Redemption Song (14 page)

With the slates off and only part of the wooden skeleton remaining, the interior of the chapel looked very different. The place was so exposed, like a woman without her make-up. Light swept down the length of the aisle, flooded nooks and crannies, baring cracks and chips and dirt which had lurked unnoticed in the shadows for decades. The organ pipes were yellowed, like pub walls in the days before the smoking ban. The whole place needed a facelift, not just the roof.

Bit like me, thought Rain, as she pushed herself up. She felt so very, very heavy, so weary and listless, weighed down by something she sensed but couldn’t identify. The feeling had grown since the visit to see Mair Shawcroft. She’d considered visiting her GP, but he would only mumble and nod and write out another prescription for diazepam. And she was through with that. The drug seemed to carve out her centre, so while superficially she appeared unaltered, she was fundamentally different – hollow. And if she lost her core, she lost her connection to God and without this connection she was rootless, vulnerable to withering and a spiritual death.

She couldn’t recall why she’d come into the chapel. Comfort? Reassurance? And if so, why? Her memory failed her at times. Perhaps she’d wanted only to see what it was like without its roof? JJ’s apprentice, a boy called Tyson – wasn’t that a dog’s name? – a Scouser judging by his accent, had knocked on the manse door the previous evening to check there was no service or meeting planned the following day.

‘The rest of the roof’s coming off and it’ll be brass monkeys in there,’ he’d said, hands on hips, staring at her breasts before lifting his eyes to hers. It took considerable effort to hold his shamelessly appreciative gaze, to brazen it out.

When JJ had explained that his boss was sending over an apprentice to help with the contract, Rain had expected a teenager with limited social skills and low self-esteem. Instead, she’d been greeted by Tyson: almost twenty-one and confident bordering on cocky, with an air of the predator about him. Reassuring herself it was probably all front, she was nicer than ever, though she made an effort to be less flirtatious than usual, and thanked God her congregation had an average age of sixty-plus. They could admire his good looks – and JJ’s – without any danger of the feelings being reciprocated, hearts being broken, and work suffering as a result. She knew, from Stephen’s hilarious reports of the numerous office romances at the council offices where he’d worked as an architect, the detrimental effect on productivity of love affairs. She wanted the work on the chapel to be completed as soon as possible. All this testosterone was playing havoc with hers and Saffron’s moods. She’d caught Tyson leering at Saffron, but she seemed to want to steer clear of him. Something else to thank God for.

Before she could take hold of the handle, the chapel door swung open. She stepped back quickly to avoid being hit by the door and gasped.

Another workman stood before her. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Had no idea you were there, Reverend,’ he said with a Welsh lilt, extending his hand.

Delighted by his good manners, Rain took his hand and shook it. ‘You must be the new … assistant. Nice to meet you.’

He laughed. ‘No need to be so polite. I’m the labourer. Call a spade. I won’t be offended.’

Rain took another step back to let him in. He took off his cap as he came into the chapel lobby, holding it with both hands in front of him. This small act of old-fashioned respect pleased Rain more than she could have imagined. She looked at him again. A shock of thick grey hair framed a lived-in face. ‘Call me Rain. You are?’

‘Eifion. Eifion Parry.’

He was of average height, maybe five feet nine, wiry. And old for a labourer, Rain thought. Weren’t they usually strapping lads who’d left school without any GCSEs? He must have left school when the exams were still called O levels. He remained in front of her and Rain realised she was blocking his access. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said, stepping aside, waving him through, ‘come in.’

‘I need to get up,’ he said pointing at the sky. ‘Help Tyson from this side.’

‘Rightie-ho. I’ll leave you to it.’ She walked past and turned again before she went through the open door. He was waiting for her to leave before making a move. ‘Are you local?’ she said.

He nodded.

‘I’m glad. The last boy was hopeless. Forever late, not turning up. Drove JJ round the twist. Had too far to travel, he said.’

‘That’s what I heard,’ Eifion replied politely. ‘I believe I have you to thank for the work. Very grateful, I am. Not much of it round here, as I’m sure you know. Especially at this time of year. Might be more if your pier campaign is successful.’

‘Not at all. I’m sure you got the job on merit. All I said to JJ was perhaps the boss might be better off looking for someone nearby.’

‘Well, it did the trick and I’m grateful.’

‘And it’s not
my
campaign. The church is one group of many wanting to restore the ballroom and not have it knocked down to build some ghastly gambling den full of tat! You should get involved.’

‘To be honest, I can’t believe the building’s not listed.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I hear you grew up round here yourself.’

‘Not far.’

‘You’d never know from your accent.’

‘University down south cured me of it.’ She checked herself. ‘Sorry, that sounded shockingly rude. It’s a lovely accent. Warm, friendly. I honestly wish I’d not lost mine.’

‘Better than a Brummie one, at least, eh?’ He smiled; he was teasing, and she smiled back. ‘I’d best get on,’ he continued, ‘otherwise I might find I get the sack too. Nice to meet you.’

‘And you.’ She pulled the door behind her and trotted down the path, keen to reach the warmth of the manse kitchen, smiling to herself all the way.

Tyson irritated Joe. He radiated a powerful energy, one which Joe identified as competitive. Tyson was a great carpenter, better than Joe really, even though he hadn’t yet completed his NVQ3. But it wasn’t that. Joe admired Tyson’s skill, his attention to detail, his speed. And boy, was he fast. No, it wasn’t that. It wasn’t even the crude comments he made about Saffron – and Rain. Joe knew from the looks Saffron gave Tyson that she considered him an idiot. It wasn’t even the way Tyson mocked Joe as older and slower when they clambered over the roof, Tyson virtually skipping over the wet slates, Joe on all fours creeping up the pitch. ‘Come on, old man,’ he said, every time. Thirty was hardly old, though Joe had to admit that at twenty-one he’d considered anyone over twenty-five ancient.

What bugged Joe was the way Tyson forced himself on to people. He didn’t respect privacy or distance; he was a space invader. He imposed, took a hold and wouldn’t let go. He was an energy drain. And this quality reminded Joe of Freddy, despite the obvious differences between the two men. There had always been something of the leech about Freddy; he’d suck you dry, if you let him.

You need to get a grip. Tyson is not Freddy. He is a force of nature, that’s all. You’re probably jealous, you stupid bastard.

Joe climbed the stairs to the bathroom, his boots thumping on the bare boards. He ached all over. Still young or not, his body rebelled against the rigours of the work on the chapel roof. How on earth Eifion managed it, Joe had no idea. He was middle-aged. Joe turned on the taps and waited for the brownish sludgy water to run clear.

He liked Eifion. He was polite, a hard worker, kept himself to himself. Joe knew almost nothing about him, except that he ran a rock shop on the pier during the summer months and struggled to find work during the winter. Rain spoke highly of Eifion, though Rain spoke highly of everyone. She was always kind, looking for the best in others. He could do with a bit more of that himself, minus the hopeless naivety Rain sometimes demonstrated.

Tyson has a certain charisma, just as Freddy had.

Probably still has, Joe corrected himself. You need charisma and charm to control people the way Freddy did, to persuade them, manipulate them.

Their schoolmasters had fallen under his spell, not reprimanding him for the open top button of his shirt, the stunted length of his tie, the against-regulations belt. Joe smiled at the memory; he couldn’t help himself. Like many others, he’d tried to ape Freddy’s style, mimic his confident, almost-but-not-quite belligerent tone, but he’d failed, taking the rap from master after master. Freddy had been like the Artful Dodger, with a clean face and aristocratic bearing, breaking all the rules but lovable all the same.

Thinking of Freddy, like this, Joe’s stomach muscles clenched. He held his hand under the tap; the water was very hot, and Joe allowed it to sear into his flesh. It was an attempt to take his mind off the rage building inside him. How cruel Freddy had been. The courage it had taken for a young Joe to report the relentless bullying …

‘Take a seat, boys,’ the head commanded.

The leather was cold against Joe’s bare thighs; the seat so deep his feet couldn’t reach the floor; his legs dangled like a toddler’s over the edge. Freddy was tall for his age, well-built, and his feet rested on the polished floor with ease.

‘So …’ the head continued, ‘What is to be done with you two chaps?’ He smiled at Joe and then at Freddy, who returned the grin. Joe’s mouth was set, his teeth clenched. He felt the need to urinate.

‘We need to repair the damage, sir,’ Freddy pronounced. ‘I’ve been a bit of a rotter and I am truly very sorry.’ He reached across and touched Joe’s hand, which gripped the expansive armrest. ‘I’ve been having a tricky time, sir, what with Grandpa passing on and my father’s promotion and not seeing him so much.’ He looked at Joe, who wondered why Freddy was talking like that, all funny, using words that you only read in books. But it was true: life must have been difficult for Freddy. Joe knew that grief did strange things to people.

‘And what would you suggest, Freddy?’ the head said. ‘Perhaps some special time together, playing games, eh? How about here in my office for a time and then we’ll move you outside. Build trust.’ He glanced at the phone console on his desk – one of the lights on it was flashing. ‘Pretty sure you two will become firm friends once you get to know each other properly.’

At the head’s instruction they shook hands, and in the weeks that followed they played Connect Four, draughts and chess in the musty-smelling office, tennis and croquet outside.

Croquet was new to Joe, but he showed natural flair – or beginner’s luck – and when it looked as if he might take the game for the second time, his stomach turned like a fairground ride. He fluffed the next shot, and the next.

‘You’re doing that deliberately!’ Freddy said, leaning on his mallet.

‘I’m not.’ Joe felt his cheeks redden.

‘Don’t you want to win?’

Yes and no.

‘Croquet’s –’ they said in unison.

‘Not really my thing,’ Freddy continued, smiling. ‘You’re good at it.’

‘Thank you,’ Joe whispered. ‘It’s not my favourite game. Bit sissy.’

They both laughed – really laughed, with each other rather than at each other. Abandoning the stupid game, they kicked stones around the gravel path and raced up on the field. And as the head had predicted, friendship followed.

Joe clenched his fist, pressing his nails into his palms. The skin on the back of his hands turned a livid red. He watched the bubbles frothing towards the taps before turning on the cold water. He peeled his work clothes off, and shook from his mind an image of Freddy on his knees, begging for mercy. It was wishful thinking.

At the side of the tub lay two books about Welsh history. Recent purchases from the ramshackle bookshop on the main drag in Lower Coed Mawr. They had looked interesting enough, but he wasn’t in the mood this evening. He clambered into the metal tub, with its chipped enamel, leaving the books on the floor.

Submerged in the warm, comforting water, Joe allowed his mind to drift. How was he to get back at Freddy? Despite Simon’s digging, there was no sign of malpractice. Damn. He racked his brain but he was drawn back to events earlier in the day, back to Saffron.

He’d shown Tyson his haul from the bookshop and when he’d pulled out his booty, Tyson had scratched his head and declared that he’d never read a book in his life.

‘What,
never
?’ Joe had replied, astonished. ‘Not, like, at school even?’

‘Wasn’t there much. Saggin’ most of the time.’

After Tyson had explained that sagging was Scouse slang for playing truant, Joe had admitted a begrudging respect for Tyson’s honesty. He’d wondered if Tyson
could
read, but didn’t dare ask. As they’d been talking, Saffron appeared from the manse – on her way to the afternoon shift at Wynne’s, Joe supposed.

‘Bet she reads lots of books,’ Tyson had said, tipping his head.

‘How can you tell?’

Tyson had shrugged. ‘Dunno. She looks clever. Her looks say: clever, beautiful bird. You know how sometimes you see a bird and she’s fit and all that, but you just know she’s thick? Well, she’s, like, the opposite of that.’

Tyson mightn’t read books but he isn’t completely daft. Saffron is most definitely a bright woman.

Saffron. Beautiful, lovely Saffron.

He shook his head under the bath water, allowing it to pour into his ears, blocking out the rest of the world. It had been wrong to kiss her. What had possessed him? But she’d tasted so good; she’d tasted so
right
. Their mouths had moulded together like a pair of shoes in a box. Perfect.

He raked his fingers through his hair, digging his nails into his scalp as he went, sending shivers down his spine. He longed to run his fingers through her hair, to lift it from the back of her neck, exposing the delicate skin, to kiss it, caress it. Move from the soft, hidden skin to her earlobes, cheeks, and eyelids.

He sat upright, flinging droplets of soapy water across the bathroom. Steam rose from his body – there was no central heating in the cottage and the electric fire on the wall had only one bar glowing orange. It gave out barely any heat at all.

Stop thinking about her. Stop it. Stop it now.

He pulled his knees to his chest and hugged his legs, the sharp air pricking at his wet skin. It occurred to him that he hadn’t thought of Allegra all day. When was the last time he’d thought of her? Days ago.