Redemption Song (7 page)

‘Sorry?’

‘Now, now, Ceri,’ Mrs Evans said, turning to address Saffron. ‘You ignore her, dear. Thinks she’s being funny. Saffron, meet Ceri, my goddaughter. Ceri, Saffron.’

‘Hi.’ Saffron waved and looked into Ceri’s face. A broad smile swept across it, revealing crooked teeth and the gleam of a tongue stud.

‘All right.’ Ceri tipped her head in a facsimile of a greeting. ‘Take no notice of her.’ She nodded at Mrs Evans. ‘I did mean it. I’ve wanted to work here for years. Been my lifelong ambition.’ Ceri raised her eyebrows as she spoke, a glint in her eyes.

‘Mine too. Guess I got lucky,’ Saffron replied.

The doorbell tinkled and Mrs Evans scurried away to ‘serve her customer’.

‘Harass the poor bitch, more like,’ Ceri said.

They looked at each other and smiled.

Chapter Six

Joe checked his watch. It was well past lunchtime and he was still lounging around the cottage. He couldn’t put off returning to the chapel any longer. When he’d towed the Standard back to Rain’s that morning, it had been a relief to find both chapel and manse empty. He’d left the Standard in the manse car park next to the hall and pushed the key through the front door. The Labrador-owning neighbour had said Rain would be back to lead the afternoon prayer meeting at two thirty. Joe wondered where she’d gone without wheels. He needed to see the roof from the inside as soon as possible; Derek was keen for him to start work. He’d taken a brief look around already, the chapel door was open, but he’d felt like an intruder, poking around without permission.

Stiff with cold and from lying in the same position on the living room floor for hours, he switched off the Xbox, stood, rolled his shoulders and neck. Upstairs he searched for a hat – the chapel was icebox-cold. His beanie wasn’t on the chair where he’d slung yesterday’s clothes. Where the hell was it?

He checked amongst the neat piles of boxer shorts and socks on the shelves of the rickety wardrobe. Nothing. He was about to give up when, just in case, he checked the deep bottom drawer of the chest of drawers, where he’d thrown a random assortment of items after he’d first moved in. Useless items, but things he’d been unable to leave behind. He scraped through cards, biros and instruction manuals to softer items below. He caught his fingers on something hard and sharp. Unable to stop himself he pulled out the photo frame and turned it over.

A young woman: brown wavy hair, one brown eye, one green, fine-boned and golden-skinned. She held an arm over her forehead, shading her eyes from the glare of a Spanish sun. Her gaze made his heart stop. She was from a world so very far removed from this one in Coed Mawr that he’d managed to forget, most of the time. She was sunshine, this was winter. He stared.

‘Allow yourself to feel the pain. Let go of the rage.’ The therapist’s words came back to him. To hell with that. He threw the picture back in the drawer, slammed it shut and raced downstairs. If he was cold in the chapel, so be it.

If Rain was surprised by Joe’s U-turn regarding the repair of the chapel roof she didn’t show it. Joe thought about explaining himself, but figured it might make things look worse so he didn’t bother.

She led him up a wooden staircase – also in a bad state of repair – to the balcony, from which he would inspect the rafters, before returning to a gang of parishioners who hovered at the back of the chapel. Daylight snuck through the gaps in the roof, casting shafts of light on the organ pipes.

Below, Rain conducted the prayer meeting – the heating in the church hall was broken, though it couldn’t have been colder than here in the chapel. He noticed how casually dressed Rain was, no sign of the cassock she’d worn for the visit to the farm. Joe couldn’t make out what was being said, though it wasn’t as quiet and reverential as he’d expected it to be.

He’d finished his preparatory inspection before the meeting finished. For a thorough and accurate quote he would need to get onto the roof, remove some of the slates. There was every chance the purlins might need replacing; wood under the eaves would almost certainly be rotten. If it was as bad as Joe suspected, he would need the help of an apprentice as well as a labourer. Jesus. No chance of working solo. Derek had been right. He considered inflating the costs. Perhaps they’d make do with a patch-up and the work would be over in days.

Not wanting to interrupt the meeting, Joe sat on the organ stool, his back to the keyboard and stared at the stained glass window. He felt like he did as a kid, back at boarding school, bored rigid during endless Sunday services. Weekends were always the loneliest. Some boys went home, though never the cruel ones he’d wanted rid of. Boys like Freddy.

Why don’t you go back to where you belong? To your nice little bourgeois existence.

Joe hadn’t known what bourgeois meant but he knew it was an insult.

Despite his aversion to places of worship, Joe admitted the chapel window was a thing of beauty. An abstract design, simple yet bold, it was different to the elaborate portraits of Christ and the saints in his school chapel, meek, awed, and yes, also beautiful. The colours swirled before him; orange dominant. The image of Saffron’s bowed head at the kitchen table flashed in his mind, the tangerine roots at her scalp contrasting with her dark mane. He recalled her unflinching gaze when she’d told him about her fiancé in the kitchen of the manse. There was nothing meek about that look and the thought made him smile. He closed his eyes and the smell of stone, dark wood, and musty dampness enveloped him. The unmistakable scent of an old church. Not that he was overly familiar with churches of late, but he could recall the last time he’d been in one all too well.

Block it out, block it out.

He gripped the edge of the seat and focused his mind on the group below, straining to make out their words, sentences, meanings. He wondered if Saffron ever attended groups like this; came to church on Sundays. She must have been forced to as a child. If so, how did she reconcile her developing scientific knowledge with faith, if she had any? Did she share any of her mother’s conviction, even a fragment? Joe doubted it, though he knew faith and reason were not mutually exclusive.

Leaning forward, he could hear the conversation. A sharp voice, frayed at the edges. ‘I saw your daughter in town the other day. Saffron? Unusual name, isn’t it? Won’t find it in any Bible I’m familiar with!’ There was a chuckle, the kind used to mask rancour and criticism should anyone challenge the actual comment. ‘But then Rain is not exactly what you’d call common either, is it? Are you from a church family, Reverend?’

Another laugh. Joe recognised it as Rain’s. ‘Heavens above, no! A pair of old hippies, that’s my mum and dad.’ More laughter. But only Rain’s.

‘And what do they make of their daughter becoming a minister?’ An old lady’s voice.

‘Well, I can’t, in all honesty, say they approved. But it was OK; it was such a long time ago. I heard the call of God as a teenager, and I was strong-willed. They couldn’t stop me. Live and let live, that was their motto,’ Rain said. ‘And mine.’

‘Strong-willed,’ another voice, male this time. ‘Runs in the family, does it?’

‘Do you ever visit your family, Minister? You grew up round these parts, I believe.’ The old lady again.

‘They passed a long time ago,’ Rain said. Shifting gear, she continued. ‘Now, before we wrap up … I received this yesterday.’ She held aloft some kind of leaflet.

‘Posted all round town, they were. I got one too.’

‘And me.’

‘And me.’

Rain again. ‘Well, what do we think? It sounds like a very worthwhile cause to me. I’ve been thinking that we could play a role? Help raise awareness and maybe even funds.’

‘But is it appropriate for a church to be involved in a campaign to save a place of frivolity, of dancing and drinking, and heaven knows what else?’ the old boy said.

‘Judging by the photos it was a beautiful place. And our Lord doesn’t rule out fun,’ Rain said.

A woman spoke. ‘I danced there in my youth. Every Saturday night. Oh, it was magical, it was. The coloured lights, the mirrors and, oh, the windows … Beautiful, it was, beautiful. On summer nights, when the windows were open, you could hear the sound of the waves, the sea birds, smell the salt in the air.’

Joe realised they were talking about the decrepit ballroom at the tip of the pier. Crumbling and neglected, it was all boarded-up and clearly hadn’t been used in decades. It looked pathetic, though Joe could see that it must have been exquisite in its heyday.

‘The flooring often rose. You had to watch your step, for fear of tripping over loose tiles. No way to impress the fellas, that!’ said another woman, laughing as she remembered.

‘Stupid place to build a ballroom, with all that wood. Bound to be trouble so close to water.’ A male voice.

Rain broke their remembrances. ‘The thing is, if redeveloped correctly – and from the research I’ve done, this is key, it could serve all kinds of purposes. It could help reinvigorate the town, attract visitors again. Do we, as God’s foot soldiers, really want it to become a “leisure complex”? That is a euphemism for those awful gambling machines. The ballroom should be a ballroom once more.’

There were grunts of approval and Rain continued. ‘And getting involved might be another way to lure,’ she coughed theatrically, ‘
ahem
, entice, the younger generation to the church.’

Joe suppressed the urge to laugh.

Another voice. Male. ‘Surely the youngsters won’t be interested in a dancehall. They’re into rages and all sorts.’

‘Ah, well, raves have had their day, Mr Roberts. And the space won’t just be used for dances. It can hold art, exhibitions, gigs.’

‘Gigs?’

‘Concerts, Mr Roberts. Music concerts.’

‘The youth of this town don’t want concerts, Reverend!’

‘How can we know, Mr Roberts? They never have a chance to go and see bands here. The space can accommodate whatever the townsfolk want it to, like an arts centre. I really do feel it could attract more visitors. And more visitors means a stronger economy. More work. What have we to lose? If I’m not mistaken, everyone here backs the restoration campaign. Let’s get more involved.’

There followed vociferous noises of agreement, until the cantankerous Mr Roberts piped up again. ‘And how do you propose to reach the youngsters, Reverend? Your daughter seems entirely uninterested in the activities of the church.’

Rain spoke and Joe marvelled at her control. If it had been him talking to the group he’d have wanted to thump the old git. ‘You’re aware I’ve set up a Facebook page for the church? We could use that for starters. Then posters, more school talks. I’ll give it more thought.’

She’s quite a woman, the Rev.
Joe didn’t think there’d be too many rural ministers who used social media to spread God’s word. At least not in Wales.

‘I’m not sure our Lord would approve of such methods, Reverend. The internet is bursting with evidence of all kinds of human misery and depravity,’ Mr Roberts blustered.

And you’d know, wouldn’t you? Joe longed to yell.

‘And all kinds of human goodness and decency. Let’s give it a go, shall we? Gosh, is that the time? Time to wrap up, folks. Till next we meet,’ Rain said, clapping her hands together, with what sounded like forced cheerfulness.

Joe waited. He listened as church members lifted themselves off chairs, the groans and sighs fading to shuffling feet and the heavy clip of walking sticks on stone. Only then did he come down the stairs. He studied Rain’s profile as she stacked plastic chairs. Her cheeks were flushed, despite the cold, her lips pressed together, folded in on themselves, as if she were biting down on them. There was a heaviness in her demeanour he’d not seen before. She jumped when he approached, as if she had forgotten he was in the chapel.

‘Your flock disapprove of your methods, huh?’

Rain shrugged. ‘That obvious? Some disapprove of me, which pisses me off even more. Flock? In many ways they’re more like a pack.’

Unable to help himself, he laughed. ‘You get that much?’

‘More than you’d think. Funniest thing is that it’s caught me unawares. I anticipated resistance, expected it really,’ another shrug, ‘when we first arrived. But there was none. Or so it seemed.’

‘They let you get comfortable …’

‘On their best behaviour.’ She smiled, as if remembering her duty to be kind, understanding. ‘It’s like family. We are a family. The church, I mean. And we’re more critical of those we love than anyone else. As well as most forgiving, of course.’

‘Are you critical of them?’ He didn’t follow her argument. Not really. He understood it was possible to acknowledge loved ones aren’t perfect, when love is real, true. But to be more critical of them than others? No. He had been blind to the faults of those he’d loved.

Rain didn’t answer. Instead, she tipped her head to the roof and said, ‘So, bad as I fear?’ She clapped her hands together and pulled them to her chest. Joe knew how to read people. When she was uncomfortable; when she wanted to close a subject down, she clapped.

‘Difficult to say for sure.’

‘You sound like a builder. And here was me thinking you were different! Can you repair it?’

Joe stroked his chin between thumb and index finger in a caricature of the rogue trader. ‘It’ll cost you.’

Rain laughed. ‘We have money.’

‘There could be a few months’ work here. Once I’ve measured the building I’ll quantity survey the materials and work out precise costs. Might be heftier than the first estimate you were given.’

‘The Lord will provide. When can you start?’

‘Soon as you OK the new price.’ He smiled. It wouldn’t be so bad. He liked Rain and no one visited the town in winter. He could keep a low profile. Of that much he was sure.

Chapter Seven

The house had felt different as soon as Saffron had stepped into the hall, and she’d seen the Standard parked outside, so it wasn’t a surprise to discover Joe sitting at the kitchen table. Spread across the table was the debris of a late afternoon tea.

‘Saffron! You’re back early.’ Rain leapt to her feet, gesturing towards the kettle. ‘Tea?’