The Art of Standing Still Page 20

Josh shrugged.

  ‘Are you coming too? He’ll be pleased to see you.’

  He looked embarrassed. ‘Yeah, I’ll see him. Um . . . could we get a coffee first? There’s something I need to talk to you about.’

  They made their way up to the canteen. The plastic chairs in primary colours and the grey floor tiles would have given the place a pleasant sixties retro feel if the chairs and tiles had not actually been there since the sixties. Josh ordered two coffees, and they sat opposite each other on vicious red chairs across a grey Formica table.

  ‘This sounds serious.’ Jemma forced a smile.

  Josh took her hands.

  ‘Jemma, when the play is over, I’m leaving.’

  ‘What do you mean, leaving?’

  ‘I’m getting away from Monksford.’

  ‘Why?’ Jemma felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. ‘Is it me? What have I done?’

  ‘It’s not you . . .’

  How many times had she heard the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ and ‘I just need some space’ speeches? ‘No! You can’t leave now.’ Jemma snatched her hands away and stood up.

  She ran out into the corridor. She didn’t know where she was going, just away. Away from those words. Josh found her standing near the lifts. Her eyes stung. She blinked away the tears.

  ‘Why did you tell me now? It isn’t a good time.’

  ‘Would there ever be a good time?’

  ‘But here at the hospital. Why couldn’t you wait until I was at home?’

  ‘I didn’t want you to be on your own. Especially if you were upset. Ruth’s here.’

  ‘Too right I’m upset!’ Jemma’s cheeks flared. ‘Anyway, why should I want to talk to Ruth about it?’

  ‘I just thought . . .’

  ‘Well, don’t think.’

  The lift arrived and the doors slid open. Jemma stepped inside and pressed the button for the fifth floor. Josh followed her.

  ‘Jemma, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Josh. Where are you going? What are you going to do? Why do you have to go?’

  Josh shrugged. ‘I just have to leave, that’s all. I wasn’t going to tell you . . . but . . .’

  ‘And I thought we were getting on so well.’

  ‘We were – we are.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘I feel God is calling me.’

  ‘God!’

  With a ping the lift reached its destination. The doors slid open again. Josh was blocking her way. She pushed past him.

  ‘Yes, God. At least, that’s what I think.’

  ‘Then that’s it then. I surrender! I can’t compete with God, can I? Why couldn’t it have been a job, or a girl . . . anything. Then I would have stood a chance. But God! How am I supposed to argue against God?’

  ‘You’ll understand, one day. I’m sure you will.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. With a shudder she collected herself. She tried to steady her voice, sound matter of fact. After all, she was getting quite good at being left alone. She tried to sound sensible, rational, as if he was going on holiday.

  ‘Will you write? We’ll keep in touch?’

  ‘Best not. Things will be less . . . complicated.’

  ‘I thought we were friends. What’s complicated about that?’

  ‘Jemma, you know . . .’

  ‘Yes. I suppose it is – ’ she let out a sigh – ‘complicated.’

  ‘Anyway, what’s to stop you moving on?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought you were trying to curb my wandering spirit. I never thought you were a hypocrite.’

  ‘I’m not. We all have to change. For someone who lives on a boat, your feet seem mighty firmly planted here in Monksford. You could “weigh anchor” any time you wanted and set off.’

  Jemma smiled, fighting her tears. ‘Can I tell you a secret?’

  Josh moved close.

  ‘It’s all a fake, a sham. The Ebony Hog won’t go anywhere. I bought her, a bargain so I thought, from an old naval man, Admiral Wainwright. He was very tall, with a white beard, a veritable “Captain Birdseye”. I fell in love with the Hog at first sight, her colour, her smell, her name, and the fact that she was the only boat I’d viewed that I didn’t need to bend double to get in. I bought her in the depths of winter, but in the spring of the first year I had her, I planned to sail her up north, to see my granddad. I didn’t even get as far as Monksford lock. The footbridge that goes over just before the lock is too low. The Hog’s cabin won’t fit under it, even in low water – I tried again at the end of the summer. It’s the same down river towards Maidstone. The Red Bridge would decapitate her. She’d had her cabin modified, to suit Admiral Wainright’s physique, but I hadn’t realised that it meant that she couldn’t do the one thing real boats are meant to do – sail. So we’re stranded here, the Hog and I, our destiny to remain stuck in the Monksford mud.’

  ‘You could take a hacksaw to her.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that. It would hurt too much,’ said Jemma.

  ‘But she would be able to fulfil her destiny.’

  ‘Don’t spin me that “cruel to be kind” line. The Hog stays here, and so do I.’ She searched his brown eyes. ‘Josh, stay too . . .’

  Scene Five

  ‘WE’RE WAITING FOR ALISTAIR.’ RUTH SAT ON ELIZA’S BED AND CHECKED HER watch. He was late as usual, and as usual she would forgive him. It was at times like these that she didn’t like Alistair very much. He was like the tissue in the pocket of the coloured wash of life, deeply irritating and impossible to get rid of. She might not like him, but deep down, and very much against her will, she knew she loved him.

  Josh and Jemma had disappeared, she presumed, to see Richard. Ruth sat twiddling her thumbs, then deciding that her thumbs could be far more usefully employed, she searched for a needle and thread then sat down to sew on buttons.

  She promised herself that she would see Richard today. Later, this very evening. While she was here in the hospital. She would definitely do it today. She made herself promise. Although she was busy, there was no excuse for neglecting her pastoral duties. She would force herself to like Richard, even though she would rather see Jemma with Josh.

  Eliza had nodded off, her face almost as pale as her pillow. When she was chatting and laughing and working, it was easy to forget just how sick she was. Mrs Williams and Mrs Amos had scuttled home in time for the six o’clock news.

  Ruth sat in the silence and closed her eyes. It would take a miracle for the mystery plays to finally come together. Again, her thoughts travelled to another time, another place. She saw a man in the blue Houppelande coat standing at the first station, Shepherd’s Cross, near the Black Bull at the end of the High Street.

  ‘Master Thomas Barker, make haste! It is near sunup.’

  Guildsmen scuttled around their waggons, making their final preparations. A queue of waggons lined up behind the Barkers Guild. The Plasterers, Cardmakers, and Fullers, and so on until the Mercers and their final judgement. A scuffle broke out between some Vintners and Ironmongers, who accused them of stealing from their waggon.

  ‘Ah, dog! The devil drown thee!’

  ‘I care not for your waggon or the players!’

  The man in blue strode towards them. ‘Sires, be merry. Wit you not that this is a Holy day? Calm yourselves, I pray you. Be about your business and grieve me no more.’

  With a flourish, a fine horse galloped across the dusty ground, sending soil flying with its hooves. His fine attire marked the rider out as a Goldsmith, one of the wealthiest guilds.

  ‘Good day, Master.’ The man in blue removed his hat and made a low bow. He took the reins and led him to the waggon where Herod and the Magi were passing round a flagon of ale and a piece of bread.

  Crowds were already gathering. Farm workers, children, women in homespun clothes, merchants in fine embroidered tunics, and chaperons, their ladies in cotehardies and elaborate headdresses.

  She heard them gasp as Lucifer fell, and hiss as Satan tempted Eve.
They wept with Abraham as he prepared to sacrifice his only son and cheered Moses as he begged Pharaoh to let the Israelites go.

  God’s story played out before their eyes.

  The spectators stood still and let the pageant wind its way through old Monksford, stopping to perform at the appointed stations.

  A knock on the door brought her back from her reverie. But her thoughts remained caught in the wonder of the pageant.

  For people whose only contact with the sacred was through robed priests and Latin liturgy, this lively, funny and very human portrayal of Bible stories must have been utterly overwhelming. She hoped that the modern equivalent of the medieval audience, spoiled rotten with television, Hollywood, and the Internet, would be equally overwhelmed.

  Another knock. This time louder. Ruth blinked as Alistair’s craggy face appeared around the doorframe and he crept into the room.

  ‘You’re late,’ Ruth whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed with no sign of remorse. ‘I didn’t have my car. It’s being valeted.’

  Ruth prickled. ‘You’ve left me hanging around here for nearly an hour.’

  ‘I got held up. Council business.’

  ‘As if I haven’t got anything better to do.’

  ‘Perhaps you should have gone and done it.’

  ‘What?’ She was still half in a dream.

  ‘Whatever better things you have to do.’

  This was not the time to play games. ‘That would look good; I disappear and you creep into an old lady’s sickroom and start taking your clothes off!’

  ‘Shhhh, that journalist will hear! I’ll be spread over the front pages. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we?’ He took a step towards her. ‘Ruth,’ he cupped her cheek in his hand, ‘I’ve missed you.’

  She brushed his hand away and side-stepped his advance. Eliza Feldman stirred in her sleep. Ruth bustled around the bed and hoisted up a carrier bag. She struggled to make her voice sound normal.

  ‘Um . . . the costume’s in this bag. You can use that bathroom. Just make sure the tunic fits.’ She thrust the bag to him across the bed. Eliza sat up and yawned.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know I had another visitor. You must be Alistair.’ She looked him up and down as if trying to decide if she liked what she saw. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’

  He smiled half-heartedly, put his hand in the bag, and pulled out a dark brown long-sleeved coat, a light brown hat with a long plume-like piece, and a leather belt. Last to come out were the boots. He glanced at Jemma’s dress on the bed. ‘Why do you ladies get to wear all the bright colours? Don’t forget, we’re peacocks at heart.’

  ‘Do you need help with the chaperon?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘Chaperon?’

  ‘The hat that looks like a dead chicken.’

  He disappeared into the bathroom to change. Peacocks, indeed! Ruth had intended to spend the duration of the play alongside the rank and file of Monksford, dressed as a medieval peasant.

  Alistair emerged in his tunic and chaperon, which did indeed look like a dead chicken, holding a cloth moneybag – Judas’s purse. The thought made Ruth shudder. Alistair gave his imaginary moustache a twirl. In costume, he looked every inch a villain.

  ‘Very . . . dapper.’ Ruth said.

  ‘Oy! You do look pernicious, Mr Fry. Do the face,’ Eliza said.

  Alistair gave a little sneer. This wasn’t how Ruth had imagined Judas. This parody, this pantomime villain would have fooled no one.

  ‘No, Alistair. The whole point of Judas was that he didn’t look like a bad guy. He was plausible. Right up to the moment of betrayal, they would have had full confidence in him. The disciples trusted him with their money; he was their treasurer. They thought he was one of them – honest, God fearing, and genuine.’

  ‘I know.’ Alistair waggled his eyebrows.

  ‘Alistair, I’m serious. I don’t want you hamming it up.’

  ‘Would I?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘I just don’t know.’

  ‘He’ll be just fine. If we can boo and hiss at King Herod, why can’t we do the same to him?’ Eliza said.

  ‘Ruth, you know I would never do anything to thwart your plays. It was just my little joke. I’m sorry if I upset you. You do trust me, don’t you?’ He looked pleadingly at her. ‘Friends?’

  ‘Get changed, Alistair. I’ve got to go now. You can sort out any alterations with Eliza.’ She gave Eliza a peck on the cheek. ‘You’ll be all right, won’t you? I promised to see someone in another part of the hospital. I’ll call in again before I go home.’

  ‘Ruth, wait,’ Alistair called. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  She sighed as he seized his clothes and rushed into the bathroom to change.

  Eliza settled into her pillows. ‘Are you going to see that young friend of Jemma’s? The one that was in the coma?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ruth said quietly, ‘but I’m not sure I particularly want Alistair tagging along. I don’t know what’s got into him lately.’

  ‘You’d look good together, Ruth. It’s a pity he’s married.’

  For the time being. Whatever happened, she desperately wanted to remain friends. She would just have to be careful. She shook her head. ‘I don’t think that would – ’

  Alistair appeared, panting slightly. ‘Ready?’

  Ruth said her goodbyes again and started up the stairs, Alistair following like a puppy.

  ‘What’s wrong with the lift?’

  ‘Exercise,’ Ruth said. They reached the fifth floor and Ruth paused to catch her breath.

  ‘Do you want to wait here?’

  ‘Why, are you going to do something confidential and “vicary”?’

  ‘No, not at all. Just paying a visit on a young man who is recovering from a very nasty injury.’

  ‘Do you mind then?’

  ‘It doesn’t bother me, but I’d better check that he doesn’t.’

  Ruth knocked and went in. Josh and Richard were playing chess, Josh on a plastic chair and Richard fully dressed but sprawled on the bed. Jemma sat near the window, pretending to read a magazine. She flipped the pages noisily.

  ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Josh said. Jemma and Richard exchanged glances.

  ‘I have a friend with me.’

  ‘The more the merrier!’ Jemma said.

  Ruth leaned out and beckoned to Alistair. He entered like a man at a job interview. He smiled and acknowledged the others in the room. Jemma looked away. She slung her magazine back on the pile on her way to the door. ‘Sorry to break up the party, I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’

  She kissed Richard on the cheek and said a perfunctory goodbye to Ruth and Alistair. She ignored Josh, who didn’t look up when she let the door slam shut.

  ‘Richard,’ Josh said, ‘this is Ruth, the vicar who’s been praying for you. She’s producing the mystery plays.’

  Richard held out his hand, and Ruth shook it warmly. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Getting better, thanks.’ Richard swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  ‘And this is Alistair. He’s in the plays too.’

  The smile froze on Richard’s face. His eyebrows lowered. Alistair took out his handkerchief and mopped at his palms. He held his hand out. Richard didn’t take it.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Ruth.

  ‘I thought . . .’ began Richard.

  ‘Do you know each other?’ Ruth looked from one to the other.

  ‘No,’ Alistair said.

  ‘It’s you.’ Richard pointed at Alistair, his eyes wild. ‘It is. It’s you!’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Alistair backed away. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘You! It’s all your fault!’ Richard’s face reddened and the veins in his neck protruded like cables. ‘You did this to me!’ he spat.

  ‘This is ridiculous; I’ve never seen him before.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Ru
th said. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘I don’t know how you thought you’d get away with it.’ Richard elbowed Josh in the stomach and staggered towards Alistair.

  Alistair looked astounded. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  Josh gripped Richard by the upper arms as he lunged again towards Alistair, who took a step backwards, nearly tripping over a chair.

  ‘What is going on?’ Ruth said.

  ‘I think you’d better leave,’ said Josh.

  ‘Did you think you’d get away with this? Did you think I wouldn’t remember?’ Richard struggled to release Josh’s grip.

  ‘You must have mistaken me for someone else,’ protested Alistair.

  ‘Get a doctor!’ Ruth flung the door open and pushed Alistair backwards towards the open doorway.

  ‘You tried to kill me!’ Richard screamed as Alistair stumbled into the corridor. ‘You tried to kill me!’

  Scene Six

  JEMMA BLINKED TWICE, RUBBED HER EYES, THEN TRIED TO GET THE SCREEN back into focus. It was only ten to eleven. Not even coffee time. She was tired. Tired from rehearsing the mystery plays, tired from visiting Richard, tired from coming to terms with her relationship, or lack of, with Josh, and here at work her fatigue had just caught up with her. Had she been at home, she could have curled up on her bed for a ten minute power nap. That might have been enough to see her through, allowed her to finish the article, but today she had felt obliged to show her face in the office. Last Friday Mohan had asked for a photograph of her. She had puzzled for a while, wondering if he needed it for the editorial page, eventually asking why.

  ‘So I can remember what you look like!’

  It took her several minutes to work out what he meant. Even his witty repartee was completely lost in her tired brain. There was no doubt her work was suffering. When she was this close to exhaustion, her ability to express herself was severely compromised. Words became curt and functional. They fulfilled their purpose of conveying meaning at some primitive level, but it was as if her articles were built of breeze-blocks – functional but aesthetically unpleasant. Writers need to play with words – to experiment with their shape, sound, and effect. A word can trigger associations and a seemingly innocent word can become taboo overnight. She remembered writing a piece one Christmas Eve where she had described a young band as a ‘Tsunami of Talent.’ She loved the alliteration, the exotic, overwhelming sound of the word. She had even looked it up in the dictionary to check the spelling. When she returned to work after Christmas, she had to rewrite the piece. Her word, her lovely word, had become synonymous with tragedy, devastation, and death. It had been stolen from her, and she wasn’t sure she would ever get it back.