The Standing Water (56 page)

The Diary of James Ronald Weirton

Wednesday, 8
^th
June,
1984

It was wonderful to
walk out of my cottage this morning, taste the fresh biting air, see the sun shimmering
on the loch. Breeze off the water ruffling my shirt, the mountain peaks rimming
the lake scratching the sky, that sky a drifting patchwork of clouds the sun
was shooting its rays down through like an archer unleashing his arrows.
Magnificent! All so different to Goldhill and Emberfield. Flavour of the air
was the first thing I noticed when I got here – it’s not tainted by smoke and
manure scents, by skulking lowland vapours, by the miasmas of graveyards, never
mind by the pollution of ancient curses. Here the air’s so fresh, so vigorous
it’s almost painful – good salt nip to it, snapping up at you from the sea
loch, mixed with the not unpleasant aroma of rotting seaweed. Just love to stare
over the lake – what peace, what freedom! Could easily stand there for hours
just gazing – the sun’s glitter on the water, the rocky islets tinged that
lovely browny-green by lichen and seaweed, the bulk of Castle Stalker rising on
its island just down the shore. Even when it rains the view’s impressive – the
storms breaking over the mountains, the pounding sheets sweeping down the loch.
So, so different to the downpours round Emberfield – the water bashing onto the
sodden flatlands, onto the sulky marshes where it then lies in dirty puddles
and evil pools. Give me any day an honest Scottish deluge – let me see the raw
power of nature at work!

Did some gardening
in the morning, had a stroll round my –
my
– two fields in the
afternoon, around my scrap of Scotland,
my
scrap of sacred land. How
wonderful compared to the pathetic square of garden we had in Goldhill!
Seriously thinking of getting some sheep – cottage comes with grazing rights on
the mountain as well as fishing rights on the loch. Have to learn how to milk
them, make cheese, already know how to sheer, of course, just have to brush up
my technique as it’s been so long. Took a simple lunch in the cottage. Had a
good glance around – still can’t quite believe it’s mine! I love it all – the
thick rough walls, the slanting floors, the old fireplace. Apparently, they
burn peat here in winter. I reached out a hand, ran it along the bulging and
dipping contours of the walls – wonderful! Here, I thought, is real life – life
in all its rugged glory! How different to the monotone smoothness of the redbrick
of Emberfield. People down there wouldn’t know real life if it whacked them
round the chops! Only reminders of my former existence are a few sticks of
furniture I took from the old place, the Mercedes – of course – parked outside,
and – unfortunately, I have to say – Lucy. Didn’t know what to do with her so I
brought her here. Phoned the school – that buffoon Stone even drove her to
Goldhill. Bet he’d turn pale if he knew what had been on his backseat! Said I
intended to use her as a teaching aide. There she is now, in her corner,
grinning as I write, staring at me gormlessly. She’s no more gormless than a
lot of the kids I taught in Emberfield! What else could I have done but take
her with me? How do you simply
dispose of
a ten-year-old girl’s
skeleton? And if I’d left her in the school, that clown Stone might have got
suspicious. He told me himself he’s the ‘inquisitive type’. In other words, he
loves to shove his nose in where that nose shouldn’t be!

So, anyway, here
Lucy hangs in the corner of my living room. Makes me uneasy at night, I have to
say, especially when the wind’s howling around the mountains, swooping over the
loch, shaking my door. One night I even saw Lucy shivering and clacking in some
dreadful dance! Jumped out of my chair, cold sweats, heart hammering. Thought
the old ticker was going to pop again, the old brain going to blow. All Lucy
was telling me was that I had a draught. Moved her to the opposite corner – a
place where she has no temptations to rattle and jig! Still feel like she’s
looking
at
,
watching
me sometimes, especially at night when it gets so quiet
here! Incredible silence – makes Goldhill seem like Leicester Square. Wanted to
put her in a cupboard, closet her out of my damned sight, but nothing here’s
big enough. Have to go into Oban or Fort William, find a furniture shop. Buy a
nice coffin so I can lock Lucy away!

Often think of how
she came to be in my possession. How – despite the fun I’ve had with her over
the years – I wish I could go back in time, bash my head till the whole
hair-brained idea of acquiring her is driven from my skull. Wish I’d never gone
into in that blasted junkshop! Funny old fellow who ran it – how I wish I’d
never got talking to him! Think he immediately clocked something about me –
takes one to know one, as they say. Dark humour, a feel for the macabre – he
sniffed that out all right. Sidled up to me as I was browsing in his cluttered
dusty store – white beard, white hair, impish flicker in his eyes.

‘Can I help you?’
he said. ‘Seen anything of interest, Sir?’

‘That model
skeleton –’ I nodded towards where Lucy dangled ‘– pretty lifelike, isn’t it?’

‘It’s a she,
actually – genuine bit of Victoriana, used for teaching medical students. Hence
the veins and arteries painted on.’

I nodded. ‘Great
age, England’s finest, height of Empire.’

‘You –’ the old
fool leaned towards me, lowered his voice ‘– interested in this sort of thing,
Sir?’

‘Well –’ I smiled,
gave a shoulder shrug ‘– I do have a taste for the old gothic, memento mori and
all that. And I’m a teacher – could be useful in the classroom.’

‘The gothic,
memento mori, very good,’ the man murmured. ‘And, in those days, if you knew
the right folks, it wasn’t difficult to get your hands on … let’s say, very
genuine
specimens. Prisons, workhouses, executions, quite a trade in supplying the
medical profession. Plenty of buggers who weren’t the slightest use alive
became
very
useful in death.’

I grinned; the man
nodded; we had an understanding.

‘Lucy I call her.’
His hand reached out, patted the skull. ‘Would have been about ten years old.
Probably came from a workhouse or orphanage. I’m sure you could find a use for
her, Sir, for your … educational activities. And, for you, of course, we could
agree a special price. I’m sure –’ a wrinkled finger now tapped his nose ‘– I
don’t have to remind you of the need for a little discretion.’

So that was how I
gained Lucy’s acquaintance. Always got a kick out of showing her to the kids,
watching them as I went through the routine of how she’d been a bad girl, seeing
their faces fall, their eyes blink, their lips tremble. Could almost hear their
little brains whirring – trying to figure out how poor behaviour could lead to
that
.
Fantastic tool for discipline. And I’d always have a sly chuckle to myself.
Great to wheel her out to brighten up a dull day. Started off showing her to my
class up in Newcastle then a little later she starred in those legendary
assemblies in Emberfield. Superb! Who knows, when the supply teaching work
starts rolling in, maybe Lucy could have her moment on the Scottish stage. Have
to get that cupboard though. Being gurned at all day is a bit much for anyone!

Saturday, 18
^th
June,
1984

Saw footage of the
strike on TV tonight. Orgreave in South Yorkshire. Dreadful scenes – miners
hurling rocks and debris, car set on fire, hand-to-hand fighting with the
police. I was heartened to see the officers responding firmly. Can’t pussyfoot
about with the working man when his head’s been filled with garbage by unions
and communists. Have to come down on him hard, no nonsense. Pretty good show by
the police – horses, dogs, batons. Let them know what’s what. Course, if I had
my way, the army would be out. One order to disperse then mow the blighters
down. Of course, if I really did have my way, unions would be illegal in the
first place. Anyone who tried to organise one would have plenty of time to
think about his foolishness while staring at a cell wall. The persistent agitators
would face the rope. But, in this namby-pamby democracy, what we can do is
limited. Have to say, I’m starting to warm towards her. Didn’t like her much at
first – even wondered if a woman PM would have the guts to face down all those
lefties. But she did well in the Falklands and she’s doing well now. Hopefully
set a trend for more vigorous policing – just what this country needs to deal
with rioting coons and striking workers. But I’m still not convinced – mistrust
this mania for selling everything off. Mines, railways, water, electricity
should all be owned by the government. Privatise this, flog off that – like
selling the family silver. Soon have half the country controlled by Japs and
Frenchies, Yanks and blasted Jews.

As this strike
drags on, sometimes see some action from the North-East. Always gaze at the TV,
see if I recognise any faces. In many ways, I liked teaching in Newcastle.
Liked a lot of the parents – good honest working people. Miners, shipbuilders –
real men, not like the sappy office boys and dozy farmers down in Emberfield, tongue-lashed
half the time by their prissy wives. Salt of the earth, those Geordies were,
those whose minds hadn’t been poisoned by the lefties. Didn’t mind a bit of
discipline for their ‘bairns’ either. Head was also a traditionalist so it was
in that first job my palm really began to swoop. Of course, the miners and welders
of Newcastle weren’t quite as accepting of the need for my right hand as the
good folk of Emberfield. Did have one or two tricky situations when I was
called into the head’s office, told I’d gone too far. Remember that final
verbal warning. The thrashing that triggered
that
was one of legend! Sweat
even
now
thinking about the effort I hurled into it. Head’s warning was
one of the things that nudged me into looking for another job. That and the
wife’s nagging that the countryside would be better for my health, nicer for
Nick to grow up in. Saw the headmaster’s position advertised in Emberfield,
applied for it on the wildest off-chance. Never been a deputy or head of year
before or anything like that. Amazed to get the interview then even more
astounded to be offered the post. Seemed the governors and the vicar’s predecessor
were all impressed with me. Good job I’d decided to take a risk and be honest
about my views on discipline. Gambled Emberfield wouldn’t be the sort of place
infested by trendy modern nonsense. A few experimental thrashings elicited no
complaints and assured me the people of Emberfield had perfect trust in me and
my right hand. Liked me a little too much, it turned out. Stayed in the damned
place too long. Suffered years of depression in those dismal marshes, and, of
course, there was that awful incident with Marcus.

I’m rambling again.
Better get to bed. Forecast says it’ll be a fine day tomorrow. Have to power up
the old boat, chug out onto the loch, get some fishing done.

Sunday, 19
^th
June,
1984

Glorious day, sun
hiding behind and peeking out of the clouds, tinging their edges golden. Loch as
calm as a duck pond. Boat puttered me out into the lake. Old thing, but it was
a pretty good deal to get it along with the cottage. Water practically
deserted. Great feeling – just me, the breeze, the glistening loch, the boat
bouncing and slapping through the water. Chugged close to the castle.
Magnificent – standing on its grassy rock, weathered by time but still as
strong as ever. Symbol of our history, our great country’s resilience. Dates
from the 1440s – good stout keep topped by a couple of turrets. Yes, its stones
are worn, it’s lichen-smeared, but I’d like to see anyone try to take it in a
hurry. Plenty of history in this part of our nation. Have to try to see some
before term starts in September. Should go and look at the standing stones over
on Lewis. Stone circle with a long approach avenue. Reckoned to be 2,200 years
old. A good few legends linked to it. Some say the stones were giants who were
petrified as a punishment for refusing to convert to Christianity. Another tale
speaks of a man called ‘The Shining One’ who’s supposed to walk down the avenue
of Stones on midsummer’s morning, heralded by a cuckoo call. Have to get up to Orkney
too – even more magnificent remains there. Huge megaliths, a stone circle, a
Neolithic village, an underground tomb aligned so the sun shines into it on the
winter solstice. Incredible! All those who love to denigrate British culture
should see what our ancestors were up to thousands of years ago! According to
the book I’m reading, whole thing’s part of a ‘ritual landscape’ – all situated
on an isthmus between two lochs: a sacred space cut off from normal mundane
life. Suppose it’s like us today putting walls around our churches or sticking
them on mounds to elevate them a little closer to heaven and out of the worldly
swamp.

Anyway, the boat
puttered me across the sparkling loch as I gazed at the mountains. The sheer
feeling of peace! Best decision I ever made, moving up here. Free from Sandra’s
damned silences and nagging attacks, from Nick’s whining, from the idiocies of
Dennis Stubbs, Craig Browning, Richard Johnson. Already feel like those
buffoons belong to another life. This may sound heartless, but I don’t even
miss Sandra and Nick that much. I hate the frequent family breakdowns of this
ghastly modern world yet sometimes – when you’ve given all you can – you just
have to give up. And I’ll have the lad here for a bit in the school holidays.
Should be good for him, toughen him up, get him away from the babying of Sandra.
Maybe I’ll finally connect with the boy when we’re just men together, far from
her womanly fussing.