The Art of Standing Still (25 page)

‘That's fantastic!' Ruth hugged him.

‘You have a saying that “God moves in mysterious ways”?'

Ruth nodded. ‘He certainly does.'

A lorry with a trailer full of scaffolding poles pulled into the yard. Raj made his excuses and ran over to supervise the delivery.

‘Now, Bram, can I have a proper tour this time?'

‘Anything for you, Ruth. Shall we start in the upper field then go down to the abbey?' He gestured towards a mud-spattered green Land Rover. She hitched up her skirt and climbed in. They jolted across the farmyard, and Ruth hopped down to open the gate to the upper field. The sky was clear and azure blue. She stood in the field breathing in the soft summer air. The disembodied voice of a lark sang somewhere above her. The breeze stroked her skin.

‘Grass needs mowing, of course. I'll have the lads do that before next week. And – ' he wiped his boot on a tussock – ‘I think I need to have someone clear up the manure.'

Ruth looked down, the perfect moment ruined. ‘That should be fine. Are we all right to go down to the lower field, by the abbey today? You haven't been spraying again, have you?'

‘Er, no . . . It's all clear this time.'

Ruth studied his face and fancied she saw the hint of a blush rising up from his shirt collar.

They left the Land Rover at the top of the hill and stumbled through the coarse tufty grass to the stage area at the bottom.

‘It's not very big, is it? I know the plays would most likely have been performed on waggons, even so, if we have people all the way up the hill, they're not going to see much.'

‘That's what your Rajinder bloke put up.'

Ruth shrugged. ‘So we're going to have the seating area cordoned off down here and the portable toilets set up at the top of the hill. What about the generators?'

‘Down here, near the stage.'

‘What about the noise?'

‘You won't hear it. It'll be behind the speakers, and we've got a fair humdinger of a PA system. It's so powerful that you'll be able to hear a mosquito sneeze. All the equipment arrived last week, and we've got the boys installing it at the weekend, ready for the dress rehearsal.'

Bram helped Ruth over the stile that linked the upper to the lower field. Despite holding his arm, and despite his stream of advice that sounded as if he was instructing his fork-lift driver how to stack the hay bales, she still caught her skirt on a piece of barbed wire and twisted her ankle climbing down. She rubbed her ankle and examined her skirt, muttering curses much milder than the ones she was thinking.

‘Good, so you're okay, then.' He scratched the back of his head, causing his trademark white Stetson to tilt over one eye. ‘Listen, I've just got to mosey on up and check on something in the upper field. I'll be back in two ticks.'

Ruth shook her head as he strode up the hill. Gathering herself, she limped to the abbey ruins where three vertical scaffolding poles had been erected, pointing upwards like fingers. She shivered as she imagined the crosspiece being hauled into position. She had heard from other actors who had played Christ that there was no problem simulating agony in crucifixion scenes. However the actor is attached, with ropes or harnesses, the experience of hanging on the cross is excruciatingly painful.

She suddenly felt sorry for Josh. It had been a difficult six months – first the fire, then the situation
with Jemma and Richard. She watched him sometimes in church, and it was evident he had taken on a huge burden. Apart from the physical exertion of rehearsing the plays, he seemed to be under mental stress. He would stop suddenly during a hymn, unable to sing the words, the prayers often brought a mist of sweat to his forehead. His enthusiasm for helping others seemed boundless. Every spare moment was spent at the old people's home or at the school or with troubled youngsters. She knew he was praying for Richard and visited him daily. She told him to slow down, to take some time for himself, but he did not heed her advice. Something was driving him, and it was stronger than either of them.

As for Jemma, Ruth felt sure she could see the first signs of a growing interest in the Christian faith, or was it a growing interest in Josh? She had started attending evensong, sitting close to Josh who attentively found every page in the hymnbooks and advised her when to kneel, when to stand, and when to join in with the responses. Ruth had felt a pang of jealousy – no man had ever shown her that degree of chivalry. She felt the familiar evangelical obligation to do an altar call, get Jemma to ‘sign on the dotted line'. However, one of the things she had learnt about Jemma was that she didn't like being put on the spot. So, instead, she had committed to praying for Jemma and asking God for the right people and the right opportunities to present themselves.

As the sun stood high over the abbey ruins, Ruth looked up at the triple arches – all that remained of the south wall – and felt the need to pray. Finally, and in spite of Alistair's sojourn outside her house, the stillness had returned, and Ruth felt profoundly grateful.

‘I said, are you ready to go?' Bram's voice jarred her back to the real world. ‘Looks like you were away with the fairies just then.'

‘Actually, I was praying,' Ruth said, rather haughtily.

‘Nice one, Vicar, send a couple up for me.'

Ruth wandered over to the fence that separated the lower field from the river. ‘Er . . . as I said, time's getting on – people to go, places to see.' Bram shuffled anxiously from one foot to the other.

Ruth forced a smile. She looked at the field, just grass and a barn. Nothing, as far as she could see, that warranted spraying.

‘I have, um . . . an important appointment, with my . . . accountant, and I really need to be getting back.'

‘What's that smell?' Ruth wrinkled her nose at the faint but sickening odour.

‘Nothing! Um . . . it must be coming from the river. Look, I really must insist we go home now.'

Ruth started walking ahead as they returned across the field to where the Land Rover was parked. She stopped at the stile and looked back towards the abbey.

‘Bram, what is in that field?'

‘Grass,' he said, shaking his head.

‘No, I mean what else?'

‘Nothing. I'm planning to graze it. I had to spray against mastitis.'

‘Oh, but what about that smell?'

‘What smell? I can't smell anything.'

Ruth sighed. Trying to get information out of Bram was like trying to get an old lady at a bus stop not to tell you about her latest operation – pointless and extremely frustrating.

The Land Rover bounced them back to the farmhouse and Ruth disembarked. Her ankle was stiff, and she would have to buy some blue sewing thread. She limped back to her own car. Bram was now in a slightly less ebullient mood.

‘It will be all right, Ruth. It'll all be all right.' She wasn't sure if he was trying to reassure him or herself.

Back in the sedate and slightly stuffy calm of the vicarage, Ruth couldn't help thinking about that smell. It was foul and putrid. She had smelt it before. But where?

She made herself a coffee and meandered, cup in hand, around the vicarage garden, dead-heading the Rambling Rector roses on her way. Her mother bought them as a joke when they moved in. She sniffed the scent, trying to expel that rank odour from her nostrils. It didn't seem to be working. As she threw the rose heads on the compost heap there was a scrambling and scuttling noise. She instinctively jumped back. Mice!

On the day that she and Mother had moved into the vicarage she remembered being greeted by the same scuttling and squeaking. That night, she had lain awake with the covers pulled up tight around her chin, listening for the signs that those vile little creatures were holding a welcome party. The next morning, she had hotfooted it to the hardware shop, bought up Mr Lightowler's entire stock of mouse-bait, and declared war on the vicarage's rodent population. She then spent the most nauseating week sweeping up tiny corpses from every nook and cranny.

Shortly after that, they decided to acquire a cat. It was only after Dimitri had arrived in the parish that she had managed to locate the sources of the stench to the bottom of the spare-room wardrobe, behind the boiler pipes in the kitchen, and the tinder pile in the drawing room log box.

It had been the same smell that had just turned her stomach in Bram's field. There was no escape from it; there was something dead and rotting in that field. Somehow she didn't think it was mice.

Scene Four

MOHAN WAS SMILING. HE WAS ACTUALLY SMILING. ‘WELL DONE, JEMMA,'
he said.

She smiled back. ‘Thank you, Mohan.'

Six months ago she would have given her right arm plus several other vital body parts to hear him say that. Now there were other things on her mind. Every day at work she felt like an android, a robohack automatic writing machine. Every day she counted the seconds until she could get back to the hospital to find out what gem, what nugget, what fresh revelation had emerged from Richard's fledgling memory banks. She glanced at her watch.

‘Am I keeping you?' Mohan tapped his foot against his desk drawer.

‘Sorry,' said Jemma.

‘Are you going to see Richard?'

Jemma nodded.

‘Okay, I won't delay you. I just wanted you to know. This has been one of the paper's most successful columns. Our readership and our advertising revenue are both up. Of course, I can't put it all down to your work, but judging by reader letters and the amount of businesses that have backed these mystery plays, you've done a good job. He shuffled some printed emails on his desk. Even the “powers that be” have noticed.'

Jemma started edging towards the door.

‘If we decided to appoint a new senior reporter, your name's in the frame.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Give my regards to Richard, won't you?'

‘Of course. He'd like to see you some time, you know.'

‘Yes, yes, I promise. It's just so difficult to get away. You know what it's like.'

Jemma nodded, then scuttled out of Mohan's office, right into the path of Saffy Walton. Although, with Josh's encouragement, she had pledged to be nicer to Saffy, now was neither the time nor the place.

‘Jemma, I wonder if you have a moment.'

If this were my last moment on earth, I would rather spend it being
savaged by a rabid gerbil than spend it with you
, Jemma thought. She composed her features into a sweet facsimile of a smile. Josh would have been so proud of her.

‘Of course, Saffy. I am in rather a hurry, but a minute or two won't make any difference. What can I do for you?'

‘Well, I've always admired your fashion sense, and you know I've always looked up to you when it comes to style.'

This was news to Jemma. Saffy always seemed to have dressed using the leftovers from
the Girl Guides Jumble Sale.

‘So I wanted to ask your opinion on this.' Saffy began to pull up her jumper and pull down the waistband of her trousers, exposing rather too much of the top of her thong for Jemma's liking. Jemma fought the urge to yell, ‘Stop!' before Saffy undressed any further. Looking carefully, she could see a cluster of little blue butterflies, tattooed at the top of Saffy's right buttock.

If there was one thing Jemma hated, it was tattoos, especially on women. Human graffiti – ugly, common, and invariably carried out by mindless morons high on drink or drugs. Judging by the redness and inflammation, it was a recent acquisition. What to say? Fortunately, Saffy couldn't see Jemma's initial reaction of disgust. By the time she had rearranged her clothing, Jemma's expression was back to normal.

‘They're butterflies,' explained Saffy, unnecessarily. ‘Butterflies mean birth, freedom, beauty, and nature.'

‘Really!'

‘Yes, and some ancient Mexican tribes use it to symbolise a good harvest in the summer. I chose the purples, greens, and blues because they're my favourite colours. Air and water colours – that's me.'

A complete airhead and a bit of a drip
, thought Jemma. She searched for the nicest thing she could think of to say. ‘Saffy, I can honestly say, that if I was thinking of having a tattoo, I would have one exactly like that.'

‘You would?' Saffy's eyes were shining.

‘You bet!' said Jemma. ‘Now, I'm sorry, but I really must go.'

‘Of course.'

Jemma glanced at her watch as she jogged up the stairs to the car park. She had hoped to be there by now. Richard would be expecting her.

She thrust her car into gear and put her foot down. The tyres gave a little squeak of protest as she accelerated out of the car park. She wound down the window, then wound it back up again as she passed the meat-processing factory. Goodness knows what kind of meat they were producing; she wouldn't be eating any of it.

Richard, dressed in jogging pants and a T-shirt, was sitting in a chair when she entered his room. He smiled and tried painfully to get up. She waved him back down.

‘Hi, how was your day?' She gave him a peck on the cheek.

‘Oh, the usual exciting stuff.' His speech was still slightly slurred. ‘This morning was . . .' His brow furrowed as he searched for the word.

‘Physio?' Jemma offered.

‘Physio,' he concurred. ‘Then my mum came and pushed me round the grounds for a while. Then . . .' He paused again, retrieving items from his short-term memory was a tortuous process. ‘I had a rest and watched television.'

‘What did you watch?'

‘It was a camera – I mean a film. It was about a sportsman who got cancer.'

‘What sport did he play?'

‘It was . . . Oh, what is the name of it?'

Jemma sat patiently as Richard thumped the arm of the chair with his good left hand in frustration. This time she couldn't help him with the word. She could see that he was almost weeping with frustration but the questioning was neither idle curiosity, not deliberate cruelty, but mental exercises on the advice of his doctors, the cerebral equivalent of the physiotherapy intended to restore the use of the muscles on his weakened right side.