‘Yeah,’ I replied as the rumblings swelled, resounded.
‘Well, just watch and you’ll see what’s causing it.’
The noise thundered more urgently. It was faster, more metallic than it sounded way off across the fields in my bedroom. A train rushed by – the engine’s chimney blowing smoke up to join the sombre clouds, its pistons thrusting to drive the great wheels. And, though closer, quicker, louder, out clanked the familiar rhythm of clinks, clatters and rolls.
‘Understand now?’ Dad said.
‘Yes.’ I nodded.
‘How did you get it into your head somebody was playing a drum?’ Mum said. ‘It’s almost like believing in that silly legend of the lost Drummer Boy!’
‘We should stick him down that tunnel if he goes on with his ridiculous notions!’ Dad said.
I didn’t speak for the rest of the journey, but sat trembling, trying to hold back my tears. I couldn’t believe the beats and patters from which I’d taken comfort in the blackest times, that had sustained me through months of Weirton’s rages and wallopings, that had so often lifted my spirit on their gentle swells, were caused by nothing more than a train. We rounded a bend and I got a glimpse back to Salton – church and castle smaller now, like playthings. I stared at that church, imagining once more the peace its walls enclosed – how the quiet seasons would change slowly above the sleeping dead. At that moment, I just wanted to lie with them.
But how to get myself in that ground? I’d heard legends of people who’d died by their own hands. I thought it might be worth having a go, but – then again – that might not get me into that graveyard. I knew suicides weren’t buried like normal people. At best I’d lie in the shadowy side of the cemetery – a patch lonely, unvisited, overgrown. And the vicar would have to hammer a stake through my heart. I imagined his mild face looming over me, his soft hands grasping the mallet and stick. I imagined the quivers of distaste jerking across his features as my ribs splintered and cracked. Perhaps his lips would quiver as my dead blood spurted, but he’d go on banging in that spike because he’d been commanded to do so by the Lord. But I supposed if I got buried in the shady part of the graveyard, I’d still be near the church, be in the confines of sacred land, so I might still make it to heaven. But I’d heard an even worse legend that sometimes suicides got buried at crossroads. The poor ghost – skewered by that spear, confused by the choice of four ways, would have no chance. There he’d be pinned, bored and puzzled, for ever and evermore. I wouldn’t want such a thing to happen to me. I thought I’d stay alive, in the hope some bright idea would strike me or Jonathon by which we could get rid of Weirton.
February dragged on, blustery and wet. Weirton’s hand hammered even more determinedly yet after I’d got a walloping I could find no comfort in the night’s blackness. I’d still hear rolls and patters, but know it was just a train clanking by. I could only sob into the dark – dark that was no more and no less than what it was: dark out of which nothing could echo to encourage me. It wasn’t as if Jonathon and I didn’t keep trying to find ways to deal with Weirton. We still tossed sweets to Marcus in the hope he could grow stronger, help us. After all, unlike the Drummer Boy, about Marcus we could have no doubts, having seen his head, his handprint on Stubbsy. And, though Marcus had retreated from most of the land he’d conquered during the floods, the pond looked deep. Swollen with recent rains, it was edging in its sullen advance towards the road once more. We knew that – since God had given His sign of peace with His shimmering rainbow – He wouldn’t let the pond grow big enough to drown Emberfield, but maybe Marcus could get enough power to just bump off Weirton. We could only hope. As well as magic, there was our somewhat more fragile trust in technology. We were adding the last touches to our robot – filing down the fingers, perfecting the toes. But still we heard of no computer which could jerk our automaton into life.
At times, it all got me down too much. I just longed to see magic or science (I didn’t care which) bring our despot low though often I, frankly, had little faith in either. One day, I copped an especially brutal thrashing; had to put up with punches, shoves and taunts from Stubbs and Darren Hill on the way back from school. I trudged past our merry gnome; the front door was unlocked. Mum was in the kitchen; the radio blared from that room; she didn’t hear me. Without really knowing why, I tramped upstairs. I went to the window on the landing, opened it then clambered onto the broad sill. Squatting there, I pushed the window further ajar then linked it to its latch with the thin metal arm. Feeling strangely placid – though my body shivered and my heart thudded dolefully – I stretched out one foot, placed it on that strip of metal. I looked down – our yard was spotted by puddles; the odd bird swooped beneath me. I flicked my eyes up, saw the black fields stretching off, black fields that spread so far I felt that, whatever I did, I’d never get beyond them. I manoeuvred my body so more of it was out of the window, with just one foot on the ledge. I thought how easy it would be – one slight shift and I could be falling, falling into endless calm, falling into an eternal world with no Weirton. I took my foot from the metal strip, let it hang over empty air. I readied myself to drop. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, began that final movement.
I couldn’t do it; some automatic instinct was too strong – an instinct that seized control of my limbs, made me clamber down, pull the window shut. I stood on the landing. My heart thudded harder; cold shivers rushed over me as I realised what I’d almost done. I couldn’t flee to the peaceful resting place I’d imagined for myself. A tingly relief now surged through my body while my bitter mind cursed. Even being pinned to the peace I’d dreamed of by the vicar’s stake would be better than the next two years with Weirton. Yet I’d no choice but to go on facing the headmaster.
Chapter Forty-seven
The days passed – or, rather, they jerked and jolted by –as the teacher jumped and shouted, thrashed and raged. He even smashed his previous record by one day giving out seven – seven! – wallopings. Jonathon and I didn’t know what to do. We couldn’t rely on our robot to get rid of our tyrant. Though adverts for those new-fangled computers had started appearing on TV, their prices taunted us: prices I doubted we could have matched even if we’d stumbled across that pot of gold at the rainbow’s end. And we couldn’t think of any other solutions. I did occasionally find myself looking at the landing window or staring at the water in my bath, wondering how long a person would have to stay under to gain the peace of one of our graveyards. But that force would take me over again – it would rip my eyes from that beckoning window, pull my face back every time I bent it towards my bathwater.
One late February afternoon, as the sky dangled veils of drizzle, we trudged up to the pond to throw sweets to Marcus. My shoulders were hunched, my eyes on the ground as we turned into the school road. Jonathon hissed, ‘What’s going on!?’
I wrenched my face up. Through the curtains of fine rain, through the dusky day, I could make out a stooped figure by the pond. The figure was dark and hooded, wrapped in a long kagool. Crouched on a chair, whoever it was stared at the water – water the raindrops patterned in a thousand circles. That figure gripped a fishing rod – the stick extended over the pool; the line dangled; I could picture the evil barb skulking below the surface. Utterly still, the figure sat and gazed, just waiting – I supposed – for his line to be tugged.
‘Who’s that!?’ I said.
‘An idiot!’ said Jonathon, with a smirk. ‘He won’t catch many fish in there!’
‘Bit dangerous –’ my mouth dropped as it struck me how reckless that person was being ‘– I wouldn’t go casting lines into Marcus’s pond! He might get a pull, but it’ll be stronger than he thinks!’
‘Yeah –’ Jonathon’s smirk morphed into a worried gape ‘– Marcus could gobble him in one gulp!’
‘Maybe he’s not from Emberfield and he doesn’t know our legends.’ I said. ‘Let’s go and warn him!’
We broke into a run, getting closer to the figure who, desp
ite our concern, just sat – breathing out steam in large-lunged puffs, staring at the pool and the gentle circles rippling over it. I was about to yell a warning when I spotted square glasses sticking out from the hood. I skidded to a stop, flung out my arm, which Jonathon crashed into.
‘It’s Weirton!’ I hissed.
We were perhaps ten feet from the headmaster, but he didn’t see us – so locked was his gaze on the pool.
‘Come on!’ Jonathon whispered.
Retreating in a tiptoeing run, we made for the pub. We jumped over its fence, squatted behind it. Our eyes peeking above that barrier, we stared at Weirton.
‘What’s he doing?’ Jonathon whispered. ‘He must know there’s no fish in there!’
‘He must be crazy!’ I hissed. ‘He must know about Marcus and how dangerous he is!’
‘Maybe Marcus will get him!’ Jonathon said. ‘Could be all our problems solved!’
My heart beat a steady knock as we watched our teacher. At any moment, he might be jolted from his chair, tugged into the pool. He’d thrash as blood tinged the pond, as Marcus devoured and pulled him down. Maybe the last we’d see of Weirton would be the hated right hand – stretched above the surface before it too was dragged under. I silently urged Marcus on, longing for such a scene. But the teacher simply sat; nothing pulled on the line. The rain got stronger; bigger drops banged down; the pond’s surface fractured, globes and spikes of fluid were flung up. Still Weirton sat without movement, giving no response to the rain that hammered on his kagool. He just stared at the water.
‘Maybe Marcus isn’t hungry,’ I whispered.
‘He’d have to be starving to scoff the whole of Weirton!’ said Jonathon.
‘It’d be like a feast for him,’ I said.
‘But he could eat some of Weirton now and save the rest for later,’ said Jonathon. ‘When we have the chance we should tell him to do that.’
There’d be no chance that day. Minutes passed, but Weirton just remained crouched on his chair as the rain pelted on him, on the pool, on the flatlands beyond.
‘Better get home,’ I said, ‘can’t stay here all day.’
‘You never know,’ said Jonathon, as we trudged off, ‘tomorrow we might get to school and there might be no Weirton – if Marcus manages to work up some appetite!’
‘Let’s hope so,’ I said. ‘Maybe Marcus was sleeping. Let’s hope all this rain disturbs him and he wakes up hungry.’
Marcus must have snoozed on. At school the next day, Weirton was present with all his powers. Richard Johnson got a phenomenal hiding. As Johnson swung, choked and wept, we could have no doubt about the headmaster being whole in all his limbs – nothing had been so much as nibbled by Marcus.
That afternoon, Jonathon and I hid in an overgrown patch of land near the pond, hoping to spy the teacher dangling his hopeless line. He didn’t come nor did he the following day. But the day after that, just as our muscles were getting sore from squatting behind tall grass and nettles, and we were ready to give up and go home, Weirton strode onto the pond’s bank. He set up his fold-up chair, eased his bulk down upon it – making its legs sink into the oozing mud. He took his rod out of its case, and – as his mouth curved, his eyes bulged – he impaled a worm on its hook. For some moments, he gazed at the creature as it writhed. Then he jerked from his trance and flung his line over the pool. He stared at the water, waiting for the fish he must have known would never bite. Though his gaze seemed calm, the muscles of his cheeks, the cords in his neck were tensed. Sweat ran down his face in fat teardrops.
‘If he’s lucky he might catch a rusty can!’ Jonathon whispered.
‘Or if we’re lucky, Marcus might catch him!’ I said.
We crouched in silence, willing Marcus on. I could picture a massive yank tugging Weirton off his seat, hauling the teacher over the sludge and dragging him into the pond’s muddy mouth. But Weirton just sat, gawping at the pool.
‘What’s the matter with Marcus?’ I hissed.
‘Can’t be hungry today,’ Jonathon said.
‘Maybe we should stop giving him sweets. They must be spoiling his appetite!’
Time ticked by; the teacher stayed motionless, as did the pool: there was no breeze or rain to ruffle it that day. Weirton just went on staring at the water.
‘I’m getting pins and needles,’ I whispered.
‘Me too,’ Jonathon said.
‘Let’s go home. Don’t think owt’ll happen.’
‘Don’t say “owt”!’ Jonathon hissed. ‘It’s common!’
‘But how should we get away,’ I said, ‘without him seeing us?’
‘He’s in another world. Don’t think he’d notice if we danced right in front of him.’
We sneaked away and headed to Davis’s for some sweets. We pushed the door; the bell rang its feeble chime; Davis looked up.
‘Four ten-penny mixtures, Mr Davis, please,’ I said.
The shopkeeper picked up his tongs and shuffled round to face his jars. After years of disappointment, we knew there was no sense in asking for certain sweets. We let the trembling tongs pick out whatever candies Davis’s ancient – though not as ancient as we’d thought – brain selected. The aged lips spasmed as Davis waffled.
‘Good old Mr Weirton … he’s given out some great ones recently! Fireworks with Dennis Stubbs just now, and by all accounts Richard Johnson got beaten black and blue the other day – something I’m sure was well-deserved if I know that lad! All you boys have had a good portion of Mr Weirton’s hand, especially you Ryan Watson, which is something you should be grateful for! But there’s just one thing that puzzles me about our headmaster.’
Davis put down his tongs, manoeuvred himself around. His watery eyes clasped us. The face, with its jowls and floppy folds of skin, pushed itself over the counter.
‘He seems to have got the queer habit’ – the ancient voice now, for some reason, whispered – ‘of fishing in that dirty pond outside the school gates. Now, you tell me, what does he think he’ll catch in there?’
We both shrugged, stayed silent; the timeworn face peered at us. Jonathon finally said, ‘Maybe an old boot, Mr Davis?’
Our laughter blurted – jarring and strange in that sepulchral shop.
‘Oh, think we’re clever, do we?’ The voice trembled. ‘Let’s see how clever you’ll feel when I tell Mr Weirton and he gives you a hiding for your cheek!’
Our giggles halted.
‘Not so funny now, is it? But I do wonder what Mr Weirton’s up to. Well, he’s the expert on fishing, but I wouldn’t have thought you’d get any fish in there. It’s stagnant that pond – it stinks to high heaven! Must be poisonous for any life, that there standing water!’
‘Maybe Mr Weirton finds fishing there relaxing,’ I said.
‘Well, there you are!’ Davis picked up his tongs and the old body tottered as it turned back to the jars. ‘He probably needs it after dealing all day with you lot. All that shouting he has to do, all that effort he puts into powering that right hand!’
Davis’s quivering palm whacked the air.
‘It’d exhaust anyone, even someone like Mr Weirton with the strength of an ox. We shouldn’t wonder if he needs to unwind …’
Eventually, Davis plonked our full bags on the counter. We left his dusky shop, left its funereal air. We paused to throw some sweets into the Old School playground, just in case the ghostly kids would be able to enjoy them. But – since we’d decided to ration Marcus’s candies to work up his appetite – we had more than usual to munch on the way home. That evening, as my family sat scoffing around the kitchen table, Dad said, ‘What’s this I hear about Mr Weirton trying to catch fish in that filthy pond?’
‘Weirton’s fishing for old boots! Weirton’s fishing for old boots! What a complete twerp!’ my sister sang.
‘Quiet, Sarah, this instant!’ Dad locked her with a stare, wagged his finger. ‘Never talk of your teachers in that way, especially not someone as dedicated and selfless as Mr Weirton.
Any more lip and I’ll give you a hiding you’ll never forget!’
‘You do have to wonder what he’s up to though,’ said Mum, crinkling her forehead. ‘I mean, he’s a great teacher and everything, but his behaviour is a bit strange.’
‘He’s just a good, old-fashioned English eccentric!’ Dad let his fork fall on the table, maybe hoping that sound would add weight to his words. He waved his knife at us. ‘Look at the theatrics and strange humour he includes with his wallopings. He doesn’t just give out a hiding – he provides a few laughs as well. He’s a great English eccentric! There are few of them left these days, more’s the pity. If the bloody socialists and liberals and commies had their way, we’d just be a bunch of robots parroting the party line! We should treasure the likes of Mr Weirton!’
My father glanced fiercely around the table, his eyes seeming to both invite and rebuff questions. I didn’t know what a ‘great English eccentric’ was – maybe they all spent hours fishing in hopelessly stagnant pools.
‘He’s just an English eccentric, that’s all,’ Dad repeated, but I saw a twinge of worry on his face.
Despite my joy at seeing Weirton so near to danger, I found disturbing questions popping into my mind. Could I be certain Marcus lurked in that pool? I didn’t understand why he didn’t just gobble the teacher – after all, I was sure he was aching to have his revenge on him. But then I’d remind myself of the undeniable proof Marcus was in there – we’d seen his head thrusting up, his handprint on Stubbs. About other things though, it was easier to doubt. In one assembly, Weirton showed us Lucy. It’d been more than a year since I’d last seen her. My heart boomed; shivers ran over my skin; I didn’t even want to look at that skeleton for fear of provoking Lucy’s ghost. But a deeper curiosity tugged my eyes to her remains. I realised she’d never been a real girl. The way those bones hung – they seemed more like porcelain or wood. And the blue and red lines painted on them – I couldn’t imagine anyone daring to do that to a true skeleton! How would the shivering hand even hold the brush steady? No more did I need to fear what skulked in that cupboard. My heart slowed; I let my relief sail out in a long sigh. The kids near me swivelled round; I thought for one moment I’d caught Weirton’s attention, but the teacher just went on pointing at the bones, expounding darkly about God’s punishments, about how with flood and fire, disease and death, He’d strike down all sinners.
The Standing Water Page 49