It’s not just with kids – happened a few times with chaps too. Remember when I was on the ship. Didn’t spend much time with the waiters – bunch of milksops, the lot of them. I hung around with the crew. There was one crew member everybody hated, and one day we ambushed him. It was down in the engine room, six of us jumping out. Should have seen his face – like he wanted that metal floor to wrench open and gulp him down. That floor didn’t oblige, and soon I was watching the lads lay into him – the clown cowering behind raised hands as the fists and insults flew. The lads gave him a few blows, but then it looked like they were ready to slope off with the fool having hardly been taught a lesson. His face was even twitching into a sneer, as if he was gloating that he’d survived our worst. Well, no one smirks at me. In seconds, I was upon him, fists driving like pistons, punching all the air from his belly. He clasped his stomach, body stooped, terror widening his eyes. One look at his pale frightened mug, and that feeling engulfed me. My fist slammed into his chin, my knee powered into his balls, and – the next I knew – my mates were pulling me away, telling me he’d had enough. And there he was – gasping, bleeding, trembling on the floor. Looked shocked, my friends did, but it put me up in their estimations. They regarded me afterwards with wary respect; there were no more jokes about being a weakling waiter.
Left the ship – sadly, I have to say – in Gibraltar, and bought my ticket back to England. Spent a couple of days in that colony waiting for my boat. Was soon impressed by the place – a chunk of Britain in the sun, the people’s patriotism was rock solid, unlike all the liberal nonsense infesting England at that time. Fell in with a group of servicemen, had a couple of good drinking sessions. On my last night, we came across two Spaniards in a bar. God knows how they’d got into Gibraltar, but there they were, declaring in their bad English the Rock was Spanish soil. An argument got started, and soon we were escorting them out the back to impress into them more forcefully the territory’s status. Unlike my friends on the ship, those servicemen didn’t hold back, and I pitched in with all my might too. No one hauled me off and it was wonderful – thrashing into those greasy apes a lesson in politics they’d always remember. Should have seen them when we’d finished – two bloodied broken lumps, gasping and twitching on the ground, looking barely human. Though befuddled with drink and bloodlust, we knew we’d better scarper. It was late, just a couple of hours till my early-morning boat. I scooted back to the hotel, grabbed my stuff and was soon on the ship as it sailed through the bright morning out of the harbour. My friends weren’t so lucky – read something in ‘The Times’ a couple of days later, all about the military police, court martials. For the next few weeks I was terrified of a knock on the door, but it never came.
Got back to Brighton. Sandra took Nick off to the beach though his whining to go there had ceased long ago. Wordlessly, she made it clear I shouldn’t accompany them. Dinner was eaten in silence. I sit here writing as my wife sleeps.
Chapter Thirty-one
Sunday, 31st July, 1983
Until today, things had been improving. Apologised to Sandra for the scrap with the rustic, promised her I’d exercise more caution in future. Spent a couple of pleasant days in Brighton, mainly swimming, hanging around the beach. Though we were doing what Nick wanted, he couldn’t completely cap his whining – the chips in a café weren’t cooked right, the beach ball I bought him wasn’t as big as some other lad’s. He even complained the sea was cold – as if I could do anything about it. When his whinging was at its worst, I admit I simmered, my hands gripped into fists, they itched to sweep the ungrateful wretch up and hammer him, but I remembered my promise to Sandra and restrained myself. Nick’s laments would cease, my anger would pass and we’d all be smiling again. Even felt me and the boy were getting closer, understanding each other more.
Left Brighton this morning and drove north-west, causing another outbreak of whining from Nicholas. I longed to pull the car over, beat into the boy the virtues of gratitude, but one look at Sandra sobered me. We headed into Oxfordshire, to a sight I hoped might intrigue him. It would have me at his age, but I was always a history buff, even as a lad. The journey took a bit longer than I thought, but finally we came upon it – magnificent! Vast white horse carved out of the grass on a chalk hillside. Unlike our Long Man, there’s little doubt about its age – 3,000 years old at least. Startling achievement, for the time. Heard primitive people saw horses as messengers from the otherworld, their speed enabling them to gallop between our realm and the gods’. Parked up and climbed the hill towards that wonderful outline. Disappointed Nick didn’t seem impressed, and – sure enough – he soon started up the grating song of his whinging, saying he was tired when we’d barely walked a quarter of a mile. Suppose he’d rather have been plonked in front of the TV gorging on crisps and sweets or playing one of those new-fangled computer games, instead of getting some exercise in the fresh air while discovering his nation’s heritage. My hand yearned to exercise itself on his sulky backside, but I tried to block him out by remembering facts about that beast gouged from the land by our forebears. It’s inspired all kinds of legends. The steep-sided valley below the hill is known as the Manger – it’s said that on moonlit nights the horse comes alive and grazes in it. Below the horse is a hillock called ‘Dragon Hill’ where St George supposedly slayed the dragon. Some claim the horse isn’t a horse at all, but a representation of that fiery monster. And after walking round the horse’s ancient outline, it was Dragon Hill we climbed up – much to Nick’s discomfort as he complained of a stitch, stiff legs. I’ll admit I set a vigorous pace: my heart boomed away, I was sweating in the midday heat, but I thought such exertions would be good for us all. I tried to explain to Nick about the legend, about England’s patron saint yet he seems as knuckleheaded as his grandfather when it comes to learning. Remembering that old man made me clench my teeth for a moment, but, anyway – possibly by sheer willpower – I hauled us up that slope. Soon we stood on that hill’s flat top: artificial, apparently, perhaps made so for ritual purposes. I pointed out the patch of bare chalk where it’s said grass will never sprout – supposed to be where the dragon’s noxious blood fell. We stood for some time admiring the view – those lovely dry chalk hills so different to the soggy plains around our home. Even the air’s different – breezy and clear, not oppressive like in Emberfield, not weighted with fogs, with the heavy scents of mud, coal smoke and dunghills. I breathed in all that pureness, wished I could stay there. As small white clouds scudded across the sky – so unlike the lugubrious ceiling of black and grey that hangs over Emberfield – I thought of time stretching back to the days of our ancestors, how they’d perhaps stood right there watching the horse being sculpted, knowing that holy outline would bind them to their people, their land, their gods, their otherworld.
I was jerked out of that blissful moment. Nick was defiling that sacred hilltop with a tantrum. Up and down he leapt, his little fists battering his thighs. His high voice yelled a stream of complaints. The usual list – he was tired, hungry, bored, why had we left the beach? I pounced across to him. Sandra had no time to protest. Up Nick was yanked, and my palm was slicing a whistling arc through that lovely clear air. It slammed onto the boy’s backside – a pleasing impact, which I swear reverberated through the valley, around the hills. Encouraged by this, I brought my arm back as Nick swung up, and hurled my hand down to meet the boy’s rear as he fell. That wonderful sound echoed again; my lips curled into a smile. Nick sped up, feet kicking wildly over the beautiful landscape. The lad had certainly stopped his moaning, and a voice in my brain said I should just give him a couple more and set him down. I powered another whack into him – still no tears: that made my face screw up with displeasure. So I summoned all my strength for the final blow. My hand crashed onto the backside; the noise resounded – and out Nick’s tears flew! Rather than lower him, I couldn’t resist flinging down more strikes. Anger gushed as I recalled all his complaints from the last few days, all the times I’d hel
d my twitching hands back as his whinging tormented my ears. Well, I’d give him something to really whinge about – I smashed more blows into him to ensure he’d had a good lesson. I was putting the lad down when an image of Father flashed through my mind. We were in his lounge, he was recounting some of my boyhood wallopings, everyone was laughing, Nick’s voice was high, taunting, singing about his daddy getting whacked. Well, I thought, if Nick wants to know what a good whacking’s like, I’ll show him. I jerked the boy back up, slammed an immense blow onto his behind. His breath whoosh out before it was captured by the wind. Tears flew – vaulting through the pristine air: some were blown away on the breeze, others fell onto the hill, onto the patch scorched by the dragon’s blood so long ago. I wondered – strangely – if his tears could cause that arid spot to bloom, but then my mind was back to Ronald Weirton’s mocking voice, Nick’s celebratory song, and my hand was thrashing him almost of its own accord.
I glimpsed Sandra – arm outstretched towards us, oddly frozen, mouth slack. Well, I thought, if she could laugh about my hidings, let her chortle at this one. My hand beat and beat – it was like some ritual now: the regular thud of my palm, the echoing land around us, the rhythm of Nick’s sobs, their tempo just broken by his gasps for air. On and on I thrashed, but eventually I started to feel the strain – my heart galloped and banged; tingles rushed over my body; sweat streamed; my face was aglow. I hurled more strikes down, but the trembles in the arm suspending Nick became violent jolts and I had to lower the boy. Soon I was hunched over – I battled with my jerking breath; I rasped and wheezed as I prayed to God that He’d let me suck enough in. I begged Him to steady my stampeding heart. I was so wrapped up in my struggles, so anxious about my health that I could have been alone, just me on that historic hilltop, just one man with all that sacred land spreading around him. But, of course, I was not by myself. I managed to straighten up and I looked at my son.
Nick howled and sobbed; he swayed and teetered; his body seemed strangely floppy, as if his bones had been shattered. His face was pale and behind it I guessed his mind was whirling in pieces. I knew because I’d often felt the same after Father’s thrashings. The boy gulped breath; he hiccupped; his tears ran – nothing so unusual there, but I did wonder if perhaps I’d gone too far. I turned to Sandra. She was breathing hard, staring at me, her eyes sharp with rage. She grabbed Nick’s hand and marched off down the hill. I followed sheepishly as Sandra paced faster, hauling Nick along, putting more distance between us. I found them back at the car – Nick still weeping and howling. Despite my guilt, irritation flickered – I was sure I’d never made so much fuss after Father’s hidings, and they could be far worse than the one I’d just given out. We got in the car, and I was soon driving us away – our metal case reverberating to Nick’s bawls, a sound underscored by Sandra’s short breaths as she just gazed at me.
As I changed gear and steered the car round bends, as I myself calmed down after all that exertion, I got thinking: that woman can fume and glare all she likes, that boy can wail on with his theatrical sobs and tears, but at some point someone has to stand up and stop things getting out of hand. Someone has to teach these kids good lessons or heaven knows how they’ll end up. How will Nick get on in life if he whines and complains at every minor inconvenience or disappointment? And I’d dread to see how Dennis Stubbs, Craig Browning and Darren Hill would turn out without discipline! They’re bad enough with it! Try telling that to Sandra. Maybe she’s been infected by this liberal rot that’s taking over our nation. Mother never would have dreamed of criticising Father for walloping me. I wonder what women expect these days. Surely I’m not far from the ideal husband. Don’t smoke, don’t gamble, don’t drink much; I work hard, bring home a decent wage and give her a good life. I’ve never hit her – though at times, I’ve been very tempted. I rarely even raise my voice to her. I’m not bad looking, if I say so myself; I cut a good figure. I’m careful to bring the boy up right, which – yes – involves discipline. A woman of Mother’s generation would have been delighted to land a man like me, but nothing seems good enough for Sandra – it’s all frowns and long silences, and that rigid porcelain face my fist just longs to smash. And it’s even worse in those days of punishment she gives me after I’ve chastised the boy. But what can one do when one’s married in haste? As the proverb tells us, we can only repent at leisure. Don’t want to add us to the ever-increasing divorce figures – that’s for sure.
It’s different in Emberfield. That town’s a solid island in our turbulent sea of change. Maybe it’s not always such a bad place. Seen how the mothers look at me on parents’ evenings, wishing their men could measure up. No complaints there about me exercising discipline. It’s just there’s something about the place – it scrapes against my nerve endings, and – of course – it’ll always be full of dreadful memories of Marcus.
I’m rambling again; it’s late. Better finish up and climb into the hotel bed Sandra’s ostentatiously sleeping right on the edge of. Basically, I drove us – car stuffed with the simmering atmosphere of Sandra’s rage, Nick’s never-ending howling – back to the little town we’re staying in. Sandra took Nick off somewhere and they didn’t come back till just before the boy’s bedtime. Not one word for the rest of the evening. I know I went too far today, I know I need to watch myself, but this is ridiculous. Whatever happened to the man’s position at the head of the family? Whatever happened to a father’s prerogative? Apparently, in ancient Ur the law said if a man wanted a divorce he only had to pay a small fine whereas if a woman asked for the same she should be thrown in the river! A father also had the right to sell his children as slaves! Maybe I’d have been better off there!
Monday, 1st August, 1983
Saw Stonehenge. Magnificent! Can’t get too close to the stones nowadays, they’re fenced off, but even looking at them from a distance is incredible. Huge great things, amazing how they reared them up with the technology of the time. People in later ages could hardly believe it was a human creation – all kinds of legends grew up: that Merlin or the Devil magically transported the stones from Ireland. Some of the stones did come from one-hundred-and-fifty miles away, Wales to be precise, but they shifted them via the much less mystical method of rolling them on tree trunks. Still, amazing they managed it. All this got me thinking. How could anything like that have been done without a strictly organised, hierarchical society, without master and man, without each person knowing their place and knowing what’s what? The whips would have been snapping a few thousand years ago across Salisbury Plain and that’s a fact! Who cares about some labourer’s rights, some slave’s sweat and blood when a monument of such magnificence is left for future ages? Any amount of gruelling, back-breaking toil is worth something like that! That’s what all those blasted hippies infesting the place don’t understand! Had to push past plenty of those smelly, long-haired, drug-addled buffoons today. They can romanticise the stones all they like, but I couldn’t see them slotting into the type of civilisation capable of putting them up. Wonder what our society will leave for posterity. Not much, I’d imagine. Can’t picture tourists in two-thousand years’ time poking around the ruins of some dreadful tower block reared up by some leftie council or some gay community centre the same council’s squandered taxpayer’s money upon. Says a lot, really.
Stared at those stones as I recalled more I’d read about them. Some researchers reckon the whole structure was a giant necropolis. They’ve found cremated remains under some of the stones. There’s the idea Stonehenge was a traditional burial site of kings, including Uther, Arthur’s father. As I gazed at that ancient domain of the dead, it brought back memories of another – that church and graveyard in Salton. A shiver passed up my spine; a big drop of sweat ran down it. Reminded me of all the bad dreams I’ve been having. Had one last night. Even when I take myself physically away from Emberfield, the damned place follows me in my mind. Usual stuff – trapped in the church with the bell tolling, unable to yank my eyes from that gauntle
t. Heard that shuffling noise again, I tore my gaze from the glove, glanced around, but couldn’t see what was making it. Organ struck up some gloomy tune, though no one was playing it then voices started thundering out some dirge though no choir was visible. My eyes were drawn back to that deathly gauntlet then to that horrible tomb with its chill white effigies. I hauled my stare from those artefacts and ran to the doors. Wrenched at them, fiddled with the lock as that noise boomed around me – the clanging bell, that swell of sombre voices, that blasted organ. Got the door open and sprinted outside. Legged it through the churchyard and over the field till I came to where the Drummer Boy had been lost. And, what did I hear, but patters, rattles, beats coming from down below, joining with the tolling bell, the singing which echoed from the church. I jolted upright in bed, heart bashing so hard I swear it was shaking my ribs. My pyjamas were soaked; I tried to steady my breath, tried not to disturb Sandra, who – determined to show her disapproval even in sleep – was balanced on the bed’s edge. At least no dreams of Marcus, for the last couple of nights. I’d rather deal with all the spooks of Salton than relive any memories of what happened with him.
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.
The Standing Water Page 32