The Standing Water (34 page)

Speaking of Sandra,
she was silent and joyless all day. At the most, she answered me with murmurs,
shrugs or tuts. How my hands wanted to grab her, shake her, slap or punch that
damned impervious face, set rigid with its misery. Nick still seemed shaken
from yesterday. He showed no interest in the stones, but – after yesterday’s performance
– knew better than to complain. I know I went too far, but at least what I did
seems to have set the boy right. Too much discipline is better than none.

Tuesday, 2
^nd
August,
1983

Drove down into
Dorset to see another – possibly – ancient site. Day began with the same atmosphere
as the one before: Sandra silent and frosty over breakfast, Nick quiet and
pale. But as the car took us closer to our destination, our mood lightened.
Courtesy of Nick, as it happens. The boy couldn’t help sniggering. Asked, in a
friendly tone, what he was laughing about. He giggled elusively before I got it
out of him. We were on our way to see the Cerne Abbas Giant – a huge strong
chap carved out of another chalk hillside wielding an enormous club. And the
club isn’t the only enormous thing about him! What Nick was sniggering over was
the same thing that had made me laugh when reading the guidebooks – those
phrases describing the giant as ‘remarkably phallic’, ‘renowned for its
manhood’ and even as sporting ‘Britain’s most famous phallus’. Apparently,
snaps of the giant used to be the only obscene pictures that could be sent
through the post! I had wondered how I’d explain that particular ‘feature’ to
Nick, but – the lad being almost ten now and having seen a photo – he was left
in little doubt about it. He struck up some high-voiced song about what he
referred to as the giant’s ‘willy’. Made both me and Sandra smile, brought a bit
of cheer into our glum metal box. And why shouldn’t the boy celebrate it? Our
society might be getting over-feminised, but the old symbols remain! Nothing
wrong with a bit of male pride! Whatever the feminists and modern trendies
might reckon, that image of muscular, warlike and – let’s say – unashamed
manhood carved by our ancestors lacks all ambiguity.

We parked up,
‘admired’ the thing from a distance. Some say the giant’s an ancient fertility
symbol, others that it was sculpted as recently as the Civil War as a satire on
Oliver Cromwell. Have to say, I prefer the first idea. The image has generated
all kinds of folklore – that it represents the corpse of a real giant whose
tomb’s the massive earthworks that top the hill, that barren women can conceive
by sleeping on the figure. And, who knows, it may be true – some manly energy
from past times could invigorate their wombs in this effeminate age. Like the
White Horse, the thing’s scoured every seven years. Interesting – seven’s a
magical number, certainly in the Bible enough.

We went for a
closer look, Nick skipping ahead, yelling out the daft ditty he’d concocted.
Had a chat with Sandra. She said she’s not against corporal punishment, she’s
in favour of discipline, but she’s scared I might injure or emotionally damage
the boy. Admitted I need to watch myself, promised that I would. And for the
rest of the day things were great – smiles from Sandra, no whinging from Nick.
Suppose I’ve got a lot to thank the giant and his famous ‘attribute’ for.

If only things
could have gone as well last night. Damned nightmares again. Henry VIII
wandering around with his axe, some strange hand drifting through my dreams –
black, withered, its fingers bent: like the hand of some dreadful old witch.
Then I was in the school – Lucy was in her cupboard, her skull staring at me
with its awful grin. Tried to close the door, but I couldn’t – not even when I
shoved it with all my strength. Some force insisted on holding it open as that
skeleton gazed at me. I ran from the building; I sprinted out of the gate, but couldn’t
pass the pond. Again there was some force, which drew me to that pool. I had to
move towards it in slow strides. Went on with my march right into the water –
the filthy liquid was swirling round my ankles then my knees, waist. It was
soon up to my neck then bumping against my lips then gushing into my nose. It
was up to my eyes, but I had to keep taking those steps. Then all I could see
was darkness. Just filth and darkness surrounded me.

Wednesday, 3
^rd
August,
1983

Saw Glastonbury
today. Blessed place – the town where, according to legend, Joseph of Arimathea
established our nation’s first church and brought with him the Grail that had
caught Christ’s precious blood as he hung on the cross. All kinds of Grail and
Arthurian myths centred on the place. The Tor – a hill rising above the town
topped by the remains of an abbey – is linked by some to the Isle of Avalon,
where the wounded Arthur was taken by boat to lie not in death but slumber. And
the Tor really was an island in those days, the level land around it being
flooded. Of course, we had to climb that sacred mount so I led my family up it
at a blistering speed – my heart pounding as it struggled to power my legs.
Nick struck up the song of his whinging. I gripped my fists, clenched my teeth,
but a glance from Sandra reminded me to be patient. Inspected the ruins at the
top, wondered if that hill really was the site of Arthur’s sleep, if the great
king reposed beneath it. It’s said he’ll reappear if England really needs him. Surely
that moment must be now – love to see him and his knights slash their way
through those ranks of lefties, union men, peaceniks, immigrants, feminists,
perverts and traitors we have to put up with nowadays: hack and trample them
down, make this country once more safe for decent people.

Strode back to
town, dodged throngs of blasted hippies as we looked for somewhere to eat. Nick
resumed his whining – didn’t like the restaurant we chose, wasn’t keen on the
food. Tried to explain there are kids in the world who’d be glad of any food at
all, but this didn’t make any impression on him, and his whinging tortured my
ears for the rest of the meal. I tightened one hand into a fist, it quivered
under the table, but I was able to stay calm and smiling above. I tried to
think loftier thoughts in the hope of lessening my anger. It’s said that when
Joseph came here, he thrust his staff into the ground and it blossomed into a
thorn tree. Descendants of that sacred bush still grow around Glastonbury
today, and – incredibly – the experts tell us those thorns
are
of
Middle-Eastern origin! Flower twice a year, including on Christmas Day to
herald the birth of our Lord! Wonder what all those smart-arsed sceptics and
atheists would say about that! And it was one of those holy thorns we went to
see once we’d eaten – on the top of another mount, known as Wearyall Hill.
Aptly named, at least as far as Nick was concerned. Lad was soon complaining he
was tired. Fearing the outbreak of a tantrum, I tried – despite my struggling
breath – to distract the boy by telling him about King Arthur, St Joseph, but
couldn’t interest him. When we got to the summit, I gazed at that living
monument of our history, thought of how sap, twig and bark had flourished
through the ages, right back to that rod driven into the soil by that holy man.
Nick asked why we’d climbed all that way ‘just to look at some stupid tree’. I
simmered, but breathed deeply and stayed calm. My son’s becoming as much of an
ignoramus as his blasted grandfather!

Still can’t escape
the bad dreams. Plenty last night. Kept waking up – maybe sleep deprivation is
part of what’s making me so irritable. I was twisting and struggling in filthy
water with Marcus, staring at Lucy in her cupboard, hearing the beats of the Drummer
Boy, hearing echoing curses floating with the mist over the land. Even here I
can only be free from damned Emberfield when awake.

Sunday, 7
^th
August,
1983

Cornwall today,
Tintagel. Castle ruins crowning a headland, waves rushing, slapping, crashing
onto the rocks below. Most dramatically sited, most romantic. Not surprising
there are all kinds of legends linked to it. Castle was meant to be the place
of King Arthur’s conception. Uther took a fancy to the wife of its owner – by Merlin’s
trickery he entered her bedchamber disguised as her husband and the result was
our nation’s great king. Some say Arthur was born here too. All sorts of
associations – there’s a Merlin’s Cave, an Arthur’s Footprint: an indentation
supposedly on the spot where he’d leap from Tintagel’s peninsula – which is
almost an islet – back to the mainland.

We got ourselves
onto the headland via the much more prosaic method of a footbridge. Still, it
was a long walk up the steep worn steps clinging to the peninsula’s slopes,
with the sea rolling and frothing under us. Salt bite on the air mixed with the
invigorations of slight vertigo. Along with plenty of other tourists, we
plodded that path, occasionally walking with arms out as above us ancient walls
rose and seagulls spun. What should have been a magical experience was spoilt
by Nick’s whinging. We’d had three difficult days with the boy since leaving
Glastonbury. Whining, complaints, tantrums – even though one day we did just what
he wanted and stayed at the beach. Suspected the boy was thinking his old man
was getting soft, that he could behave how he liked. A few times – when the pan
of my rage was about to boil over – I was seconds away from thrusting my hand
out, clasping the lad’s wrist, wrenching him skywards, but a swift look from
Sandra made me pull myself back. Anyway, up those stone stairs we trudged – as
each step I trod on felt imprinted with eons of history, as the magnificent
vista of sea, rocks and coast lay all around. I just tried to tune into the rumble
of the surf, block out the higher-pitched sounds of Nick’s laments.

We had a look round
the castle, in which Nick at least stoppered his moaning. But as we were coming
back down the steps, he started up once more. He filled the air with his
complaints, sending them up to tussle with the cries of squabbling seagulls. As
usual, he was bored, hungry, exhausted. He was walking a couple of steps below
me; my expert eyes were soon estimating the distance; I was stooping; an
efficient swoop of the arm and I had the boy by the wrist. I hauled him up, my other
hand swept down and a glorious impact rang – resounding around the rocks,
echoing over the sea, even scaring away a group of gulls. I had plenty of anger
stored up from my days of restraint and I let it all gush out – every tantrum
he’d dared throw, every moaning monologue: each was punished by a good strong
strike. Sandra’s face was white; her mouth dropped open. There were other
spectators too – their eyes bulging, gobs gaping. In fact, they had little
choice but to watch due to the huge beating man and swinging boy that blocked
the stairway. But soon, I barely noticed them. I hurled more blows into the
ungrateful wretch, and my world narrowed to a kind of tunnel of sky, rocks, sea
and boy. A tunnel of sound enclosed me too – the regular thud of my palm, the screech
of gulls, Nick’s sobs and gasps, the shocked murmurs from my audience with the
occasional voice raised in indignation: this all swirled around me, with some
strange hypnotic effect. I beat on and on, pounding him harder, ignoring my
booming heart, my struggles for air. That tunnel morphed into a deep well, that
well held my anger, and I had to keep going till every drop of rage was gone.
And, at that well’s bottom, what did I find? An image of Ronald Weirton braying
about me, Nick and Sandra urging him on with their chuckles. You shouldn’t
laugh about something you can’t handle yourself, and I doubted Nick would be smirking
after all this! I flung down more whacks – Nick flung his tears to land on the
rough grass, the boulders, to spiral down to join the spray of the sea. I thrashed
and thrashed him, but eventually my holding arm started to shudder, my grasping
hand shivered and ached. Spasms jerked through it; my grip loosened; Nick was
almost sent sailing over the rocks and down into the sea. That jolted me from
my trance. I glanced around, gave the boy a couple more wallops and set him
down. My heart was bashing so hard, so ominously, like it never had before,
reminding me of that damned bell tolling in my dreams about Salton. Bent over,
I rasped and wheezed; my shirt was soaked; sweat dripped from my hot face.
People were barging past – I caught some of their comments: ‘Now,
finally
,
we can move on!’ ‘The police should be called about that maniac!’ ‘That child
should be taken away!’ ‘What on earth do you mean? The man was only exercising
discipline – not enough of it about these days!’

I was eventually
able to straighten up. Nick was being babied by Sandra. The milksop was bawling
away, wrapped in his mother’s arms, panting and hiccupping as Sandra’s eyes
hurled swords of hate at me.

‘You see!’ I
shouted, as I realised I still had a bit of an audience. ‘
This
is the
consequence of you not letting me discipline him when the need arises! He gets
more and more badly behaved until something like
this
is necessary!’

‘Come on!’ I yelled.
‘We’re going!’

I strode off down
the stairway. After some paces, I turned, sighed to see Sandra and Nick some
way behind. I waited for them as Sandra guided the sobbing, stumbling boy, as
hiccups leapt from him and sailed up to mingle with the calls of gulls. As I stood
there, some grey-haired buffoon came up, started jabbing his finger, calling me
a disgrace, telling me how to raise my own boy. I wasn’t having that. I blasted
him with a volley of angry words, gave him a good shove in the chest. The old
fool staggered back, ended up on his arse on the grass at the path’s side, his
idiotic eyes blinking up at me. Well, let me tell you, he picked himself up and
was soon scuttling away with the odd fearful glance back, and we heard no more
bright ideas spill from his mouth. Nick and Sandra caught up, and we made our
slow progress back to Tintagel town, Nick teetering on bouncy legs as he hiccupped
and wailed. Ordered Sandra to take the milksop away as his howls were grinding
on my nerves – a command with which she readily complied.