Redemption Song (15 page)

Amazing. Incredible.

Goosebumps rose on his arms and he heaved himself out of the water, pulling at the threadbare towel draped over the rail. It only just wrapped round him. He longed for thick white towels made from Egyptian cotton.

He raced to the bedroom though it was no warmer than the bathroom. If anything it was colder. Roll on the summer. Late spring, even. Anything but these cruel temperatures. He threw the towel over his back, grabbed the other end with his free hand and swept it back and forth, the rough fabric tearing at his flesh.

Summer. The work on the chapel roof would definitely be over by then, even if they fell disastrously behind schedule, and once the job was done he would have no reason to stop by the church, the manse, see Saffron ever again. He stopped drying himself and allowed the cold air to snap at him.

What harm could a few dates do? He hadn’t imagined her disappointment when he pulled away from her. He was sure of it. She liked him. He liked her. What harm could being friendly do?

He shivered, violently, and almost jumped into the clothes piled on the floor by the window. There were no socks. He crossed to the small dressing table and as he went to open the top drawer, he caught his shin on the bottom one which jutted out a fraction. He kicked it in frustration before sinking onto the bed to pull on the clean socks. He glared at the offending drawer as he rubbed his shin; the drawer that contained evidence of his other life.
Allegra, Freddy
.

As he stared an arrow lanced him. Pain seared, splintering his thoughts. He remembered his therapist’s words: ‘Allow yourself to feel the pain.’ Joe allowed only rage when he thought of Allegra. What was happening? Was this a breakthrough? Confused and uncertain, still feeling a throb in his leg, he pushed himself from the bed and crawled over to the dresser. Instead of closing the bottom drawer, he yanked it open. The picture frame lay on top. He picked it up.

Turn it over, he whispered to himself.

We could be brother and sister.

He stared at Allegra, at her honey-coloured skin and wavy brown hair and eyes of different colours. Rage bore down upon him, pressing into him, drenching him with its blood-red stain. It tightened around his throat, choking him. It twisted in his belly and guts and punched at his chest and in his head till he felt he might explode. It was a sensation he knew well, too well perhaps.

But he never gave himself permission to give in to pain for fear it might dissipate his resolve, tear him in two, rendering him weaker. He held rage close, as comforter, protector, partner.

He felt the pain rising towards his throat.

I can’t do this any longer
.

He threw back his head and bayed at the ceiling. There, on his knees with the photograph resting on his thighs, he roared. Months and months and months of pain and loss burst from him in one long howl. Afterwards, he folded in upon himself, forming a curl of flesh, like a foetus. He fell sideways and lay on the hard floor, pressing the photograph into the tender flesh of his belly.

Joe came to with a jolt, shivering. Had he fallen asleep? His phone was buzzing, rattling on the chest of drawers. He clambered up, but he’d missed the call. There was no name, but he recognised the number – it was Simon’s. Well, Simon could wait a while. He looked at the time; he couldn’t have been asleep for long, but he felt as light and refreshed as if he’d had eight hours solid. Pain hadn’t destroyed him; it had freed him, in some small way.

Chapter Fourteen

It was the brightest morning they’d had since the autumn, Saffron was sure. Definitely the sunniest she could remember. All winter Coed Mawr had been in permanent shadow, even when it wasn’t raining or snowing.

She woke to a bedroom she barely recognised; one cast in a golden hue so syrupy that when she threw back the heavy duvet the nip in the air took her by surprise. She sat upright, retrieved the cover and lay down again, the heat in its folds warm and soothing. She rolled onto her side, the duvet under her chin, and stared at the pale curtains.

They’d come from her parents’ bedroom in the neat Victorian terrace the de Lacys had occupied in leafy Dulwich. It was the largest room in the house with the widest windows. Saffron occupied the smallest bedroom in the Coed Mawr manse and these were the only curtains wide enough, such was the difference in size between the houses.

Dulwich had been cramped with four occupants. Though her father and mother had bought the house before property prices in the capital soared, it was expensive for a trainee architect and minister with children to support. Even after Saffron’s father qualified they were unable to afford somewhere bigger. ‘De Lacy Mansions is just perfect,’ Rain used to say. Rain’s stipend remained at pittance levels and as churchgoing decreased in popularity it only got smaller. But they were fortunate, they were told by Rain on numerous occasions, when, as teenagers, Saffron and Matthew moaned about their shabby home, their functional, battered cars, and the lacklustre camping holidays in France. ‘We have our own home – thanks to your father. Many ministers live in church property all their working lives, and what happens when they retire, huh?’ Rain had said. Saffron’s dad had looked embarrassed.

He was hopeless with money. He earned a half-decent salary by the time Saffron went to secondary school, but the rows about their lack of money were hard to ignore. They didn’t happen often – her mother was far too nice for that – but when they did they were ferocious, with Rain accusing Stephen of all sorts of unimaginable acts – gambling was one Saffron remembered vividly – and Stephen shouting back that it was his money and he would do what he ‘sodding well liked with it’ anyway. Saffron had cried herself to sleep that night.

Was her parents’ marriage any rockier than most? She’d thought so at the time but when she’d confided in gob-on-legs Shannon, her best friend at school, it became apparent her home was an oasis of calm compared to what Shannon lived with. But relations between her parents had been increasingly strained over the past few years, Saffron admitted. There was often an atmosphere when she visited from her university digs and Rain carried an air of barely concealed desperation.

Saffron hadn’t thought about her parents’ marriage in ages – it hardly seemed to matter given what had happened. But now, staring at the textured-cotton, cream curtains which belonged in her parents’ bedroom, that most intimate of places, waves of memory lapped over her. Why did Rain talk about Dad as if he were a saint? He wasn’t, and Rain hadn’t thought so either before he died. She still loved him, of that Saffron was certain, but Rain hadn’t been blind to his foibles. Her mother understood the complexities of love and romance, Saffron thought.

Joe was right. She had to tell her mother the truth about her relationship with Ben.

According to the clock on the dressing table, it was eight o’clock. She could hear the rattle and clash of pans and plates below, even from here on the third floor. Rain had never mastered the art of emptying the dishwasher quietly. Saffron threw back the duvet and in a single leap pounced on the clothes slung on the nursing chair by the window. Once she had the first layer on, she peeped through the curtains. The sky was blue and studded with foamy clouds. She checked the street below – empty bar the Land Rover – before recovering her jumper from beneath a pile of dark clothes.

She’d been trying on the contents of her wardrobe the night before – a sort-out. Anything she no longer wore she would donate to a Nearly New Sale the WI were organising to raise funds for the pier ballroom fight. According to Rain, the campaign was gathering momentum. Locals wanted the ballroom back to its former Edwardian glory and a battle with the local council had begun in earnest. The council appeared to favour the cheaper option, and that meant destruction, not renovation.

Saffron stared at the black mound of clothes. She really ought to inject some colour into her wardrobe, but she’d grown so used to wearing black she wouldn’t know where to start. And black was easy, practical – everything went with everything. She didn’t have spare cash for new clobber anyway. The charity shops here were full of frumpy blouses and eighties jackets, all drenched in the distinctive, minty odour of mothballs. She pulled on her black skinny jeans and opened the bedroom door. The smell of toast wafted from the kitchen – Rain had burnt it again.

From the bathroom she padded down the first flight of stairs. The study door was ajar and she caught a glimpse of the fields beyond the garden, shadows from the clouds moving across the expanse of green changing its tone from forest dark to lawn bright. She stepped inside and opened the window wide, enjoying the prickle of the spring air now that she was bundled up. The countryside spread out before her, the distant hills looming, the tall trees which gave the town its name lined up against the horizon. The sun showed itself and cast a glow over the scene. It was spectacular.

I’ve never appreciated how beautiful it is. Is this why Mum believes? Is her faith rooted in the majesty of this landscape?

She leant forward, her arms resting on the windowsill and closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the weak sun on her cheeks. She imagined the distant roar of the sea; she could taste the salt in the air, hear the gulls and the faint hum of traffic from the back road. A clattering and gruff yell disturbed her. She opened her eyes and turned to the left, towards the sound. The back of the chapel was in her sightline. Two figures, silhouetted against the sky, stood on top of the roof. She caught her breath, almost overcome with dizziness on their behalf, before composing herself and craning further forward.

She recognised the figures as Joe and Tyson. Tyson moved nimbly across the pitch and retrieved whatever had been dropped, Saffron couldn’t make out what. He then disappeared down the far slope.

She focused on Joe, who remained on the ridge, his back to her, bent double, hands gripping the remaining slates, steadying himself. He touched the peak of his cap with one hand, to ensure it didn’t fall off, she imagined, and to her surprise pushed himself upright, and looked out over the horizon as she had done only minutes before. She held her breath; it looked so precarious. He wobbled; she gasped. He curled down, squatted on all fours, turned and sat gingerly, this time facing the manse. She leant back a fraction, into the safety of the window frame, unsure if he could see her as she could him. He remained in outline and she continued to stare, admiring the cut of his square shoulders, remembering his profile, also in shadow, as they’d walked across the mountains and back down into Coed Mawr, the night she’d been out drinking with Ceri. She’d watched him then too, surreptitiously. The long straight nose, the curve of his skull as it met his neck, the locks of hair swept across the top of his head contrasting with the cropped sides. She thought about those incredible eyes – one hazel, one green – mesmerising and unnerving, the way they’d darkened as he looked at her, as they sat on the bench on the tree-lined promenade, drunk on wine and things unspoken. A rippling in her belly. Lower than that. A stirring, a clenching, the pull of desire. No, it was more than that. More than physical longing. She liked him. He intrigued her; she trusted him without knowing why. He’d prised her open like a clam, with the slick, shiny knife of understanding, and she’d not seen it coming. Rather than shrivelling, retreating, she’d offered herself up to him. And it had been OK.

A breeze brushed her forehead, pulling clouds across the sky and she realised with a start Joe was no longer in shadow. She could make out his features and he was staring right back at her. She froze, transfixed. A clawing stole from within, radiating outwards, like heat from a flame, so powerful she thought it must be visible. Shaking, she waved – a pathetic effort to disguise her embarrassment at being caught out, exposed. She laughed at her folly and the sensation at her core dissipated. He waved back and she stepped away, closed the window, and padded downstairs, attributing the grasping in her belly to hunger, though it was like nothing she’d experienced before.

In the kitchen, Rain held the toaster upside down over the sink and shook it hard, convinced there was a piece of burnt toast or crumpet caught in the grill. It was the only possible explanation for the plumes of black smoke that had risen from the appliance when she had used it moments ago. She put the toaster down on the draining board, picked up a knife from the rack and jabbed at the mesh inside the toaster.

‘Jesus, Mum, what are you doing?’

She span to face her daughter, brow furrowed.

Saffron raised her hands in supplication. ‘Sorry. But really, Mum, you’ve not unplugged it. Have you any idea how dangerous that is?’

‘It’s not on.’ She jabbed again at the appliance.

‘But you’ve not even switched it off at the wall. Jesus, electricity, metal. Do I need to spell it out?’

‘Quit that kind of swearing.’ She replaced the toaster with a bang. ‘Bugger it, I give up.’ She turned again to face her daughter and smiled; she really would like Saffron to eat something and an argument was a sure-fire way of ensuring that she didn’t. She’d leave the kitchen in a huff before Rain could tempt Saff with her pre-planned selection. She could use the grill.

Rain clapped her hands and began. ‘Now, I know that you’re not what you’d call a breakfast person, Saff, but today I’m convinced I might be able to tempt you.’ She grinned and hoped she hadn’t overdone it. Since the accident, her once easy-going, pliant daughter had become one of those obstinate, belligerent types, ready to pick a fight, determined to do the exact opposite of whatever Rain wanted, seemingly for the heck of it. Not all the time, but often enough to wrong-foot Rain, to bruise her. That role had always been Matthew’s, and she found it impossible to predict when Saffron would be in lovely mode or beastly mode. She was quicksand, shifting, dangerous. Rain held her breath.

‘I am a bit hungry this morning.’ Saff smiled and Rain breathed out.

‘Fantastic! So … I’ve quite a menu. Ready?’

Saffron nodded and Rain reeled off the selection. ‘Full English – or should we say Welsh?’ A ridiculous giggle.