The Art of Standing Still (21 page)

‘I know,' her father said.

She couldn't pay financially for the repairs to the damage, but pay she did. She paid in disapproval, in the lack of trust her parents afforded her. She had blotted her copybook and never quite earned back her parents' confidence. A quiet man, he almost stopped talking to her, and every time he looked at her, she sensed his disapproval of her for desecrating that shiny paint. Her father died not long after, so she had never had the opportunity to prove herself to him as an adult.

Just as her father had ceased talking to her years ago, God too had been strangely quiet since the kiss. She had ranted and shouted and pleaded, but he said nothing.

Now as she knelt in prayer in front of the altar, she studied the stained-glass window of Christ enthroned in heaven. ‘What should I do, Father?' she asked aloud. As usual the Lord remained silent.

Ruth stretched, got up, and wandered round the church. She had thought she had mastered the art of standing still, but now she seemed to be spinning, faster and faster. She circled round, matching her physical movement to her inner turmoil. She scrutinised the faces of saints and apostles, prophets and angels in the stained-glass windows, the scenes seeming to blend in her mind with the scenes from the mystery plays.

She turned round, faster and faster, spinning like a child, until she felt dizzy and the colours were a blur. She grabbed hold of a pew and waited till the world stopped revolving. She stared at the window depicting Elijah at the mouth of the cave and read the Latin inscription:
Zelo zelatus exercituum sum pro domino deo
– ‘I have been very zealous for the Lord God Almighty.' The irony made her smile. She had been zealous in her role as producer of the mystery plays, but was her zeal for the Lord? She still felt like finding her own cave to hide in.

She remembered coming to the church for the first time as a curate. Old Tom Bedford, the churchwarden, had showed her around. He read the Latin inscriptions and provided his own translations.

‘In omnibus labor
; that means, “Go to work by bus” . . .' Ruth had laughed, but Tom remained deadly serious. She never got to know him properly as he had died before she took up the post. She still wasn't quite sure if he really thought that's what it meant.

‘. . . and this one 'ere:
Zelo zelatus exercituum sum pro domino
deo
means summink like “exercise zealously, though some prefer dominos”.'

Directing the plays was one area, at least, where she felt some sense of control. The rehearsals had gone reasonably well during the winter and the spring. The actors remembered their lines, Ronnie and Harlen had eventually acquiesced over the music. The next few weeks would entail polishing the performances and putting all the final touches in place.

Enough navel gazing; she needed to visit Eliza Feldman. She had been communicating by notes, carried back and forth by one of the choir members who lived nearby. Ruth had included Eliza, as well as Raj and Surrinder, in her daily prayers but hadn't seen them for weeks.

THE FRONT DOOR WAS OPEN A CRACK WHEN SHE ARRIVED AT ELIZA'S COTTAGE.
She knocked and went inside. Eliza was sitting in an armchair with a white angel costume on her lap. The full skirt covered the lower half of the tiny woman and cascaded down on to the floor. Eliza was bent over it, stitching away furiously. She didn't appear to notice Ruth's entry.

‘Mrs Feldman? Eliza?'

She didn't seem to hear. Ruth knelt on the floor beside her chair and placed her hand on the old lady's arm. Eliza Feldman looked up at her with weary eyes. Ruth gasped. Eliza hadn't been exactly ample when Ruth had seen her in the winter, but now she had shrivelled to a husk. Her skin appeared too large for her body and seemed to hang in loose folds. Her face had a yellowish tinge and her lips looked slightly blue. Although the day was warm, Eliza was wearing a thick cardigan. Her fingers moved constantly. Even when they weren't stitching, it seemed as if they were trying to.

‘The door was open. I did knock.'

‘Oh, hello, Ruth. Yes, I leave it open for Joan, my neighbour . . . She's been helping me with a few bits and bobs . . . tidying, cooking . . .' She struggled for breath, pulled herself upright in the chair, and gasped.

‘How are you?' Ruth felt like kicking herself. Eliza Feldman was obviously dying.

‘Yes, dear. I'm doing very well . . . I've finished five angels and I'm just stitching the hem of this one . . . I have two more high priests to do then the Mary of Magdela. I want that one to be fitted really nice and tight – I know what kind of a girl she was.'

Eliza winked. Ruth didn't comment on the possible effect of Mary's conversion on her fashion preferences.

‘I'll ask Jemma to call round one evening for a proper fitting.' She looked at Eliza. ‘You don't have to do this, you know. I can get someone else to finish them off.'

Eliza's eyes blazed with anger. ‘How dare you!'

‘What?' Ruth was stunned by her reaction.

‘Let me put in all the hard work and then at the last minute take it all away from me.'

‘I didn't mean – '

‘Use me, wear me out, then discard me! What kind of a way is that to treat someone?'

‘Mrs Feldman – '

‘Eliza,' snapped the old woman.

‘Eliza, I'm so sorry if it sounded as if I was dismissing all that you've done. That was the last thing I meant to do. I'm so grateful for all your work; your skill, your commitment, and, of course, the beautiful costumes – they're just magnificent.' She took Eliza's hand. ‘It's just that I can see that you're very ill, and I don't want this to be a burden to you.'

‘It is not a burden. This is what keeps me going. Do you not understand?'

Ruth shook her head.

‘Last May, they gave me six months at the most . . . Back in March, they said I'd be lucky to last till the end of the month. Now it's May again and I'm still here. Every morning it gives me a reason to wake up, and every evening I pray it won't be my last . . . When the pain gets strong, it gives me something to take my mind off it. When the sickness means I don't feel like eating, I remember I need to keep my strength up . . . Don't you see? God has given me a job to do, and I'm jolly well going to finish it. Then I can die in peace.'

The speech seemed to exhaust her, and her head lolled back against the chair.

‘Thank you,' Ruth whispered.

Leaving Eliza to rest, Ruth went into the kitchen to see if she could make herself useful. She dried up some cups on the draining board, filled the kettle, then peeped in the cupboards, which were nearly empty. She added shopping for Eliza to her already too-full list of things to do today.

After brewing the coffee she took two cups back into the lounge. She stopped, dead still, at the sight before her. Eliza Feldman was slumped forward in her chair, her breath rasping. Ruth quickly sat her upright and took her pulse; she could barely feel a flutter through the old woman's parchment skin.

Praying hard, Ruth ran out to her car and grabbed her phone to call the emergency ser vices. She ran back up the path, tapping
numbers furiously. She stopped by the gate to give the operator all the details. A large woman with dark curly hair was standing in Eliza's garden.

‘Are you Joan?' Ruth asked.

The woman nodded. ‘What happened?'

‘It's Mrs Feldman. She's having trouble breathing. I've called an ambulance.' Without waiting for the other woman to speak, Ruth rushed back into the tiny house and knelt on the floor next to Eliza. She barely noticed that Joan had followed her in.

‘Oh, she won't like that.' Joan said finally.

Ruth frowned, still keeping her eyes on Eliza. ‘Won't like what?'

‘Going to the hospital. She doesn't want to go.'

‘She needs medical treatment. There's no alternative.'

The old woman's chest rattled as she tried to breath, as if to confirm Ruth's diagnosis.

Joan shook her head. ‘She's been quite clear about that. She doesn't want to die there.'

She doesn't want to die at all
,
not yet.
‘I'm sure they'll know what to do for her.' She looked up at Joan and softened her voice. The woman's face was etched with concern. ‘Don't worry. I'm certain they'll take account of her wishes.'

‘She's seen what happens. They'll get her in there, pump her full of drugs till she don't know what day of the week it is, then, when no one's looking, they'll stop feeding her and she'll die alone. She wants to be here, in her own house, surrounded by friends.'

Eliza stirred slightly, and Ruth sent Joan to get a glass of water.

‘What happened?' Eliza's voice was just a hoarse whisper.

‘Don't worry,' Ruth said. ‘I've called an ambulance. Help will be here soon.'

‘Bring my sewing,' Eliza gasped.

Just minutes later a knock sounded at the door and two green-suited paramedics hurried in and manoeuvred themselves around the furniture to get to Eliza. Joan ducked into the kitchen while Ruth explained what happened. After giving her a quick examination, the paramedics gently lifted her into a carrying chair and took her to the ambulance. Ruth gathered up the angel costume and the sewing basket, lying next to the chair. She called out instructions.

‘Would you mind locking up and checking that everything's switched off? And can you bring a bag with her toothbrush, nightdress – oh, and don't forget her glasses. I can call in and collect it tonight. And I can take you to see her if you like. I should think they'll keep her in for a few days.'

‘If not for good.' Joan stomped back into the house to do Ruth's bidding.

Ruth followed the ambulance to Monksford General Hospital. She waited with Eliza who was seen almost straight away, then transferred to a cubicle. Her dog collar probably helped speed the process along. She had learnt that lesson when her mother was in hospital. With her cassock on, she was treated with respect, as a spiritual leader, not just dismissed as the frumpy, middle-aged daughter of the patient.

She sat beside Eliza's bed and filled in the admission form as best she could. Eliza lapsed in and out of consciousness. The nurse had fitted her with an oxygen mask, which, when she could speak, made it very difficult to understand what she was saying. When the doctor came, Ruth left them alone and went to get herself a cup of coffee from a machine down the corridor. She took a swig then winced – golden roast with a hint of gravy. When she got back, the doctor was waiting for her.

‘Are you next of kin?'

‘No, I'm a friend.'

‘She's a member of your congregation?'

‘Actually, no. She's Jewish.' Ruth could see the doctor's irritation rising. She realised the dog collar was cutting no ice with him. ‘Look, she has no other relatives. I've been visiting her occasionally, and we've been getting quite close. The only other person is her neighbour who will be in this evening. Do you need me to sign anything?'

‘No, she's been able to consent to treatment herself. I just want to make sure someone can be with her. Would you do that?'

‘Yes, of course.' Ruth did not consider herself squeamish, and she had lost count of the number of times she had sat beside patients as they fought to stay alive. She had witnessed many battles and watched people lose as well as win, but she was not comfortable here.

She tipped the rest of the coffee into a washbasin and stationed herself on a plastic chair close to Eliza Feldman's trolley. She took the old lady's hand. Eliza opened her eyes and smiled briefly, then drifted off to sleep again. Ruth looked around the cubicle. The walls were painted a soothing duck-egg blue and the mottled blue curtains had been drawn on two sides, leaving only the end at the foot of the trolley open. There was a washbasin, a yellow clinical waste disposal unit, and a light with an extending arm on the wall. She could hear a child screaming a few cubicles away.

The realisation of how much she hated hospitals came as a surprise to Ruth. Her senses were filled with all the usual things: the smells, the sights and sounds associated with sickness and death, the memories of her mother's last few weeks. But something else gnawed at her, a feeling that she wasn't quite in control. It was if she had to abide by the rules of a game she didn't fully understand, and when she felt obliged to ask, the answer always seemed patronising. Besides, she was never quite sure whom the rules were intended to benefit.

Although it was over a year ago, her mother's time in Monksford General was still fresh in Ruth's mind. The restrictions on visiting hours made the pain of seeing her mother so unwell worse. If she had just watched an episode of
Coronation Street
and was dying to discuss it with her mother, who was bound to have been watching the same episode, she couldn't just turn up. She had to wait for visiting time, by which time, the freshness, the urgency would have passed and neither would care any more. She often made up some life-and-death excuse and visited her anyway. ‘Uncle Vanya has just died' or ‘my cousin Rachel has left her husband,' she would tell the staff nurse, hoping she hadn't studied English literature. Her mother had rather enjoyed the subterfuge.