Redemption Song

by Wilkinson, Laura

  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?’

  ‘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 b
efore 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?