And that was it. He propelled her, hard, towards him, and kissed her salty, wine-sweet lips.
Live dangerously, he thought, waiting for the slap.
It never came.
Instead she folded into him as he did into her, even the sound of the waves fading to nothing as he lost all sense of time and place. Everything except this moment, right here, right now, the taste and smell and feel of her.
Her lips parted and she kissed his top lip, his bottom lip, slipping a hand round his neck, raking her fingers through his thick hair. He wrapped an arm round her waist and they pressed each other into their bones. A wooden toggle on her coat jabbed into her hip bone. The wine bottle thumped against her thigh.
He pulled away suddenly. Saffron longed to grab him by the collar and heave him back, but she was disorientated, unsteady on the shingle and dizzy with wine and desire. She toppled. He caught her with both hands, steadying her, before releasing her. She rested against the wall and closed her eyes, trying to control her breathing. Too embarrassed to look at him. Why had he kissed her and then pushed her away? Did her breath stink? Was she a useless kisser? The silence that had felt so comfortable earlier was now unbearable.
‘What did I do?’ she said.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
She opened her eyes – a chink – and gazed at her feet. She could see his boots in her peripheral vision, round-toed, steel-capped no doubt, the hem of his jeans folding on the brown leather. He wore his jeans low on the hip, she recalled, remembering the shape of him from the back – the slim hips and shapely backside that even a pair of baggy jeans couldn’t disguise. Disappointment strangled her; she could not speak.
‘I shouldn’t have done that. It’s taking advantage. You’ve necked that wine, in a short space of time. Even if you’re not actually pissed, your judgement isn’t as it should be.’ He paused, hoping for a response, she imagined. Well, she wasn’t going to give him one. He was wrong.
He tried again. ‘I’d be lying if I said I’d not be happy with a rebound kiss … whatever … I would. But in the end, I don’t think you’d be happy. It would make you miserable.’
She looked at him, the clawing in her belly stealing throughout her body, scratching away at muscle, tendons, sinew, nerves. ‘So you’re doing this for me? How very gentlemanly. How very generous and selfless. How do you know I wouldn’t be grateful for a pity shag? Sorry, kiss.’ She saw him flinch and wanted to retract her vulgar, unkind words. But how could she? How could she explain that she liked him, really liked him? She’d been unfriendly almost every time they’d seen each other.
How could she explain that she wasn’t grieving; at least not in the way everyone thought she was?
Chapter Twelve
Ben wasn’t the love of Saffron’s life. She had been infatuated, for a time, flattered, and she certainly loved him, but not in the way she should if she was to spend the rest of her life with him. She had never been in love with him and while they might have spent a long and superficially contented life together, she wasn’t prepared to settle for that. Not at twenty-something, maybe not ever. This uncomfortable truth had revealed itself only weeks before the accident, when, with finals out of the way, wedding preparations had gathered pace and a distant event with a mirage-like quality was fast becoming a reality. It was early June, and the wedding was booked for late July, before Saffron was to begin her foundation year.
As a scientist and pragmatist, she knew Ben was a perfect mate. He was healthy and strong and intelligent; he radiated alpha-maleness. Good hunter, good provider, good father. His gene pool was faultless, aside for a lack of faith, Rain had said; only half-joking, Saffron suspected. All her friends were attracted to him and men admired him. Her parents, especially Rain, adored him. Both rational and level-headed, Ben and Saffron rarely raised their voices at each other, let alone argued. Theirs was a perfectly balanced, harmonious relationship.
Doubts first stole in during the choosing of the venue for the reception. Ben had suggested a room above a pub. It was cheap and convenient, and they were running out of time. But Rain had spoken with a friend from church, a congregation member with an enormous house on the common in Dulwich. This friend had offered her garden, and marquee, and when, under duress, Saffron and Ben had gone to take a look, the daughter was there with photographs of her own wedding reception held in the garden. It was decorated like a fairy glade and afterwards, as they wandered back to the station, Ben had mocked the overblown romanticism of the affair. ‘Jesus, it looked like something a glamour model would have gone for! And that dress! Fuck! She looked like she’d stepped into a candyfloss factory explosion. And what a total knob-end in that top hat and tails!’
Saffron sniggered in agreement, but inside she’d been thinking about the joy in the woman’s face when she’d shared the photographs, the love in her voice as she spoke of the day, her husband, the arguments they’d had over the colour of the flowers and which drinks to serve. Saffron couldn’t imagine ever feeling the same way about her and Ben’s day, feeling as much love for Ben as this woman did for her husband. She radiated it, even just looking at photos of the man. Saffron had thought the image of someone radiating love clichéd and unbelievable, but there it was. Saffron had turned to gaze at Ben. He was a prime specimen and Saffron observed him in much the same detached manner she would a jar in a science lab, or a body on an operating table.
Over the weeks, these feelings grew. She began to notice how friends behaved with boyfriends and lovers. How husbands and wives reacted to news of their loved ones, good and bad, in the hospital. She questioned if she had ever felt such depth of emotion for Ben, and concluded that she hadn’t. They were a habit. At almost twenty-three? Anxiety gained purchase. She spoke with Rain, obliquely, about her concerns. ‘Pre-wedding jitters, that’s all, Saffy. We all get them,’ her mother had said. But Saffron felt sure it wasn’t and she could ignore it no longer.
They’d been invited to a party, out in the sticks – somewhere in Kent – and the last train was the thirty-three minutes past eleven. During a visit home, Saffron had mentioned their dilemma. Stephen offered to collect them but Saffron was insistent. ‘Dad, it’s miles. It’s a Saturday night. It might be late, and you’ll have to drive us up to my place and then back here. We’ll take Ben’s car. I’ll drive. No problem.’
‘I don’t mind, Saff. Do anything for my favourite daughter.’
‘Your only daughter.’
She hadn’t planned to speak with Ben that night, but there was a fight, in the garden, boyfriend and girlfriend, a couple she didn’t know. They went for each other like a pair of wild cats. Screaming, shouting. Like most people Saffron left them to it and went inside for another orange juice. She was sick to death of the stuff but tap water was the only alternative. She searched for Ben who she’d not seen in a while. Sure he wasn’t inside, she pulled on her cardigan and drifted out to the garden again. All was quiet.
The garden was huge, more like the grounds of a stately home than someone’s house. She plodded across the lawn, her uncomfortable heels sinking into the spongy grass (why on earth had she worn heels? Had Ben insisted? He hated her boots) and walked through the arched doorway in the wall, past raised vegetable beds, and towards what she had been told was the pond. ‘More like a lake,’ Ben had whispered in her ear.
There was no one at the pond – lake. Ben had been right. But there was a summer house on the far side and a faint light flickered through the windows. Intrigued, Saffron crossed the wooden bridge which bisected the water at its narrowest point. There was someone in the summer house, she was sure. As she came near, she recognised the sounds of a couple making out and unable to walk away, spellbound, she sat on the damp grass and listened as their cries ricocheted through the air. Afterwards, they said each other’s name in breathless, tender huffs. It was the warring couple and their lovemaking was as intense and ardent as their fighting had been. The strength of feeling between the unknown lovers sent Saffron reeling
. Crying, she pushed herself up and walked back to the house.
Ben found her in the kitchen where she was drinking a glass of punch. Nauseous but resolute, she said, ‘We need to talk.’ Noting the seriousness of her tone, he grabbed a bottle of wine from the upright fridge – there were dozens in there – and they headed out to the garden, finding a bench in a quiet spot by the vegetables.
Shaking, mouth dry, guts clenching and unclenching so hard she thought she might empty the contents of her stomach, Saffron cried her way through an explanation, an honest exploration of her feelings.
Ben listened quietly until she had finished, holding her hands in his, squeezing them from time to time, encouraging, reassuring. He was such a decent man.
His relief was palpable. ‘I thought it was just me. That this was the way it was. I’ve nothing to measure it against. My mother and father are hardly role models.’ His voice cracked.
‘Mine are, I guess. But unless you’ve felt it yourself, it’s still all academic, isn’t it?’ Saffron snuffled, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her cardigan.
‘Do you think it exists? True love?’
‘Who knows? But there has to be more, doesn’t there? We’re like an old married couple, or brother and sister, stuck in a rut. We’re a habit and we’re only twenty-three.’ She smiled now. ‘You scared?’
‘You’re joking! Think of all the women I can fuck! Scared shitless of telling people though. Mother will be so disappointed and Dad will be furious. The wanker.’ His laughter became tears. It was the first time she’d ever seen him cry.
Her stomach tightened. ‘I’ve no idea how to tell Mum and Dad. They’ll be so upset. They’ll miss you. You’re like another son to them.’
They hugged each other. ‘We’ll stay friends, Saff.’
‘Defo! No change there.’
They talked and talked. And in a strange way, Saffron enjoyed it. It was the first time they’d shared deep, heartfelt emotions. It was a heady cocktail of relief, fear of the unknown, and sadness at the pain and disappointment they would visit on others. She would miss him, of course. It was only when Ben went to refill her glass she realised how much they’d drunk. No way could either of them drive.
‘Damn,’ Saffron said. ‘We’ll have to sleep in the car, drive back in the morning.’
‘We can’t. I’ve a match first thing. It’s past two, we won’t be legal to drive until mid-morning at the earliest.’
‘It’s a Sunday league.’
‘It’s important. Last game of the season. We’ll get a cab.’
‘But that’ll cost loads. I’m totally skint and we’ll lose so much money what with cancelling everything,’ she wailed, guilt surging through her again. Stephen and Rain had already forked out a considerable amount of money on the wedding, money which might be hard to recoup in full. And she owed them so much already. Everything. Medical school didn’t come cheap.
Ben groaned. ‘Fuck. Forgot about that. Another thing for Dad to be mad about, the tight bastard.’
‘I’ll call my dad. He offered.’
‘You can’t. Look at the time.’
‘I’ll call him at five thirty. They’re always up with the birds. He’ll be here before seven. There are no trains on a Sunday so we really have no choice. We’ll have to collect the car on Monday. What a cock-up.’
‘Rather you than me,’ Ben shrugged. ‘Might as well go and grab a coffee as we’re not going to get any sleep.’
Saffron didn’t think she’d have slept regardless. She wouldn’t relax until she had broken the news of the break-up to her parents. She would tell them as soon as Sunday service was done.
‘So you called your dad and he came to fetch you because you’d had too much wine to drive?’ They sat on the shingle, backs resting against the promenade wall. It was falling into place: her anger, her grief, her guilt.
‘I texted him, right then. Of course, I didn’t, like, expect him to answer. I thought he’d be asleep, pick up in the morning.’ Tears swam in Saffron’s eyes. Joe wanted to tell her to stop. She didn’t have to explain. He got it. It was too painful, to say it, to listen to it. But she continued. ‘He turned up sometime between three and four. He looked tired. And he’d never been keen on driving; Mum did most of it. They often joked it was a miracle he’d passed his test. It should have been me behind the wheel. He wasn’t used to windy country roads, and he was going too fast. Something was bugging him, I felt sure.’
‘Were you hurt?’ Joe asked.
She didn’t look at him; she continued to stare at the horizon. ‘Ben was killed outright. Wouldn’t have felt a thing, the doctor said, though how he could have known is a mystery. Not like anyone’s come back and filled us in. I didn’t say that to Mum, though I think she knew. Me?’ She turned to Joe. ‘A few cuts, some bruises, nothing. Now that was a kind of miracle. A sick, stupid joke. Mum couldn’t explain how her precious God had taken the lives of two innocents, when the guilty one, me, the one who’d done wrong, walked away unharmed. What kind of a God is that? It’s bollocks, all bollocks!’ She spat the last sentence, eyes wide, red and bloodshot.
‘You’ve been punished. You’re suffering.’
She frowned.
‘You’re trapped. You’ve trapped yourself. You didn’t tell anyone that you and Ben split. You’ve played the grieving almost-wife. You can’t move on because you’re supposed to have lost the love of your life. You feel guilty, responsible. And on top of that you are grieving the loss of your father and a man, Ben, for whom you felt love, whether you were in love with him or not. You must miss him.’
‘I do.’
‘It’s an enormous loss. Stop with being so hard on yourself.’ He took her hand, pushed his thumb gently down the grooves between the bones from knuckle to wrist, something his nanny used to do when he was a child. It was such a comfort to him then; it still was. He did it to himself even now, revealing the lost boy in need of love and comfort.
‘What are these bones called?’ he asked.
‘Metacarpals – why?’
‘They feel so delicate, so fragile. Yet they’re incredibly strong. They work hard.’
‘Like all of the body.’ She stared at him and he longed to kiss her. She turned away and stared at the floor. She gasped, suddenly, began to shake. ‘I prayed on the roadside. Before I made the call,’ she said, her voice quiet, cracking.
Confused, he shook his head.
‘I’ve not told you the worst of it.’ Her chest heaved. ‘Ben died instantly, but Dad didn’t.’
She paused.
‘Nothing can be worse than watching a loved one die,’ he said.
‘It can. After I climbed out of the car, I expected to see them doing the same. I was in shock. When they didn’t, I returned to the upturned car. Ben was nearest and easiest to reach. I felt for a pulse. Nothing. He looked fine. There wasn’t even much blood on him. It looked as if his neck was broken.’ She glanced at her hand and back at Joe. ‘I held Dad’s hand. There was a groan. That was when I realised he was alive. I told him everything would be OK, that I’d call for help and that he was to hold on in there. I didn’t know if he could even hear me. As if he could do anything else. We say the stupidest things, under stress. I was screaming, not talking. It was a miracle the person on the other end of the phone understood me at all. It took ages for her – I think it was a her – to get all the details. I was hysterical. And while I waited for the ambulance, I prayed. I didn’t do anything I’d been trained to do. I was useless. I prayed to a God I’d spent half my life denying existed. Arguing with Mum and Dad about their stupid beliefs. Perhaps that’s why my prayers weren’t answered.’
‘You did the right thing. You called for help. Stop beating yourself up,’ Joe said.
‘But that’s the point. I didn’t. I didn’t do the right thing; I didn’t do anything. I sat there. Paralysed. Praying.’ Her voice grew louder and louder. ‘When the paramedics pitched up, he’d stopped breathing. For how long, I had no idea. I’d no
t checked his pulse, not given CPR. Basic stuff. Basic.
‘The paramedics shocked him, got him breathing again, his heart pumping. They didn’t know me, they whispered between themselves, medical terms. But I heard. I knew. Brain damage. “If he survives, who knows what the damage will be?” That was the implication. By then, I was in gear. But it was too late, way, way too late.
‘At the hospital they took Dad to theatre. Internal bleeding, severe. They removed his spleen, a kidney. But it was the bleeding on the brain that got him. They did their best, they said. More than I’d done. I felt so ashamed. I feel so ashamed. There was barely a scratch on me.’ She laughed at this point, bitterly. ‘Just like in the movies. We can do so many amazing things. We have all these gizmos and knowledge and expertise. We can virtually rebuild people. But the first few minutes are crucial. Crucial. It’s the first thing you learn. Nothing could save my dad, my lovely dad. He died before Mum even got to the hospital. I think she hates me for that.’
‘What?’
‘Being with him when he died. It should have been her.’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t.’
Saffron shivered. ‘Whatever. She’d hate me if she knew the truth. I hate me.’
‘She wouldn’t and nor should you. We all make mistakes.’
The proprietor of the first guest house looked askance when Joe asked if they were serving afternoon tea, but the second was welcoming. A plump woman ushered them into the front room and sat them at a table in the bay window. ‘Now there’s a lovely view,’ she said, arms folded across a generous bust. Saffron didn’t know what she was talking about – it was almost dark. Fifteen minutes later the landlady presented them with china cups of milky coffee and a selection of cakes and buns from a wheeled trolley. The coffee was surprisingly delicious and Saffron returned to something almost approaching normal, though the beginnings of a headache pulsed at the base of her skull.
Redemption Song Page 10