The Art of Standing Still (15 page)

‘Look it up.'

‘What?'

‘In the Bible – Matthew 16. You have got a Bible, haven't you?'

Jemma growled in frustration. ‘Don't you dare throw Bible verses at me. If you want to talk to me, you can explain properly in words I can understand.'

‘How's this? I am not a hero. Jesus is. I don't want to be on the front of the
Monksford Gazette.
I want him to be. I don't want people talking about me. I want them talking about him. What I did was nothing. Zero. Compared with what he did. I prolonged one man's earthly life for possibly a few years. Jesus forfeited his life so we could live forever. Do you understand?'

‘No.' said Jemma. She was getting cold, standing out here discussing metaphysics with this man. ‘Besides he's been dead for two thousand years!'

‘No, he hasn't!'

‘Of course he has! It's there in the play. You should know. Christ's death on the cross.'

‘No, you should know. What about his resurrection and appearance to Mary Magdalene.'

‘This is all real to you, isn't it?' Jemma studied Josh's face. He wasn't just acting in a play; he was living another man's life.

‘Yes,' he said softly.

‘Look, I'm sorry I used your story like that. I should have asked first.'

‘Yes, you should have.'

‘I've apologised. I meant it.'

‘Okay, just don't do it again.'

‘Well don't go rescuing anyone else from burning buildings.'

Josh shook his head. ‘I meant I don't want to see anything else about me emblazoned across the local press.'

‘I promise.' Before he could stop her, she gave him a peck on the cheek. He looked startled and put his hand to his face, as if she had slapped him. She turned and walked into the church hall. She didn't look back, because she didn't want him to see the smirk on her face.

The second half of the rehearsal went better than the first. Josh had relaxed, and there was more warmth between them. Ruth had grabbed a Bible, and they blocked out the scene where Martha and Mary took Jesus to Lazarus's tomb. Some mourners were cast in role, and the company performed the shortest yet most profound verse in the Bible: ‘Jesus wept.'

At the end of the rehearsal everyone looked happier. Alistair and Ruth seemed deep in conversation, the woman playing Martha had flown off to relieve babysitters, and the disciples and Jewish leaders had disappeared to the Blue Bell.

‘Do you want to join them at the pub, or do you want a lift home?' Jemma asked Josh.

‘Home, I think.' He sighed. ‘I'm back to work tomorrow. Not that I can do much with these.' He looked at his hands with the white dressings covering both palms.

Jemma drove down the High Street, but instead of continuing to the bypass she turned left into the Todbourne Road.

‘I think you've taken the wrong turn,' Josh said.

‘I don't think I have,' said Jemma.

‘You were supposed to be taking me home.'

‘I am, you just didn't specify whose home.'

‘Stop the car!'

‘Josh, what's the matter?' She pulled up to the kerb, flicked the key to silence the engine, clicked the catch on her seatbelt, and turned to face him.

‘You know exactly what the matter is.' He swivelled in his seat to face her.

‘My home is very nice,' she wheedled.

‘Jemma, what are you playing at?'

As if he didn't know
, thought Jemma. ‘Well, I like you and I think you like me . . . and I thought we could go back to my place for a coffee and . . .'

‘And what?'

‘You know.' She furrowed her brow. Was he being deliberately stupid? ‘Do I need to spell it out?'

‘You're doing it again, aren't you?'

‘What?'

‘You're assuming you know what I want. I thought after our conversation earlier that you'd understand.'

‘Don't I?' She placed her hand on his knee. He moved it back to hers.

‘You have absolutely no idea who I am or even what's important to me, and frankly, I don't think you care enough to find out.' He turned and stared through the passenger window.

Jemma sat there for a moment with her hand over her mouth. If she hadn't, her jaw might have dropped and left her sitting there, gaping like a goldfish in the Kalahari. What young, good-looking, red-blooded male in his right mind would turn down an offer of . . . That was it!

‘I'm so sorry. You're gay. I didn't realise . . . I just thought . . .'

‘I am not gay!' He glared at her. ‘Why do people assume that just because I'm not jumping into bed with everything in a skirt that I'm gay? Five years ago I would have taken you up on your offer – like a shot. A year ago, maybe, even six months ago I would have given it serious consideration, but not now. I've changed.'

Jemma was just about to ask, ‘From what into what?' when he started to speak again. He took her hand and looked into her eyes. ‘I know it's just not right for me to do that any more. Oh, it's not that I don't want to. It's a matter of respect. Respect for you, for me, and for what God wants.'

Jemma felt her anger rising. How dare he patronise her like this, and how could he be so arrogant as to say he knows what God wants?

‘What about what I want?'

He looked away.

Who was he? Mr Morality? Practically perfect and a mindreader too? She refastened her seatbelt and started the engine. Her tyres squealed as she hauled on the steering wheel and executed an inelegant seven-point turn, just missing the opposite kerb. They sat in silence as she drove, foot to the floor, along the High Street. She didn't slow down for the speed camera. She was beyond caring. A sixty-pound fine couldn't make her feel any worse. When they arrived outside Josh's house, she jammed on the brakes so firmly their noses nearly touched the windscreen.

She leapt out of the driver's seat, slamming the door hard. After she went round to the passenger door and wrenched it open, Josh climbed out. He had hardly closed the door before Jemma revved the engine and took off down the road. She didn't slow down on the way back, bringing the car to a sliding halt with the assistance of the handbrake on the gravel next to the towpath.

Her mobile phone rang. She let it. It might be Richard. Or Josh.

She might as well have brewed a triple espresso for all the sleep she would get tonight, but instead, she tucked herself into bed with a mug of camomile tea. Two seconds later curiosity overcame her and she checked her voicemail. It wasn't Richard; it was Josh and the message was only two words: ‘I'm sorry.'

Jemma lay in bed, replaying the conversation. He had talked about respect. She wasn't sure how refusing to sleep with someone showed that you respected them. And the God stuff! People who were Christians must have sex, surely? Does God not like it? Her RE teacher at school was at great pains to point out that God had created sex and made it beautiful, even commanding Adam and Eve to go out and reproduce. Perhaps God had changed his mind since then. She rolled over and switched off the bedside lamp. The moonlight on the water projected ripples on the ceiling. She watched the undulating pattern, trying to fall asleep, but a series of thoughts flowed through her consciousness, each one, as it moved downstream, being replaced by another, until she felt as if her mind would be washed away by the current.

Josh's apology had softened her anger, but as she thought about it, she realised it wasn't him who needed to say sorry. She imagined the roles were reversed. If any man made the same assumptions she had just made, she'd have labelled him as a lech.

She pressed the call button. There was a long delay before Josh answered. She wondered if she had woken him.

‘Hi, it's me.'

‘I thought it might be. You took your time calling back.' He didn't sound sleepy.

‘I've been thinking.'

‘And what have you been thinking about.'

‘Us.'

‘Oh.'

Jemma couldn't make out what ‘oh' meant.

‘I just wanted to apologise for coming on to you like that. You're right. We should take things more slowly, get to know each other properly. Before . . .'

‘Before what?'

‘Josh. Stop playing games will you? You know exactly what I mean. We're both adults here.'

‘We are.'

‘I said, stop it! It feels like you're judging me.' Her anger rose again.

‘Jemma, I have never judged you. And I'm sorry if anything I've said has made you feel . . .'

‘Look, I know I've slept with men. It doesn't make me a bad person.'

‘I never said it did.'

‘It's all right for you. I don't suppose you've ever done anything wrong. Just don't accuse me . . . of . . . of . . .'

‘What did I accuse you of?'

‘Nothing. Nobody has accused me of anything. It's just me.' Jemma's brain was reeling. ‘Look, Josh, I'm tired. I'll call you later. Goodnight.'

And before he could say anything, she pressed the button and ended the call.

Scene Eleven

RUTH WAS HEARTENED THAT SO MANY OF THE COMMUNITY OF MONKSFORD HAD
become involved in the plays. But so much of her time was taken up with the mysteries that she had time for little more than the weekly services and the occasional deanery and diocesan meeting. When Peter, her bishop, asked to see her, she feared the worst. Even as she brewed tea before his arrival, her hands shook, and when the front door bell rang, she jumped.

The Right Reverend Dr Peter Croxted filled the doorway. As usual, he was five minutes late. He took her hand, and she felt his beard brush her face as he kissed her on the cheek.

‘Peter, come in; make yourself at home.'

Dimitri opened one eye. Bishop Peter tickled him under the chin with one sausage-like finger, before folding his huge frame into Ruth's largest armchair. She handed him a mug of tea. He fished in his briefcase and pulled out a packet of chocolate biscuits.

‘Jenny thought you might need these.' He opened the packet and spilled the contents on the tray.

‘Tell your wife she's a star,' Ruth said.

‘Are you sure you're all right, Ruth?' His face was suddenly serious. ‘You look rather tired, and it's not long since your mother . . .'

‘I'm fine, Peter. I just feel a little . . . guilty. You know, “messing around” with the plays and neglecting the ministry.'

‘Why do we do this job, Ruth? To attend endless meetings or to share the Good News of Christ?'

Ruth smiled. ‘Sometimes it feels like the former! But I do have a sense of vocation.'

Peter's eyes twinkled. ‘Glad to hear it! And the plays?'

‘All part of it. It sounds funny, but I believe God can use these plays to change people, the cast and crew, the people of Monksford, and to change me.'

‘Good. I share your vision – taking the gospel outside the walls of the church and into the community. That's what it's all about. In a way I envy you. As long as you keep things ticking over in the parish. I'm looking forward to being in the audience. A few years ago, I would have been up there on the stage.'

Ruth couldn't hide her surprise.

‘Oh yes, I've done Shakespeare, Ibson, Brecht. I once had a major part in
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. I've been told,' he leaned towards her conspiratorially, ‘that my Bottom was to die for.'

Half an hour later, she waved goodbye to Bishop Peter, locked her front door, and headed for St Sebastian's.

Inside, she picked up her digital camera, nudged the vestry door, and went into the church. The east side, which had escaped the fire of 1852, contained what she had been told was the most beautiful medieval stained glass outside York Minster. She had to agree.

She gazed at the east window, a scene of Christ's crucifixion dating from the thirteenth century, studying the image of torture and triumph, of pain and victory. It showed the Roman soldiers, not wearing the traditional
lorica segmentata
, crested helmet and tunic, but dressed as medieval knights. Next to it was the Annunciation window with the Virgin Mary in a green gown with a brown cloak. Her hair hung loose and uncovered, to signify she was unmarried.

Ruth sighed with disappointment. Dreary weather had caused the sun to fail in its duty to illuminate the coloured glass, so she checked the flash was switched on and pressed the shutter button. On the screen, the beautiful, ancient scenes looked dull and flat. The images that, at times, had the power to move her to tears resembled a badly coloured painting-by-numbers set.

Returning to the vestry, she printed out the photographs, then held them up and studied them one by one. ‘So this is what you wore in your Corpus Christi pageants, is it, medieval Monksfordians?'

They did not answer. Their images, more permanent than photographs, more luminous than oil paintings had been vitrified and preserved – a moment caught in fragments of coloured glass. But they could speak only through their stillness.

She had begged, borrowed, and hired costumes from local Shakespearean societies and a drama club near Canterbury that regularly staged productions of the
Canterbury Tales
, but she still needed to have most custom made.

In response to Jemma's plea in the
Monksford Gazette
, a woman called Eliza Feldman had left a message, in the wavering voice of the very old, on the vicarage answering machine. Ruth jotted down the address on a scrap of paper and set off for Todbourne Heath to visit Eliza.

As she left Monksford, a watery attempt at sunshine spilled over the horizon. ‘You're too late,' she muttered.

The Todbourne Road joined the bypass at a roundabout. There had been yet another accident. The traffic was snarled up and Ruth had to push her way round the cars to get across. The other side of the bypass, when the traffic had cleared and the road ran parallel to the river, Ruth wound down her window and breathed in the country air. Although it was bitterly cold, she couldn't bear to be confined in the car.