The Art of Standing Still (9 page)

‘Yes, it's . . . real.'

‘Is it?' Jemma had never thought of it as any more than an old collection of stories.

‘Even as Jesus spoke those words . . . he knew what would happen. He knew he would die. In the garden, the bit I read, he asked his best friends to wait with him while he made the hardest decision of his life. He wanted some support from his mates, but when he went back and checked on them they'd fallen sleep.'

‘That's awful!'

‘It really happened. He had to choose whether to go through with it – the cross and certain death – or to quit. And he made that decision alone.'

‘What did he choose?'

Joshua smiled. ‘He chose the cross.'

‘I knew that!' Jemma reddened a little. Of course she knew that Jesus Christ died on the cross. People complained about how badly Religious Education was taught in schools, but even she knew about the cross! She just never heard it explained so clearly. He had made it sound as if it happened yesterday. As if it was something he had read in the newspaper.

‘Attention please.' Ronnie Mardle clapped his hands. ‘Could I have all the Judases over there, please, and if you've already been cast in a part, please make sure you've given your name to our lovely vicar, the Reverend Wells . . .' Ruth gave a little wave from her desk by the door.

‘. . . and if anyone's interested in coming tomorrow night, we're doing the Old Testament. Bring along your stone tablets. We're in need of a Moses.'

‘Looks like I can go,' said Josh. ‘What about you?'

‘Still waiting to hear. One more audition.' She glanced at Amanda Fry, who was still on the phone.

‘I hope you get the part,' said Josh. This time it was his turn to blush a little. ‘I'd like to see you again.'

Before she could answer, he turned and walked out of the hall, almost bumping into Alistair Fry. Alistair greeted Ruth, then came over to Amanda, who finally finished her call. He kissed her lightly, once on each cheek, then held up a hand and apologised to Ronnie.

‘Glad you could make it.' A hint of sarcasm crept into Ronnie's voice. ‘You're too late for Jesus, I'm afraid, but we're still a Judas short, if you want to try out for that.'

Harlan turned to Amanda. ‘Are you ready now?'

‘Changed my mind,' she said and tottered over to join her husband.

Harlan came up to her and put a bony arm around Jemma's shoulders.

‘Well done, Mary Magdalene. Make sure Ruth's got your address and phone number, and we'll give you a date for the first rehearsal. You can pick up your script too. Welcome aboard.'

Jemma grinned. Then she reminded herself that she didn't want the part. Not only did it mean a night or two out every week, unpaid, but the indignity of a weekly column.

Then again, there was Josh Wood. Maybe there were compensations after all.

JEMMA DROVE HOME WITH HER HEAD SPINNING. THE FIRST REHEARSAL WAS A
week on Thursday. She had got a part in a play she wasn't interested in, had to write a column she didn't wish to write, all to please a boss she found irritating. To cap it all she felt her heart tugging her towards another relationship. This was definitely the last thing she wanted to happen.

She pulled up in the car park alongside the river and leant her head against the steering wheel and closed her eyes. She let out a deep groan. First Richard and now this. How could it happen?

She felt like this only once before, when she was eleven. She was on holiday with her father, her uncle, and her cousin Brad. Brad at fifteen was like a two-year-old Labrador – the body of an adult with the mind of a puppy.

They had stayed in apartments on Corfu, and Brad became obsessed with water sports: speedboats, jet skis, paragliding, and scuba diving.

One afternoon, when the adults were taking their siesta, he had procured the keys to his uncle's speedboat. ‘Come on Jemma. Let's see what you're made of. I've hitched up the towrope. You get the water skis. I'll just go and start the engine.'

Jemma had frozen, rooted to the spot.

‘Not chicken, are you?'

No one called her chicken, especially not that spotty brat.

She climbed on the skis for only the second time in her life, and they took off around Agios Georgios Bay at breakneck speed.

Terrified, she clung to the tow handle. Afraid to hang on and but even more afraid to let go. As she bounced round the bay, panic overcame her pride.

‘Stop, Brad! Please stop.'

He chose to ignore her. She was trapped. Held by the rope that was both peril and lifeline. The pain in her shoulders and arms was excruciating, but she clung to the handle.

Then her father shouted from the shore. She gritted her teeth. And prayed. Finally Brad slowed down, drove the speedboat close to the beach, and she felt safe enough to let go. Kicking off her skis, she swam to safety, where her white-faced father and uncle were waiting. As she rose from the water, shaking more from terror than the cold, she vowed never to take on anything she couldn't control.

Now that she was an adult, she insisted on driving herself everywhere, she cut her own hair, and she refused to visit a doctor unless she was at death's door.

No one ever told her to ‘get a grip'. Her grip on her life, her emotions and her destiny was Herculean. Until now. She tried to pinpoint the start of her current predicament. She leant back in the driver's seat and opened her eyes. And screamed. Two eyes stared back at her through the windscreen.

She closed her eyes again for a moment, willing the apparition to go away. She took a deep breath and then, once more, squinted at the windscreen. This time the face took shape.

‘Richard!' She lowered the window. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘Nice to see you too.'

‘What do you want?'

‘Don't worry. I haven't come to ask you to have me back. I've just come for my stuff. I left it as long as I could.'

‘I know.' Jemma studied his unshaven face and bloodshot eyes. He could certainly do with some of his clothes and toiletries. ‘I packed them all up for you.' Jemma wound up the window and got out of the car. She opened the boot and nodded at the black bags.

‘Take them,' she said.

‘Thing is,' he hesitated, ‘I haven't got the car.'

‘Where is it?'

‘In the repair shop. I had a bit of a disagreement with a Ford Mondeo.'

‘Let me guess. You were in such a hurry to get away from me you weren't looking where you were going?'

‘Jems, don't. Please.'

‘Don't call me that!' Jemma slammed the boot shut and started walking towards the
Hog
.

‘Look, I'm sorry to disturb you at this time of night. In fact, I'm sorry that I've had to come back at all. I didn't want you to see me like this.'

‘Like what?' Jemma turned and looked at him in the moonlight. His clothes were crumpled and his hair was unkempt.

‘I . . . I haven't been well.'

‘Bring out the violins!'

‘I went to the doctor and everything. He said it was stress. He gave me some tablets.'

‘So? What do you expect me to do about it?'

‘I just want a bit of understanding. A bit of sympathy.'

‘Like you gave me when you dumped me. You didn't even let me down gently. You didn't try to talk to me. You didn't give me the opportunity to try to sort this out. You just left me a letter – no, not even a letter. A note. A note written on a scrappy piece of envelope. It looked like something you'd found in the bin! Do you know what that says to me, Richard? That our relationship was garbage. It wasn't worth the effort while we were in it, and to end it you used something I wouldn't even use to write a shopping list. You were always very keen on the symbolic. Well that just about says it all.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘No, you're not. We could have talked. You could have spoken to me. Just one word – '

‘I didn't know how to say goodbye.'

‘There, you just said it. It wasn't that hard!'

‘There were things . . . things that made it difficult to stay.'

‘So what was her name? No, don't tell me. I don't want to know!'

‘It wasn't like that. Please, Jemma . . .'

‘No!'

They had reached the moorings, and Jemma fumbled for her keys.

‘Could I come in for a moment?'

‘How could you even ask that?'

‘Thing is . . . I've got nowhere else to stay. I had to leave the flat . . .'

‘I don't believe this!' She unlocked the padlock and switched on the lights. She felt chilled from the night air.

‘Can I at least have a coffee? Please?'

He looked pathetic. And if this new girl had thrown him out . . .

She took a deep breath. ‘Okay, just one coffee and you go.' Jemma filled the kettle and turned on the heater. The small cabin would soon be cosy. She looked at the spare berth. Perhaps one night . . .

Her mobile phone rang. She tucked it against her shoulder while she continued to spoon out the coffee granules into two mugs.

‘Hi, Jemma. It's Josh. I hope you don't mind me ringing. Ruth Wells gave me your number.'

‘Oh Josh, hi! No that's fine.'

‘I just wanted to say that I was really pleased that we'd be working together on the play.'

‘Yes, but all those words to learn . . .'

Richard opened the door. ‘I'd better go.'

Jemma put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Where will you sleep?'

Richard waved his hand, dismissing her concern.

‘Let me know when you've found somewhere to stay, and I'll bring your stuff round, right?'

Richard nodded and left. Jemma felt a blast of cold air as the door opened and closed. She shivered.

‘Is
everything okay?'

‘Yes, everything's fine now.'

THE PLAY'S THE THING

I
t was with some trepidation that I made my way to St Sebastian's Church Hall for the auditions for the Monksford Mystery Plays. The plays were discovered in a vault last year, and I caught up with the Reverend Ruth Wells, who has modernised the plays from their
Canterbury Tales
language, transforming them into something that wouldn't be out of place in an Eastenders script. This busy village vicar has managed to combine her bustling parish life with reviving these ancient plays, which became a labour of love for close to two years. Despite the medieval origins of the plays, Ruth Wells hopes there will be something for everyone.

I asked Reverend Wells about her aspirations for the project. ‘We're hoping the whole community can become involved,' she said. ‘We have found some terrific actors among local people. This is an opportunity for the church and community to work together.'

The auditions attracted several hundred adults and children from Monksford and the surrounding villages, and the main parts were cast. I questioned Reverend Wells about the decision to cast the plays using purely amateur talent. ‘My ambition is for it to be a production for the people by the people. We're hoping to put Monksford on the map.'

Councillor Alistair Fry has secured much of the funding for the production from the town's leisure-and-arts budget. ‘Culturally and historically,' he said, ‘these plays are very important for Monksford. In times of change and modernisation and uncertainty, they provide an anchor to the past.'

And for the record, yours truly, local journalist Jemma Durham, has been cast in the role of Mary Magdalene. Over the coming weeks I'll be letting you know how I get on and bringing you the inside story on the Monksford Mystery Plays. Now where did I put that alabaster jar?

Scene Seven

IT WAS STILL DARK WHEN RUTH ARRIVED AT BROADOAK GREEN FOR THE THIRD
time that year. Instead of the spectacular sunrise she had hoped for, the gunmetal grey October sky became progressively paler until she realised its slate colour, that almost matched the roofs, was as light as it was going to get.

She pulled her jacket around her as a bitter east wind cut along the river and threaded its way between the buildings. Ruth stood with her back towards the Monksford Business Centre. It was a squat, square 1960s monstrosity, which crouched in front of the river like a shabby dog. At least it afforded her some shelter. She tried to ignore the racket coming from the nearby dispatch depot and closed her eyes, imagining the area as fields. This was the very spot where the waggons, which had been used to perform the original Monksford Corpus Christi plays, would have been stored.

She stood as still as one of the broad oaks that six hundred years ago had encircled the green, and she strained to listen, hoping she might hear an echo from the past.

The rumble of the wooden wheels over the cobbles, then a shout from the guilds' men. She imagined their bright torches. The horses snorted and stamped. A man in a dark blue coat called out, ‘You builders, stand here in readiness. The sun will soon be up, and the folk are at present gathering for the pageant.'