The Art of Standing Still Read online

I am maker unmade, all might is in me;

  I am life and way unto welth-wynnyng,

  I am foremost and first, all I bid know it be.

  The three enormous arched windows curved above her. She made her way to where the chapel would have been, found a patch of soft grass between the fallen stone, and knelt down. She thought of the centuries of dutiful prayer and profound praise that echoed off these stones. She remained as still as possible, barely breathing, with her eyes closed. She tried to still her mind too – stop the whirling, dancing thoughts that threatened to intrude. If only she could keep still, eliminate all voluntary movement and thought, if she could completely surrender, then she would hear God speak. ‘Be still, and know that I am God . . . ,’ wrote the psalmist. If only she could be perfectly still . . .

  Peace seemed to emanate from the gentle golden limestone. Just as the sharp edges had been eroded by the weather into smooth curves, so time had eroded its bloody history into soft memories. She breathed in. The pleasant smell of wood smoke filled the air, and Ruth felt a tingle that started in the back of her neck and soon engulfed her body. It was as if God himself had just walked past.

  Ruth stayed in prayer until the darkness descended and the air grew chill. The knees of her trousers were damp. She stood up stiffly, brushed the grass from her knees, and pulled her jacket around her. Then she started back towards her car. Two bright lights swung into view, dazzling her. She halted, temporarily blinded, and leant against a partially demolished wall. The car stopped and she heard a door open, then slam. Suddenly the old abbey seemed a threatening place, the home of dark menaces. She stayed, for several minutes, hidden by a pillar.

  She heard footsteps along the towpath and then a splash.

  Scene Eight

  ‘NO!’ JEMMA CLAPPED HER HAND OVER HER MOUTH. SHE HADN’T MEANT TO express her frustrations aloud. She smiled feebly at her colleagues who had turned to stare from their cubicles, and they lowered their heads and continued with their work. Mohan shook his head and got up to pour himself a coffee.

  Jemma had been working from home over the last few days, where her outburst may have alarmed a few mallard but no more than that. She had decided it would be judicious to show her face in the office today, to try and redeem herself with Mohan as well as demonstrate she was getting on with her work. Although her job, by its nature, involved working outside the office – either on assignment or composing the articles at home – Mohan always regarded his staff with suspicion.

  Jemma returned to the article she was editing for her column. She was working to make it sound lighthearted, but insightful, appealing to all ages, but neither ‘youf-speek’ nor fuddy-duddy. Mohan had asked her what an alabaster jar had to do with anything. With an air of superiority, she told him to look it up in the Bible. She knew he wouldn’t.

  She had redrafted the first paragraph of her second article three times but all she could think about was Josh Wood – she could have written a whole full-page spread about him. She could have started with his eyes, deep brown and fringed with dark lashes; his hair, jet black, shining a little too long perhaps; his smile with the little dimple in his left cheek; his hands strong, yet gentle . . .

  ‘Jemma, are you listening to me?’ Mohan was standing behind her. ‘Are you hung over or was it just a late night?’

  ‘I was thinking!’ She realised too late, and with considerable embarrassment, that her computer had got bored with waiting and switched itself to standby.

  ‘Fire at the retail park, do you want it?’

  ‘Sure!’ Jemma leapt up and snatched her bag and notebook. She tapped her foot impatiently while Saffy Walton searched for her camera.

  At last, a welcome relief from the column and something interesting finally happening in Monksford! She had become rather an ambulance chaser of late. Bad news set her heart pumping faster, and disaster cheered her up no end. Bad news was so much easier to write about than dull preparations for some centuries-old plays.

  ‘I hope no one’s hurt,’ Saffy said as Jemma pressed on the accelerator.

  Jemma dodged the speed cameras along the bypass. She wouldn’t wish anyone injured either – at least not seriously. In a town where lost pets make the headlines, a fire was a journalist’s godsend. She could see plumes of black smoke over the town. A fire engine streaked past them with its blue lights flashing and sirens screaming.

  The traffic was being diverted off the bypass at the Millstoke Road. Jemma slowed near the policeman directing the traffic, stopped, and lowered the window.

  ‘Monksford Gazette.’ She flashed her press badge.

  ‘Sorry, Miss, I can’t let anyone through,’ he said.

  ‘But I’m a journalist! I have a piece to do on the fire.’

  ‘We’re in the process of evacuating the area. We can’t let anybody near until the fire brigade has given it the all clear.’

  ‘I’m not anybody! The people of Monksford have a right to know what’s going on.’ She sounded pompous, but she didn’t care. With this Jobsworth, it might just do the trick.

  The policeman refused to budge. ‘That’s a DIY store. They have flammable liquids, paints, even butane and acetylene down there. I will let you through when we can be sure the whole lot’s not going to blow up. The people of Monksford don’t want to see a journalist splattered all over the county, now do they?’

  Jemma wound up her window and turned to Saffy. ‘We’ll see about that.’

  ‘But if it’s not safe . . .’ Saffy’s face turned pale.

  Jemma turned down Millstoke Road then left into Backcliffe Lane. She pulled up in a gateway that led to a field.

  ‘This’ll do. Come on.’

  Jemma was half way over the stile before Saffy had removed her equipment from the boot. Jemma kept close to the hedge as she crossed the field and came to the point where the road had been cordoned off. She scooted round behind the policeman who was explaining the diversion to another motorist. There was a wire fence then a steep bank of chalky soil sprouting patches of newly planted grass, the slapdash landscaping stage of the construction. The smoke made her splutter as she skidded down the bank of earth towards the retail park. She could hear Saffy choking behind her, and she slowed slightly to let her catch up.

  ‘I’m really not sure about this,’ Saffy said.

  ‘Come on, we’ll make the front page.’

  ‘Just as long as we don’t make the obituaries,’ Saffy sniffed.

  She offered Saffy her hand as they reached another wire fence at the bottom. The wind seemed to have changed direction, and the smoke was drifting away from them, towards the industrial area. They scurried round to the front of the furniture superstore, where fire engines, police cars, and ambulances lined the street.

  She stood upright and slowed her walk, trying to make herself look official, as if she had every right to be there. Saffy followed suit. The police had roped off the area, and the staff from the shops and stores stood grouped in little knots, talking quietly. Some had foil emergency blankets around their shoulders. Managers with clip boards were doing a roll call of staff. One woman sat on the kerb sobbing softly.

  She ducked under the tape and ambled up to a firefighter in a yellow helmet. Saffy followed, trotting behind like a poodle.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Jemma said, ‘do you know what happened?’

  ‘Looks like some flammable liquids went up in the warehouse of the DIY store. Too early to say how it happened.’

  ‘Was anyone hurt?’ Saffy asked.

  ‘They managed to get everyone out as soon as the fire was discovered. I think there are a few minor injuries.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll be able to put it out?’ Jemma fluttered her eyelashes a little.

  ‘We’re trying to keep it away from the other shops and industrial units at the moment. We’ve had to evacuate the meat-processing plant.’

  Jemma glanced over at the huddle of Asian women in white overalls. A weasel-faced man Jemma recognised as Colin Riley, the manager of the
meat-processing factory, stood glowering at the edge of the group.

  ‘When did it start?’ Jemma surreptitiously jotted a few notes in shorthand. Unfortunately, the firefighter noticed her notebook and turned on her.

  ‘Are you press?’ He glowered at her.

  ‘Sort of,’ confessed Jemma.

  ‘Then you can call our press office. You’re not even supposed to be in here.’

  ‘If I could just ask a couple more questions . . .’

  ‘Shove off! I haven’t got time to waste answering stupid questions.’ He held up the tape, and Jemma and Saffy ducked back under. He returned to the fire engine, eyeing the two women with suspicion.

  ‘Come on.’ Jemma beckoned to Saffy. They skulked a few yards past the fire engine, and Jemma stooped back under the tape. They were at the front of Abacus DIY where they could make out smoke and flames coming from the rear of the store. The gigantic green and yellow sign bearing the legend ‘Abacus DIY – You Can Count On Us’ looked rather forlorn. It would need more than a few nails and a litre or two of emulsion to restore Abacus to its former glory. She sneaked past another firefighter who was watching the proceedings from a safe distance.

  ‘You can get a really great shot from here,’ Jemma said.

  Saffy looked doubtful but browbeaten; as usual, she acquiesced. She snapped a few shots while Jemma scouted around for someone more willing to be interviewed.

  They returned to the relative safety of the roadway near the ambulances. So, there had been some minor injuries. Experience had taught Jemma that people with ‘minor injuries’ were usually at the centre of the action and possessed interesting theories about the incident – theories that time and composure hadn’t restrained. They were usually only too willing to speak. The shock of the crisis loosened their tongues nicely. She looked for Saffy who had taken herself up the bank and affixed the telephoto lens on her camera. Jemma made her way around the groups of employees who were huddled together for protection from the autumn mizzle. Saffy joined her. A woman was shouting at one of the policewomen.

  ‘My bag, I need to get it! What about my phone . . . and my keys! I’m supposed to pick up my little girl! I need to phone.’

  The policewoman was doing her best to calm her. She wouldn’t make a good subject for interview. To her irritation, Jemma noticed Saffy reaching into her own bag and handing the woman her mobile phone.

  Jemma looked into the open back of one of the ambulances. A rather desolate-looking old man sat with an oxygen mask over his face. One of the ambulance crew was attending to him. The other crewmember leaned nonchalantly against the open door.

  ‘Is he going to be okay?’ asked Jemma.

  ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Then I can’t tell you anything.’

  ‘Any idea how it started?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Ask the fire crew.’

  ‘Oh, they said to ask you.’

  The paramedic looked at Jemma over a pair of imaginary spectacles. She began to wonder if she was losing her touch. She scrutinised the people standing in the car park for a glimmer of interest, but everyone looked as if they had rather go home.

  She marched up to Colin Riley and introduced herself. He scowled back. ‘Excuse me, Mr Riley, do you have any comment to make on this situation?’

  ‘Only that it’s cost me the best part of a day’s production.’

  One of the ambulances inched forward, and Jemma had to leap out of the way. Saffy appeared at her elbow. ‘Can we go back now, I really need the loo.’

  Jemma looked skywards and sighed. She resisted the urge to ask her why she didn’t go before they came out. Honestly, working with Saffy Walton was like working with a six-year-old.

  ‘Must be the cold,’ Saffy said.

  ‘Get any good shots?’ Jemma said, changing the subject.

  ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘How did you do?’

  ‘Waste of time,’ Jemma said, and they returned to the car.

  BACK AT THE OFFICE, THE ARTICLE ABOUT THE FIRE PROVED AS DIFFICULT TO write as the column. She nearly didn’t bother calling the press office. She could count fire engines herself. Then she thought better of it. As she had failed to get even one eyewitness interview, she would have to try to include a statement from the Divisional Officer. She sat down at the computer to write the article. It was full of glib clichés; she knew Mohan would have a field day. At least Saffy had furnished her with a half-decent photo.

  BLAZE AT ABACUS DIY

  More than 50 fire fighters were called to a fire at the Abacus DIY store in Kennett Way, Monksford yesterday.

  Kent Fire and Rescue Service Control Centre received the first call to the scene at 10.34 on Thursday morning. Two specially equipped vehicles arrived from Monksford fire station. The premises, on the newly built Monksford Retail Park, were found to be well alight with a serious fire in the warehouse. The fire service used jet and a hydrant, and an aerial appliance was also on the scene, and the fire was soon surrounded. Crews wearing breathing apparatus searched the building and, despite earlier reports, found no one inside.

  The officer in charge of the incident, Senior Divisional Officer Gary Winchester said, ‘Crews have done an excellent job in bringing the fire under control so quickly. We were concerned that other retail units may have become involved. In the event, everyone was evacuated and only minor injuries were sustained. The building has, however, suffered serious damage and we have asked the building control officer to attend and assess the safety of the structure.’

  Police and fire investigators have returned to the scene of the fire today but the cause of the fire is not yet known.

  MOHAN LOOKED UP FROM THE ARTICLE. ‘IT’LL DO.’

  Jemma eked out a smile.

  ‘How’s the column going?’

  ‘Fine, first rehearsal tonight.’

  She was desperate to ask him if there had been any reaction from the first article but was equally desperate not to sound desperate. She seized the proofs as soon as the subeditors had checked them. Mohan looked over her shoulder.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Layout’s good. Not sure about “Curtain up”. Not particularly accurate – no curtains on a farm.’

  Mohan disregarded her comments. ‘Gives it a nice theatrical feel.’

  She did like the little masks of comedy and tragedy that topped her column and the photo of St Sebastian’s to one side. What she wasn’t quite so happy with was the photo that Saffy had taken of her. With all the wild-eyed, washed-out, spaced-out qualities of an embarrassing snapshot, it would have made a good passport photo.

  She reread the article in print and allowed herself a little contented smile. Its truthfulness and proficiency would have pleased even her grandfather. Perhaps she would send it to him.

  When she had accepted, a little too gratefully, with hindsight, the job of staff reporter at the Gazette, her first assignment had been to report on a protest meeting about a proposed centre for the arts. With her new notebook, pristine ballpoint, and eagerness cranked up to fever pitch, Jemma had arrived to find one young man with blond dreadlocks, two elderly women, a chap with a West Highland terrier, and a middle-aged man in a pinstriped suit.

  Hardly a protest meeting, although one woman was carrying a homemade banner. In an effort to remain professional, she duly interviewed everyone concerned. Once they started talking, their fears were quickly allayed, the woman rolled up her banner and everyone returned home happy, leaving Jemma to manufacture an article, one that wouldn’t cause the population of Monksford to fall asleep in their cornflakes.

  She rose to the challenge and wrote with passion and clarity, and with a few well-placed words, the odd bending of the truth here and there, she turned a nonevent into an occasion. She allowed herself a little smidgen of pride. She felt like a real journalist.

  After it was published in the Monksford Gazette, she’d driven to Yorkshire to show this, her very first proper article, to he
r grandfather. She sat in front of him, feeling like a child who had just given her parents her school report. She watched his face, searching for his reaction, desperate for the old Yorkshireman’s approval.

  Finally, he folded the paper and gave it back to her. ‘It’s a very fine article, lass.’

  Jemma knew that already. She didn’t need an assessment of its technical competence; she needed to know that he liked it.

  ‘Would you have accepted it? Would it have been good enough for the Yorkshire Mail when you were there?’

  ‘Aye, as I said, it’s a fine article. Is all of it true?’

  ‘What do you mean by true?’

  He chuckled. ‘I mean did it all ’appen as you’ve written it? Did people actually say what you’ve quoted? Did you double-check their names? And if one of them people that was there read it, would they say, “Yes. That is how it was”?’

  Jemma squirmed. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘There’s no substitute for honesty in this business. Oh, I know journalists have a reputation for making it all up, but the best journalists, the very best, are the ones people know they can trust. They’re the people folks pick up the phone and talk to when something happens. Integrity – that’s what matters, and it’s even more important when you work in the town where you live.’

  Jemma blushed. She knew that when those two elderly women, the guy with blond dreadlocks, the man walking his Westie, or Councillor Fry, picked up their copy of the Monksford Gazette, they certainly wouldn’t recognise that ‘packed meeting’ where local residents ‘raised their voices in protest’.

  ‘Oh, and never use the word “probe”; that’s what gynaecologists do, and boats are launched, inquiries are not.’

  ‘So those words never appeared in the Yorkshire Mail?’

  ‘ “Not on my shift,” as they say.’ He laughed and the laugh turned into a crackling cough. He reached for the oxygen mask beside him and inhaled as deeply as his damaged lungs would allow.

  ‘Be truthful, accurate, and fair. Truth is often more boring than fiction, but it’s your duty to be truthful. And if someone tells you something in confidence, don’t break their trust, however good the story. They will never come back to you if you do. You may get a story that sells papers, but will you be able to live with your conscience?’