The Standing Water Read Online Free Page A

curved two
blond eyebrows, and on top of the huge forehead – also meat-coloured, lightly
sweat-beaded – was the crown of an iron hairstyle. A plate of hair leapt two inches
from the brow; the rest of it was combed back in a blond, metal-hard parting.
However Weirton twisted and leapt, however fast his arm swooped, however the
rain lashed or wind blew, that hair never moved. It fascinated me; I was
tempted to ask Weirton how he managed to sculpt it, but I knew, some instinct
deep in my belly knew, that I’d better not. Weirton turned, paced for another
moment as the last kids settled themselves. An abrupt halt, he swivelled on
those shoes to face the rows of children.
    ‘Silence!’
    Like an axe this
word fell, slicing through the children’s natter, killing it. Weirton stood for
some seconds in the pool of quiet he’d created. He readied his body to deliver
his next words.
    ‘Good morning,
children!’ his voice rumbled.
    ‘Good morning, Mr
Weirton,’ the kids chorused, their intonation rising and dipping through this
submissive song.
    ‘Let’s start the
day with a hymn!’ Weirton thrust out his finger to launch this command. ‘Page
seventy-six!’
    The monitors
despatched the hymnbooks along our rows; the hands of the children hurried to
pass them down. My book came to me – its cover scuffed and scratched; its smell
musty and ancient.
    ‘Stand!’ Weirton
shouted, before the last hymnbooks had found their pupils. Panicked whispers
squabbled; hands snatched, scrabbled and slapped: sounds which were thankfully
masked by the ninety or so children clambering to their feet.
    Mrs Perkins had now
moved to the piano. She bashed out the first chords – wrong notes clashed with
each other, jarred with the air; the instrument was out of tune. It didn’t
matter – after her crashing introduction, our voices united in an off-key roar.
The hymn was fascinatingly miserable; its tones seemed to echo from a long-distant
age, conjuring pictures of stern black-clad people in old-fashioned clothes.
     
    ‘Lord we confess
our many faults
    How great our guilt
has been
    Foolish and vain
were all our thoughts
    No good could come
from within
     
    And by the water
and the blood
    Our souls are
washed from sin’
     
    The music eddied
and swelled: an out-of-tempo death march. I didn’t know what the song was
about; it was never explained. I just mused on that mournful line – ‘the water
and the blood’. It seemed something to do with dead bodies, their stagnant
fluids: a severe summary of the foolishness of finding any joy in this life.
Perkins plonked away; I sucked down breath for the surging chorus.
     
    ‘And by the water
and the blood
    Our souls are
washed
    Our souls are
washed from sin’
     
    Perkins went on
pounding those melancholy notes. A pain jabbed my ribs; I turned, saw Stubbs’s
retreating hand; palm and fingers held as a flat blade. He’d hoped to plunge me
into trouble by making me cry out. He tried it again – I smacked away his hand.
    ‘Don’t!’ Stubbs
hissed, cunningly casting himself as the victim. Next to Dennis, Richard
Johnson smirked. We ploughed on through the song’s murky verses.
     
    ‘It’s not by the
works of righteousness
    Which our hands
have done
    But we are saved by
our father’s grace
    Abounding through
his son’
     
    Stubbs was now
thrusting his flattened hand at Jonathon; urging Richard to do the same to me.
Johnson tried it – I turned, drove a jab into his gut. His shock spluttered out
of him, but was drowned by the swell of the chorus, by Perkins plonking her
piano with renewed energy for the hymn’s last spurt.
     
    ‘But by the mercy
of our God
    All our hopes begin
    And by the water and
the blood
    Our souls are
washed from sin’
     
    On the downward
flow of the last syllable, the children’s voices dwindled, as did Weirton’s
thundering baritone. Perkins gave a few lacklustre plinks as the song faded.
    ‘Sit down
children!’ Weirton said.
    Skirts, shoes,
trousers