The Art of Standing Still (19 page)

The man's eyelids fluttered, then opened. His lips moved as he tried to speak. Jemma moved in closer to hear was he was saying.

The man whispered a name. The name was ‘Jemma'.

Scene Thirteen

RUTH SAT AT HER DESK, SORTING THROUGH THE BOX OF PHOTOGRAPHS SHE
had found in Mother's room. Most of the early ones were black and white: Her parents at a dinner dance, her mother in a satin gown with a wide skirt and a shawl collar, her father in a double-breasted suit. Her mother had curled her copper-coloured hair, and her father was smiling shyly.

Her parents' wedding day, mid-January with snow on the ground. Her mother, dressed in a navy skirt-suit, the jacket cut full to hide the baby.

The following June, her parents in the garden, her father cradling a bundle swaddled in a blanket, smiling proudly.

A camping holiday, the baby now a toddler, hair in bunches, and another swaddled bundle, her brother, Roy.

Her father astride his Norton motorcycle, Ruth standing proudly next to him, with her hand on the tank. She was about eight, probably the year he died.

Ruth and Roy at the seaside. Staying with Auntie Joyce while mum had Susan. Another holiday, Margate, possibly. Uncle Fred had taken the photo. She and Roy had been fighting and both looked sulky. Sue was about two. Her mother looked pale and exhausted. There was very little help for single parents in those days, even widowed mothers with three small children. No wonder she looked so tired.

Teenage years – hippy skirts and flared jeans, platform shoes. She looked self-conscious. Ruth and some friends at a funfair, standing next to a roller coaster at
Dreamland
. She was holding her friends' coats and bags beside the gargantuan roller coaster. She hadn't quite mustered the courage herself to go on it but watched while Julie and Paul, Caro, and Tim screamed and shrieked. Vicarious entertainment.

Her first dance – at the Palais, wearing a maxi-skirt and a lime green blouse with ridiculously long collars. Ruth had always thought of herself as a fat teenager, but these photos, taken before the days of digital manipulation, refused to corroborate her memories.

Bryan Smith, at twenty, had been her first real boyfriend. She stood next to his car, a Triumph Spitfire, grinning proudly. She would have done anything to have married him, but he never asked. Her mother cried when they broke up. She so wanted to see Ruth walk down the aisle.

Eastbourne, the last holiday she and mother had taken, just after they had found out the final dose of chemo hadn't worked. They wanted to go away, have fun before . . . before . . . It had rained all week in Eastbourne.

A biography captured in photographs. An existence of almost, nearly, not quite. There were reservations in every picture. It was as if life came with a caveat. It was never perfect. She had spent her early years wishing her father alive, her teenage years wishing herself thin, and her twenties wishing herself married. Most of her thirties, she had struggled through university and ordination, wishing herself qualified, and more recently, wishing her sick mother well. That wish hadn't come true either. Now she was qualified and ordained and resigned to the idea that she would never be thin. Watching her friends and siblings on their second and third divorces she was glad she had never married. She and Dimitri made a good couple; very few demands on either side.

What was life all about? Perhaps she was better off as she was. Perhaps this half-life, with a little pain and not very much pleasure was preferable to the emotional roller coaster that had driven more than one acquaintance to alcohol, drugs, or suicide. Did it matter that she had never screamed with terror or felt the wind in her hair? She helped people. She had a faith that sustained her, good friends, and a job that was worthwhile. And her hobbies – golf, gardening, and now the mystery plays that had taught her so much and brought so many interesting people into her life. On top of all that, she was well thought of, a pillar of the community, a brick, a good egg.

Tears ran down her cheeks. Suddenly it did matter. It mattered very much. She had been ‘Miss play-it-safe' all her life; now, at forty-eight, she longed for danger. Finally, nearing the menopause, she felt she was just reaching puberty. She must be a late bloomer. The thought made her smile.
She tucked the photographs back in the drawer and tidied her desk. She would book a haircut and, against all her frugal, utilitarian principles, a manicure and a facial. She reached for a tissue and wiped her eyes. It wasn't too late for a new start. Life begins at forty-eight.

SHE LIKED TO BE FOUND ON HER KNEES PRAYING IN CHURCH. NOT IN SOME KIND
of pharisaical way, but so that people knew that she prayed. Prayer is something so personal, so silent and solitary, that no one can tell that you are doing it at all. In the same way that someone can only tell you're breathing when you sigh or snore, they can only tell if you pray aloud (only practical in a worship meeting) or if you show it by your body language. Ruth was surprised at how much spending some time in prayer had cheered her up. She seemed to have so many more people to pray for these days. There was Raj for a start; and Eliza Feldman; Josh and that reporter, Jemma; Ronnie and Harlan and how she was going to tell them about the music; Bram and his farm. That was in addition to all the usual people and things she prayed for. She ended with the Lord's Prayer, got up, and turned round to find Alistair Fry sitting in a front pew, watching her.

‘Oh! You startled me!' She put her hands to her chest.

‘Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.'

‘How long were you there?'

‘I arrived somewhere between Mrs Wainthrop's shingles and “Our Father”.'

She had not prayed aloud. How did he know? He was holding a parish magazine, open to the page ‘for your prayers'. Of course she would pray the Lord's Prayer, everyone did. Even so, she felt odd that he knew what was happening inside her head. It both comforted and frightened her.

‘What do you want?' Her heart had stopped racing, but she couldn't help feeling angry. It was almost like being stalked.

‘You.'

‘Pardon?'

‘I want you. Come on, we're going out.'

What was he thinking? He took her hand but she pulled it away.

‘What about Amanda?'

‘Oh, she didn't want to come.'

‘You asked her?'

‘Of course!'

‘You told her you were taking me out?'

‘She thought it was a good idea, said you'd been working too hard and could do with a bit of pampering. Unfortunately, she had to go to Ashford this morning and said she wouldn't be back in time.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Absolutely. Come on, I've packed a picnic; I even polished the car this morning.'

‘A picnic, but it's the middle of November.'

‘Which is why I've included a flask of oxtail soup, warm pasties, and apple pie with custard. Besides, the sun's shining and it's not that cold. Anyway, I want to talk to you.'

‘What about?'

‘We have a little problem that needs sorting out. Or should I say two little problems – Harlan Westacre and Ronnie Mardle.'

Ruth groaned.

‘That's what I thought. So we're going out, blow the cobwebs away, and put the world to rights. Well, a very small corner of it anyway. What do you think?'

Ruth grinned. ‘Why not.'

The midnight-blue Mercedes was polished like a mirror. Ruth really could see her reflection in it. It distorted her and made her look even plumper than she really was. Her confidence almost deserted her, and she was ready to call the whole excursion off. But she had made herself a promise. She wasn't going to let life pass her by; she would seize it with both hands. She was going to ride that roller coaster.

‘Where shall we go?' asked Alistair.

‘Not too far. I've got a busy afternoon. How about by the river?'

‘Can't you think of anywhere more adventurous than the river?'

In truth she couldn't.

‘Come on, what's your favourite place?'

‘Around here?' She thought for a moment. ‘The abbey ruins. Very atmospheric. Especially if we're going to talk about the Mysteries.'

‘Hmm, about as exotic as the river.' Alistair's voice betrayed a hint of irritation.

‘But I like the abbey ruins. You asked me where I wanted to go, and I told you. We don't have to go anywhere if you don't want to. We could have the picnic here in the graveyard.' She folded her arms, surprised at her assertiveness.

‘Okay, Monksford Abbey it is.' He held the door of the Mercedes open for her, and she climbed into the passenger seat. She sank into the sandy-coloured leather upholstery. The car smelt clean and fresh, unlike the rancid smell of rotting fruit and general grime that seemed to pervade her car.

‘Nice car,' she said.

‘Thanks. I didn't have you down as the materialistic type. I wouldn't have thought you'd have been so easily impressed.'

‘When you drive a 1988 Ford Fiesta, believe me, this is impressive.'

They drove the mile from St Sebastian's to the abbey in near silence. Ruth studied Alistair as he drove. He seemed tense, his jaw clenched. He looked tired, and the lines around his eyes seemed a little more pronounced. In her fifteen years of listening to people, Ruth had learnt to read their faces. If she hadn't known better, she would have assumed he was a worried man. His knuckles were white as he gripped the wheel, and he muttered under his breath as he applied the brakes to avoid Mr Giddings, on his bicycle, who swerved out into his path.

‘Is everything all right, Alistair?'

‘Of course.' He laughed. ‘I'm away from the office and the chambers, the sun's shining, and I have the company of one of my best friends. What could possibly be wrong?'

He parked the car on a strip of grass. A flock of Canada geese flew up from the river and passed overhead, making a terrible racket.

Ruth put her hands over her ears. ‘Worse than being on the flight path from Gatwick!'

She helped Alistair unload the hamper and a rug from the car. The wind was freshening and the sky had darkened. The limestone abbey ruins seemed to have taken on a silvery sheen that made them stand out in sharp contrast to the dark grey clouds. She shivered.

‘Let's find a sheltered place. Look – over here behind these stones.' He spread the rug on the grass in a little alcove, sheltered on three sides by the remains of the abbey walls. Ruth sat on the ground, pulling her coat close and hugging her knees. Alistair sat next to her and opened the hamper. The feast was just as sumptuous as Alistair had promised with sandwiches of gammon and mustard and roast beef and horseradish. The pasties had been wrapped in foil then placed in an insulating bag. Alistair handed one to her, and she unwrapped it and bit into it gratefully. He poured them both a mug of oxtail soup.

‘What are we going to do about the quite hideously, disgustingly awful mockery that passes as music in our lovely medieval masterpieces?' he asked.

‘More's the point, how are we going to deal with it and still have Ronnie and Harlan talking to us at the end of it?'

‘Do we care if they're still talking to us?'

‘Yes, Alistair, I do care.'

‘Yes, of course.'

Ruth picked up a hot chicken drumstick and waved it at him like a baton. ‘The best way to make anyone change their mind is to make them
think they thought of it themselves.'

‘Ah, psychology,' Alistair said.

‘Precisely.'

‘And,' Alistair picked up his own drumstick, ‘we could do it by suggesting an alternative. Something so toe-curlingly appalling they'll fall into line and do what we want. Did you find any more suitable music in the library?'

‘Yes. Some lovely medieval choral stuff. It would be just perfect.'

‘Great. Well done. Now how could we persuade them?'

‘We could record their music and play it back to them so that they can hear how dreadful it sounds.'

‘We could, but they hear it when they rehearse. It sounds dreadful but they don't seem to notice.'

‘What about getting Ronnie to Harlan's rehearsal and Harlan to his?'

‘World War Three!'

Ruth laughed. He was right, though. And that would be the end of the mystery plays.

‘I love it when you laugh.'

Ruth felt her cheeks warm.

‘I mean it. It brightens my day.'

‘Your day won't be very bright unless we hatch a plot to sort this mess out.'

‘Hang on! I think I've got it.'

‘What?'

‘We could choose some outrageously inappropriate song. “The Birdie Song” or something similar and insist they incorporate it . . . ,' he said.

‘Or we could just take along this beautiful CD, say we appreciate the work they're putting in but that the two sections Old and New Testaments are just too dissimilar, then politely hand them the manuscripts.'

‘We could. Then what?'