The Standing Water (62 page)

Weirton gulps; for
a moment, the pink face goes white. He glances around as if searching for an
escape route. He recovers himself, forces his lips into a smile. He stands up,
peers at me. The voice is quieter, weaker than the boom I remember, but there’s
still a hint of power vibrating in it.

‘My God, this is a
blast from the past! Yes, I was the headmaster for some years of West
Emberfield Primary School. Who are you? Don’t tell me you’re Marcus Jones!’

‘No Sir, I’m not
Marcus; I’m Ryan Watson.’

‘Ryan Watson! Of
course! I can see it now. By God, lad! This is a surprise!’

Weirton clasps my
hand, pumps it. His grip’s unexpectedly strong. He introduces his friend,
Jimmy. I shake Jimmy’s hand too.

‘You were one of my
favourite pupils, you know,’ Weirton says. ‘I remember enjoying your stories
and paintings. So much better than the garbage the others produced! So, tell me
how you are, my lad.’

‘I’m just up here
for a few days’ break, but I live in London.’ I notice I’ve also forced a fake
smile onto my face. ‘I’m an artist and writer. I’ve had one book published.
Sales were disappointing, though.’

‘Really?’ says
Weirton. ‘That is impressive! I’d imagine it’s an achievement to get published
at all. Well done, Ryan! I hope I can boast of some small part in developing
your talent. Nice to know I’ve done at least some good in the world. Shame you
have to live in London, but I suppose that’s where everything’s concentrated in
your field. What about your pal, that Jonathon Browning? Now
he
was a
bright lad! He shone out among the dross like a star buried in a rubbish heap!
What’s Jonathon up to these days?’

I describe
Jonathon’s disappointing career. Weirton frowns.

‘I’d have thought he’d
have made more of himself. He had the talent. Must be the modern world with all
its damned distractions – it’s easy for a lad to go off down the wrong path. No
discipline, of course, nowadays. And, young Mr Watson, you know you can’t fault
me on that score! I set all of you up well as far as
that
was concerned!
Ho, ho –’ Weirton turns, grins at his mate ‘– I tanned
his
hide a good
few times when he was a little scamp!’

Weirton’s friend
lets go a chesty chuckle.

‘Though what I gave
him was nothing compared to the beltings I gave others! That Dennis Stubbs!
That Craig Browning! I’m surprised my hand hasn’t dropped off after all the
thrashings I gave
those
two!’

Weirton and Jimmy
chuckle some more. I’m ashamed to find my forced smile inching higher.

‘Well –’ Weirton
shoots an exaggerated look at his watch ‘– it’s great to see you, my boy, but
I’d better be going. I had a career change after leaving Emberfield. I run a
croft up here now. Got to be up early tomorrow, as always. But it’d be great to
catch up. I haven’t got a phone, but I’m sure a young chap like you must have
one of those new-fangled mobiles. If you scribble down your number, I’ll try to
give you a call.’

I get a pen from
the barman, write down the number I know Weirton will never ring. Weirton glances
at his half-full pint. With some discomfort, he gulps all the beer straight
down. He slams his glass on the table in a display of mock resolution, grabs my
hand and pumps it once more.

‘Yes, great to see
you, my boy! Keep that gadget of yours switched on and I’ll give you a bell. We
can reminisce about old times, about how much better things were back in the
good old days! Goodbye, lad!’

‘Think I’ll be
going too,’ Jimmy says, before downing the remains of his beer with a lot less
effort than Weirton.

The two men walk to
the door. Weirton, I guess, must be pushing seventy though he looks a bit
older. He’s stooped, he’s hobbling somewhat, but there’s a certain energy in
how he moves; some kind of a force still animates him. When the two have
disappeared outside, I go back to sit at the bar. The shock of seeing my old
teacher really strikes. My mind rocks; my heart bangs; I sway on my stool, have
to grasp the bar for support. I can swallow no more of my beer or burger. A
part of me is simply praying for Weirton to vanish into the night, for me to
never see him again. But something nags me to force my shivering body, anxious
mind to calm themselves. Something nags me not to allow Weirton to disappear,
nags me to clutch the chance to resolve what’s unfinished between us. For a
moment I sit, perched on the stool of my indecision. I take a glug of my pint,
make myself swallow the bitter liquid. I slide off my stool, stride to the
door. I pick up speed as I march; I thrust that door open. Weirton’s waving at
a car driving off – a car I guess contains Jimmy. Weirton turns; he begins to
shuffle in the opposite direction and away from the pub.

‘Mr Weirton!’ I
call out.

The headmaster
stops, inches his body around to face me. I pace towards him across the carpark.

‘Ryan,’ Weirton
says, ‘I’m afraid I must be getting home. What do you want?’

‘What do I want?’ My
eager legs propel me right up to Weirton. ‘I want to give you this!’

I pull my arm back,
make a fist, slam it into Weirton’s gut. Weirton’s breath rushes from him in a spluttering
gasp. His torso shoots forward; his eyes stick out. He’s winded; he wheezes as
he tries to suck in air. I step back, swing a glorious roundhouse punch. That
punch smashes into Weirton’s jaw. Weirton flies back, bounces and skids across
the gravelly carpark. He comes to a halt, lying on his back, his eyes blinking
rapidly.

‘You little
bastard!’ he stutters.

‘You’re the bastard!’
I try to keep my voice down to avoid alerting the people in the pub. ‘You
fucking deserved that! You deserve a lot more too for what you did to me, for
what you did to us all! Get up you disgusting piece of scum! Fucking get up!’

Weirton’s gob falls
open; fear washes like a tide over his face. He doesn’t move, but just lies
there panting. I grasp his coat, pull him off the ground. I plunge a jab into
his belly, start him spluttering again. I grab his shoulders, bundle him
towards my car.

‘What are you going
to do with me?’ Weirton rasps.

‘I’m going to give
you a lift home,’ I say. ‘I want to see where you live. See what you’ve made of
your life after years of abusing and humiliating little lads and lasses!’

‘I think you’ll
find that,’ Weirton stammers, ‘I haven’t made much of it. I’ve had plenty of
blasted bad luck! And I’ve been relentlessly persecuted by this dreadful modern
world for the crime of simply being a man trying to do his duty! It seems
you’re the latest thing this damned modern world’s sent against me!’

One nifty movement
and Weirton’s slid out of my grasp. His fist flies up, crashes into my jaw. An
anvil blow clangs in my head; I’m sent staggering back. I can’t believe that
aged body’s just produced such a punch. I imagine the sort of strike Weirton
could have delivered in his prime. Weirton scurries towards me, flings an
uppercut. It socks my chin; a crack reverberates; my knees wobble; I teeter
back. Weirton edges forward, his fists up. His mouth curves into a smile; eagerness
swells in his eyes. It’s an eagerness I recognise from way back. I remember how
his eyes would bulge, his lips curl just before a whacking as he gazed at the kid
who shivered and squirmed. Weirton lunges at me, swings a punch, but I skip out
of the way. His fist hurtles through empty air and I smash mine into the side
of his head. The impact echoes; Weirton drops to the ground. I hoof a kick into
his stomach then step back. I’m panting; my heart rushes; clanks echo in my
brain after Weirton’s blows. I look down at the headmaster. He’s moaning, lying
stretched out, rolling a little to one side then the other. He’s not in a great
state, but he’ll live. I start to haul him from the ground.

‘Get up!’ I say. ‘You
fucking bag of scum! You piece of human shit! Fucking stand up before I give
you more!’

I pull the groaning
headmaster to his feet. I grasp his arm and wrap it around my shoulder,
gripping his wrist with my hand. I put my other arm round his waist and guide
him to my vehicle. It’s like supporting a drunkard. I prop Weirton against the
side of the car, unlock the door and shove the teacher into the passenger seat.
I get in at the driver’s side and flick the light on. Up close, under that
electric bulb as opposed to the dim light of the pub, I clearly see the
devastation on Weirton’s face. Yes, bruises will swell where I’ve thumped him,
but they’ll be nothing compared to the pummelling the teacher has taken from
time. The skin hangs on his neck, reminding me of the flesh of a chicken.
Wrinkles cover the sagging face. They make a fascinating roadmap: a tangle of
routes carved by grief, sickness, rage, disappointments, poverty. Lines radiate
from his eyes, bunch around his mouth, shoot like the beams of little suns from
dimples on his cheeks. Weirton’s head lolls: he’s woozy but conscious.

‘Bet it’s a shock
seeing your old headmaster like this.’ A mumble comes from his slowly moving
mouth. ‘I bet you had me fixed in your mind as old “Whacker Weirton”. Strength
of a lion. Able to knock the toughest little rascal into the middle of next
week. Old Whacker Weirton, eh?’

‘We never called
you that, Sir.’

Despite his daze,
Weirton seems crestfallen.

‘But even the
strongest of us are worn down by time,’ Weirton murmurs. ‘God calls us all back
to Him in His own good way. If nothing else can topple the mighty and proud,
natural decay and time’s relentless erosion will, as decreed by the Lord. Do
you believe in God, Ryan?’

‘You’ve made it
extremely hard for me to do so, Sir.’

Weirton’s chest
jolts; he gives a wheezy chuckle.

‘Not convinced by
our pal Rodney the vicar, eh? Can’t say I blame you, boy. You always were
brighter than the rest of those drones. But you’ve got to keep it simple for
the masses, haven’t you? This is the truth, believe it! If you start saying
this might have happened, but this probably didn’t, you’ve lost them. They stop
coming to Church and spend their Sundays taking drugs and mugging old ladies!
That’s what people don’t understand in this damned modern world! The simple
masses need simple certainties; otherwise, it all starts to crumble …’

Tired of this
mumbling monologue, I turn the key, start the car. Weirton’s body jerks; he
jolts out of his semi-sleep, looks around.

‘Suppose you need,’
he says, ‘directions to my home.’

He tells me he
lives half-a-mile away, along the shore of the loch. Can’t afford a car. Comes
to the pub with a torch in his pocket for the dark tramp home. We skirt the
night-time lake. I’m aware of its black bulk stretching away, of all that black
water, so deep, so quiet. Weirton reels as I wind along the road, mumbling
words that are lost beneath the sound of the engine. He waves his hand at me,
summons the effort to raise his voice.

‘There’s a turning,
a tiny track on the right. Twenty metres down there you’ll see a cottage.’

I slow down, spot
the track, swing the car onto it. The car bounces and rattles along a dirt road
and, sure enough, a dilapidated dwelling appears in my headlights. I park, pull
Weirton from the car; the teacher flicks on his torch; I hold him up as he leads
me in a stumble towards his home. I can hear the lapping of the loch, but it’s
hard to make out much with my eyes. The torch’s staggering beam alights on
vegetable patches, a couple of fruit trees, wooden barrels I guess collect
rainwater. That beam then falls on a ramshackle vehicle parked next to the
cottage. Its windows are cracked; it’s rusting, propped up on bricks, its
wheels probably taken long ago. I wonder why Weirton would keep such a wreck.
The torch flicks across a bent and corroded Mercedes sign.

‘Your old car!’ I
blurt.

‘Not looking too
good, is it?’ Weirton mutters. ‘Remember driving it around Emberfield, how it
stood out: a fine gleaming machine – black, powerful and sleek in those dreary
flatlands. Look at it now, just look at it.’ Weirton wags his head. ‘Decay’s
dismal work – not so different to what’s happened to its owner.’

‘Why do you keep
it?’

‘I’m flogging it
off bit-by-bit for spares. Occasionally, my neighbours need something, brings
in a tiny bit of cash. Could sell the whole thing to a scrapyard, of course,
but I can’t quite bring myself to.’

We’ve now struggled
up to the door. Weirton drunkenly searches in his pockets for the key, lets us
in, puts the light on. I suck in a gasp. We’ve entered straight into the living
room, and it’s a mess. Outside the cottage seemed shabby but respectable, a low
dwelling made of worn stones. In here not only does paint flake on the walls,
but chunks of plaster have fallen off, revealing the raw stonework. My nose
snuffles up a musty smell and I soon see where it’s coming from. Two of the
room’s upper corners are black with blooms of mould; more fungi – greener in
colour – dapple the ceiling. There’s a scratched table listing on the uneven
floor, along with a couple of knackered wooden chairs. Dust lies thick on
shelves and on the ancient TV: a device that a miracle of tangled wires appears
to keep working. Clothes and other items are scattered across the ground.
Through an open door, I see a cramped kitchen. Piles of food-encrusted plates
teeter on surfaces; the sink houses a filthy swamp out of which the bottoms of
pans stick like hulls of sunken boats. As I gaze around, Weirton watches my
reactions.

‘I’m sorry you have
to see the place like this.’ He forces his mouth into a sardonic smile. ‘I’d
have tidied up if you’d told me you were coming! I’m afraid, as you can
observe, I never got the hang of domesticity after my divorce.’

I walk further into
the room, picking my way across the floor’s debris. I look at the rickety
bookshelves that line most of one wall. There are a few history books, tomes on
farming and fishing, a big Bible. Surprisingly, those shelves also struggle to
support rows of books about ancient civilisations and mythologies.

‘Didn’t know you
were into all this stuff!’ I say.

‘There are quite a
few things you don’t know about me, young man,’ Weirton says. ‘Yes, quite a few
things you don’t know and are never going to find out!’

I scan the shelves
lower down while keeping half-an-eye on the teacher in case he tries a similar
trick to the one he attempted in the carpark. But the headmaster just hovers
near the cottage’s entrance. The only movement he makes is to close the front
door. My eyes rove across books on boxing, teaching manuals with yellow pages, their
covers browned by time. Then, on the bottom two shelves, I see lines of thick
black diaries. The earliest is from 1951, the latest from last year.

‘An obsessive
diarist,’ I say, ‘something else I wasn’t expecting.’

‘Important for a
man to keep a record of his life and times,’ Weirton says, ‘especially a decent
honest man trapped in this dreadful modern world.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Since I had my
heart attack and decided to quit, everything’s been going wrong for me. I
thought the move up here would be great, a new start, but – oh on – it seems
that for the crime of being a man who holds traditional values I must be
continually punished! Everything,
everything
, has gone wrong!’

‘Like what?’

Weirton totters
over from the door, seats himself on one of his flimsy chairs. It’s a dangerous
move – he’s leaving himself open should I choose to attack. Something about his
sagging demeanour suggests he might not care if I did.

‘I wanted to live a
simple life in contact with nature.
That’s
why I came up here – to
escape the filthy rot that is modern Britain, that evil cancer that was
spreading out from our cities and even beginning to affect places like
Emberfield! I deliberately chose one of the most remote, traditional parts of
the country. And do you know what I found? The rot had even spread up here!
Unbelievable! It was worse than Emberfield in some ways – at least there the
parents believed in the value of discipline!’

‘Go on,’ I say.

‘I had to do supply
teaching to make ends meet. I wasn’t naïve enough to think I could live just by
running a croft. Didn’t go too badly at first – I gave out a few wallopings as
necessary, but then one day I gave a little rascal a damned good hiding that
was thoroughly deserved. And the parents complained! And some other parents
complained because I scared their kids with a rather graphic anatomy lesson.
That’s what I hate about this modern world – you can’t say what’s what! You
can’t state the facts – you have to skirt around them in some namby-pamby,
politically correct dance! Of
course
we’ve got bones beneath our flesh!
Of
course
that’s how we’ll all end up! What’s wrong with simply saying
it!?’

Weirton’s rage has
shaken him out of his woozy trance.

‘I remember your
famous anatomy lessons,’ I say. ‘For ages I couldn’t decide whether Lucy was
real.’

‘Well, why don’t
you say hello to her?’ Weirton smiles. ‘See what you think now.’

He slouches over to
a cupboard, yanks the door open.

‘Lucy!’ I say.

I peer at the
skeleton. She’s smaller than I remember, the bones a little more yellow.

‘I must admit, she
is
realistic,’ I say. ‘I’m not surprised I was bamboozled. I’ve a feeling you’ve
got quite a few skeletons in your closet, Mr Weirton.’

‘What man hasn’t?’
Weirton shuts the cupboard, hobbles back to his chair. ‘What real man, I mean,
a man who’s truly lived, not the pathetic excuses for men promoted by this
modern world. We’ve all got skeletons in our closets and that’s where they
should stay.’

For a moment, my
eyes wander over to those diaries. I wonder what secrets could be buried under
the press of their pages, sealed beneath their rigid covers. Weirton pipes up
again, and I swing my eyes back to him.

‘So I was struck
off, forbidden to teach, just like that! There was this awful leftie show trial
of an enquiry, at which I wasn’t properly allowed to defend myself. And that
was it! Condemned to a life of poverty! Trying to scratch a living from this
place! Gradual decay – struggling to make repairs to the house, couldn’t afford
to run or tax the car, had to sell the boat, meaning I can only fish from the
loch’s shore. Can’t heat the place properly in winter – it’s a miserable,
miserable life! OK, I get my pension now, but even a lot of that gets swallowed
up by the farm.’

‘Don’t you have any
family that can help you out?’

‘Family?’ A
sarcastic chuckle splutters up from Weirton. ‘Family? Is there such a thing
nowadays? The family – another fine institution we’ve lost! I’ll tell you about
my family. My wife divorced me for trying to raise my boy with some boundaries.
Next it was my parents – my own parents – who stabbed me in the back! Cut me
out of their wills – left everything to my son and ex-wife! I didn’t get a
damned penny! My father loved my son, Nick. Used to fascinate the boy with his
tall stories about what he’d done during the War. Very much an army man, my
father. Well, it all backfired – I can tell you that!’

‘In what way?’

‘
I
couldn’t
be around for my lad!
I
couldn’t be there to guide him. Nick came up
here to stay with me one summer. The lad was whinging all the time, saying it
was uncomfortable, saying he was bored. His mother had mollycoddled and spoiled
him. The lad took no pleasure in manly pursuits, in getting back to nature.
Just wanted to be with his mum watching drivel on TV. I had to show him a bit
of discipline; my ex-wife found out, banned the boy from coming up here. After
losing the teaching work, I couldn’t afford to go down there. Just got
occasional letters.’

Weirton pauses. One
hand knots into a fist; rage shakes the slack flesh under his jaw.

‘The boy’s
grandfather had too much damned influence on him! He was just a naïve lad,
couldn’t see what a bullshit merchant the old man was! Always filling the boy’s
head with his rubbish! Nick imitated him in everything. He was devastated by
his granddad’s death, inconsolable at the funeral. Copied him even to the
extent of starting smoking! The very thing that killed his grandfather! The
thing I’d always forbidden him to do upon the pain of receiving the most
tremendous hiding known to Man! Such a shame I wasn’t there to give it to him
when he began drawing that damned filth into his lungs!’

‘You seem to hate
smoking,’ I say.

I can’t resist it;
I take my cigarettes from my coat. I ostentatiously light one up, stroll around
the cottage, breathing smoke into every corner, breathing it over everything. I
grab the other chair, pull it close to Weirton, sit on it, take long
inhalations, puff them over the headmaster. I’m aware I’m in striking distance
– I’ve seen how quick Weirton’s fists can be, but I can’t stop myself. Weirton
coughs, waves away the stinking clouds.

‘Go on and torture
me,’ he says, ‘just like every other damned manifestation of this modern world.
But Nick wasn’t content just to risk his life inhaling that poison. Oh no, he
had to go much further than that!’

‘How?’ I let
another cloud roll over Weirton.

‘He joined the
army! Can you believe it, my whiny son in the army!?
That’s
how much he
copied his grandad! Of course, I’ve nothing against such a career in principle.
It’s an honourable thing to defend your country, to pursue its interests
abroad. It’s just that …’

Weirton trails off.
It takes another stream of smoke, some more wafting of his hands to get him
going again.

‘First of all –’
Weirton’s fists clench; the loose skin on his face quivers “– it’s barely our
country to defend anymore, is it? It’s full of darkies, Muslims, immigrants,
whining women who call themselves feminists, mincing gays who insist on shoving
their so-called sexuality down your throat! It’s hard to see why a true Englishman
would risk his life to defend
that
lot! If anything, we should
invite
in the foreign planes – a damned good bombing raid would be the best thing for
them! And look at our politicians who bravely order our men into battle!
Corrupt bunch of cowards the lot of them – snouts stuck firmly in the
Westminster trough! New Labour, they call themselves – bunch of bloody
communists I’d say! And it’s not like the opposition’s much of an alternative –
they’d just sell the country out to the highest bidder. Then there’re those
blasted traitors in the SNP up here! Why should my son, my son, risk his life
for that lot! Nick was in Iraq and Afghanistan – those damned fool wars!’

Weirton coughs,
shakes more before going on.

‘Damned fool wars!
It’s not like he was fighting to protect his country or extend the Empire
overseas –
that
would have been worth it! They were trying to bring
democracy to the Muslims! It’s hilarious, isn’t it? Bring democracy to the
Muslims! It barely works here – it’s got no chance among those savages! They
need a firm hand …’

I let Weirton
waffle for a while before I cut in.

‘Did your son get
killed?’

Weirton trembles
violently, though whether with rage or grief I can’t tell. He lets his face
fall into his hands then looks at me.

‘No, but I reckon
he’s maimed for life – not in his body, but his mind. Captain Nicholas James
Weirton was honourably discharged due to mental problems. Post-traumatic stress
disorder – shellshock they used to call it. All because of those damned
communists and their idiot wars! They didn’t send their
own
sons into
battle, did they? I tried to talk Nick out of joining up, but he wouldn’t listen.’