The Art of Standing Still Read online

  ‘But he only said kind things, forgave people, and healed them, didn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, he had some pretty harsh words for the hypocritical religious leaders who said one thing and did another. They were oppressive, sanctimonious, and corrupt. They forced people to follow impossible rules, then punished them when they failed. But they claimed to have the monopoly on God. The ordinary folk didn’t have a look in. As you said, they weren’t “good” enough.’

  ‘So how can anyone be good enough? The religious leaders couldn’t do it and the ordinary people couldn’t do it, so what chance do we stand?’

  ‘None at all. That’s why Jesus had to die.’

  ‘What do you mean, had to die? I thought it was all a ghastly mistake.’

  ‘No. It was a bit like a hostage situation. As you said, we’ve all done and thought wrong things. In a way we can’t help it; we’re born like it. None of us deserve to be with God. It is as if Jesus said, “I can take it. I’ll stand in for you.” He died so we don’t have to.’

  Jemma gave a little snort. ‘But we all still die.’

  ‘Our bodies do, but there’s the essence of us that lives on. Call it what you like, soul, spirit, consciousness. And we choose where that essence will spend eternity. Forever with God, or forever separated from him.’

  Richard groaned in his sleep. Jemma crossed the room and took his hand.

  ‘Does he still have his “essence”? Has it left him, or will we ever see the real Richard again?’

  ‘I believe it’s still in there. He just can’t communicate with us at the moment. I’ve been praying that he’ll recover.’

  ‘Then why hasn’t he?’ Jemma’s breathing was getting faster; she could feel her cheeks burning. Tears began to sting her eyes. ‘If God is as powerful as you say, why doesn’t Richard get better? Haven’t you prayed hard enough? Don’t you believe enough? Haven’t you said the right words? What’s gone wrong, Josh? Oh, it all sounds fine in theory, but it doesn’t work, does it?’ She was shouting now. ‘Make him better! Then I’ll know that everything you’ve been saying is true.’

  Josh looked very weary. ‘I can’t. I don’t know why he’s still sick. But I know I must keep praying.’

  ‘Do what you like! Say your magic words, wave your Bible at him.’ She stroked Richard’s hair. ‘Look at him. What’s the point, Josh? What is the point?’

  ‘We’ve got to have hope. We can’t give up on that.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  Jemma stormed out of the room, slamming the door so hard a nurse came scurrying up the corridor. She ran downstairs and fled into the hospital car park. It was no good. She just couldn’t stand it any more. She had spent over six months of her life at Richard’s bedside. She had seen more of him recently than she had in the whole of the previous two years. She didn’t even know why she was spending so much time with him. After all he had left her for another woman. Whoever this ‘other woman’ was, she hadn’t stayed on the scene once Richard had been injured. She hadn’t shown up, not even once.

  Jemma had been to Richard’s last address, a B&B in Maidstone, but there was no clue to her identity. Whether it was helping to pull him out of the river or a bizarre sense of loyalty, Jemma just knew she had to be there for him. Things had cooled off with Josh. It was as if her emotions had shut down. She was just doing what had to be done. She went to work, she rehearsed the mystery plays, she wrote her column, and she visited Richard. She had no time or energy for anything more. She hadn’t seen Lou for months; she hadn’t even visited her grandfather in York during the holidays. Instead, she spent the best part of Christmas day with Josh at Richard’s bedside.

  That morning Mohan had told her she was looking tired and haggard and she should get some early nights because her sour face was putting him off his Danish. She couldn’t be bothered to work out whether it was supposed to be some kind of joke, but it had cut deep. She had lost weight. She was having trouble sleeping, and her concentration span was . . .

  What was she thinking? She found a bench, sat down, and put her head in her hands as the tears came. ‘Why?’ she shouted. ‘Why did you let this happen, God? Why isn’t he getting better? Don’t you listen? Don’t you care?’ Jemma fished in her bag for a tissue and wiped her eyes. ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this. I don’t even believe in you, but I’m talking to you. If you can hear me, if you are real, show me. Show me tonight that you care.’

  She felt a hand on her shoulder that made her jump.

  ‘Josh!’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I bought you this.’ He handed her a coffee. ‘It’s the real stuff, from the restaurant, not the machine.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She took the cup. Josh sat on the bench next to her and took a swig of his own cup of coffee.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Josh, don’t laugh, but I was praying.’

  ‘Why should I laugh? It’s the best thing you could do. What were you praying about?’

  ‘I asked God to show me that he cared, right before you turned up with the coffee.’

  ‘So God knew that you really needed a coffee and sent me to you.’

  Jemma shook her head and smiled. ‘Coincidence.’

  They sat in silence watching the ambulances. A relay of smokers, some staff, some patients, joined them, sucking their cigarettes as if their lives depended on them before flicking the ends into the row of nearby scrubby bushes.

  A male nurse hurried towards them. ‘Are you Richard Sutton’s friend Jemma?’

  ‘Yes. What’s happened?’ Jemma gripped Josh’s hand.

  ‘You’d better come up.’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘He’s asking for you.’

  Scene Three

  ‘OY! WILL YOU LOT JUST STAND STILL!’ RONNIE BELLOWED. HIS NORMALLY crispy, clipped syllables replaced by an inflection that wouldn’t have been out of place on a vegetable stall in Maidstone market. ‘I said, stand still!’ His exasperated voice rang through the hall, echoing Ruth’s thoughts.

  ‘I’ve got parrots chatting among themselves, apes scratching, sloths yawning, and I’m not even saying what the rabbits seem to be getting up to. Think, people! Each time you step onto this stage you’re acting – even when you’re not speaking to the audience. Think about what’s happening. React; provide background; if all else fails, just stand still. Whatever you do, don’t just switch off, or worse still, have a chat about last night’s episode of Coronation Street!’ Ronnie paused to wipe his forehead with a yellow silk handkerchief. Little beads of spittle had collected at the corners of his mouth and his face was beetroot red.

  ‘God, Noah, his wife and sons have lines. The rest of you animals still have to act. I know the stage is small and you’re all a little cramped, but there’s nothing that can be done about it at the moment. You will have more space on the day and you’ll be in costume, but you must start to think about your character now. Eagles, look majestic, and tigers, you are fierce predators, not pussycats waiting for your next tin of Whiskers. Oh, for goodness sake! You silly cows over there, come forward – you won’t be seen there behind the gorillas.’

  Ruth hid a smile as two rather affronted middle-aged women emerged from behind former Kent middleweight wrestling champion, Ken (Grappler) Morell and his good lady ‘Battleaxe.’ During a production, Ronnie was very fond of calling actors by their character names. Although Hamlet, Lear, or Lady Macbeth may be acceptable, and in some cases flattering, referring to the actors as dogs, pigs, or even cows was more than likely to earn Ronnie a slap on the face. He had, rather mischievously, sat down and likened each actor’s looks or character to an animal. He and Ruth had giggled over people’s facial characteristics, mannerisms, and personality traits to match them up with various creatures.

  The whole cast was involved in the Noah scenes. Ronnie and Ruth had made that decision early on, if only to prevent the actors who were appearing later, in the New Testament section, from spending the early part of the evening in
the pub. The thought of having to trek down the High Street and through the doors of the saloon bar of the Queen’s Head to separate half a dozen disciples from their pints of Old Jack’s Bone Cracker filled Ruth with trepidation.

  Alistair sat down next to Ruth. ‘Look at this – shambolic.’

  Ronnie pretended not to hear and went to give the actors a piece of his mind.

  ‘I told you, casting pearls before swine!’ Alistair continued.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, letting sacred things fall into the hands of the hoi polloi. Some of the Monksford residents are hardly what you’d call respectable.’

  ‘And we are?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Don’t give me that, Alistair. The difference is I don’t pretend to be something I’m not.’

  He tried to take her hand, but she snatched it away.

  ‘It’s a community play, not just something performed by a nice little groups of Christians, but an opportunity for everyone in Monksford to be drawn into God’s love story with humankind. Christians don’t have a monopoly on God. Besides, some of the grants specify community involvement.’

  A scuffle broke out between some goats and a sheep they claimed was upstaging them. Ronnie beckoned to Ruth, and she clambered on to the stage to help him sort it out and ended up moving the sheep to the other side of the stage, near the lioness. When she returned to her seat, Alistair had gone.

  Ruth noticed quite a few faces missing from the tableau among them, the male lion – played by Josh, and the dove – Jemma. It was unlike them to be late, and they usually rang if they couldn’t make a rehearsal. She hoped nothing had happened to Jemma’s ex in hospital.

  She was relieved that Alistair Fry had disappeared so she would not have to watch him on stage. When it came to choosing a suitable animal for Alistair, she admitted she wasn’t feeling altogether impartial. A snake would have been a suitable choice, or a toad, maybe a pig or a leech. Ronnie had eventually taken over, choosing an ox, owing, she suspected, to Alistair’s robust physique and craggy features.

  Ronnie looked stressed and weary.

  Back in the autumn, she had dreaded having to tell him about the music. ‘I’m sorry Ronnie, I just don’t think it’s appropriate.’

  He looked downcast. ‘So it’s going to all be that hideous cacophony performed by those nauseatingly smiley pubescent bobby-soxers, I suppose.’

  ‘No Ronnie. I’ve found some better music, the kind they use in York. Some instrumental, some choral. I’m talking to Harlan too.’

  ‘So there’s not even a chance of a little something from Jesus Christ Superstar?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘C’est la vie!’

  And that was the last they had spoken of it.

  Her discussion with Harlan had been a lot steamier.

  ‘What?’ she shrieked. ‘After all the work I’ve put in. I never thought I’d say this but you, Reverend Wells, are totally heartless.’

  And she refused to speak to Ruth for the rest of the evening.

  ‘She’ll come round,’ Ronnie said. ‘It would kill her if she wasn’t involved. She’d simply explode with envy.’

  That night in bed, a tumult of worries and anxieties prevented her sleeping. There was so much still to consider, the catering, the programmes, the complex and sometimes fraught relationships – Harlan and Ronnie, Jemma, Josh, and Richard, and of course Alistair and her.

  Ruth had tried to leave some breathing space between them, but she couldn’t put him off forever. They were running the nativity scene tomorrow, and she would have to be there.

  Bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, she stepped through the door of the hall the next day and saw Ronnie heading towards her. ‘How are ticket sales going?’

  The plays had reached the stage that every producer dreads, a sort of pivotal point of no return when the initial excitement of the casting has worn off and first-night euphoria seems a distant and implausible prospect.

  ‘Well, there’s the Scouts, and the Tuesday afternoon tea club – oh, and Peter, the Bishop, will definitely try to make it.’

  ‘That’s about eight in the audience, then,’ said Ronnie. ‘And half of those stand some chance of staying awake.’

  ‘Oh, Ronnie, why are we doing this?’ A mischievous thought struck her. ‘Shall we cancel the whole show and cut our losses?’

  ‘Let’s steal the ticket money and run away to Kathmandu,’ Ronnie said.

  Ruth rattled the cash box. ‘We might get as far as Dover.’

  He placed his hands gently on her shoulders. ‘We’ll do it.’

  ‘You know the old adage “it will be all right on the night”.’

  Ronnie smiled. ‘We just need to grit our teeth and hang in there. You’re the one with all the faith.’

  Ruth felt her faith trickling away. She patted him on the shoulder and took her position at the back of the hall.

  Ronnie turned his attention to the actors on the stage. ‘Right,’ Ronnie said, ‘finally you’re in the correct positions. That’s how I want you. Stay there. You’ll have a piece of music playing; you will have taken up your positions for the flood sequence, and you hold it. You stand still! Does anyone have a problem with that?’

  No one seemed to.

  ‘Okay. Let’s take the scene from the beginning. Noah, I’ve got the pieces and the frame. I’d like you to have a go at fitting them together as you speak. A bit of multitasking for you. Do you think you can manage that?’

  Noah nodded.

  ‘Right. All you animals, off the stage. Remember stay in character. Off you go. Now, God . . . “When I made this world . . .” ’

  God spoke of his heartbreak at a perfect creation gone bad and his hope of a new world through one family in a floating menagerie. His reassurance that he would help the painfully inadequate Noah in his task and guide his hands to build the ark made Ruth feel very small. It was only through God’s grace that these mystery plays were happening at all. So many pitfalls, hazards, and circumstances had threatened the production that hearing God’s reassurances to Noah made her very grateful and not a little weepy.

  ‘No, no, no, Noah!’ Ronnie bellowed at the poor little man as he struggled to slot the large pieces of wood to the timber framework to make the ark. Ronnie demonstrated how to slide the section in, then hopped down from the stage and whispered, ‘I tell you, Ruthie dear, never get into a car with that man; I’m sure he has trouble walking and breathing at the same time.’

  Ruth suppressed a giggle.

  The rest of the scene didn’t go any more smoothly, but the animals did indeed behave slightly better this time. Mrs Hobson-Brown’s snide comments about the other performers demonstrated exactly why she had been cast as the female dog.

  After a fairly dismal second run through, Ruth persuaded Ronnie to call it a day. The cast had filed out to the car park, and Harlan left without saying goodbye. Ruth and Ronnie were stacking chairs when the doors swung open crashing against the wall with the force.

  ‘Ruth, I must speak to you . . .’ Alistair’s face was dark with emotion.

  ‘I think I’d better be going.’ Ronnie slung his canary yellow sweater around his shoulders like a stole.

  ‘Please stay.’ Ruth’s eyes grew wide imploring Ronnie not to leave her alone with Alistair. To her relief he nodded and pulled up three chairs. Alistair sat silent. Ruth waited. She wasn’t going to compromise on this, and Alistair knew why. Ronnie, bless him, in a rare moment of diplomacy jumped up and walked towards the door leading to the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll just slip out and feng-shui the kitchen.’ He opened the serving hatch and kept vigil as Alistair poured his heart out to Ruth.

  ‘I’m losing her, Ruth. I’m sitting here watching while my marriage is slipping through my fingers. And there doesn’t seem to be a thing I can do about it.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Ruth’s voice sounded harsh in her ears.

  ‘She hard
ly speaks to me. She’s always out. She’s taken no interest in the mystery plays. And – ’ he pulled his chair closer and lowered his voice ‘ – we haven’t, you know, made love for weeks.’

  ‘I’m not a marriage guidance counsellor,’ Ruth snapped. Her chair screeched on the floor as she pulled away from him.

  ‘I know, but I thought you were my friend.’

  ‘Just how I, who have never been married, can advise you, who seem to be something of an expert on failed marriages, I’m not quite sure.’ Ruth folded her arms.

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Alistair, but I don’t know what you expect me to say. Have you tried talking to her?’

  Alistair gave a snort. ‘I’m the last person she wants to talk to at the moment.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She thinks . . .’ He shot a glance towards the kitchen. ‘She thinks I’m having an affair.’

  Ruth kept her gaze steady. ‘And are you?’

  ‘You know I’m not,’ he hissed.

  ‘I know you’re not having one with me,’ she whispered.

  ‘Please, Ruth . . .’

  ‘Please what?’

  ‘Please help me. Talk to her. Convince her that nothing happened.’

  ‘I can’t do that because something did happen. You kissed me, and that kiss changed me, and however much I want to, I can’t seem to change back.’ She stood up. He took her hand.

  ‘Ruth, can we at least discuss this like adults. Come for a drink with me . . . or we could go back to your place.’

  ‘What are we going to talk about? How your wife doesn’t understand you?’ She strode towards the door, and as much as she hated leaving Ronnie in the lurch, she needed to make her exit before she changed her mind.

  She drove straight home and, abandoning her car in the drive, rushed gratefully into the vicarage and slammed the heavy front door shut. She leant against it breathing hard.

  Trembling slightly, she filled the kettle. The phone rang, making her jump. She watched it suspiciously for a few seconds, then, steeling herself, she picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’ Her voice sounded hoarse.

  ‘Ruth, dear, it’s Ronnie. Just calling to see if you are all right.’