The Art of Standing Still (34 page)

‘It's not that easy.'

‘Of course it's not easy.' Jemma gave a harsh laugh. ‘But the test of something of value is not whether it is simple. Nothing worthwhile is easy, and anything easy is seldom worthwhile.'

Ruth waved the notice in Jemma's face. ‘No one is going on or off the farm until the restrictions are lifted. That could take days . . . or weeks. It won't work. It's too late.'

‘Then we find somewhere else to do it! I thought you Christians were supposed to persevere. All I've heard so far is moaning and whining and defeatism. These plays really can change people. They bring people face-to-face with Jesus. Isn't that worth fighting for? Come on, Ruth.'

It was as if a hand of hope had reached down into her misery. This was the girl who took the part under sufferance. She was everything Ruth wasn't; confident, attractive, self-assured. But she could see in Jemma the beginnings of faith, and this, surely, was the point. This was the point – of the mystery plays and of her life. And if God could do it in one person's life, he could do it for the whole town. She wiped her eyes and attempted a smile. ‘You're right. Absolutely right! Whatever we have to do, these plays will be performed on Saturday to celebrate Corpus Christi.'

‘Okay,' Jemma said. ‘Here's the plan. You go visit Alistair and see if the council can find us somewhere else to perform. I'll call Josh and ask him to take down the posters, then he can join me at the farm. I'll go and see Bram Griffin. Even if we have to use megaphones, we need to talk. Tell everyone to “watch this space”.'

Jemma took off towards the car park. ‘Are you coming?'

‘Just give me a moment.' Ruth took a deep breath. The words of an old hymn, one of her favourites, came to her as she prayed.

O let me hear thee speaking in accents clear and still,
Above the storms of passion, the murmurs of self-will.
O speak to reassure me, to hasten or control;
O speak, and make me listen, thou guardian of my soul.

She was glad to be in this place, the abbey where everything felt so sure and so simple. ‘Father, give me courage and resolution, but most of all, Father, let me hear your “still, small voice”.'

AS SHE PULLED UP OUTSIDE ALISTAIR'S HOUSE SHE PRAYED AGAIN. THE
curtains were still drawn, and three days milk festered on the doorstep. She pressed the bell. And waited. No one came. She pressed again and listened to the distant ringing inside. Still no one came. She lifted the black metal lion's head and knocked. She pushed past the clematis and jasmine and walked up the path at the side of the house to the back door. The dustbins had disgorged their contents over the patio. She stepped delicately over the strewn rubbish and tried the door handle. It turned. She edged her way into the dark kitchen. Takeaway bags lay scattered on the floor, and the kitchen sink was piled with dirty dishes and cups.

She made her way to the lounge. The curtains were pulled shut; a table lamp shed a dull golden glow. Alistair lay sprawled in an armchair, snoring, a half-empty whisky bottle and a glass by his side. Ruth tugged the curtains open, letting in a flood of sunlight. Alistair grunted and turned away from the brightness. A haze of dust fogged the room. There were newspapers and crisp packets on the floor and streaks of mud on the carpet.

Ruth collected the empty glass and replaced the screw top on the bottle. She put on the kettle and shovelled two large teaspoons of coffee granules and two of sugar into a mug. She took the steaming brew to Alistair and shook his arm. He groaned and grunted again. His clothes were crumpled and his sleeves looked wet, his shoes were caked in mud, he was unshaven and he stank of whisky.

‘If you're going to knock it back, I'd choose something a little cheaper than a thirty-five-year-old single malt.'

He opened his eyes, tried to focus, and closed them again. ‘What's the time?'

‘It's gone one. Time you were up, showered, and changed. Have you been there all night?'

‘No. What are you doing here?'

‘You're going to help me find a new venue for the mystery plays.'

‘What?'

He hauled himself upright. Ruth handed him the coffee. ‘That should help,' she said.

He belched, and Ruth took a step backwards, away from the whisky stench. ‘Or I could try to fine some antacid.'

AS THE TOWN HALL CLOCK STRUCK TWO, RUTH, RAJ, AND A SLIGHTLY QUEASY
looking Alistair stood in Monksford Park, next to a war memorial with a stone soldier surrounded by geraniums.

‘We could use the bandstand as the stable, I suppose, and have the crucifixion under those lime trees.' Ruth pointed to a line of trees, their leaves shining emerald in the sunlight.

‘Space will be far more limited, and we have to consider parking,' Alistair said.

‘All my surplus scaffolding is at the farm,' Raj said. ‘I can't take my lorries on to collect it. The whole farm is quarantined. The rest of the poles and planks are in use. I don't see what we can do.' He stood, hands on hips, surveying the vista. ‘It won't be the same.'

‘It won't be exactly the same, but in some ways it could be better. Central location. We can try to move the sound system.' Ruth looked from Raj to Alistair with pleading eyes. The next step would be to get onto her knees and beg.

‘We would still have to seek permission from the council, and there are health and safety issues. We can't just move it, lock, stock, and barrel. I'm sorry, Ruth. Four days isn't enough time. I think we're going to have to cancel.'

‘No!' She was desperate not to let the tears come again. ‘There must be a way. There must.'

Ruth stormed back to her car and drove to the top of Thorne Hill. She looked over the town. The haphazard array of red-brick houses, patchwork farms offices, and the livid scar of the bypass – so many people, so many lives, and all the forces seemed to be uniting against her and silencing the story she needed to tell. Nothing would stop these plays being performed. Monksford might not be under attack from Nebuchadnezzar and his Babylonian hoards, but Jeremiah's words came into her mind: ‘I am the L
ORD
, the God of all mankind. Is anything too hard for me?'

As she looked over to the west, the hulking, grey slab of Monksford General Hospital rose before her. She hadn't checked on Eliza Feldman today.

Every traffic light seemed to have something against her as she drove up the High Street, hindering her progress and fraying her already tattered nerves. She sat in the car park entrance for another ten minutes waiting for a vacant space, then she didn't have the right change for the machine. She nearly cried again with frustration. Eventually, she made her way to Eliza's room. On her way past the sister's desk, a nurse beckoned to her, and Ruth's heart gave a thud.

‘Oh, don't look so worried, it's not bad news. I was just going to say Eliza can go home today. Would you like me to arrange transport or will you take her?'

‘I'll give her a lift. Will she be all right at home?'

‘We've contacted her neighbour Joan, and she has offered to take care of her, but she doesn't drive.'

Finding a new venue for the plays would have to wait. People first, that was how Ruth always tried to live. She opened the door to find Eliza, fully dressed and beaming, sitting in a wheelchair in the middle of the room.

‘I'm ready to go,' said Eliza. ‘I have my best frock
on, and I'm wearing lipstick.'

‘Those young men had better watch out,' Ruth laughed for the first time that day.

‘Too right!' Eliza said.

The traffic signals were kinder on the way back to Eliza's doll's house cottage. Eliza, hardly bigger than a doll herself, was strapped in the passenger seat. She turned to Ruth.

‘Did you think I was going to make it?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Had you written me off, had me measured for my coffin?'

‘No! Of course not.'

‘Everyone else did.'

‘You've just proved them all wrong.'

‘I want you to take me to the plays. On Saturday. I want to see the plays.'

Ruth looked away. How could she tell her? ‘The thing is . . .'

‘I know – I'm too old and too sick to sit in a field all day. But Ruth, it's what I want. You won't deny an old lady her dying wish?'

Ruth squeezed her hand. ‘How could I do that?'

Scene Ten

JEMMA LEANED OVER JOSH AND PRESSED THE HORN. THE LONG BLAST SENT A
pair of wood pigeons flapping into the sky. A dog barked.

‘Don't do that!'

‘He's not answering the phone, and we can't get through the gate. How else can I attract his attention?'

Josh shrugged.

‘Josh, this is not a waste of time. This is important, more important than anything else I've ever done. We've got to get to the bottom of this.'

She climbed out of the van and leant over the gate. The notice was adamant in its black lettering –
NO ENTRY
. She strained to see the farmhouse. The bargeware milk churns and wheelbarrow were full of neglected-looking bedding plants.

Josh leaned out of the window. ‘He's not in.'

‘His car's there.' A mud-spattered green Land Rover stood in the drive. Jemma shuddered. It looked very like the one that had almost finished her off in the car park, but they all looked like that.

Jemma climbed back in the van and tried the phone again.

‘Let's go.' Josh started the engine.

‘Wait!' Jemma pointed to a figure striding across a ridge of land above the lane. She opened the door and waved, calling out. The figure stopped and put one hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. Then it descended a steep path and crossed the lane.

‘Mr Griffin!' Jemma called.

‘What are you doing here? You can't come in.' His ruddy face bore the lines deeply etched with worry, and his watery blue eyes darted from Jemma to the notice and back again. He had replaced his white Stetson with a more conventional tweed cap. He could have been any one of a hundred anxious farmers, brought to their knees by the last outbreak of this heinous disease. And now it was back, casting a shadow over his livelihood once more.

‘I know we can't come in. I just wanted to talk to you.'

‘Are you from the paper?'

‘Yes, no! I am a reporter for the
Monksford Gazette
, but I'm not here in an official capacity. I'm also supposed to be acting in the mystery plays.'

‘Well, you're not any more. At least not on my land.'

Josh climbed out of the van and joined them.

‘Who's he?' Bram looked Josh up and down.

Jemma introduced them, and he solemnly shook Josh's hand.

‘Jesus and Mary Magdalene, eh? Perhaps you can perform a miracle here.'

‘Mr Griffin, will you tell us what happened?'

Bram rubbed his eyes and looked overcome with weariness. ‘I can't.'

‘Don't you owe us that?' Josh said.

‘Can we go somewhere else?' asked Jemma. ‘For a coffee or something. We could head into town or go to my boat.'

‘I can't show my face in town, or down by the river, and you're not allowed to bring vehicles on the farm.'

‘What if we park here and walk?'

‘You'll have to disinfect your shoes.'

‘Okay.' Bram opened the gate, and Jemma and Josh sloshed through the disinfectant bath and made their way to the farmhouse. Settled in the kitchen with a blue-and-white mug of tea each, Bram looked as if he was about to break down.

‘It's all happening again! It's a nightmare and I can't wake up. I'm going to lose it all. What have I been thinking? All this for nothing.'

Josh made to speak but Jemma put her fingers to her lips to silence him.

‘I'm not a bad person. You know that, don't you?'

Jemma nodded vigorously. Josh looked puzzled.

‘You did what you felt you had to do. The only thing you could do under the circumstances.'