The Art of Standing Still

by Penny Culliford

A shiver ran through her. The muddy green Land Rover in the car park. Her leap into the trees. ‘Then it was you that drove at me! You tried to kill me!’

  ‘You were the idiot shining the torch beam in my eyes. I couldn’t see a thing. I nearly hit a tree.’

  ‘So,’ Josh said, ‘what is Alistair going to do when he finds out the police have his money?’

  ‘Won’t be long before the police bring in Fry,’ Jemma said. ‘Will you come with us if we take the tape to the police?’

  ‘But they’ll arrest him!’ Josh said.

  ‘Dur, yeah. That is the general idea. But don’t you see, if there’s no foot-and-mouth, there’s nothing to stop the Monksford Mysteries going ahead as planned. And to do the plays we need Alistair.’

  ‘We can’t withhold this information – that’s a crime in itself.’ Josh ran his fingers through his hair.

  ‘We’re not withholding it, just delaying. We owe it to Ruth, after all the effort she’s put into the plays.’ Jemma felt like screaming with frustration.

  ‘I suppose we’re only talking about a couple of days, and this has been going on for months. Mr Griffin, will you ring the vet and the Department, see if they’ll accept your explanation? Then we’ll all go to the police station. You can call Ruth later and give her the good news.’

  Jemma felt drained. She was certain things would be far less complicated in Fleet Street.

  Scene Eleven

  RUTH SAT IN HER MOTHER’S CHAIR. DIMITRI PUSHED HIS HEAD AGAINST HER legs as if he understood. She lifted him up to her lap and stroked hard, running her hands up and down his stripy back. He dug his claws into her thighs. She didn’t mind the pain; it distracted her. Today was Corpus Christi, the day when the ancient plays would have been performed in an age when weekends and Bank Holidays had no meaning. After what seemed like centuries, the phone rang. It was Bram.

  ‘Well?’ Ruth could feel her heart thumping.

  ‘DEFRA weren’t happy about the contamination of the land. They’ve informed the Department of the Environment who say it will have to be sealed off and properly cleared, but they’re happy that it poses no danger to the public.’

  Ruth’s heart was beating so loudly she was sure Bram could hear it. ‘And . . .’

  ‘The vet could find no trace of the disease among the cattle or sheep and the results of the blood tests aren’t through yet, but he’s satisfied my animals are in first class health.’

  ‘So that means – ’

  ‘That means they’ve lifted the ban. The plays can go ahead.’

  Ruth gave a whoop of joy and blew kisses to Bram down the phone. Then she found her address sheet and passed on the good news. She saved Alistair’s call until last. After all he’d been through recently, he deserved some good news. She rang his house several times, but he wasn’t in. She tried his mobile phone. His voice, when he answered was snatched away by the wind, which made the phone crackle and buzz.

  ‘Alistair, where are you?’

  ‘By the river. I thought I’d go for a walk to clear my head.’

  ‘Can I join you? I’ve got some news.’ For once she didn’t care if they were alone together. She didn’t even care if he kissed her. She longed to see him, to be with him. She wanted to see his smile, to take his hand, and walk with him beside the river.

  ‘Better not. I don’t think we should see each other, just for a while.’

  It felt as if he had punched her. ‘What do you mean?’

  His voice sounded strained. ‘Ruth, I’m trying to protect you. After all I’ve done to hurt you, surely you can let me do that.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ She had spent months keeping him at arms length. Now, finally, she admitted to herself that she loved him, and he was pushing her away.

  ‘What with Amanda, and my little brush with the law.’

  ‘I thought you were just helping the police.’

  ‘I was, but now that Amanda’s gone, it still wouldn’t look good for you, a vicar.’

  Ruth laughed. ‘After all we’ve been through, now you start to get all prissy.’

  ‘Believe me. I’ve got your best interests at heart. Now, what did you want to tell me about the plays?’

  When she had finished, he merely said, ‘That is good news.’

  Ruth felt the information warranted a little more enthusiasm. After all, Alistair was almost as much part of the mysteries as she was. ‘Alistair, what’s wrong?’

  ‘It would be easier to tell you what’s right.’ He sighed, and Ruth detected a profound sadness and weariness in his voice that made her long to reach out. Now they were both single, perhaps . . . perhaps.

  His phone went dead. Ruth waited for him to return her call, but he didn’t. Her first instinct was to go and find him, but whatever his reasons, he had made it perfectly clear that he needed to be alone.

  Overwhelmed by ‘things that needed doing’, Ruth sat on the chair again, stalled by a kind of inertia. Dimitri jumped on her lap again, and she stoked his soft ears.

  ‘I have to help Alistair,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if there’s anything I can do, but I have to try.’

  Dimitri looked up with his cold, green eyes. Life was so simple for him – eat, sleep, and receive a little affection now and again, that was all he required. Not for the first time, Ruth wished that they could exchange places.

  The person that seemed to hold the key to Alistair’s fate was Richard Sutton. She set off for the hospital determined to set things straight. She felt guilty for not visiting Richard since his outburst. With time to compose himself, Ruth was optimistic that the misunderstanding could be resolved and that Alistair could be free of any blemish on his reputation. Perhaps she could make use of her status as vicar to open doors. After all, people trusted the clergy.

  Richard was not in his room when Ruth arrived, which sent her spinning for a moment. She calmed herself and asked a nurse where he was. The nurse shrugged.

  ‘Have you tried the day room?’

  Ruth found it eventually, an overly cheerful room, painted in yellow and lime green, with blinding sunlight streaming through the picture window.

  Richard, dressed in jogging pants and sweatshirt, sat in a chair with a newspaper spread on his lap. Ruth knocked and went in. He didn’t appear to notice her. She sat beside him.

  ‘Hello, how are you feeling?’

  ‘Okay.’ He didn’t look up.

  ‘Do you remember me?’

  ‘Yes. You’re . . .’ He finally met her eyes.

  ‘Ruth Wells. I’m vicar at St Sebastian’s, and I’m a friend of Josh’s.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I was concerned about you. You seemed very upset the last time I was here. You were shouting things about Alistair Fry.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I think I should tell you that Mr Fry spent the whole night at the police station answering questions.’

  ‘Really.’ His voice was indifferent, but Ruth could see his hands were trembling.

  ‘I . . . I wanted to find out why you made those wild accusations.’

  Richard shook his head.

  Ruth spoke gently. ‘It’s just that Alistair has a lot on his plate at the moment. He’s a very busy man. Apart from acting in the mystery plays, he’s a respected town Councillor, a lawyer, church council member – ’

  ‘Is that supposed to make it any better?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What he did to me.’

  ‘Exactly what did he do to you?’

  Richard’s brows furrowed. ‘I . . . can’t . . . remember.’

  ‘Then how can you possibly make these accusations?’ Her tone betrayed her frustration.

  ‘I don’t know. I just saw him and . . .’ Richard wiped his hand across his face.

  ‘Do you have any idea how much damage you could have caused?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Ruth took his hand. ‘I know you’ve been through a lot, but you can’t just go accusing innocent people of hur
ting you. I hope they catch who did this. I really do.’

  ‘So do I,’ Richard said.

  Outside the hospital she heaved a sigh of relief. As far as she could see, Alistair’s slate was clean, his copybook unblotted, and his character freer from stain than a shirt in a washing-powder commercial. Now she could concentrate on the business of the mystery plays. She made a mental list of things to do and felt overwhelmed again.

  ‘One thing at a time,’ she told herself. ‘One thing at a time.’

  She had to visit the farm and iron out the final creases, but in a rash moment she decided to telephone the local radio station first. As far as they were concerned this was news, and as far as she was concerned, it was good publicity. The presenter, Damien Crow, agreed to interview her live on air, and she would have the opportunity to reassure the people of Monksford that their plays would go ahead. She found herself waiting with the receiver pressed tightly against her ear. She could hear the radio programme being broadcast. It was worse than the Muzak insurance companies inflict on you while they are holding your call. Finally she heard the presenter’s voice.

  ‘And on the show today, we are privileged to be speaking to Canon Ruth Welsh, founder of the Monksford Mystery Players. Tell us Canon Welsh – whodunnit?’

  ‘Actually, Damien, I’m Ruth Wells and I’m just Reverend.’

  ‘Okay, Reverend. Tell us why you decided to treat us to this performance. Don’t we get all the mystery we need watching Inspector Morse and Prime Suspect?’

  ‘Well, it’s not really that kind of mystery, Damien. We’re performing medieval religious plays.’

  ‘That sounds like a lot of fun.’

  Ruth riled at his sarcasm. ‘We’ve had a very eventful few months rehearsing, and now we have nothing short of a spectacle.’

  ‘Really! Now I understand the performance was under threat.’

  ‘That’s right. We were due to be performing at Hope Farm, but the Department nearly shut the farm down due to rumours of a foot-and-mouth outbreak.’

  ‘And the last thing you’d want is to give the entire population of Monksford foot-and-mouth. Although my producer, Steve, says I suffer from foot-in-mouth all the time.’ He played a clashing cymbal sound effect to complete the joke.

  ‘Thankfully, we have been given the “all clear”, and the plays will go ahead tomorrow as planned.’ Ruth struggled on bravely, explaining the background and the significance of the plays. She had the impression Damien hadn’t heard a word she said.

  ‘So, people of Monksford and all the surrounding villages, if you really want to get to the heart of the mystery, tomorrow at Home Farm, Monksford, from 8.30 a.m. join Reverend Welsh and her Mystery Players. You’ll be glad you did.’

  ‘Hope Farm. It’s Hope Farm . . .’ Ruth said. But it was too late. Damien had started the next track – ‘Sweet Little Mystery’ by Wet Wet Wet.

  Ruth put the phone down. If anyone could work out what it was all about from that interview, she’d eat her dog collar.

  The phone rang. It was Josh. ‘Ruth, I need to talk to you.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can go through with this.’

  Ruth sighed. A deep, cold weariness overwhelmed her. All she needed now was for Josh to get cold feet.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll sort Alistair out, and Bram.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘Is it because of the lightning?’

  ‘Not really, though it did scare the pants off me.’

  ‘Shall I come round?’

  ‘How about if I meet you tonight at St Seb’s. Ten o’clock.’

  JOSH WAS STANDING IN THE GRAVEYARD WHEN RUTH ARRIVED TO UNLOCK St Sebastian’s. She went to embrace him, but he took a step back. His face looked full of torment.

  ‘Ruth, would you pray with me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  They entered the church and sat down together on a pew. Ruth placed her hand on his shoulder and prayed about the plays, and for Josh, committing him into God’s care. She noticed his breathing was becoming laboured and that he was shaking.

  ‘Whatever’s wrong?’

  ‘Ruth, I’ve been seeing things.’ His eyes were wild.

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘Shadows, and things in the shadows. Oh, I know that makes me sound like I’m losing it, but I can’t sleep, I can hardly eat . . . It’s as if someone’s following me.’

  ‘Have you called the police?’

  ‘No. The thing is, I’m not even sure if what I’m seeing is real or not.’

  ‘It sounds to me like you should see a doctor.’

  ‘Perhaps . . . but it will all be over tomorrow. Then maybe whatever it is will go away.’

  ‘Do you think it could be something spiritual? Some kind of attack?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ He stood up, glancing nervously around him. ‘I just don’t know,’ he repeated, quietly this time. ‘I feel as if I’m in danger – as if someone, or some thing is trying to kill me.’

  ‘It’s probably just a stress reaction. You and Jemma have been through a lot recently.’

  ‘Don’t tell Jemma. Promise me you won’t tell Jemma.’ He snatched at her hands.

  ‘I won’t say anything. We’ve got the press coming to the farm at two. Will you be there?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘And I think you should talk to Jemma. She’ll understand.’

  Scene Twelve

  JEMMA WOKE TO THE SOUND OF THE DAWN CHORUS COMPETING WITH THE shrill tones of her alarm clock. She reached over and killed the alarm, then rolled back and bathed in the birdsong. The sharp sunlight cut through the crack in the curtains illuminating a slice through the berth.

  She flung the curtains apart and opened the window. The air was sweet with grass and pollen. There was no sign of the unpleasant odour that had alerted Skye Wortham to Bram Griffin’s misdemeanours. She breathed deeply, filled with contentment. The plays were going ahead, she had the evidence to get Fry arrested and to get a good story out of it. She knew her lines and relished performing in front of an audience again. The only cow pat on the meadow of her contentment was Josh and his intention to leave.

  At the press conference yesterday, Saffy took the publicity shots. Jemma was particularly pleased of the one of Josh and her as Jesus and Mary Magdalene. She was delighted and not a little surprised that the plays had generated so much interest. Ruth had been on the radio, and a reporter from the local television news had shown up.

  Josh had been quiet through it all.

  ‘Would you like to come over later? A little last-minute rehearsal.’

  ‘Er, no thanks. Not tonight.’ He looked preoccupied.

  ‘Why not? Just a cup of tea. No pressure.’

  ‘It’s not that. I’m just tired.’

  He had not mentioned again his plans to leave. She decided not to bring up the subject. Perhaps if they didn’t talk about it, it wouldn’t happen.

  She didn’t know how she could face his leaving. They had become close over the past few months. They had spent time together with Richard. She had seen him laugh, and he had held her when she cried; she had brought him dinner when he had a cold, and he always just happened to phone her when she was feeling low. More than that, he had opened something in her spirit, the possibility of something beyond work, even beyond family and friends, something eternal.

  She shook herself out of her daydream and pulled on her jeans and T-shirt then she went to the bathroom and used the tiny mirror to apply makeup. She spread the foundation more thickly than usual and made up her eyes with dark liner to accentuate them on stage.

  ‘Break a leg!’ The cheery voice came from the galley. She followed the sound and found Ray Jones bent almost double peering through her doorway. ‘Today’s the day, isn’t it?’

  ‘Certainly is,’ Jemma said.

  ‘I’ll be there, cheering you on from the wings, as it were. I’ve got all the chaps from work coming. We’ve been reading
your paper.’

  ‘Thanks, Ray.’

  ‘Cheerio and good luck.’

  Then it hit home. Today was the day! Her stomach churned, and the butterflies would not allow her to eat breakfast. As she forced down a cup of coffee, she clutched her rolled-up script, as if the words would ooze through the pages and permeate her skin and embed themselves in her brain.

  She found herself praying on the way to the farm. She gripped the steering wheel fiercely and bombarded God with her list of orders and requests for the day. To her surprise, he seemed to have acquiesced to her demand for a jam-free journey, and she wondered what she had done to get on the Almighty’s good side. He was equally com pliant with her request for a parking place near the ‘Green Room’ marquee.

  The dew was thick on the grass, but the sun was warm and it promised to be a beautiful day. The actors were milling around, laughing, chatting, and drinking steaming tea from enamel mugs. She spotted Josh standing apart from the crowd, and she walked over to him, suddenly feeling a little shy. As she got closer, she could see his ashen face and sunken, troubled eyes. He greeted her with a kiss on the cheek, then said, ‘I’ve been sick twice this morning.’

  ‘Thank you for sharing that.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She took his hand. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Just take deep breaths and speak slowly.’

  ‘Jemma, I don’t want to do it.’ He was trembling.

  ‘Everyone feels like that; it’s just stage fright. The minute you start acting it will be gone. You’ll just be concentrating on remembering the words and standing in the right place.’

  ‘I’m afraid.’

  ‘Of course you are, but I promise you – ’

  ‘I’m afraid of the crucifixion.’

  The abrupt statement drove a chill through Jemma. She was afraid of the crucifixion too. Josh might have been afraid of the physical pain of having his arms stretched out and tied with rough rope; he may even have been afraid of another bolt of lightning, but the raw reminder of the suffering of one man for many two thousand years ago sent fear resounding through her soul.

  She gave a little laugh, trying to lighten the mood. ‘You will be all right,’ she repeated. ‘I’ll be there.’