Redemption Song (6 page)

He fancies Saff, that’s it. Nice when she’s about, but when he’s stuck with her mother, different story. Ha. Welcome to middle age, Rain.

Her pride was hurt. Crazy. Stupid. And true. It wasn’t as if she was in the market, even. She was grieving.

Rain had always known this moment would come: the painful realisation she was no longer the most desirable. Youth trumped all. She had prepared for it years ago, when Saffron was approaching sixteen, her awkward beauty starting to bud at last. With her blonde curls and curves, Rain had demanded more male attention – Saffron’s male school friends flirted outrageously – and Saff was too much like her father to be considered conventionally pretty, but her appeal was there, for those who chose to really look. But sixteen-year-old boys see only the obvious, heads full of Mrs Robinson fantasies. Saff’s friends had often commented that Rain looked more like a sister than a mother, and at thirty-eight she had been much younger than most of the other mums.

It’s a wonder she didn’t hate me back then.

Saffron hadn’t seemed bothered. If anything she appeared to take pride in her sexy, young mum. She was so in love with Ben.

‘How things can change in eight years.’

‘Sorry?’ JJ said.

Rain jolted. ‘What?’

JJ looked confused. ‘What changes in eight years?’

Bugger. I’m at it again.

‘I said something?’ She stared at JJ’s profile as he navigated the icy road.

He turned to look at her and then back to the road, nodding.

She smiled.
He must think me mad.
‘I do that sometimes. Talk my thoughts.’

He lifted his chin and she felt the need to explain. ‘It’s because of God.’

He raised his chin again.

‘When I speak with Him I talk, out loud.’

‘And you were talking to him just now?’

She laughed. ‘Heavens, no. I just forget myself sometimes.’

‘It’s all right. Here we are.’

He sounded relieved to be back at the chapel. She was about to invite him in again, then realised he’d left the engine running.

Perhaps he doesn’t fancy Saff, after all. Perhaps he does want to try and get to work. Why was I so suspicious?

Rain thanked him for the lift and clambered out, determined to back off. The roof would be repaired without his help; Saff would make some friends eventually. She needed more time, that’s all.

Chapter Five

There was little sign of life at the school when Joe got there, though the snow wasn’t as deep as back in Coed Mawr. There were neither workmen at the new build nor children in the Edwardian building which adjoined it. A quick once-over, peering through windows, revealed a handful of children with three adults in the hall making what looked like snowflakes.

A child spotted Joe, smiled, and waved at him. Alerted to his presence, the rest of the children waved and a teacher pushed himself from a crouched position on the mat and came to the window.

‘Foreman’s in the hut,’ he said loudly, emphasising each syllable and pointing over Joe’s right shoulder, as if Joe were five too.

‘Cheers.’ Joe waved goodbye to the staring children who yelled ‘Bye!’ in unison, and he turned towards the prefab cabin which sat on the far side of the playground. As he trudged over he wondered why the teachers hadn’t taken the kids outside for a snowball fight or to build a snowman. It would be so much more fun than cutting out snowflakes; they’d probably done plenty of that at Christmas.

Derek was cradling a mug, a tabloid newspaper open on the small table before him, when Joe pulled open the door of the makeshift site office. A halogen heater glowed in the corner.

‘Am I the only one in?’ Joe said, as he closed the door. Derek wasn’t the sort of bloke who bothered with niceties like hello and how are you. A straightforward Liverpudlian, he didn’t waste time spouting things he didn’t really mean and expected others to behave likewise.

‘So far.’

There was a pause. Joe moved to the kettle and grabbed one of the less grimy mugs. ‘No one else’ll bother. Hardly worth the effort now,’ Derek continued.

Joe checked his watch. It was almost noon. ‘I’ll be off then,’ he said, replacing the mug on the tray.

‘Might as well.’

‘Thaw’s due.’

‘So they say. Stay and have a brew, why don’t you?’

Joe hesitated. Derek turned over a page and began to read. Derek was comfortable with silence and Joe was thirsty. He’d not had a drink since breakfast. He grabbed the mug again.

He’d almost finished his tea and was gazing out of the window at the lawn of snow when Derek closed the newspaper. ‘Don’t know how you can drink it like that, with the bag left in. Would set my teeth on edge,’ he said. It was the most personal thing Derek had shared in months. Joe shrugged and drained the mug.

‘I’ll be off then. See you tomorrow,’ Joe said.

He moved towards the door and had taken hold of the handle when Derek said, ‘You drive a Land Rover, yeah?’

Joe nodded, wondering where this was leading.

‘I need you on another job. Not too far from here, maybe an hour’s drive. I quoted a while back so you’ll need to price it up again. A church roof. Start as soon as they’ve accepted.’

‘How come you’re so sure they will?’

‘You’re cheap, and churches don’t have much dosh do they now, soft lad.’

Joe knew exactly what was coming next. ‘Where exactly?’

‘Taff country. A seaside town. Woman vicar, sounded all right.’

‘Why me?’

‘’Cos you’re here. Any problems with that?’

What could Joe say? He had no contract, no rights. He didn’t even get a wage slip in his weekly envelope. Being paid cash in hand like this was one of the major appeals of the job. Untraceable.

‘It’s not easy to admit this but I’m not that great with heights.’ It was a feeble excuse, and they both knew it.

Derek grunted. ‘You’re here, so I’m giving you the job. Start as soon as you can.’

Joe hesitated. He was fed up of all the driving and he needed to work. Coed Mawr wasn’t the only town with boarded up shops, abandoned caravan parks and teenagers congregated in bus shelters, cans of cheap lager at their feet.

‘Look, kidda, I like you. It’s why I’m giving you a chance. I can’t keep you here. You’re a liability.’

Joe had no idea what Derek was talking about. A liability? He worked hard; he was punctual, he was precise. No one could find fault with his workmanship.

Derek continued. ‘There was a bloke here, the other day, after you’d gone. Asked after you – at least I think it was you, said he was looking for a mate, another southerner.’

‘What did he drive? A BMW?’ Joe replied, as casually as he could muster. The letting agent had known nothing of anyone visiting a cottage in the terrace when Joe had enquired. ‘Did you say anything?’ The words caught in Joe’s throat.

‘Did I hell as like. Thought he was from the tax, VAT or something. You’re not the only one I pay off the books. Don’t like people creeping round my business. You’re not claiming benefits are you, soft lad?’

Joe shook his head, his eyes fixed on Derek’s. He needed to be believed. And he needed to find out more about this BMW. He’d have to put in a call to Simon. ‘I appreciate you keeping quiet.’

‘None of my business. Now, here’s the address. I’ll send a couple of lads over to help as soon as you’re sorted. No scallies. And a scaffolder. Collect your wages from the landlord of the Loggerheads on the bypass at the end of each week.’ He handed over a scrap of paper. Joe glanced at it. The handwriting was virtually illegible but it didn’t matter. He knew the address already.

The shop front of Wynne’s was in-keeping with the air of faded grandeur throughout the arcade. The rows of canopied retail outlets, with their Corinthian columns, curved glass windows, and heavy chandeliers, must have been impressive in Lower Coed Mawr’s heyday, but now they appeared tawdry, in need of a lick of paint and a good scrub.

Saffron pressed her face against the glass and peered beyond the mannequins for signs of life within. There were none. One of the orange-skinned dummies had lost a hand; it lay at its feet, minus a finger. She checked her phone. Eight thirty-one. The woman from the employment agency had said eight thirty, sharp. ‘Mrs Evans is a stickler for punctuality.’ Though clearly not window-dressing, Saffron thought, breathing onto her hands. It was still cold, even though the thaw had arrived just as the forecasters had predicted.

What a freaky place it was. Only two days ago they had been knee-deep in snow. All that remained were mounds of filthy ice at irregular intervals on the pavements. Frozen sculptures for dogs to piss against.

Saffron was grateful for the job. It was local, within walking distance of the manse. OK, so it was only part-time, but there’d be opportunities to extend the hours, according to the agency. She shuddered thinking of her debts.

‘There’s people queuing up for opportunities like this. Don’t come round every day,’ the agency woman had said when Saffron had pulled a face at the prospect of shop work. ‘It can’t be worse than the soap factory.’ This was true. Nine miles from Coed Mawr, the factory was a long bus ride. And it reeked in there. The work was mindless and repetitive, leaving too much time for thought. At first, Saffron had relished the solitary nature of her role – checking the conveyor belt for irregular shaped bars – and noise levels meant that even when a passing colleague did try to make conversation, Saffron could feign deafness. But hours and hours with nothing to occupy her other than her memories paled, and she had become sloppy; chipped, lumpy blocks were slipping past. A foreman of some description had reprimanded her. ‘It’s just not good enough. We have high standards. A reputation to maintain,’ he’d barked and she knew that if she didn’t get another job soon she’d be fired.

Wynne’s flooded with light and Saffron blinked, the glare hurting her eyes after the murky gloaming of the arcade. It was the first shop to show any sign of occupancy. She rapped on the glass door and watched a rotund, middle-aged woman trot across the shop floor, her strides clipped by an ill-fitting, brown pencil skirt. Saffron diagnosed joint problems – knees and hips – in a decade or two. The legacy of carrying all that excess weight. She hoped the skirt, mustard-coloured shirt, and brown neck scarf wasn’t a uniform.

‘Good morning. You must be Saffron!’ the wasp trilled. She sounded shockingly cheerful for such an unprepossessing morning.

‘Hi. Mrs Evans?’ Warm, dry air slapped Saffron’s cheeks as she passed through the entrance.

‘That’s me. Come this way. I’ll show you the staff room, your locker, and where you can get tea and coffee and the odd custard cream, if you’re very, very lucky. It’s a pound a week and most of us pay monthly. You can sign up once your trial period is over.’

Saffron loped across the shop floor, brushing past tightly packed rails of cheap blouses, skirts, and jeans, and a wall of footwear. Her nose fizzed with the smell of plastic. On the far wall, between rows of frilly knickers and bras in varying pastel shades, was a door. Mrs Evans produced a large key from her pocket and held it aloft with relish.

In the soulless room reserved for staff, Saffron threw off her coat and crammed it into the locker Mrs Evans held open for her. The older woman stood back and studied her. Given that her hair was held back in a low ponytail, she had removed her nose stud, though not the rings in her ears, and wore no make-up, Saffron wondered what Mrs Evans found so distasteful about her appearance, for it was obvious that she did.

‘Now, dear,’ she began, ‘is that the longest skirt you have, because company policy states that hems much reach below the knee? Not just above the knee, not on the knee,
below
the knee. I’m not sure about the earrings …’ She paused before continuing, ‘Tights must be flesh-coloured, and it wouldn’t hurt to wear a little make-up, spot of lipstick. Looks like you’ve made an effort.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Saffron said. There was no way she would wear flesh-coloured tights. ‘Trousers?’ she asked, hopefully.
Please, God.

Mrs Evans paused. ‘Well, they’re not banned, but no one else does …’

What is this, the dark ages?

Her expression must have betrayed her for Mrs Evans added, ‘But if it makes you feel more comfortable …’ She smiled, ‘We have some smashing pairs on offer at the moment. Grab a bargain, why don’t you!’

The morning passed without a single customer. Saffron learnt how to operate the till; Mrs Evans ran through the instructions three, maybe four, times. She swept the floor, polished the mirror in the solitary changing room and rearranged the footwear ‘department’, as her boss liked to call the wall. ‘Boots to the bottom with sale tickets out, spring slippers and wellies in the middle,’ Mrs Evans instructed. ‘To draw the eye. It might not seem as important as the work you’re used to,’ the older woman rolled her eyes, ‘it
isn’t
as important as your profession, of course, but it matters to us.’

It was an odd establishment. Mostly clothes, women’s, men’s, and children’s wear, it also sported toys, random cosmetics, batteries and other household items, and, somewhat optimistically, Saffron thought, a selection of sun creams, buckets and spades, fishing nets and crabbing wire. Did people really come here to holiday in the summer months? The horseshoe bay was lovely, nestled between the two rocks jutting out to sea and cradled from behind by the mountains. Clearly, the town had once been beautiful and thriving. But now? Her mum had likened it to herself: a rose long since bloomed, petals curled and browning.

When Saffron returned from lunch Mrs Evans was at the till talking to an overweight young woman. Without seeing her face, or knowing anything else about her, Saffron warmed to her, didn’t write her off immediately as she had done most people here. The girl’s hair was a badly dyed red; she wore thick black tights, red Converse trainers, and a green parka with a fishtail. She was the coolest person Saffron had seen in months, apart from Joe. Someone who looked like they were from the same planet as Saffron. She approached the counter.

‘Mrs Evans tells me you’ve nabbed my job, you bitch,’ the girl said, spinning to face Saffron.