The Art of Standing Still (26 page)

‘It doesn't matter,' she said. ‘Did you enjoy the film?'

‘It was sad. He died at the end.'

‘That is sad,' Jemma agreed.

‘Sometimes it's better to die.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘If you are very sick or injured.'

‘Some people get well again.' Jemma could feel panic rising.

‘Some don't. Perhaps it is better to die than to stay . . . alive.'

‘Richard, what are you getting at?'

‘Jemma, do you think I should have died?'

‘Of course not! Whatever made you say that?'

He picked up his weakened arm and let it drop in his lap.

‘But you're getting better! Every day you can do more, remember more, you're getting stronger and better and more like the old Richard . . .' She took his weak hand and massaged it.

‘No, the old Richard died, Richard the journalist, Richard the sportsman. What you've got now is a new person, weak as anything, and who can't even put a sentence together.'

‘That's not true! The old Richard is still there, underneath. You will get well again, I know it.'

‘You don't understand. I've changed. What it feels like to be me is different. Sometimes it's as if this is all there has ever been – as if the last thirty years never existed.' He looked close to tears. His frustration was almost palpable. ‘I can't trust myself any more. I can't trust my body and I can't trust my mind.' He turned his head away, breathing deeply. ‘I'm tired now. I think you need to go.'

Jemma said nothing but didn't move.

‘I said, you can go!'

Richard turned back to look at her as tears coursed down her face.

He reached towards her with his good hand, but she didn't grasp it. ‘I lost you once when you left me,' she said. ‘Now I'm losing you again. You have no idea what that feels like.' She rose to her feet and gazed out of the window, blinking back her tears.

‘You're right. I have no idea. I have no idea about a lot of things. I have no idea how I got like this.'

‘You still don't remember anything? Even what you were doing by the river.'

‘Nothing.'

‘You can't remember if you were coming to see me.' She took a tissue from the box on his bedside locker and wiped her eyes.

He shook his head. ‘Nothing.'

‘Do you think it was an accident then? The police were convinced that someone did this to you.'

‘I told you, I can't remember anything. Did the police find the murder weapon . . . I mean a weapon.'

She smiled. ‘They looked along the banks, and a couple of policemen searched the bushes, but because you were too . . . stubborn to get murdered and insisted on staying alive, they didn't look that hard.'

‘Did I make the front page?'

‘We thought you'd prefer page two.'

‘Did you write it or did . . . what's his name?'

‘Mohan?'

‘That's it.'

‘I wrote it. It was the hardest thing I've ever written.'

‘Tell me again how you found me.'

Jemma recited the story of how she and Josh had heard the splash, saw something floating in the river, and pulled out what they thought was a corpse. Even though Jemma told the story every time she visited, it still gave her shivers, like drops of icy water down her back.

‘Is Josh coming today?'

Jemma looked down at her hands. ‘I'm not sure. He's working late, and we've got a three-line-whip for a costume fitting later. You'll never believe it but the costume designer is a patient here in the hospital, and we're sneaking into her room to try on costumes.'

‘What's wrong with her? Why is she in hospital?'

‘She's got cancer. Terminal, I think. But it's her dying wish to be involved in these plays. That's what Ruth says, anyway.'

Richard's brow furrowed. ‘Oh, I see. Who's Ruth?'

‘Ruth's the vicar I told you about. She's the one who is organising the plays. Do you remember?' She sat on the bed and took his hand.

‘A vicar, now that's the same as a . . . priest? That's right, isn't it?'

‘Yes, and she's very nice. She said she might visit you, now that you're better. Is that all right?'

‘I suppose so. A priest. She won't give me last rights, will she?'

Jemma smiled. ‘Of course not! Anyway she's here to see the costume lady. She's the one who's ill.'

‘And that's why she's in hospital.'

‘That's right.'

Jemma stood up and straightened her skirt. ‘Richard, I need to go now. I must have something to eat. Everyone at the
Monksford
Gazette
sends their regards. Bye now. Sleep well.' She opened the door to leave.

‘Speed skating.'

‘Pardon?' Jemma halted in the doorway.

‘The sportsman in the film was a speed skater.'

‘TRY TO MAKE IT LOOK AS IF YOU'RE AN ORDINARY VISITOR,' RUTH'S NOTE HAD
read. Jemma dashed into the hospital shop, grabbed a basket of rather sad-looking fruit, and took it to the equally sad-looking cashier.

‘Four pounds fifty,' she said.

‘What, for an orange, a couple of apples and an overripe banana?'

‘Overheads,' the woman mumbled.

Jemma paid, reluctantly. She supposed a hospital shop had a mo-nopoly: Contrite customers who callously omitted to purchase inspiring gifts, wishing to assuage their guilty consciences are a captive audience, will pay ridiculous prices for poor quality merchandise just to avoid adding to their loved one's suffering.

Armed with her paltry offering, she tracked down Eliza Feldman's ward. She took a deep breath, not sure what to expect in the frail old woman's room. What she didn't expect was the cross between a department store changing area and a sweatshop clothing factory. Costumes in various states of completion covered every available surface. They were draped over the bed, suspended on hangers from the doors, and arrayed over the backs of the chairs.

There were two elderly women, one next to the door and one in the corner. Both were stitching furiously and chatting merrily. Sitting up in bed, queening it over the others was Mrs Feldman, tubes, drips, and drains attached. No oxygen mask this time, and sparky as ever, and had a scarlet chiffon headdress across her arm. She was stitching on tiny gold beads.

She looked up. ‘Which one are you?'

Before Jemma could answer, there was a curt knock on the door. To avoid becoming a casualty herself, she tucked herself into the corner beside the sink. The door flew open and Ruth blustered in.

‘Hello, Eliza, sorry I'm late. You're looking much better today.'

‘Thank you, dear. They say I can go home in a few days, don't they?' The two old women nodded in agreement. ‘After a week they've had enough of me – that must be a good sign.' Again the two women agreed, in unison, like the dog ornaments that adorn the dashboards of motorists with no sense of taste.

Ruth moved the red costume to one side and perched on the bed. ‘So the doctors have sorted you out then?'

‘Yes, I'm feeling much better. They just have to cure the cancer now, and I'll be hunky-dory.'

‘I'm sorry, Eliza, I didn't mean . . .'

‘I know you didn't, dear. Have I introduced you to my friends?' She pointed to the thinner of the women who wore too much make up and smelt of vapour rub. ‘This is Rebekkah Amos, and this – ' she indicated the plump woman who was wearing a smocklike creation that looked as if it had been made from a shower curtain – ‘is Judy Williams.' The two women nodded again to acknowledge Ruth, then recommenced their sewing. ‘They're helping me with the costumes. We've got a veritable little production line going, here. The nurses aren't too happy about it so I'm having to be a bit subtle, but they're nearly finished.'

Ruth took the costume and ran the fabric between her fingers. ‘I expect Jemma will be here soon.'

Jemma coughed and gave a little wave from her station behind the door. Ruth gasped. ‘Oh, Jemma. I didn't see you there!'

‘Come out so we can get a proper look at you.'

‘This,' said Ruth, gathering herself, ‘is Jemma Durham, our Mary Magdalene.'

‘Oh, Ruth, she's even lovelier than you said, but oh so skinny. Over here, my dear. Don't be afraid, I won't bite you.'

Jemma was taken aback. It had been a long time since anyone other than her grandfather had called her skinny, and even longer since anyone had thought she was afraid. She stepped forwards.

‘Go on then, turn around. What are you, thirty-four, twenty-five, thirty-five?'

‘About that,' agreed Jemma.

‘You've lost weight then, those are not the measurements you gave me last November.'

‘Sorry!'

‘I should think so too.' The other old ladies shook their heads and tutted. ‘That means I'll have to take it all in! As if I haven't got enough to do!' She threw Jemma the bundle of red linen, which Jemma caught one-handed. ‘You might as well try it on, I suppose. I need to see how much work I've got to do.'

Judy Williams, suddenly shot to her feet. ‘Nurse approaching!' she whispered. Ruth, Eliza, and Mrs Amos were galvanised into action, stuffing the half-completed costumes into huge bags that they secreted around the room. Jemma stood there, mouth open.

‘Come on,' shouted Rebekkah Amos. She bundled Ruth and Jemma into the tiny bathroom.

So this was being subtle? Jemma stood in the shower, trying to breathe quietly as Ruth perched on the toilet lid clutching a rainbow of fabrics.

Jemma heard the murmur of low voices; then a door slammed shut.

‘All clear!' Judy Williams said in a stage whisper.

Giggling like schoolgirls at a midnight feast, the women burst out of the bathroom.

‘That was a close one,' breathed Rebekkah Amos. She fanned herself with a magazine. ‘Blood pressure and temperature!'

‘Well, go and try it on then, girl. Goodness knows what you've been doing in there!' Eliza said.

What did they expect her to do? There was hardly enough room to turn around in that bathroom, and it was more crowded than the Victoria line in the rush hour!

‘Okay, give me a second.' Jemma left for the bathroom again. She struggled with the garment, a long flowing skirt with so many buttons! Admitting defeat, she emerged in her underwear to shrieks of laughter from the brood of women who clucked like hens.

‘Oh, come here girl!' said Rebekkah Amos, not altogether unkindly.

Jemma held up her arms like a child as Ruth, Mrs Amos, and Mrs Williams gently tugged the scarlet costume over her head and Ruth fastened the zip and hooks. She felt like a bride being dressed for her
wedding. When the dress was in place she looked down at her figure, giving a little twirl to demonstrate how the fabric hung. Despite it being slightly too large, she loved the way it had been cut to cling to her frame, showing off her bust and waist and slender hips. Eliza made delighted cooing noises. She put a ring of fabric with a scarlet veil on Jemma's head.

‘So what do you think, Jemma?' Ruth asked.

Jemma caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror. The costume was cut very low across the bodice, it skimmed the hips, and the eight-panelled skirt flowed down onto the floor. The neck and sleeves were trimmed with gold braid, and the row of tiny buttons ran down the front and the sleeves. The back was laced with black cords, which Eliza proceeded to tug tight. It was beautiful and feminine – and all in harlot red.

‘It's – it's . . . stunning.'

‘It's called a “Cotehardie”. The style dates from the mid-fourteenth century. Very courtly.'

There was a tap on the door, tentative at first, then louder and more insistent. Mrs Amos shushed everyone, and they froze, ready to take flight to the safety of the bathroom again. Mrs Williams opened the door a crack, and Jemma could have sworn she heard her say, ‘Who goes there?'

‘It's Joshua Wood. Have I got the right place?'

She opened the door a little more and Josh squeezed in.

He spotted Jemma and his jaw dropped. ‘Hey, you look . . .'

‘Fantastic?' Jemma said.

Josh nodded dumbly.

‘Just the effect I wanted.' Eliza settled back against her pillow with a smug smile.

‘I hope I won't be too distracted to remember my lines,' he said.

‘Close your mouth, there's a bus coming.' Jemma tugged at the neckline of her top, trying to cover up. She pulled the headscarf piece over her dark hair and blinked coyly in her veiled modesty. Josh stood there grinning. The elderly ladies exchanged nudges and knowing looks. Eliza Feldman pinched and pulled at Jemma's costume, deftly inserting pins where seams needed to be altered.

Mrs Amos dug Josh's costume out of a large stripy shopping bag, and he slipped into the bathroom. Rather than the usual flowing robes, Eliza had used Ruth's medieval designs to create a tunic effect in pale green with a cape, of sorts, flowing behind.