The Art of Standing Still Read online

  ‘It’s about the mystery plays. Monksford is reviving its own medieval tradition. They show the creation of the world, Noah’s flood, the story of Christ, and the last judgement.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think it’s right.’ He put his hands on his hips and jutted out his stubbly chin.

  Ruth frowned. ‘What’s not right?’

  ‘Messing with Bible stories. Turning them into a spectacle. Is nothing sacred?’

  Ruth rubbed her hand over her mouth to hide her smirk. ‘These are sacred plays. They’re very old, you know. They date from the thirteen hundreds. The people of Monksford used to perform them on the feast of Corpus Christi. It was before ordinary people had copies of the Bible.’

  ‘How does that work then?’ The old man blinked owlishly.

  ‘Well, actors take the parts of the people in the Bible stories, and instead of reading them, you watch them being acted out.’

  He shook his head again. ‘It’s not right. Have you got a man playing Jesus?’

  ‘We hope to have.’

  The old man turned puce. ‘It’s not right! You can’t have Jesus looking like an ordinary man – he’s the Son of God!’

  ‘The Son of God did look like an ordinary man – as far as we know. “For us and for our salvation he came down from heaven: by the power of the Holy Spirit he became incarnate from the Virgin Mary, and was made man.” There’s no reason to think he looked any different from any other Jewish men at that time.’

  ‘You can’t have Jesus looking like a Jew!’ Bubbles of spittle formed at the corners of the old man’s mouth.

  ‘But Jesus was a Jew!’ Ruth could see she was fighting a losing battle. A small crowd was gathering.

  ‘Well, it isn’t right. It’s blasphemy. It’s idolatry. “Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.” ’

  He was breathing rapidly now, and a vein in his neck pulsed. Ruth worried he would have a heart attack. ‘A judgement will be upon you, mark my words . . . ,’ he spluttered.

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way Mr . . .’

  ‘Giddings.’

  ‘Mr Giddings, we’re sticking very closely to the Bible accounts, so I hope it won’t be blasphemous. And we’re not worshipping the actor playing Jesus, so it has nothing to do with idolatry.’

  ‘Well, it’s just not right!’ Mr Giddings gave a final glance at the poster, shook his head morosely, and shuffled away into the Post Office.

  Ruth sighed and smiled weakly at the onlookers. The auditions were just the first step. The responsibility for the performance weighed heavily upon her. She would delegate the day-to-day tasks to Harlan Westacre and Ronnie Mardle, but it made her uneasy – as if she were selling her children. She wanted the whole production to belong to her and hated having to share it. Once she had opened those ancient texts, a bond had formed. Ruth and the mystery plays had become inseparable.

  She couldn’t deny that Ronnie, the operetta producer, and Harlan, the choir mistress, possessed talents she didn’t. She would just have to grit her teeth and get on with it. Much as she wanted to, she couldn’t do it all alone. One offer of help that was slightly easier to accept was from Alistair. She had just finished arranging a meeting with Ronnie and Harlan a few days before, when the phone rang. His deep voice had soothed her and a thrill shot through her.

  ‘How is it going?’ he had asked.

  ‘Harlan and Ronnie are driving me mad, I can’t find anyone to play God, and I’m two baritones short for the choir; apart from that, everything’s rosy.’

  ‘I can’t sing,’ he had said, ‘and I’m no Laurence Olivier, but I’ll do whatever I can.’

  ‘Well, you’ve already managed to secure a pretty hefty financial contribution from Monksford Town Council. We’re having a prelim inary meeting tomorrow night. We’re desperate for help with admin, and,’ she said, her tone coy, ‘we need a treasurer.’

  ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’

  Ruth smiled. Alistair would be the perfect antidote to Harlan, the black widow, and Ronnie, the human marshmallow. The crowd had drifted away. She gathered her posters and drawing pins and stuffed them in a carrier bag. She took a final look at the poster and headed across the road to the general store.

  Now, to buy some biscuits. Ginger creams or bourbons? Or both?

  DIMITRI WOVE ROUND HER ANKLES, ALMOST TRIPPING HER, AS RUTH TRIED TO elbow the lounge door open. Just as she managed to push the handle down without the cups sliding off the tray or the milk slopping, the door opened, and she almost fell through. Dimitri ran to claim his territory under the radiator. Harlan Westacre tutted impatiently and jumped up to steady the tray.

  ‘Almost lost that lot,’ she said. ‘Here, let me take it.’

  If it had been anyone else, Ruth would have been grateful for the offer, but Harlan had a knack of making Ruth feel uncomfortable, even here in her own home.

  ‘I can manage, thanks,’ she chirped.

  Ruth had read it was possible to tell a false smile from a genuine one because a false one only makes the mouth smile while a real smile lights up the eyes too. As she grinned at Harlan, she fervently hoped Harlan hadn’t read the same article.

  ‘Is it Lapsang?’ Harlan asked.

  ‘It’s fair trade.’ Ruth poured the tea, trying not to let her hand shake. She handed Harlan a mug that had come free at the petrol station.

  Harlan wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s so difficult to get the stains out of cheap earthenware, isn’t it?’

  Ruth wished she had unpacked the best china.

  ‘Hmmm, wet and warm.’ Harlan wiped her lipstick smears from the mug. Dimitri sidled up and rubbed his head against Harlan’s legs. Cats were poor judges of character. She shooed him away.

  Ruth offered the plate of biscuits. ‘Bourbon or ginger cream?’

  Harlan shook her head vigorously, her wind-chime earrings tinkling like a clarion. Of course, Harlan wasn’t a biscuit eater; Ruth should have known. You don’t get pencil thin and granite hard from eating crème-filled biscuits. Never trust a non-biscuit-eater, Ruth reminded herself. She knew that small talk was the order of the day, but her talk was so small that it masqueraded as total silence.

  She craned her thin neck forward. ‘So, Ruth, how was Harvest this year?’

  Ruth swallowed hard. Yes, we had Harvest, no thanks to you, was the answer on the tip of her tongue. Harlan’s sarcasm detector was probably set to ‘Seek and destroy’, so Ruth restrained herself. ‘We had hoped you could provide some girls to supplement the choir as usual . . .’

  ‘Naturally,’ Harlan said. ‘I’m disappointed, but with the choir festival on Saturday and Christmas coming up, I’m afraid we had other priorities. Such a pity as we’ve just finished a unit on choral music, and the girls have recently been working on Rutter. Still, we hope to do something special for Christmas. Should help to make St Sebastian’s carol ser vice something unique this year. You know, lift it out of the ordinary and humdrum.’

  Ruth’s hackles were up, but she bit her tongue, kept her voice steady and her expression neutral. ‘Sounds lovely.’ Ruth performed another smile.

  ‘Of course,’ Harlan said, ‘the mystery play must have suitable musical and choral interludes. In fact, here is a draft score.’ She waved a sheaf of papers under Ruth’s nose. Ruth couldn’t admit that she didn’t read music.

  ‘It’s a modern arrangement. I wrote it myself, naturally.’ Harlan said.

  Ruth’s argument about authenticity was doomed from the start. For one thing, Monksford no longer possessed the traditional guilds to perform the play. For another, she had no intention of dragging carts around the town as stages for the performers.

  To Ruth’s relief, the doorbell rang. She excused herself and rushed into the hall. She could see Alistair Fry’s form distorted by the patterned glass, and her heart seemed to stop for a moment. She straightened her jumper and smoot
hed her hair. Dimitri joined her in the hall. She opened the door.

  ‘Alistair, so glad you could come.’ She smiled.

  ‘You sounded as if you could do with some moral support.’

  She was about to volunteer to take his coat and to offer him tea or coffee when Ronnie Mardle huffed and puffed his way up the path, and Ruth felt duty bound to abandon Alistair and welcome Ronnie. She let out a little sigh of regret as she opened the lounge door to let Alistair through to Harlan’s lair.

  ‘Ruth, my love.’ Ronnie grabbed her by the shoulders and planted a slightly slimy kiss on each of Ruth’s cheeks.

  ‘Ronnie, how are you?’

  ‘Been better, dear, been better. Where’s your loo? Got a touch of . . . you know.’

  Ruth didn’t know, and she definitely didn’t want to know. ‘Up there and first left.’ Before the words were out of her mouth he had jogged up the stairs, his bottom wobbling with each step.

  She resisted the urge to wipe the kisses off and went through the kitchen to put the kettle on to boil again. She poked her head into the lounge. To her relief, Harlan and Alistair seemed to be involved in amicable conversation. She could see Harlan’s earrings swinging like chandeliers in a wind as she laughed at Alistair’s jokes. She wanted to be in there laughing too, not stuck in the kitchen like a serving wench. She felt a warm hand on her shoulder. ‘Just to let you know, dear, you’re out of toilet paper.’

  ‘Thanks, Ronnie, I’ll change the roll later.’

  ‘I’ll go through, shall I? Can I take anything?’

  Ruth shook her head, and they both made their way through to the lounge, Ronnie making a beeline for Ruth’s favourite chair. It had been Mother’s chair and she felt rather possessive about it. She perched herself uncomfortably on a dining room chair. Dimitri settled at her feet.

  ‘Alistair was just telling me that he has persuaded the council to put up five thousand pounds towards the cost of the production. Isn’t that marvellous?’ Harlan said.

  It certainly was; they all nodded in approval.

  ‘And I’m assuming the church will be putting up a similar amount . . . ,’ she added.

  Ruth managed not to laugh out loud. Five thousand might replace the missing tiles on the roof or stop the woodworm in the bell tower or pay for Mr Briggs to go private for his hip operation, but fritter it on the mystery play? There was no way they could possibly raise five thousand pounds. They didn’t even make fifty in last week’s collection.

  ‘I was thinking more in terms of providing manpower, free meeting, and rehearsal rooms, abundant tea and coffee and, of course, a spiritual input,’ Ruth said.

  ‘Oh.’ Harlan’s well-plucked eyebrows shot up.

  ‘As treasurer, I’d like to say that I think a financial contribution from St Sebastian’s would be completely inappropriate,’ said Alistair. ‘I hope Ruth won’t mind me saying so, but she has come close to wearing herself ragged with the hours upon hours of work she has put into undertaking the translation of the text. And that doesn’t include the time spent organising the publicity, calling the auditions, and arranging the rehearsals, and all that on top of her parish duties.’

  Harlan gave a little snort. Ruth ignored her. Nothing could take away the sudden warmth in her heart from his approbation. Alistair had supported her – no – more than supported her, he had endorsed her, been her advocate. She squirmed on her hard chair; the struts were digging into her back, and her behind was becoming numb. She watched Ronnie, his fat rump overhanging the seat. He didn’t need soft cushions; he had sufficient padding of his own.

  As the meeting went on, Ruth grew increasingly uncomfortable and increasingly resentful. Not only was it the most comfortable chair in the room, and not only was it her chair, but she had planned to save it for Alistair, the only reason this evening was bearable . . . She checked her thoughts. She just had to stop thinking about Alistair in this way. Like a schoolgirl with a crush . . .

  ‘. . . sixty giggling schoolgirls, all with a crush on the latest “pop idol” is not my idea of solemn or portentous.’ Ronnie Mardle seemed to be conducting his own imaginary orchestra as he spoke. His arms swung in wide arcs, and Ruth was starting to fear for her crockery. ‘This play calls for something with more of the sense of the numinous, something more majestic, orchestral – ’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Harlan’s scrawny neck stretched out like a turkey’s, and her earrings oscillated furiously. ‘My girls are as disciplined and proficient as any professional group of musicians. My choirs have won awards and received acclaim from the highest quarters. What are you bringing to this production – a glorified chorus line? They’ll turn the whole thing into a carnival, a circus!’

  ‘How dare you!’ spat Ronnie. ‘How dare you compare my highly trained cast with your bunch of simpering, frivolous bobby-soxers.’

  ‘Actually, a festive atmosphere would be in keeping . . . ,’ Ruth began.

  Harlan bulldozed through Ruth’s words. ‘What are you suggesting? That MOADS are let loose on it? Heaven forbid!’

  ‘The Monksford Gazette described our Camelot as “breathtaking and stunning”,’ countered Ronnie.

  ‘That meant they couldn’t breathe for laughing and felt as if they had been hit with a sledgehammer.’

  ‘You poisonous old witch! If you think your troupe of singing gnomes can possibly provide anything with sufficient gravitas – ’

  ‘At least they can sing in tune, unlike the band of half-witted, talentless has-beens and wannabes that constitute the Monksford Operatic and Dramatic Society.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen . . .’ Alistair held up his hands to silence the pair. Then he turned to her, looking perplexed. As if now that he had obtained silence, he didn’t know quite what to do with it. There had been no chance to forewarn him, besides it would have been difficult to explain this elaborate ritual, this war dance, in a way that wouldn’t make her appear deranged.

  They always started off like this. The truth was, both Harlan’s choir and Ronnie’s actors and singers would do a terrific job, she just couldn’t tell them that, at least not in front of the other. She had once tried to avoid the confrontation by arranging two separate meetings, one for Harlan and one for Ronnie. Her efforts had failed miserably and served only to convince each that some kind of conspiracy was going on. Far better to let them slog it out first.

  ‘I can see I’m not required here.’ Ronnie stood up petulantly. ‘Ruthie, darling, you have my number if you need me.’ He flounced into the hall. Ruth shot Alistair a glance, then followed Ronnie out. As Harlan continued to sound off to Alistair, Ruth closed the door behind her and mustered her most beguiling tone for the job of placating Ronnie, whose feathers were not just ruffled, he was close to pecking himself bald. She could only hope that tomorrow’s auditions would prove easier going.

  Scene Five

  JEMMA LAY ON HER BERTH, GAZING AT THE WOODEN CEILING. SHE WAS FURIOUS with Mohan for dragooning her into auditioning for the role and furious with herself for accepting. Could she have refused? Not without seriously damaging her career as well as her credibility with Mohan. No, she was resigned to the column and the audition for the lousy play.

  She rolled over, pulled a script off her desk, and read it aloud once more, just to establish it in her mind. Everyone had their own technique for learning words. When she was at university, the students had discussed how best to memorise a script. She had favoured recording it on tape, then playing it as she went to sleep, hoping the lines would embed themselves subliminally in her brain.

  She had thought hard about what to perform for her audition piece. She again considered her options as she flicked through her drama folder from university. The Bible was too obvious. Besides she didn’t understand it. She contemplated Elizabeth Proctor’s speech from The Crucible – too controlled, Blanche from A Streetcar Named Desire – too hackneyed. And Abigail’s Party, well! Then she thought of Shakespeare, one of Viola’s speeches from her favourite play – Twelfth Night – a
nd ran though the words in her mind.

  ‘I left no ring with her; what means this lady? Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her! She made good view of me; indeed, so much . . .’

  As fervently as Jemma tried not to engage with the mystery plays and tried not think about her firmly twisted arm . . . still, she was the sort of person to give it her all. If she had to be part of this play, she had to do it well. Mohan didn’t seem to have countenanced the possibility that she wouldn’t be cast in the role of Mary Magdalene, and, to be honest, neither had she.

  She had always got the lead role, right from her nursery school. She wasn’t going to be a stand-around angel. No, for Jemma, nothing less than the Virgin Mary would do. Her ambition extended far beyond her career. She was competitive, that was just her nature. Sports, careers, relationships. Perhaps that was why she hit the ground so hard and jumped to her feet again so quickly when Richard left. At this moment, she agreed with Olivia, and fully intended to avoid love ‘like the plague’. The pun made her smile.

  A screech of brakes brought her bolt upright. Then footsteps, running along the towpath. She shot to the window. It was too dark to see. A car door slammed. She threw open the hatch and a pair of headlamps blinded her as a car shot towards her, mounting the strip of grass and threatening to cross the towpath. Instinctively, she put her hands up. The engine screamed as the car reversed. The gears crunched and the car sped across the car park. Her view was obscured by trees. She heard the tyres crunching over the gravel of the car park, then take off up the lane. She stood fixed to the spot, hardly daring to breathe. All was quiet again outside.

  Something strange was afoot, she was sure of it. Still she couldn’t go to the police. She had no description of the car or the people in it and no evidence of a crime. Perhaps she would tell Mohan. Perhaps he would think it worth investigating, or perhaps he would laugh and dismiss it as paranoia.

  ‘I wish Richard was here.’