Read Online Redemption Song by Laura Wilkinson - Free Book Online

forget, most of the time. She was sunshine, this was winter. He stared.
    ‘Allow yourself to feel the pain. Let go of the rage.’ The therapist’s words came back to him. To hell with that. He threw the picture back in the drawer, slammed it shut and raced downstairs. If he was cold in the chapel, so be it.
    If Rain was surprised by Joe’s U-turn regarding the repair of the chapel roof she didn’t show it. Joe thought about explaining himself, but figured it might make things look worse so he didn’t bother.
    She led him up a wooden staircase – also in a bad state of repair – to the balcony, from which he would inspect the rafters, before returning to a gang of parishioners who hovered at the back of the chapel. Daylight snuck through the gaps in the roof, casting shafts of light on the organ pipes.
    Below, Rain conducted the prayer meeting – the heating in the church hall was broken, though it couldn’t have been colder than here in the chapel. He noticed how casually dressed Rain was, no sign of the cassock she’d worn for the visit to the farm. Joe couldn’t make out what was being said, though it wasn’t as quiet and reverential as he’d expected it to be.
    He’d finished his preparatory inspection before the meeting finished. For a thorough and accurate quote he would need to get onto the roof, remove some of the slates. There was every chance the purlins might need replacing; wood under the eaves would almost certainly be rotten. If it was as bad as Joe suspected, he would need the help of an apprentice as well as a labourer. Jesus. No chance of working solo. Derek had been right. He considered inflating the costs. Perhaps they’d make do with a patch-up and the work would be over in days.
    Not wanting to interrupt the meeting, Joe sat on the organ stool, his back to the keyboard and stared at the stained glass window. He felt like he did as a kid, back at boarding school, bored rigid during endless Sunday services. Weekends were always the loneliest. Some boys went home, though never the cruel ones he’d wanted rid of. Boys like Freddy.
    Why don’t you go back to where you belong? To your nice little bourgeois existence.
    Joe hadn’t known what bourgeois meant but he knew it was an insult.
    Despite his aversion to places of worship, Joe admitted the chapel window was a thing of beauty. An abstract design, simple yet bold, it was different to the elaborate portraits of Christ and the saints in his school chapel, meek, awed, and yes, also beautiful. The colours swirled before him; orange dominant. The image of Saffron’s bowed head at the kitchen table flashed in his mind, the tangerine roots at her scalp contrasting with her dark mane. He recalled her unflinching gaze when she’d told him about her fiancé in the kitchen of the manse. There was nothing meek about that look and the thought made him smile. He closed his eyes and the smell of stone, dark wood, and musty dampness enveloped him. The unmistakable scent of an old church. Not that he was overly familiar with churches of late, but he could recall the last time he’d been in one all too well.
    Block it out, block it out.
    He gripped the edge of the seat and focused his mind on the group below, straining to make out their words, sentences, meanings. He wondered if Saffron ever attended groups like this; came to church on Sundays. She must have been forced to as a child. If so, how did she reconcile her developing scientific knowledge with faith, if she had any? Did she share any of her mother’s conviction, even a fragment? Joe doubted it, though he knew faith and reason were not mutually exclusive.
    Leaning forward, he could hear the conversation. A sharp voice, frayed at the edges. ‘I saw your daughter in town the other day. Saffron? Unusual name, isn’t it? Won’t find it in any Bible I’m familiar with!’ There was a chuckle, the kind used to mask rancour and criticism should anyone challenge the actual comment. ‘But then Rain