The Art of Standing Still (12 page)

MOHAN LOOKED UP FROM THE ARTICLE. ‘IT'LL DO.'

Jemma eked out a smile.

‘How's the column going?'

‘Fine, first rehearsal tonight.'

She was desperate to ask him if there had been any reaction from the first article but was equally desperate not to sound desperate. She seized the proofs as soon as the subeditors had checked them. Mohan looked over her shoulder.

‘What do you think?'

‘Layout's good. Not sure about “Curtain up”. Not particularly accurate – no curtains on a farm.'

Mohan disregarded her comments. ‘Gives it a nice theatrical feel.'

She did like the little masks of comedy and tragedy that topped her column and the photo of St Sebastian's to one side. What she wasn't quite so happy with was the photo that Saffy had taken of her. With all the wild-eyed, washed-out, spaced-out qualities of an embarrassing snapshot, it would have made a good passport photo.

She reread the article in print and allowed herself a little contented smile. Its truthfulness and proficiency would have pleased even her grandfather. Perhaps she would send it to him.

When she had accepted, a little too gratefully, with hindsight, the job of staff reporter at the
Gazette
, her first assignment had been to report on a protest meeting
about a proposed centre for the arts. With her new notebook, pristine ballpoint, and eagerness cranked up to fever pitch, Jemma had arrived to find one young man with blond dreadlocks, two elderly women, a chap with a West Highland terrier, and a middle-aged man in a pinstriped suit.

Hardly a protest meeting, although one woman was carrying a homemade banner. In an effort to remain professional, she duly interviewed everyone concerned. Once they started talking, their fears were quickly allayed, the woman rolled up her banner and everyone returned home happy, leaving Jemma to manufacture an article, one that wouldn't cause the population of Monksford to fall asleep in their cornflakes.

She rose to the challenge and wrote with passion and clarity, and with a few well-placed words, the odd bending of the truth here and there, she turned a nonevent into an occasion. She allowed herself a little smidgen of pride. She felt like a real journalist.

After it was published in the
Monksford Gazette
, she'd driven to Yorkshire to show this, her very first proper article, to her grandfather. She sat in front of him, feeling like a child who had just given her parents her school report. She watched his face, searching for his reaction, desperate for the old Yorkshireman's approval.

Finally, he folded the paper and gave it back to her. ‘It's a very fine article, lass.'

Jemma knew that already. She didn't need an assessment of its technical competence; she needed to know that he liked it.

‘Would you have accepted it? Would it have been good enough for the
Yorkshire Mail
when you were there?'

‘Aye, as I said, it's a fine article. Is all of it true?'

‘What do you mean by true?'

He chuckled. ‘I mean did it all 'appen as you've written it? Did people actually say what you've quoted? Did you double-check their names? And if one of them people that was there read it, would they say, “Yes. That is how it was”?'

Jemma squirmed. ‘Sort of.'

‘There's no substitute for honesty in this business. Oh, I know journalists have a reputation for making it all up, but the best journalists, the very best, are the ones people know they can trust. They're the people folks pick up the phone and talk to when something happens. Integrity – that's what matters, and it's even more important when you work in the town where you live.'

Jemma blushed. She knew that when those two elderly women, the guy with blond dreadlocks, the man walking his Westie, or Councillor Fry, picked up their copy of the
Monksford Gazette
, they certainly wouldn't recognise that ‘packed meeting' where local residents ‘raised their voices in protest'.

‘Oh, and never use the word “probe”; that's what gynaecologists do, and boats are launched, inquiries are not.'

‘So those words never appeared in the
Yorkshire Mail
?'

‘ “Not on my shift,” as they say.' He laughed and the laugh turned into a crackling cough. He reached for the oxygen mask beside him and inhaled as deeply as his damaged lungs would allow.

‘Be truthful, accurate, and fair. Truth is often more boring than fiction, but it's your duty to be truthful. And if someone tells you something in confidence, don't break their trust, however good the story. They will never come back to you if you do. You may get a story that sells papers, but will you be able to live with your conscience?'

‘Surely, there are some occasions . . .'

‘Truthful, accurate, and fair. If he's behaved like a scoundrel, and you have the evidence, call him a scoundrel. Ain't nothing wrong with that.'

‘I think I understand.'

‘And another thing, don't drink, not while you're writing. You hear stories about the genius of the alcohol-soaked Fleet Street hack. Don't you even think of trying it. Only the really clever ones get away with writing while they're inebriated, Jeffrey Bernard and his ilk. If you try it, you'll write rubbish, I can promise you that.'

Jemma wasn't very impressed with the ‘compliment' but she knew he was right.

‘And never smoke either.' His face split into a broad grin. ‘I learnt that the hard way. Didn't affect my writing but by 'eck has it affected my life.'

Jemma had taken his advice. At least, most of the time. Mohan and the subeditors had even complimented her on the freshness of her writing.
Avoid clichés like the plague
, she chuckled to herself.

JEMMA TOOK A LITTLE EXTRA CARE OVER HER MAKEUP, TOUCHING UP HER LIP
gloss and brushing her hair to a sheen. Tonight she would finally stand on stage opposite Josh. She had spent her lunch breaks poring over her script and evenings watching the others rehearse, but tonight was her turn, play number twenty-four of the cycle, where Jesus visits the house of Martha and Mary.

At the last rehearsal, Ruth Wells had pointed out that Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, almost certainly wasn't the same Mary as Mary Magdalene. But Jemma barely paid attention. She was thinking of all the time she could spend admiring the magnificent Josh. Besides, they all seemed to be called Mary back then, so what was the difference?

She arrived early at the church hall and immediately scanned the room for Josh. He wasn't there so she took out her notebook and found a disciple to interview. The disciples seemed to have been chosen for their abundant facial hair, rather than any outstanding acting ability. Unfortunately, she got cornered by a disciple with bad breath who was keener to tell her about his ferret-breeding programme than he was to discuss the play.

The door swung open, and a sheepishly grinning Josh entered with a young woman. Jemma bristled. Who was she? Then she noticed Josh's hands were wrapped in bandages. The disciples, John the Baptist, and Lazarus stopped their conversation and rushed over to him. Jemma joined them.

‘Hey, I've never been mobbed before! Wow, I know how Brad Pitt feels!'

‘What happened to you?' asked Jemma.

The woman standing next to him laughed. ‘Hero of the hour, aren't you, Josh?'

Josh shrugged and gave the woman a peck on the cheek. ‘Thanks for the lift Loraine, I'll see you tomorrow.'

She placed a bag on a chair and waved as she left.

‘What happened?' Jemma repeated.

‘There was a fire at work this morning. I'm surprised you hadn't heard.'

‘But I was there! I didn't see you.'

The man playing Simon Peter stepped closer. ‘Too busy rescuing people, probably.'

‘I didn't really rescue anyone,' Josh protested. ‘In fact, all I did was try to put out the fire. It was a totally brainless thing to do.'

‘You put the fire out?' Jemma's mouth hung open. How had she missed all this?

‘No. I
tried
to put the fire out. The Kent Fire and Rescue Ser vice did the job properly.'

‘Did you see how it started?' Jemma was in ‘news-hound' mode.

‘No. I think perhaps someone had sneaked out for a crafty cigarette. There are notices everywhere, but you know, I'd probably have done the same a few years ago. We store all sorts of chemicals in the warehouse – paints, paint strippers, aerosols . . .'

‘Good job you noticed it, the whole place could have gone up,' John the Baptist said.

‘I did spot the smoke,' Josh said, ‘but it was probably only a matter of time before the alarm was raised – it's a DIY store, we sell hundreds of smoke detectors.'

‘So what did you do?' Jemma
licked her fingers and turned to a clean page in her notebook.

‘Well, I yelled for someone to call the fire service; then I grabbed an extinguisher.'

The questions came thick and fast. Jemma couldn't keep up with who was speaking.

‘Is it true you rescued a bloke?'

‘Sort of,' Josh grinned.

‘He's a hero!'

The audience gasped. Josh just shook his head. ‘I didn't do anything, really.'

‘Was he all right?'

‘Was the fire out?'

Josh held up his hand. The crowd was all calling out at once.

‘How's the man now?'

Harlan Westacre walked through the barrage of questions, tapping her clipboard to gain their attention. ‘Gentlemen and ladies, if I could have your atten — ' She gaped at Josh and clapped her hands to the sides of her face. She reminded Jemma of Munch's
The Scream
. ‘Great Scot! What happened to you?' The rehearsal was delayed another five minutes while Josh told his story to Harlan.

Jemma put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Please, can I have an exclusive interview tonight? Please? Oh, please, say I can.' She sounded like a whining child; she didn't care. ‘I'll buy you a drink afterwards.'

‘I don't know about an interview, but I like the sound of the drink.' Josh grinned and climbed onto the stage.

Jemma sat down and jotted notes on what she had already gleaned from Josh, taking only a vague interest as the actors read through their lines. John the Baptist and the man whose sandals he was not worthy to tie were discussing who should baptise whom.

FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER THE REHEARSAL ENDED, JEMMA AND JOSH MADE THEIR
way through the saloon bar at the Fruiterer's Arms. While Jemma collected her cola and Josh's orange juice from the bar, Josh made his way to a small oak table in the corner by a window. She sighed as she headed towards him a few minutes later. Orange juice and cola? They were not exactly going to be in for a wild night.

‘I don't suppose you could get me a straw, could you?' Josh sounded slightly pathetic. He was in a helpless state, and she hoped it would translate into an interview. Although the paper didn't employ night staff, she could email the draft, head in early, and have the revised article on Mohan's desk by nine, making the deadline easily. ‘A straw? Be happy to,' she said, smiling, and headed back to the bar.