Redemption Song

by Wilkinson, Laura

  ‘Now, this will provide the lift you need,’ said Mrs Evans, bustling over, holding aloft a black bra with cups large enough to fit over Saffron’s head. ‘You’ve quite a pair for such a skinny thing. You’ll need a slightly smaller size though.’

  Appalled, Saffron replaced the briefs she was holding and mumbled she was browsing rather than looking seriously and she really must dash.

  ‘It’s important to feel nice inside as well, you know. Doesn’t matter if no one can see. You know and that’s what counts,’ Mrs Evans trilled as Saffron went to collect her bag. Sod the underwear. It probably wasn’t going to be like that anyway. Joe might only have been being friendly. All day she’d re-run the events of the night before, questioning, doubting that it had happened the way she remembered it.

  The plain white envelope was jammed in the letterbox when she’d staggered downstairs around eleven that morning. Saffron wondered if Joe had waited until he’d seen Rain leave. If Rain had seen it, she would surely have asked questions. Saffron never received snail mail.

  Later, she tucked the envelope, containing the all-important map, in the back pocket of her jeans. She touched it for reassurance before she left the house, on the pretext she was meeting Ceri for a quick drink. Rain tried to disguise her disappointment that Saffron wouldn’t be spending the evening at home and Saffron felt guilty. She knew how lonely her mother was, despite her protestations to the contrary. She agreed to set an evening aside. ‘We could go out on Saturday night. Try the pizzeria on the seafront. It looks OK and you can’t go wrong with Italian. We could go for a drink afterwards. Wherever the fancy takes us!’ she said. It was an expression of Rain’s.

  ‘That’d be lovely, Saff. I’ll book a table. Can’t wait.’

  Joe’s map was detailed and easy enough to follow but she’d never have found his place without it; it was tucked away on the edge of the town, down a dirt track that looked like a private road. As advised, she brought a torch and was glad of it. Once on the track, it was pitch black without it. Creepy. The silence of the countryside, the emptiness, spookier than any dodgy area of London. Saffron hummed as she walked, flinching at every crackle and rustle. After a while, the path opened out to reveal a shadowy row of tumbledown cottages. They could easily have been mistaken as derelict; the soft glow of a single light the only clue one of them was inhabited.

  She rapped softly on the front door. The knock echoed about the enclave. Her heart roared, from nerves or excitement she couldn’t tell. She squeaked, ‘Hello,’ when he opened the door.

  Even in the gloom of his hallway she could see how different he looked in this, his home environment. Stripped of his work clothes, his hammer and saw, the pencil tucked behind his ear, sawdust sprinkled over his hair, he looked trendy, more urbane and edgy. Still beautiful; more so, perhaps. His feet were bare.

  Neither of them moved, they simply looked and smiled, as if neither of them could believe the other stood before them. Joe recovered first, stepped aside and said, ‘Come in.’ She followed him down the narrow hall, the smell of burning wood mingling with the lemony scent of his aftershave.

  A fire crackled in an open hearth, casting an orange glow over a room notable only for its austerity. There was nothing personal or comforting whatsoever, no pictures on the walls or magazines lying around. The only hint at personality a small collection of video games and DVDs, a low pile of books, large ones, definitely not novels. She imagined it was how a clean squat might look.

  ‘I’m not used to visitors,’ he said, gesturing towards a settee with a large dip in the middle, like a crater.

  ‘Should I feel honoured?’ She’d meant it as a joke, but it sounded spiky and critical.

  ‘Do you?’ He smiled and, grateful for his generosity, she smiled back. ‘Take a seat, m’lady. I’ll go check on the grub. Can I get you a drink?’

  She remembered the bottle she had in her bag and pulled it out. ‘White,’ she said, shrugging. ‘I didn’t know which you preferred but I remembered you drank the lighter fluid we bought that day and figured … I should have brought beer. I remembered you like it, but you don’t usually serve beer with supper,’ she floundered. She knew almost nothing about him.

  ‘I am partial to the rough stuff too.’

  ‘Oh, no … this is OK. I think. It was pricey so I hope so … Oh, crap, that sounds awful.’

  He was laughing. ‘I know what you mean.’ He took the wine. ‘Please sit down. Make yourself at home.’ He checked himself. ‘Comfortable. If you can. Sorry about the state of the sofa.’

  When he returned from the kitchen with two glasses – tumblers – she was sitting on a cushion on the floor, staring into the fire. She’d taken her boots off.

  ‘That better than the sofa, huh? Sorry about the glasses.’ He held aloft of bottle of red. ‘Do you like red? It goes better with the food. Hope you’re hungry.’

  ‘Red is OK. Smells lovely. What is it?’

  ‘Lamb stew, slow cooked.’ He squatted opposite her and placed his glass on the beaten up coffee table. The heat from the fire seared into his back. He moved round, closer to her, but not too close. He wanted to see her, to admire her.

  She looked beautiful, her pale face illuminated by the fire, the rest of her melting into the darkness of the room. There was an ethereal quality to her and he found it hard to imagine her suiting the orderly, clinical, well-lit environment of a hospital. He corked the wine and poured it to stop himself from staring.

  ‘Should let it breathe, but I forgot to open it earlier.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference anyhow. You know wine, then?’

  ‘Not really,’ he lied. Until recently, Joe had been up on the most fashionable wines, the best vintages, which vineyards produced the richest, fullest wines. By most people’s standards he was a bit of an expert. It wasn’t a passion of his, he did prefer beer, but once upon a time it had been important that he knew which wines to order in a restaurant, how to make an impression.

  She raised her glass. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’ He sipped at his drink. Not bad, not bad at all for a supermarket wine. He’d chosen carefully and well.

  ‘I love a real fire. We had one at home, in London, but only on special occasions. Too much like hard work, Dad said. I loved the sound of him chopping wood in the garden. He let me have a go, once, with his little axe. I swung it so hard it bounced off the block and landed in my foot. Ruined my wellies. I still have the scar.’ She peeled back her sock to show him and stroked the arch of her right foot as she spoke.

  ‘Must have been painful.’

  ‘Not really. It hurts more now. Every time I see it, I’m reminded of him and the stupid stuff we did together.’

  ‘That must be hard. We can change the subject.’

  ‘Actually, it’s nice to be able to mention him without feeling like I might upset someone. Mum. Rain.’ She took a gulp of wine.

  ‘Is she mad at you, ’cos … you know …’ He thought how hard it must be for Rain not to wonder … if Saffron hadn’t drunk too much that night, if Stephen hadn’t driven out into the countryside, if he’d taken it more slowly, not been so tired. It must have been hard for her not to blame her daughter, just a little bit.

  ‘God, I wish.’ Saffron’s response was emphatic. ‘I wish she had been, was. You wouldn’t believe how I’ve longed for her to shout and scream, to talk to me about it. To blame me. Anything. Allow me to talk about it. She closed me off then and she still does now. She rambles on about it being God’s will and how we will all be reunited in the end, even though she knows I don’t buy into all that, and when she does talk of him, it’s like he was some kind of saint. I thought for a while this would rock her beliefs. How could it not? But no, she takes comfort from it. It’s like a blanket, it keeps her warm, but she covers her head with it, blinds herself with her blanket of religion. She’s so good about everyone, so kind, so forgiving. I asked her to forgive me, once, and she said, “There’s nothing to forgive.” Wh
at horse shit! I should be punished.’

  ‘Why? Haven’t you been punished enough?’ He fiddled with his glass, running his finger round and round the rim till it made a faint wheeze. ‘What was he like, your father?’

  ‘Human.’ She looked at Joe, her eyes wild. ‘Like, not a saint.’ He smiled at her, encouraging. ‘A risk-taker. Easily bored. Funny. Impulsive.’

  ‘I like him already.’

  She tugged at her foot and crossed her legs, into a lotus position. Joe noted her flexibility, how pliable, like rubber, she seemed. ‘What about you? Family?’

  ‘Nope. My parents were killed in a plane crash –’

  ‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Here’s me wittering on. I had no idea,’ she said, an intensity in her tone he found unnerving. But he’d started now and he had to explain.

  He shrugged. ‘You didn’t know. I was eleven, but I hardly knew them anyway. Packed me off to boarding school as soon as they could, spent most of my holidays there. He worked abroad. I was never sure doing what. I said the diplomatic service when asked, or the secret service if I was trying to impress. He was as far off from James Bond as you can imagine.’

  ‘So how come a posh boarding school kid ends up as a carpenter? I didn’t think they’d allow that sort of thing? You rebelled, right?’

  He paused.

  The moment to put her straight came and went, and shame trickled through him. He liked her. He’d revealed something of his true self, but in the end he’d chickened out of telling her the whole truth and he couldn’t work out why. He wanted to, in a way. Perhaps it was the comment about Stephen, being a risk-taker. Perhaps it was talk of forgiveness.

  ‘What about you? Why medicine?’ He steered the conversation back to her.

  ‘Why not? I was good at science, not much good at anything else.’

  Now she wasn’t being honest. He stared at her, waiting for the truth.

  ‘I thought I could help people. I was fascinated, am fascinated, by our capacity to heal and repair, with and without help. The body is this incredible mystery. I liked puzzles as a kid.’

  ‘You will go back, finish your training?’

  ‘Yeah, I can’t stay here for ever. But only when Mum no longer needs me around.’

  The realisation she would go eventually saddened him. But that was crazy. He wouldn’t be here for ever either; he’d have to move on, wouldn’t he?

  She continued. ‘For ages I didn’t think I’d be able to do it again. After failing my dad so spectacularly.’

  He wanted to argue that she hadn’t failed her dad, but thought better of it. She’d not accept it, he was sure. ‘What about your mum? Will she stay here? It’s a small town, her choices will be limited. She’s still young enough.’

  ‘I don’t know. Her mission is to increase numbers, the church needs it. I feel bad about her, I do, but I can’t …’ Saffron’s feelings of guilt were almost palpable. Joe regretted even mentioning Rain.

  ‘Of course you can’t. Right, let’s eat. I’m starving. You can wash your hands in the kitchen if you like. Not much in the way of home comforts here, but it is clean.’

  She delved in her bag and brought out her hand wash gel. ‘Always got this.’

  ‘You must have been a girl guide.’

  ‘No way. Far too much like the military.’

  He stood and disappeared into the kitchen.

  The stew smelt good. He hoped she’d like it. He’d remembered the stew on the Aga at the manse kitchen all those weeks ago and presumed she must like it. He filled the bowls – one bought that afternoon in the supermarket, along with another fork and spoon – and placed them on the newly acquired tray.

  Saffron tried to finish the meal Joe had prepared for her but nerves prevented her. He asked if she didn’t like it, claiming not to be offended if this was the case, and she did her best to reassure him. Conversation stalled occasionally. He wasn’t like other men she’d known, who seemed happiest when talking about themselves. He seemed much more interested in asking her questions and while she was, on the whole, happy to oblige, as the evening drew to a close she felt she understood him little more than she did at the start. He revealed almost nothing about himself and she couldn’t for the life of her read him. She considered herself quite perceptive but her powers failed her that evening.

  Around eleven she began to make a move towards home. Tomorrow was a work day. She asked if she might use the bathroom before she went. Like the rooms in the cottage she’d seen – the living room, the kitchen, the hall – it was shabby but clean, and devoid of a personal touch other than a solitary toothbrush in a tumbler like the one they’d drunk wine out of. Above the sink was a cabinet with mirrored doors. She slid a door open slyly, wondering if she might find a packet of condoms. He’d not so much as laid a hand on her all night, though she’d caught him staring at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. The cabinet contained nothing more than a can of shaving foam, a packet of disposable razors, and a box of aspirin. Disappointed, she closed the door and ruffled her fingers through her hair. It was a bit flat on top and this accentuated her fair roots. She needed to re-dye it, or touch up her roots, but she’d resisted for reasons she couldn’t pinpoint.

  As she made her way across the narrow landing, she peeped into one of the bedrooms; there were only two. It looked like the one Joe used, though she couldn’t be sure. She leant in further, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. It contained a double bed – made with hospital-like precision, the blanket pulled tight and smooth across the mattress, the corners folded like an envelope, top sheet folded crisply over the blanket – a small wardrobe, a chair and a dresser. Incongruous against the order and frugal nature of the room was an untidy pile of clothes by the near wall: jeans, jumpers, T-shirts. What was that, almost hidden, beneath? It looked like a picture frame.

  Saffron knew it was wrong but she couldn’t help it. She tiptoed in, crouched by the clothes and eased the frame out. A woman and a man. Arm in arm, smiling at the camera. It was difficult to be sure in only the overspill light from the landing but the girl could have been Joe’s sister. The same wavy hair, straight white teeth. And her eyes – they were different colours too. The boy was blond and handsome, square-jawed, high cheekbones, he carried an air of certainty. Their embrace was casual, like one between friends rather than lovers. Why hadn’t Joe mentioned a sister? Where was she now?

  Aware she would raise suspicion if she didn’t move back downstairs, she replaced the frame and crept out.

  He insisted on walking her home and she was grateful despite initially saying she’d be fine. In the darkness he took hold of her hand and her heart rate increased. Would he kiss her goodbye? She hoped so. Her mind flitted between dreams of kissing him, feeling him against her, and the image of the beautiful girl in the photograph. Perhaps he’d not mentioned her because it was too painful to do so? And if so, what had happened to her? And who was the boy? A friend from school? He’d not spoken of any friends in Coed Mawr, apart from Tyson and Eifion who weren’t really friends but colleagues.

  Close to the bottom of the lane, she stopped, not wanting to be drawn back into the light. ‘Isn’t the night amazing? I never fully appreciated it until I came here. True darkness. You can lose yourself in it. It hides so much.’

  He didn’t reply immediately, the only sound the rustling of birds in the undergrowth. They stood very still. ‘It’s another world. Kind of magical, mysterious.’

  ‘Like under the sea.’

  ‘Not really. That’s what’s incredible. Everything changes with the setting and rise of the sun. It’s the same place, but entirely transformed. Alien.’ He paused. His tone altered, as if embarrassed by the romanticism of his earlier comments. ‘It is great for hiding in.’ He turned to her, a grey, shadowy figure. ‘I ran away from school. A lot. Always at night. I grew to understand this world, while my hunters didn’t.’

  ‘Were you never afraid? It’s kind of scary.’

  ‘At first. But I grew to love it, felt
like it belonged to me. Or I belonged to it. This world empty of people.’

  A creature swept overhead, disturbing the air. Saffron flinched.

  ‘A brown long-eared,’ Joe said, tipping his head.

  ‘Bats,’ she said, something falling into place. ‘That’s where your interest in bats comes from?’

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Though they’re more social at dawn. Few are out this late. It’s gleaning, feeding. There’ll be more soon, as they come out of hibernation.’

  She shuddered. Bats were creepy. Flappy rodents, smelly, if she remembered a trip to the bat house at a small zoo as a child correctly. ‘They’re a bit of a weird hobby.’

  ‘I can think of weirder. They’re misunderstood, like many creatures of the night, but especially so. They don’t deserve their bad reputation.’

  ‘Dracula has a lot to answer for,’ she laughed, though she wondered if he felt the same way as the bats, misunderstood, if it was why he was holed up here, hidden in amongst the dense woodland.

  A fox screamed in the distance. He pulled her towards him, the smallest tug on her hand, and she fell into him, into a kiss as deep and dark and all-consuming as the night. She pushed all thoughts of what he concealed from her busy head. All that mattered was him, right here, right now.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Is this too mutton?’

  Rain appeared in the doorway in a red dress which finished above her knees. Ready twenty minutes earlier, Saffron was sitting on the sofa half-watching a quiz show, fiddling with her phone, willing Joe to text her. The kiss in the lane had emboldened her and she’d pushed a piece of paper with her number on it into his hand, prepared before she’d left the manse, whispering, ‘Call me.’