The Art of Standing Still Page 9

  ‘Surely, there are some occasions . . .’

  ‘Truthful, accurate, and fair. If he’s behaved like a scoundrel, and you have the evidence, call him a scoundrel. Ain’t nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘I think I understand.’

  ‘And another thing, don’t drink, not while you’re writing. You hear stories about the genius of the alcohol-soaked Fleet Street hack. Don’t you even think of trying it. Only the really clever ones get away with writing while they’re inebriated, Jeffrey Bernard and his ilk. If you try it, you’ll write rubbish, I can promise you that.’

  Jemma wasn’t very impressed with the ‘compliment’ but she knew he was right.

  ‘And never smoke either.’ His face split into a broad grin. ‘I learnt that the hard way. Didn’t affect my writing but by ’eck has it affected my life.’

  Jemma had taken his advice. At least, most of the time. Mohan and the subeditors had even complimented her on the freshness of her writing. Avoid clichés like the plague, she chuckled to herself.

  JEMMA TOOK A LITTLE EXTRA CARE OVER HER MAKEUP, TOUCHING UP HER LIP gloss and brushing her hair to a sheen. Tonight she would finally stand on stage opposite Josh. She had spent her lunch breaks poring over her script and evenings watching the others rehearse, but tonight was her turn, play number twenty-four of the cycle, where Jesus visits the house of Martha and Mary.

  At the last rehearsal, Ruth Wells had pointed out that Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, almost certainly wasn’t the same Mary as Mary Magdalene. But Jemma barely paid attention. She was thinking of all the time she could spend admiring the magnificent Josh. Besides, they all seemed to be called Mary back then, so what was the difference?

  She arrived early at the church hall and immediately scanned the room for Josh. He wasn’t there so she took out her notebook and found a disciple to interview. The disciples seemed to have been chosen for their abundant facial hair, rather than any outstanding acting ability. Unfortunately, she got cornered by a disciple with bad breath who was keener to tell her about his ferret-breeding programme than he was to discuss the play.

  The door swung open, and a sheepishly grinning Josh entered with a young woman. Jemma bristled. Who was she? Then she noticed Josh’s hands were wrapped in bandages. The disciples, John the Baptist, and Lazarus stopped their conversation and rushed over to him. Jemma joined them.

  ‘Hey, I’ve never been mobbed before! Wow, I know how Brad Pitt feels!’

  ‘What happened to you?’ asked Jemma.

  The woman standing next to him laughed. ‘Hero of the hour, aren’t you, Josh?’

  Josh shrugged and gave the woman a peck on the cheek. ‘Thanks for the lift Loraine, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  She placed a bag on a chair and waved as she left.

  ‘What happened?’ Jemma repeated.

  ‘There was a fire at work this morning. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard.’

  ‘But I was there! I didn’t see you.’

  The man playing Simon Peter stepped closer. ‘Too busy rescuing people, probably.’

  ‘I didn’t really rescue anyone,’ Josh protested. ‘In fact, all I did was try to put out the fire. It was a totally brainless thing to do.’

  ‘You put the fire out?’ Jemma’s mouth hung open. How had she missed all this?

  ‘No. I tried to put the fire out. The Kent Fire and Rescue Ser vice did the job properly.’

  ‘Did you see how it started?’ Jemma was in ‘news-hound’ mode.

  ‘No. I think perhaps someone had sneaked out for a crafty cigarette. There are notices everywhere, but you know, I’d probably have done the same a few years ago. We store all sorts of chemicals in the warehouse – paints, paint strippers, aerosols . . .’

  ‘Good job you noticed it, the whole place could have gone up,’ John the Baptist said.

  ‘I did spot the smoke,’ Josh said, ‘but it was probably only a matter of time before the alarm was raised – it’s a DIY store, we sell hundreds of smoke detectors.’

  ‘So what did you do?’ Jemma licked her fingers and turned to a clean page in her notebook.

  ‘Well, I yelled for someone to call the fire service; then I grabbed an extinguisher.’

  The questions came thick and fast. Jemma couldn’t keep up with who was speaking.

  ‘Is it true you rescued a bloke?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Josh grinned.

  ‘He’s a hero!’

  The audience gasped. Josh just shook his head. ‘I didn’t do anything, really.’

  ‘Was he all right?’

  ‘Was the fire out?’

  Josh held up his hand. The crowd was all calling out at once.

  ‘How’s the man now?’

  Harlan Westacre walked through the barrage of questions, tapping her clipboard to gain their attention. ‘Gentlemen and ladies, if I could have your atten — ’ She gaped at Josh and clapped her hands to the sides of her face. She reminded Jemma of Munch’s The Scream. ‘Great Scot! What happened to you?’ The rehearsal was delayed another five minutes while Josh told his story to Harlan.

  Jemma put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Please, can I have an exclusive interview tonight? Please? Oh, please, say I can.’ She sounded like a whining child; she didn’t care. ‘I’ll buy you a drink afterwards.’

  ‘I don’t know about an interview, but I like the sound of the drink.’ Josh grinned and climbed onto the stage.

  Jemma sat down and jotted notes on what she had already gleaned from Josh, taking only a vague interest as the actors read through their lines. John the Baptist and the man whose sandals he was not worthy to tie were discussing who should baptise whom.

  FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER THE REHEARSAL ENDED, JEMMA AND JOSH MADE THEIR way through the saloon bar at the Fruiterer’s Arms. While Jemma collected her cola and Josh’s orange juice from the bar, Josh made his way to a small oak table in the corner by a window. She sighed as she headed towards him a few minutes later. Orange juice and cola? They were not exactly going to be in for a wild night.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could get me a straw, could you?’ Josh sounded slightly pathetic. He was in a helpless state, and she hoped it would translate into an interview. Although the paper didn’t employ night staff, she could email the draft, head in early, and have the revised article on Mohan’s desk by nine, making the deadline easily. ‘A straw? Be happy to,’ she said, smiling, and headed back to the bar.

  ‘So, let’s have the full story.’ Now seated across from him, she pulled open a packet of crisps. She offered the open packet to Josh, only realizing too late she would have to feed him should he decide to eat one. She breathed a sigh of relief when he shook his head.

  ‘Well, I’d just come back from my break and was heading into the warehouse when I first saw the smoke. I’d gone in to restock with paint stripper. At first it didn’t seem too bad. Just some smoke coming from the cage where we put the wastepaper and card. I raised the alarm and grabbed an extinguisher; then I realised someone was there, between the cage and the shelves. An old man, slumped against some paint tins. To be honest, I thought he was dead.’ Josh paused to take a drink.

  Jemma realised she had been so absorbed in his tale that she had forgotten to make notes. ‘Go on.’ She pulled her chair closer and sat with her pen poised above her notebook.

  ‘If you’re sure I’m not boring you.’

  Jemma shook her head. ‘No way!’ This would make great copy.

  ‘I’d no idea who he was – he doesn’t work there or anything – so I grabbed hold of the cage and pulled it to one side so I could get him out. Of course the metal cage was hot.’ He held up his bandaged hands. ‘That’s how I did this.’

  Jemma winced. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Er . . . yeah!’

  It was a stupid question, and she tried to cover it with another, more sensible question. ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I suppose the fire ser vice will investigate. I don’t think I’ll be back to work for
a few days.’

  ‘How will you manage?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m sure Loraine will lend a hand – literally.’

  ‘Girlfriend?’ She could have kicked herself for being so obvious.

  ‘No, a neighbour. We help each other out. And you’re driving me home. I’m very grateful for that.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jemma wished she could take the rest of the week off to be with Josh so he could be even more grateful. Two things prevented it – Mohan, and it was too soon after Richard even to think about another relationship.

  ‘Do you mind if we go soon? I’m getting a bit tired. I’ve had an eventful day.’

  They walked back to Jemma’s car, and she helped to fasten his seatbelt. She drove him down a narrow lane on the west side of Monksford, just off the High Street, on the other side of the bypass. He nodded towards a red brick terraced house. She circled the car and opened the door for him; then they walked to the gate that separated the tiny front garden from the road. A light shone through a window near the front door.

  ‘Do you live with your parents?’ she blurted.

  He smiled. ‘No, light switch on a timer. We sell them at Abacus. Or we used to.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, then gave him a clumsy kiss on the cheek and hurried to the car.

  ‘Sorry,’ he called. ‘There’s one more thing you’re going to have to help me with.’

  ‘What?’ She spun around. What horribly personal and excruciatingly embarrassing task did he have in mind?

  ‘The key. I can’t open the door.’

  Jemma felt her cheeks warm as she reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a bunch of keys, and unlocked his front door.

  There was an awkward pause. In the normal run of events, Jemma would have expected him to invite her in for a drink, perhaps a coffee. One thing would lead to another, and she would creep out at six thirty in the morning, just in time to return home to shower and change before work.

  He didn’t invite her in. She was both disappointed and relieved. He must have been tired after his heroic escapade. She was still thinking about him when she arrived home and began rewriting the article.

  LOCAL HERO

  A worker at a DIY store took customer service to a new level yesterday when he saved the life of a man in a blaze at Abacus DIY 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. Brave employee, Joshua Wood, 32, had already got the fire under control and had managed to rescue the injured man who has not yet been named.

  ‘The fire didn’t look too bad,’ claimed Mr Wood. ‘I raised the alarm and grabbed an extinguisher, then I realised there was someone there, between the cage and the shelves, an old man, slumped against some shelves. To be honest I thought he was dead.’

  The fire service arrived to ensure the fire was completely extinguished. Crews wearing breathing apparatus searched the building and found no one else inside.

  Both the injured man and Mr Wood were taken to Monksford General Hospital, where Mr Wood was treated for burns to his hands.

  ‘He’s a hero!’ claimed a local resident. The Fire Service has recommended Mr Wood be nominated for a bravery award.

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

  JEMMA PRESSED THE SEND BUTTON, AND HER ARTICLE RUSHED THROUGH cyberspace to the PC on her desk at work. All she needed now was a photo of Josh. It was too late to ring Saffy; she would catch her in the morning.

  Smiling, Jemma got ready for bed. Things were definitely looking up. Her mind drifted, lulled by the gentle movement of the water and the occasional splash. Water fowl? Or was it the man in the dark coat and the pole with the strong hook on the end, a few hundred metres upstream?

  Scene Nine

  RUTH RAN HER FINGERS THROUGH HER HAIR IN FRUSTRATION. ‘ALISTAIR, I APPRECIATE what you are saying. The Middle English is very beautiful . . .’

  Alistair took a deep breath and began to recite,

  ‘Sirs, a tokenyng in this tyme I schall telle yoou vntill,

  But lokis by youre lewty no liffe yoe hym lenne:

  Qwhat man som I kys that corse schall ye kyll,

  And also beis ware that he will not away – I schrew you

  all thenne.’

  Ruth listened to his soft, rich voice as he spoke Judas’s words of betrayal. When he had finished, she said kindly, ‘It’s just that, well, it’s a bit highbrow – you know, exclusive.’

  An emotion she couldn’t identify shot across his face. Irritation perhaps? Sadness?

  ‘They were written in the common language, for the people,’ he said. ‘Tradesmen performed the mystery plays. All right, some of the guilds were pretty well-to-do – the Merchant Adventurers and the like, but most of them were typical working-class men. Of course, the women didn’t perform.’ He gave Ruth a wink. ‘The plays weren’t highbrow in the slightest!’

  ‘I know that, Alistair.’ Ruth wondered if he was serious, or if he was teasing her again. ‘This is a modern audience – they won’t understand it.’

  ‘Don’t you think we’re in danger of underestimating them? You know, looking for the lowest common denominator?’

  She thought of the good people of Monksford. In her experience, there was absolutely no danger of underestimating them. The lowest common denominator couldn’t possibly be too low or too common. Besides, the hours – no, weeks and months – she had spent translating it into modern English . . .

  She swallowed down her rising anger. She thought he supported her. He had certainly never expressed any misgivings; nor had he ever offered to help with the modernization.

  ‘This is a wonderful opportunity to experience history come to life,’ he said. ‘These plays are like time capsules. Medieval Monksford resurrected.’

  ‘It’s not just the history!’ Ruth swallowed her indignation. ‘What about the spiritual aspect? Most of the audience never set foot in a church. This is a chance to share the good news with them. This was their purpose in the first place.’

  ‘Watch out, Vicar, your dog collar’s showing!’ he said.

  She looked away to hide how much his jibe hurt her.

  The door of the hall swung open and Josh Wood entered. He appeared uncomfortable, holding his bandaged hands away from his body, a carrier bag suspended from each wrist.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Taxi was late. I’m rather at the mercy of other people’s transport at the moment.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ Ruth smiled. ‘Glad you could make it. Alistair and I were just talking.’

  Alistair gave a noncommittal grunt.

  Rather uncharacteristically, Ruth seized the opportunity to stick the knife in. She liked Alistair, but today he had annoyed her. No matter how fond she was of him, she was fonder still of the plays that had occupied her every spare moment for the last two years. ‘Alistair thinks we should perform the plays in their original language.’ Her bluntness surprised her, but to her satisfaction, Alistair started to backtrack.

  ‘I didn’t say that all the plays in the cycle should be performed in Middle English, just that it was a pity to lose the resonance of the ancient words. We’re breeding a spoon-fed, dumbed-down society where celebrities are our gods and The Sun is our literature. The symphony orchestras play only film scores, and the West End critics pan everything unless it contains ex-soap stars taking off their clothes. Education is all media studies and Information Technology with no room for the classics, and even in church – ’ He stopped abruptly. Ruth knew what he was going to say next. He was going to complain about the modern liturgy and Bible translations. He might even start on female vicars!

  ‘Go on, Alistair.’ Ruth could feel her cheeks burning again. ‘You were just about to tell us what’s wrong with the church.’

  ‘I was just going to say – ’ Alistair rubbed his palms down his trousers – ‘that people don’t attend in the way t
hey used to. We can no longer assume a common Christian heritage in this country.’

  Nicely sidestepped.

  ‘What’s your opinion?’ Alistair looked at Josh, who shot a glance at Ruth.

  He looked like a schoolboy, afraid to give the wrong answer, in case his classmates laughed at him. ‘I think that Jesus told his stories in the language that the people around him could understand. What’s more, the first Bibles – ’

  ‘Wycliffe and Tyndale,’ Ruth filled in for him.

  ‘ – were in the common language. I think we have a responsibility to make sure our performances are easily understood.’ He glanced from Ruth to Alistair. ‘But that’s just my opinion. And I think Ruth’s done a great job updating them. And I don’t think I could learn them in that old-fashioned language, even if I could understand it. It might be fine for the medieval merchant tailors and goldsmiths, but not for blokes that work in DIY shops.’

  Alistair’s expression said he was no longer bantering. ‘Our language is desecrated, our morality belongs in the gutter, and our countryside ruined . . .’

  A fine veil of perspiration broke out on his forehead. Ruth had never seen him like this before, so angry. They had touched a nerve. She found herself praying for wisdom, recalling the words from the Proverbs: ‘The wise in heart are called discerning, and pleasant words promote instruction.’ She needed to find the key to his reaction. She couldn’t face fighting about the script, and she couldn’t afford to have Alistair walk out. Then it came to her. She knew what was behind his tirade.

  ‘I’m sorry about the road,’ she said gently. For the second time Ruth found herself apologising for the bypass. ‘I know how hard you fought to stop it.’

  Alistair fell back in his chair, looking as if he had been hit in the stomach. ‘It’s mutilated the town . . . and there was nothing I could do about it.’ He hung his head.

  Bingo, thought Ruth.