Redemption Song (8 page)

‘Sure.’ Saffron knew her mother was making an effort to be extra-specially nice; she’d used her full name. Unlike most children, Saffron didn’t feel she was being reprimanded when addressed this way. She didn’t like the abbreviation. Rain had always maintained that Saffron was a mouthful and when challenged by a six-year-old Saffron – she was a precocious girl, unlike her brother – Rain confessed the name had been chosen by Saffron’s father. ‘I liked Naomi, or Martha,’ she’d said.

Saffron and her mother had argued, after Joe gave Rain a lift to the farm. ‘It was SO obvious he didn’t want to!’ Saffron had said. She’d accused her mother of flirting, of forgetting she was a widow of less than two years, of not loving her father enough. ‘No wonder Matthew went away.’ Cruel, ugly words. False words; Matthew left before the accident. Their venom poisoned Saffron as much as Rain.

They’d not spoken since. Not properly. Saffron ached to talk about it. She hadn’t meant any of it. She hated herself more than her mother. But what would be the point in trying to explain? Rain wasn’t ready to hear the truth. She’d stop Saffron as soon as she said sorry; she’d hug her and tell her to shush now; they loved each other; they forgave; that was all that mattered.

But it wasn’t.

‘I should be off,’ Joe said, getting to his feet.

‘JJ’s been looking at the roof, measuring up. And he brought the car back. I need to find a decent garage,’ Rain said. She touched her forehead as if she’d forgotten something.

He checked his watch, though there was a large clock in front of him, on the strip of what remained of the dividing wall between the kitchen and dining area before the rooms were knocked into one. ‘Only meant to stay for a quick cuppa.’

‘You don’t need to explain yourselves to me.’ Saffron checked herself; she wanted to be nice. ‘Please don’t go on my account. I’ll make a drink and leave you in peace.’ She wandered through and took the kettle out of an astonished Rain’s hands. ‘You want another?’ she said.

It was strange. She felt better than she’d felt in weeks. Happy, almost. Even allowing for the fact that she hadn’t made up with Rain, which she was determined to do, starting now.

The afternoon in the shop had passed quickly and it had made Saffron aware of how much the factory had been pulling her down. Taking the job was another form of punishment, she saw that now, and while she wasn’t going easy on herself, not by a long shot, she’d been unable to bear that particular torment any longer.

Ceri had hung round longer than Mrs Evans would have liked judging by the number of times she asked if Ceri shouldn’t be off. ‘What for? Not like I’ve got a job or nothing,’ Ceri had laughed. Saffron enjoyed having her around. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed people of her own age. They’d talked clothes – how bloody awful those in the store were, music – they’d discovered a mutual love of McBusted; a guilty, slightly uncool pleasure – and men they fancied. ‘McFly and Busted in the same band – what’s not to like!’ Ceri had shrieked, pogoing between menswear and ladies shoes to a song leeching from the lousy speakers. Saffron ensured the discussion about men stayed within the realms of fantasy – which film stars, musicians and models they fancied. ‘I’d do so-and-so,’ Ceri would say, at random intervals, curling her mouth into a leer.

The kettle clicked off.

‘So … how was it?’ Rain said, hesitant. Turning to Joe, she added, ‘Saffron started a new job today.’

‘OK,’ Saffron shrugged.

‘Just OK?’ Rain looked eager, greedy for information, scanning Saffron’s face for signs, assuming she would be as unforthcoming as usual.

Saffron wanted to please, as a way of making up, and provided the detail her mother craved. ‘I met a girl. She invited me to the Y Castell this evening.’

‘That place! What would a couple of young women want in a dive like that? It’s full of old men. Isn’t The Nag’s Head the best place? Or the wine bar? And I think you just said “The The Castle”,’ Rain said.

Ignoring the comment about her Welsh, Saffron smiled. ‘How would you know, Mum? Anyway, that’s why Ceri likes it. Says the wine bar is full of “pretentious twats”.’ She formed quotations marks in the air.

‘Who is this Ceri?’

‘I really do have to go,’ Joe said, moving towards the door, sweeping his hand over the top of his thick brown hair, tracing the kinks.

I bet it looks good long too.

Rain bounded over. ‘Thank you SO much for the car, roof, conversation … everything really.’

There was an awkward pause. How would her mother say goodbye? Her natural impulse would be to kiss him on both cheeks, continental-style. She used to do that with even the most casual acquaintances, other than the majority of her congregation with whom she maintained a degree of formality. But Joe was about to become an employee, of sorts, and that would be plain weird.

Don’t kiss him.

Joe spared Rain embarrassment. He held out his hand, and afterwards offered it to Saffron. His skin was rough, a worker’s hand, warm, and his grip was steady and confident. Neither too hard, like those men who tried to prove their masculinity by breaking bones with a handshake, nor too limp, which Saffron found fey and off-putting, clichéd though she knew this to be.

‘I guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of you,’ Saffron said.

‘I’ll be gone before you return from work most days. At least till the evenings grow lighter,’ he replied.

Saffron wanted to say: the job’s only part-time, I’m around in the mornings. At least until Easter when, according to Mrs Evans, the tourists arrive and business picks up. But she remained silent, lest her disappointment reveal itself.

Convinced he hadn’t imagined it, Joe couldn’t work out why Saffron was so much warmer towards him. He’d been sure she thought him a prize idiot. Her grip had been firm, but her hand was extremely cold and my God, her fingers were knitting-needle bony. Allegra liked to knit. She was in a craft circle, and it was full of young women, all like her, with shiny hair and toffee-hued skin. They knitted and sewed and made all kinds of crazy, useless things, like dining chair cushions and lavender bags. ‘Meeting the granny yoof,’ he’d joked.

Joe couldn’t imagine Saffron knitting. Not in a million years. He could imagine her doing little domestic and prosaic. She’d held the kettle like a surgical instrument, though he struggled to see her in scrubs, too much colour. What colour were they these days, green or blue? She’d been wearing black. The shapeless duffel coat again, which she’d not removed before he left.

Inside the cottage, Joe prepared supper. A simple dish of pasta with pesto, he shovelled it into his mouth straight from the saucepan, famished. He’d not bothered with lunch, too engrossed in a game. After supper, he slumped on the flea-bitten sofa he’d dragged from the shed and flicked idly through the free channels. Nothing on except lousy reality shows, full of people he would either despise or pity should he meet them. He picked up his book – a history of World War II – and stared at the pages, but he couldn’t concentrate. He knew most of it anyway. He needed to find a new topic. At least till the spring when it might be warm enough to work in the shed. And come spring, the bats would be out again.

Might be nice to join the local bat conservation group …

No chance. Way too risky.

The saucepan sat on the rug before him. He turned off the television, rolled onto his back, cradled his head in his hands and stared at the cobwebs stretched from beam to beam on the ceiling. No sign of the spider. He, or she, would be waiting, unseen and patient; confident that, trap complete, it was only a matter of time before unsuspecting prey arrived. Joe watched and waited. He was patient too.

Without a fire, and the heat of the food diminishing in his belly, he began to feel cold. He thought about the warmth of the kitchen at the manse, Saffron’s smooth, cold fingers. He remembered the photograph of her brother on the kitchen dresser – what was his name again, something Biblical? He looked tall, hair the colour of sand, a solid build, though this might have been an illusion; each arm was stretched round the malnourished form of an African child. Had he inherited his build from their father? Rain was all rolling curves, like the soft hills of the South Downs, but no way could she be described as heavy. Saffron was tall and slender, elegant, like a poplar. The brother was a missionary, in Burkina Faso, Rain had said with pride. Did Saffron resent her angelic younger brother? The one who did the right thing, followed the way of the Lord, spread his word, or whatever the saying was.

Stop it, you idiot, he said aloud, pushing himself off the sofa. Clean up, do something, stop brooding.

Clearing up took minutes and he was still cold. A walk, he would go for a walk. It was a clear night, the moon was bright, there’d be no need for a torch.

Joe had been a night-walker since childhood. Since the age of eight when the urge to escape the confines of the dormitory was so forceful he couldn’t have resisted it if he’d tried. Not that he did try. He’d hated that school, and had sworn if he ever had children of his own no way would he send them away. No matter what. Those places were suffocating and cruel. Churning out future leaders, of the country, of business; emotionally retarded bullies or buffoons, perpetuating an anachronistic, unfair system. Freddy. An image of Freddy at ten years old sprang unbidden, wearing his pretend-serious, pretend grown-up face.
You gave me your homework for me to copy. I will not lie for you. It wouldn’t be right, would it?

Then another image: Freddy all grown up, in wig and gown, sneering, hectoring, lying, spitting at him beneath his breath.
You’ve only yourself to blame. She was always too good for you, too beautiful, too clever. Justice? This is justice. What did you expect?
He’d hated Freddy; he’d loved him.

Joe stopped, and took a deep breath. He was at the top of the hill, a mountain really. He loved the countryside here. Dramatic and wild, it stirred something inside him. The Celts, that’s what I’ll read about next, he decided. Warrior kings and queens, and tribes of painted savages. Fair-skinned redheads.

Shortly after ten he found himself overlooking Coed Mawr; the lower town cradled in the deep crescent of the bay, lights sprinkled before the sea. The straight line of the illuminated pier. He weaved his way down the hillside and through the back streets. At a junction he stopped. Wasn’t Y Castell round this corner? He shouldn’t pass by the pub; it was inviting trouble. But it was the shortest way and it wasn’t as if he intended to go in, sit at the bar and offer to buy her a drink.

He turned his head towards the window as he walked past, but the glass was frosted and grimy, impossible to see through. He shook his head, acknowledging his foolishness, disappointed all the same.

Before he reached the corner, he heard a choking sound, a retching. A drunk was throwing up in the gutter. But there was no sign of anyone. He heard a groaning. He stopped and looked to his right. In an alleyway, he saw a hunched figure. A shadow, female he guessed, stroked the other person’s back. The form was familiar. Plumes of smoke swirled from the alley.

‘Bloody hell, you weren’t kidding when you said you were a lightweight. You need some training, you do. Stick your fingers right down. Only way you’ll be sick.’

Female. Welsh. Hadn’t Saffron said she was meeting a local girl?

‘Saffron?’ he said, hesitant, taking a step towards the alley entrance, hands raised in surrender. He didn’t want to alarm them. Two women, one virtually incapacitated, in a dark alley at night.

‘Wait a moment, lovely.’ The Welsh girl’s voice again. ‘Know her, do you?’ The girl stepped from the passageway onto the street, took a drag on her cigarette, flicked it to the ground and stamped on it.

He nodded. ‘Her mother. And her. Yes.’

The girl tipped her chin, as if she wasn’t sure whether she believed him or not. One hand resting on her hip, she tapped a foot on the pavement. He wanted to laugh. What unlikely friends they made. A doctor-in-training and a Welsh Vicky Pollard. Saffron de Lacy was full of surprises.

‘I rescued her, and her mum’s car, from the bottom of Devil’s Rise.’ He thought mentioning the Standard might prove the veracity of his claim.

‘Joe?’ Saffron’s willowy figure emerged. She appeared elastic, without structure. A rag doll. She dragged a hand across her mouth. ‘You got a bottle of water on you?’

‘I can get one.’ He sprinted into the pub. It was almost empty – an old man sat at the bar staring at a pint of mild; a couple of men, boys really, fiddled with cues beside the pool table. He was served immediately.

Outside, Saffron leant against the wall which bordered the pub’s front ‘garden’: a couple of plastic chairs and a pot containing some kind of shrub. Cigarette butts littered the paving slabs. She took a gulp from the bottle, swilled it round her mouth, turned her back to Joe and the girl and spat it out.

‘You think she’s a lady at first,’ the girl said. ‘I’m Ceri. Nice to meet you.’

‘Joe.’

‘I know; I heard.’

‘Everyone calls him JJ,’ Saffron said, facing them again, the bottle half empty. She didn’t sound drunk. ‘Thanks for this; you’re a life saver.’

‘Except you,’ Ceri said to Saffron. ‘Very nice to meet you. Mind if I call you Joe an’ all?’ Ceri offered her hand. ‘Walk us home? I could do with a hand.’ She jerked her head towards Saffron.

‘I’m OK. Really. I’m not that drunk. I’ve not even been sick.’ She looked at Ceri. ‘Not for want of trying.’

She turned back to Joe. ‘It’s the best way to avoid a hangover. Get it out of your system, drink plenty of water, paracetamol before bed.’

‘On an empty stomach?’ Ceri shrieked.

‘Paracetamol does not rot your stomach. It’s a myth.’

‘I’ll walk with you anyway. I’m going that way,’ Joe said, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets to indicate he didn’t intend to prop Saffron up, make physical contact in any way.

Ceri dominated the conversation as they walked. She was a right motor-mouth, but Joe understood why Saffron liked her. Earthy, funny, and sharp, she was good company. Ceri’s house, or more correctly her mother’s house – her parents had divorced when she was thirteen, she’d told them, her dad lived on the other side of town – was nearer than the manse. A squat terrace of three-up-three-downs.