The Art of Standing Still Read online

  ‘Good morning,’ she called cheerily as Mohan passed her desk. He headed towards his office without replying. Fortunately she had a plan. She reapplied her lipstick, undid another button on her blouse, poured a cup of freshly perked coffee, and knocked on Mohan Dattani’s office door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Jemma leant over Mohan’s desk and placed the mug of coffee in front of him.

  ‘Thanks.’ He looked surprised.

  ‘I was making one, so I thought . . .’

  ‘Oh, Jemma – ’ Mohan coughed and tapped his own shirt ‘– your, um . . . button.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Jemma said. ‘Must put a stitch in that buttonhole. Wouldn’t want to draw attention to myself like that.’ She buttoned her blouse up to her neck and sat defiantly in the seat opposite.

  Before she could speak, he jumped in.

  ‘Jemma, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.’

  ‘Yes, I was hoping I could catch up with you too.’ This was her chance.

  ‘What did you want to see me about?’

  ‘It can wait. You fire away,’ Jemma said.

  ‘I’ve been watching your work recently . . .’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘. . . and I can’t help noticing you’re getting a little . . . stale.’

  She frowned. This wasn’t what she had expected to hear at all. ‘Stale? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, take your report on Bram Griffin’s charity event in yesterday’s paper. It seemed a little . . .’ he looked at the ceiling, searching for the right adjective.

  ‘Scatological,’ suggested Jemma, thinking of the ingrained stains on her boots.

  ‘ . . . lacklustre,’ said Mohan.

  ‘It was a cow-pat throwing contest, not a Royal Wedding,’ she said. ‘What did you expect me to say? I got all the facts down, didn’t I?’

  His expression was one of disappointment mixed with pity, like a teacher explaining to a child the importance of bringing the correct equipment to a geometry lesson.

  ‘Did you even turn up at the event?’

  ‘Of course I did!’ Jemma’s face burned with indignation. She had the stains on her boots to prove it.

  ‘I honestly couldn’t tell from your article. It wasn’t evocative. There was no atmosphere.’

  ‘I spent most of my time trying not to tread in the “atmosphere”.’

  Jemma’s little joke fell flat. Flat as a cow pat.

  ‘You don’t believe me do you?’

  The coffee was getting cold.

  ‘Believe you . . . ?’ He gave a little laugh.

  Jemma was regretting the coffee but not as much as she was regretting entering Mohan’s office in the first place. If she had been of a more delicate disposition, she would have been crumbling by now.

  ‘I’m just saying I need more from you. I care about your career, Jemma, but I care more about producing something that people want to read. They want someone who can hear the heartbeat of the community and reflect that on eighty black-and-white pages.’ He paused, Jemma suspected, for dramatic effect. ‘To that end I have a little plan . . .’

  ‘Just get to the point, please, Mohan.’ She didn’t care if her irritation was starting to show. She had already shelved the idea of asking about Richard’s job.

  ‘Look at this.’ He pushed a piece of paper across the desk. It was a press release, the kind that usually hastens its way straight into the wastepaper bin. Jemma scanned down the page.

  ‘ “Medieval mystery play” . . . “community theatre” . . . “great opportunity”.’ She handed the letter back to Mohan. ‘Lovely, but what does it have to do with me?’

  ‘Well, they’ve updated this old religious play they found. It’s of great historic and local significance, a link straight back to medieval Monksford.’ Jemma wondered if he had spent a previous life writing guidebooks for tourists. ‘And they’re auditioning actors to play the parts of the Bible people . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I read that bit.’ Jemma folded her arms and sat back in the chair.

  ‘Well, I thought you could take one of the parts then write about it for the paper.’

  ‘A weekly column, you mean?’

  There was a gardening column, a local events column, and a car repair column, each written by an ex-Fleet Street hack well beyond the age for retirement. Ten minutes ago Jemma was one step closer to the nationals, now she was a step nearer the scrap heap.

  ‘What do you say? The readers would love it.’ Mohan spread out his hands, smiling serenely.

  ‘I think it’s a terrible idea!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I came here to be a reporter. All I’ve had so far is grotty supermarket openings, road protests, horrible deaths, boring council meetings – oh, and the highlight, a cow-pat throwing contest, of all things.’

  ‘Jemma, this is Monksford, not downtown Miami. This is what we do here, and these mystery plays are important. If you find the whole thing so tedious, might I suggest that you are in the wrong job? And judging by yesterday’s article, perhaps you feel the same way?’

  ‘No!’ protested Jemma, seeing ‘Fleet Street’ and all her dreams slipping through her fingers like Swarfega.

  ‘Then you’ll go to the audition.’

  ‘Are you asking me or telling me?’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  Jemma took a deep breath. ‘No way! Absolutely no way.’

  He leaned forward, placing both hands on the desk. ‘All right then, I’m telling you. Jemma, you are to audition for a part, get the part, act in the play, and write about your experience. You did drama as part of your English degree, or so it says on your application form.’

  ‘Mohan, this is unfair. You can’t force me to do this.’

  ‘Of course I can’t, but . . .’ He paused. ‘I’m suggesting that you do it. It would be good for the community, good for the paper, which is good for me and good for you. Everyone benefits.’

  Mohan rested his elbows on the desk, linked his fingers, and waited for Jemma’s response. If there had been a white cat in the room, he would have been stroking it.

  ‘How would it be good for me?’ Jemma asked.

  ‘It would indicate that you might be ready to start thinking about a promotion.’

  ‘This is blackmail!’

  ‘No, no! You should know better than that, Jemma. Call yourself a journalist? You must use words accurately. Blackmail involves money changing hands. This is not blackmail!’ He gave a little snorting laugh. ‘Technically this is extortion – “obtaining money or favours by intimidation, violence, or misuse of authority”.’

  Jemma opened her mouth, then closed it again. She wanted to flounce out of the room, slam the door, and start throwing things, but a monumental sulk might not be the approved method of handling this sort of employment dispute. She could always phone the union later.

  ‘Okay, what you’re saying is that I’ve got to do this if I want the senior reporter’s job?’

  ‘Put it this way: you need to demonstrate to me that you are ready for the added responsibility, and this would be a good way to do it.’

  ‘What if I audition and don’t get the part?’

  ‘Then I know you’re not trying very hard.’

  ‘You’ve made up your mind about this, haven’t you?’

  ‘The contact number is at the bottom.’ He pushed the paper over to Jemma again.

  She picked up the letter, and with a look that said everything, she stood and walked out.

  ‘HOW CAN HE DO THAT?’ JEMMA THUMPED HER FISTS ON THE TABLE.

  ‘Steady. He’s your boss, he is supposed to be able to tell you what to do.’ Lou calmly drained the last of her wine. ‘Besides, getting involved in the mystery play would be good for you. Get you out, help you to meet people.’

  ‘You make it sound as if I’m in need of therapy! I meet loads of people at work, and I’m hardly ever in the office. How much more gregarious can I be?’

&n
bsp; ‘I don’t mean meet “people”; I mean meet people, male people.’

  ‘Ever the matchmaker. Look, I couldn’t possibly think about anyone else at the moment. Besides I’m enjoying being young, free, and single.’ Jemma raised her glass. ‘Here’s to spinsterhood.’

  They clinked glasses.

  ‘Except I’m not free, am I? I’m stuck doing this play because Mohan says so. That is beyond the call of duty.’

  ‘Just smile sweetly, do the job . . . then clobber him with your overtime claim.’

  ‘Excellent idea, with just one drawback,’ said Jemma.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘They don’t pay overtime.’

  ‘In that case, I’d better get the next round, you impoverished young hack, you.’

  ‘Just another cola, please,’ said Jemma. ‘I’m driving.’

  Lou looked heavenward and headed over to the bar with its mock-Tudor beams and horse brasses. The idea of getting plastered appealed to Jemma, but she really was driving, and she had work in the morning, and the feeling of sleeping on a boat, with the movement of the water was not a pleasant one if you were intoxicated. She had learnt that from experience.

  The Fruiterer’s Arms wasn’t the most fashionable pub in Monksford, but it was friendly, did a good evening meal for under a fiver, and they had an admirable selection of real ales, which Richard liked . . . Jemma felt the slap of realisation. They had only come here at Lou’s suggestion. They could have gone to any pub in the area. How, then, had they ended up here with memories as deeply ingrained as the smoke on the embossed ceiling? She wanted to run. Was it impossible to go anywhere without being reminded of Richard? When he first left, she thought of him constantly so the pain was always with her, but now she would go minutes, even hours without thinking about him, then suddenly – wallop! Her eyes stung, but she couldn’t blame it solely on the farmer sitting behind her, his pungent coat, and equally pungent pipe tobacco.

  Lou returned with the drinks. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Feeling a bit claustrophobic, that’s all. I think I’ll go home.’

  Lou laid her hand on Jemma’s arm. ‘I brought you here to cheer you up, and you’re not leaving until I do.’

  They were in for a long haul then.

  THE REFLECTIONS OF THE LIGHTS ALONG THE RIVERBANK QUIVERED SLIGHTLY as a cool breeze stirred the water. Jemma pulled up the handbrake and clicked the security lock shut on her steering wheel. She opened the boot and took out the torch she always carried, then crossed the towpath to where the Ebony Hog was moored. The river seemed calm and quiet, and there was no sign of anyone on the towpath. She heard a rustle in a nearby elder tree. She held her breath. A blackbird flew out, squawking, and she exhaled with relief.

  The full moon was veiled in misty cloud. She glanced over to the twinkling rows of amber streetlamps in Monksford. She could see the two streams of lights: one red, receding, and one white, advancing along the bypass; and in the distance, the industrial estate with its state-of-the-art meat packing factory, illuminated like a football stadium. It was quiet, now, by the river, except for the rumble of traffic along the bypass and the water gently lapping on the boats’ hulls.

  She stopped and took a deep breath; the autumn smell of bonfires hung in the air, the outrider signalling winter’s imminent arrival. She would need to buy extra gas to keep the central heating running through the winter. Shining the torch, she carefully climbed up the ramp and onto the deck. She fumbled for her keys and unfastened the padlock. Shutting the door behind her, she sighed with relief. She was home.

  Jemma put on the kettle for tea, found the letter about the auditions, and opened her laptop. She typed ‘Mary Magdalene’ into the search engine. Her drama teacher had always encouraged her to research the character she would be portraying. She needed to get inside Mary Magdalene’s head if she was going to play her.

  The Internet connection was running slow. She sat back with a sigh, thinking she could have waited until she got to work tomorrow. But like a Boy Scout she wanted to be prepared even though last month her phone bill came to nearly as much as her mooring fees.

  ‘Bingo!’

  There was certainly no shortage of information about Mary Magdalene on the Internet, and before long Jemma learnt that Mary was one of Jesus’ most significant female followers and that he had cast seven demons out of her. She was one of the women who witnessed his crucifixion and saw him laid in the tomb. Mary was the first one to witness his resurrection.

  ‘So, Mary Magdalene, what were you really like?’ she whispered.

  Jemma glanced at her watch. The clock at St Sebastian’s concurred by striking midnight. Jemma stood up and closed her notepad. At the end of nearly an hour, she knew less about Mary than when she started.

  Was she the woman caught in adultery? Some sources claimed so, but there was no proof. Had Mary been a prostitute, and if so, why was she hanging around with this holy man? And why had he bothered to spend time with her? Surely the Son of God would have no time for women of that sort. What about his reputation? And that was assuming their relationship was purely platonic. She also found a lot of other material from various groups that claimed that Jesus had married Mary, fathered her children, and that they had come to live in Europe. But as far as Jemma could work out, that information wasn’t corroborated.

  As for the seven demons . . .

  Jemma shut down the Internet connection and folded the screen on her laptop. She started to undress for bed, her thoughts still whirling, grumbling, as she moved the three black bags from the bed onto the floor. She gave each of them a kick for good measure. How dare he clutter her space with his remains? When she had rather unceremoniously dumped his book, spare contact lens case, toothbrush, and shaver, as well as several jackets and jumpers and a pair of trainers, into black bin-bags, she wondered if there was any permanent reminder of their relationship. True, the hot water tap didn’t leak any more, but that was all. Two years of their lives and her single keepsake was a tap washer. The only place he remained was in her mind, and if she had her way, he would soon be evicted from there too. Anger welled up inside her. She couldn’t stand this clutter, the evidence of two wasted years, any longer. She had to get him out, now. Out of her life, out of her boat, and out of her head.

  She couldn’t decide which would be worse: Richard coming to get his things or taking them to his new place herself. The latter was out of the question, as she didn’t even have his address. Part of her really wanted to just take them to the side of the boat and gently tip the contents into the river. Instead, she gathered them up and grabbed the keys. She squeezed the bags through the narrow cabin door and hauled them up onto the deck. The temptation to ditch them overboard resurfaced.

  With the torch under one arm and both hands full, Jemma struggled down the ramp and across the towpath. House clearance in one’s pyjamas in the early hours was an odd sight, she was certain. If someone did step out of the shadows, and she shivered at the thought, it was too dark to witness the deed. She dragged the bags over to where her car was parked and stuffed them into the boot of her hatchback, struggling to get it closed.

  ‘I hope they get stolen,’ she muttered.

  With a shiver, Jemma held the torch out in front of her and followed its unsteady beam back to the river. The dew on the grass soaked into her slippers. She carefully skipped over a muddy patch. A noise behind her in the bushes made her jump.

  ‘A fox,’ she said aloud, just in case it wasn’t.

  Like a child running down a dark corridor from the bathroom, she sprinted up the ramp onto the Ebony Hog. She bolted the door behind her and leapt into her bed, pulling the covers up around her head. For the first time in months, she wished Richard was there. She could snuggle up to him, and he would soothe away her fear.

  Her breathing slowed but her skin prickled, and the volume on her senses seemed to have been tuned to ‘high’.

  ‘A fox,’ she said again, more quietly this time. She h
ad left the rubbish bin on the deck and expected to hear it being overturned at any minute.

  Nothing.

  Then she heard the footsteps. They crunched slightly on the gravely path. Even footsteps, the long stride and flat heels of a man. No particular hurry, but not dawdling either. Perhaps a late dog walker.

  The footsteps were getting closer now. Jemma struggled to swallow her fear.

  She tried to take a deep breath, but her chest seemed full. She tried to exhale, as if she could breathe out this irrational fear. The tightness gripped her chest, and the breath would hardly come.

  The footsteps still approached. Then they halted. Right beside her ear.

  She kept motionless. Perhaps he was stopping to light a cigarette or to get his bearings. She heard him walk back a few paces, towards the stern then back again. Was he waiting for someone . . . or searching for something?

  Finally the footsteps moved on, upstream towards Monksford. She heard the metallic clang as they crossed the bridge. Jemma could breathe again.

  Trembling slightly, she inched her way out of the berth and edged down to the galley. She grabbed the largest and sharpest knife in her collection and, gripping the handle, lay back in bed, listening . . . always listening.

  Then she heard it, a single loud splash, a short distance upriver. Too big to be a pebble and too small to be a body. Her nerves jangled like a wind chime as she strained to hear the faintest sound. Had the man come back to search the river? This time, it didn’t sound like someone searching, but like something being dropped into the river.

  Only silence filled the night. She lay awake for what seemed like hours, listening, grasping the knife.

  JEMMA WOKE WITH A START. HER HAND STILL CLUTCHED THE HANDLE OF THE knife, and the sunlight that streamed through the crack in the curtains glinted on the blade. Her knuckles were stiff and her head ached. She slid the knife back into the drawer, filled the kettle, and put on a jumper. Autumn was definitely on its way. Gingerly she pulled back the bolt on the door and stuck her head outside. The towpath no longer seemed threatening. Raymond Jones, Jemma’s nearest neighbour, was standing on the deck of his boat, the Endeavour, shaving.