This close, he caught her aroma: patchouli. Normally, he hated that scent; it took him right back to his expensive, and loathed, private school where kids in the sixth form pretended to slum it by growing their hair and wearing handmade shirts from Peru, the powerful smell of the oil unable to hide the stink of money and privilege. But on her, it smelled good; warm and heady; in direct contrast to the chilly, distant young woman before him.
Once she was upright, she held out an outstretched hand. ‘Guess we should introduce ourselves.’
He hesitated. ‘Joe. Joe Jones. People call me JJ.’ He reached for her hand, but he was too late. She’d withdrawn it.
She waved instead. ‘Saffron. Saffron de Lacy. People call me Saffron.’
How did a young woman in a backend seaside town in Wales get a name like that? Joe wondered. Saffron. The name conjured vibrant colour, exotic spices, joy. This woman conjured graveyards, bloodless corpses, and angst with her heavy eyeliner, dark hair, and translucent skin.
‘Nice to meet you, Saffron.’ He rolled his arm and gave a deep bow. She almost smiled, and mentally he licked his finger and swiped the air. Point Joe.
After rolling the Standard into the layby before the bridge over the river, Joe hopped in the Land Rover, turned on the engine and then the heating while Saffron gathered her things. He wanted to make the journey as comfortable as possible and see if he could inject a little colour into those ashen cheeks.
To Saffron’s dismay, Joe’s motor couldn’t get up the hill either. It slipped and slid and made no progress upwards. At least it didn’t conk out in the process, but it did mean that they’d have to take the long way round to Coed Mawr, and that meant twenty-five minutes with him as opposed to ten. She tried the radio but couldn’t find a clear station and there was no sign of any CDs. She had no idea what they’d talk about. Her head was swimming with how she’d explain to Mum, who would be sick with worry by the time they got back. Perhaps she’d get a phone signal once they hit the main road. She gripped the handle above the window tightly, leant her head against her arm, and gazed at the heavy grey sky. She hoped Joe would take the hint and keep quiet. She couldn’t call him JJ; what kind of a name was that? It made him sound like a cheesy teen idol, or a rapper.
‘Looks like snow,’ he said.
So he couldn’t take a hint.
‘Ur-huh.’ She continued to stare out of the window.
‘Weather report got it all wrong today. A thaw they said.’
‘Ur-huh.’
‘Bet it’s pretty here when it snows.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said, tilting her head in his direction. Obviously, he wasn’t going to shut up, and the effects of a good upbringing were hard to shake off; she couldn’t be so rude as to ignore him completely. He’d been kind, tried to help, given her a ride home. Without him, she’d have been screwed.
‘How’s that?’
Saffron explained that it was her first winter here, it had been unusually mild so hadn’t snowed, yet, and it was, more than likely, her last winter here. So, no, she didn’t know whether it looked pretty all covered in white, but neither did she much care. She wasn’t planning to stick around for long. This was a gap before she went back to repeat her foundation year at one of the London teaching hospitals, Barts, King’s, UCL, she didn’t much care which; they were all good. Whichever one would have her in truth. Competition was fierce and she was no longer an ideal candidate.
‘So you’re a doctor? You don’t look old enough.’
‘I’m twenty-five this summer.’ After a pause, her indignation settled, she continued, ‘And I’m not a doctor, not yet. Right now, I’m not sure that I ever will be.’ She wondered why she was confessing; she’d certainly not meant to. It had slipped out. She’d not even told her mum she wasn’t certain she would return to medicine; they didn’t talk like they used to. There was so much, and nothing, to say.
‘Didn’t think it was possible to take a break like that. Medical training’s pretty intense.’
‘They sure as hell don’t make it easy. Anyway, how come you know so much about the medical profession?’
‘I don’t.’ He laughed. ‘Ignore me.’
She felt sick at the thought of going back. She’d need to put in extra work – catch up, and she wasn’t sure she was up to it any more; she hadn’t stepped inside a hospital for over six months. Her mind had been all over the place, what with the move and everything. She’d knuckle down soon; she had no choice. She couldn’t stay here for ever.
He must have sensed her unease because he said, ‘You’ll be fine. No one likes staying behind. But for what it’s worth, I think it’s better to get a bit of life experience. It’ll make you a better doctor, more empathetic. Experience a world outside of hospitals and pain and sickness. Same with teaching and any intense profession. There’s a danger of becoming very insular. If that makes sense.’
‘It does.’ She turned away from the window. ‘You sound like you know.’
‘Yup. I messed up my A levels first time round. Everyone else went off to uni; I stayed behind. Resented it for a while, but when I went to college, I appreciated it more, studied hard.’
‘What did you study?’
He laughed, dismissive. ‘Nothing useful.’
Saffron was surprised. He looked like a labourer; someone who’d have left school as soon as possible. His knuckles were calloused and his fingernails were a bit grimy.
You’re a terrible snob, Saffron de Lacy. He’s probably got a higher IQ than you.
And as she looked – really looked – at him, she decided that he was better than interesting-looking. She was about to push him on what he did study but before she got the chance, he pulled into the main road into Upper Coed Mawr, turned to her, and asked, ‘Where to, exactly?’
The honk of a horn; a screeching of brakes.
‘Keep your eyes on the road!’ she yelled.
‘It’s OK. Only a boy racer at the lights,’ Joe said, obviously startled by her reaction. ‘You OK?’
Composing herself, she reassured him she was.
‘So, where to now?’ he asked.
Oh hell. She’d forgotten to call Rain. She’d be livid when Saffron pitched up, relieved but furious.
‘Drop me anywhere. Everywhere is close.’ She needed time to gather her thoughts. Mum would be cross twice over: no phone call, and she wouldn’t want to think of her beloved car abandoned at the river’s edge overnight. She’d not wanted Saffron to take the car, but after some serious emotional blackmail Saffron had got her own way. Now, she wished she hadn’t. The bus would have been so simple, but she avoided being a passenger as much as possible.
He was insistent. ‘I’ll get the car tomorrow, come what may. Let me explain to your mother.’
‘I’m not five. Bit old for that, aren’t I?’
‘Sorry. You’re right.’
She shrugged and pointed in the direction of home. Correction: where she lived temporarily. This would never be home.
It had never been easy – introducing people to her mum, and though Saffron knew she was far too old to feel awkward, she couldn’t help it. She hated it. She hated her mum. She loved her mum. But if Joe did come in, Rain would curb her anger.
‘Well, if you don’t mind?’ she smiled at him and he returned her smile, nodding.
‘I won’t stay. In and out.’
‘Here,’ she said, pointing, before bending to grab her overstuffed bag from where it lay at her feet.
‘The vicarage?’ His surprise was evident.
‘Yeah. ’Cept, you don’t really call it that. That’s Church of England. We’re Baptists. I mean, Mum is. It’s called a manse.’ Saffron swung open the door and jumped down. ‘Come on then, if you’re coming.’
Chapter Two
The huge sign outside the church building proclaimed, Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Saviour. The church was plain, little more than a house, other than the large round window at its centre and the arched wooden door. T
o the left was another building – the church hall with a frayed banner draped across the front – and to the right, a house of pale brick, almost yellow, with a square bay window. Like the church, the house was shabby. Neglected, but still beautiful. The paintwork was in need of attention, some of the frames looked rotten, and the chimney stack was cracked. Mid-late Victorian, Joe thought, built about the same time as the church and most of the grander properties in the lower town.
Chapel, the Welsh call them chapels.
Saffron ignored the front door, with its coloured glass and brass knocker, and slouched down a narrow pathway running between the chapel and the house. Joe followed her through an unlocked wooden gate, after which the passage opened out into a garden, bare except for a small flower bed in front of the window, a thick yew in the centre of a frost-tipped lawn, and a gnarled wisteria at the far end.
At the back door, he waited patiently, saying nothing, while she scrabbled around in her bag for her keys. After several unsuccessful attempts to locate them, swearing like no vicar’s daughter ever should, she tipped the bag’s contents onto the concrete. There was still no sign of the keys.
She pushed herself up. ‘You must have them.’
It was an accusation, not a suggestion. But she was right. Joe recalled that he’d taken them – the bunch large enough for a gaoler – to lock the Standard. He raced back to the Land Rover, certain he’d thrown them into the space behind the handbrake; the space where he normally kept change for parking.
When he returned there was no sign of Saffron. He walked back to the street and noticed that the front door was ajar. After rapping the knocker, he gave the door a push. It swung open to reveal a wide hallway with a black and white tiled floor. He called out but remained on the doorstep.
Saffron appeared within seconds, waving him in. She’d removed her duffel coat and Joe noticed she wasn’t entirely devoid of curves. Still way too skinny though. He waited while she closed the door behind him, feeling uncomfortable and regretting his offer to give an explanation to her mother. It was awfully dark in there. It smelt of damp and old wood. He noticed a barometer on the wall and tried to read it. She stomped past him – the clumpy boots clattering on the tiles – and led him past a telephone table and into a cosy kitchen-diner thick with steam. The only notable feature was a huge Yves Klein print over the fireplace, its modernity out of character with the rest of the room.
Whatever Joe had expected Saffron’s mother to look like it was nothing like the woman who turned from the Aga to greet him. Shorter than Saffron by maybe four inches, she was all smiles, curves, and tumbling blonde curls. Although it was mid-February she was dressed in a floral skirt and bright orange V-neck jumper. The only similarity in style between mother and daughter was a pair of ugly leather boots poking out beneath the hem of Rain’s skirt.
And she was young. Youngish. Mid-forties at the most, he guessed, or very well-preserved. She must have been a very young mother, though presumably not a single one? Did vicar’s wives do that sort of thing? Maybe she’d had Saffron before she met her husband? Did vicars marry single mums? Joe’s head spun.
‘This is my mother, Rain,’ Saffron flicked a hand in Rain’s general direction and back again to Joe. ‘Rain, this is Joe Jones, though everyone calls him JJ. He rescued me. The car conked out on Devil’s Rise.’ Joe could have sworn she rolled her eyes as she said JJ.
‘Lovely to meet you, JJ.’ Rain reached forward and took Joe’s hand in a firm grip, shaking a little too enthusiastically. As she rattled his arm and shoulder, he noticed a plain cross on a chain nestled between her breasts. ‘Thank goodness you were around. Imagine what she’d have done if you weren’t passing by!’
‘Walk, I imagine,’ he replied, fixing his eyes on hers to avoid glancing down at her cleavage.
Rain laughed and Saffron snorted.
‘Well, yes. Never thought of that! How silly,’ Rain said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve just filled the pot.’
Saffron pulled a face and Joe accepted Rain’s invitation; Saffron wanted him to leave, so he’d stay. She wasn’t the only one with a belligerent streak. And it wasn’t every day he found himself in the company of attractive women. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in the company of one woman, and there was no chance of getting close or anything else remotely dangerous. A vicar’s wife and her daughter. Perfect. He’d enjoy a nice cup of tea and possibly even a slice of cake – he eyed the fruit cake sitting in the centre of the table – and then return home, never to see them again, if he could possibly help it.
They sat round the table and Saffron poured the tea while Joe gave a brief low-down of what happened on Devil’s Rise. Rain cut a generous slab of cake and passed it to Joe. ‘For you, Saff?’
Saffron shook her head.
Joe stroked the table’s surface; it was warm and smooth. ‘Oak’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
Rain nodded and said, ‘Family heirloom. How come you recognise the wood?’
‘I’m a carpenter.’
‘Like Joseph!’ She put her hand to her mouth and laughed. ‘JJ, Joe … Joseph.’
Saffron stared at her hands resting on the table and picked at the skin around her nails; pink flooded her lily-white cheeks. Joe thought Rain was charming and pretty, though she didn’t intrigue him. Her daughter did.
Aware of the silence and the women staring at him expectantly, he coughed and said, ‘Sorry?’
‘Where are you working?’ Rain said for, he guessed, the second time.
‘Over the valley, across the border, on a school. They’re expanding. Bucking the trend, there’s been a rise in the birth rate and they need more places for September. Apparently.’
‘And you were coming up Devil’s Rise because …’ Rain’s question trickled away. ‘Sorry, that’s so nosy of me.’
‘I live here.’
‘Where?’ Rain asked.
Why the hell did I tell them? ‘On the outskirts of town,’ he said, hoping this would satisfy Rain.
‘In Upper Coed Mawr?’
He moved his head, vague.
‘But you’re not from round here?’ Rain smiled knowingly. ‘Despite the surname.’
Great. She moves from one line of interrogation to another.
‘Not originally.’ He didn’t want to say precisely where and hoped Rain would drop this particular line of questioning. He really shouldn’t have come in.
Saffron was clearly more interested in her fingernails because she was now bent over her hands. With her hair obscuring her face, Joe studied the top of her head. She wasn’t a brunette. Not naturally. There was a trace of fair roots. So she was her mother’s daughter after all.
‘Have you been here long? We’ve not seen you about; we’re quite new here ourselves, but we thought we’d met just about everyone. It’s a tightly knit place, after all.’
‘I’m not about much. Always working,’ he said.
‘You should come to church. It’s a good way to meet people. And there’s little else to do on a Sunday. Unless you fancy one of the boozers. The Nag’s Head’s supposed to be the best. Not that I’m an expert!’
‘Mum,’ Saffron said.
Rain turned back to the Aga sharply, and Joe watched her blonde curls swinging across her back; she really did have very pretty hair. She grabbed a spatula and vigorously stirred a pan of something delicious-smelling. ‘I’m not trying to convert JJ, Saff. Anyway, you’re in my bad books for the absence of a phone call earlier.’ Though she tried to make light of Saffron’s embarrassment, Joe detected an undercurrent: irritation, guilt, he couldn’t be sure which. Rain turned back and addressed Joe, ‘Not much to ask, is it?’
‘It was my fault. I kept your daughter talking.’
‘Come to a coffee morning if you prefer. Every Saturday. Ten till eleven thirty. The WI provide the cakes and they’re bloody gorgeous.’ She returned to stirring the contents of the saucepan and Joe took his cue to leave.
He’d protected her,
made excuses for her. Why would he do that? It was nice, but she was nothing to him. While Rain’s back was turned, Saffron peered at Joe through her heavy fringe, sneakily, hoping he wouldn’t notice. A slippery feeling in her lower belly startled her. It wasn’t hunger, even though she’d not eaten since breakfast. Saffron couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt hungry, not really hungry.
‘Right. Better go. Thanks for the tea and cake.’ He slapped his palms on the table, and stood. ‘If I take the car key now, I don’t need to trouble you at some ungodly hour – sorry – in the morning.’
Despite turning her head a little when Joe stood, Saffron didn’t have a clear view of her mother’s face, but Rain sounded disappointed. ‘It’d be no trouble. I’m up early most mornings. Don’t find it so easy to sleep. And please don’t apologise for swearing. I can eff and blind with the best of them!’
‘He didn’t swear,’ Saffron said, standing up so quickly stars flashed in her peripheral vision.
Her mother turned to face her, shrugged and raised her eyebrows.
‘It’d be easier if I didn’t have to drop by,’ Joe said. ‘I have to go to work for a few hours first and I don’t find it easy getting out of bed. I’ll sort her out on the way home.’
‘Of course you must take them.’ Rain took Saffron’s keys where they sat on the dresser on the far wall and battled with the bunch, struggling to remove the car key.
‘I’ll take good care of her, I promise,’ he continued, as he pushed the key into the front pocket of his jeans.
Rain showed Joe to the door; Saffron lagged a few metres behind. ‘Thanks again for rescuing my daughter. It’s so lovely to meet you. Our door is always open.’ She extended her hand and he took it, placing his left hand over their interlocked grip.
Saffron experienced a strange twinge at her core; a sensation so unfamiliar that she didn’t recognise it at first. Lust, or jealousy? Or both?
‘I’ll leave the car out front and push the key through the door. Save bothering you,’ he said.
Redemption Song Page 2
