The Art of Standing Still Read online

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, you’re not. We could have talked. You could have spoken to me. Just one word – ’

  ‘I didn’t know how to say goodbye.’

  ‘There, you just said it. It wasn’t that hard!’

  ‘There were things . . . things that made it difficult to stay.’

  ‘So what was her name? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know!’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. Please, Jemma . . .’

  ‘No!’

  They had reached the moorings, and Jemma fumbled for her keys.

  ‘Could I come in for a moment?’

  ‘How could you even ask that?’

  ‘Thing is . . . I’ve got nowhere else to stay. I had to leave the flat . . .’

  ‘I don’t believe this!’ She unlocked the padlock and switched on the lights. She felt chilled from the night air.

  ‘Can I at least have a coffee? Please?’

  He looked pathetic. And if this new girl had thrown him out . . .

  She took a deep breath. ‘Okay, just one coffee and you go.’ Jemma filled the kettle and turned on the heater. The small cabin would soon be cosy. She looked at the spare berth. Perhaps one night . . .

  Her mobile phone rang. She tucked it against her shoulder while she continued to spoon out the coffee granules into two mugs.

  ‘Hi, Jemma. It’s Josh. I hope you don’t mind me ringing. Ruth Wells gave me your number.’

  ‘Oh Josh, hi! No that’s fine.’

  ‘I just wanted to say that I was really pleased that we’d be working together on the play.’

  ‘Yes, but all those words to learn . . .’

  Richard opened the door. ‘I’d better go.’

  Jemma put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Where will you sleep?’

  Richard waved his hand, dismissing her concern.

  ‘Let me know when you’ve found somewhere to stay, and I’ll bring your stuff round, right?’

  Richard nodded and left. Jemma felt a blast of cold air as the door opened and closed. She shivered.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine now.’

  THE PLAY’S THE THING

  It was with some trepidation that I made my way to St Sebastian’s Church Hall for the auditions for the Monksford Mystery Plays. The plays were discovered in a vault last year, and I caught up with the Reverend Ruth Wells, who has modernised the plays from their Canterbury Tales language, transforming them into something that wouldn’t be out of place in an Eastenders script. This busy village vicar has managed to combine her bustling parish life with reviving these ancient plays, which became a labour of love for close to two years. Despite the medieval origins of the plays, Ruth Wells hopes there will be something for everyone.

  I asked Reverend Wells about her aspirations for the project. ‘We’re hoping the whole community can become involved,’ she said. ‘We have found some terrific actors among local people. This is an opportunity for the church and community to work together.’

  The auditions attracted several hundred adults and children from Monksford and the surrounding villages, and the main parts were cast. I questioned Reverend Wells about the decision to cast the plays using purely amateur talent. ‘My ambition is for it to be a production for the people by the people. We’re hoping to put Monksford on the map.’

  Councillor Alistair Fry has secured much of the funding for the production from the town’s leisure-and-arts budget. ‘Culturally and historically,’ he said, ‘these plays are very important for Monksford. In times of change and modernisation and uncertainty, they provide an anchor to the past.’

  And for the record, yours truly, local journalist Jemma Durham, has been cast in the role of Mary Magdalene. Over the coming weeks I’ll be letting you know how I get on and bringing you the inside story on the Monksford Mystery Plays. Now where did I put that alabaster jar?

  Scene Seven

  IT WAS STILL DARK WHEN RUTH ARRIVED AT BROADOAK GREEN FOR THE THIRD time that year. Instead of the spectacular sunrise she had hoped for, the gunmetal grey October sky became progressively paler until she realised its slate colour, that almost matched the roofs, was as light as it was going to get.

  She pulled her jacket around her as a bitter east wind cut along the river and threaded its way between the buildings. Ruth stood with her back towards the Monksford Business Centre. It was a squat, square 1960s monstrosity, which crouched in front of the river like a shabby dog. At least it afforded her some shelter. She tried to ignore the racket coming from the nearby dispatch depot and closed her eyes, imagining the area as fields. This was the very spot where the waggons, which had been used to perform the original Monksford Corpus Christi plays, would have been stored.

  She stood as still as one of the broad oaks that six hundred years ago had encircled the green, and she strained to listen, hoping she might hear an echo from the past.

  The rumble of the wooden wheels over the cobbles, then a shout from the guilds’ men. She imagined their bright torches. The horses snorted and stamped. A man in a dark blue coat called out, ‘You builders, stand here in readiness. The sun will soon be up, and the folk are at present gathering for the pageant.’

  A cry of ‘torches, torches’ brought a clutch of boys hurrying forward. One lad, wiping the sleep from his eyes, let the flaming torch drop. The man in blue cried out, ‘Give heed to that straw, boy! If that were to catch fire you’d not see the morrow.’

  The musicians tuned the strings of their vielles and blew their sackbuts and cornets. Singers commenced their chants in disorderly fashion. Eventually the sound melded from a cacophony to a recognisable tune. The faint drizzle that hung in the air clung to their clothes and made the horses appear to steam. The man in the blue coat held a loosely bound manuscript. ‘’Tis time. Heed me well, I will see no drunkenness, rebel, or disobedience this day. Now forward, to the glory of God and the praise of Our Lady.’

  The first waggon creaked as it moved off. The players and musicians followed to a drum beat and chant as the procession wound its way towards the river, across the bridge, and into the High Street and the first station where they would re-enact the creation of the world.

  The harsh sound of a pneumatic drill jolted Ruth back to reality. The workers on the construction site – luxury three- and four-bed apartments with river views – had started early.

  RUTH HOPED THE COMPRESSIONS OF HER SPINE WOULDN’T LEAVE HER WITH permanent injury as she bounced and rocked over the ruts in the track leading to the high field at Hope Farm. She had just come from a neat farmhouse with window boxes, fake Bargeware wheelbarrows, and empty watering cans, where she searched outbuildings and hallooed into barns for what seemed like hours. Finally a farmhand appeared who directed her to the top field towards Highwell Wood.

  Bram Griffin was leaning on a gate gazing towards Monksford when Ruth found him.

  ‘Mr Griffin,’ she called as she climbed out of her car, ‘you are a hard man to track down.’

  He turned and cracked a smile, offering her a weathered hand.

  ‘Marvellous view.’ Although with the new road and the industrial estate its peace had been shattered and its beauty scarred. ‘Who knows how much longer we’ll be able to admire it.’

  Bram Griffin grunted in reply. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper and his hair seemed greyer. Two years before, he had lost almost all his herd from the foot-and-mouth epidemic and had come close to losing the farm. Ruth had offered her support, but, unlike the rest of Monksford farmers who happily poured out their own woes, Bram had remained tight lipped. Ruth had fully expected to hear he had taken himself off into the woods with his twelve-bore.

  But Hope Farm had survived. She marvelled at the dairy herd, calmly grazing by the copse and, in the small lower field by the river, a flock of British milksheep. They looked like a child’s drawing – little clouds with four legs – but renown for the quality and quantity of their milk. Fluffy white cotton-wool in the l
ush green pasture.

  Not only had Bram and his farm survived, they were positively thriving. The turning point seemed to be his trip to the States last year. He left a depressed Kentish farmer and came back a cowboy with a white Stetson and a penchant for telling terrible jokes. Last Sunday, after the ser vice he had complained about being woken too early by his old cockerel crowing at four in the morning. ‘Still,’ he had said, ‘there’s only one sure way of stopping your rooster waking you early on a Sunday morning.’

  ‘Oh, what’s that?’ Ruth had asked.

  ‘Eat him for supper on Saturday.’

  Bram had left the church still chuckling. But today was different. Today Bram looked a worried man.

  ‘How are you, Mr Griffin?’

  ‘I’m great.’

  ‘Things are going well then?’

  ‘Just fine and dandy.’ He let his gaze drift over her shoulder.

  ‘The road, though, it must have affected you. It cut right through your land.’

  ‘The cows ain’t complaining.’

  Ruth could see she was getting nowhere so she tried a different tack. ‘It’s very kind of you to let us use your farm for the mystery plays.’

  Bram shrugged.

  ‘I’m just worried it will disrupt your routine. The cycle takes all day, and you’ll have cars and people trouping round your fields. We’ll have to lay on catering and toilet facilities, first aid . . .’

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’

  ‘We – I mean St Sebastian’s – will organise all that of course, but I wanted to check with you. Make sure you really didn’t mind. We would have loved to do it on waggons through the streets of Monksford, but that just wasn’t practical. Besides, I’m sure the council would never give permission for the roads to be closed.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘We finished the casting last night, and it’s finally all shaping up. We’ve got a smashing young man playing Jesus. He’s only just joined the church. In fact, he’s only just become a Christian. But he’s so enthusiastic, and he really looks the part – his mum came from somewhere in the Middle East. And we’ve appointed our Mary Magdalene. She works for the local paper. Good actress though. She’s done it before. And you’ll never guess who’s Judas . . .’ She paused.

  His expression said he couldn’t care less who was playing Judas.

  ‘Alistair Fry!’ Ruth threw her head back and laughed. ‘But only because no one else turned up for the part.’

  Bram looked steadily at her. Ruth could not read what was behind his eyes.

  ‘Well, I’ve kept you long enough, Vicar. I’m sure you need to get on. Besides, I’ve got to go into town.’

  ‘Bram,’ she called to his back. Without turning he continued striding across the field back down to the farmhouse. ‘Bram, do you mind if I have a look around? I want to check on the locations.’

  He turned suddenly. ‘What for?’

  ‘Well, I just want to make sure everything’s all right. Do you remember we talked about it? The creation in the upper field, Noah’s ark and Moses down by the river, the birth of Jesus in the old barn, and the crucifixion and resurrection in the abbey ruins. I need to think about getting the staging constructed.’

  ‘Now? The play’s months away.’

  ‘All this will take time. For one thing, I need to get someone in to look at temporary footpaths. I was going to drive it, to see if I can get some idea of distances.’

  ‘You can look round here and go up to the barns, but I don’t want you down by the abbey today.’

  ‘I’m sorry it’s not convenient, Bram. It’s just that I don’t get much free time, and I was hoping to get it all done today.’

  ‘You can’t go down there – I’ve been spraying. Best to leave it a couple of weeks for the chemicals to clear.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ Ruth did her best to sound compliant.

  Bram grunted and carried on. Ruth walked back to where she had parked the car. Spraying? She was no farming expert, but Bram’s dairy farm had only a little pasture and a field or two set aside for hay. She couldn’t imagine what he would be spraying.

  She climbed in the car and drove down the hill to the top of the upper field. The pastureland dropped away below her, like raked seating in a theatre. The flat area at the bottom would be ideal for the staging. The autumn wind buffeted her as she struggled to close the car door, threatening to send her sprawling.

  ‘Hello!’ she shouted to no-one in particular. The wind snatched the sound away before it left her lips.

  Even in balmy June, they would need a powerful public address system for the actors’ words to be heard. She tried to picture the audience spread over the field. It seemed enormous; even so she wondered if it would fit the whole town. That’s if anyone turned up at all. She smiled. Judging by Bram’s silly cow-pat contest, Monksford folks were only too happy to travel the mile or two out to Hope Farm. She trusted that a medieval religious play would exert a similar, if not greater, draw than watching dried cow dung being launched into orbit.

  She set her trip counter to zero, then bounced over the rough grass to the bottom of the field. Nought point three eight miles. She jotted the figure down and climbed out of the car again. It was more sheltered here, which was good. She made her way across the rough grass and leant on a dilapidated wooden gate between this field and the next. She made a note to ask for the area to be mown, or at least grazed, before the event.

  She turned towards the river. The skeleton of the abbey ruins stood cold and dark against the heavy sky. She strained her eyes to see anything unusual about the forbidden field. It looked perfectly ordinary; just more coarse pasture, with a new barn of wood and corrugated steel. Why didn’t Bram want her to go in there? She felt a little guilty ignoring Bram’s injunction, but she had come to see where the plays would be performed and she was determined to do just that.

  Then she remembered; if she took the road to Todbourn Heath, there was an entrance to the towpath near the old mill. And she could reach the abbey without having to cross Bram Griffin’s land. True, she wouldn’t be able to measure the distance, but she could inspect the site. That would do for today.

  She drove along the deeply rutted track, the Friesians gazing at her with mild curiosity as she passed. She slowed when she reached the farmhouse and parked on the concrete next to a green milk churn painted with gaudy and symmetrical posies. Without waiting to see if Bram had gone out, she walked to the old barn and peered through a gaping hole in the ramshackle door. Delightful. It held a collection of decaying, rusting Massey Ferguson tractors. But the barn was large, and the farmyard would provide ample standing room for the audience. Once the barn was cleared and a raised platform built, it should do beautifully.

  Ruth climbed into her car once more, and instead of turning left towards Monksford, she turned right and headed towards the hamlet of Todbourne Heath. Distracted by rioting ducks on a small pond, she braked sharply. Just around the bend, Bram’s cattle were crossing the road for their evening milking. She thumped the steering wheel in frustration. It would be dark soon, and she had no great desire to be poking around in a spooky old abbey. She refused to believe the legends of ghostly abbots and headless monks, but she did know for a fact that it was a favourite haunt of local drug addicts and a congregation of Goths.

  Finally the last black and white rump disappeared down the lane, and the old stockman gave her a lethargic wave. She drove on, turning left, then left again by the river. She parked on the grass and then made her way to the towpath by the river to consider the best setting for Noah’s ark.

  The canal narrowboats were moored along the river, painted in muted shades of blue, green, and black, with their names in red and gold lettering on their cabins. She walked past the Ruritainia, the Ebony Hog, Endeavour and the Lucky Lady; stopping to admire the trough of flowers on the deck of the Noble Maria and having a chuckle at the wit who had named his boat Viagra.

  She passed the abbey and continued tow
ards Monksford. Bram Griffin’s lower field, the one that bordered the river, contained his milking sheep. Their smooth-fleeced heads looked as if they had been added on to their plump woolly bodies as an afterthought. She watched them, standing, eating, walking on a few paces, and eating again, no sign of intelligence or even curiosity in their yellow eyes. They were just machines to produce milk and wool.

  She was always puzzled by the Bible’s analogy that humans are like sheep. She would rather be almost anything than one of these bimbos of the animal world. Absolutely nothing between the ears. Would Bram be prepared to move them out so that the ark could be constructed and so that the audience could watch the show unimpeded? Actually, the sheep looked so dim they probably wouldn’t even realise.

  One corner of the field had been sectioned off with metal stakes and plastic tape. Perhaps this was the area he had sprayed. Ruth scrutinised it. It just looked like pastureland, the same as the rest of the lower field. She couldn’t see any crops or any evidence of spraying. Besides, that close to the river he couldn’t possibly use toxic chemicals. Too much danger of it seeping into the watercourse. She glanced at her watch. It was getting late, and she still hadn’t visited the abbey.

  The abbey stood resolutely beside the river, its sandstone pillars silhouetted in the dying light. Ruth felt something pulling her towards them. The abbey had been built just before the first recorded performance of the mystery plays. Perhaps the monks from the abbey had been involved in the scripting. She felt a bond with those first scribes, imagining how they sweated and laboured over the task of recording those wonderful, terrible, words.

  I am gracious and great, God withoutyn beginning,