The Art of Standing Still (37 page)

Jemma didn't know whether to be furious or to cry. She couldn't have felt the pain more acutely if Josh had slapped her face. She wanted to understand, but she couldn't and he wasn't helping. Her failure to comprehend it just seemed to make him angry, and she resented him for it. He had something that she didn't.

A feeling squeezed a knot in her guts, a feeling she hadn't experienced since childhood, and that feeling was jealousy. She concentrated on her breathing, swallowing down the reaction, locking it into the pit of her stomach. She rearranged her features into an amiable smile and tried again.

‘Josh, I don't see everything the way you do, but I am trying, and I am your friend. Whatever happens, I'll never leave you. You're not on your own.'

To her astonishment he laughed. Not an ironic smile or a little snigger, but a full-blown belly laugh. She felt her face redden. She turned her back on him and stalked off to join the rest of the group. She noticed Fry, talking raucously with a group of men, the apostles. Astonished by his audacity, she approached the group. He turned and the smile froze on his lips. ‘Well, well, if it isn't our tame news-hound. Hello, Jemma, I trust everything is going well.'

‘The articles have proved very popular, thank you, Alistair.'

‘Not exactly Fleet Street, but she does her best with what passes for excitement on the streets of Monksford.' The men sniggered.

‘That's right, Alistair. But that could all be about to change, couldn't it?'

‘Really! Have milk bottles mysteriously vanished from doorsteps again? Is the baker passing off the day-old bread as fresh?'

‘Bram has told me all about your little “fishing trips”.'

He took hold of Jemma's arm, pinching the flesh, and marched her away from the group. ‘What do you know?'

‘Enough to get you locked up for a very long time.'

‘So why haven't you gone to the police?'

‘And wreck all Ruth's hard work? You may not care about how you use her, but she has been good to Josh and me, and I'm not going to let anything ruin her day. What I have will wait until tonight. You weren't planning on leaving early were you?'

His mouth was a hard line. ‘If you, or Josh, ever say anything to anyone, I'll finish you off. And this time I'll do the job properly.'

‘You wouldn't dare!'

‘Just try me.' He squeezed her arm hard. She felt his fingers digging into her muscle and bruising her skin. For a moment, they were eye to eye.

‘Please, everyone, if you could just gather round!' Ruth's voice sounded strained, and the dark circles under her eyes hinted at the stress of the last few days.

Alistair gave Jemma's arm a final twist before releasing it as if to ensure she received the message. He marched off to the far side of the crowd as Jemma rubbed the bruise.

What did he mean he would ‘do the job properly'? Could he mean Richard? That would be for the police to sort out. She would have to make sure he didn't sneak away. Meanwhile, it was up to her to carry on as if nothing had happened. She was here to act, after all. She turned her attention to Ruth.

‘Before we start, I just wanted to ask a blessing on the performance.' She prayed briefly and movingly.

‘Three cheers for the vicar!'

The crowd of actors and crew cheered heartily and would have continued had Ruth not held up her hands to silence them.

‘And you'll be delighted to know, we've sold enough pre-booked tickets to break even plus make a substantial profit. It looks as if the whole town is turning out.'

Another cheer.

‘Anyway, back to work. Beginners for act one, the Creation, the Fall, etcetera, need to go and make your final checks for wardrobe and props; then see Darren
here to have your microphones put on.' She indicated a spotty young man in a heavy-metal T-shirt holding a crate of electronic bric-a-brac. ‘The rest of you, those in the later scenes and act two – can I remind you? – need to be dressed as townspeople and act as ushers. Don't forget to sell as many programmes as possible, and as you know the toilets and refreshments are here, and here.'

Ruth pointed like a flight attendant indicating the emergency exits.

‘Right folks! To your starting positions, please. We are just about to open the gates.'

Jemma dried her palms on the rough red linen of her costume. Her eyes scanned around for Josh, but she couldn't see him. She needed to warn him about Fry, but that would have to wait until later.

Someone handed her a batch of programmes and a leather bag full of change, which she tied around her waist. She made her way to the gate of Hope Farm, where the entire population of Monksford, it seemed, was waiting to enter. There were old men in straw hats and blazers and women in bright skirts or jeans. There were school children and Scout packs, dog-collared clergy with their entire congregations in tow. Bram Griffin opened the gate, and the throng rushed to take the spot with the best view. The team of peasant-ushers did their best to contain the flow and invited the audience to spread their picnic rugs and pitch their deckchairs starting from the back of the far side of the field. The audience ignored them and sat where they liked. Jemma stepped over toddlers, wheelchairs, hampers, and rugs, selling the programmes where and when she could.

The system for people filling up from the back wasn't working. Those who had complied with instructions would not be able to see past the deckchairs in front of them.

Jemma made her way to the front and with as much voice as she could muster, she shouted, ‘Good gentlefolk of Monksford, I pray you, if you have a deckchair or, forsooth a baby buggy, I do earnestly entreat you to convey yourself towards the nether reaches of the field, for to permit all to view the performance.'

A snigger went through the crowd. Jemma wondered how long she could keep up the cod-Shakespearean. She made a dash towards a man who was erecting a fold-up chair and tried to snatch it.

‘Oh, no, thou doesn't!'

They ended up in a slapstick tussle. The man eventually released his grip and with a good-natured grin, admitted defeat, and took his chair to the back of the crowd. Jemma flapped at and threatened an elderly couple and a young family, as if she was shooing chickens. Both complied and moved their pitch, others began to follow.

‘Thank thee, good master,' Jemma said to a man with a large stripy canvas contraption.

A voice called out from behind her. ‘What is this, “ham it up Hamlet”?'

Jemma turned to see Ronnie Mardle strutting across the field. ‘They moved, didn't they?' All she needed now was advice from this pompous pantomime character.

‘I never imagined you as a bouncer, but now I look more carefully . . . Hmm, very dominant. I like that in a woman.'

He sidled up and stood too close. Jemma could smell his cloying aftershave.

‘You know we'll be auditioning for “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers” next week. If you play your cards right . . .'

Over my dead body!
‘No, thanks,' she said lightly. Ronnie opened his bottle of mineral water and placed it to his pink, moist lips. Jemma watched with disgust as it dribbled down his lilac polo shirt and khaki cargo pants that fitted tightly around his substantial rump. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. The realisation hit her that he had remained totally unmoved by the mystery plays. She felt contempt rising.
This is just a show to you
,
a theatrical performance
,
just
another day out for your directorial ego.

‘Sorry, I have to sell these programmes.'

‘Perhaps we should have gone the whole hog and given you a tray of ice creams.'

Jemma tried to hide her loathing. This is not a concert party; it is creation and judgement, rescue and sacrifice, hope and despair, birth, life, death, and resurrection, and when today is over, my Josh is going to leave, and I may never see him again. She felt like crying. ‘No, I don't want a part in your amateur musical.'

‘Only trying to be friendly,' Ronnie said. ‘We have some very competent performers in the Monksford Operatic and Dramatic Society. Mrs Wilkinson once auditioned for RADA.'

He stuck his nose in the air and flounced off to where Harlan Westacre was having a run-in with a sound technician. Jemma continued to sell programmes and reposition audience members until the introduction music, a composition for sackbut, fife, and drum, heralded the start of the performance.

She hunted around with her eyes, searching for Josh. He had looked so pale and vulnerable. He wove his way through the crowd, still wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

‘Good pray?'

‘No, it was dreadful. I don't want to do this, but I must.'

‘Did God tell you to?'

‘Don't mock me, Jemma.'

This was more than method acting, and as much as she was furious with Ronnie for taking the performance too lightly, she was just as mad at Josh for taking it too seriously. He'd been behaving very strangely, almost paranoid.

‘I mean it, Josh, identifying with Christ as a character is all very well, but it's almost as if you're becoming delusional. What happened to him isn't going to happen to you.'

‘Messiah complex, do you mean? No, I could never measure up to him.'

‘What are you afraid of then?'

‘What do you think? The real threat comes from a source much closer to home.'

She rubbed the bruise on her arm. ‘But even Fry wouldn't be desperate enough to try to harm you here in public.'

‘Are you sure about that, Jemma, absolutely sure?'

He shook his head and carried on towards the green room. The stream of people became a trickle. Jemma cast her eye over the upper field. It was difficult to estimate numbers in the sea of people, with rugs and picnic baskets, deckchairs and parasols. Jemma estimated close to a thousand people, she had sold nearly two hundred pro-grammes already, and she knew of four other programme sellers. She replenished her supply from a large cardboard box near the entrance.

Ruth, dressed in the plain brown linen of a medieval peasant, stood next to Eliza Feldman, in a pale yellow silk tunic with a bourrelet of gold and blue, covering her white hair. The old lady looked frail in her wheelchair. She smiled and chatted to everyone who passed.

‘How do I look?' she asked. ‘I'm lady of the manor.'

‘Splendid.' Jemma kissed her on both cheeks, then turned to Ruth. ‘A good number.'

‘Yes,' Ruth agreed. ‘I'm delighted. The
Gazette
seems to have drawn in people from farther afield, Leaton Maynard and Todbourn Heath, even some from Maidstone and Tunbridge Wells.'

‘Have you seen Josh?' Jemma asked.

‘Last time I saw him he was headed towards the abbey. Poor lamb, he's got himself very worked up about this performance.'

‘I know.'

The music stopped and Ruth bristled. ‘It's starting.'

Jemma found a space and sat on the grass. A chant followed by an explosion and a flash of pyrotechnics. Then God spoke and his voice echoed across the field.

I am gracious and great, God without beginning,
I am maker unmade, all power is in me . . .

And the plays began. Jemma sat captivated as the ancient tales sprung to life before her eyes. She watched Lucifer being cast into the fiery pit. She could hardly tear herself away, but she needed
to put on her dove costume and prepare for the Noah's ark play, so she headed to the marquee. She expected to see Josh, with his lion mask, but he wasn't there.

A moment's panic hit her. What if Alistair had found him and threatened him, or worse. After all, if he could hurt her, there was no telling what he might do to Josh. But Fry was too clever for that. As much as she feared him, she knew he cared deeply for Ruth and would do nothing to spoil her finest day. It was afterwards she would have to be vigilant. She put on her white robe and feathered mask.

She had a few minutes before she had to be ready. Looking out of the marquee, she saw actors and technicians, parents taking their children to the toilet, people buying cups of tea, but no Josh. She picked up the skirt of her robe so that it didn't drag in the long grass and circumnavigated the tent.

She was about to give up when she heard a sound and spotted Josh under a rowan tree. She approached but he seemed deep in thought.

‘Josh?'

He moved, turning his back to her. ‘Er . . . just give me a minute, will you.'

‘What's wrong.' She took a step towards him, but he held out his hand to stop her.

‘Nothing! Nothing. I was just about to get changed.'

She longed to go to him and hug him, but he seemed determined to push her away.

‘I'll see you in a couple of minutes then.' She turned to go. ‘There's not much time,' she added.

‘I know.' He turned to face her. His eyes were red-rimmed, and she could see he had been crying. ‘Jemma, do you love me?'

‘You know I do. You're my best friend. I'd do anything for you.'

‘If anything happens to me, you will go to the police and tell them everything. You will tell them about Alistair.'

‘Of course. Josh, what's the matter?'

‘Nothing . . . I can't say.'

‘Have you seen Fry?'

Josh was silent.

‘Tell me!'

‘Just keep watch.'

‘Come on, Josh. I'll stay with you. You need to get changed now.' She held out her hand and he took it in his.

They arrived in their positions, just in time. Jemma was enchanted as the audience laughed along with Noah as he sparred with his stubborn wife. Any doubts she had that a modern audience could relate to these ancient texts evaporated. She could tell the actors playing Noah and ‘uxor' were enjoying their roles. She couldn't deny that Ronnie had worked wonders with a shy little plumber and a petulant florist from Ashford.

As Jemma stood on the stage, she permitted herself to do something she didn't normally do – look at the audience. She stood very still in what Ronnie had assured her was a suitably dovelike pose. She glanced across the stage at Josh.