Redemption Song

by Wilkinson, Laura

  Because every fire needs to be stoked, you stupid, stupid bastard. You’re not even sure what you feel for her.

  He dropped his head onto his knees. To his surprise, he didn’t feel angry, he felt strangely relieved.

  ‘I’ll go.’ Saffron stood and tossed her blanket onto the bench next to him. ‘I’m so, so sorry. It was a terrible thing to do, unforgiveable.’ She started to move towards the back door.

  You can’t let her go. Say something. Anything.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he stammered.

  Tell her. Explain.

  ‘What did you say?’ He could hear the tremor in her voice, a rustle in the weeds beyond the lawn, the crackle of the wood in the fire.

  ‘I said, don’t go. Stay. Please.’ He lifted his head a fraction and stared at the fire. A log was no longer recognisable as wood. Grey, dusty, and glowing orange at its end, it had transformed.

  Nothing can withstand fire, not for long.

  ‘She’s a girlfriend? A wife?’ Saffron said, almost a whisper, as if she was afraid to even say it.

  He nodded.

  ‘Where is she now?’ Saffron remained standing.

  ‘Far away.’ But not far enough, not really. Was anywhere far enough?

  ‘Do you still love her?’

  He heard the pain in Saffron’s voice and it was a rope round his neck, twisting, tighter and tighter. He looked at her.

  ‘I hate her.’

  Light from the fire caught the tears rolling down Saffron’s cheeks, though her words were controlled; the shaking in her voice had stopped. His heart froze.

  ‘To hate is to love. You can’t have one without the other, Joe. They’re two sides of the same coin.’

  Turning away from the force of her gaze, he stared at the fire. Allegra: golden and dazzling, she drew you in with her promise of warmth and magic. He’d known there must be danger. Nothing that powerful came without it. But he’d assumed he could control it. How wrong he’d been. He remembered Allegra’s golden limbs, her spellbinding smile, her veneer of mystery and sophistication, the promise of unforgettable nights. Everyone wanted her. And her eyes. So unusual. So like his. It had felt like a sign, a sign they were meant to be. And it was because of all this he ignored the warnings, the tiny scalds, blisters from getting too close, trusting too much.

  ‘I don’t love her. I didn’t love her. It was infatuation,’ he said.

  ‘Can you be sure?’

  ‘I didn’t know her. Not really. And you can only love someone you know.’

  ‘Mum says love travels both ways. That’s how you tell the difference.’

  In his peripheral vision, Joe watched her pulling the skin on her knuckles. She was such a fidget, whenever she was nervous, and he longed to leap up, take her hands and kiss those joints and her tears and tell her not worry, that all would be well, that he loved her, that he had some things to sort out and afterwards he’d tell her everything she needed to know. The truth about him. And then the decision would be hers. He couldn’t be sure she would want him any more. He wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.

  ‘Rain’s smart. She’s right. Love travels both ways. And it sure as hell didn’t with Allegra.’

  ‘Allegra? It’s a beautiful name. She’s beautiful, judging by the picture,’ Saffron said, sitting down again. She managed a half-smile, though an air of defeat surrounded her.

  ‘Appearances can be deceptive.’ He laughed at the cliché, lighter now Saffron sat beside him, wasn’t going to run out on him. She wanted to believe him. He felt it.

  ‘What happened? And why do you claim to hate her?’

  He ached to be honest, he really did, but he was frightened. Frightened that if he told her his truth, he’d lose her.

  ‘The usual. She left me for another. My pride was hurt more than anything.’

  ‘So why the hatred?’

  ‘It’s a character flaw. I have an unnatural desire for revenge. Always have done. Very Old Testament.’ He smiled. This much, everyone would agree was true.

  ‘Remind me never to wrong you.’ She smiled and he felt so relieved he wanted to punch the air. ‘Mum says you shouldn’t take revenge, you must leave room for God’s wrath. It is his to repay, he will avenge.’ She looked away, sadness washing over her. ‘Perhaps that’s why he took Dad and Ben. Though it doesn’t add up for Mum. She’d done no wrong; she didn’t deserve that.’

  He took her hand. ‘Too right. Makes no sense. And I can’t believe God is such a bastard either.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Some of those stories, Samson and Delilah …’ She was smiling again.

  ‘Thought you took no notice of all that religious stuff?’

  ‘When you grow up with something, it seeps in. You can’t stop it. Like a slow bleed, it has an effect eventually.’

  Past its zenith, the fire’s heat was fading. Saffron shivered and Joe threw the blanket over her shoulders. He looked into her eyes. ‘I don’t love Allegra.’

  Saffron pulled her mouth downwards, a sort of smile.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said, getting up from the bench.

  He went upstairs to the bedroom, removed the back of the frame, pulled out the photograph and returned to the garden. Outside, he showed Saffron the picture and tossed it into the embers. They watched, silent, as the paper curled inwards, blackening at the edges, dissolving into weak flames and then, finally, nothing but ash.

  ‘She’s dead to me,’ he said. ‘Ashes to ashes.’

  Maybe it’s time to let go of vengeance too.

  ‘You didn’t have to burn it. I believe you anyway,’ Saffron said, but something in her expression told him that while she wanted to believe him, she didn’t. Not quite. She was far too smart for that.

  ‘I like you, Saffron. I really do. Come here,’ and he pulled her towards him and kissed her long and hard, as if, were he to let go, he might never see her again.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Pushed up against the railings, Eifion studied his shop. He moved round the hut opposite and surveyed his own from the other side. Saffron could read nothing from his expression.

  ‘You’d think he was inspecting Buckingham Palace,’ Ceri whispered, leaning against the hut, one foot resting on a large tin of paint. Saffron held a bundle of brushes.

  ‘This place used to be his pride and joy. Mam joked that he loved his rock more than he loved her. He said no way because he could lick her for ever and not feel sick. I wanted to vom when I heard that, I can tell you. Not what you want to hear when you’re a kid. Your parents getting fresh with each other. Disgusting.’ After a theatrical shudder, she hollered at her father, though he was no more than a few metres away. ‘Will you get a move on! Saff’s got to be in work for two o’clock and I’ve to collect the brats from playschool at three.’

  No matter what she called them, Ceri adored the children in her care; she didn’t fool Saffron, or anyone else for that matter. Ceri had found her calling. Some mornings Saffron met them in the park or on the beach and watched in wonder as Ceri struck a perfect balance between firm and fun.

  ‘What went wrong?’ Saffron asked.

  ‘Visitors stopped coming, or not so many came anyway. And they stopped buying rock. I think he liked the chit-chat with the holidaymakers as much as anything. Took him to other places he said.’

  ‘I meant between your mum and dad.’

  ‘They started to make each other sick, I suppose.’ She kicked the can and hoisted up her jeans which had fallen well below her hip line, exposing the top of her bottom. ‘I’ve had enough of this, I’m making a start.’

  Obviously sensing his daughter’s impatience, Eifion crossed and instructed them to tape the dust sheets around the base of the hut so that the pier boards wouldn’t get covered in paint. Once that was done, they were to sand down any areas of the woodwork where the existing paintwork had flaked. ‘Preparation is everything, ladies. Get that right and the paint will glide on.’

  ‘Sure thing, boss,’ Saffron said, rolling up th
e sleeves of her old sweatshirt. The sun shone and she felt warm. She might even have to take off her outer layer.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t persuade you to wear some overalls, girls? You might start a trend?’

  They shook their heads and set to work. Ceri gossiped, often speaking of people Saffron had never met. But she didn’t mind. Ceri was entertaining and through her stories the history of the town and its people emerged. Everyone was connected in one way or another. Mair Shawcroft had dated Eifion’s granddad, who was a bit of a lad back in the day, but when his childhood sweetheart fell pregnant he was forced to dump Mair and do the decent thing.

  ‘Oh, poor Mair.’ Saffron remembered the advice Mair had offered at the hospital: to grab love with both hands if it came your way. She wondered if Mair had regrets, if Mair had ‘held back’ as she’d said, because of her religion or the mores of the time. She’d continued to visit the old woman, once at the hospital and a couple of times as she recuperated at home, and while Mair had shared many stories from her life, she hadn’t told Saffron about a man she’d loved marrying another.

  While Saffron and Ceri talked, Eifion set up a worktable and began sawing wood, ready to repair the counter and shelving inside, the rotten window frame. He chipped in occasionally, often to correct his daughter when she got her facts wrong or over dramatized for effect. After hours of scraping and sanding, they were ready to begin the undercoat on the hut exterior.

  ‘Cup of coffee first, I’d say. And some jam butties for my very lovely helpers. Not every day an old man’s labourers are beautiful young women. I could get used to this!’ Eifion said, rummaging in his bag before pulling out a flask, plastic beakers, and a large Tupperware box.

  ‘Looks like I pitched up at the right time.’

  Saffron turned.

  Joe.

  She ran a hand across her forehead, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and wished she’d worn more make-up. She looked best in a dusky half-light. There, in the sunlight, she felt as shabby as the pier itself. She thought of Allegra, golden in the Mediterranean sun of the photograph, and how she must compare. He’d said he no longer loved Allegra, but she’d known it wasn’t the whole truth. She hoped that one day it might be.

  Feigning a need for shade, she rested a hand across her forehead. ‘Hi. Didn’t expect you. Haven’t you work to do?’

  ‘Chapel’s almost finished. Few bits of snagging here and there and it’ll be good as new. Didn’t Rain say?’

  Rain hadn’t but Saffron had known they must have been close to completion. She was ignorant about building work but even she could see that the roof was repaired. She didn’t want to admit it, for it would mean Joe might move on. He went where the work took him, she supposed, and it was clear his home was temporary. It had been on her mind to ask him last time they got together, tentatively, she didn’t want to scare him off, but with the revelation about Allegra it had dropped off her agenda.

  ‘Coffee, then? A buttie?’ Eifion offered the box, the sandwiches squashed and curled, jam leaching into the white bread like blood on swabs.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do. I’ll work harder for you if the engine’s stoked,’ Joe said.

  ‘You’re working for him?’ Ceri pointed from Joe to her dad.

  Joe nodded. ‘Sure am.’

  ‘How comes you can afford to pay him and not me then, Dad?’ She had her hands on her hips, mock-affronted.

  Joe interrupted. ‘It’s a favour. From one mate to another. I’ll get another job soon and you never know, someone here might be in need of repairs too.’

  Saffron stared at the boards, a stupid grin fixed on her face. He was staying; he wasn’t going, not yet. She determined to help find him more work in Coed Mawr. She’d ask customers in the shop; the sellers on the pier, the congregation, Mair and her cronies. Mair knew just about everyone in town, and their business. As did Ceri. She blocked all thoughts of what would happen when it was her turn to move on.

  ‘Gonna look smashing, it is, when it’s done. Shame I couldn’t get it all tarted up for the Easter weekend, but there’s the summer to come,’ Eifion said, smiling and admiring his hut once more. He looked towards the end of the pier. ‘And if they get the ballroom sorted … well, who knows, it could be a major attraction. Just what the town needs.’

  ‘Steady on, Dad!’ Ceri rolled her eyes. ‘Ever so fanciful he is sometimes.’

  They settled on benches a little along the pier, Eifion and Joe on one, Saffron and Ceri on one opposite. The coffee tasted of plastic and metal and left a sour coating round Saffron’s mouth but she didn’t care. Eifion offered the sandwiches. Saffron shook her head.

  ‘No wonder she’s such a skinny bitch,’ Ceri shouted across the width of the pier as she stuffed a sandwich, whole, into her mouth. Ceri never did anything at half-volume: speaking, eating, laughing. ‘Hope you don’t swear like that round those kiddies, Ceri,’ Eifion said.

  ‘Course I bloody don’t!’

  ‘She eats for me,’ Joe said. He stared at Saffron and she felt herself blushing.

  Saffron turned to Ceri. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve gained some weight recently. Can’t you tell?’

  Ceri smirked. ‘I noticed. But you’re still a rake, you cow!’

  ‘It feels very odd, sitting opposite like this, shouting over at each other. People’ll think we’re mad. There’s room for you here.’ Joe tapped the seat next to him.

  ‘There’s an offer I can’t refuse,’ Ceri said, leaping up and over. She sat between her father and Joe. ‘Come on, Saff.’

  Self-conscious but unable to refuse, Saffron walked over. Somehow, sitting next to Joe like this was a public acknowledgement of what they were to each other, even if she didn’t know precisely what that was herself. She wasn’t sure if Joe was comfortable with this, or, indeed, if she was. Ceri knew, as Eifion did, after the evening on the pier when they’d crept into the ballroom.

  But it was crazy to refuse. That would hardly allay suspicions; no one passing could possibly know. They were four people crushed together on a bench on the pier, taking a break from their labours. It wasn’t as if there were notes hanging off the edge of the bench: This man and woman, there’s something between them. She doesn’t fully understand what it is yet. She thinks she’s in love with him, and he says he likes her. She knows he likes her. But there’s something which stops them growing: the past, secrets, lies, she can’t tell which. It sits between them, like a virus, and the moment they treat it, it mutates, changes shape, and is more impenetrable and resistant than ever.

  Saffron was acutely aware of Joe’s thigh pressing against her own, the warmth from his body flooding into her. His fingers brushed hers and she knew it was no accident. Without looking at him, she gazed out across the bay and smiled. The pastel-coloured buildings along the front shimmered in the sunshine, as sweet and tempting as a stick of rock.

  Between visits Rain needed some fresh air. What was it about elderly people that meant they either sat in rooms so over-heated ordinary folk were in danger of spontaneously combusting, or were content to live out their golden years in environments that made Antarctica seem cosy? Mair Shawcroft fell into the former category and Rain was sweating, actually sweating, by the time she left Mair’s sheltered accommodation. She’d deliberately worn layers so she might peel them off as required, but short of sitting on Mair’s velour settee in her bra and knickers, after half an hour she had nothing else she could take off. The tea had been over-sugared too. She’d offered to make it, but Mair had insisted, hobbling to the kitchenette with her walking cane.

  In the street, Rain leant against a wall, lightheaded and nauseous, and swept her hair up off her neck. It was so thick it was like wearing a scarf at times.

  Forgive me, Father. Forgive me.

  She’d been short with Mair when the old lady took out her photo album, keen to show Rain proof of her sporting prowess as a girl. You mustn’t spend so much time looking back, Miss Shawcroft, she’d said. Live in the moment. Mindf
ulness they call it. Or look to the future. How about that? Rain had noticed how her voice got louder and louder, as if she were speaking with a child or someone with hearing difficulties. Mair had many problems but her hearing wasn’t one of them.

  But Mair Shawcroft didn’t have much of a future, did she? She was very old. Rain acknowledged her comment had been directed at herself. But it wasn’t as if she did look back that often. Hardly ever. And when she did, she couldn’t recall the things she wanted to. It pained her to admit it but she could no longer remember how Stephen sounded, the precise timbre of his voice. The only recording she had – a perfunctory voicemail asking her to pick up some milk on her way home – disappeared when her last mobile had packed up. The salesman didn’t know what to make of her outburst when he offered her a new phone with all the latest gizmos. She’d ranted about no one repairing anything any more and what on earth would happen when all the landfills were teeming with mobile phones. The meek won’t inherit the earth, plastic will. Plastic and bloody Apple, she’d shouted. The young man had stood there, silent, the rash of acne across his cheeks growing redder and redder.

  The familiar shaking began in her hands. But she had taken the last of the diazepam some weeks ago and knew that she must resist visiting the doctor. Things had been improving with Saffron, hadn’t they, and the chapel roof was finished, and the summer was approaching. There was so much to look forward to. It was a glorious day.

  She checked her watch. Plenty of time before she was due at Mr Harrington’s. He wasn’t a stickler for punctuality, thank heavens. Or cleanliness, Rain noted, dismayed at the prospect of having to sit in his stinking living room. She must get on to social services again. What on earth had happened to his home help? All the more reason to enjoy a break and some clean, fresh air first.

  She headed towards the sea, determined to blow away the cobwebs, look at the day anew. It really was beautiful.

  As she neared the promenade she caught a waft of sticky sweetness, doughnuts, and remembered the kiosk at the entrance to the pier.