It had rained while they were inside the hospital. They walked across the car park in silence, the only sound the slap of boots hitting puddles. The conversation raging inside Rain’s head was loud and furious. Saffron loped ahead, her body shapeless in her duffel coat, thin legs accentuated by her heavy boots.
She looks like Minnie Mouse. And to think I was envious of those legs. So long and lean. They look like a goat’s. Her kneecaps look swollen. I could snap her in two if I tried.
Rain wondered, momentarily, when was the last time she’d seen her daughter eat.
She ate like a pig the other night – when was it again? All girls eat like gerbils these days. So much pressure, all that Photoshopping and TV shows. Even actresses are thin as reeds. At least the pretty ones are.
Had it been like that when she was a girl? Rain couldn’t remember. “Heroin chic” had been all the rage, but she was a mother at twenty-two and had only just completed her theology degree. No time, or money, for messing around with women’s magazines and faddy diets, worrying if the latest fashions would fit. Stephen was still a student. It took years to qualify as an architect. It was a wonder they got by at all, let alone Stephen walking away with a first-class degree, as Rain had. Saffron had opened the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. Rain reached for the door handle and noted her fleshy hands.
Most people lose weight when they’re stressed. It seems to have the opposite effect on me.
She flung open the door.
And what was all that, agreeing with Mair Shawcroft? Another man. Indeed.
She flopped onto the seat, the leather sighing beneath her weight.
I can’t imagine even looking at another man!
‘Belt up,’ Saffron ordered.
‘Sorry?’ Even to her own ears Rain sounded sharp. Had she been thinking aloud again?
‘Fasten your seat belt?’ Saff said.
‘Why are you huffing?’
‘I’m not.’ Saffron rammed the key into the ignition and rattled it.
‘Be careful! You’ll break it!’
‘It’s always stiff, you know that.’ She jiggled it around again, as if to deliberately incense Rain.
‘Well, I’m just saying –’
Saffron yanked the key out of the ignition and turned to face Rain. ‘Mum, what’s wrong? And don’t say “nothing”.’
Permission granted – invited – Rain opened the sluice gate and out poured all those words and feelings that had been filling her head since Mair had casually told her she must grab any man that came her way.
‘How can you possibly believe another man could catch my eye such a short time after your father’s passing? I am grieving. Grieving.’ She sounded out the last word, emphasising the ‘ee’ sound, like a teacher giving a phonics lesson, the catch in her voice betraying her. She sucked in air, noisily. ‘I’m mourning the loss of the man I love with all my heart, love like I love Jesus, the best man, a man amongst boys, a man who worshipped me, who was good and kind and caring and provided for all of us without complaint, who put his own ambitions on hold so that I might pursue God’s calling. Who converted for me. Me! Did I ever tell you that, Saffron? Your father wasn’t a believer, not when we first met, but he loved me so much and I knew that he had it in him, that faith, that goodness, that hope, it was just that no one had tapped into it before. No one until me. And our Lord. Oh, he said he went into the church to follow me but he was following Jesus, it was Jesus who led him there, through me, because He sees what no one else can see, what’s really, really, inside people. What’s inside you, Saffron? You. That you can believe I would find another man attractive. Another man! Unbelievable! Can you so easily cast off Ben’s love? Is this what this is all about? I cannot cast off your father so easily.’
Exhausted, she slumped back in the seat, reached over to the belt and clicked it into the holder without another glance at Saffron, who at least had the good grace to remain silent.
Stunned, Saffron turned and stared at the misty windscreen, eyes burning. She saw nothing but droplets of rain trickling down the pane, gathering others on the way, growing larger, slowing, splintering off, tracing another path to the base of the glass.
Do not cry. Do not give her the satisfaction.
After a couple of seconds, she lifted the key and steered it carefully into place with trembling hands. The car started without fuss.
Saffron loved her father, more than she loved her mother, she’d often thought. He was generous in spirit in a way Rain clearly wanted to be but couldn’t quite manage.
I wish it had been her.
Stephen was no saint. She wouldn’t have recognised her father from Rain’s description had she not known to whom Rain was referring. His lack of saintliness was what she loved about him most. Saffron loved the way he challenged the church, balancing faith with scientific theory, the way he respected her lack of faith. He was greedy – for alcohol, food, life. He gorged on life in all its messiness. He clashed with Matthew no end.
And he loved women. Saffron often thought her father’s faith would have been so much stronger had Jesus been female. How Stephen loved women. All women. He teased and flirted outrageously with the old ladies of the Dulwich congregation. How they loved it, their waxy cheeks blooming with colour, returning them to the first flush of youth when their bodies were something to enjoy and be enjoyed rather than a source of discomfort, pain, and disappointment. He flirted with Saffron’s friends, plain and pretty alike. He made them feel good about themselves. Not in a creepy way. He was never inappropriate, always charming.
He was useless at most practical matters, despite his brilliance as an architect. DIY was left to Rain to do or organise, and he drove as little as possible despite having a licence, much to Rain’s annoyance. The ferrying to and from clubs and parties and events was left to her. He was self-absorbed and distracted much of the time. Late for dinner, forever forgetting parents’ evenings, graduation ceremonies. Never helping with the washing-up. Saffron remembered the petty arguments.
No, Stephen was no saint, but Saffron knew she was loved and this was what mattered. Her heart stalled at the thought of him, at his absence.
Why did you die? Why? Why? It should have been me. I wish it had been me.
The grey of the road zoomed into view. Saffron saw the kerb. Too late.
Rain screamed.
The car jolted as it made contact with the pavement, ricocheted off the kerb, and veered into the middle of the road. Saffron pulled on the handbrake. The car came to an abrupt halt.
They sat there, for a second, stunned and breathless. Then they burst into tears, there, in the middle of the road, as oncoming traffic slowed, honked, and tooted at them.
Chapter Eleven
Joe was on the chapel roof when he heard the distinctive chug of the Standard. The damage to the roof was greater than he had thought. Most of it looked like the original, the one built around the mid-nineteenth century. Slates must have been replaced after storms and the small areas of the underlying structure that had received some maintenance were obvious, but the rest looked like the original. Joe was impressed by the craftsmanship. Nothing was built to last like this any more. Despite its simple, functional appearance, without fuss or frills, little in the way of decoration, the chapel had been built with care and love; he wondered how long it had taken. Monuments like St Paul’s had taken hundreds of years; the chapel in his school, decades, with its intricate stonework, carvings, and icons. The gargoyles lurking under the eaves, watching the boys trooping in each Sunday morning and waiting to pounce, had terrified him when he’d first arrived. They gave him nightmares. It wasn’t long before he realised the creatures to be frightened of were not those made of stone.
Think you’re something, don’t you? Idiot.
A kick in the shins, in the scrum during rugby. A jab with a sharp pencil at the back of the neck, a shove in the corridor, bathroom, dormitory. Small things in themselves. Together, less so.
He heard
a door slam and glanced down, momentarily forgetting that he’d never quite got used to working at heights. He hadn’t been lying entirely when he’d told Derek he wasn’t keen on it. Dizzy and faintly nauseous, he gripped a scaffolding pole before composing himself. He needed to speak with Rain about the extent of the damage. It would be easier to replace the entire roof than to attempt patching up what remained.
Joe’s stomach hadn’t entirely recovered when he reached the ground. He took off his hat and wiped his brow, which was slick with perspiration. He noticed the Standard was parked on the road outside the chapel. Strange, usually Rain left it in the car park or outside the manse. He glanced at it again as he closed the chapel gate, turning left towards the manse.
Someone was sitting in the driver’s seat, though the engine was silent. He bent forward, intrigued.
It was Saffron, hands on the wheel, arms locked, staring straight ahead, tears streaking her cheeks. Conscious of her trance-like state and not wanting to frighten her, he straightened up, ready to creep away, but she turned her head and looked directly at him – though he wasn’t convinced, at first, that she actually saw him. He half-smiled, apologetic, as if he’d been caught, fingers in the biscuit jar, and mouthed, ‘Hello.’
Without replying, she continued to stare at him and her tears gained momentum. Her shoulders began to shake and, unable to hold her breath any longer, she gasped, sudden and sharp, clutching at the air, her hands reaching to her face, covering her distress. He opened the door and reached for her shoulder. It trembled beneath his touch.
‘I could use a drink. How about you?’ he said. He was crouched down, legs apart for balance, and his muscles were beginning to ache. He’d rested there, in the car doorway, one hand on the door handle while she’d cried. He’d asked no questions – until now – and she’d offered no explanation.
She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands, smudging her make-up, and lifted her head to address him. ‘I need several. Jump in.’
‘Is that a good idea?’
And she laughed, loud, chin tipped backwards, her mouth so wide he could see all of her teeth. They were perfect, no fillings, no crooked edges, just perfect. Laughing suited her and a surge of pleasure coursed through him. He pushed himself upright, his toes tingling with the beginnings of pins and needles. She clambered out, shrugged her hood up and locked the car. Without speaking they walked away from the chapel, down towards the lower town.
Outside Y Castell Joe paused. They’d been silent the entire way. Joe had lifted an arm occasionally to indicate direction and Saffron had nodded her approval, but they hadn’t uttered one word. He noted that it felt comfortable; she wasn’t someone who felt the need to fill space with mundane chatter, unlike Allegra. Joe had never been one for small talk.
‘It’ll be dead in there,’ she said. ‘Could we sit on the beach instead?’
‘Sure. It’s a bit early for a drink anyway.’
‘Bollocks. We’ll go to the offy. Bargain Booze is nearest the sea. It’s always rammed with teenagers buying cheap cider and extra strong lager but the selection is sick.’ She pulled a face as she said ‘sick’ and Joe realised she was not only aping the teens she spoke of but making a sly reference to the last time they’d stood outside of Y Castell.
So she has a sense of humour after all. She’s mocking herself.
The tide was in so they sat on a promenade bench on the far right-hand side of the bay. As far away from the manse as possible, Joe noted. Saffron led the way, almost skipping along the prom, gaining speed as she went. It was the child in her surfacing again and it made him smile even though he was glad of the seat when she finally stopped. She unscrewed the cap of the wine, raised the bottle, and said, ‘Cheers,’ before drinking from it.
She passed it to Joe. He shuddered as he swallowed. The wine was tepid. He’d checked the fridge at Bargain Booze but the spotty teen in charge had forgotten to restock it. ‘Bleugh. Tasted better lighter fluid,’ he gasped as he offered her the bottle.
‘What did you expect for £3.99?’ But she smiled as she spoke. She’d insisted on paying her way and didn’t have much cash; she’d scrabbled half the amount together from loose change at the bottom of her bag, which seemed to contain almost everything a woman could need aside from a purse. ‘No point,’ she’d said, shrugging, ‘can’t use my card anyhow. No money until my first wage packet from Wynne’s.’ Joe didn’t own any plastic, not any more, not since he’d moved here.
‘This,’ he held the wine aloft, ‘is almost undrinkable.’
‘Are you used to the finer things in life? A delicate Sancerre, or a passable Pinot Grigio?’ she said.
He pulled the corners of his mouth downwards. Had he given that much away already? ‘Actually, I prefer beer.’
‘Figures.’
So maybe she hasn’t got me sussed after all.
‘Suppose you’re used to roughing it, being a student and all.’ He took another swig; it didn’t taste quite so bad this time and the alcohol running through his veins was taking the edge off the chill in the air. He’d offered his hat to Saffron and though she’d refused, he’d not put it back on, aware it didn’t suit him as much as others he owned. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin, wishing he’d shaved.
Saffron took the bottle from him and drank, long and deep. Clouds drifted across the horizon revealing a scarlet sun, low in the sky, its reflection warming the pewter sea. Wet with wine, her lips gleamed as she pulled the bottle away from her mouth.
‘Oh, I could use a cigarette right now,’ she sighed, gazing over the water.
‘No chance.’
She turned and raised her eyebrows.
‘So it’s true what they say about medics. Heard the rumours at college but was never sure if that’s all they were: rumours. There was a medical school next to the university but I never mixed with the doctors,’ he said, aware he’d revealed a whole host of detail without thinking. He couldn’t explain why, but he trusted her.
‘What’s true?’
‘Work hard, play hard. Doctors drink more than average, smoke more. Live dangerously. Suppose it’s being surrounded by death.’ He lifted the bottle to the light to see how much was left. Just under half. Christ, they’d necked it quickly. She’d be sick again if he wasn’t careful.
‘You’re not going to believe me – after last night and now this – but I’m not much of a drinker.’ She tried to suppress a smirk.
‘You’re not much of a doctor.’ He could hardly believe he’d said that. What an idiot. Did he really want her to hate him?
She laughed again. Her face softened and glowed, and those blue eyes sparkled, and he wanted to make her laugh again and again. But he didn’t know any jokes and wasn’t often witty. That was a one-off, a fluke.
‘Actually,’ she said, wagging her finger at him, ‘I went into a hospital today. First time in … aw, Gawd knows ’ow long,’ she said in a fake cockney accent, voice slurring a little.
‘You’ll make a medicine woman yet.’ He shifted closer. A waft of patchouli blended with the iron tang of the sea.
‘You make me sound like a witch.’ She slugged from the bottle and he’d meant to suggest she took it easy but she was too fast and he didn’t want to sound boring.
He pointed at her hair. ‘Why do you dye it?’
‘I don’t.’ She shook her head, pouted, playful and flirtatious. ‘I dye the roots to confuse people.’
‘Must be a pain.’
‘I like pain.’
The urge to kiss her was powerful. She was smart and sexy, and no matter how much he told himself she was messed-up and dangerous and nothing but trouble, he was drawn to her. Impossibly so. At first, he’d thought it was as simple as straightforward lust. It had been a while. She was good-looking and young and around. He’d not been near a woman, let alone touched one, since … forever. And he’d not wanted to, till now. It had been easy to axe all thoughts of women and sex – OK, easy-ish – but no more. There was something about S
affron he found hard to resist, and it irked him.
She slid along the bench and leant forward. Their faces only centimetres apart. She was definitely drunk. ‘I bet you like your women all natural. Blonde and tanned, small and curvy. Feminine. All woman.’ His chest tightened at the mention of small women. But desire overrode the discomfort. He ached for a kiss, to be able to turn back the clock to the night before, when they’d leant against the railings a little further along the promenade, staring out to sea. When she’d pressed her lips against his. When he’d frozen, unable to respond.
He could smell the wine on her breath, sweet and warm. What an idiot he’d been. And now she was toying with him, taunting him. He knew it; she knew it. And it was almost fun. Almost. A blurred line between pleasure and pain.
‘How did you guess?’ he said, looking directly into her eyes.
‘I’m psychic. I’m a witch, remember.’
They were so close, only the bottle between their thighs kept them apart. The air was thick with desire and temptation and dropped barriers.
It would be so easy. Lean forward, cup her chin and place your lips on hers.
He was stuck. Unable to move to her or away from her. ‘Wicked witch? Or good?’
‘Bad. Most definitely bad.’
He moved towards her face.
With only a hair’s breadth between them, she leapt to her feet, snatched the wine, and declared, ‘To the beach!’ She raced to the gap in the railings, to the crumbling concrete steps to the beach, stumbling and weaving. He staggered after her. It was a bad idea to let her go near the water, she was drunk, tipsy at best. The tide had retreated but the water was perilously close. A gust of wind seared his ears.
At the bottom of the shingle-covered steps he caught her arm. She leaned away from him and they were trapped in a rope-free tug-of-war. ‘It’s not safe,’ he cried, the wind whisking his words out to sea.
‘Live dangerously, you said,’ she laughed, her hair swept across her cheeks, blown up off her forehead, tendrils silhouetted against the horizon. Her forehead was smooth and broad. Aristocratic. Like a princess.
Redemption Song Page 9
