The Standing Water Read Online Free

made up most of one
wall. They gave us a panorama of drab freedom: the deep green of the school
field, the final barricade of the twisted hawthorn of its hedge. Crows and
blackbirds hopped, beaks driving into the soil for rain-fattened worms. On the
front wall were the iron-shuttered windows of the kitchen, behind which we knew
laboured huge iron machines – mysterious pipes and flues and furnaces we’d been
warned could be deadly. We didn’t understand why – we just knew the kitchen as
the room from which our food appeared. But, having read Hansel and Gretel, I
couldn’t help remembering the witch’s fondness for boiling children, the
screams of the fattened child, the wicked smoke that would rush from her
chimney. Maybe that was why we weren’t allowed in the kitchen. Also on that
front wall were the doors to a kind of teachers’ foyer – another forbidden
area. It was a place into which we were rarely admitted, and if summoned there,
it was for some dread reason. A call to that enclosure, to that other world of
staffroom, offices, teachers’ toilets, could only mean the harshest punishments
would follow. And – as the last few dribbles of children filed in – it was in
front of that fearful kitchen and that portal to the ominous staff area that Mr
Weirton paced.
    The heels of his
black shoes rapped out impacts that echoed above the children’s chatter. How he
towered over everyone – the cross-legged pupils on the floor, Leigh and Perkins,
who had now slid into seats at the hall’s side. My eyes climbed up the vast
black-suited legs then over the huge torso encased in its black jacket. A broad
chest stretched this garment; a smaller belly pushed at it below; arms bulged
against its sleeves. The teacher’s muscles tensed and jerked as he strode. It
was as if they were straining to bust those bonds, burst out of that flimsy
material. The teacher continued to pace, his feet performing a sharp swivel as
he neared each wall. Sometimes he’d stop; the black shoes – perfect in their
shine – would tip forward and rock back as he scanned his gaze over the hall.
Weirton would clasp his hands behind him as those eyes searched, as his body
twitched and seemed to swell with expectancy. Jonathon leaned towards me, and –
though a hum of chatter was permitted – he hissed in a whisper, ‘Good job my
brother told us to say sorry to Marcus!’
    ‘Yeah,’ I said,
also forcing my voice low, ‘he might have saved our bacon!’
    I allowed myself
another nervous glance at the teacher, who was tilting his body back and forth,
leaning out across the children as his eyes panned over us. A smile flickered
on the massive face, a smile that also appeared expectant. I thought of how Mr
Weirton seemed built of oblongs, squares and sharp angles. The cuboid body was
topped by a huge rectangular head. The teacher’s glasses – heavy panes framed
in black – reminded me of television screens. Behind the glass, the blue eyes
were for the moment calm though their pupils would flick without warning to one
side or another. But I knew how suddenly those eyes could harden, sharpen, be
unleashed. Jonathon again leant into me.
    ‘Suppose I should
be thankful I’ve got a brother like that.’
    ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘remember
when he stopped Darren Hill beating us up that time? But don’t you sometimes
hate him?’
    ‘Course,’ Jonathon
whispered, ‘that’s normal, especially when he beats me up a bit himself, but …’
    Thought crumpled
Jonathon’s forehead; he bunched his mouth up as he pondered.
    ‘I suppose I like
him much more than I hate him.’
    I flicked my eyes
back to the headmaster. The face was its usual ham-colour – there was no sign
of it flushing to a deeper red. But still, reddish it was, as always. I
wondered why. Maybe it was the tie Weirton wore, the way its knot looked as if
it had been looped so tight, wrenched up so savagely. Perhaps that
strangulation explained Weirton’s skin shade. Above the glasses