The Standing Water (20 page)

‘One more peep out
of you, son, and I’ll tan your behind! Why shouldn’t a nice polite lad like
Ryan enjoy learning?’

‘He says he learns
nothing!’ the brother said.

‘I’m warning you,
son!’ Mr Browning brandished and flexed his palm, which silenced the brother.
We chewed without speaking for a while before Mr Browning said, ‘And how about
Jonathon? You’re a bit quiet – how was your day?’

‘It was all right.’

‘He’s lying too!’
shouted the brother. ‘He had a terrible day!’

‘Right! I’ve had
enough of this!’

Mr Browning scraped
his chair back, ran round the table to the brother with hand raised, grabbed
the collar of his shirt. The brother’s mouth dropped open as his dad screwed
that collar up, pulling him off his seat.

‘You’re lucky I’m
not gonna take my belt to you! But – by God – I’ll give you something to think
about!’

‘Please, Dad, it’s
true!’ the brother squealed. ‘Jonathon got whacked today and Mr Weirton gave him
a letter to take home to you!’

The father paused.
He was frozen with the brother – one hand hovering, the other scrunching that
collar and wrenching the brother up. The brother’s mouth fell back into its
shocked gape. The father’s face flickered; he turned to Jonathon.

‘Is this true?’ he
asked him.

‘No.’

‘Liar!’ the brother
shouted. ‘Just look in his bag!’

‘You be quiet!’ The
father swung his palm, gave the brother’s head a hefty slap. ‘Jonathon, please
bring me your satchel.’

Jonathon got up
slowly, pushed his seat back. The chair gave an ominous squeak. He trudged to
the door, shoulders gloom-heavy, and plodded from the kitchen. I still had my
hopes – in that heart-pounding silence I wondered if he’d have the sense to
take the letter out of his bag, hide it somewhere. But, of course, if it was
found, he’d get an even worse thrashing. Mr Browning unwound his fingers from
Craig’s collar, returned to his chair. Jonathon walked back into the kitchen,
tramped the suddenly vast floor, placed a neat brown envelope in the father’s
outstretched hands. Those hands tore it open. As he had with his newspaper, Mr
Browning flexed the letter with irritated expectancy. A sharp rustle knifed the
air. The eyes scanned Weirton’s pages. I glimpsed them – the paper was scrawled
with furious loops of blue, splattered with the ink spots of the teacher’s
anger. Mr Browning breathed out loudly; his face dropped; his eyes flared. He
put the letter down on the table.

‘This is serious,’
he said. ‘Very serious …’

He exhaled once
more before muttering, ‘Respect … this is all about respect … how can we have
any order without basic respect? That’s half the problem with this country
today … no more respect, deference, obedience …’

Mr Browning stood.
He lifted the bottom of his shirt, undid the buckle of his belt.

‘Respect …’ he
murmured, as if repeating magical words in a trance. ‘Lack of basic respect,
that’s the problem … well, I’m damned if I’m going to see it in my sons …’

He pulled at the
belt – the leather slid through the hoops of his trousers.

‘I’ll beat any
funny ideas out of them … won’t put up with it … not a lack of obedience, of
respect … half the bloody problem with the modern world …’

The last of the
belt slithered free. Mr Browning clasped the buckle and the opposite end in one
hand to make a loop. He thwacked it into his other palm, brought his head down
in a satisfied nod.

‘Jonathon,’ he
said, ‘come out into the hall with me.’

The father led the
way, the dread loop hanging from his hand. Jonathon trudged – back bent, shoulders
drooping. The father pushed open the door, beckoned the son to pass through.
Jonathon obediently walked under the arc made by that door and the father’s
outstretched arm. At that moment, the mother leapt up, grabbed the broom that
leant against the wall.

‘If he thinks I’m
gonna put up with that mess in his room a minute longer after today’s
shenanigans, he’s got another thing coming!’

Armed with her
brush, the mother dashed out, also passing under the father’s arm. Jonathon’s
dad closed the door, leaving just me and the brother at the table. His mum’s
rapid feet sounded on the stairs then came sounds of demolition from the room
above as towers and temples tumbled, grand buildings were levelled, ships swept
from the river by that avenging broom. The brother still shovelled food, but
his chewing face smiled at each noise of destruction. Another noise caused us
both to jump – the whistle of flying leather, the crack of it meeting bare
skin. Jonathon screamed. The strap whistled again, slammed onto the buttocks.
Jonathon cried out – a piercing sound that caused even the brother’s grin to
quiver. His munching face now looked dumbly philosophical – as if wondering
quite what he’d brought upon his sibling. He didn’t have to wonder long. As
walls crashed and spires toppled upstairs, the belt whipped the air again; the
smack reverberated as it collided with flesh. Another scream came which this
time morphed into rhythmic sobs. The crying undulated – sometimes it would
catch, judder in Jonathon’s throat, but after some stuttering it went on with
its unstoppable tempo. The air whooshed, the leather smashed into skin, giving
his sobs a sudden spur.

‘What did you do
that for,’ I said, ‘go and tell on your own brother!?’

‘Dunno –’ the
brother spoke through his food-stuffed mouth ‘– I didn’t mean to. It just sort
of slipped out.’

Another wallop
echoed into the kitchen – we both shuddered as the noise jerked through us.
Jonathon wailed on; the sound of the broom sweeping rubble came from upstairs.

‘You bloody idiot!’
I blurted.

The brother shook
his fist; I slipped from my chair, backed out of striking distance.

‘Why are you so
mean to Jonathon? Why did you tickle him in singing practice? Look at all the
trouble that’s got him in!’

The brother’s
shoulders shrugged; he bit his lip as he pondered, sighed, then said, ‘I didn’t
mean for all this to happen – I was just having a laugh. And … well, I suppose
it was to get him back too – I’ve spotted him a couple of times trying not to
giggle when Weirton was yelling at me.’

Another thwack
reverberated from the hall.

‘I’m … I’m sorry,’
the brother said.

‘I don’t think,’ I
said, ‘sorry will be enough.’

The final whack
resounded. But Jonathon’s rhythmic bawling – the sink and rise of his wails –
would continue long after.

We had the Easter
holidays, when we munched chocolate eggs in honour of the new life given us by
the death of Jesus. After that, about four weeks went by, during which Jonathon
copped two more whackings and I got three. Something had changed: the headmaster
was really coming down on us kids – striding into Perkins’s class to grill
pupils about the tiniest offences. He’d stand over us, voice rumbling as he
drilled his first finger into the tops of our heads, as our hearts thudded and
bodies trembled. This was a new technique I hadn’t heard of or seen before:
Weirton must have recently dreamed it up. But there he’d stand, his finger
thrusting down into your skull, making you feel like the bone would rupture. Waves
of dull pain spread out from that point, and you’d wonder if the longed-for
relief that came when the finger was jerked away would be followed by the
wrist-clasp, the lift, the swooping hand, or by Weirton simply striding from
the room. But, on other days, the vast face would beam – he’d pat our backs,
praise our work, sometimes even make the kids being complimented stand in front
of the class. When this happened to me, I’d look at the faces of Johnson and
Stubbs, knowing they were eager to get me in a secluded patch of the field – as
eager as they’d be if I’d just suffered the humiliation of a walloping. In
those weeks, quite a few punches were swapped between Jonathon and I and those
two lads – with the brother and Darren Hill often pitching in: sometimes on one
side, sometimes on another. Yes, blows hammered down from the boys and hammered
down from Weirton, but what Jonathon and I received from him was little
compared to the more usual targets of the teacher’s rage: Stubbs got seven
whackings, Richard six. And we’d hear the almost daily explosions through the
wall from Weirton’s class: the brother topped his monthly record by reaching
nine thrashings; Darren got eight; quite a few were handed down to other lads
as well. I sat and shuddered when I thought how it would be to be under those
eyes always instead of Perkins’s long blinking lashes. I shuddered when I
thought of how treacherous time was inching us towards the headmaster’s own
class. It was still more than a year off – an epoch away – yet eventually we’d
get there.

But if I remember
that bit of springtime, it was one of rain lashing and hammering outside, of
Weirton’s arm lashing the air and hammering buttocks within, of the lads
hammering fists and lashing kicks at each other on the field and on the way
home. And relations between Jonathon and Craig had not improved since the day
Craig had blundered into gifting his brother two hidings. The situation had
been worsened by the decision Jonathon’s parents had reached after that fateful
episode. They’d declared set-outs were banned – forever. Jonathon had to clear
up his toys at each day’s end – or he’d face the thrashings of his mother’s
tongue, his father’s hand. Jonathon’s life was now dullness in school, dullness
without – his bare floor a reflection of his bare days. He amused himself with
the cartoons he disdained, and the villages and small towns he managed to
construct – to be honest, not much more exciting than Emberfield – before the
falling of night would bring down forever its dark curtain on those creations. Of
course, Jonathon blamed Craig. There’d be arguments – Jonathon whipping him
with barbed words. I’d see Craig sit there trying to take it – maybe mindful of
our conversation that day in his kitchen. But, eventually, Craig’s fists would
grip; his breath would come heavier, faster; his face would flush. Jonathon
would find himself copping a Chinese burn if he was lucky, a flurry of punches
if he wasn’t.

As we lurched into
May, the skies cleared somewhat, there was more light and less rain, and
Weirton also switched from days of heavy thunder to a sunnier mood. The beatings
on the school field, on the way home tapered off among the lads, though things
between Jonathon and Craig were still not peaceful. The trees’ shy buds had now
extended, by some mysterious power, into the furled banners of leaves. The sun
– having survived the deep winter and tumultuous early spring – seemed to have
new life too, as if it was a yolk broken triumphant from one of those painted eggs
we’d devoured at Easter. (In fact, I wondered if maybe we ate them to speed the
sun on his upward curve, to encourage that orb to arc higher and shine stronger
in his rotations of our world by showing him so many millions of those bright
yolks.) We kids also had a spec of spring promise, something to look forward to.
Weirton had announced we’d walk to Salton and both junior classes would go.

The name ‘Salton’
had a magic for us. Our little town was hemmed by fields, those fields had
fences – fences and hedgerows often spiked with barbed wire, sometimes lined
with evil cables humming with that strange enchantment called electricity.
Those fields had farmers – those farmers had shotguns, those farmers had dogs,
those dogs had loud barks, fast legs, eager teeth. Those farmers had farms –
those farms had heavy tractors with crushing wheels, those farms had sucking
slurry pits, slicing combine blades. Those farms were not places for children
to play, as our parents and teachers warned us. Cities – I’d heard – at least
had parks in which young legs could run; we had only the scrap of garden
attached to the Community Hall – perhaps ten adult strides long, five of those
paces wide.

Yet Salton – Salton
was the only place around Emberfield you could really walk. I’d been down there
twice with my family – my recollections were obscured by the shifting fogs of
childhood time, but through those mists of memory I saw a stony track dotted
with pond-like puddles, with vast fields and forests spreading on each side. I
saw mythical buildings – a sky-scratching tower, a great castle, and an aged
church ringed by ancient graves dominating the marshlands. If Emberfield was
locked by conquered fields – the earth beaten, reined in, divided, its only
resistance a sullen waterlogging – then this track to Salton at least offered a
path into a wilder, less tamed world. The upper juniors had been down there the
last autumn – as the brother took care to boast. They hadn’t gone all the way
to the church and castle – as we would! – but had had a fair old tramp,
sketched leaves and collected owl pellets. Some leaves had been snapped from
branches – to be preserved in weighty books, mummified by the press of pages –
while the pellets had been scooped into plastic bags to be cut up later. Our
class felt a mad jealousy as the bigger kids sliced up those droppings next
door, as we overheard Weirton exclaiming as the bones, fur and feathers of the owls’
prey were revealed. The class stuck these remains on pieces of paper then
mounted them on the corridor’s walls – every time we passed we felt twinges of
envy at the tiny shrew skulls and the reconstructed mouse legs with their
thighbones, joints, miniscule toes.

But this time we’d
be going too! I counted down the days – waiting to be led to the mysteries and
wonders of Salton, all thanks to the kindness of our headmaster, who perhaps
didn’t deserve to die after all, and who – now I thought about it – might even have
been innocent with regards to Marcus and Lucy.

The longed-for day
came, and after assembly we all gathered outside the school – Weirton sporting
a rather ridiculous get-up of haversack, granddad cap and woolly socks pulled
up to the knees. Smiling – as most of us were smiling – he led us off at quite
a pace, Perkins stumbling behind on the slightly lower heels she’d put on for
the day, some of the shorter children straining their dwarf legs to keep up. Soon
a crocodile of kids trailed after the headmaster, with Jonathon, Stubbs and I
plodding close to its rear. Weirton led us through our patch of town: striding
under a low sky, which – though full of dark swirls, black cloud – did not
disgorge its rain. The familiar flat fields stretched off on either side as
kids pointed to their houses, waved at their garden gnomes, bickered about
whose gnome was best. Then Weirton led us into less well-known territory –
Emberfield’s high street. Even at that age, even for eyes peering from such a
little body, it seemed small and dismal: the charity shops with their battered
books and threadbare clothes, the pallid fruit in the greengrocer’s, the
newsagents displaying the same papers as Davis. There were pubs – dark and
forbidden at that hour, even to adults, yet still breathing their stale beery
wafts. We passed a farmers’ shop, all green wellies, waxed jackets, a boring
bakery, and the high street was over. On the town’s other side were rows and
rows of semis – pretty much like our own, with the same bleak gardens, even the
same gnomes and wishing wells. We passed one strange building –
ancient-looking, rising up in stern red brick, ringed by a tall wire fence.

‘What’s that
place?’ Jonathon asked.

‘Maybe it’s the
prison,’ I said. ‘My parents say if I go on being bad, it’s where I’ll end up.’

‘Idiots!’ said Stubbs.
‘It’s not the prison! The fence there’s at least half a mile high with huge
circles of the sharpest barbed wire on top! It’s guarded by machine guns, wolves
and snakes! That place is only the Big School.’

‘The Big School!’
Jonathon and I exclaimed.

‘Aye,’ said Stubbs,
‘it’s not quite the prison, but there’re plenty of legends about it.’

‘Like what?’ I
said, sticking my face and chest out in challenge to his cockiness.

‘It’s enormous,’
said Stubbs. ‘Compared to it, our school’s just the size of the cane cupboard.
Kids get lost in there and they don’t find them till days later – half-mad and
half-starved. Then there are the cream cakes in the canteen, which give you the
shits for a week!’

‘A week!?’

‘At least – maybe
two.’

‘You boys!’
Weirton’s yell jerked us from our earnest debates. “Stop gossiping and dawdling
and keep up! What are you – a bunch of grandmothers? You should wear your
skirts to school tomorrow!’

Laughter gusted up.

‘Silence!’ Weirton
shouted from the front.

The giggles
quietened, but as we walked on, the brother got in behind Jonathon, Stubbs and
me. His hand clipped Stubbs’s ear; his fist jabbed just below my ribcage.

‘Wearing your
skirts tomorrow then, little grandmas?’ he said.

‘He was just joking
– idiot!’ Jonathon said.

‘He meant it –
you’d better all come in your skirts or you’ll get a walloping!’

‘Yeah,’ Darren Hill
said, ‘we’ll look forward to seeing all three of you in your lovely dresses!’

Hill managed to
land a kick on my behind then his fingers grabbed Stubbs’s wrist, gave him a
Chinese burn. But the brother had something special for his sibling. He gambolled
forward, stuck out his leg in front of Jonathon, gave him a push. Jonathon flew
through the air, hurtled into a stone wall – his hands took most of the impact,
but he still cracked the side of his head. He plummeted, landing on a grass
verge, face narrowly missing a few nuggets of dog shit. Kids battled their
laughter as Jonathon lay sprawled and blinking on the wet grass. His bewildered
face began raising itself – its dopey expression triggered another swell of
chuckles.

‘
What
is
going on here!?’

Weirton was
striding back through the parade of kids, hands and arms swiping children from
his path. Jonathon had no time to stumble to his feet as Weirton shoved his way
through the last of the pupils.

‘Jonathon Browning
again!’ Weirton bellowed, his pink face pricked with sweat, his mouth breathing
puffs of angry mist. ‘Whatever it is, however you got into that ridiculous
position, I don’t want to know! But I’ll tell you something – one more
hint
of trouble from you and I’ll make the worst walloping of your life seem like a
walk in the park! Understand?’

‘Yes, Sir,’
Jonathon said, from his bed in the grass.

Weirton strode back
to the front of the line of smirking kids. Jonathon – limbs shaking, face woozy
– hauled himself up.

‘Only a yellow
card,’ the brother said, ‘lucky – very lucky.’

‘Can’t
believe
he didn’t get whacked!’ said Darren. ‘Old Weirton must be going soft!’

We trudged on past
the last of Emberfield’s drab houses, damp gardens, and soon stood before the
gates of Salton.