Redemption Song (23 page)

‘You know what, I do. But only if I can help in the kitchen. I’d love to see how it’s made.’ What a clever man he was. Promoting his business while doing some valuable community service. He was absolutely wasted as a labourer. ‘Let’s get some tables out and more chairs and then we’ll get the kitchen ready.’

‘It’s not like the rock you’ll find in shops. More like crystals. And it takes time for them to form, so the boys will have to wait. There’ll be no instant results. The best things are worth waiting for, don’t you think?’

‘I do. I absolutely do.’ She waved him on towards the kitchen, aware that her heart rate had returned to normal and she was looking forward to the next couple of hours.

Once tables and chairs were laid out, Rain led Eifion to the kitchen where they organised the pans, sugar, and food colourings. At Eifion’s suggestion they measured out the sugar and put the requisite amount into cups ready for the boys to stir into the water.

‘The trick is adding it slowly, watching and waiting for signs that no more can be dissolved,’ Eifion said. He held up a bottle of cochineal. ‘And I bet you a quid none of them will go for pink rock!’

‘I’m not really a betting sort,’ Rain replied. It was only a figure of speech; he probably hadn’t meant it seriously. She regretted taking him so literally; she couldn’t help it.

‘Of course, you’re not. I’m so sorry. Stupid of me.’ His eyes were warm and honest, cradled in crumpled folds of weathered skin.

‘My husband, Stephen, he liked a flutter, as he called it. Not that it was as harmless as the expression implies.’ She felt herself tighten, surprised she’d said it aloud. She’d denied it to others for so long, when they were in Dulwich, but now it no longer mattered and it felt surprisingly good to say it aloud.

‘The church doesn’t approve?’ Eifion said, though it was more of a statement than a question.

‘Heavens, no. It was his one weakness, and even his faith couldn’t stop him doing it. He won a few times, you see, and we had Saff’s university education to pay for. He didn’t lose a lot. He was careful like that. But he shouldn’t have been doing it at all. That was the problem.’

‘If it was his only weakness, I really shouldn’t worry.’

Rain stared at Eifion, his image mingling with blurred images of Stephen. Her stomach clenched and unclenched. She felt so peculiar again. What did he mean?

‘Are you all right, Reverend? You look a little pale,’ Eifion said. He reached out a hand and placed it over Rain’s. With the other he touched her shoulder. She looked down at her hand, as if it belonged to someone else. She was gripping the counter’s edge. ‘We’re none of us perfect,’ he continued.

She blinked. ‘No, we’re not.’

‘Hi.’

Rain and Eifion jumped. His hand leapt from hers, as if guilty, though there was nothing to be embarrassed about.

It was Saff, peering into the kitchen through the large hatch. ‘Just came to let you know I’m off out. Don’t wait up.’

‘You’ve not long got in from work.’ Rain said. ‘You’re out all the time these days.’

‘Hardly.’ Saffron turned to leave.

Rain turned to Eifion and smiled. ‘With Ceri?’ she asked, but Saff was nowhere to be seen; the sound of the slamming door punctuated her exit.

Chapter Twenty-one

The walk to Joe’s cottage took twenty-five minutes. It had taken her less the first time, but this time Saffron was leisurely. Keen to see Joe, she’d been ready early. A quick wash and freshen up after work, a change of clothes and she was done. With little to distract her at the manse, other than her medical journals which she couldn’t concentrate on anyhow, she’d decided to leave. She picked up the decorated chocolate eggs she’d bought from a boutique sweet shop she’d discovered in Upper Coed Mawr. It was the Easter display that had caught her attention, all that sunshine yellow.

She tried to enjoy the walk, take in the natural world around her, but couldn’t. The image was seared on to her retina: Eifion was holding hands with her mother when she’d popped into the church hall to say goodbye.

For sure, they’d jumped apart, as if stung, when she’d spoken, but it was too late; she’d seen them. Eifion was single; Rain was single. It wasn’t a crime, as such. But really? Less than two years since they’d laid her father to rest? After everything Rain had said about grief and time and respectable distance? Saffron felt sick. It was an affront. To her father, to her and to Rain’s precious God. She’d wanted to scream: ‘Get your hands off her!’ but she knew it wasn’t all Eifion. If anything, the fault lay with Rain. After all, Eifion had been divorced years, Ceri had said. But her mother? Her mother belonged to her father still. Surely? And Eifion wasn’t a chapel-goer. How did that compute for her mother? She couldn’t be with anyone who didn’t believe.

Breathless and light-headed, Saffron stopped and bent double, her hands gripping her knees, the bag containing the eggs swung from her wrist, the plastic cutting into her skin. A smell she couldn’t quite identify enveloped her. It wasn’t unpleasant as such. It was a familiar countryside scent but right now it added to her sense of nausea. After minutes, she lifted her head and, after regaining her balance, walked on towards the lane.

It didn’t add up. Rain talked about her dad as if he were a deity. If Rain had the power to award him a sainthood, Saffron was certain she would. But then, her mother was still a bit crazy. She tried to hide it from Saffron, but Saffron knew. She had eyes and ears.

She thought about Eifion. She didn’t know the man, but he seemed all right. Nice. He was very nice, she admitted. And about the same age as her mum. But compared to her dad, her lovely, clever, remarkable dad, he was nothing. It wasn’t possible, it wasn’t.

Joe was waiting as she approached the cottage. Standing in the open doorway, one arm resting against the frame, he appeared relaxed. A broad smile, as welcome as the sunrise, swept across his face as she neared and she resisted the urge to run into his arms, push her face against his hard chest, relish the solid masculinity of him, inhale his scent. Instead she stopped and held the bag aloft. ‘I brought some eggs,’ she announced.

He folded his arms. ‘Planning on staying for breakfast? You’re full of surprises.’

‘Chocolate eggs.’ She stressed the ‘chocolate’, teasing him, but she felt heat rise on her cheeks. He did that to her: reduced her to a blushing, awkward girl, not the capable, cynical woman she’d considered herself once upon a time.

‘Milk or plain?’

‘Both. I didn’t know what you like.’ She moved closer.

‘No white?’ He still blocked the doorway.

Her heart sank. Who’d have thought it? A grown man liking white chocolate. ‘That’s for kids, isn’t it?’

He laughed. ‘Kidding. I like something darker. Rich, strong, slightly bitter, best taken in small bites.’ His eyes bored into hers.

She stepped closer still. They were within touching distance. ‘It’s better for you. Anti-oxidants and all that.’

‘I like the very best.’

‘This is it.’ She lifted her arms a touch, palms open.

He leant in and kissed her. She submitted to the moment, the bag of eggs swinging against their sides as they embraced.

Not all of the eggs were broken. Saffron wished she’d wrapped them more carefully, or taken the shopkeeper up on her offer to gift wrap them, but she was short of cash, as always. It didn’t matter. Four were perfect and she’d bought too many to eat in one sitting. Joe said he’d put them in the fridge for next time.

Next time. Had two little words ever sounded sweeter? Saffron didn’t think so.

After a supper of fresh mackerel cooked over an open fire in the ramshackle back garden, they sat on a bench, swathed in blankets, watching the flames, the night stealing up around them. They fed each other fragments of chocolate, licking the residue from each other’s fingers.

He took her hand. ‘Is this OK? Staying here, tucked away in this tatty old place.’

‘You’re thinking I’d rather be wined and dined in some posh gaff in town?’ She pulled a face. Were there any posh places in Coed Mawr? ‘Or some fancy place nearby?’ She couldn’t blame him. She was an urban girl, a Londoner, for whom the stay in this rural outpost was a temporary glitch. She’d made no secret of her disdain for the place when they’d first met. She cringed at the memory of her behaviour. But what of him? He wasn’t from round here either, and how long was he planning to stay? For ever? Surely not? What drove him here? Work? ‘This is perfect,’ she said. And after a pause, ‘I never thought I’d say this but I’m getting used to this place. I like it.’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘I’d have hated anywhere, where I was in my …’ she pointed to her head. ‘It was autumn, everything was dying, the town closed down for the winter. It was dark, cold. I was miserable –’

‘No!’

She punched him gently on the shoulder. ‘But everything seems so much better now.’ Self-consciousness gripped her; she’d drive him away. ‘Telling Mum about Ben and all that. I’d never have done that if you’d not encouraged me.’

Turning from the fire towards her, he said, ‘You would. You’re strong, Saffron. Stronger than most, stronger than you realise.’

She didn’t think he’d looked more handsome than he did right here, right now. ‘Time heals too, doesn’t it?’ she said. She thought of her mother and Eifion and her father.

‘Does it? I’m not so sure.’ He turned away from her, raked his fingers through his strip of thick hair, his mouth tight. She thought of the girl in the photograph, in a room she shouldn’t have been in. That girl was the source of Joe’s pain; she knew it. He was grieving; it was obvious. She couldn’t believe she’d missed it till now. Too self-absorbed, she conceded.

‘Joe, have you lost someone you love too?’ It hurt to say it. Envy pricked, irrational and ugly, but unstoppable. There was another with a hold on Joe’s affections.

He remained fixed on the fire, silent, hunched over, his forearms resting on his knees, the blanket a crumpled heap at his feet.

‘I saw a picture, in your room, last time I was here. I shouldn’t have been snooping, it was an awful thing to do, but it’s too late. I saw it. The girl. The one who looks like you.’ She reached over and placed her hand over his, relieved he’d didn’t flinch or pull away. She would have deserved as much. ‘Is she your sister? Did something happen to her, Joe?’ she babbled, once started, unable to stop. ‘Please, tell me. If you share, your pain will be lessened. I can’t promise it will go away, but it will lessen.’

I can help you. Open yourself to me.

‘Not my sister,’ he said. ‘No.’

He shook her hand away and Saffron felt the earth crumbling beneath her, ready to suck her in. She should never have started this.

‘Far from it. And she’s not dead. She’s very much alive.’

Saffron was falling.

Joe’s first thought when Saffron confessed to poking around in his bedroom was that it served him right; he should have chucked the picture away months ago, years ago. He waited for anger to control him. Anger at Saffron for being such a Pandora, rage at Allegra for maintaining a hold on him, a grip so fierce he couldn’t get rid of a stupid holiday snapshot. He’d destroyed all the other mementoes, why not that one?

Because every fire needs to be stoked, you stupid, stupid bastard. You’re not even sure what you feel for her.

He dropped his head onto his knees. To his surprise, he didn’t feel angry, he felt strangely relieved.

‘I’ll go.’ Saffron stood and tossed her blanket onto the bench next to him. ‘I’m so, so sorry. It was a terrible thing to do, unforgiveable.’ She started to move towards the back door.

You can’t let her go. Say something. Anything.

‘Don’t go,’ he stammered.

Tell her. Explain.

‘What did you say?’ He could hear the tremor in her voice, a rustle in the weeds beyond the lawn, the crackle of the wood in the fire.

‘I said, don’t go. Stay. Please.’ He lifted his head a fraction and stared at the fire. A log was no longer recognisable as wood. Grey, dusty, and glowing orange at its end, it had transformed.

Nothing can withstand fire, not for long.

‘She’s a girlfriend? A wife?’ Saffron said, almost a whisper, as if she was afraid to even say it.

He nodded.

‘Where is she now?’ Saffron remained standing.

‘Far away.’ But not far enough, not really. Was anywhere far enough?

‘Do you still love her?’

He heard the pain in Saffron’s voice and it was a rope round his neck, twisting, tighter and tighter. He looked at her.

‘I hate her.’

Light from the fire caught the tears rolling down Saffron’s cheeks, though her words were controlled; the shaking in her voice had stopped. His heart froze.

‘To hate is to love. You can’t have one without the other, Joe. They’re two sides of the same coin.’

Turning away from the force of her gaze, he stared at the fire. Allegra: golden and dazzling, she drew you in with her promise of warmth and magic. He’d known there must be danger. Nothing that powerful came without it. But he’d assumed he could control it. How wrong he’d been. He remembered Allegra’s golden limbs, her spellbinding smile, her veneer of mystery and sophistication, the promise of unforgettable nights. Everyone wanted her. And her eyes. So unusual. So like his. It had felt like a sign, a sign they were meant to be. And it was because of all this he ignored the warnings, the tiny scalds, blisters from getting too close, trusting too much.

‘I don’t love her. I didn’t love her. It was infatuation,’ he said.

‘Can you be sure?’

‘I didn’t know her. Not really. And you can only love someone you know.’

‘Mum says love travels both ways. That’s how you tell the difference.’

In his peripheral vision, Joe watched her pulling the skin on her knuckles. She was such a fidget, whenever she was nervous, and he longed to leap up, take her hands and kiss those joints and her tears and tell her not worry, that all would be well, that he loved her, that he had some things to sort out and afterwards he’d tell her everything she needed to know. The truth about him. And then the decision would be hers. He couldn’t be sure she would want him any more. He wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.