Witnessing her mum’s pain was torment. More distressing than she could have imagined, and when her own anger surfaced, she caught a glimpse, momentarily, of what Rain was going through. She hated him for being so … weak. It took a while to work out which quality of her father’s caused him to choose the path he did, but it was his weakness, his malleability. He did love Rain, but his mistress exerted more pressure so he bowed to her will. Rain was too nice. Always had been, probably always would be. It was her nature. And in this, Saffron and her mother differed.
I’m not a good person. I’m the sort who lies to people, pretends to mourn someone for almost two years, does nothing as their father lies dying.
Saffron loved her father deeply and in the end such love superseded all other emotion. She couldn’t hate him for long. He wasn’t perfect. So what? Who was? There were so many worse crimes and he wasn’t here to defend himself. Rain’s goodness drove her crazy too, at times; it must have been the same for him. And such goodness threw an unforgiving light on other’s foibles. Everyone appeared tarnished next to such a gleam. Perhaps it was a relief to be with an individual as flawed and warty as himself. Who was she to judge?
Outside the entrance to the hotel, ten minutes early, Saffron shifted from foot to foot. She picked up a strand of hair and held it to the evening sun, enjoying the way the light bounced off it. She pulled it to her nose. It smelt of chemicals and perfume. She’d fretted Joe would no longer fancy her. There were people who loathed ginger hair and she had no way of knowing if Joe was one of them. Or how much her looks mattered to him. A lot, judging by the look in his eyes earlier. She smiled. A dandelion seed drifted by, catching on her top. She picked it off, feeling as light as the weeds littering the grass verge. Clocks, they’re called dandelion clocks. At the thought of clocks her chest tightened. Time was running out. A decision regarding her future would have to be made, and soon.
Her mood shifted the instant she saw him emerging from the hotel. Tall and strong, even in silhouette he turned her insides liquid. Though he wore a T-shirt, the memory of his bare back lingered, the ripple of muscle as he’d bent to put his T-shirt on the floor, the wings of his scapulae, muscles like the shifting, solid plates of the earth. And the tattoo. Large, shaped like a crescent moon, it stretched from mid-back to the base of his neck. Rather than a singular image, it was a series of small ones: A colony of bats, volant. She hadn’t been able to make out the detail.
He came towards her. Blood raced through her veins, setting her senses alight. After days in the sun, his tanned complexion highlighted those extraordinary eyes, the contrast between golden skin and his green eye marked; that with his hazel eye less so, though this in itself emphasised the difference between the two. He took her breath away. In one clean movement he swept off his cap and bent to kiss her. Before their lips met his phone rang.
‘Shouldn’t you get that?’ she asked.
He shrugged, pulled his phone from his back pocket, read the screen and nodded. ‘Give me a second, yeah?’ he said into the phone. He looked back at her and mouthed, ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ To her surprise he turned his back on her and whispered into the phone, moving away as he did so. Her interest wouldn’t have been piqued if he’d spoken at normal volume, if he’d not turned around and walked off. She took a pace forward and strained to listen, fighting with the traffic chugging past. It was difficult to hear anything. She caught a name, Simon, she thought. She couldn’t think of many boys names beginning with ‘S’ other than Stephen or Steve, and there was definitely no ‘st’ sound. She watched Joe, attempting to read his body language. He gave nothing away. He stuffed the mobile back into his pocket before turning back and throwing her a devastating grin.
She waited for him to explain but he didn’t.
It’s normal, isn’t it, to explain what you’ve just spoken about, or to whom? People do it without thinking. ‘Work,’ a roll of the eyes, ‘sorry about that.’ ‘It’s my brother. Girl trouble.’ Or is it only women who feel the need to constantly explain, justify their actions?
‘Everything OK?’ she said, after a pause, unable to quash her curiosity.
‘Just great,’ he said, smiling.
So that’s that then. He’s so secretive. Perhaps Mum’s right: He’s not to be trusted. She’s only trying to protect me. She likes him, but she doesn’t trust him. And if she doesn’t …
‘You? You seemed troubled earlier.’
‘Just worried about the outcome of the meeting. You know, to decide the fate of the ballroom.’ She had no idea why she was lying, or where the anger that simmered within her had come from.
‘I’m interested too. I’ve a fairly good idea which company would move the bats with care, for one thing. Any news?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. Been at the shop all afternoon. We’ll find out soon enough. C’mon.’ She marched up the incline, trying to stamp out her disquiet, leaving him behind.
He caught up within seconds and grabbed hold of her arm, forcing her to stop. She spun to face him, fury rendering her silent for a moment. ‘What’s up? You arrange to meet me here, to talk, and then you go all silent on me,’ he said.
‘You never tell me anything,’ she blurted. ‘I know virtually nothing about you and you give nothing away. Your home reveals nothing other than a penchant for fantasy video games, history, and a total absence of interest in food preparation. You’ve never even shown me any of your art. You prefer beer to wine, you like dark chocolate and instant coffee, and you’re more educated than your average carpenter, a boarding school boy no less. I’d also guess that you’re from down south. And oh, you like bats. Bats!’ She threw her arms in the air.
‘That’s unfair. I told you about Allegra.’ He held on to her arm, refusing to let her go, pressing his fingers into her flesh. It didn’t hurt but there was force.
‘Only because you had to.’ She poked his chest with her free hand, hard, nail first. ‘I found the photo, remember? And while we’re at it, I don’t think for one minute that was the whole story either.’
He winced and loosened his hold, releasing her. ‘Where’s all this come from, Saffron? Why so angry? What have I done?’ He sounded hurt and confused and surprised.
Where was this rage coming from? She felt herself crack, splintering.
Chapter Twenty-five
Joe understood what it was like to have your illusions shattered, to discover that the mirror you’d held in front of someone was distorted, like those in fairgrounds which made tall people short and thin people wide.
‘It’s horrible to realise someone you thought was honest, isn’t. I get that. I really do,’ he said, reaching out for her hand.
Horrible. Not the best description for feelings which rip you to shreds.
‘My dad’s not dishonest. Wasn’t. He was weak. There are worse crimes.’
Instead of appeasing her, he’d made her angrier still. He wanted to kick himself. How could he possibly understand? Saffron’s discovery of the truth about her parent’s marriage was different to his discovery of the truth about his life. From what she’d said, she didn’t idealise her father; she’d left that to Rain. Poor Rain. What an awful thing to have to go through. Her sense of bewilderment, grief, all shot to pieces. No wonder she was all over the place. She’d denied herself true grief, when she needed to grieve twice over. For her marriage, the man she’d known, and the man himself, the loss of the man as he was then.
Saffron raged on, stomping up the hill, ‘And we’ll never know if he really would have gone. I can’t stop myself from believing that he’d have changed his mind, before or after. That he’d have come back to us, in the end. To Mum.’ She stopped, lifted her hands in supplication. ‘Me! Pinning everything on some vague hope. I don’t do faith.’ She walked on again, her sentences punctuated by huffs of exertion. ‘But we never got the chance to find out. How can Mum believe in a God, a Jesus, who allows such totally shit things to happen to nice, decent people. People who do good and pray for
world peace, the poor, the barmy, and every other bleeding heart that drops by. And bad people get away with all sorts. It’s not fair. Not fair at all.’ Quite breathless, she paused, hands resting on her thighs.
He stepped in front of her. ‘No, it isn’t. Sometimes, being crapped on isn’t personal. It’s indiscriminate. Like getting hit by pigeon,’ he looked to the sky, ‘or seagull shit. They’re not aiming for you, they’re just flying about. You happened to be underneath.’ He reached for her hands again and this time, she let him hold them. He rubbed his thumbs across her palms. ‘What happened to you and Rain wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair at all. You didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘Neither did you. She left you.’
He looked at the floor. It wasn’t true that he’d done no wrong, but Saffron wasn’t to know.
Tell her. Tell her. Now is the time.
He let go of her, took off his cap and ran fingers through his hair, stopping at the crown, holding onto a chunk of hair. He scratched. ‘Saffron –’
The slap of liquid on concrete made both of them jump. ‘Jesus Christ!’ Joe shouted, as guano splashed from the pavement and onto their jeans.
Through groans of disgust, Saffron started to laugh, to howl. ‘Oh my God. You couldn’t make that up. The timing. It’s like yoghurt. A pot full. I’ve never seen so much seagull shit in all my life.’
A middle-aged man, incongruous in the early evening sun in a cagoule and wellies, walked by. ‘Now there’s luck for you!’
‘Lucky if you’ve got a tissue?’ Saffron said, still laughing.
‘As it happens.’ The man pulled out a packet of Kleenex. ‘There’s a storm on the way,’ he added, nodding at the sky before continuing on his journey. It was cloudless as far as Joe could see.
They wiped themselves as clean as possible, Saffron alternately giggling and groaning. Perhaps there is such a thing as divine intervention, Joe thought, as Saffron linked her arm in his and urged them on to the meeting, her mood light once more, all thought of what he was about to say forgotten.
The church hall was rammed when they arrived. With young and old alike. Joe was impressed. Rain had done a good job of rallying the troops and Joe hoped supporters appreciated her efforts, unconventional though they might have been for the more senior members. Whether or not it would translate to increased engagement with church activities would remain to be seen. He hoped so. Rain needed a bit of luck right now.
Ceri pushed her way through the throng, three bottles of Pilsner in a vice-like grip. She passed Joe and Saffron a bottle each and swept her gaze round the room. ‘Looks like the offer of free beer did the trick, eh?’
‘The news?’ Saffron said.
Ceri beamed. ‘The best. Your mam’s going to make an announcement soon. Dad’s rushed off to buy fizz.’
Saffron raised her eyebrows and Ceri laughed. ‘I know. Pushing the boat out, eh? Always took him for a mean old bastard, but he likes your mam.’
Joe glanced at Saffron who smiled and said, ‘She likes him.’ There was no malice or rancour and he felt an urge to whisper in her ear: I love you. Love you. Instead, he leant over and placed a kiss on her cheek.
The crackle of a microphone silenced most of the crowd. Rain appeared on the small stage and made a brief, impassioned thank you for the work everyone had done raising support in the town and putting pressure on the council. ‘The pier ballroom will be restored to its former glory. It will be a focal point for the people of Coed Mawr to use and enjoy, and it will have the added benefit of attracting more visitors to our beautiful resort! Our prayers have been answered.’ It was the only reference to faith and once again, Joe found himself admiring Rain’s approach. Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey. Wasn’t that the expression?
‘Think this’ll get more people in chapel?’ he said to Saffron as the crowd clapped and cheered. The cheers more than likely the result of a few bottles of strong lager.
‘Doubt it. But it doesn’t matter. The goodwill of the town is enough, along with the recruitment of a couple of wealthy ex-members.’ Saffron nodded at a well-turned out couple to the right of the stage. ‘They fell out with the last pastor. Paid a large chunk of his stipend. They love Mum now, apparently. They run a development company, specialising in restoration. They’re after the ballroom contract. Who’d have thought faith could be so fickle, huh?’
Joe nodded. ‘Let’s go. I’ll make supper. You said you wanted to talk,’ he said, desperate to have her to himself.
‘What you got in?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, with an apologetic sigh.
‘Co-op on the way up then.’ She took his hand and led him out of the hall.
Unable to sleep for the second night in a row, Joe rose shortly before dawn. It was pointless lying in bed staring at the warped beams of his bedroom ceiling, and dawn was his favourite time of day. Bats were at their most social, so it was the best time to catch them. No one was around, unlike at dusk. He needed a distraction from his troubled thoughts. He couldn’t take his mind off the conversation he’d had with Saffron; the conversation in which he had remained silent. In which he should have come clean.
She was considering applying to a hospital nearby to complete her training. Well, at least nearer than King’s where she’d done the earlier years of her training. She had asked him what he thought, which meant, he presumed, that this change of plan was connected to him and their relationship. She’d not used that precise word, relationship – she’d fudged it in much the same way he would have done – but that’s what she meant and that’s what it was.
At first he’d excused it as a few dates, something to ease the loneliness and boredom of his existence. But it was so much more than that now; it had been almost from the start. He’d been in denial. He loved her. He wasn’t infatuated, he wasn’t obsessed; he was in love. Genuine, you-are-my-soulmate love. He knew this, but he hadn’t told her. Initially, he’d kept schtum because he couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure of his feelings. After all, he was one screwed-up bloke. But now he held his silence because he was frightened. Frightened she might not reciprocate his love, frightened of being let down again, frightened to trust.
She isn’t Allegra. She is nothing like Allegra. She is everything Allegra isn’t.
He padded downstairs and filled the kettle, shivering as he peered through the kitchen window at the garden. He waited for the water to boil. Mist rose from the dew-laden grass, the longer stalks bowing to the earth under the weight. After the torrent of rain the night before a beautiful day beckoned. The strange man in the wellies had been right, there’d been a terrific storm shortly before midnight. He’d recently got round to buying a kettle, finally, and it had boiled before he’d had the chance to tip coffee and sugar into his mug. He couldn’t get used to the speed of electricity compared to the range.
Hugging the mug he wandered outside, bare feet sinking into the peaty, sodden ground. What was he to do? To say? She mustn’t apply to Bangor or Wrexham on his behalf; he might have to move on at a moment’s notice. If she did, it must be for Rain, not him. But he couldn’t explain this to her without revealing the truth and telling her might mean the end of everything.
But you have to tell her. Any love she may or may not feel for you will be based on a lie if you don’t.
He gulped down the coffee and went inside for another cup, his bones aching from lack of sleep. After another drink, and a shower followed by tea and toast, it was barely six o’clock.
With hours to kill before he was due at the hotel, Joe did what he always did when troubled: he walked. As he spent so much time on the waterfront he chose to ramble up the hillside, sweeping behind the tall trees. Once out of the shade of the tree canopy, the soft ground became harder and rockier as he progressed upwards. It was such a glorious morning, for a time, he forgot about his dilemma and gave in to the sheer joy of being alive. At the peak of the rise, exhausted, he threw himself on the ground and stretched out, like a starfish, eyes closed. He toyed with the ide
a of falling asleep here on top of the mountain, but it was too breezy, too cool, he had too much on his mind. A wisp of dark smoke trailed across the sky. Who lit a fire in this weather, or burnt garden rubbish at this hour? He pushed himself into a sitting position, imagining himself gazing over the town spotting the home of the early-rising stoker. But there was no need to search. Granite-coloured smoke snaked from the sea into the clear blue sky, smudging it like charcoal. It came from the end of the pier. The ballroom was on fire and judging by the plumes of smoke, it wouldn’t be long before flames lashed at its already delicate structure.
Joe’s first thought wasn’t the threat to a once exquisite art nouveau building, a building that was to be preserved and restored to its full glory, but which could only be restored if something, however frayed, existed. That was his second thought. His first was the threat the fire posed to the bats. The place where they were raising their young. It was their home.
He leapt to his feet, without taking his eyes off the pier. He couldn’t believe it. How had the ballroom caught fire? He recalled the empty cans and cigarette butts he’d found on the dance floor when he’d tiptoed in with Saffron, Ceri and Eifion. But they’d not been added to, or removed, when he’d gone back to check on the bats, to follow his hunch that the ballroom was a maternity roost. The conditions were good: south-facing, warm, free from human interference and predators, plenty of nooks and crannies to settle in. The bats would have scattered at the first whiff of smoke, carrying their pups with them. But where would they go? It would leave them so vulnerable.
Redemption Song Page 22