The Standing Water (44 page)

‘Damn,’ said
Jonathon, as we stood in my garage, ‘we’re so close, but if we can’t work these
things out, we’ll never get the ark to sail.’

‘But what can we
do?’ I said.

‘Well, if there’s a
sol-ut-ion –’ Jonathon glanced up as rain crashed on the roof ‘– we’ll have to
find it fast!’

‘Got it,’ I said.
‘Who’s the only person round here who knows about boats?’

‘Mr Davis, of
course!’ said Jonathon. ‘He
is
one of Noah’s sons! Or … at least he
probably
is.’

‘Course he is! How
else could he be so old? Let’s go and ask his advice.’

Soon we were trudging
up the main street to Davis’s shop. The road was two gushing streams – the
strip in the middle narrower than ever, only wide enough for one car to squeeze
down. The waters also covered a good half of the pavement, and we had to squash
ourselves against fences and walls as we edged along the street. We paused to
look for the witch’s hand, peering down into its crack – it was there: a dread
black outline against a slip of dark sky. We passed the pub, outside which
planks served as crude bridges to allow the wicked customers to get to that
inn: customers who had obviously not learned the lessons of God’s wrath, who
still – sadly – provoked Him into flinging down more rain. We crossed the road
– the water swirling above our rubber encased ankles – before we stopped by the
Old School. Rain pelted through its smashed roof and broken windows; spurted
from a dangling gutter. The playground was now a lake enclosed by crumbling
walls, by the high step that led down to it.

‘Feel sorry for those
kids,’ I said. ‘They have to put up with the ghostly teacher
and
now all
this rain!’

‘Yeah,’ said
Jonathon, ‘but do you think rain bothers ghosts much? I mean, they don’t have
bodies to get wet, do they?’

‘See what you
mean,’ I said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Must still be pretty miserable for
them. We’ll have to give them some of the sweets we buy in the shop.’

‘Yeah,’ said
Jonathon, ‘though if they don’t have bodies, I’m not sure how they could eat
them.’

He was right, I
supposed, though it felt odd to think about it that way. I wondered if there
was any point in going on with our practice of lobbing sweets to those poor
kids. They were worse off than I’d thought if they couldn’t even enjoy those
candies. Yet, on the good side, I guessed it meant more sweets for us. We
tramped on to the shop. The bell announced our entrance, our exit from the
pounding rain. Davis looked up. Seeing his face – so ancient, so deeply gouged
with lines – made it seem mad Jonathon could have doubted Noah was his father.

‘What can I get you
lads?’ the aged voice quavered as the loose skin around the mouth shook.

‘Two ten-penny
mixtures, please,’ Jonathon said.

Davis went through
his routine of screwing lids off and putting them back on, hovering tongs above
jars as the old eyes watched for longing, for dismay in our faces. But that day
Davis would be disappointed. We’d far more on our minds than sweets. I’d walked
in full of the intention of asking Davis outright how they’d built the Ark, but
now I felt shy. I didn’t know why – it wasn’t a rude question, but my heart
started to knock. My lips quivered; my throat tightened. Jonathon looked
uncertain too. His eyes jerked around nervously; his teeth clamped his lower
lip. Davis went on with his usual show – piling shrimps into bags, opening jars
of cola bottles before slamming them shut having fished out no sweets, dangling
his tongs for ages over the flying saucers before lifting one out. But, his face
frowning when he realised this was having no effect, he quickened up, and we
actually got a good selection of candies, as the puzzled and resentful tongs fumbled
them into our bags. The two bulging sachets were laid on the counter.

‘That’ll be ten
pence each, then lads.’

The timeworn
tremble of that voice reminded me of our mission. I pressed my silver token
into Davis’s hand. As his watery eyes clasped me, I tried to haul up the
courage to ask my question.

‘Er … Mr Davis …’ I
said.

‘Yes, son.’

I couldn’t form my
words – my brain and lips couldn’t connect though I was sure my query was
reasonable enough. In the end, it was Jonathon who blurted, ‘Mr Davis, you know
when you were on Noah’s Ark, how did you –’

‘Noah’s Ark!? What
on earth are you talking about? Why would I be on that?’

‘It’s just that you’re
so old, we thought you must be one of Noah’s sons –’

‘Why … you cheeky
little …’

Davis’s face
scowled; the flaps of skin wobbled. With a speed that shocked us both, Davis
scooted around his counter and teetered towards us. The old palm slammed into the
side of my head. It hit with surprising force – the store rocked, a little like
Noah’s boat might have, before righting itself. Davis was already onto my
friend. One wrinkled hand scrunched the top of his kagool and shoved Jonathon –
with unbelievable strength – against the shop door. The other hand rained a
storm of slaps onto his head.

‘You cheeky little
blighters!’ The voice trembled as the hand beat on. ‘Reckon you’re funny, do
you? If I was fifteen years younger, then – by God – I’d give you something to
think about! I’d knock you both into the middle of next year, let alone next
week! One of Noah’s sons!? On the Ark!? Never heard anything like it!’

The aged yet iron
clasp still gripped Jonathon. The other hand flew down, knocking his head one
way then the next. Jonathon was white-faced – so shocked he didn’t even
struggle. I too was motionless with surprise. But before I could stop them, my
stupid lips murmured.

‘So, Mr Davis,
you’re
really
not one of Noah’s sons?’

‘Course not you
little rascal! You bloody well come here!’

The hand untwisted
itself from Jonathon’s kagool and Davis leapt at me. A flurry of slaps to the
face and head made me stumble back.

‘Don’t think I
won’t tell Mr Weirton! Don’t think I won’t tell your dads! As if we haven’t got
enough to worry about with these floods, you come in here with your daft
comments! Well, don’t think we won’t set you right – we’ll thrash all that
cheek out of you!’

Davis went to grab
my coat in the same way he had Jonathon’s. I ducked the stiff grasping fingers,
snatched our two bags from the counter.

‘Quick!’ I shouted.

Jonathon and I
lurched for the door. I fumbled it open as Davis hurled down more slaps. We
slipped through and were outside, sprinting away in the rain. Davis leaned from
his doorway, shook his fist, shouted after us.

‘Don’t think I
won’t tell your dads and Mr Weirton! Don’t think that I won’t!’

We ran till we were
opposite the pub, where we splashed to a halt and spent a moment getting back
our breath.

‘Blimey,’ I said,
‘wouldn’t have thought old Davis could be so strong!’

Though it was
nothing compared to the aftermath of one of Weirton’s wallopings, the sides of
my skull ached, the world seemed to be batted back and forth in the way Davis
had batted my head.

‘Yeah,’ said
Jonathon, ‘do you think he’ll really tell Weirton and our parents?’

‘Probably, but so
what? They won’t be able to whack us – not when we’re protected by the glove.’

Yet, as I spoke those
words, I couldn’t stop doubt sneaking into my mind. Actually,
how
would
that gauntlet protect me from the swooping palms of Weirton and my dad? Unless
it could send out some mysterious force which would freeze their hands.

‘Are you
sure
the glove will stop them thrashing us?’ Jonathon said. ‘The legend could be
wrong – just like the legend about Davis being on the Ark.’

I shrugged and we
walked away. Though we now knew there was no point in tossing sweets to the
kids in the Old School, we trudged up to Marcus’s pond to throw him some.
Although we might have doubted some legends, there could be no dispute about
Marcus being in there. Hadn’t we seen his head? Hadn’t we seen how he’d tried
to grab Stubbs? We pitched a few sweets into Marcus’s waters – watching the
precious candies plop or foam in his shallows – but we didn’t throw in too many
as Marcus was now so massive we supposed he didn’t need much help to keep up
his strength. He’d not only spread across the road and over its far pavement,
but his waters were threatening to invade the pub carpark and even inch under
the fence of the school.

‘Wow!’ I said. ‘Soon
Marcus might drown the whole of Emberfield!’

‘Better get back to
your garage,’ said Jonathon, as the rain beat down even harder, making the pool
seethe as drops crashed into it, ‘might only have a couple of days left before
we have to sail away, before all this is underwater!’

The Diary of James Ronald Weirton

Monday, 3
^rd
October,
1983

Night after night
I’m tortured by bad dreams. And day and night the blasted rain keeps bashing.
Each day I drive to and from school, urging my car over that damned ford,
looking around me through the downpour at the drenched landscape. Sometimes
it’s like the water’s not coming down in drops, but in continuous jets shooting
from the sky. Often look like bars – damned grey bars of a prison cell. That’s
how I feel about my life here. It’s times like this when I really long for my
old life in Montana – just to feel the freshness of dry air against my skin
instead of this clamminess that somehow
grasps
you. How I wish I could
get out of this sodden
dunghill
of a place!

Council sent a
truck round Emberfield today handing out sandbags. Saw some residents struggling
to build them into walls to protect their prissy houses and pathetic gardens. I
found myself almost willing the waters over those barriers. Council on the
phone, talking about closing the school. Told them – politely – to get lost.
James Weirton doesn’t let a few drops of water defeat him; doesn’t let them
stop him delivering knowledge and guidance to the children of Emberfield.
Knowledge and guidance are two things those kids are undoubtedly in need of.

Speaking of which,
I battered the bums of a couple of ignorant buffoons today. In the past, when I
gave out fewer whackings – two or three a week – a walloping could be a bit of
entertainment, for me and I think for the kids as well, the high point of a
dull day. Now they seem as regular as the rain’s monotonous bashing. But, if
it’s what those kids require, you won’t find me holding back.

This endless
crashing rain though, it
does
something to you. Can’t shake the notion
it
is
some sort of punishment – that God’s interrupted the universe’s
smooth workings to teach us a lesson. Well, whatever penalty He has in mind,
we’ll just have to take it. No time left to build an Ark. Maybe God could find
no righteous men in Emberfield to warn in advance and tell to get hammering.
Just decided to drown the whole damned place.

Had to wade through
that hateful pond – got to be my day’s worst part! Accursed thing’s getting
deeper – even in its shallowest sections it’s nearing the tops of the
children’s wellies. Can’t help thinking what might happen with just one slip. I
walk through carefully, heart pounding, with jolting breath. But I can’t stop
myself staring at those sombre waters. Maybe I
need
to do it – confront
my terrors like a man.

More jolly games at
home. Sandra striding and banging outside my room as I tried to watch TV. Starting
to feel like some
fugitive
in here! Heard her muttering about phoning a
solicitor. As if I haven’t got enough to fret about without her female
hysterics! OK, then, to bed. Let’s hope we don’t find tomorrow that the Lord
has drowned us all!

Wednesday, 5
^th
October,
1983

The monotonous
pounding of the rain outside, the monotonous drag of the school day within. The
monotonous blows of hand against buttocks – had to give out a grand total of
four
whackings today! Council on the phone again – talking of sandbagging the corner
of the school grounds near the pond. Asked them why they didn’t drain the
damned thing when they had the chance, why they didn’t fill in the blasted
hollow so water couldn’t gather there. Got nothing but mumbled excuses and
buck-passing – typical! These floods are getting serious though – saw some
footage of outlying villages badly hit on the news. No one flooded in
Emberfield yet though those waters are lapping ominously against the sandbag
walls.

Only diverting
thing that happened today was when I popped into Davis’s for a paper. Could see
something had got the old goat upset. Not that he’s a joyous sunbeam normally,
but today it was obvious he was put out. His repulsive floppy face darkened
then he went into this chuntering monologue about the insolence of the young,
about the importance of people having respect for their elders. I nodded, said
I agreed, but the buffoon just went on, his fragile body trembling with rage.
He said the community was so lucky to have a headmaster like me – someone who
still believed in the value of old-fashioned discipline, who wasn’t afraid to
employ his right hand. Said all the parents felt the same. I nodded again, told
him I was glad they approved. Then the clown leant over his counter, lowered
his voice in the way he does when confiding a secret or giving some momentous
news though heaven knows why because there’s usually no one else in there. The
aged rascal let it all spill out, told me why he was so furious. It took every
muscle in my face to hold down my smile. Those scamps Ryan Watson and Jonathon
Browning had been in his shop, and had asked him whether he was one of Noah’s
sons and had been on the Ark! The cheek of it snatched the breath from my mouth!
But it was a cheek that was creative, inventive, and – let’s face it – we
rarely see much of those two qualities round here! Davis couldn’t see anything
funny about that incident. He was hobbling in a weird dance as anger jerked
through his body, looking like some decrepit puppet jolted on its strings. Told
him I’d deal with those two miscreants. As he tottered in his shaking jig, the
old rogue said, ‘I’m happy to hear that Mr Weirton; I’m most happy to hear
you’ll take those two lads in hand. It’s obvious they need it! Don’t you hold
back, Mr Weirton, you thrash it into them never ever to insult their elders!’

I promised those
boys would feel the full force of my justice.

‘That’s good,
that’s good!’ the aged lips spluttered, still spasming in fury. ‘You know, Mr Weirton,
you’ve been far from lax on the discipline front lately. I hear about it all
the time – you clobbering Darren Hill one day, Dennis Stubbs the next. And a
good thing too, but I haven’t heard of you chastising those two comedians who
insulted me today for a while. I’d never dream of telling you how to do your
job, Mr Weirton, but you know what young lads are like. Ease off the discipline
for even the shortest time and they’re running riot! So, don’t you hold back,
Sir, don’t you hold back!’

I nodded gravely,
left the shop clutching my ‘Telegraph’. Once outside I was able to chuckle into
the rain. Those two wags! They won’t be laughing tomorrow, but you’ve got to
hand it to them – they do have a gift for comedy! Old Davis on Noah’s Ark –
that was just priceless! But as I edged the car out of Emberfield, as the
wipers strained to clear the cascades on the windscreen, as I saw the stacked
sandbags looking puny against the rising waters, I began to understand Davis’s
point. It’s appalling really – lads insulting a man of his age. Can’t be having
things like that or Emberfield will be joining the rest of the country in its slide
towards moral ruin. As the rain beat on the car roof, my amusement gave way to
surging anger. I mean, how dare they, how simply dare they! The wittiness of
their remarks added to my rage. Like so many of these smart-arsed liberals you
see on telly – thinking that because people giggle at their cheap jokes, they
can trash and insult the venerable and sacred things in our culture! Sort of
mentality that leads to idiots stealing from churches. Need to crack down on
that kind of thing fast! Lack of respect for the elderly is just the type of
sin that caused God to send the first Flood. And, as the rain hammered, I
reflected that such crimes are unlikely to ease His fury now.