The Art of Standing Still (8 page)

Scene Five

JEMMA LAY ON HER BERTH, GAZING AT THE WOODEN CEILING. SHE WAS FURIOUS
with Mohan for dragooning her into auditioning for the role and furious with herself for accepting. Could she have refused? Not without seriously damaging her career as well as her credibility with Mohan. No, she was resigned to the column and the audition for the lousy play.

She rolled over, pulled a script off her desk, and read it aloud once more, just to establish it in her mind. Everyone had their own technique for learning words. When she was at university, the students had discussed how best to memorise a script. She had favoured recording it on tape, then playing it as she went to sleep, hoping the lines would embed themselves subliminally in her brain.

She had thought hard about what to perform for her audition piece. She again considered her options as she flicked through her drama folder from university. The Bible was too obvious. Besides she didn't understand it. She contemplated Elizabeth Proctor's speech from
The Crucible
– too controlled, Blanche from
A Streetcar Named
Desire
– too hackneyed. And
Abigail's Party
, well! Then she thought of Shakespeare, one of Viola's speeches from her favourite play –
Twelfth Night
– and ran though the words in her mind.

‘I left no ring with her; what means this lady? Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her! She made good view of me; indeed, so much . . .'

As fervently as Jemma tried not to engage with the mystery plays and tried not think about her firmly twisted arm . . . still, she was the sort of person to give it her all. If she had to be part of this play, she had to do it well. Mohan didn't seem to have countenanced the possibility that she wouldn't be cast in the role of Mary Magdalene, and, to be honest, neither had she.

She had always got the lead role, right from her nursery school. She wasn't going to be a stand-around angel. No, for Jemma, nothing less than the Virgin Mary would do. Her ambition extended far beyond her career. She was competitive, that was just her nature. Sports, careers, relationships. Perhaps that was why she hit the ground so hard and jumped to her feet again so quickly when Richard
left. At this moment, she agreed with Olivia, and fully intended to avoid love ‘like the plague'. The pun made her smile.

A screech of brakes brought her bolt upright. Then footsteps, running along the towpath. She shot to the window. It was too dark to see. A car door slammed. She threw open the hatch and a pair of headlamps blinded her as a car shot towards her, mounting the strip of grass and threatening to cross the towpath. Instinctively, she put her hands up. The engine screamed as the car reversed. The gears crunched and the car sped across the car park. Her view was obscured by trees. She heard the tyres crunching over the gravel of the car park, then take off up the lane. She stood fixed to the spot, hardly daring to breathe. All was quiet again outside.

Something strange was afoot, she was sure of it. Still she couldn't go to the police. She had no description of the car or the people in it and no evidence of a crime. Perhaps she would tell Mohan. Perhaps he would think it worth investigating, or perhaps he would laugh and dismiss it as paranoia.

‘I wish Richard was here.'

Instantly, she slapped that thought in the face. Whatever happened, Richard was the last person she needed. She lay on her bed again, this time, cocooned in the quilt.

She listened for the car to return, but all she heard was the screech of a barn owl and the water lapping gently, lapping, lapping . . .

Scene Six

JEMMA EVENTUALLY FOUND A PARKING SPACE HALFWAY UP THE HIGH STREET.
Slowly she unclenched her hands from the steering wheel and exhaled. First, an accident on the bypass delayed her for nearly an hour; then the traffic had been almost at a standstill at Monksford General Hospital.

It had been nothing but traffic jams since the ‘highway improvements' last August. The new road, which led through the revamped industrial estate – now Monksford Business and Retail Park – was supposed to have been the panacea to all the town's problems. But rather, it had caused even more ills. It cut an ugly wound through the Kentish farmland and took passing trade away from the town centre.

As she rummaged through files, crisp packets, and empty drink cans, looking in her car for her script and her bag, a blue van drove past, narrowly missing her half-open door.

‘Watch it!' she yelled. The driver shouted back something that Jemma couldn't hear. She slammed the car door and locked it. She glanced at her watch. Already five minutes late.

She ran along the pavement, dodging pedestrians and telegraph poles. The pale blue van was parked just a few feet from the entrance to the church hall. Jemma, irked the driver had found a space so close, a space that should have been hers, repressed the urge to kick the tyres. A dark-haired man climbed out of the driver's seat. He smiled at her. She scowled back.

‘I'm sorry about nearly taking your door off,' he said, still smiling.

‘Yeah, okay,' muttered Jemma.

‘You going for a part?' He nodded in the direction of the hall.

‘Yes, my boss is making me.' She answered. ‘You?'

‘My vicar's making me.'

She couldn't help smiling back. Was anyone taking part in this play voluntarily?

‘What's your audition piece?' she asked as he held the door open for her.

‘I just thought I'd read a bit from the Bible. After all, that's what it's all about.'

‘So, you're not an actor?'

‘Hardly,' he laughed. ‘I've never been on the stage before. I work at Abacus.'

‘The do-it-yourself shop?'

He nodded. ‘You?'

‘I studied drama at college but now I'm a journalist.'

He raised his eyebrows.

‘Keep it quiet. I thought I'd go incognito, you know. Tell the story behind the story.'

‘I'd better watch what I say.'

‘The chances of anything of interest happening are pretty remote. This is Monksford, after all.'

‘You don't sound very keen on the idea.'

‘I've been killing myself all week learning my piece. I wish I hadn't bothered. It's my editor's idea to write a weekly column.'

The man held out his hand. ‘I hope you get it. If that's what you want.'

She smiled. ‘Good luck to you too. Break a leg, as they say.'

Jemma walked into the hall and felt as if she had blundered into the middle of Oxford Street a week before Christmas. It was packed with people, milling around, talking, laughing. She spotted a harassed looking woman sitting at a desk. Resisting the urge to barge to the front, she joined the queue. In front of her were a jester, a Morris dancer, a nun, and several surly looking teenage boys. The woman at the desk took their names and assigned them to different parts of the room. She appeared to be handing the teenage boys five-pound notes.
This is good
,
we get paid too!

Finally it was Jemma's turn. The woman looked up and smiled at her.

‘Jemma Durham. I'm auditioning for the part of Mary Magdalene.'

‘Hello, are you the reporter?'

Jemma nodded. So much for undercover journalism.

‘I'm Ruth Wells, the vicar. That . . .' she gestured towards a small, plump man in a pink pullover and wearing small round glasses ‘is Ronnie Mardle, and over there is Harlan Westacre. She'll be auditioning you.' She nodded towards a thin woman with dangling earrings. ‘If you'd like to wait over there, we'll try to get organised as soon as we can.'

‘Lot of people here.' Jemma did a mental count for the article.

‘Yes, I'm delighted at the turnout – oh, will you excuse me?' She stood up and beckoned to the man Jemma had met on the way in. ‘Josh! Over here.' He smiled and waved. He really did have a very nice smile.

Jemma crossed the hall and joined the other potential Mary Magdalenes near the piano. The familiar burning of ambition ignited inside. She studied the competition. There were four other women. Two looked well over sixty, so Jemma dismissed them. A dark-haired woman sat demurely with her ankles crossed on a blue plastic chair. Another woman, vaguely familiar, a blonde with a short skirt and high heels, was on her mobile phone, speaking loudly with animated gestures. She wore an ankle bracelet, large hooped earrings, and far too much makeup. Jemma wondered if she was attempting to portray the shadier side of Mary Magdalene's reputation.

‘Alistair, you're late!' the woman screeched into her phone. ‘You've made me look really stupid, standing in this hall, waiting for you. I've got better things to do.'

Amanda Fry! Of course. Jemma hadn't recognised her sober. The woman glanced around at the stares and lowered her voice.

Jemma pulled her hairbrush from her bag and groomed her hair, brushing out the kinks, and letting it hang smooth and straight, like a dark curtain to frame her face. The scrawny, bird-like woman the vicar had pointed out earlier approached the motley quintet. She carried a notebook and pen.

‘Evening, ladies. I'm Harlan Westacre, and I'll be putting you through your paces tonight. Right, who's first?' She glanced at Jemma, but one of the older women put up her hand.

‘I'll do it.' She jumped to her feet and grabbed a CD player. ‘Where do you want me?'

Harlan gestured towards a corner of the hall. The woman turned on the CD and proceeded to sing ‘Tomorrow' from the musical
Annie
in a wavering soprano. Jemma covered her mouth with her hand to hide a smirk.

Harlan was kinder to the
woman than she deserved and pointed out Ronnie Mardle for her, suggesting she talk to him about a possible future in amateur operatics.

The second woman muttered her way through Lady Macbeth's ‘out damned spot' speech while Harlan made notes. At the end Harlan thanked the woman and said she would be letting her know. Jemma knew she meant she wouldn't be letting her know.

Harlan smiled at Jemma, who stood up, took a breath to still herself, as she had been taught, and proceeded with her monologue. As she spoke Viola's words, a hush descended around her. She tried not to notice heads were turning. She was good and she knew it. At the end there was a smattering of applause, and Jemma was tempted to bow.

‘Brava!' cried Harlan, scribbling notes on her pad. The mousy-looking woman stood up and whispered something to Harlan.

‘Are you sure, dear?'

‘Yes, I'm sure,' the woman said and scuttled for the door.

‘Well, Jemma Durham. It looks as if you've got the part.'

‘What about her?' Jemma glanced towards Amanda Fry, who was still on the phone.

‘Excuse me.' Harlan waved her hand in front of Amanda's face.

Amanda put her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. ‘What?'

‘Are you going to audition for the part?'

‘I'm waiting till my husband gets here.'

‘Why, is he auditioning for the role of Mary Magdalene too?' Harlan smiled.

‘Can I have all the Jesuses over here, please?' Ronnie Mardle's precise enunciations drowned out Amanda's snide reply. Half a dozen men climbed on the stage, and the audition started.

Harlan drew Jemma to one side. ‘I'm sorry, I'd give you the part like a shot, but I've got to make it look fair. Alistair Fry is a vital link in this project – financially, if you get my drift. Without him and his filthy lucre, we'd be up the creek.'

It wouldn't look fair if the part went to Amanda Fry just because she's the Councillor's wife either. But it wouldn't surprise Jemma if it happened.

Jemma sat down to wait. She pulled out her notebook and began scrawling shorthand across the page.

‘Joshua? Joshua Wood next please,' Ronnie called out.

Josh climbed the steps on to the stage with a Bible in his hand. He was visibly shaking, and his face looked pale despite his tan. He swept his dark hair out of his eyes and swallowed hard. His discomfort made Jemma want to turn away.

‘Off you go, Joshua,' Ronnie said.

Josh Wood opened the Bible and cleared his throat. ‘ “Then Jesus went with his disciples to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to them, ‘Sit here while I go over there and pray.' He took Peter and the two sons of Zebedee along with him, and he began to be sorrowful and troubled. Then he said to them, ‘My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.' ” '

The richness of his voice combined with the poignancy of the words had an electrifying effect on the people in the hall. The ‘Pharisees' in the corner became silent, the ‘Romans' by the broom cupboard watched intently, and Harlan Westacre stood with her hands clasped, captivated by Josh.

‘ “Going a little farther, he fell with his face to the ground and prayed, ‘My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.' ” ' He stopped reading and looked up. ‘Shall I go on?'

‘No, I've found my Jesus!' Ronnie clapped his hands and jogged onto the stage to pat Joshua Wood on the back. ‘The rest of you can go. I need look no further.'

The other men gathered round Ronnie, grumbling their complaints.

‘You can all be disciples!' Ronnie announced with an extravagant gesture. The men didn't seem mollified, but Jemma had to agree, the part couldn't possibly have gone to anyone else.

Josh closed the Bible and, wiping his hand across his face, climbed down from the stage.

Jemma went over to him. ‘Congratulations. You were very good. I thought you said you'd never been on the stage before.'

‘I haven't. I was so terrified I thought I was going to throw up. Couldn't you tell?'

‘Not at all.' Jemma fibbed.

‘Besides, it was a bit different from acting, you know, just saying words. That meant something.'

‘The Bible?'