The Standing Water (43 page)

I wondered if such
a thing was happening in Emberfield. I couldn’t imagine our town being overly
generous. My dad hated tramps, the homeless, beggars. When any report came on
the news about the growing numbers down in London sleeping on park benches and
in shop doorways, he yelled at the telly, ordering it to get a job. Jonathon’s
father shouted the same at his newspaper and radio. Davis said they should lock
them all up or put them in the army, which I supposed would at least mean
they’d have some food and a roof to shelter them. But if a beggar had turned up
in Emberfield, I wouldn’t have imagined he’d have much more luck than the angel
of the Lord. Maybe such an angel had come asking for aid and Emberfield’s
rebuffs – rather than stolen gauntlets or boys in ponds – had caused the
creeping floods and constant rains. I wondered if I should talk to the vicar
about it. But having committed the sin of taking something from his church, I
knew I’d quake before his mighty magic: maybe he’d see right into me, see
evidence of my crime and strike me down right there. Or maybe he’d applaud our
efforts to rid our town of Weirton’s evil. Like the God he served, it was
difficult to know what he thought sometimes.

The rains wouldn’t
stop, more farms and hamlets were flooded, and Jonathon and I grew frantic. I
ransacked my mind to think what we should do. It took some time to discover the
solution. One day, around a fortnight after the rainy weather had begun, I
bumped into Jonathon in the street.

‘Where are you
going?’ he asked.

‘Off back to my
house – to see what I can do about this rain.’

‘Yeah,’ said
Jonathon, ‘something does needs to be done – before we all bloomin’ drown!’

‘Fancy coming
along?’ I said.

When we arrived, we
dried out for a bit in my living room. Then we put our kagools back on –
feeling their repulsively cold clasp against our dry skin – and rushed out into
the downpour. We hurried through the front garden – past the drowned and
drooping flowers, our gnome’s flooded pond, the dwarf perched above the waters
on his toadstool like the cockerel had been on his post. We splashed across my
driveway, entered the cobwebby shelter of my garage. I yanked down my hood.

‘Hopefully it’s in
here somewhere,’ I said.

At the dark end of
the garage, beyond where my dad parked his car, was a pile of planks, old
tools, mildewed sheets of cardboard. I dove into this mound, clearing away the
debris. Spiders fled; I tore tangles of their webs from my arms.

‘You sure it’s
still there?’ Jonathon asked. ‘Sure your dad didn’t chuck it out?’

I answered him by
delving further into the heap. My fingers scrabbled over a plank with the heads
of four purposeful nails driven into each corner. Below was a similar oblong of
wood, and below that another.

‘Got it!’ I
shouted.

I tugged at that
structure. The rest of the debris clattered and tumbled as I levered it out. I
struggled a little more and, finally, with a film of sweat coating the inside
of my kagool, I stood before my friend in triumph clutching a frame of four
long posts with planks nailed across.

‘I reckon that’s
about a quarter of the hull,’ I said.

Jonathon nodded.

‘If we work hard,
shouldn’t take us too long to finish it,’ he said.

‘Then if this rain
doesn’t stop, at least
we
can be saved!’

‘But even with our
ark, how would we survive?’ said Jonathon.

‘Have to become
pirates. I’ve already asked my mum for a skull-and-crossbones flag. She says
she’ll get me one.’

It was a satisfying
image – us floating in buccaneering freedom above the drowned houses, church
and school. There’d be no more boring lessons, no more of Weirton’s wallopings.
From what I’d read about pirates, I knew that rather than the teacher’s hand, all
we’d have to worry about would be the Royal Navy.

We got down to work
– sticking on the dim garage bulb to give us light against the dull day,
listening to the ferocious rhythm of God’s unquenchable wrath drumming on the
roof.

‘Stubbsy laughed at
me last year for trying to make my ark,’ I said, as I smacked in a nail.

‘He’ll be laughing
on the other side of his ugly face when he’s drowning and we’re sailing away!’
Jonathon said. ‘Noah’s neighbours laughed at him and look what happened to
them!’

The work went well
and soon we’d got almost one side of the hull done.

‘What’ll we do for
sails?’ Jonathon asked.

‘Have to nick
sheets from our mums,’ I said.

‘You know,’
Jonathon said, ‘hopefully we’ll escape the flood, but what do you think’s
causing it?’

‘God’s angry at
something, just like in the Bible.’

‘But’ – Jonathon
paused, one of my Dad’s rusty hammers hanging from his hand – ‘whose fault is
it? I hope it’s not mine for trying to kill my brother!’

‘Could be,’ I said,
‘but floods aren’t usually the punishment for that – for that you get a mark
stuck on your forehead. And at least you’re sorry for it.’

‘Could be something
else,’ said Jonathon. ‘There are so many sins to choose from – Stubbs’s, Darren
Hill’s, the things they say some of the adults do after the pub … and, of
course, God might be furious at us stealing the gauntlet.’

His face frowned; my
heart boomed at the mentioned of that crime, but all we could do was go on with
our work. The sound of our rapping hammers was overwhelmed by the rain flinging
its drops on the roof with even greater vigour. I hoped – as my heart bashed
faster – this was not a signal we’d sinned by stealing the glove.

‘Whatever it is, God’s
really angry!’ I said.

‘Might not be us,’
said Jonathon. ‘Could be Weirton with all his whackings. I’m sure God’s furious
about him murdering Marcus and Lucy. Perhaps God’s pleased with us for trying
to get him out of the way!’

‘Maybe,’ I said, as
the rain blasted down even harder as if roaring a response, ‘he’s given out a
lot of wallopings lately – you never know when he might go too far with one!’

The hand had certainly
been active. The brother – bearing his sinful mark – had been beaten seven
times in the last three weeks. Stubbs had picked up five thrashings in the same
period; Darren Hill and Richard Johnson had each got four.

‘Good job you
snatched that glove back,’ said Jonathon. ‘At least it keeps Weirton away from
us.’

That was true.
Since I’d got it back, we’d hardly had an angry look from the headmaster. We
worked on for some time without speaking – the knocking of our hammers against
iron and wood an under-rhythm to the rain’s fury.

‘Maybe Weirton
really has gone too far in God’s eyes,’ I said. ‘After all, Jesus says we
should be kind and gentle.’

‘Well, he’ll be
sorry when we sail away in our boat!’ Jonathon said. ‘Just imagine – fat old
Weirton drowning in the dirty water along with all those stupid kids who laugh
at us after we’ve got whacked! We’ll be the ones laughing then!’

The rain softened.
The sound it now drummed seemed one of encouragement – one that urged us on by
mimicking the tapping of our hammers. I hoped this meant God approved of us.
But as the noise of our hammers changed from cautious taps to more committed
bangs, the rain responded – switching from its gentle patters to a raging
downpour. In our puzzlement about what the Lord was punishing, we could only
work on.

Over the next few
days, we had to quicken our work on the ark as the deluge showed no signs of
slackening. At best, the rains might cease for an hour, the sun might sneak the
odd ray through the clouds to glitter on the standing waters in the fields, but
soon those clouds would close over any patches of blue and the rain would hammer
once more. Every evening, Jonathon and I laboured in my garage. We followed the
plans Jonathon sketched out – he’d spend lengthy sessions with his head stooped
over his encyclopaedia before his pencil filled bits of paper with designs for
decks, cabins, the curve of the hull. Soon we’d got both sides of that hull
done – we just needed to join them together. We’d also nailed two posts into a
cross to be our mast. Jonathon had stolen a sheet from his house, and we were
struggling to figure out how we’d attach that makeshift sail.

‘Hey!’ I said. ‘How
about asking Mr Davis? It was a long time ago, but he might remember how the
first Ark was built.’

‘Could do,’
Jonathon replied. ‘But why would Davis help us make our ship? He won’t even
give us the sweets we ask for.’

‘Well …’ I thought
for a moment. ‘Maybe we could let him come on our boat. Being one of Noah’s
sons, he’ll know how bad these floods can be. Bet if we told him he could come
on our ark, he’d be so grateful he’d help us.’

‘Yeah,’ said
Jonathon, ‘but then we’d have to put up with him grumbling all the time.’

‘Might not be so
bad if we made him promise to bring all his sweets. We’d need something to eat,
wouldn’t we?’

‘Suppose,’ said
Jonathon.

Anyway, we put the
sail to one side, and started cobbling together a cabin from some old boards
we’d found. We knew we had to work quickly: there were fears among the adults
Emberfield might get ‘cut off’ – become an island in an increasingly watery
world. My mum and I even drove to Goldhill to fill the car with shopping before
it was too late.

The car hit the
puddles along our patch of town’s main street, causing brown waves to arc. The
rain drummed on our roof as we passed the pub – that sinful hostelry surrounded
by pond-like puddles its wicked clients would have to wade across. Soon we were
roaring down the lane to Goldhill, hurling up spray on each side. The road was
fringed by dripping, half-submerged hedgerows; in the fields were vast lakes
much bigger than Marcus’s pond. Maybe some of them would be good for trying out
our ark. We came to a dip in the land – a stream gushed from a pool on one side
of the lane, burbled into a field with a dark lake on the other. Mum slowed and
– engine growling – the car crossed that torrent, sending up curves of water as
Mum anxiously bit her lip. Having got over that ford, we again picked up speed
as we sloshed along the winding road. I wondered why our lanes were so bendy.
Weirton had told us that in the Olden Days they’d been deliberately made so to
confuse ghosts and spirits – who could only walk straight. This would stop the
spooks floating about the countryside and pestering folk with their hauntings.
This had made sense to me until Jonathon said his encyclopaedia had told him
they were built like that to dodge things like large rocks or bits of boggy
ground. I wasn’t sure which explanation to believe; in a way they both seemed
logical so I supposed both could be true.

Now we laboured up
a slight slope crowned by the graveyard – Emberfield doing its best to raise
the souls of its departed out of the earthly swamp and a little towards heaven.
And – of course – if they could never get quite there, the roads were windy
enough to stop them bothering our town. The graveyard was a strange place – all
creeping ivy and sombre boxlike yews. There’d been a church there once, but
that sagging structure had been knocked down and a cheerier redbrick one built
in our part of Emberfield. But the old entangled graveyard fascinated me more. Heart
knocking, I sneaked a glimpse – seeing the weathered curves of the crumbling
stones. Tea-dark puddles surrounded the lower tombs – broken crosses, slanting
headstones poking out of the water. The branches of yews dripped and shivered;
the little path looked waterlogged. That graveyard – or the one at Salton – was
where Weirton should have buried Lucy! I thought again how all this rain might
be a punishment for that. I hoped our graveyards wouldn’t be washed away by the
unrelenting downpours: that we wouldn’t wake one morning to find ourselves
struggling in deep water, bobbing with worm-crawling corpses and skeletons.
Jonathon and I really had to crack on with our boat. But soon the car hauled us
past, we were over the little rise, and the graveyard vanished from view.

Our car sped on,
the damp engine chuntering. We now had a vista of flat land – the mud-churned
fields dotted with ponds and lakes, the great trees weary under their sodden
crowns, the sky full of scudding rain-stuffed clouds. I wondered where the sun
had gone, if he would emerge to dry up all this water. Surely we weren’t far
from his summer high point – he should still have had plenty of strength, maybe
enough to scorch a path through those clouds. But he hardly ever appeared
though we’d encouraged him enough with our Bonfire Night blaze and our lights
and baubles at Christmas. We’d have to double our efforts to please him at the
end of that year – if the year’s end ever came, if Emberfield wasn’t under
watery miles by then. That thought made fear rise in me – I pictured the
school, the houses, the churches, my home submerged under the endless quiet,
the deathly silence of deep water. Actually, that image was not an unpleasant
one – it caused a tingle of pleasure to rise from my stomach, flicker down my
arms: a sensation that strangely mingled with my shivers of terror and awe.
Even the thought of my parents and sister drowned didn’t cause much grief. Guilt
surged over that – I was frightened God might punish my heartlessness, my lack of
love for the family He’d given me. As if in response, the rain pounded harder
on the car’s roof. Mum interrupted my ponderings.

‘I heard some more
about that stolen gauntlet,’ she said.

‘Oh, really?’ I
struggled to keep my voice calm.

‘They haven’t found
out who did it or anything like that –’ relief rushed through me ‘– I just
heard the vicar said something about it the other night during a meeting at the
Community Hall. He said that even if the police couldn’t find the thieves, God
knew who they were and God would have His justice. Apparently, he seemed angry
about it – something unusual for such a gentle man. I suppose it’s like in the
Bible – no sins really go unpunished, at least none I can think of.’

As Mum rarely
opened that book or went to Church, I wasn’t sure how much she knew about God’s
ways yet still my heart boomed. The black clouds in the heavens glowered down
at me.

‘Yes,’ Mum said, ‘let’s
think – God flooded the whole world for its sins, destroyed the cities on the
plain, if I remember right, and punished Cain for murdering his brother. And
our modern world is full of enough evil – just look at how things are! I really
hope the police catch those thieves, but – if they don’t – I’m sure the vicar’s
right that God will have His vengeance!’

We made it to
Goldhill, but – as we trailed around the supermarket – I couldn’t help thinking
about Mum’s words. I imagined the enraged vicar working his mighty magic –
throwing his arms up to the heavens to summon, with the Lord’s will, dense
swirling masses of cloud, which would fling God’s wrath upon us, punishing the
innocent as well as the guilty until those responsible either repented or
confessed. We hurriedly loaded the car up and drove back as more rain bounced
down. I noticed the flooding wasn’t so bad near Goldhill; it got much worse as
we approached Emberfield and Salton. I swear the lakes and ponds in the fields
had grown in the hour or so we’d been away. I looked at all that water stacked
on the sodden land – just waiting to rise to the right level to engulf
Emberfield. I cursed the day we’d had the idea to steal that gauntlet; cursed
Weirton for making us do so. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if God’s
waters really did blot out our sinful town. Or would the best thing be to
attempt to pacify Him while there was still time? As the car raced along the
lane hurling up water, as we passed the graveyard in which I swear the floods
had edged further up the headstones, as we struggled across what seemed a deeper
and more gushing ford, I willed our vehicle on, silently urging the spluttering
engine to get us home so I could rush round to Jonathon’s, talk about all this
to him.

We made it home,
and soon I was out in the street, on my way to my friends’ as more rain pelted.
Dad had said he’d heard on the radio they’d be bringing sandbags if things
didn’t get better. Luckily, the only river near Emberfield was the Bunt, which
was titchy, but the radio had said there was so much flooding in the fields all
that standing water could roll off and into our homes. There was no doubt now
we either had to work like crazy on our ark or find a way to soothe the rage of
the Lord. I called for Jonathon, and soon we were running back to mine as the
sky spat down its waters in grey sheets. I yanked up the door of the garage and
hauled the ark from the pile of rotting cardboard and old planks that shielded
our ship. Our hammers were soon tapping.

‘Jonathon,’ I said,
‘I think it might be the gauntlet God’s angry about.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Mum told me the
vicar said to all the adults God would punish the thieves even if the police couldn’t
catch them!’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah!’

‘Maybe it is us
then – unless God’s punishing
all
Emberfield’s sins, ours as well. Maybe
we’re all so bad He’s just decided to drown the lot of us!’

‘Better crack on
with the ark then,’ I said. ‘But there is something else we could try.’

‘What?’

‘We could put back
the gauntlet.’

‘Could do …’
Jonathon said. ‘But I wouldn’t mind keeping it to stop Weirton whacking us.
He’s been going so mad lately. No use building our ark if Weirton whacks us to
death first!’

I thought for a
moment.

‘You’re right,’ I
said, as water bashed the roof, gargled in the garage’s gutters. ‘If God’s
angry with us, we could always put the glove back before we sail away – if the
church isn’t totally underwater by then!’

‘Yeah,’ said
Jonathon, ‘but for now we should get on with our boat.’

Soon we were
banging and sawing, exchanging no words as the rain beat above.

A couple of days
later, though no one’s home was yet flooded, a truck from the council came
round to give out sandbags. The gutters swarmed with so much water that soon
just the middle of the main road stuck above the flow – a strip which cars
would edge cautiously down. The news brought us scenes every day of nearby
villages that had succumbed to the water: houses full of filthy liquid, sinful
pubs punished by floods lapping against their windows, low-lying churchyards
turned to lakes with only the very tops of headstones poking out while the
churches still stood – as firm strongholds of God – above the wet chaos. Few
people now attempted to go to Goldhill. I prayed and hoped God’s righteous
waters would prevent Weirton getting to work. Perhaps then school would be
cancelled and we could get on with the vital task of finishing our ark. But
each day the teacher made it in, each day he had to park further down the
street before wading through Marcus’s spreading waters. I was sure Marcus was
tempted to take this chance of revenge. I think Weirton knew this too – after
pulling on his wellies, he’d stick to the very edge of the pond, stride through
it with his mouth frowning, his eyes crinkled, though whether in anger, fear or
just distaste I couldn’t tell. But, if fear it was, it wasn’t enough to stop
the headmaster coming in, stop him braving the watery dangers between
Emberfield and Goldhill. I overheard him boasting to Perkins about how he’d
never let ‘a little namby-pamby water’ stop him, about how each day he got his
car over that ford Mum and I had struggled through, how ‘in this decadent
modern world’ whatever that meant ‘people get all worried about a little rain –
well,
I
won’t let it stop me doing my duty!’

And Weirton wasn’t
failing to do that. As the rain hammered outside, the palm hammered within.
Indeed, the beating down of God’s fury seemed to encourage the beating of that
hand. Stubbs, Darren Hill, the brother, Richard Johnson, a good few other lads
– all were thrashed, the poundings of Weirton weaving themselves into the
rhythms of the rain. At least, knowing Jonathon and I were safe, I could relax.
As long as that gauntlet stayed in my cupboard, the teacher could inflict on us
no violence, let alone wallop us until we met the sad end of Marcus or Lucy.
Jonathon was right – I’d be crazy to put that glove back before we were ready
to sail away.

Speaking of our
ship, it was progressing well, but there were still a few things we weren’t
sure about. I’d thought about just nailing our sheet to the mast, but Jonathon had
now read in his encyclopaedia that sails were controlled by a complex system of
ropes that could magically cause them to catch the wind and so send the ship
any way you wanted. But the encyclopaedia didn’t tell us much, and even
Jonathon couldn’t figure out how such ropes would work – some experiments with
his dad’s garden string hadn’t been successful. Also, though the two sides of
our hull were finished, there were gaps between the planks through which water
would come. The encyclopaedia said some stuff called tar kept ships waterproof,
but didn't tell us how to make it. These problems were not just minor hitches –
we really had to get our ship seaworthy. The rain still lashed down; the clouds
still crowded above. People were building sandbag walls around their houses. If
we couldn’t get our boat ready, it might soon be too late.