The Art of Standing Still Read online

  Jemma looked up and down the towpath. She wasn’t surprised to find there was no sign of the stranger from last night.

  ‘Morning!’ Jemma called to Ray.

  He answered with a wave.

  She ducked back inside the Hog and quickly dressed. Once outside, she walked to the place where she calculated the splash had originated and studied the greenish water. There were no broken twigs, no places of flattened grass. It was a favourite spot for anglers, and she often found their discarded tackle. Even now, a luminous orange-topped float bobbed just out of her reach. The gravel path displayed no footprints, and the mud by the water’s edge had too many prints to identify a single one.

  Besides, she didn’t know what she was looking for. All she had heard was a splash. It could have been a worker returning from night shift, throwing away the egg sandwiches his wife had lovingly made him and he didn’t have the heart to tell her he detested. It could even be, Jemma thought with a touch of cynicism, a jilted lover disposing of their ex’s worldly goods in a fit of pique. Yet her instinct, which she liked to think of as journalist’s intuition, could not accept these rational explanations. What others interpreted as prying, Jemma thought of as a highly evolved sense of curiosity.

  She walked along the bank until she reached the Endeavour. ‘Ray, did you hear anything unusual last night?’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Ray. ‘Hang on a minute, I’ll just get my hearing aid. I wasn’t expecting visitors.’

  That answered Jemma’s question. She stayed another quarter of an hour, discussing mooring fees and the cost of heating; then she made her excuses and returned to the Hog to get ready for work. She would have to put her curiosity on hold, at least for now. This time her assignment was to report on an open day at the Animal Sanctuary. It seemed Mohan was determined to mire her completely in the agricultural life.

  This time Jemma wore Wellington boots.

  Scene Four

  RUTH SNEAKED OUT HER NOVEL, A ROMANCE – A WONDERFUL ANTIDOTE TO THE intensity of the mystery plays – and found the right page. She opened it, bending it back on its spine so Elsinor Heartman’s name was less obvious and the couple in a passionate clinch on the front was not quite so visible. Ruth glanced up to see if anyone had come in to view the Harvest decorations, wondering if, for appearance’s sake, she would rather be discovered reading the Bible or kneeling in prayer. Ruth hesitated for a moment then returned to Love’s Passionate Embrace. If any of her parishioners had a problem with that, they would have to take it up with Elsinor Heartman!

  The church seemed to glow in the late September sun. A shaft of sunlight stabbed through a break in the clouds and shattered the stained glass into fragments of light that gilded the nave. The brass on the altar glinted for all it was worth, as if it had a long cherished ambition to be mistaken for gold. The varnished wheat-sheaf loaf glowed golden too. Then the sunlight was gone. A grainy dullness returned to St Sebastian’s, and Ruth heard the rain fall once again on the slate roof and wondered if she should check for any new leaks.

  She looked around the church. She would have liked it to stand open all year, but the threat of theft and vandalism restricted it to special occasions – Christmas, Easter, and Harvest – and then someone was required to be on duty, to welcome visitors and maintain security. This time that someone was her. To be honest, she enjoyed the peace and quiet, and it afforded her the opportunity to do something very rare and precious in her busy life, time to sit and read. Bored with her novel, she closed it and walked around the chancel, admiring the adornments. The large pumpkin; the orange, yellow, and white chrysanthemums, their heads as big and round as footballs; the produce, some homegrown, some shop-bought, crowding the altar steps and every ledge and windowsill; the swathes of hop-bines – all boasted of God’s abundance to Monksford. Ruth’s heart swelled with pride at the generosity of the people of the town. Soon the church would be in a position to give a gift back to the community – the gift of a play.

  There was a clatter outside, and Ruth guiltily tucked her book under a parish magazine that lay next to her on the pew. The door swung open, and three women, all with tight grey perms all but hidden under plastic rain hats entered. They shook their umbrellas over the rush matting. Ruth hurried over to them, holding the umbrella stand.

  ‘Oooh, thank you, dear. It’s raining cats . . .’

  ‘ . . . and dogs . . . out there.’

  Ruth nodded her head as the women spoke, almost in unison, two of them finishing off the phrase for the other one.

  ‘Welcome to St Seb’s, ladies.’ She swept her arm in an extravagant gesture before launching into her tour-guide speech. ‘Extensively rebuilt in the nineteenth century following a fire, there has been a place of Christian worship on this site since Norman times . . .’

  She started near the door at the stone font, then led them up the aisle.

  ‘These brasses commemorate those who died in the First World War, and this window, showing the raising of Jairus’s daughter, was a bequest from the Freeman family.’

  She pointed out the oak lectern, carved as a giant eagle, its wings extended, supporting the Bible, which was open to 2 Corinthians, chapter 9. The shorter of the old women stood on the platform. ‘Oh, look at this! “Each man should give what he has decided in his heart to give, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a . . .” ’

  ‘ “ . . . cheerful giver.” ’ The other ladies chimed. All three giggled, and Ruth guided them past the box that bore the legend ‘St Sebastian’s Church. Please give generously to the parish fund.’ Ruth was disappointed to note that the Bible passage had no effect. The ladies listened and nodded appreciatively at Ruth’s commentary. They paused near the harvest produce.

  ‘Ooh, aren’t there some lovely . . . ,’ said one.

  ‘. . . gifts,’ finished the other two.

  ‘And the flowers! Don’t they look . . .’

  ‘. . . beautiful.’

  Ruth conducted them up the aisle, towards the chancel arch, then back to the font near the door. She stood in full view of the donations box, shook each of them warmly by the hand, and invited them to next week’s service. Short of wrenching the box from the wall and rattling it in their faces, Ruth didn’t know what else to do to promote the restoration fund. They ignored her intimations and reclaimed their umbrellas.

  ‘We knew your mother you know. Isn’t it a . . .’

  ‘. . . pity.’

  ‘And you’re a such a lovely girl, isn’t she a lovely . . .’

  ‘. . . girl.’

  Ruth sat down again and tried to resume her reading, but her thoughts kept drifting towards Alistair Fry. They had a tendency to do that too often these days. Was she starting to develop some kind of feelings for him? A crush?

  A middle-aged vicar and a married man – ludicrous. She offered the ridiculous thought to God, then felt ridiculous for even having thought it.

  She had seen those headlines – ‘Vicar Runs Off with Sunday School Teacher.’ And she had joined in the collective tutting and head shaking. Funny that there never seems to be headlines screaming, ‘Vicar Stays with Spouse of Twenty Years’ or even ‘Vicar Preaches Fantastic Sermon.’

  She prayed a little more, then tried to analyse her feelings. Was it a physical attraction? There was no denying he was a handsome man, in a rugged sort of way. But no, she wrinkled her brow. Then it hit her. It was because he took notice of her. He made her feel she mattered.

  She had spent her whole life being invisible – the good student, the loving, dutiful daughter, the supportive friend, the vicar. Sometimes she felt like running away, just disappearing, and she wondered just how long it would take anyone to realise she was gone. A few hours? Two days? Several months? Would they ever notice?

  In the weeks after her mother had died, she felt like a grey ghost moving around her house and parish. She had refused to take time off deciding, against the advice of the Bishop, it would be better if she kept busy. In truth, she remembered very littl
e of those weeks. It was as if she had died, not her mother, and just her essence, cold and insubstantial like a cobweb, remained.

  People had shown their concern in a polite and distant way, bringing flowers and cards, asking how she was coping, but there was no one to hold her when she sat weeping in the night.

  Meeting Alistair, having him offer to walk her to her car, taking an interest in the play, made her feel special. Ruth knew that romance was out of the question, but what about friendship? More than anything else, Ruth wanted him to be her friend. She picked up her book again. Didn’t the picture of the hero on the front look just a little like Alistair?

  A blast echoed around the church like machine-gun fire. Ruth’s first instinct was to drop to the floor. Before she could move, another burst rattled the stained glass of the beatitudes window. Why would anyone with a machine gun attack the church?

  Then anger took over. She threw down her book and dashed to the door. It flew open, almost knocking her off her feet. A group of six teenage boys barged past her into the church.

  ‘Excuse me, you can’t come in here.’ Ruth’s indignant voice echoed off the cold stone.

  ‘Yes, we can. It says so on the notice outside. “All welcome”.’

  She should have considered the wording more carefully, perhaps settling on something more pointed such as: ‘All except teenage thugs and batty old ladies welcome.’ Unfortunately, as a parish church, exclusivity was not an option. The boys had split up, one was rifling through the stack of hymnbooks, one was in the pulpit shouting out a mock sermon, two were lounging in the pews, one had vaulted over the communion rail and was behind the altar, and still another looked as if he was trying to eat the flower arrangement. Ruth shook from a combination of rage and fear.

  ‘Would you leave now, please!’ Her voice sounded weak and shrill. The lad in the pulpit mimicked her. None of the boys moved from their stations.

  The boys in the pews had taken out cigarettes and were about to light up. Ruth took a deep breath, reminding herself not to take it personally. After all, they didn’t understand what they were doing. They meant no real harm. She lowered her voice and gripped the pew end tightly, to stop shaking.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, more forcefully. ‘I’m afraid you can’t smoke in here.’

  ‘Why not?’ The boy in the grey hooded sweatshirt and navy baseball cap squinted up at her, lighter in hand.

  ‘This is the house of God,’ as if that would mean anything to these boys. ‘And you’re not allowed to smoke in here.’

  ‘Says who?’ The boy was obviously not going to take notice of Ruth.

  ‘Says the vicar, and that’s me.’

  The boy in the pew next to him, wearing a red hooded sweatshirt and a white baseball cap, swore at her. He spat out the expletive with such venom that Ruth, who considered herself broadminded and not easily offended, had to blush.

  There was a crash. The boy at the altar, navy hooded sweatshirt, black cap, had knocked over one of the large brass candlesticks. She pictured the dent and groaned quietly.

  ‘Can you come away from there, please?’

  ‘I didn’t do nothing,’ the boy said.

  The boys in the pew had lit their cigarettes and were flicking ash onto the Victorian tiled floor.

  The boy that had been in the pulpit was now sitting in the font. He laughed. ‘How do you flush it?’

  Ruth’s anger was now at boiling point. She fumbled in her pocket to find her mobile phone. This was outrageous; they were defiling God’s house – no, worse than that – they were ridiculing everything she believed in. She started to dial 999. Her fingers hovered over the last digit. They were mocking God and doing it very convincingly.

  When Jesus stood before Pilate the crowds mocked him. As she had translated those words for the play, she wondered how it was possible to show such utter contempt towards another human being, let alone towards the Son of God. Hearing similar words as they spewed from their lips, here in the church, shook her to the core.

  She looked into the boys’ faces, so young but already so much hatred in their eyes. She frowned. There was something familiar about them.

  She hesitated, studying them more closely. Then it came to her. They had all attended the local primary school where she had regularly spoken at assembly.

  The one at the altar, the ginger-haired one, was Danny Milner. The one who had sat in the font was Andrew Coates. She didn’t remember the names of the two boys smoking in the pews, but the one who was carefully dismantling the flower arrangement next to the vestry was Ryan Martin. They had all been cheeky, lively, freckle-faced little boys. Ryan had played Joseph one year in the school nativity play. They didn’t look sweet now.

  Ryan’s father had committed suicide five years ago. Ruth led the funeral ser vice. Little Ryan had looked so lost among the mourners, his big eyes frightened and confused, not sure if he was allowed to cry. Now he was no more than a vandal, probably with several petty crimes behind him and a future in prison.

  She had to intervene. She tucked the phone in her pocket and walked over to him.

  ‘Hello, Ryan,’ she said.

  Ryan dropped the dahlia he had plucked from the arrangement. ‘H-how did you know my name?’

  ‘I don’t know if you remember me; I’m Reverend Wells. I used to come to your school.’

  Ryan shrugged, then sidled towards the pair of smokers. Safety in numbers, she thought, as she followed him.

  ‘How’s your mum now, Ryan?’

  He spun round, stung by the question. ‘Fine,’ he said a little too quickly.

  ‘I was worried about her, you know. Well, I was concerned about all of you.’ Dirty tricks, but all of it was true, and her worries were justified.

  Ryan’s mates started sniggering.

  ‘Shut up!’ He punched them both. For a moment, Ruth feared that a full-scale fight was going to break out.

  ‘I was especially worried about you, Ryan. I wondered how you would cope after your dad . . .’ If Ryan could have become liquid and oozed off the pew, his expression said he would have. ‘You and your mum would both be welcomed in church at any time – ’ She was interrupted by a crash. The boy at the altar had knocked over the side table. She couldn’t tell if it was accidental or deliberate, although she suspected the latter.

  ‘You know we’ve had a lot of problems with vandalism at this church.’

  ‘It wasn’t us! We never done nothing!’ Ryan said.

  ‘I didn’t say it was.’ A plan flew into her mind. She smiled and shot a prayer of thanksgiving heavenward. ‘What do you think about Jesus?’

  The boys sniggered again.

  ‘No, I’m really interested,’ she said. One of the boys gave an answer she pretended not to hear.

  ‘He was that dude in the Bible,’ Danny Milner said. Despite appearances, perhaps he had been awake during her assemblies.

  Ruth resisted the urge to hit them with the whole gospel. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘And some of the stuff he did was pretty amazing, even by today’s standards.’

  The boys, sensing a sermon coming on, started to migrate towards the door.

  ‘Wait, boys,’ she called.

  That wasn’t part of her plan. Ten minutes ago, she would have given anything to rid the church of them. Now, more than anything, she needed them to stay. She went towards the door and stood blocking the way.

  ‘Hang on. I don’t want you to go yet. How would you like to be in a play?’ The boys couldn’t have moved faster if she had shouted, ‘Fire!’

  Ruth knew the phrase ‘a volunteer is worth more than ten pressed men’, but she had made up her mind.

  ‘Listen, we need people to act in our play. I want people to be in the crowd. All you have to do is shout and – ’

  The boys streamed out of the door and through the graveyard, heading for the lych gate.

  ‘I’ll pay you!’ Ruth yelled, hoping they wouldn’t notice the note of desperation in her voice.

  Two
of the boys carried on, but Andrew, Ryan, Danny, and one of the smokers, stopped and turned round.

  ‘How much?’ asked Danny.

  ‘Five pounds each.’

  They laughed and carried on walking.

  ‘Ten,’ she called. They didn’t turn round. ‘Fifteen quid each – my final offer.’ She would worry about getting the ninety pounds later.

  Suddenly she had their interest.

  ‘And we don’t have to do none of that holy stuff, right?’ Ryan said.

  ‘Right.’ Though Ruth had no idea what that ‘holy stuff’ was. ‘I’ll give you a fiver each if you turn up at the auditions on Tuesday and the other ten when the show’s finished.’ The boys nodded and swaggered off through the lych gate, probably calculating how many cigarettes they could buy with their earnings.

  She breathed a deep sigh and put her hand against her chest. Her heart was beating a samba rhythm. She had done it. Not only had she got the boys to leave the church without calling the police, she had drummed up an angry mob (well, a tiny percentage of an angry mob). She went back into the church, swept up the cigarette ash, picked up the brass candlestick that miraculously was not dented, and straightened the altar cloth ready for the next onslaught of visitors.

  The mob was sorted. Now the only problem was the rest of the cast.

  RUTH GLANCED LEFT AND RIGHT, THEN HURRIED ACROSS THE HIGH STREET, running the last few yards as a delivery van swept past her. She unfurled the bundle of posters under her arm and pulled one out: ‘Monksford Mystery Plays – Come and Join In.’

  She needed as much publicity as possible for the auditions. She felt sure that Ronnie Mardle was already grooming favoured members of Monksford Operatic and Dramatic Society, MOADS for short, and was desperate for free rein. She withdrew the key and opened the glass-panelled doors on the village notice board. She looked over her shoulder, then unpinned the notice for the Women’s Institute talk entitled ‘Hang Gliding for the Over Seventies’ and replaced it with her poster.

  ‘What’s that, then?’

  Ruth turned, startled, to see an elderly man wearing a flat tweed cap, a gabardine raincoat, and enormous spectacles standing behind her.