The Art of Standing Still (16 page)

Since listening to the voice message, she had worried about what she assumed was Mrs Feldman's religious background and how she might react to the plays. As she drove, she prayed. ‘Father, thank you for Mrs Feldman and her offer to assist with the costumes. Please help me not to say or do anything that might offend or upset her, and may she become closer to you by hearing the story of your Son. Amen.'

As she drew up at Primrose cottage, she realised her assumption had been correct when she saw the Mezuzah attached to the frame of the lilac-painted door. She took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

She glanced at the garden as she waited for Mrs. Feldman. The tiny front lawn was immaculately manicured and the shrubs were already arrayed in their winter outfits of bright red berries. A robin landed on the garden wall and studied Ruth intently. She stared back but the tiny bird in its scarlet waistcoat must have taken offence, for it flew abruptly away and sat on the roof, fluffing its feathers. The door opened slowly, and Ruth could see a small, white-haired lady who seemed to be wearing a large patchwork quilt.

‘You must be Ruth,' she said. ‘I'm Eliza. Please come in. I won't take your jacket; you may need to keep it on.'

She followed Eliza into a tiny sitting room, full of overstuffed furniture in Chintz prints. On the wall over the fireplace was a beautiful tapestry, woven in myriad colours of wool. The words were in Hebrew. Eliza caught Ruth looking at it.

‘It's a blessing on this house,' she said.

Ruth smiled, and Eliza indicated a chair. ‘Won't you sit down? Tea?'

Ruth nodded, and the old woman shuffled out to the kitchen. Ruth noticed she was indeed wearing a quilt. The grate was empty, and the room was freezing. Ruth rubbed her arms vigorously. She wandered round, trying to keep warm, looking at the vast array of ornaments – china figurines, pewter mugs, knitted dolls. In one corner a huge sewing machine sat on a table. Bags stuffed with fabric scraps
were everywhere. She shivered and rubbed her arms again. She could see her breath.

‘Sorry, it's got a bit chilly in here since the boiler went out.'

‘It is a little,' Ruth said. ‘Is someone coming to fix it?'

‘Well, I asked my neighbour, but he got called away on business. Mrs Jones, next door on the other side, is ninety-three and has arthritis in her hands. I don't really know anyone else.'

‘What about a plumber or a boiler repairman?'

‘I don't think it justifies calling someone in. I do have it ser viced regularly, you know.'

‘How long has it been broken?'

‘Oh, I'm not sure it's broken; the pilot light's gone out. Mind you, I'll have problems when the cold weather comes if I can't get it started.'

The little head and legs protruding from the cocoon of quilt, the tiny sticklike ankles, and porcelain skin, the hair, fine and white as thistle-down, made Eliza Feldman look as if a strong breeze would blow her away.

‘Would you like me to take a look?' Ruth feared her gallantry might be misplaced, but if it was as straightforward as Eliza had suggested, at least she could try.

‘Oooh, yes, please.' She led Ruth through to the doll-sized kitchen. An enormous wall-mounted boiler hung, cold and sulking, in one corner. Ruth recognised the make; they had had the same kind in the house where she grew up. She remembered well her mother pulling open the door and grumbling as she used a spill to unblock the gas jets and relight the pilot. With a terrible foreboding that she just might blow up the entire street, Ruth tugged the door open and poked around as she remembered her mother doing. She blew into the jets, remembering to shut her eyes as the dust rose into a cloud. Finally, she carefully lit a wooden spill from the gas cooker and prayed as she turned the knob. The gas lit with a pop, sputtered, and went out. Ruth tried again. The same thing happened. She sighed.

‘Perhaps you'd better stick to preaching sermons, vicar,' Eliza said.

Ruth nodded in agreement. ‘Look, there's a member of our congregation who's a gas fitter, semi-retired. He'll come round and sort it out, and he won't charge you a fortune, I promise.'

Eliza looked relieved. She poured the tea, and they both took their mugs into the sitting room. Ruth cupped her hands around hers in an attempt to thaw out her fingers. ‘Now,' she said, ‘you contacted me to offer to help with the costumes for our waggon plays.'

‘That's right. I was a dressmaker for nearly fifty years. I've made ladies and men's bespoke clothes and theatrical costumes. I've even done some work for film studios. As you can see, here's my machine. And I've got plenty of time . . . well . . . actually, I haven't got much time.'

Ruth frowned.

‘I've got cancer you see. It's in my lungs and my bones now. I take tablets and they check up on me every month, but there's nothing can be done.'

‘Oh, I'm so sorry,' Ruth said. Her stomach lurched. It was too soon after Mother.

‘Don't be sorry. I've had a good life. Now I want to do this last thing. Something to be remembered by. “Because your love is better than life, my lips will glorify you. I will praise you as long as I live, and in your name I will lift up my hands.” '

‘A psalm of David?'

‘That's right, and God will give me the breath and strength to complete this task.'

Ruth looked at this frail, birdlike lady. ‘Before you agree, there's something I need to discuss with you.'

‘Fine! Discuss away.' The old lady folded her hands in her lap.

‘I don't know how much you know about the mystery plays. They're very old – dating from the fourteenth century. The first few plays show how God created the world, then the fall of man, Noah's ark, and Moses. Then it goes on to the story of Jesus' life and death . . .'

‘Yes . . .'

‘Well his trial, persecution, and crucifixion are quite graphically portrayed.'

‘What is your point?'

‘Well . . .'

‘Spit it out, girl!'

‘People have said that it could appear, antisemitic. You know, the Jewish High Priests – the villains, being responsible for Jesus' death.'

To Ruth's amazement, Eliza threw back her head and laughed.

‘I don't see how that's antisemitic. I know the baddies in your Christian stories are Jews. But don't forget, the goodies are all Jews too.'

Ruth breathed a sigh of relief. She handed her the photographs and promised to drop over the measurements. Finally, she left Eliza Feldman's tiny, freezing little house, but not before she had chopped a gargantuan pile of logs and kindled a roaring fire in the grate. It was the least she could do.

She whispered a prayer of thanks, allowing herself a moment's relaxation, then realised that she was due to see Harlan Westacre after lunch. She had the sinking feeling that meeting couldn't possibly go as smoothly.

SHE MET HARLAN AT TWELVE THIRTY IN DONATELLO'S, A PRETENTIOUS LITTLE
coffee bar in the High Street. The leather sofas, cherry-wood floors, and swing music were supposed to lend the place a little urban chic; instead, it just made it look as if it was trying too hard. Harlan was perched delicately on one of the expansive leather sofas, her buttocks hardly denting the cushion. She was embracing a cappuccino mug the size of a birdbath. When she spotted Ruth, she jumped up. ‘Darling, what can I get you? The Choco-Cream Frappuccino with a dash of toffee-nut syrup is just divine.'

‘Just a black coffee, thanks.'

‘Oh, if you're sure.'

Ruth nodded. ‘Absolutely.' The truth was, she would have loved to try one of Donatello's exotic concoctions, but she didn't want Harlan to be the one to introduce her. She wanted to assert her firmness, and she was starting with the beverages. Of course, she was just about to violate the principle of ‘if you're going to criticise something, you'd better make sure you can offer something better.' She had come empty handed, and when engaging in combat with Harlan, this put her at an immediate disadvantage.

Harlan fired the first shot. ‘So what did you think of the choir?'

‘Well . . . ,' began Ruth.

The waiter approached the table. Harlan ordered Ruth's coffee.

‘The music was quite something, wasn't it?'

‘It certainly was!'

‘I wrote it myself, you know. Well . . . arranged it. The themes are taken from ancient monastic chants.'

Could have fooled me.
The waiter came with her coffee. She took a sip. It was hot and strong and nearly stripped the skin off the roof of her mouth.

‘They've worked so hard to learn it. It's not easy stuff you know.' Harlan forced a smile.

Ruth suddenly had the urge to shoot herself in the foot, just to render herself
hors de combat
.

‘You didn't like it did you?' Harlan's chin jutted forward, ready for a fight.

‘I wouldn't say I didn't like it exactly. It's just that I felt, given the costumes and the language and the setting . . .'

‘Go on.' A challenge! She placed her mug carefully on the table and leant back, her arms folded.

‘That it might be a little, well, modern.'

Without a word, Harlan collected her bag, drained her coffee mug, and marched out of Donatello's, leaving Ruth with the bill.

‘That went well,' Ruth muttered to herself. She pulled her mobile phone out of her bag and pressed a button. Alistair's slightly gruff voice answered.

‘Have you had lunch yet?' Ruth asked.

‘No, not yet, why?'

‘Do you know Donatello's in the High Street?'

‘Yes.'

‘Good. If you can get here in the next ten minutes, I'll treat you to a ciabatta.'

Ruth ordered another coffee and waited for Alistair. He came through the door quarter of an hour later, red faced, and slightly breathless. Ruth felt rather flattered that he had hurried to meet her.

‘Houston, we have a problem,' she said as Alistair settled himself in the armchair and picked up the menu. ‘Harlan.'

Alistair raised his eyes heavenward. He listened patiently as Ruth struggled to put into words the hideous tunelessness of Harlan's composition. ‘I wondered if you'd be able to go and see her this weekend. I'd do it myself, but I think I'd be the last person she'd be prepared to listen to.'

‘I'm sorry; I can't this weekend. I'm seeing the children.'

‘Children!'

This came as a surprise. Ruth hadn't realised he and Amanda had any children. Somehow he didn't seem the paternal type.

‘Yes, from my second marriage. Rory's twelve and Stefan's eight. I do try to get over to see them as often as I can. Of course, the other three are off my hands now. Christa's living in Denver, Marcus is married, and Lulu's just finishing at university. Thank goodness for that, an end to tuition fees, at least until the other two start.'

Ruth sat there open-mouthed.

‘Yes, Amanda's my third wife.' He gave a sigh. ‘I sure know how to pick them!'

Ruth was lost for words. Fortunately, the waiter came over, and Alistair ordered lunch for them both.

Alistair was in full flow. ‘I'm sorry you had problems with Harlan. Mind you it makes me feel a bit better about Ronnie.'

Ruth winced.

‘Not good news there either, I'm afraid,' Alistair said.

‘What happened?'

‘Well, Ronnie too has gone for a modern slant on the music. Except . . .'

Ruth leaned forward. ‘Except what? He's been allocated the Creation of the World, The Fall of Man, Noah's Ark, and Moses and Pharaoh. Where could he go wrong with that?'

‘He decided to link it with songs from Broadway shows.'

‘He did what?' she screeched.

Couples at neighbouring tables looked round, alarmed. People did not usually raise their voices in Donatello's. Even the waiter looked shocked as he brought their sandwiches.

‘He did what?' Ruth repeated in a whisper.

‘He's got them singing “Oh, What a Beautiful Dawning” when God says “I bid in my blessing you angels give light,” “You'll Never Work Alone” for the creation of Adam and Eve and . . . “I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My World” just prior to the flood. I didn't wait around to see what he'd done to Moses.'

‘You're not serious! I thought he was joking when he suggested “Mack the Knife” as an introduction to the story of Abraham and Isaac.'

Alistair's face told her he was indeed serious. She drooped her head into her hands. ‘What are we going to do?' she groaned. ‘The whole thing's going to be a complete farce!'

When he didn't answer, she looked up. He shrugged and glanced at his watch. ‘Sorry, Ruth, I have to get back to work. He scooped up his sandwich and threw a twenty-pound note on the table.

‘Hey, lunch was supposed to be my treat!' she protested.

‘I think you've got enough on your plate,' Alistair said and left.

Ruth finished her ciabatta and tiramisu; then as twenty Korean businessmen entered and started reorganising all the furniture, she decided it was time to pay a visit to the library. Perhaps their music section would hold something she could use to arm herself for the next round of the battle. Besides, she could do with the walk – all that coffee had made her twitchy. That and Alistair's three marriages.