Redemption Song

by Wilkinson, Laura

  Is this it? Am I to fall into the angry, cold sea, be swallowed up with the weed and shingle and foam? Bounce off the iron girders, bones shattered? I want to live. Really live.

  ‘Saffron!’

  She felt a hand grip her wrist, firm. She looked up: Joe, crouching, his other arm outstretched. She felt the weakened boards groan under the pressure of the extra weight.

  ‘Be careful,’ she screamed. ‘You can’t save me if you fall in.’

  ‘Grab hold,’ he yelled.

  Terrified if she did not, she would fall; terrified if she did, she might pull him into the water with her, she hesitated.

  ‘Do it!’ he screamed, his voice laced with authority.

  She took hold of his hand and he hefted, pulling, pulling her upwards. As she emerged above the parapet of the pier floor, he let go of her wrist and wrapped his hand under her armpit, heaving, tugging, pulling her over the charred boards and into the safety of his embrace.

  Kneeling, they held on to each other, tight, as if they might never let go, before eventually loosening their hold and peering over the edge to the raging waters below.

  ‘Let’s get off the pier. We’ll be in so much trouble if anyone catches us,’ he said, at last. He stood and offered his hand once more. Grateful, her strength vanished, she took it, allowing him to lead her across the damaged floor to safety.

  Back on the safe section of the pier, he let go of her hand and stopped.

  ‘Thank you. For rescuing me, yet again,’ she said, staring into his eyes, pressing her thumbs against the raw skin of her palms.

  He loves me, doesn’t he? He’s risked so much. Right from the start, he jeopardised everything for me.

  He smiled, soft lines fanning from eyes of green and brown. ‘I’ve a feeling that will be the last time anyone rescues you. I think you’re more than capable of saving yourself. You always have been; you’ve just not known it for a while.’

  Huddled against each other, battened into their coats, they sat on the bench outside Eifion’s rock shop, arms entwined, and Joe told her his story. She sat silent, shocked, and saddened by what he’d had to endure. She’d been angry with him for lying to her, thought he was crazy to lie to the police, especially for a woman like Allegra. But above all she admired him. For accepting responsibility and his punishment, for learning from the experience and trying to be a better man. For caring about old buildings and bats. For being kind to her mother and Eifion. For loving her, with all her faults. There was so much to say that Saffron didn’t know where to begin, and she didn’t know if any of it needing saying after all. She loved him. He loved her. Nothing was insurmountable. It felt so good to be honest; one hundred per cent honest with each other.

  ‘Do I call you Joe or Marcus?’

  ‘Joe. Always Joe. Marcus was another person.’

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ Saffron said.

  ‘Eifion texted me. He’d called many times before, but I’d not returned any of them. I didn’t want to be reminded of Coed Mawr, you …’

  Ceri. She’d told her dad that Saffron was back. Joe must have driven through the night.

  ‘What about your career? Medicine?’ said Joe. ‘Isn’t that in London?’

  ‘I’ve been here …’ She saw the confusion in his eyes. ‘Near here. I figured if you did look for me, you’d start in London, so I … You’re good at hiding, you know all the tricks. I took a foundation post in Wrexham, it was easy to switch. I’m going to specialise in health care for the elderly. And once I’ve completed my foundation years, I’ll stay somewhere close – there are loads of places.’ She glanced over to the seafront, the candy-coloured guest houses, care homes, and hotels framing the bay. She thought of Mair and Rain’s motley crew of chapelgoers. ‘I love it here and there are plenty of old folk. The young all leave.’

  He cupped his hand at the back of her neck and drew her to him. Words blew against her lips, filling her lungs, her heart, a kiss of life. ‘Grow old, here, with me?’

  ‘Sure.’ She smiled and gazed towards the ballroom, the easterly wind unable to cool the warmth within her. She imagined exhibitions and events, Joe’s art, music, choirs, and dancers bathed in a golden light from coloured glass panels in the domed roof, sunlight reflected off the myriad mirrors adorning the walls. ‘But let’s do a lot of living first.’

  Hands linked, they ran down the deserted pier towards the light of the town.

  To find out more about Laura, book club information, events, and future novels, visit:

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  Also by Laura Wilkinson

  Public Battles, Private Wars

  What lines would you cross for the ones you love?

  Yorkshire 1983. Miner’s wife Mandy is stuck in a rut. At twenty-three, and trapped by domesticity, she wants more from life. Husband Rob is a good-looking drinker, content to spend his days in the small town where they’ve always lived – where Mandy can’t do anything other than bake cakes and raise her children.

  When Mandy’s childhood friend, beautiful, clever Ruth, and Ruth’s war hero husband, Dan, return to town, their homecoming is shrouded in mystery. Mandy looks to Ruth for inspiration – but Ruth isn’t all she appears.

  As conflict with the Coal Board turns into war, the men come out on strike. The community and its whole way of life is threatened, and as the strike rumbles on, relationships are pushed to the brink, and Mandy finds out just who she is – and who her true friends are.

  Published by Accent Press Ltd 2016

  ISBN 9781783758685

  Copyright © Laura Wilkinson 2016

  The right of Laura Wilkinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN