The Art of Standing Still Read online

  Eastbourne, the last holiday she and mother had taken, just after they had found out the final dose of chemo hadn’t worked. They wanted to go away, have fun before . . . before . . . It had rained all week in Eastbourne.

  A biography captured in photographs. An existence of almost, nearly, not quite. There were reservations in every picture. It was as if life came with a caveat. It was never perfect. She had spent her early years wishing her father alive, her teenage years wishing herself thin, and her twenties wishing herself married. Most of her thirties, she had struggled through university and ordination, wishing herself qualified, and more recently, wishing her sick mother well. That wish hadn’t come true either. Now she was qualified and ordained and resigned to the idea that she would never be thin. Watching her friends and siblings on their second and third divorces she was glad she had never married. She and Dimitri made a good couple; very few demands on either side.

  What was life all about? Perhaps she was better off as she was. Perhaps this half-life, with a little pain and not very much pleasure was preferable to the emotional roller coaster that had driven more than one acquaintance to alcohol, drugs, or suicide. Did it matter that she had never screamed with terror or felt the wind in her hair? She helped people. She had a faith that sustained her, good friends, and a job that was worthwhile. And her hobbies – golf, gardening, and now the mystery plays that had taught her so much and brought so many interesting people into her life. On top of all that, she was well thought of, a pillar of the community, a brick, a good egg.

  Tears ran down her cheeks. Suddenly it did matter. It mattered very much. She had been ‘Miss play-it-safe’ all her life; now, at forty-eight, she longed for danger. Finally, nearing the menopause, she felt she was just reaching puberty. She must be a late bloomer. The thought made her smile. She tucked the photographs back in the drawer and tidied her desk. She would book a haircut and, against all her frugal, utilitarian principles, a manicure and a facial. She reached for a tissue and wiped her eyes. It wasn’t too late for a new start. Life begins at forty-eight.

  SHE LIKED TO BE FOUND ON HER KNEES PRAYING IN CHURCH. NOT IN SOME KIND of pharisaical way, but so that people knew that she prayed. Prayer is something so personal, so silent and solitary, that no one can tell that you are doing it at all. In the same way that someone can only tell you’re breathing when you sigh or snore, they can only tell if you pray aloud (only practical in a worship meeting) or if you show it by your body language. Ruth was surprised at how much spending some time in prayer had cheered her up. She seemed to have so many more people to pray for these days. There was Raj for a start; and Eliza Feldman; Josh and that reporter, Jemma; Ronnie and Harlan and how she was going to tell them about the music; Bram and his farm. That was in addition to all the usual people and things she prayed for. She ended with the Lord’s Prayer, got up, and turned round to find Alistair Fry sitting in a front pew, watching her.

  ‘Oh! You startled me!’ She put her hands to her chest.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’

  ‘How long were you there?’

  ‘I arrived somewhere between Mrs Wainthrop’s shingles and “Our Father”.’

  She had not prayed aloud. How did he know? He was holding a parish magazine, open to the page ‘for your prayers’. Of course she would pray the Lord’s Prayer, everyone did. Even so, she felt odd that he knew what was happening inside her head. It both comforted and frightened her.

  ‘What do you want?’ Her heart had stopped racing, but she couldn’t help feeling angry. It was almost like being stalked.

  ‘You.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I want you. Come on, we’re going out.’

  What was he thinking? He took her hand but she pulled it away.

  ‘What about Amanda?’

  ‘Oh, she didn’t want to come.’

  ‘You asked her?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘You told her you were taking me out?’

  ‘She thought it was a good idea, said you’d been working too hard and could do with a bit of pampering. Unfortunately, she had to go to Ashford this morning and said she wouldn’t be back in time.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. Come on, I’ve packed a picnic; I even polished the car this morning.’

  ‘A picnic, but it’s the middle of November.’

  ‘Which is why I’ve included a flask of oxtail soup, warm pasties, and apple pie with custard. Besides, the sun’s shining and it’s not that cold. Anyway, I want to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘We have a little problem that needs sorting out. Or should I say two little problems – Harlan Westacre and Ronnie Mardle.’

  Ruth groaned.

  ‘That’s what I thought. So we’re going out, blow the cobwebs away, and put the world to rights. Well, a very small corner of it anyway. What do you think?’

  Ruth grinned. ‘Why not.’

  The midnight-blue Mercedes was polished like a mirror. Ruth really could see her reflection in it. It distorted her and made her look even plumper than she really was. Her confidence almost deserted her, and she was ready to call the whole excursion off. But she had made herself a promise. She wasn’t going to let life pass her by; she would seize it with both hands. She was going to ride that roller coaster.

  ‘Where shall we go?’ asked Alistair.

  ‘Not too far. I’ve got a busy afternoon. How about by the river?’

  ‘Can’t you think of anywhere more adventurous than the river?’

  In truth she couldn’t.

  ‘Come on, what’s your favourite place?’

  ‘Around here?’ She thought for a moment. ‘The abbey ruins. Very atmospheric. Especially if we’re going to talk about the Mysteries.’

  ‘Hmm, about as exotic as the river.’ Alistair’s voice betrayed a hint of irritation.

  ‘But I like the abbey ruins. You asked me where I wanted to go, and I told you. We don’t have to go anywhere if you don’t want to. We could have the picnic here in the graveyard.’ She folded her arms, surprised at her assertiveness.

  ‘Okay, Monksford Abbey it is.’ He held the door of the Mercedes open for her, and she climbed into the passenger seat. She sank into the sandy-coloured leather upholstery. The car smelt clean and fresh, unlike the rancid smell of rotting fruit and general grime that seemed to pervade her car.

  ‘Nice car,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks. I didn’t have you down as the materialistic type. I wouldn’t have thought you’d have been so easily impressed.’

  ‘When you drive a 1988 Ford Fiesta, believe me, this is impressive.’

  They drove the mile from St Sebastian’s to the abbey in near silence. Ruth studied Alistair as he drove. He seemed tense, his jaw clenched. He looked tired, and the lines around his eyes seemed a little more pronounced. In her fifteen years of listening to people, Ruth had learnt to read their faces. If she hadn’t known better, she would have assumed he was a worried man. His knuckles were white as he gripped the wheel, and he muttered under his breath as he applied the brakes to avoid Mr Giddings, on his bicycle, who swerved out into his path.

  ‘Is everything all right, Alistair?’

  ‘Of course.’ He laughed. ‘I’m away from the office and the chambers, the sun’s shining, and I have the company of one of my best friends. What could possibly be wrong?’

  He parked the car on a strip of grass. A flock of Canada geese flew up from the river and passed overhead, making a terrible racket.

  Ruth put her hands over her ears. ‘Worse than being on the flight path from Gatwick!’

  She helped Alistair unload the hamper and a rug from the car. The wind was freshening and the sky had darkened. The limestone abbey ruins seemed to have taken on a silvery sheen that made them stand out in sharp contrast to the dark grey clouds. She shivered.

  ‘Let’s find a sheltered place. Look – over here behind these stones.’ He spread the rug on the grass in
a little alcove, sheltered on three sides by the remains of the abbey walls. Ruth sat on the ground, pulling her coat close and hugging her knees. Alistair sat next to her and opened the hamper. The feast was just as sumptuous as Alistair had promised with sandwiches of gammon and mustard and roast beef and horseradish. The pasties had been wrapped in foil then placed in an insulating bag. Alistair handed one to her, and she unwrapped it and bit into it gratefully. He poured them both a mug of oxtail soup.

  ‘What are we going to do about the quite hideously, disgustingly awful mockery that passes as music in our lovely medieval masterpieces?’ he asked.

  ‘More’s the point, how are we going to deal with it and still have Ronnie and Harlan talking to us at the end of it?’

  ‘Do we care if they’re still talking to us?’

  ‘Yes, Alistair, I do care.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Ruth picked up a hot chicken drumstick and waved it at him like a baton. ‘The best way to make anyone change their mind is to make them think they thought of it themselves.’

  ‘Ah, psychology,’ Alistair said.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘And,’ Alistair picked up his own drumstick, ‘we could do it by suggesting an alternative. Something so toe-curlingly appalling they’ll fall into line and do what we want. Did you find any more suitable music in the library?’

  ‘Yes. Some lovely medieval choral stuff. It would be just perfect.’

  ‘Great. Well done. Now how could we persuade them?’

  ‘We could record their music and play it back to them so that they can hear how dreadful it sounds.’

  ‘We could, but they hear it when they rehearse. It sounds dreadful but they don’t seem to notice.’

  ‘What about getting Ronnie to Harlan’s rehearsal and Harlan to his?’

  ‘World War Three!’

  Ruth laughed. He was right, though. And that would be the end of the mystery plays.

  ‘I love it when you laugh.’

  Ruth felt her cheeks warm.

  ‘I mean it. It brightens my day.’

  ‘Your day won’t be very bright unless we hatch a plot to sort this mess out.’

  ‘Hang on! I think I’ve got it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We could choose some outrageously inappropriate song. “The Birdie Song” or something similar and insist they incorporate it . . . ,’ he said.

  ‘Or we could just take along this beautiful CD, say we appreciate the work they’re putting in but that the two sections Old and New Testaments are just too dissimilar, then politely hand them the manuscripts.’

  ‘We could. Then what?’

  ‘We run for cover.’

  They both laughed. Ruth gazed over at the river. A mist was gathering. It felt good sitting here with Alistair. They shared a sense of humour, he listened when she talked, he was handsome – in a rugged sort of way. But he was just so . . . married. She took a deep breath and dragged her thoughts back to reality.

  ‘So, how were the children, Alistair?’

  ‘They were fine, thanks. I went to see Rory play in a Rugby match. Stefan lost a tooth, so I got to be tooth fairy. Do you know the going rate for teeth these days?’

  Ruth shook her head.

  ‘Two pounds for incisors and canines, two pounds fifty for molars. Can you believe that?’

  ‘I used to get sixpence.’

  ‘So did I!’

  ‘Stop. You’re making me feel old.’

  ‘You’re not old. You’re gorgeous.’

  She couldn’t help smiling at his outrageous flattery. ‘So did Rory win his match?’

  ‘Sadly not. And we had to drown our sorrows in strawberry milkshake at the local burger bar.’ He gave a sigh that seemed to come up from the soles of his boots.

  ‘You miss them, don’t you?’ She put her hand on his.

  He nodded. ‘I don’t feel as if I’ve ever been a proper dad. Oh, I have a good time when I visit, and I’m sure the kids enjoy it. But every day I’m with them is like Christmas day; everyone’s on their best behaviour, trying to be polite, walking round on tiptoes. I mean, it usually involves me giving them presents. I’ve never done the ordinary things that dads do every day – tucking them in, reading to them.’

  ‘What about the older ones?’

  ‘Christa was four and Marcus was two. Louisa hadn’t even been born. She was seven before I saw her for the first time.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Why did you leave?’

  Alistair looked like she had slapped him in the face. ‘I didn’t, they did.’

  ‘Your wives left you. Why?’

  ‘I – I don’t want to talk about it.’ He started to toss the remains of the picnic into the basket. ‘It looks like rain, or perhaps snow. We’d better get back.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosy.’

  ‘Both of them, Joanne and Nikki, they both went off with someone else.’

  ‘That must have been dreadful for you. At least now you’ve got Amanda.’ She drained her soup mug as Alistair made his way back to the car. ‘Alistair!’ She caught up with him and handed him the mug, which he put in the boot of the car.

  ‘We don’t have to go back just yet, do we?’ Ruth smiled up at him, but his face remained grim.

  ‘I suppose not.’ He locked the car and walked towards the towpath. It had started to drizzle, and a grey mist hung over the river. The flock of geese returned and flew low. As they walked towards the town the light grew dim, even though it was still early afternoon. Ruth felt cold and stiff from sitting on the damp ground. Even through the thick blanket, the chill seemed to have pervaded her bones.

  ‘As I said, I’m sorry I brought up the subject of your ex-wives. It’s just that you looked so . . .’

  ‘Old?’

  ‘Worried. Alistair, you can talk to me you know, if there’s anything bothering you. As you said, we are friends.’

  ‘It’s Amanda.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘I can’t help thinking she’s going to leave me too.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . The signs are there.’

  ‘What signs?’

  ‘Little things. The phone rings and when I answer the caller hangs up.’

  ‘Sales calls. I get them all the time. It’s a dialling machine that calls lots of numbers. If you’re not the first to answer, it just cuts off.’

  ‘Buying new clothes, having her hair done.’

  ‘She’s just trying to please you, or herself.’

  ‘And going out. Oh, I don’t expect her to stay in all the time . . .’ He laughed. ‘And I’m not the jealous controlling type that won’t let her out of my sight or make her account for every second.’

  ‘So what makes you think there’s anything peculiar going on?’

  ‘She’s never there when I call. Her phone’s always switched off. She’s out most days . . . and a lot of evenings. She complains that I don’t pay her enough attention; then when I try to arrange something, like today, she’s “going out”.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean – ’

  ‘It’s all falling apart again. I can see it. I can read the signs. Don’t tell me I’m wrong; it’s happened to me twice before. I should know.’

  Ruth laid a hand on his shoulder. The distress had contorted his face and he was breathing heavily.

  ‘Calm down, Alistair, it may not be what you think.’

  He sat on a bench and held his head in his hands.

  ‘You’re right, of course. I’ve just got myself into a state over this. I’m not eating properly, I’m irritable, I can’t sleep. I try to convince myself it’s not happening again, that it’s different this time. But . . .’

  ‘Have you tried getting help from the church?’

  ‘My own church? No, I can’t talk to them, too much to lose. That’s why I’m talking to you.’

  ‘I am not “the church”!’ Ruth stood up and walked farther along t
he towpath. Houseboats were moored along the towpath, their muted colours – deep blue, bottle green, and black – blending with the dark water of the river.

  When she stopped next to the Endeavour, Alistair stood up and joined her. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I meant as a friend.’ He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. ‘If it hadn’t been for you and for our friendship over the last couple of months, I think I would have gone mad.’ He kissed her very gently on the cheek then pulled her close to him and hugged her tight.

  She breathed in the scent of his cologne, felt the rough wool of the jumper on her face, his strong arms around her, and thought she would melt. She looked up into his blue, blue eyes. He kissed her again, this time full on the mouth. He kissed her long and hard and deep. She didn’t resist.

  ON THE DECK OF THE EBONY HOG, JEMMA STOOD AND WATCHED IN AMAZEMENT as the Councillor kissed the Vicar passionately on the lips.

  Act Two

  Scene One

  IT WAS ONLY ONE KISS BUT IT CHANGED RUTH’S LIFE.

  Christmas and Easter passed in a blur. Ruth found ways of keeping herself busy; it hadn’t been difficult. She managed to keep her thought life under control – just – and mostly managed to avoid Alistair.

  Rehearsals were tense. When she saw Alistair, her heart raced, and she was convinced everyone could see the electricity arcing between them.

  He caught her alone a few days after their kiss. ‘Ruth . . .’ He tried to take her arm. She walked into the church-hall kitchen. He followed. She stood by the sink and pretended to make tea. He turned her round to face him. His eyes were tender, almost tearful.

  ‘We have to talk – ’

  ‘No, we don’t, there’s nothing to talk about.’

  ‘ – about what happened.’

  ‘I told you, Alistair. Nothing happened.’

  She opened the door, almost knocking Harlan over.

  ‘Ruth, I need to see you about the Nativity chorus. It’s just too . . . angelic.’

  She led Harlan to an orange plastic chair and sat across from her, leaving Alistair to finish making the tea.