Redemption Song (26 page)

‘It’s fine. You don’t have to justify your actions to me.’ It was strange, speaking to him like this: him in the Land Rover, her on the pavement, though they were separated by more than a vehicle door.

‘You don’t trust me.’

‘I do. Go. It’s getting late. You’ll miss him.’

She watched him pull away, feeling uncertain and adrift. Unsure what to do – she couldn’t go back to the meeting – she retreated to the manse study and stared at pages of the novel, without reading any of them.

In the kitchen, Rain was stirring the stew. The table had been wiped clean, placemats set, and a bottle of red wine rested in the centre with glasses either side of it.

‘Take a seat. Pour yourself a glass. I’m so glad you waited. I hate eating alone.’

Saffron didn’t like to say that she hadn’t, so merely nodded and did as instructed, pouring her mother a glass too. Rain served a steaming bowl of stew and sat opposite. She clasped her hands and closed her eyes. ‘For what we are about to receive, blah, blah.’ She opened her eyes. ‘He knows what I mean. No need to spell it out every time. Cheers! Here’s to the new roof and a new ballroom.’ She clinked her glass against Saffron’s which still sat on the table.

Saffron stabbed at a lump of potato; overcooked, it disintegrated as she pushed the fork through the flesh. She wondered why Rain didn’t mention her sudden exit. She must have known she’d gone after Joe. ‘What about the kitchen, in the church hall? Hasn’t there been talk of it being modernised?’

‘It is only talk, Saffy.’ Rain was cheerful. ‘There’s other, much more crucial, work that needs doing first. The damp in the hall for one. And there’s no money left in the pot.’

‘For sure.’ Saffron stirred her fork round the vegetables. Fat gleamed on the surface of the gravy.

‘Eat up, Saffy.’

‘I’m not really hungry. Sorry.’ She put down her fork and sipped at the wine.

‘What a shame. It’s your favourite.’ Rain stretched over and squeezed Saffron’s hand. Saffron waited. Would her mum mention the meeting on the pier, apologise for her rudeness?

‘How long is the drive to Bangor, or Wrexham?’ It came out in a rush, garbled.

‘Goodness. I’m not sure.’ Rain looked at the ceiling. ‘Less than an hour to Bangor, traffic depending. Why?’

‘Joe would know for sure.’

Rain blanched. Then, casually, she said, ‘Would he? How?’

‘He travels about a bit.’

‘I had no idea.’ Rain sounded sharp, all trace of her good humour gone.

The conversation was not going the way Saffron had hoped. She tried to steer it back to purpose. She wanted to sound out the notion of applying to repeat her Foundation Year One somewhere closer to Coed Mawr.

‘You seem to know a lot about JJ?’ Rain put down her cutlery, her forearms rested on the table, fingers linked, as if she was about to say grace again.

Saffron studied the grain of the wood. ‘Not really.’

Tell her. What’s the problem? She knows about Ben. It’s almost two years. Just say it: I am seeing Joe. No. Big. Deal.

‘You’re in love with him.’

Saffron almost choked on a gulp of wine.

‘Why have you kept it from me? I don’t understand. All those evenings when you said you were going out with Ceri. You were lying. Why?’ Rain continued.

‘Because I knew you wouldn’t like it. Look at you now.’ She ventured a glance at her mother. Rain’s eyes gleamed too brightly; she wore a fixed smile, one of pity, and it irked. Her mum had no need to feel pity for her. She was happy, happier than she’d ever been. Saffron was enraged. How dare she?

‘It’s not that I don’t like it, Saff. I’m frightened for you. You’re vulnerable. So easy to take advantage of.’

‘As are you.’

‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

‘I think you do.’ Saffron held Rain’s gaze. They were like children, engaged in a battle of wills. Who would crumble first?

Saffron watched her mother’s eyes grow redder, more watery. Then, so suddenly it made Saffron jolt, Rain clapped her hands, rolled her eyes and laughed. The laughter was high-pitched and hollow. ‘You think Eifion likes me?’

‘I’m sure he does. But that’s not the issue, is it? He’s a free agent,’ Saffron said, her voice shaking, betraying her.

‘What are you saying?’ Rain felt her lips trembling, her mouth drying.

Saffron took a deep breath and answered in dispassionate tones, relaying the facts, like a doctor might discuss a patient’s condition, though she refrained from offering a treatment. Eifion was a nice man, a good man, and he liked Rain. She was attractive, she was alone, and she encouraged him. He would never have made his feelings clear if there had been no encouragement. Saffron said she wasn’t certain how she knew this, she just did. And the problem was, Rain wasn’t really free, was she? She was a widow of less than two years; she was grieving her husband – Saffron’s father – and it was embarrassing and wrong for her head to be turned by the first man to show interest, to treat her like a woman and not only a minister. It wasn’t Rain’s fault; she was all over the place, probably didn’t realise how the signals she put out could so easily be misinterpreted. She probably didn’t even realise what she was giving out. Grief can do that, distort things.

Rain marvelled at her daughter’s inability to draw parallels between their circumstances. She recoiled from Saffron’s underlying disapproval at her supposed encouragement of an admirer. It was disrespectful of Stephen’s memory, she’d said. Rain felt the distant rumble of anxiety at her centre. Like a gust of wind, a tremor beneath her feet, like standing on the platform at Brixton staring at the tunnel as a tube train approached. She resisted the urge to fall onto the tracks and give in to her fear.

You are frightened and adrenaline is flooding your body. This is why you shake. It is OK.

Anxiety merged with wrath.

How dare Saffron? Jezebel. Bitch. Traitor.

Bile flooded her. ‘You accuse me to excuse your own behaviour. And yours is worse. You act on base emotion; you’re conducting some kind of a relationship with JJ, this man you barely know, know nothing about. Have you had sex with him?’

Saffron gasped.

No, then. Thank God. But she wants to; I can almost smell her desire.

‘Is it not disrespectful to Ben? The years you shared together?’ Rain spat.

‘I didn’t love him. Not like you loved Dad. It’s different, different,’ Saffron said, her voice raised, brittle, all pretence of control gone.

Rain’s mind whirled. She could barely feel the shape and size of her grief. It was never still. It changed shape constantly, slipped from her fingers, springing into the air like the jelly-gloop Matthew had loved as a child. It had acquired dust and dirt as it had fallen onto carpets and soil but the heart of it eluded her still. She longed to tear it apart and discover its core but its molecular make-up wouldn’t allow it. God offered her comfort, of course, but it wasn’t enough.

It isn’t enough.

The realisation winded her.

The train approached, zoomed past, blowing her hair from her face, almost blowing her off her feet. Tears spilled down her cheeks, a ball of concrete rose up her chest into her throat, strangling her.

‘Your father was about to leave me.’ It was a whisper, a rustle of dry leaves, like the talking bulrushes in the story of Midas and his ass’s ears. It seemed to come from elsewhere, outside of herself.

‘What?’ Saffron whispered.

Rain opened her mouth to speak, to repeat it – to say aloud again that which she had not even acknowledged in the deepest, most secret part of herself for almost two years – but instead of words came a wail, a braying, a heaving of choking, sobbing, snot and tears and spit. She was aware of tissues appearing in her fingers, a glass of water materialising in front of her, but nothing else. When she did speak, after how long she had no idea, all she could say was, ‘Dear God, dear, dear Lord, help me please.’

But it wasn’t her faithful God who helped her, it was her daughter. After plying her with tissues and water – which she didn’t drink but was grateful for it being there – Saff had steered Rain upstairs, laid her on her bed, removed her sandals and pulled the duvet over her. She’d drawn the curtains and pulled the door to, though she didn’t close it. As she’d left, she’d said, ‘I’m downstairs, Mum. Just call if you need me. Anything at all.’

Rain lay in the gloaming on her back and stared at the ceiling, her entire body wrung out, heavy, and desperate for oblivion. She resisted closing her eyes and focused instead on the glass lampshade, the veins of colour running through the bowl, dull without a lit bulb, but visible all the same. She knew that if she did shut her eyes, she would be lost to memories of Stephen in the days before the accident, the days after he’d told her he was leaving. She’d blotted them out so well, for so long. But they were like film and her brain, developing chemicals. The paper looked blank, but the images were all there, waiting to be revealed. They only had to be held under the liquid of her conscious mind.

Truth claimed her and she remembered him as he was, then, and not how she wanted to remember him, how he had once been. She remembered the Stephen who was never around, who couldn’t look her in the eyes, let alone take her hand, kiss the back of it, and call her his angel, as he once had. She remembered the Stephen who returned in the middle of the night, if he returned at all, and slept on the sofa, leaving a trace of perfume she knew but couldn’t quite place. This Stephen stopped coming to church and she made excuse after excuse for him. This Stephen drove her son out of the house and out of the country. Would Matthew really have left if he hadn’t discovered his father was screwing the church organist? After resitting his A levels – for the second time – he was supposed to be going to university, not overseas. There had been other flirtations, of that Rain was certain, but whether or not they were full-blown affairs she was less sure. On reflection she thought not. But Jane was different, pushier, more determined than many mistresses who put up with their lot, and it had caught Rain unawares. Had Rain fully understood Jane’s fear and resolve – a middle-aged woman engaged in an affair with a married man, she had no security, no long term prospects – Rain would have fought for Stephen, put in the work earlier. But it was Jane who got there first. His children were grown-up, she’d argued, his wife had a career, a vocation, would always be looked after no matter what, and Rain loved another (God) more than she could ever love Stephen. He had to make a decision, she’d said, and he chose the woman who needed him most, he said.

As if confirming his reasoning, Rain had been so shocked, she’d not cried, or hurled abuse, or begged him to stay. He would leave on Sunday. A friend’s flat would be tenant-free by the weekend. It would give them time.

Then, the accident. She hadn’t even had a chance to tell Saffron. It was a truth she could bury.

It was dark when Rain woke. She rolled over to check the digital clock on the bedside table. An hour or so before dawn. Pulsing with an energy she’d not felt in months, Rain pushed herself out of bed and crossed to the fitted wardrobe. She flung open the double doors and reached in, tearing out Stephen’s shirts and jackets with the ties draped round the coat hanger handles, tossing them onto the bed. Why hadn’t she done this before? It was ridiculous to keep them. There were so many people, some of her parishioners, who would be grateful for clothing of such quality.

You always were vain, Stephen, like Ben, she thought, as she picked up a silk shirt, one Stephen kept for best. She caught a waft of his aftershave. How extraordinary that a scent should linger so long after someone had gone. She picked up another shirt and held it to her face. A different scent this time, but just as familiar. Hers. Jane’s. Rage tore through her. Rain lunged at the pile of clothes and swept them onto the floor in one wrath-filled movement.

‘But did you love her?’ Rain screamed. ‘Did you love her as much as me? As Saff?’ She fell to her knees.

No, of course, you didn’t love her as much as Saff. You couldn’t have loved anyone more than you loved Saff. Might she have persuaded you to stay? You never gave us a chance. You stupid, stupid, selfish bastard.

She thumped the mattress.

You never gave us a chance. Because you went and died. And you denied me anger and rage and the need to hate you for what you’d done to me. For what you would do to Saffron, your precious Saffron.

‘You’ve broken my heart, Stephen. Broken it.’ Her voice rasped, cracked and hoarse from the force of her wrath.

‘And you were wrong. WRONG. I didn’t love our Lord more than I loved you. Impossible. I forgave you and treasured you, I knew your faults and I loved you. I would have done anything for you. ANYTHING. And now I cannot even hate you. I cannot shame you and make you feel guilty. I cannot punish you. I cannot play the wronged woman. You shit. You total and utter shit. Selfish to the bloody end. You might have even done it on purpose.’ She fell to her knees near the head of the bed, flung the pillows across the room and continued to pound the mattress with her fists till she was breathless and could beat or shout no more.

‘You can hate him, Mum. You must, for a time. Because you also loved him. Love him. You told me that. Can’t have one without the other. You have every right to feel angry. Be angry. Rage and then you can repair.’

Rain lifted her head from the mattress and saw Saff standing in the doorway, crying. How long had she been there?

She stood as Saff crossed the room and they wrapped their arms around each other and there they remained, in a trusting, faithful embrace that seemed to last for ever.

Chapter Twenty-four

‘I can smell summer on the breeze, I tell you, I can,’ Eifion trilled from the balcony below. Joe smiled. It was true. The air felt drier, even on cloudy days, and the smell of the sea was less pronounced.

He dipped the brush into the tin, wiped off the excess paint and pulled the bristles up the posts. Painting was satisfying. The prep was dull but once the paint went on it was gratifying. An instant result. The hourly rate wasn’t as high as for skilled work, like carpentry; Eifion had apologised when he first suggested the job to Joe, but it was work, and a lot of it.