The Art of Standing Still Read online

  ‘Jemma, can you open the door please?’

  She sat by the computer, watching the second hand tick round. The knock came again.

  ‘Jemma, I know you’re there. I saw you looking out of the window.’

  In spite of herself, Jemma started to giggle at the absurdity of the situation. She clamped her hand over her mouth so Josh wouldn’t hear her.

  ‘Please let me in, Jemma. I’m soaking and rather sticky. It’s freezing out here and it’s starting to rain.’

  ‘Good,’ she called to him. ‘That will wash the cola off.’

  She heard him turn to go and, figuring she had made him suffer enough, she opened the door and called out. He jogged back through the drizzle and gratefully ducked through the hatch. Jemma handed him a towel.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, just warn me next time you’re going to do that, so that I can take off my leather jacket first.’

  ‘Do you want a wash?’

  He frowned dubiously.

  Jemma put her hand to her forehead. She wanted to scream.

  ‘There’s a lock on the bathroom door, and I promise I’ll leave you in peace.’

  He gave a sheepish grin and disappeared inside with the towel. She heard yet another car pull up. Looking outside she could just make out the shape of a Land Rover. She filled the kettle and put it on to boil, then flicked through her CD collection. She wanted music, but she didn’t want to set a mood. She found a classic U2 album she hadn’t played for ages and slid it into the computer. With so little space on the boat, even her electronic gadgets had to be multipurpose. Josh opened the bathroom door. His hair was wet and he carried a soaking towel.

  ‘I used your shampoo. I hope you don’t mind.’

  Jemma didn’t mind at all.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ she asked. Then added with a grin. ‘Or a glass of cola?’

  ‘Tea, please.’ He threw himself on one of the sofa-benches that ran the length of the cabin. ‘Blimey, I haven’t heard this track in a while.’

  Jemma went through to the galley and finished making the tea. When she came in to hand him a mug, he was thrashing away on air guitar.

  ‘Old habits die hard,’ he said.

  ‘You go ahead, enjoy yourself.’ She sat down on the sofa bench opposite. ‘I’ll watch.’

  ‘You’ve embarrassed me now,’ he said, not looking in the least embarrassed.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ Jemma asked.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ replied Josh.

  ‘I haven’t. Do you fancy a walk to the chippy?’

  ‘All those deep-fried carbs!’ Josh pulled a face. ‘I’ll cook you something if you like. I’m a superb cook, even if I do say so myself.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve got much.’ Jemma considered the contents of her fridge: some mouldy cheese and half a liquid cucumber more than likely. ‘And the galley can be a bit of a challenge if you’re not used to it.’

  ‘You say that, but I can rustle up a meal out of more or less anything.’ He opened the door of her compact refrigerator and stuck his head inside. When he emerged, he had a look of disgust on his face. ‘Jemma, do you know what the date is on these eggs?’

  Jemma shrugged. She assumed they were months out of date.

  ‘And what is this?’ He held up something green and limp and slightly hairy. ‘This is evidence for the theory of evolution if ever I saw it. It’s a completely different life form than when in went into that fridge. This is not a kitchen – this is a biohazard!’

  Jemma shrugged. She’d never claimed to be Nigella Lawson. ‘Looks as if it’s the chippy after all.’

  They both put on their coats. Jemma grabbed an umbrella then locked up.

  ‘Can’t be too careful around here,’ Jemma said.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Josh. ‘You can’t take any chances with that gang of felonious water voles and the notorious burgling otter brothers on the loose.’

  ‘What are you going on about?’

  ‘Of course they got a seven-year stretch. For holding up a bank.’

  ‘A bank. What bank?’

  ‘The river bank!’

  Jemma groaned. ‘Right, you’ve had it. No chips for you.’ She ran ahead down the towpath.

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ Josh gave chase and caught up with her effortlessly. He put his arm around her shoulders. It was a gesture of friendship rather than anything more. But Jemma liked it and had to battle with herself to resist the urge to turn and kiss him. She didn’t want to spoil the moment. They strolled down the towpath, sharing Jemma’s umbrella.

  ‘You’re into health food then?’ she said.

  ‘I like to try to keep fit. I eat plenty of fruit and vegetables, fish, and a little meat. I don’t drink or smoke now, but I jog and go to the gym regularly. And my job keeps me fairly active.’

  ‘You make me feel like a slob as usual,’ Jemma said.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.’

  ‘Perhaps I am a slob. I mean, who else do you know who drives from their home to their garage, eats chips seventeen times a week, and has vegetables in their fridge for so long that they change species?’

  ‘It’s those little quirks that make you so appealing. That and your meddlesome nature.’

  ‘Meddlesome! Excuse me! That’s my “journalistic nose” you’re referring to. Like a bloodhound, me. First sniff of a story, and I’m there like a shot.’

  He stopped and scrutinised her face. ‘But what made you choose that as a career? Do you feel that is your destiny? Is that what you were created for?’

  ‘That’s a difficult question. Yes, it’s something I feel drawn to. My granddad was a journalist. I suppose you could say it’s in the blood. My ambition is to be like him. He’s my hero.’

  ‘The job, is that why you came to Monksford?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, but I want to move on. Get a job at a national newspaper, travel. I’ve never been one to stay in one place for too long.’

  ‘Is that why you live on a boat?’

  ‘That was the original idea. I suppose I don’t feel ready to put down roots.’

  They turned off the towpath and right onto Todbourne Road. Jemma paused on the humpback bridge that crossed the river. It had stopped raining so she put her umbrella down.

  ‘And what about you? Is working in a DIY shop your “destiny”?’

  Josh smiled. ‘I don’t think so. I’m still trying to work out what God wants me to do with my life.’

  Here he goes again. Conceited enough to think he knows what God wants. As if God would bother with worms like us when he’s got a whole world to run.

  They turned the corner and started up Monksford High Street. Josh was walking fast, and Jemma had to jog to keep up. She tried not to let him see she was out of breath. She was right; she was a slob. Using the car less and walking more would help. And reduce the amount of take-away food she was eating – but not tonight. The queue for Charlie’s Chippy was spilling out the door onto the pavement. They joined the end.

  ‘So how did you end up at Abacus DIY? Did God put you there?’

  ‘I suppose he did in a way. When I got back to England, I needed a job. My parents live in Maidstone. I wanted to be close, but not too close.’

  ‘You’ve lived abroad?’

  Another of Jemma’s ambitions. The nearest she had got to ‘abroad’ was a boozy fortnight in Ibiza or Faliraki.

  ‘Sort of. The Balkans.’

  They reached the front of the queue. Jemma ordered battered cod and chips with vinegar and mushy peas. She was delighted that Josh also ordered chips and was even more delighted when he paid for the meal.

  They carried their food outside, swaddled in white paper, sending steam into the icy air as they pulled back the paper and began eating with their fingers.

  ‘You were telling me you lived in Eastern Europe. What were you doing there?’

  ‘I was in the army at the time. Only a private. I wanted to see
the world, but all I ended up seeing was the back streets of Sarajevo and Kosovo.’

  ‘Is that why you left?’

  He stopped eating and looked at Jemma. His face darkened, and she began to wonder if this line of questioning was a mistake.

  ‘No, I left when I became a Christian. I just couldn’t do it any more.’

  ‘Do what?’

  He started walking again. Faster. Jemma was getting left behind.

  ‘Do what?’ she called. She had had enough of trying to carry on a conversation while he disappeared into the distance. She sprinted to catch up with him, and she linked her arm through his to slow him down. ‘I thought there were loads of Christians in the forces. Fighting for Queen and country; isn’t that supposed to be a noble calling? The church walls are covered in memorial plaques for those who gave their lives for their country.’

  ‘Perhaps . . .’

  ‘So, why did you leave?’

  Josh crumpled his paper and slam-dunked it into a rubbish bin as he passed.

  ‘I couldn’t stay in a job that might require me to kill people,’ he said.

  Jemma hadn’t had him down as a pacifist.

  ‘You mean the Ten Commandments – “Thou shalt not kill”? Isn’t that about murdering people? Defending our country from enemies, surely that’s a good thing, a heroic thing.’

  They reached the bridge over the river. Josh stopped walking, much to Jemma’s relief. He leaned on the edge of the parapet, studying the dark river, its current carrying debris downstream.

  ‘And who are our enemies? People like us, defending their country from their enemies. Jesus told us, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you.” I can’t see that you can kill them if you love them. They were people, just people.’

  ‘Yeah, and those people were slaughtering each other. You were there to stop them.’

  ‘We didn’t stop them though, did we? We just killed a few more. Made it worse.’

  ‘Surely there were other duties, peacekeeping and all that. What about other countries?’

  ‘No, it was time to move on. I just about lasted my four years. I applied for a discharge as soon as I could. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I saw so many of my friends go . . .’

  ‘Were they killed in action?’

  ‘No, only one got killed by a landmine in Sarajevo. Another hanged himself, and of the others, two were given a medical discharge for psychiatric problems and one drank himself to death.’

  ‘So you thought “blow that for a game of soldiers”.’ Jemma laughed. Josh didn’t.

  ‘I can’t describe to you what it was like.’ Josh’s voice had changed. His words sounded thick and flat. She laid a hand on his back.

  ‘I . . . I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  He didn’t reply, but she knew he was crying. A mixture of compassion and distaste filled Jemma. She didn’t know what to do. What kind of man bursts into tears on you in the middle of a discussion?

  ‘I didn’t mean to pry. I guess you’re right about me being a journalist. Meddlesome, that’s what you said.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He started walking again, almost running. By the time she caught up with him, he had reached the car park and was fumbling in his pocket for his keys. ‘I’m sorry. I never intended to offload on you. What do you think of me? I thought I was over it. It’s just every now and then . . . I feel so stupid. Look, I’d better get home.’

  ‘No! I mean, no, please don’t go. We can go back to the boat and talk if it would help. Besides, I still haven’t finished my chips.’ She held up the crumpled paper.

  ‘Jemma, you’re a lovely girl, and I really enjoy your company, but tonight, you’ve just seen me make a complete idiot of myself. I’m cold, damp, embarrassed, and I want to go home. Talking won’t get me anywhere. I just have to get over it. I’ll see you at the next rehearsal . . .’

  There was a huge splash. Jemma and Josh looked at each other, frozen for a moment, then he took off at a run towards the river. ‘Get a torch!’ he called over his shoulder.

  Before she could move, Jemma heard footsteps on the other side of the bridge – heading straight towards her. Within a heartbeat, a man barged past her, but not before almost knocking her into the canal.

  She recovered her balance, jumped onboard the Hog, and grabbed a flashlight. She shone it towards where the man had disappeared into the gloom of the car park.

  ‘No!’

  She had lost him.

  ‘Hurry up with that torch,’ Josh called.

  She ran across the bridge where Josh stood, scanning the murky river. He snatched the torch and swung it round like a search beam. Nothing.

  A shiver ran through her and she froze. The sound of footsteps, this time on the far side of the river. A rustle in the bushes. Footsteps again, now running in the car park. Josh swept the torch beam in a wide arc. An engine started and revved. Headlamps dazzled them; then tyres spun on the gravel and an engine whined, reversing at high speed. Another splash from the river. Josh aimed the torch again.

  ‘Look,’ shouted Jemma. ‘There’s someone in the water.’ She pointed towards the bank, where reeds thrust their blades out of the muddy river. Josh threw his coat on the bank and kicked off his shoes. He waded into the icy river, gasping as the freezing water stole his breath. Jemma dropped the torch and grabbed a life ring. She threw it towards Josh’s voice.

  ‘Light!’ he yelled. ‘I can’t see a thing!’

  She picked up the torch again and held it in both hands, trying to keep the beam steady. Josh had reached the body and, with one arm tucked through the life ring, struggled to haul it to the opposite bank.

  ‘Can’t you pull it out this side?’ called Jemma.

  ‘No . . . bank’s too steep.’

  As she ran across to help him, she could hear Josh’s teeth chattering. Finally, he reached the edge, and she took hold of the man’s shirt and pulled while Josh pushed his body and legs. They managed to manoeuvre him on to the bank and Josh clambered out.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Jemma asked.

  Josh rolled the man on his back and listened for breath. The man’s hair and face were dark with blood. The blood had washed off his clothes, but his head and face were still fairly dry. Perhaps the blood was a good sign. Dead men don’t bleed.

  ‘Is he dead?’ she repeated.

  ‘He will be if we don’t get help soon. He’s not breathing.’ Josh felt the man’s neck for a pulse.

  Jemma dialled the emergency services while Josh started to work on the man’s chest and airway. Doors of neighbouring boats flew open and soon a crowd of people offered blankets, sweet tea, and brandy, and suggestions of how best to help the victim. Josh sent away all but the blankets.

  Jemma’s heart was pounding so hard she thought everyone could hear it. How could this be happening in Monksford, in her town, on her river? Then her reporter’s sense kicked in, making a mental note of all the events, people, time, and places, and committing as much as possible to memory. Whatever happened, this was going to make a great story. How Josh would cope with being the hero twice in as many months, she was not quite so sure.

  Ambulance sirens wailed in the distance as Ray Jones arrived with a hurricane lamp, far more effective than Jemma’s faltering torch beam. She held it above her head. The man was wearing a blue checked shirt and jeans. He had blond hair, matted and stuck to his head. Blood streaked his face, obscuring his features. Whatever Josh was doing seemed to be working. The man stirred and his eyelids flickered a little. Skye Wortham from the Lucky Lady arrived with some warm water and a tea towel. She started to mop at the victim’s face and head.

  The man’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. His lips moved as he tried to speak. Jemma moved in closer to hear was he was saying.

  The man whispered a name. The name was ‘Jemma’.

  Scene Thirteen

  RUTH SAT AT HER D
ESK, SORTING THROUGH THE BOX OF PHOTOGRAPHS SHE had found in Mother’s room. Most of the early ones were black and white: Her parents at a dinner dance, her mother in a satin gown with a wide skirt and a shawl collar, her father in a double-breasted suit. Her mother had curled her copper-coloured hair, and her father was smiling shyly.

  Her parents’ wedding day, mid-January with snow on the ground. Her mother, dressed in a navy skirt-suit, the jacket cut full to hide the baby.

  The following June, her parents in the garden, her father cradling a bundle swaddled in a blanket, smiling proudly.

  A camping holiday, the baby now a toddler, hair in bunches, and another swaddled bundle, her brother, Roy.

  Her father astride his Norton motorcycle, Ruth standing proudly next to him, with her hand on the tank. She was about eight, probably the year he died.

  Ruth and Roy at the seaside. Staying with Auntie Joyce while mum had Susan. Another holiday, Margate, possibly. Uncle Fred had taken the photo. She and Roy had been fighting and both looked sulky. Sue was about two. Her mother looked pale and exhausted. There was very little help for single parents in those days, even widowed mothers with three small children. No wonder she looked so tired.

  Teenage years – hippy skirts and flared jeans, platform shoes. She looked self-conscious. Ruth and some friends at a funfair, standing next to a roller coaster at Dreamland. She was holding her friends’ coats and bags beside the gargantuan roller coaster. She hadn’t quite mustered the courage herself to go on it but watched while Julie and Paul, Caro, and Tim screamed and shrieked. Vicarious entertainment.

  Her first dance – at the Palais, wearing a maxi-skirt and a lime green blouse with ridiculously long collars. Ruth had always thought of herself as a fat teenager, but these photos, taken before the days of digital manipulation, refused to corroborate her memories.

  Bryan Smith, at twenty, had been her first real boyfriend. She stood next to his car, a Triumph Spitfire, grinning proudly. She would have done anything to have married him, but he never asked. Her mother cried when they broke up. She so wanted to see Ruth walk down the aisle.