Redemption Song (20 page)

‘Dracula has a lot to answer for,’ she laughed, though she wondered if he felt the same way as the bats, misunderstood, if it was why he was holed up here, hidden in amongst the dense woodland.

A fox screamed in the distance. He pulled her towards him, the smallest tug on her hand, and she fell into him, into a kiss as deep and dark and all-consuming as the night. She pushed all thoughts of what he concealed from her busy head. All that mattered was him, right here, right now.

Chapter Eighteen

‘Is this too mutton?’

Rain appeared in the doorway in a red dress which finished above her knees. Ready twenty minutes earlier, Saffron was sitting on the sofa half-watching a quiz show, fiddling with her phone, willing Joe to text her. The kiss in the lane had emboldened her and she’d pushed a piece of paper with her number on it into his hand, prepared before she’d left the manse, whispering, ‘Call me.’

‘You’ll see me again?’ he’d said.

Such doubt had surprised her. But days had passed and no call, no text. She’d scanned the chapel roof as she’d walked past on her way to work the day before, averting her eyes when Tyson looked over and smirked. She’d not dared look earlier, either.

‘Well?’ Rain said. ‘That bad?’

‘No. No. It’s fabulous,’ Saffron said, glancing over. ‘You look fantastic. If I’m half as gorge as you at your age, I’ll be very pleased.’

‘But what about the knees? Baggy old lady knees?’

‘You can hardly tell in tights!’

‘So they are saggy.’

Saffron threw her phone on the sofa. ‘No!’ He wasn’t going to call now. She looked again at her mum. Rain hadn’t altered her make-up in years. It was more noticeable because she’d put more than usual on. As a teenager Saffron had copied her mother’s look with disastrous results – their complexions were so different, the shape of their faces, everything.

You could do with updating your style. Or wearing less. Or both. You’re so pretty; you don’t do yourself justice.

The thin pencil line of kohl underneath Rain’s eyes gave her a slightly hard look and the blue on the inside of her eyelids was just plain dated. Saffron stepped towards Rain. She’d never be able to tell her though.

‘You look nice too,’ Rain said as they moved into the hallway.

Saffron huffed. ‘I’m in my jeans and a jumper.’ She sat on the bottom stair and laced up her boots.

‘It’s your face. You’re wearing less make-up. Less eyeliner. Suits you. Brings out your eyes.’

‘Thanks. Too much can be ageing.’

‘At your age!’

‘At any age.’

Why are you so dressed up? We’re only going to the pizzeria on the front. And wasn’t that dress Dad’s favourite?

She’d not seen her mother in it for years.

Rain turned to the mirror in the coat stand and swept her index finger underneath each eye. ‘Do you think I have too much on?’ Her voice trembled.

‘I wouldn’t have said so … but now that you’ve wiped some off … Brings out your colour too.’

‘It’s too much?’ Rain rubbed at her cheeks.

‘It’s fine. You’re lovely. C’mon, we’ll be late. Place might be packed, we’ll lose our table.’ She flung a jacket on and ushered Rain outside.

Eight fifteen on a Saturday night and the pizzeria was almost deserted. Rain felt over-dressed and super-conspicuous. They were sitting in the window seat at the waiter’s insistence; it was the last place she wanted to sit but she’d felt so sorry for the restaurateur she’d been unable to refuse. She knew it would make the place look more inviting if there were customers visible from the outside.

It was a family-run pizzeria, with décor she’d seen Europe-wide: green, white and red tablecloths, raffia-covered wine bottles the shape of gourds doubling as candlesticks, and mediocre reproductions of Italian landmarks on the walls. It was pleasant and cosy, and she welcomed the familiarity of it.

Rain glanced over at the couple hunched at the back of the restaurant: middle-aged, not speaking to each other, sawing away at their pizzas with grim determination, a half-carafe of red wine between them. Her stomach roiled and she turned back to her daughter. There was an aura about Saff; she couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but something was different. She wore the same clothes; same deliberately messy hair-do, though she’d noted that her roots needed retouching.

‘Red, white or beer, Mum?’

Saffron’s question made her jump. ‘Oh! Erm, I’m not sure. What do you fancy?’

‘Anything. You choose.’

This went on for some time, each refusing to make a decision. The tinny muzak playing in the background irritated, like a fly buzzing about her ear. She found it hard to concentrate.

If Stephen were here, he’d have ordered before he sat down, for everyone.

There was a repeat performance when it came to the food, each of them dithering over a menu that wasn’t expansive, asking what the other was having, chopping and changing. Even the waiter, who was hardly rushed off his feet, grew impatient. In the end, Rain went for her default choice: gnocchi – to heck with her hips – and Saff hers: salad niçoise. The waiter shuffled off, the initial spring in his step gone.

‘Is that all, Saffy? A salad? My treat.’ Saffron gave her one of her looks and Rain backed off. She must stop nagging her about eating; Saff was healthy, sensible; she’d always been lean. Tonight was meant to be lovely, a chance for mother and daughter to spend some quality time together.

Saffron picked up her beer and swigged from the bottle. Rain twitched. She hated that and it wasn’t as if Saff was a student now. Why couldn’t she pour it into the glass provided?

‘So, how was it at the shop today? Busy?’ Rain said, sipping at the wine. It tasted like vinegar.

‘The usual.’ Saffron rapped her fingernails against her empty glass and stared out of the window. All Rain could see was Saffron’s reflection. Could Saff see anything of the street?

‘And what’s usual? You don’t really talk about the shop.’ Her voice seemed to echo round the room.

‘There’s nothing that interesting to say. It’s a job. It’s OK.’

Saff seemed so distracted. ‘Oh, I understand that it must seem ever so dull after all the excitement of medicine, the drama, the importance …’

‘It’s not
Holby City
.’ Saffron turned away from the window, back to her, and smiled. ‘Look, Mum, the shop’s fine … I …’ Her smile faded away with her words.

The door swung open and a large group of maybe a dozen people trooped in, aged seven to seventy. The restaurant erupted into activity. Another waiter appeared from the bar as coats were collected, tables were joined together, cutlery and condiments transferred from one table to the next, menus distributed.

‘How lovely!’ Rain said above the commotion. She leant across their small round table and whispered, ‘There’ll be some atmosphere now.’ The music grew louder to compete with the ebullient laughter and squeals of the family party. She watched the father of the youngest child hold a chair out for his wife, place a napkin on her lap and deposit a kiss on her cheek. Stephen did that for her in the early days. ‘Big family.’ She smiled at Saff who only shrugged and took another gulp of beer. Goodness, she’d almost finished the bottle.

‘Steady, Saffy.’

‘It’s only a small one.’

Rain was drawn to the family again as they shouted out drinks orders. What was the celebration? Or maybe there wasn’t one. Maybe they were just celebrating being together, all of them, one large extended happy family. Rain’s guts twisted. How reduced her immediate family was now. Matthew was away and heaven knew when he’d be back. Her parents were long gone; Stephen’s had emigrated to Australia years ago. She’d met them only once, at their wedding. Money was tight for the de Lacys senior after a bankruptcy so they’d not come back for a visit, not until the funeral, and though she and Stephen often spoke about making the trip out there, somehow it had never happened. Money wasn’t plentiful in their house either, what with Stephen refusing to move from his post at the council to a better-paid position in a private firm. University colleagues of Stephen’s had established their own practices and made a fortune during the gentrification of formerly undesirable areas of London. One had offered Stephen a job but he’d refused. ‘Why should the private sector nab the cream of the crop? Don’t public buildings deserve the same love and attention?’ he’d shouted. Rain admired his socialist principles, but couldn’t fend off twinges of envy whenever they visited friends’ homes.

The waiter arrived with their food and, famished, Rain tucked in. Saffron pushed food around her plate, the eggs and tuna untouched. ‘Gnocchi’s surprisingly good. How’s your salad?’

‘Tuna’s tinned.’

‘Oh dear, and you don’t eat eggs. I’ve often wondered why you’re such a fan of niçoise. Shall we order something else? I’d hate for you to leave hungry.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Really, it’s no bother, no bother at all.’ Her voice rose higher and higher.

‘Mum. I don’t want anything else.’ Saffron’s comment landed during a lull in the lively conversation at the next table. It was loud and sharp. Silence bit. Then, a child’s cry, the bars of the next song on the CD. Rain stabbed at her gnocchi, but she could no longer taste anything.

Saffron reached across the table and touched her arm. ‘Sorry, Mum. I’m edgy. I need to tell you something and I don’t know how or where to begin. I should have said something ages ago, but I couldn’t find the words …’

So, I was right. She’s leaving
.

The gnocchi felt like a ball of tissue paper in her throat.

Rain always knew Saffron wouldn’t stay in Coed Mawr for ever. Of course she knew that. Saffron came with her because she was ill; she’d had a breakdown. She needed to be cared for, comforted, away from the constant reminders of the harsh blow life had dealt her. Dealt them both. When Saffron was healed, she would return to medicine and that meant leaving. Back to London. But it was too soon. For Rain. She wasn’t ready to be left alone.

Trembling, Rain put down her fork and held her daughter’s hand. ‘The beginning. The beginning is always a good place to start. And you mustn’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’m never alone, not completely.’

‘Mum, I’m not about to leave …’

Relief surged over Rain. She listened as her daughter began to speak and then the trembling spread through her entire body.

She’d had no idea, no idea at all. Had she ever known her daughter? ‘I thought we were the same. That we understood one another because of our loss. Often, I felt your loss was even greater. After all, you lost out on all the years of happiness I’d had, the years of love, experience, and togetherness I shared with your father. I have so many memories to enjoy and treasure. You don’t. I prayed for you.’ She felt betrayed. It was irrational, she knew that, but nevertheless, all this time.

‘We never spoke about it. We’ve never shared our feelings about it. You won’t talk about how you feel. You just accept it. You won’t let me talk about Dad. Not really. And I couldn’t talk about Ben because everyone spoke like he was the love of my life, like they knew what I was going through when they had absolutely no fucking idea. I couldn’t express the grief I felt, feel, because it wasn’t what people wanted to see. It wasn’t what you wanted to see. You wanted me to feel like you. But I can’t. I was angry. I’m still angry. I feel guilty and confused and like the worst person on earth sometimes. Don’t you ever get tired of it, Mum? Being so good. You don’t blame me, you don’t blame your God, you don’t blame anyone. And it’s like my grief for Dad has been relegated to second place, because, well, he was my father, not the “love of my life”. I’ve been trapped in a lie.’

‘Maybe there’s no one to blame.’ Rain’s voice seemed to come from somewhere outside of herself.

‘Maybe there isn’t.’ Saffron sounded exhausted. ‘But don’t you ever, even for a minute, feel angry? Feel so sad you can’t even weep, get out of bed, listen to someone grumbling about some lame, inconsequential detail of their life?’

‘There have been moments of anger, of course.’ Rain rolled and unrolled the corner of the tablecloth. ‘Are you saying you felt no love for Ben?’ She could hear the hurt in her voice; she had loved Ben, like a son.

‘Jesus Christ! Of course I did. But not love, love. Like a brother. No, not even that …’

Ignoring the blasphemy, Rain said, ‘How can you be sure? All love changes.’ She looked at Saffron’s creamy complexion, her plump lips, her smooth neck. She’s so young, younger even than her years. How can she understand what happens to love?

‘I know, I just know.’

‘Were you in love with someone else?’

‘God, no!’

‘So how can you be sure?’

‘Because I am.’

Was that a flush she detected? Saffron turned away from her scrutiny, and after a pause, continued. ‘How was it for you, with Dad?’

‘Full of respect, companionship, understanding –’

‘At first?’ Saffron interrupted her.

Rain coughed. ‘Well, he followed me, into church. He wasn’t a believer then. He converted, for –’

‘How it felt, not the facts. I know this story …’

Rain closed her eyes. How had it felt, all those years ago? Magical, dizzying, all-consuming. She smiled at the memory and Stephen appeared. She pictured herself, sitting in the pew, sneaking a peek between her praying hands, the back of his head visible in the pink glow between her fingers. How clever he was to sit in front of her. Most boys would have positioned themselves behind her, giving themselves the advantage, watcher not watched. But not Stephen. Always the maverick. She pulled her praying hands down from her eyes to her mouth and because she wanted to reach over and kiss that lovely neck but couldn’t, she kissed the air trapped in her palms instead.

Her desire verged on debilitating; she could hardly function. She questioned if her feelings were unholy, unnatural, and her minister directed her to the Book of Songs in her Bible. She gorged on the verses with their lush vineyards, heavy scent, and lovers with legs like marble, and when she touched herself in the darkness of her room she felt closer to God.

Was it all about the physical? Yes and no. Yes, because it was that which consumed her, which drove them into each other’s arms. No, because there was talking and laughing and a sense of connection like nothing she had experienced before, not even that first, life-changing connection with God.