; sweat streamed; my face
was aglow. I hurled more strikes down, but the trembles in the arm suspending
Nick became violent jolts and I had to lower the boy. Soon I was hunched over –
I battled with my jerking breath; I rasped and wheezed as I prayed to God that
He’d let me suck enough in. I begged Him to steady my stampeding heart. I was
so wrapped up in my struggles, so anxious about my health that I could have
been alone, just me on that historic hilltop, just one man with all that sacred
land spreading around him. But, of course, I was not by myself. I managed to
straighten up and I looked at my son.

Nick howled and
sobbed; he swayed and teetered; his body seemed strangely floppy, as if his
bones had been shattered. His face was pale and behind it I guessed his mind
was whirling in pieces. I knew because I’d often felt the same after Father’s
thrashings. The boy gulped breath; he hiccupped; his tears ran – nothing so
unusual there, but I did wonder if perhaps I’d gone too far. I turned to Sandra.
She was breathing hard, staring at me, her eyes sharp with rage. She grabbed
Nick’s hand and marched off down the hill. I followed sheepishly as Sandra
paced faster, hauling Nick along, putting more distance between us. I found
them back at the car – Nick still weeping and howling. Despite my guilt,
irritation flickered – I was sure
I’d
never made so much fuss after
Father’s hidings, and
they
could be far worse than the one I’d just
given out. We got in the car, and I was soon driving us away – our metal case
reverberating to Nick’s bawls, a sound underscored by Sandra’s short breaths as
she just gazed at me.

As I changed gear
and steered the car round bends, as I
myself
calmed down after all that
exertion, I got thinking: that woman can fume and glare all she likes, that boy
can wail on with his theatrical sobs and tears, but at some point someone has
to stand up and stop things getting out of hand. Someone has to teach these
kids good lessons or heaven knows how they’ll end up. How will Nick get on in
life if he whines and complains at every minor inconvenience or disappointment?
And I’d dread to see how Dennis Stubbs, Craig Browning and Darren Hill would
turn out without discipline! They’re bad enough with it! Try telling that to
Sandra. Maybe she’s been infected by this liberal rot that’s taking over our
nation. Mother never would have dreamed of criticising Father for walloping me.
I wonder what women
expect
these days. Surely I’m not far from the ideal
husband. Don’t smoke, don’t gamble, don’t drink much; I work hard, bring home a
decent wage and give her a good life. I’ve never hit her – though at times,
I’ve been very tempted. I rarely even raise my voice to her. I’m not bad
looking, if I say so myself; I cut a good figure. I’m careful to bring the boy
up right, which – yes – involves discipline. A woman of Mother’s generation
would have been delighted to land a man like me, but nothing seems good enough
for Sandra – it’s all frowns and long silences, and that rigid porcelain face
my fist just longs to smash. And it’s even worse in those days of punishment
she gives me after I’ve chastised the boy. But what can one do when one’s
married in haste? As the proverb tells us, we can only repent at leisure. Don’t
want to add us to the ever-increasing divorce figures – that’s for sure.

It’s different in
Emberfield. That town’s a solid island in our turbulent sea of change. Maybe
it’s not always
such
a bad place. Seen how the mothers look at me on
parents’ evenings, wishing their men could measure up. No complaints
there
about me exercising discipline. It’s just there’s something
about
the
place – it scrapes against my nerve endings, and – of course – it’ll always be
full of dreadful memories of Marcus.

I’m rambling again;
it’s late. Better finish up and climb into the hotel bed Sandra’s
ostentatiously sleeping right on the edge of. Basically, I drove us – car
stuffed with the simmering atmosphere of Sandra’s rage, Nick’s never-ending
howling – back to the little town we’re staying in. Sandra took Nick off
somewhere and they didn’t come back till just before the boy’s bedtime. Not one
word for the rest of the evening. I know I went too far today, I know I need to
watch myself, but this is ridiculous. Whatever happened to the man’s position
at the head of the family? Whatever happened to a father’s prerogative?
Apparently, in ancient Ur the law said if a man wanted a divorce he only had to
pay a small fine whereas if a woman asked for the same she should be thrown in
the river! A father also had the right to sell his children as slaves! Maybe I’d
have been better off there!

Monday, 1
^st
August,
1983

Saw Stonehenge.
Magnificent! Can’t get too close to the stones nowadays, they’re fenced off,
but even looking at them from a distance is incredible. Huge great things,
amazing how they reared them up with the technology of the time. People in
later ages could hardly believe it was a human creation – all kinds of legends
grew up: that Merlin or the Devil magically transported the stones from
Ireland. Some of the stones did come from one-hundred-and-fifty miles away,
Wales to be precise, but they shifted them via the much less mystical method of
rolling them on tree trunks. Still, amazing they managed it. All this got me
thinking. How could anything like that have been done without a strictly organised,
hierarchical society, without master and man, without each person knowing their
place and knowing what’s what? The whips would have been snapping a few
thousand years ago across Salisbury Plain and that’s a fact! Who cares about
some labourer’s rights, some slave’s sweat and blood when a monument of such
magnificence is left for future ages? Any amount of gruelling, back-breaking toil
is worth something like that! That’s what all those blasted hippies infesting
the place don’t understand! Had to push past plenty of those smelly,
long-haired, drug-addled buffoons today. They can romanticise the stones all
they like, but I couldn’t see
them
slotting into the type of
civilisation capable of putting them up. Wonder what
our
society will
leave for posterity. Not much, I’d imagine. Can’t picture tourists in
two-thousand years’ time poking around the ruins of some dreadful tower block
reared up by some leftie council or some gay community centre the same
council’s squandered taxpayer’s money upon. Says a lot, really.

Stared at those
stones as I recalled more I’d read about them. Some researchers reckon the
whole structure was a giant necropolis. They’ve found cremated remains under
some of the stones. There’s the idea Stonehenge was a traditional burial site
of kings, including Uther, Arthur’s father. As I gazed at that ancient domain
of the dead, it brought back memories of another – that church and graveyard in
Salton. A shiver passed up my spine; a big drop of sweat ran down it. Reminded
me of all the bad dreams I’ve been having. Had one last night. Even when I take
myself physically away from Emberfield, the damned place follows me in my mind.
Usual stuff – trapped in the church with the bell tolling, unable to yank my
eyes from that gauntlet. Heard that shuffling noise again, I tore my gaze from
the glove, glanced around, but couldn’t see what was making it. Organ struck up
some gloomy tune, though no one was playing it then voices started thundering
out some dirge though no choir was visible. My eyes were drawn back to that
deathly gauntlet then to that horrible tomb with its chill white effigies. I
hauled my stare from those artefacts and ran to the doors. Wrenched at them,
fiddled with the lock as that noise boomed around me – the clanging bell, that
swell of sombre voices, that blasted organ. Got the door open and sprinted
outside. Legged it through the churchyard and over the field till I came to
where the Drummer Boy had been lost. And, what did I hear, but patters, rattles,
beats coming from down below, joining with the tolling bell, the singing which
echoed from the church. I jolted upright in bed, heart bashing so hard I swear
it was shaking my ribs. My pyjamas were soaked; I tried to steady my breath,
tried not to disturb Sandra, who – determined to show her disapproval even in
sleep – was balanced on the bed’s edge. At least no dreams of Marcus, for the
last couple of nights. I’d rather deal with all the spooks of Salton than
relive any memories of what happened with
him
.