‘I’m sure he does. But that’s not the issue, is it? He’s a free agent,’ Saffron said, her voice shaking, betraying her.
‘What are you saying?’ Rain felt her lips trembling, her mouth drying.
Saffron took a deep breath and answered in dispassionate tones, relaying the facts, like a doctor might discuss a patient’s condition, though she refrained from offering a treatment. Eifion was a nice man, a good man, and he liked Rain. She was attractive, she was alone, and she encouraged him. He would never have made his feelings clear if there had been no encouragement. Saffron said she wasn’t certain how she knew this, she just did. And the problem was, Rain wasn’t really free, was she? She was a widow of less than two years; she was grieving her husband – Saffron’s father – and it was embarrassing and wrong for her head to be turned by the first man to show interest, to treat her like a woman and not only a minister. It wasn’t Rain’s fault; she was all over the place, probably didn’t realise how the signals she put out could so easily be misinterpreted. She probably didn’t even realise what she was giving out. Grief can do that, distort things.
Rain marvelled at her daughter’s inability to draw parallels between their circumstances. She recoiled from Saffron’s underlying disapproval at her supposed encouragement of an admirer. It was disrespectful of Stephen’s memory, she’d said. Rain felt the distant rumble of anxiety at her centre. Like a gust of wind, a tremor beneath her feet, like standing on the platform at Brixton staring at the tunnel as a tube train approached. She resisted the urge to fall onto the tracks and give in to her fear.
You are frightened and adrenaline is flooding your body. This is why you shake. It is OK.
Anxiety merged with wrath.
How dare Saffron? Jezebel. Bitch. Traitor.
Bile flooded her. ‘You accuse me to excuse your own behaviour. And yours is worse. You act on base emotion; you’re conducting some kind of a relationship with JJ, this man you barely know, know nothing about. Have you had sex with him?’
Saffron gasped.
No, then. Thank God. But she wants to; I can almost smell her desire.
‘Is it not disrespectful to Ben? The years you shared together?’ Rain spat.
‘I didn’t love him. Not like you loved Dad. It’s different, different,’ Saffron said, her voice raised, brittle, all pretence of control gone.
Rain’s mind whirled. She could barely feel the shape and size of her grief. It was never still. It changed shape constantly, slipped from her fingers, springing into the air like the jelly-gloop Matthew had loved as a child. It had acquired dust and dirt as it had fallen onto carpets and soil but the heart of it eluded her still. She longed to tear it apart and discover its core but its molecular make-up wouldn’t allow it. God offered her comfort, of course, but it wasn’t enough.
It isn’t enough.
The realisation winded her.
The train approached, zoomed past, blowing her hair from her face, almost blowing her off her feet. Tears spilled down her cheeks, a ball of concrete rose up her chest into her throat, strangling her.
‘Your father was about to leave me.’ It was a whisper, a rustle of dry leaves, like the talking bulrushes in the story of Midas and his ass’s ears. It seemed to come from elsewhere, outside of herself.
‘What?’ Saffron whispered.
Rain opened her mouth to speak, to repeat it – to say aloud again that which she had not even acknowledged in the deepest, most secret part of herself for almost two years – but instead of words came a wail, a braying, a heaving of choking, sobbing, snot and tears and spit. She was aware of tissues appearing in her fingers, a glass of water materialising in front of her, but nothing else. When she did speak, after how long she had no idea, all she could say was, ‘Dear God, dear, dear Lord, help me please.’
But it wasn’t her faithful God who helped her, it was her daughter. After plying her with tissues and water – which she didn’t drink but was grateful for it being there – Saff had steered Rain upstairs, laid her on her bed, removed her sandals and pulled the duvet over her. She’d drawn the curtains and pulled the door to, though she didn’t close it. As she’d left, she’d said, ‘I’m downstairs, Mum. Just call if you need me. Anything at all.’
Rain lay in the gloaming on her back and stared at the ceiling, her entire body wrung out, heavy, and desperate for oblivion. She resisted closing her eyes and focused instead on the glass lampshade, the veins of colour running through the bowl, dull without a lit bulb, but visible all the same. She knew that if she did shut her eyes, she would be lost to memories of Stephen in the days before the accident, the days after he’d told her he was leaving. She’d blotted them out so well, for so long. But they were like film and her brain, developing chemicals. The paper looked blank, but the images were all there, waiting to be revealed. They only had to be held under the liquid of her conscious mind.
Truth claimed her and she remembered him as he was, then, and not how she wanted to remember him, how he had once been. She remembered the Stephen who was never around, who couldn’t look her in the eyes, let alone take her hand, kiss the back of it, and call her his angel, as he once had. She remembered the Stephen who returned in the middle of the night, if he returned at all, and slept on the sofa, leaving a trace of perfume she knew but couldn’t quite place. This Stephen stopped coming to church and she made excuse after excuse for him. This Stephen drove her son out of the house and out of the country. Would Matthew really have left if he hadn’t discovered his father was screwing the church organist? After resitting his A levels – for the second time – he was supposed to be going to university, not overseas. There had been other flirtations, of that Rain was certain, but whether or not they were full-blown affairs she was less sure. On reflection she thought not. But Jane was different, pushier, more determined than many mistresses who put up with their lot, and it had caught Rain unawares. Had Rain fully understood Jane’s fear and resolve – a middle-aged woman engaged in an affair with a married man, she had no security, no long term prospects – Rain would have fought for Stephen, put in the work earlier. But it was Jane who got there first. His children were grown-up, she’d argued, his wife had a career, a vocation, would always be looked after no matter what, and Rain loved another (God) more than she could ever love Stephen. He had to make a decision, she’d said, and he chose the woman who needed him most, he said.
As if confirming his reasoning, Rain had been so shocked, she’d not cried, or hurled abuse, or begged him to stay. He would leave on Sunday. A friend’s flat would be tenant-free by the weekend. It would give them time.
Then, the accident. She hadn’t even had a chance to tell Saffron. It was a truth she could bury.
It was dark when Rain woke. She rolled over to check the digital clock on the bedside table. An hour or so before dawn. Pulsing with an energy she’d not felt in months, Rain pushed herself out of bed and crossed to the fitted wardrobe. She flung open the double doors and reached in, tearing out Stephen’s shirts and jackets with the ties draped round the coat hanger handles, tossing them onto the bed. Why hadn’t she done this before? It was ridiculous to keep them. There were so many people, some of her parishioners, who would be grateful for clothing of such quality.
You always were vain, Stephen, like Ben, she thought, as she picked up a silk shirt, one Stephen kept for best. She caught a waft of his aftershave. How extraordinary that a scent should linger so long after someone had gone. She picked up another shirt and held it to her face. A different scent this time, but just as familiar. Hers. Jane’s. Rage tore through her. Rain lunged at the pile of clothes and swept them onto the floor in one wrath-filled movement.
‘But did you love her?’ Rain screamed. ‘Did you love her as much as me? As Saff?’ She fell to her knees.
No, of course, you didn’t love her as much as Saff. You couldn’t have loved anyone more than you loved Saff. Might she have persuaded you to stay? You never gave us a chance. You stupid, stupid, selfish bastard.
>
She thumped the mattress.
You never gave us a chance. Because you went and died. And you denied me anger and rage and the need to hate you for what you’d done to me. For what you would do to Saffron, your precious Saffron.
‘You’ve broken my heart, Stephen. Broken it.’ Her voice rasped, cracked and hoarse from the force of her wrath.
‘And you were wrong. WRONG. I didn’t love our Lord more than I loved you. Impossible. I forgave you and treasured you, I knew your faults and I loved you. I would have done anything for you. ANYTHING. And now I cannot even hate you. I cannot shame you and make you feel guilty. I cannot punish you. I cannot play the wronged woman. You shit. You total and utter shit. Selfish to the bloody end. You might have even done it on purpose.’ She fell to her knees near the head of the bed, flung the pillows across the room and continued to pound the mattress with her fists till she was breathless and could beat or shout no more.
‘You can hate him, Mum. You must, for a time. Because you also loved him. Love him. You told me that. Can’t have one without the other. You have every right to feel angry. Be angry. Rage and then you can repair.’
Rain lifted her head from the mattress and saw Saff standing in the doorway, crying. How long had she been there?
She stood as Saff crossed the room and they wrapped their arms around each other and there they remained, in a trusting, faithful embrace that seemed to last for ever.
Chapter Twenty-four
‘I can smell summer on the breeze, I tell you, I can,’ Eifion trilled from the balcony below. Joe smiled. It was true. The air felt drier, even on cloudy days, and the smell of the sea was less pronounced.
He dipped the brush into the tin, wiped off the excess paint and pulled the bristles up the posts. Painting was satisfying. The prep was dull but once the paint went on it was gratifying. An instant result. The hourly rate wasn’t as high as for skilled work, like carpentry; Eifion had apologised when he first suggested the job to Joe, but it was work, and a lot of it.
‘Cash in hand, if that’s OK?’ Eifion had said.
‘Only way I like it,’ Joe replied.
The grandest hotel in town, on the seafront, the one that seemed to emerge from the rock and sit on the shoulders of the pier entrance, needed tarting up for the season. The balcony balustrades were solid, but the paintwork was chipped and had faded from what might once have been sunshine yellow to a dingy magnolia.
After the balconies there were the windows to paint. Even with a large team the work would take weeks. Joe didn’t hesitate. He wasn’t bothered about the poor money – so long as he had enough to pay the rent, eat, and have some left over to spoil Saffron from time to time, he didn’t care. He was grateful to Eifion who’d merely shrugged and said, ‘One good turn.’ The thought of moving on from Coed Mawr had filled Joe with dread and this was a reprieve of sorts. The only way he would leave now was if Simon called and told him he must.
Joe felt lighter than he’d felt in years and on the best days he even considered asking Simon to stop trailing Allegra. Forgive those who trespass against us. The desire for revenge no longer consumed him, days went by when he didn’t think of it at all, but he hadn’t told Saffron his history, and he needed to remain hidden until he was ready to tell her. For he would tell Saffron. He couldn’t keep it from her; he didn’t want to. It was a risk but one he had to take.
Warm, he stripped off his T-shirt before turning back to the railings. As he dipped his paintbrush into the pot again, he caught sight of a woman on the pier below. Tall and slim with light red hair, he couldn’t quite make out her features from this height but she was waving at him. Confused, he considered peering over for a closer look, but Joe didn’t relish looking that far down; his vertigo would surely get the better of him.
He didn’t know anyone in the town other than Saffron, Rain, Ceri and Eifion. Tyson had moved on to another job for Derek and Joe couldn’t say he was sorry. Joe was working on the top floor at the insistence of the hotel manager, a weasel-like young man with a superiority complex. ‘Top to bottom. Only way to do it,’ he’d said.
The woman waved again, furiously. As he looked a second time, he saw she bore a strong resemblance to Saffron. The form of her. He put his paintbrush down and leaned forward.
Whoa. The height made him dizzy, the familiar nausea rose.
‘Joe! Joe! It’s me. Can you take a break?’
The automatic doors swooshed open; a blast of warm, stale air assaulted his cheeks. There, in front of him, on the pier, was Saffron. She looked very, very different. Same black jeans, black T-shirt, and heavy black boots. Same fair skin and blue, blue eyes, but there was no thick, black eyeliner and smudgy, charcoal eyeshadow. Her eyes were enormous pools framed only by long, brown lashes. With less make-up and in broad daylight, he noticed, for the first time, just how many freckles were scattered over her nose and cheeks. Maybe they’d come out in the sun.
But it was her hair that altered her so dramatically. Loose and tumbling over her shoulders in soft waves, it was the most glorious golden-orange. Contrasting sharply with her familiar black attire, it shone in the sunlight like a halo. If you ignored the clothes, the Doc Martens, and pierced ears, she could have been an angel, or Botticelli’s Venus, or a Pre-Raphaelite model. He was stunned. She remained still and flushed as he stared. As the colour bloomed on her cheeks, his insides churned. If he’d been blind-sided by her beauty when he first met her, it was nothing to his reaction now. She was achingly lovely, a creature from another world, incongruous on the grotty pier with the stink of chip fat and burnt sugar on the breeze.
He stepped towards her and picked up a lock of her hair with an index finger. ‘It’s not a wig then?’ he said.
‘Nope. Do you like it?’ she said, straight-faced. She sounded nervous.
He nodded. ‘Your natural colour?’
‘Kind of. It’s as close to my natural colour as synthetic dyes go. Close enough to allow my hair to grow out without looking like a two-tone monster.’ She screwed up her nose.
‘How close?’ He coiled another lock round his finger. It felt soft and silky.
‘Pretty close. Red is the hardest colour to mimic, especially what you’d call ginger as opposed to auburn. Impossible to get it bang on, according to the hairdresser.’
‘Unique and difficult. Figures.’ He smiled and she smiled back.
‘So what do you think?’
‘I love it.’ He leant forward and kissed her, forgetting where he was, not caring.
They pulled apart when some smart Alec yelled at them to get a room. Saffron repeated her initial question. Could he take a break?
‘Not really. The manager bloke, right slave driver. Bit of a control freak and he’s enjoying the power. If he catches me now I’ll be in trouble. Is it important?’
‘It is, but I’ve another option. You free straight after work tonight?’ she asked.
‘Let me see. Need to consult my diary, what with my hectic social life.’
‘Yeah, yeah, Billy no mates. You’re free, right?’
He didn’t even get a chance to nod before she continued, ‘The decision about the pier ballroom is being made this afternoon in some council meeting or other. Mum, Mair Shawcroft and others involved in the campaign are organising a celebration/commiseration do in the church hall and there’s a problem with the door again. I can ask Eifion but I guess he’ll be in the same position as you?’
‘He’s working in the hut this afternoon, so he might have some flexibility. Fits the hotel job around the shop. Not sure how he persuaded bollock chops to go for that … Natural charm, I suppose.’ He glanced over his shoulder, looking out for the manager. He’d been away from his post for way too long already. But she did that to him, forced him to take risks. She’d be his undoing.
‘He’s got plenty of that. Look, I’ll meet you here, yeah? Six o’clock. And I’m so glad you like it.’ She pointed at her head and smiled, radiant.
‘Why the change?’ he
asked. He’d read somewhere that when women changed their hair, the colour, had it cut, it commonly signified another, more significant, shift. Hair went from long to short after break-ups, dark to light with a new career.
She shrugged. ‘The end of mourning. Or a different kind of mourning … This is the real me. Weird, huh?’
‘Weird’s OK by me. See you later.’ He waved and she turned and walked off the pier. He noticed a quiver in her voice when she said a different kind of mourning. Something was troubling her, despite the smiles and sunny hair.
It had been such a relief to hear that Joe liked her hair, to see how much he liked it. The hairdresser’s bill had been astronomical; Saffron could hardly believe it, never having had a professional dye before and rarely having stepped inside a salon full stop. It was eye-watering, and she would never have done it had Rain not offered to pay. It was kind of her mum, a way of making up for the cruel, ugly words. Saffron had bought flowers and prepared Rain’s favourite supper: Thai green curry with tofu and scented rice. It hadn’t been easy finding lemongrass or tofu in Upper Coed Mawr, but Saffron liked to shop local and retailers in the community loved her for it. In the end, the greengrocer had ordered it in specially, in return for the recipe. It was sweet of him. After all, they both knew he could have found a recipe online in seconds.
Though she hadn’t originally dyed her hair dark for her mum – far from it; it had been all about her and her feelings – Saffron had been worried that a return to red would be too much of a reminder of her dad. She owed her locks to her father’s genes and after her mum’s revelation, Saffron wondered if it might be better to stay dark.
For Saffron, the news that her father wasn’t the saint Rain had been making him out to be was hurtful, but not altogether shocking. After she’d put Rain to bed she’d admitted to herself that she’d known her father to be more than a flirt. She’d blocked all those memories. She wasn’t so different to her mother after all. As a child she’d not understood why the sight of Daddy holding other women’s waists as he led them into church made her feel peculiar, but it did. One Christmas, when she must have been ten or eleven, she’d noticed her father resting his large hand on a distant aunt’s thigh as they sat in the living room playing charades. The aunt, a tall, pretty woman whose long, painted fingernails fascinated Saffron, had slowly and carefully removed Stephen’s hand and placed it on his own thigh. A joke of some kind was shared – too grown up for Saffron to understand – and the adults continued with the game but, eyes watery, Rain had jumped up and hoofed it to the kitchen, claiming everyone’s glasses needed refilling. Home during the long medical school holidays, Saffron had noticed how their lives had grown apart. Her dad liked to party, her mum didn’t. But she also knew, or thought she knew, that he’d loved Rain.
Redemption Song Page 21
