The Standing Water (45 page)

We left Marcus’s
pond, got back to my garage and worked as quickly as we could. I knocked nails
and sawed planks, sanded down cabin walls as Jonathon pondered the mysteries of
sails and tar. He couldn’t come up with any answers, but a little later he was
cobbling together some bits of wood to be something called a ‘rudder’, which he
said would steer the boat. He claimed such things were controlled by the ship’s
wheel, a bit like how my dad’s steering wheel guided his car. Jonathon was
eyeing up the wheel of an old bike, trying to work out how he could link it to
the rudder. We had to break off when it was time for tea. I tramped towards my
house, passing stacks of sandbags, before plodding through our drenched garden.
Our gnome now sat exactly on the water level, his toadstool hid by the flood.
Not that the increase in water had given him any more success in catching fish,
but his hook still dangled patiently. We ate in the kitchen as the rain drummed
and gurgled above, as out of the window it slapped onto our soaked lawn. As
well as fearing we could drown if our Ark wasn’t ready in time, I was afraid Davis
might have told Mum and Dad about what we’d said in the shop. Would my father
clear his throat, give me a telling off before following it up with a spanking?
But as we sliced and chopped our way through dinner, Dad didn’t speak of that
incident. He grumbled and ranted about the floods, about ‘lefties’ – whoever
they were, about ‘immigration’ – whatever that was, and about the ‘declining
moral standards’ that had led someone to steal from Salton Church. The mention
of that gauntlet made me gulp, made my heart strike up a heavy beat, but then I
thought of how this was an example of that gauntlet protecting me. Dad hadn’t
heard about our outrage in the shop because that glove was shielding us from
violence. That meant Weirton wouldn’t hear of it either – we wouldn’t have to
worry about his whackings, even about the possibility of him murdering us. OK,
the glove hadn’t stopped Davis’s onslaught of slaps, but I guessed the legend
referred to real violence of the sort Weirton could dish out rather than the tottering
assaults of an old man.

Later, alone in my
room, I drew the glove from its hiding place. I gazed at it, turning it as the
light played across its dull scorched metal. Even though we’d abandoned our plot
to put it on Weirton, it was worth keeping. Even if God’s fury was linked to
the theft of the gauntlet, we’d hopefully have finished our ship by the time He’d
drowned Emberfield and we could just sail off. I slipped the glove back in its
bags, put it once more in its musty corner of my cupboard. That night I lay in
the dark listening to the pounding rain. I supposed things had worked out well.
The glove would keep us safe from Weirton’s rampages, from the punches of Richard
Johnson and Stubbs, from Darren Hill running amok until the rain drowned all
those troublemakers and we could just float away. And, when the downpour
stopped for a short time, I even heard the rolls and patters of the Drummer Boy,
his reassuring rattles drifting through the blackness, across the sodden land
to encourage me. I thought about all the spooks of Emberfield and Salton and
murmured my thanks to them. I wondered how they’d feel, having been swamped by
the deluge – the bones of the Scots in the waterlogged earth, the Drummer in
his flooded tunnel. But then, I supposed, if ghosts couldn’t eat, they couldn’t
drown either so I guessed they wouldn’t have much to worry about.

The next day I
trudged to school with Jonathon, following the long line of kids marching up
the strip of pavement as the streams of floodwater flowed down the road. There
was more good news. Jonathon whispered that he thought he’d solved our problems
– he’d found some waterproof paint in a corner of his dad’s shed he hoped might
do the job of tar. As for sails, though he was no closer to figuring out how to
rig them up, he’d discovered an ancient inflatable dingy lurking in the shed’s
corner too. He suggested we could use the oars from that to paddle our ark.
He’d take the sheet, the encyclopaedia and any bits of rope he could find, and
– as our ship floated on the quiet waters – try to work out what to do about
sails.

The teachers marched
us through the shallows of Marcus’s pond. After assembly, we sat in Perkins’s
room, labouring through some maths as outside God’s fury bashed down. Weirton strode
in.

‘Mrs Perkins,’ the
voice rumbled. ‘I wonder if I might have a word with the children.’

‘Of course, Mr
Weirton,’ Perkins’s simpering lips said.

Weirton strode
forward and back, taking possession of the classroom floor, which seemed
suddenly tiny under his massive feet. The face stared down. It was its ordinary
ham-like colour, but a frown hinted at some serious speech to come. The
eyebrows then narrowed; the lips were pulled into a quivering snarl. Weirton paced
some more before his first finger thrust up and the voice boomed.

‘Children! I would
like to talk to you about the importance of …’ Weirton trailed off, strode
without speaking, allowing hammering rain and running water to be the room’s
only sounds ‘…  the importance of respect for our elders!’

My heart started to
thud – had Davis told him? At least we had the glove to protect us. I glanced
over at Jonathon. His face was white; his mouth gave a wobble, but he just kept
on looking at Weirton.

‘Without children
having respect for grown-ups –’ the voice was getting louder, angrier as it
rolled and echoed round the room, ‘– what sort of world would we have? I’ll
tell you!’ The arm jerked, hurled the first finger over us as Weirton started
to yell. ‘A world full of rude, ungrateful boys and girls; a world full of
children who never learn because they won’t listen to the wisdom of those who’ve
lived long lives! A world of ignorant buffoons and rowdy clowns –
dunces
who are rowdy and ignorant because they haven’t learnt from the punishments and
guidance of grown-ups! And …’ Weirton paused. ‘I have to say we have examples
of such
buffoons
, such
clowns
sitting right here! Oh yes, you
know who you are!’

The eyes swept the
class. The thuds of my heart shook me. Even if Weirton was talking about us,
surely a telling-off would be the worst we’d get – the glove would protect us
against the teacher’s violence.

‘Let me tell you
about an incident that happened yesterday!’

Weirton halted his
stride. The red of his face was deepening. The hands bunched themselves into
fists; those fists waved.

‘Two boys went into
Mr Davis’s shop. And those boys thought it was
funny
, thought it would
be a great laugh, to insult Mr Davis by … by …’

The teacher threw
his body into the air. He crashed down, leapt again, smashed down and jumped up
as the huge fists bashed the thighs, as sweat ran down the shining face.

‘And those boys
dared to ask him … they actually
dared
to ask him if … if … if he was
one of Noah’s sons and had been on the Ark!’

Out of my eye’s corner,
I saw Stubbs clamping his lips with his teeth to contain a smirk.

‘
Daring
to
insult him because of his age!’

Under the table, my
legs ran; my whole body trembled. There could be no doubt Weirton knew of our
guilt. But with the glove in our possession, surely he could inflict no hurt on
us.

‘And those boys
know
exactly
who they are!’ The body went on leaping, the fists punching
the thighs. ‘Mentioning no names – Jonathon Browning and Ryan Watson!’

A gasp floated up
from our classmates. Weirton stopped his jumping, thrust his finger at Jonathon
then me.

‘Look at these
imbeciles, these buffoons! Look at them now then look at them again after I’ve
finished with them! And let what you’re about to see be a lesson to you never
ever
to insult your elders!’

Weirton paused; he
swayed and twitched for a moment; what looked like indecision crumpled the vast
face. Weirton pounced, crashed down in front of me. The hand shot out, clasped
my wrist. I was yanked from my chair and was soon dangling from Weirton’s
upraised arm. In that still second, I prayed to God, begged all the spooks we’d
made our pledges to for protection. I was sure the gauntlet would save me. The
hand whistled down, carving a mighty arc through the air. It slammed into me,
ripping its track of pain across my rear. I floated up, swung back – back to
meet Weirton’s rushing palm. In my shock, I hadn’t steeled myself – tears
exploded, shamefully, just on that second wallop. Out they arced as I swung up.
My sobs started as I hurtled down. The palm smashed onto my behind – up again I
was pitched as more tears sprayed. That palm went on bashing, hurling me high
as tears were flung and sobs gurgled. On it beat, each whack shaking my bones,
throwing out any breath my lungs had managed to suck in. As the hand swooped
and crashed, the lack of air got worse – I felt that panicky vacuum. I fought
to swallow breath, but my sob-filled throat couldn’t get it down. Another blow came;
again I sailed up as my lips quivered and gasped. Each wallop jolted my vision,
a vision that blurred and began to swim as my mind spun and tears swamped my
eyes. Was this how Marcus and Lucy had met their ends? Despite my lack of
sight, despite the pain of my behind, the pain of my wrenched arm, Weirton
thrashed on. A massive blow slammed into me then another then more still. I
slipped into a weird daze, a rotating dark world – airless, formless – whose
only realities were pain and the hand’s constant thuds. Was this the world that
bordered death’s kingdom, the world Marcus and Lucy had travelled through? On
and on the palm bashed. There was nothing but the agony in my stretched arm;
the agony rhythmic blows were driving onto my rear; the agony of starved lungs.
My world was blackness, pain; this world now enclosed me and I didn’t know if I
could ever get back. For some reason, I started to count the wallops. I got to
six, seven and I was slipping, slipping from one state into another, as my head
swirled, as I spiralled down and down, floating through this strange consciousness.

I had a cloudy
sensation of numb feet touching the floor. Weirton let go of my arm; my body
just crumpled. I banged down onto my knees – two agonising jolts shook through
me. I sucked in big shrieking gulps of air – my lungs aching as they stretched.
I swept the sleeve of my jumper over my eyes, looked up. The tear-blurred room
shuddered back into focus. I pushed myself from my knees up into a shaking
stand. I sucked in more precious breath as I glanced around. My classmates
stared – there was no hint of a sneer, even on the faces of Stubbs and Johnson.
Perkins stood rigid, her mouth a broad hole. There was no sign of the tight-lipped
satisfaction with which she normally watched Weirton’s displays. Weirton was
hunched over, his hands resting on shaking legs. The face was the brightest
scarlet I’d ever seen. The huge chest heaved and strained as he hauled breath
in, let it judder out. Sweat poured down the quivering cheeks, dropped to the
carpet. Pain rumpled the teacher’s face. One hand moved from the thigh it
clasped, inched up until it rested on the left side of Weirton’s chest. It
grasped that area – perhaps hoping it could soothe the heart I was sure pounded
within. More minutes went by as the teacher sweated and gasped, as his hand
clutched his ribs. Finally, the massive body straightened up. Out came the hanky
to mop his face. Weirton took off his steamed-up glasses, gave them a wipe too.
Putting his specs back on, he gazed down at me. The arm thrust, the finger
pointed, the voice rolled out, ordering me back to my chair. I lurched into a
swaying walk, jerking and wobbling across the room on circus legs. The first
hiccup leapt from me. For once, I saw no boys battling their amusement, no one
fighting their sneers. The children were pale, their mouths open. Another
hiccup jumped out as I steered myself towards my seat. I tried to lower my rear.
My legs gave way – my backside crashed onto the chair, sending a surge of pain
through me.

‘I told you,’
Weirton rumbled, ‘to look at this clown, this
joker
after I’d finished
with him! So look well children, observe the rewards of the rude, the insolent,
the rewards of idiot boys who don’t know how to talk to their elders!’

‘And –’ Weirton
once more swept his hankie across his cheeks, forehead; I noticed the enormous
sweaty patches under his jacket’s arms ‘– I’m afraid to say we have
another
joker,
another
clown in this class, another ignorant buffoon! So watch
again children – watch how this
character
will soon be laughing on the
other side of his face!’

Weirton sprang at
Jonathon. Again, the arm shot out; again it clasped the wrist. Jonathon was
lifted out of his chair. The hand swooped, banged onto Jonathon’s rump. All
Weirton’s exhaustion had slipped away; the hand floated up and powered down,
sending Jonathon on his swinging flights. Perhaps the fourth time that hand
smashed, Jonathon’s tears flew. I guessed – knowing what would come – he’d
dammed them better than me. But now they gushed down his cheeks, were pitched
across the room with each whack. Weirton’s face reddened once more into
scarlet; sweat coursed down it as he thrashed on. The hand beat relentlessly – the
wallops reverberating round the class. The only other noises were the rain’s
bashing rhythm and my hiccups. Weirton slipped into a daze – his face setting
itself into a determined expression though the eyes were elsewhere. The hand
went on pounding. Jonathon flew, his sobs chugged, he gargled, and I knew the
stage the whacking was getting towards. Sure enough, his lips began grasping
for breath. Jonathon’s eyes spoke of his stomach’s nausea, his lungs’ agonising
squeeze, but still the teacher hammered on. I prayed to God as my heart
thumped, hoping He would rescue my friend even though He hadn’t listened to my
pleas for myself. I begged all the spooks in Emberfield and Salton to help him
even though that dread gauntlet had let us down. But these silent requests did
nothing to stop Weirton. On he thrashed, ignoring his glowing face and rushing
sweat, ignoring the desperate gurgles and spasming lips of his pupil. Again and
again, the hand raced down, it beat and beat until a gargantuan wallop crashed
onto the behind. The impact rang, throwing Weirton from his trance. He glanced
around – at the hanging-mouthed kids, at Perkins standing stiffly, at the rain battering
outside. He wagged his head – as if to wake himself – slammed a few more whacks
into my friend then waited till Jonathon swung to a halt and set him down. Both
teacher and boy panted, struggling to suck in breath. Weirton again was hunched,
straight arms supporting his bulk as his hands rested on bent knees. As he
rasped and sweated, one hand inched up to clutch that same part of his chest. I
imagined how his heart must bash – it’d be like me running around the
playground thirty times. Pain screwed the teacher’s face as he gripped his ribs
harder. But eventually he was able to straighten himself. His cheeks still ran
with sweat; the shirt beneath his jacket was soaked; his underarm patches had
expanded. He thrust his finger; still gasping and spluttering, he ordered
Jonathon back to his chair. Jonathon lurched and staggered on his bouncing
legs; hiccups jumped from him. He lowered his rear onto his seat’s painful
plastic. Weirton panted a little longer as his chest heaved. He brought out his
grey sodden hankie, wiped it over his face. A couple more minutes of wheezing
went by before Weirton waved his finger and the voice boomed.