Redemption Song

by Wilkinson, Laura

  ‘When I speak with Him I talk, out loud.’

  ‘And you were talking to him just now?’

  She laughed. ‘Heavens, no. I just forget myself sometimes.’

  ‘It’s all right. Here we are.’

  He sounded relieved to be back at the chapel. She was about to invite him in again, then realised he’d left the engine running.

  Perhaps he doesn’t fancy Saff, after all. Perhaps he does want to try and get to work. Why was I so suspicious?

  Rain thanked him for the lift and clambered out, determined to back off. The roof would be repaired without his help; Saff would make some friends eventually. She needed more time, that’s all.

  Chapter Five

  There was little sign of life at the school when Joe got there, though the snow wasn’t as deep as back in Coed Mawr. There were neither workmen at the new build nor children in the Edwardian building which adjoined it. A quick once-over, peering through windows, revealed a handful of children with three adults in the hall making what looked like snowflakes.

  A child spotted Joe, smiled, and waved at him. Alerted to his presence, the rest of the children waved and a teacher pushed himself from a crouched position on the mat and came to the window.

  ‘Foreman’s in the hut,’ he said loudly, emphasising each syllable and pointing over Joe’s right shoulder, as if Joe were five too.

  ‘Cheers.’ Joe waved goodbye to the staring children who yelled ‘Bye!’ in unison, and he turned towards the prefab cabin which sat on the far side of the playground. As he trudged over he wondered why the teachers hadn’t taken the kids outside for a snowball fight or to build a snowman. It would be so much more fun than cutting out snowflakes; they’d probably done plenty of that at Christmas.

  Derek was cradling a mug, a tabloid newspaper open on the small table before him, when Joe pulled open the door of the makeshift site office. A halogen heater glowed in the corner.

  ‘Am I the only one in?’ Joe said, as he closed the door. Derek wasn’t the sort of bloke who bothered with niceties like hello and how are you. A straightforward Liverpudlian, he didn’t waste time spouting things he didn’t really mean and expected others to behave likewise.

  ‘So far.’

  There was a pause. Joe moved to the kettle and grabbed one of the less grimy mugs. ‘No one else’ll bother. Hardly worth the effort now,’ Derek continued.

  Joe checked his watch. It was almost noon. ‘I’ll be off then,’ he said, replacing the mug on the tray.

  ‘Might as well.’

  ‘Thaw’s due.’

  ‘So they say. Stay and have a brew, why don’t you?’

  Joe hesitated. Derek turned over a page and began to read. Derek was comfortable with silence and Joe was thirsty. He’d not had a drink since breakfast. He grabbed the mug again.

  He’d almost finished his tea and was gazing out of the window at the lawn of snow when Derek closed the newspaper. ‘Don’t know how you can drink it like that, with the bag left in. Would set my teeth on edge,’ he said. It was the most personal thing Derek had shared in months. Joe shrugged and drained the mug.

  ‘I’ll be off then. See you tomorrow,’ Joe said.

  He moved towards the door and had taken hold of the handle when Derek said, ‘You drive a Land Rover, yeah?’

  Joe nodded, wondering where this was leading.

  ‘I need you on another job. Not too far from here, maybe an hour’s drive. I quoted a while back so you’ll need to price it up again. A church roof. Start as soon as they’ve accepted.’

  ‘How come you’re so sure they will?’

  ‘You’re cheap, and churches don’t have much dosh do they now, soft lad.’

  Joe knew exactly what was coming next. ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘Taff country. A seaside town. Woman vicar, sounded all right.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘’Cos you’re here. Any problems with that?’

  What could Joe say? He had no contract, no rights. He didn’t even get a wage slip in his weekly envelope. Being paid cash in hand like this was one of the major appeals of the job. Untraceable.

  ‘It’s not easy to admit this but I’m not that great with heights.’ It was a feeble excuse, and they both knew it.

  Derek grunted. ‘You’re here, so I’m giving you the job. Start as soon as you can.’

  Joe hesitated. He was fed up of all the driving and he needed to work. Coed Mawr wasn’t the only town with boarded up shops, abandoned caravan parks and teenagers congregated in bus shelters, cans of cheap lager at their feet.

  ‘Look, kidda, I like you. It’s why I’m giving you a chance. I can’t keep you here. You’re a liability.’

  Joe had no idea what Derek was talking about. A liability? He worked hard; he was punctual, he was precise. No one could find fault with his workmanship.

  Derek continued. ‘There was a bloke here, the other day, after you’d gone. Asked after you – at least I think it was you, said he was looking for a mate, another southerner.’

  ‘What did he drive? A BMW?’ Joe replied, as casually as he could muster. The letting agent had known nothing of anyone visiting a cottage in the terrace when Joe had enquired. ‘Did you say anything?’ The words caught in Joe’s throat.

  ‘Did I hell as like. Thought he was from the tax, VAT or something. You’re not the only one I pay off the books. Don’t like people creeping round my business. You’re not claiming benefits are you, soft lad?’

  Joe shook his head, his eyes fixed on Derek’s. He needed to be believed. And he needed to find out more about this BMW. He’d have to put in a call to Simon. ‘I appreciate you keeping quiet.’

  ‘None of my business. Now, here’s the address. I’ll send a couple of lads over to help as soon as you’re sorted. No scallies. And a scaffolder. Collect your wages from the landlord of the Loggerheads on the bypass at the end of each week.’ He handed over a scrap of paper. Joe glanced at it. The handwriting was virtually illegible but it didn’t matter. He knew the address already.

  The shop front of Wynne’s was in-keeping with the air of faded grandeur throughout the arcade. The rows of canopied retail outlets, with their Corinthian columns, curved glass windows, and heavy chandeliers, must have been impressive in Lower Coed Mawr’s heyday, but now they appeared tawdry, in need of a lick of paint and a good scrub.

  Saffron pressed her face against the glass and peered beyond the mannequins for signs of life within. There were none. One of the orange-skinned dummies had lost a hand; it lay at its feet, minus a finger. She checked her phone. Eight thirty-one. The woman from the employment agency had said eight thirty, sharp. ‘Mrs Evans is a stickler for punctuality.’ Though clearly not window-dressing, Saffron thought, breathing onto her hands. It was still cold, even though the thaw had arrived just as the forecasters had predicted.

  What a freaky place it was. Only two days ago they had been knee-deep in snow. All that remained were mounds of filthy ice at irregular intervals on the pavements. Frozen sculptures for dogs to piss against.

  Saffron was grateful for the job. It was local, within walking distance of the manse. OK, so it was only part-time, but there’d be opportunities to extend the hours, according to the agency. She shuddered thinking of her debts.

  ‘There’s people queuing up for opportunities like this. Don’t come round every day,’ the agency woman had said when Saffron had pulled a face at the prospect of shop work. ‘It can’t be worse than the soap factory.’ This was true. Nine miles from Coed Mawr, the factory was a long bus ride. And it reeked in there. The work was mindless and repetitive, leaving too much time for thought. At first, Saffron had relished the solitary nature of her role – checking the conveyor belt for irregular shaped bars – and noise levels meant that even when a passing colleague did try to make conversation, Saffron could feign deafness. But hours and hours with nothing to occupy her other than her memories paled, and she had become sloppy; chipped, lumpy blocks were slipping past. A foreman of some descri
ption had reprimanded her. ‘It’s just not good enough. We have high standards. A reputation to maintain,’ he’d barked and she knew that if she didn’t get another job soon she’d be fired.

  Wynne’s flooded with light and Saffron blinked, the glare hurting her eyes after the murky gloaming of the arcade. It was the first shop to show any sign of occupancy. She rapped on the glass door and watched a rotund, middle-aged woman trot across the shop floor, her strides clipped by an ill-fitting, brown pencil skirt. Saffron diagnosed joint problems – knees and hips – in a decade or two. The legacy of carrying all that excess weight. She hoped the skirt, mustard-coloured shirt, and brown neck scarf wasn’t a uniform.

  ‘Good morning. You must be Saffron!’ the wasp trilled. She sounded shockingly cheerful for such an unprepossessing morning.

  ‘Hi. Mrs Evans?’ Warm, dry air slapped Saffron’s cheeks as she passed through the entrance.

  ‘That’s me. Come this way. I’ll show you the staff room, your locker, and where you can get tea and coffee and the odd custard cream, if you’re very, very lucky. It’s a pound a week and most of us pay monthly. You can sign up once your trial period is over.’

  Saffron loped across the shop floor, brushing past tightly packed rails of cheap blouses, skirts, and jeans, and a wall of footwear. Her nose fizzed with the smell of plastic. On the far wall, between rows of frilly knickers and bras in varying pastel shades, was a door. Mrs Evans produced a large key from her pocket and held it aloft with relish.

  In the soulless room reserved for staff, Saffron threw off her coat and crammed it into the locker Mrs Evans held open for her. The older woman stood back and studied her. Given that her hair was held back in a low ponytail, she had removed her nose stud, though not the rings in her ears, and wore no make-up, Saffron wondered what Mrs Evans found so distasteful about her appearance, for it was obvious that she did.

  ‘Now, dear,’ she began, ‘is that the longest skirt you have, because company policy states that hems much reach below the knee? Not just above the knee, not on the knee, below the knee. I’m not sure about the earrings …’ She paused before continuing, ‘Tights must be flesh-coloured, and it wouldn’t hurt to wear a little make-up, spot of lipstick. Looks like you’ve made an effort.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Saffron said. There was no way she would wear flesh-coloured tights. ‘Trousers?’ she asked, hopefully. Please, God.

  Mrs Evans paused. ‘Well, they’re not banned, but no one else does …’

  What is this, the dark ages?

  Her expression must have betrayed her for Mrs Evans added, ‘But if it makes you feel more comfortable …’ She smiled, ‘We have some smashing pairs on offer at the moment. Grab a bargain, why don’t you!’

  The morning passed without a single customer. Saffron learnt how to operate the till; Mrs Evans ran through the instructions three, maybe four, times. She swept the floor, polished the mirror in the solitary changing room and rearranged the footwear ‘department’, as her boss liked to call the wall. ‘Boots to the bottom with sale tickets out, spring slippers and wellies in the middle,’ Mrs Evans instructed. ‘To draw the eye. It might not seem as important as the work you’re used to,’ the older woman rolled her eyes, ‘it isn’t as important as your profession, of course, but it matters to us.’

  It was an odd establishment. Mostly clothes, women’s, men’s, and children’s wear, it also sported toys, random cosmetics, batteries and other household items, and, somewhat optimistically, Saffron thought, a selection of sun creams, buckets and spades, fishing nets and crabbing wire. Did people really come here to holiday in the summer months? The horseshoe bay was lovely, nestled between the two rocks jutting out to sea and cradled from behind by the mountains. Clearly, the town had once been beautiful and thriving. But now? Her mum had likened it to herself: a rose long since bloomed, petals curled and browning.

  When Saffron returned from lunch Mrs Evans was at the till talking to an overweight young woman. Without seeing her face, or knowing anything else about her, Saffron warmed to her, didn’t write her off immediately as she had done most people here. The girl’s hair was a badly dyed red; she wore thick black tights, red Converse trainers, and a green parka with a fishtail. She was the coolest person Saffron had seen in months, apart from Joe. Someone who looked like they were from the same planet as Saffron. She approached the counter.

  ‘Mrs Evans tells me you’ve nabbed my job, you bitch,’ the girl said, spinning to face Saffron.

  ‘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.