The Art of Standing Still Page 11

  ‘And what?’

  ‘You know.’ She furrowed her brow. Was he being deliberately stupid? ‘Do I need to spell it out?’

  ‘You’re doing it again, aren’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re assuming you know what I want. I thought after our conversation earlier that you’d understand.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ She placed her hand on his knee. He moved it back to hers.

  ‘You have absolutely no idea who I am or even what’s important to me, and frankly, I don’t think you care enough to find out.’ He turned and stared through the passenger window.

  Jemma sat there for a moment with her hand over her mouth. If she hadn’t, her jaw might have dropped and left her sitting there, gaping like a goldfish in the Kalahari. What young, good-looking, red-blooded male in his right mind would turn down an offer of . . . That was it!

  ‘I’m so sorry. You’re gay. I didn’t realise . . . I just thought . . .’

  ‘I am not gay!’ He glared at her. ‘Why do people assume that just because I’m not jumping into bed with everything in a skirt that I’m gay? Five years ago I would have taken you up on your offer – like a shot. A year ago, maybe, even six months ago I would have given it serious consideration, but not now. I’ve changed.’

  Jemma was just about to ask, ‘From what into what?’ when he started to speak again. He took her hand and looked into her eyes. ‘I know it’s just not right for me to do that any more. Oh, it’s not that I don’t want to. It’s a matter of respect. Respect for you, for me, and for what God wants.’

  Jemma felt her anger rising. How dare he patronise her like this, and how could he be so arrogant as to say he knows what God wants?

  ‘What about what I want?’

  He looked away.

  Who was he? Mr Morality? Practically perfect and a mindreader too? She refastened her seatbelt and started the engine. Her tyres squealed as she hauled on the steering wheel and executed an inelegant seven-point turn, just missing the opposite kerb. They sat in silence as she drove, foot to the floor, along the High Street. She didn’t slow down for the speed camera. She was beyond caring. A sixty-pound fine couldn’t make her feel any worse. When they arrived outside Josh’s house, she jammed on the brakes so firmly their noses nearly touched the windscreen.

  She leapt out of the driver’s seat, slamming the door hard. After she went round to the passenger door and wrenched it open, Josh climbed out. He had hardly closed the door before Jemma revved the engine and took off down the road. She didn’t slow down on the way back, bringing the car to a sliding halt with the assistance of the handbrake on the gravel next to the towpath.

  Her mobile phone rang. She let it. It might be Richard. Or Josh.

  She might as well have brewed a triple espresso for all the sleep she would get tonight, but instead, she tucked herself into bed with a mug of camomile tea. Two seconds later curiosity overcame her and she checked her voicemail. It wasn’t Richard; it was Josh and the message was only two words: ‘I’m sorry.’

  Jemma lay in bed, replaying the conversation. He had talked about respect. She wasn’t sure how refusing to sleep with someone showed that you respected them. And the God stuff! People who were Christians must have sex, surely? Does God not like it? Her RE teacher at school was at great pains to point out that God had created sex and made it beautiful, even commanding Adam and Eve to go out and reproduce. Perhaps God had changed his mind since then. She rolled over and switched off the bedside lamp. The moonlight on the water projected ripples on the ceiling. She watched the undulating pattern, trying to fall asleep, but a series of thoughts flowed through her consciousness, each one, as it moved downstream, being replaced by another, until she felt as if her mind would be washed away by the current.

  Josh’s apology had softened her anger, but as she thought about it, she realised it wasn’t him who needed to say sorry. She imagined the roles were reversed. If any man made the same assumptions she had just made, she’d have labelled him as a lech.

  She pressed the call button. There was a long delay before Josh answered. She wondered if she had woken him.

  ‘Hi, it’s me.’

  ‘I thought it might be. You took your time calling back.’ He didn’t sound sleepy.

  ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘And what have you been thinking about.’

  ‘Us.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Jemma couldn’t make out what ‘oh’ meant.

  ‘I just wanted to apologise for coming on to you like that. You’re right. We should take things more slowly, get to know each other properly. Before . . .’

  ‘Before what?’

  ‘Josh. Stop playing games will you? You know exactly what I mean. We’re both adults here.’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘I said, stop it! It feels like you’re judging me.’ Her anger rose again.

  ‘Jemma, I have never judged you. And I’m sorry if anything I’ve said has made you feel . . .’

  ‘Look, I know I’ve slept with men. It doesn’t make me a bad person.’

  ‘I never said it did.’

  ‘It’s all right for you. I don’t suppose you’ve ever done anything wrong. Just don’t accuse me . . . of . . . of . . .’

  ‘What did I accuse you of?’

  ‘Nothing. Nobody has accused me of anything. It’s just me.’ Jemma’s brain was reeling. ‘Look, Josh, I’m tired. I’ll call you later. Goodnight.’

  And before he could say anything, she pressed the button and ended the call.

  Scene Eleven

  RUTH WAS HEARTENED THAT SO MANY OF THE COMMUNITY OF MONKSFORD HAD become involved in the plays. But so much of her time was taken up with the mysteries that she had time for little more than the weekly services and the occasional deanery and diocesan meeting. When Peter, her bishop, asked to see her, she feared the worst. Even as she brewed tea before his arrival, her hands shook, and when the front door bell rang, she jumped.

  The Right Reverend Dr Peter Croxted filled the doorway. As usual, he was five minutes late. He took her hand, and she felt his beard brush her face as he kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Peter, come in; make yourself at home.’

  Dimitri opened one eye. Bishop Peter tickled him under the chin with one sausage-like finger, before folding his huge frame into Ruth’s largest armchair. She handed him a mug of tea. He fished in his briefcase and pulled out a packet of chocolate biscuits.

  ‘Jenny thought you might need these.’ He opened the packet and spilled the contents on the tray.

  ‘Tell your wife she’s a star,’ Ruth said.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Ruth?’ His face was suddenly serious. ‘You look rather tired, and it’s not long since your mother . . .’

  ‘I’m fine, Peter. I just feel a little . . . guilty. You know, “messing around” with the plays and neglecting the ministry.’

  ‘Why do we do this job, Ruth? To attend endless meetings or to share the Good News of Christ?’

  Ruth smiled. ‘Sometimes it feels like the former! But I do have a sense of vocation.’

  Peter’s eyes twinkled. ‘Glad to hear it! And the plays?’

  ‘All part of it. It sounds funny, but I believe God can use these plays to change people, the cast and crew, the people of Monksford, and to change me.’

  ‘Good. I share your vision – taking the gospel outside the walls of the church and into the community. That’s what it’s all about. In a way I envy you. As long as you keep things ticking over in the parish. I’m looking forward to being in the audience. A few years ago, I would have been up there on the stage.’

  Ruth couldn’t hide her surprise.

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve done Shakespeare, Ibson, Brecht. I once had a major part in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I’ve been told,’ he leaned towards her conspiratorially, ‘that my Bottom was to die for.’

  Half an hour later, she waved goodbye to Bishop Peter, locked her front door, and headed for St Sebastia
n’s.

  Inside, she picked up her digital camera, nudged the vestry door, and went into the church. The east side, which had escaped the fire of 1852, contained what she had been told was the most beautiful medieval stained glass outside York Minster. She had to agree.

  She gazed at the east window, a scene of Christ’s crucifixion dating from the thirteenth century, studying the image of torture and triumph, of pain and victory. It showed the Roman soldiers, not wearing the traditional lorica segmentata, crested helmet and tunic, but dressed as medieval knights. Next to it was the Annunciation window with the Virgin Mary in a green gown with a brown cloak. Her hair hung loose and uncovered, to signify she was unmarried.

  Ruth sighed with disappointment. Dreary weather had caused the sun to fail in its duty to illuminate the coloured glass, so she checked the flash was switched on and pressed the shutter button. On the screen, the beautiful, ancient scenes looked dull and flat. The images that, at times, had the power to move her to tears resembled a badly coloured painting-by-numbers set.

  Returning to the vestry, she printed out the photographs, then held them up and studied them one by one. ‘So this is what you wore in your Corpus Christi pageants, is it, medieval Monksfordians?’

  They did not answer. Their images, more permanent than photographs, more luminous than oil paintings had been vitrified and preserved – a moment caught in fragments of coloured glass. But they could speak only through their stillness.

  She had begged, borrowed, and hired costumes from local Shakespearean societies and a drama club near Canterbury that regularly staged productions of the Canterbury Tales, but she still needed to have most custom made.

  In response to Jemma’s plea in the Monksford Gazette, a woman called Eliza Feldman had left a message, in the wavering voice of the very old, on the vicarage answering machine. Ruth jotted down the address on a scrap of paper and set off for Todbourne Heath to visit Eliza.

  As she left Monksford, a watery attempt at sunshine spilled over the horizon. ‘You’re too late,’ she muttered.

  The Todbourne Road joined the bypass at a roundabout. There had been yet another accident. The traffic was snarled up and Ruth had to push her way round the cars to get across. The other side of the bypass, when the traffic had cleared and the road ran parallel to the river, Ruth wound down her window and breathed in the country air. Although it was bitterly cold, she couldn’t bear to be confined in the car.

  Since listening to the voice message, she had worried about what she assumed was Mrs Feldman’s religious background and how she might react to the plays. As she drove, she prayed. ‘Father, thank you for Mrs Feldman and her offer to assist with the costumes. Please help me not to say or do anything that might offend or upset her, and may she become closer to you by hearing the story of your Son. Amen.’

  As she drew up at Primrose cottage, she realised her assumption had been correct when she saw the Mezuzah attached to the frame of the lilac-painted door. She took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

  She glanced at the garden as she waited for Mrs. Feldman. The tiny front lawn was immaculately manicured and the shrubs were already arrayed in their winter outfits of bright red berries. A robin landed on the garden wall and studied Ruth intently. She stared back but the tiny bird in its scarlet waistcoat must have taken offence, for it flew abruptly away and sat on the roof, fluffing its feathers. The door opened slowly, and Ruth could see a small, white-haired lady who seemed to be wearing a large patchwork quilt.

  ‘You must be Ruth,’ she said. ‘I’m Eliza. Please come in. I won’t take your jacket; you may need to keep it on.’

  She followed Eliza into a tiny sitting room, full of overstuffed furniture in Chintz prints. On the wall over the fireplace was a beautiful tapestry, woven in myriad colours of wool. The words were in Hebrew. Eliza caught Ruth looking at it.

  ‘It’s a blessing on this house,’ she said.

  Ruth smiled, and Eliza indicated a chair. ‘Won’t you sit down? Tea?’

  Ruth nodded, and the old woman shuffled out to the kitchen. Ruth noticed she was indeed wearing a quilt. The grate was empty, and the room was freezing. Ruth rubbed her arms vigorously. She wandered round, trying to keep warm, looking at the vast array of ornaments – china figurines, pewter mugs, knitted dolls. In one corner a huge sewing machine sat on a table. Bags stuffed with fabric scraps were everywhere. She shivered and rubbed her arms again. She could see her breath.

  ‘Sorry, it’s got a bit chilly in here since the boiler went out.’

  ‘It is a little,’ Ruth said. ‘Is someone coming to fix it?’

  ‘Well, I asked my neighbour, but he got called away on business. Mrs Jones, next door on the other side, is ninety-three and has arthritis in her hands. I don’t really know anyone else.’

  ‘What about a plumber or a boiler repairman?’

  ‘I don’t think it justifies calling someone in. I do have it ser viced regularly, you know.’

  ‘How long has it been broken?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure it’s broken; the pilot light’s gone out. Mind you, I’ll have problems when the cold weather comes if I can’t get it started.’

  The little head and legs protruding from the cocoon of quilt, the tiny sticklike ankles, and porcelain skin, the hair, fine and white as thistle-down, made Eliza Feldman look as if a strong breeze would blow her away.

  ‘Would you like me to take a look?’ Ruth feared her gallantry might be misplaced, but if it was as straightforward as Eliza had suggested, at least she could try.

  ‘Oooh, yes, please.’ She led Ruth through to the doll-sized kitchen. An enormous wall-mounted boiler hung, cold and sulking, in one corner. Ruth recognised the make; they had had the same kind in the house where she grew up. She remembered well her mother pulling open the door and grumbling as she used a spill to unblock the gas jets and relight the pilot. With a terrible foreboding that she just might blow up the entire street, Ruth tugged the door open and poked around as she remembered her mother doing. She blew into the jets, remembering to shut her eyes as the dust rose into a cloud. Finally, she carefully lit a wooden spill from the gas cooker and prayed as she turned the knob. The gas lit with a pop, sputtered, and went out. Ruth tried again. The same thing happened. She sighed.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better stick to preaching sermons, vicar,’ Eliza said.

  Ruth nodded in agreement. ‘Look, there’s a member of our congregation who’s a gas fitter, semi-retired. He’ll come round and sort it out, and he won’t charge you a fortune, I promise.’

  Eliza looked relieved. She poured the tea, and they both took their mugs into the sitting room. Ruth cupped her hands around hers in an attempt to thaw out her fingers. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘you contacted me to offer to help with the costumes for our waggon plays.’

  ‘That’s right. I was a dressmaker for nearly fifty years. I’ve made ladies and men’s bespoke clothes and theatrical costumes. I’ve even done some work for film studios. As you can see, here’s my machine. And I’ve got plenty of time . . . well . . . actually, I haven’t got much time.’

  Ruth frowned.

  ‘I’ve got cancer you see. It’s in my lungs and my bones now. I take tablets and they check up on me every month, but there’s nothing can be done.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Ruth said. Her stomach lurched. It was too soon after Mother.

  ‘Don’t be sorry. I’ve had a good life. Now I want to do this last thing. Something to be remembered by. “Because your love is better than life, my lips will glorify you. I will praise you as long as I live, and in your name I will lift up my hands.” ’

  ‘A psalm of David?’

  ‘That’s right, and God will give me the breath and strength to complete this task.’

  Ruth looked at this frail, birdlike lady. ‘Before you agree, there’s something I need to discuss with you.’

  ‘Fine! Discuss away.’ The old lady folded her hands in her lap.

  ‘I don’t know how much you know ab
out the mystery plays. They’re very old – dating from the fourteenth century. The first few plays show how God created the world, then the fall of man, Noah’s ark, and Moses. Then it goes on to the story of Jesus’ life and death . . .’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Well his trial, persecution, and crucifixion are quite graphically portrayed.’

  ‘What is your point?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Spit it out, girl!’

  ‘People have said that it could appear, antisemitic. You know, the Jewish High Priests – the villains, being responsible for Jesus’ death.’

  To Ruth’s amazement, Eliza threw back her head and laughed.

  ‘I don’t see how that’s antisemitic. I know the baddies in your Christian stories are Jews. But don’t forget, the goodies are all Jews too.’

  Ruth breathed a sigh of relief. She handed her the photographs and promised to drop over the measurements. Finally, she left Eliza Feldman’s tiny, freezing little house, but not before she had chopped a gargantuan pile of logs and kindled a roaring fire in the grate. It was the least she could do.

  She whispered a prayer of thanks, allowing herself a moment’s relaxation, then realised that she was due to see Harlan Westacre after lunch. She had the sinking feeling that meeting couldn’t possibly go as smoothly.

  SHE MET HARLAN AT TWELVE THIRTY IN DONATELLO’S, A PRETENTIOUS LITTLE coffee bar in the High Street. The leather sofas, cherry-wood floors, and swing music were supposed to lend the place a little urban chic; instead, it just made it look as if it was trying too hard. Harlan was perched delicately on one of the expansive leather sofas, her buttocks hardly denting the cushion. She was embracing a cappuccino mug the size of a birdbath. When she spotted Ruth, she jumped up. ‘Darling, what can I get you? The Choco-Cream Frappuccino with a dash of toffee-nut syrup is just divine.’

  ‘Just a black coffee, thanks.’

  ‘Oh, if you’re sure.’

  Ruth nodded. ‘Absolutely.’ The truth was, she would have loved to try one of Donatello’s exotic concoctions, but she didn’t want Harlan to be the one to introduce her. She wanted to assert her firmness, and she was starting with the beverages. Of course, she was just about to violate the principle of ‘if you’re going to criticise something, you’d better make sure you can offer something better.’ She had come empty handed, and when engaging in combat with Harlan, this put her at an immediate disadvantage.