The Art of Standing Still (27 page)

The old ladies made comments as if Josh wasn't there, or rather, as if he was there but was about three years old. Josh played up to their comments, laughing along with their remarks about the musculature of his legs or the breadth of his chest. They flirted in the way only elderly women can get away with. Jemma blushed, knowing that if she had made comments of that kind, the gossip among Mrs Amos, Mrs Williams, and Mrs Feldman would have been currency for weeks to come.

‘So, what do you think?' Josh did what could almost be described as a twirl. Jemma looked at the floor, wondering where the coyness that never used to be part of her nature had originated.

‘Come on,' goaded Josh. ‘I've given my opinion of your costume.'

‘It's . . .
okay
.' Jemma wrinkled her nose.

‘What's wrong? Is it too long, too short, too tight . . . does it make my bum look big?'

The ladies laughed.

‘The costume's fine.' Jemma tried to hide a smirk.

‘What is it then?'

‘Well, it's the beard.'

‘What's wrong with the beard? I'll have you know that I've invested a lot of time and effort in this beard.'

‘It's just a bit, I dunno, crooked.'

‘Which bit?'

‘There, under your chin and, it's kind of bushier on that side and the sideburns aren't even.'

The ladies nodded their agreement.

‘Do you realise how difficult it is to trim a beard?'

‘Oddly, no.' Jemma suspected, looking at Mrs Amos' chin, that the old woman knew exactly how difficult it was.

Josh propelled Jemma to Eliza's bed and sat her down. ‘Well, I'll enlighten you then. Firstly, one's eyes are here in the front of one's head.' He pointed unnecessarily. ‘And one's sideburns are here – ' again he pointed – ‘on the sides of one's head.'

Jemma giggled.

‘I'll have you know this is no laughing matter, young lady. Unless one is some kind of chameleon with swivelly eyes, it is well nigh impossible to see what one is doing with the old trimmer.'

‘If you were a chameleon, you wouldn't have a beard in the first place.'

‘And it would be extremely unlikely that I'd be in the play.'

‘And if you were, we'd have trouble seeing you, because you'd keep blending into the scenery.'

They laughed at the silliness.

‘Come on, you two. I can't sit here all day listening to you schmoozing. I have better things to be getting on with. Now go and change out of your costumes, and leave me in peace.'

She undid the hooks and zips, and Jemma ducked into the bathroom first. She slipped out of the red dress as quickly and painlessly as she could without dislodging the pins. She only pricked herself twice, but one pin left a scratch, a perforated line down her upper arm. She emerged to find Josh already changed.

‘That was quick.'

‘Typical! What were you doing in there, washing your hair, having a manicure, perming your eyebrows?'

Josh held the door open for her, and they went out into the corridor.

‘Are you seeing Richard again tonight?'

‘I thought I might drop in. He's had a pretty rough day. The police have been here.'

‘Why? What happened?'

‘They heard he was conscious, and they're stepping up the investigation. But I doubt he's been able to tell them anything.'

Josh shrugged.

‘Are you coming too? He'll be pleased to see you.'

He looked embarrassed. ‘Yeah, I'll see him. Um . . . could we get a coffee first? There's something I need to talk to you about.'

They made their way up to the canteen. The plastic chairs in primary colours and the grey floor tiles would have given the place a pleasant sixties retro feel if the chairs and tiles had not actually been there since the sixties. Josh ordered two coffees, and they sat opposite each other on vicious red chairs across a grey Formica table.

‘This sounds serious.' Jemma forced a smile.

Josh took her hands.

‘Jemma, when the play is over, I'm leaving.'

‘What do you mean, leaving?'

‘I'm getting away from Monksford.'

‘Why?' Jemma felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach. ‘Is it me? What have I done?'

‘It's not you . . .'

How many times had she heard the ‘it's not you, it's me' and ‘I just need some space' speeches? ‘No! You can't leave now.' Jemma snatched her hands away and stood up.

She ran out into the corridor. She didn't know where she was going, just away. Away from those words. Josh found her standing near the lifts. Her eyes stung. She blinked away the tears.

‘Why did you tell me now? It isn't a good time.'

‘Would there ever be a good time?'

‘But here at the hospital. Why couldn't you wait until I was at home?'

‘I didn't want you to be on your own. Especially if you were upset. Ruth's here.'

‘Too right I'm upset!' Jemma's cheeks flared. ‘Anyway, why should I want to talk to Ruth about it?'

‘I just thought . . .'

‘Well, don't think.'

The lift arrived and the doors slid open. Jemma stepped inside and pressed the button for the fifth floor. Josh followed her.

‘Jemma, I'm sorry.'

‘I don't understand, Josh. Where are you going? What are you going to do? Why do you have to go?'

Josh shrugged. ‘I just have to leave, that's all. I wasn't going to tell you . . . but . . .'

‘And I thought we were getting on so well.'

‘We were – we are.'

‘Then why?'

‘I feel God is calling me.'

‘God!'

With a ping the lift reached its destination. The doors slid open again. Josh was blocking her way. She pushed past him.

‘Yes, God. At least, that's what I think.'

‘Then that's it then. I surrender! I can't compete with God, can I? Why couldn't it have been a job, or a girl . . . anything. Then I would have stood a chance. But God! How am I supposed to argue against God?'

‘You'll understand, one day. I'm sure you will.' He put a hand on her shoulder. With a shudder she collected herself. She tried to steady her voice, sound matter of fact. After all, she was getting quite good at being left alone. She tried to sound sensible, rational, as if he was going on holiday.

‘Will you write? We'll keep in touch?'

‘Best not. Things will be less . . . complicated.'

‘I thought we were friends. What's complicated about that?'

‘Jemma, you know . . .'

‘Yes. I suppose it is – ' she let out a sigh – ‘complicated.'

‘Anyway, what's to stop you moving on?' he asked.

‘I thought you were trying to curb my wandering spirit. I never thought you were a hypocrite.'

‘I'm not. We all have to change. For someone who lives on a boat, your feet seem mighty firmly planted here in Monksford. You could “weigh anchor” any time you wanted and set off.'

Jemma smiled, fighting her tears. ‘Can I tell you a secret?'

Josh moved close.

‘It's all a fake, a sham. The
Ebony Hog
won't go anywhere. I bought her, a bargain so I thought, from an old naval man, Admiral Wainwright. He was very tall, with a white beard, a veritable “Captain Birdseye”. I fell in love with the
Hog
at first sight, her colour, her smell, her name, and the fact that she was the only boat I'd viewed that I didn't need to bend double to get in. I bought her in the depths of winter, but in the spring of the first year I had her, I planned to sail her up north, to see my granddad. I didn't even get as far as Monksford lock. The footbridge that goes over just before the lock is too low. The
Hog
's cabin won't fit under it, even in low water – I tried again at the end of the summer. It's the same down river towards Maidstone. The Red Bridge would decapitate her. She'd had her cabin modified, to suit Admiral Wainright's physique, but I hadn't realised that it meant that she couldn't do the one thing real boats are meant to do – sail. So we're stranded here, the
Hog
and I, our destiny to remain stuck in the Monksford mud.'

‘You could take a hacksaw to her.'

‘I couldn't do that. It would hurt too much,' said Jemma.

‘But she would be able to fulfil her destiny.'

‘Don't spin me that “cruel to be kind” line. The
Hog
stays here, and so do I.' She searched his brown eyes. ‘Josh, stay too . . .'

Scene Five

‘WE'RE WAITING FOR ALISTAIR.' RUTH SAT ON ELIZA'S BED AND CHECKED HER
watch. He was late as usual, and as usual she would forgive him. It was at times like these that she didn't like Alistair very much. He was like the tissue in the pocket of the coloured wash of life, deeply irritating and impossible to get rid of. She might not like him, but deep down, and very much against her will, she knew she loved him.

Josh and Jemma had disappeared, she presumed, to see Richard. Ruth sat twiddling her thumbs, then deciding that her thumbs could be far more usefully employed, she searched for a needle and thread then sat down to sew on buttons.

She promised herself that she would see Richard today. Later, this very evening. While she was here in the hospital. She would definitely do it today. She made herself promise. Although she was busy, there was no excuse for neglecting her pastoral duties. She would force herself to like Richard, even though she would rather see Jemma with Josh.

Eliza had nodded off, her face almost as pale as her pillow. When she was chatting and laughing and working, it was easy to forget just how sick she was. Mrs Williams and Mrs Amos had scuttled home in time for the six o'clock news.

Ruth sat in the silence and closed her eyes. It would take a miracle for the mystery plays to finally come together. Again, her thoughts travelled to another time, another place. She saw a man in the blue Houppelande coat standing at the first station, Shepherd's Cross, near the Black Bull at the end of the High Street.

‘Master Thomas Barker, make haste! It is near sunup.'

Guildsmen scuttled around their waggons, making their final preparations. A queue of waggons lined up behind the Barkers Guild. The Plasterers, Cardmakers, and Fullers, and so on until the Mercers and their final judgement. A scuffle broke out between some Vintners and Ironmongers, who accused them of stealing from their waggon.

‘Ah, dog! The devil drown thee!'

‘I care not for your waggon or the players!'

The man in blue strode towards them. ‘Sires, be merry. Wit you not that this is a Holy day? Calm yourselves, I pray you. Be about your business and grieve me no more.'

With a flourish, a fine horse galloped across the dusty ground, sending soil flying with its hooves. His fine attire marked the rider out as a Goldsmith, one of the wealthiest guilds.

‘Good day, Master.' The man in blue removed his hat and made a low bow. He took the reins and led him to the waggon where Herod and the Magi were passing round a flagon of ale and a piece of bread.

Crowds were already gathering. Farm workers, children, women in homespun clothes, merchants in fine embroidered tunics, and chaperons, their ladies in cotehardies and elaborate headdresses.

She heard them gasp as Lucifer fell, and hiss as Satan tempted Eve. They wept with Abraham as he prepared to sacrifice his only son and cheered Moses as he begged Pharaoh to let the Israelites go.

God's story played out before their eyes.

The spectators stood still and let the pageant wind its way through old Monksford, stopping to perform at the appointed stations.

A knock on the door brought her back from her reverie. But her thoughts remained caught in the wonder of the pageant.

For people whose only contact with the sacred was through robed
priests and Latin liturgy, this lively, funny and very human portrayal of Bible stories must have been utterly overwhelming. She hoped that the modern equivalent of the medieval audience, spoiled rotten with television, Hollywood, and the Internet, would be equally overwhelmed.

Another knock. This time louder. Ruth blinked as Alistair's craggy face appeared around the doorframe and he crept into the room.

‘You're late,' Ruth whispered.

‘Yes,' he agreed with no sign of remorse. ‘I didn't have my car. It's being valeted.'

Ruth prickled. ‘You've left me hanging around here for nearly an hour.'

‘I got held up. Council business.'

‘As if I haven't got anything better to do.'

‘Perhaps you should have gone and done it.'

‘What?' She was still half in a dream.

‘Whatever better things you have to do.'

This was not the time to play games. ‘That would look good; I disappear and you creep into an old lady's sickroom and start taking your clothes off!'

‘Shhhh, that journalist will hear! I'll be spread over the front pages. And we wouldn't want that, now would we?' He took a step towards her. ‘Ruth,' he cupped her cheek in his hand, ‘I've missed you.'

She brushed his hand away and side-stepped his advance. Eliza Feldman stirred in her sleep. Ruth bustled around the bed and hoisted up a carrier bag. She struggled to make her voice sound normal.

‘Um . . . the costume's in this bag. You can use that bathroom. Just make sure the tunic fits.' She thrust the bag to him across the bed. Eliza sat up and yawned.

‘Oh, I didn't know I had another visitor. You must be Alistair.' She looked him up and down as if trying to decide if she liked what she saw. ‘I've been expecting you.'

He smiled half-heartedly, put his hand in the bag, and pulled out a dark brown long-sleeved coat, a light brown hat with a long plume-like piece, and a leather belt. Last to come out were the boots. He glanced at Jemma's dress on the bed. ‘Why do you ladies get to wear all the bright colours? Don't forget, we're peacocks at heart.'