Inseparable Bond (28 page)

It was not
easy work. The earth was heavy and damp, he quickly got muddied,
but the sheer sweat of it and the fact of getting to grips with the
digging made for healthy and strangely rewarding labour. It took
him a long time, during which Jennifer and a neighbour watched him
as they chatted over the garden wall. Jennifer would occasionally
catch his eye, smiling at him with gratitude.

The smoke from
the bonfire was drifting over the road, the burning wood smelling
sweet as it hovered around the building; the sudden wind had fanned
the flames.

He
straightened his back, scratching his balls as he looked up at the
sky as he went in the house through the kitchen door. Jennifer was
making a plate of sandwiches of monstrous proportions.

‘Sylvia has
just telephoned me, John, the police have released Ronald Belington
as they didn’t have enough evidence to keep him,’ she said, smiling
up at him.

‘That’s good
news then,’ he answered,

‘I know he
could not have done such a thing, they were very close according to
Norman,’ she said.

After a fish
pie supper, John slumped into a chair and fell asleep. Jennifer sat
opposite under a standard lamp, deeply involved in her coloured
tapestry work.

She tapped him
on his shoulder at 10 o’clock, pointing at a cup of hot chocolate
she had made them both. A nightly ritual before they retired for
the night.

The sun was
high in the sky by the time John came downstairs. Jennifer had let
him sleep after the previous days labour.

He put his
fried egg and a piece of bacon between two pieces of bread and
walked into the back garden, as if fearing his previous hard work
had disintegrated or disappeared in the darkness of night. He sat
on the fallen tree stump, sandwich in one hand, mug of coffee in
the other, looking around at his labours. Birds were hovering
around the fresh turned earth. The atmosphere was all
tranquillity.

Jennifer
ambled slowly down the uneven path; her hands cupped a mug of tea.
She joined John and sat down on the tree trunk beside him.

‘We should
have a holiday,’ Jennifer suggested a week after the funeral. ‘I
haven’t been sleeping well.’

‘We need to do
some work on the house before the winter sets in,’ John said.

‘I can always
sell it,’ she replied.

‘That’s a
bloody good idea, but where would we go?’ John asked, in
amazement.

‘I’d like to
stay in the area dear, but we don’t need such a large house,’ she
said.

‘But I’m still
doing the garden,’ he said, looking around at his recent work.

‘We can find a
house with a smaller garden, one that’s already been done,’ she
said.

They started
searching for another house immediately, before the better weather
inflated prices. Jennifer was in her element, leading him round the
properties with a seamless outpouring of observations and ideas.
They found a modest terraced house on King Street which they both
liked. It was big enough for a family, with well mature gardens at
the front and back. They put an offer in for it which was accepted,
but Jennifer’s house proved difficult to sell for their asking
price and the condition it was in. Two purchasers came to the brink
of signing contracts, and then withdrew.

Even
Jennifer’s high spirits lost buoyancy as the weeks drew on. They
lost the house on King Street and were obliged to begin the search
over again. But their enthusiasm was much depleted, and they found
nothing they liked.

A property
developer had offered an attractive price for the land value. He
felt it more financially viable to knock the house down and build a
block of flats in its place.

Jennifer was
opposed to the idea but the price offered was too good an
opportunity to miss. The approaching winter would be costly. The
roof required urgent attention, all windows needed replacing, the
entire property needed re-wiring and the plumbing was in a
seriously poor state.

John was
encouraged by the offer from the start. He eventually persuaded
Jennifer to seriously consider the offer. She would only agree to
signing a contact with the developer on condition he did not take
possession of the property until they acquired a new house. The
developer agreed.

Their search
intensified. They came across a four bedroom semi-detached house
with a large garden at the rear, a small garden at the front, good
sizable rooms and in good condition. The most attractive feature of
the house was its position. It overlooked the public gardens along
from the esplanade with fine sea views from the front bedroom
windows.

The price was
affordable, with money to spare on the sale of Jennifer’s house.
The vendors were emigrating to South Africa, reducing the chance of
the sale falling through. Jennifer submitted an offer, it was
accepted.

The row of
substantial late Victorian semi-detached dwellings stretched as far
as the equally substantial square towered church of the same
period. All the houses were in excellent condition; none of the
houses were alike.

The nearer to
the removal day, the more excited Jennifer became. She appeared to
gain a new lease of life, like a young child excitingly packing for
her first holiday.

John was
looking forward to a winter of centrally heated comfort, an already
well-maintained garden to keep tidy and the close proximity of the
promenade, a few steps across the road. The only drawback was the
lack of a garage, but the car was never garaged at the other house
so it wasn’t imperative.

Two removal
trucks arrived early morning on the 27th September, immediately
beginning the awesome task of packing the mountainous collection of
antiques.

Jennifer
remained in the house, supervising the removal of her possessions,
John waited for their arrival at the house, 659 The Esplanade,
Fleetwood.

It was nearly
a year since John Bell had been discharged from the hostel in
Wakefield, moving in with his sister on his release. The last of
the summer’s balmy evenings were slowly being replaced by autumn’s
chilly nights.

The
meteorologists had forecast an early and severe winter, of less
concern now to John and Jennifer, despite facing the furious Irish
Sea, their new house being centrally heated and draught free.

Jennifer was
happy and contented with the new house. She avoided passing the old
family property. It quickly fell in a ruin and now left to the open
winter elements.

John had
peered through the windows. The fine wood panelling, marble fire
surrounds, and ceiling covings had already been stripped out. The
garden had soon returned to its original overgrown wilderness along
with evidence of vandalism.

He didn’t
mention it to Jennifer. He saved her the unnecessary pain and
anguish.

There had been
a substantial amount of funds acquired after the purchase of the
house. John had persuaded Jennifer to invest in a new car. It was
doubtful if the Nova would see through another winter, being parked
outside the house, exposed to the elements of the winter sea.
Guided by John, she purchased a silver Vauxhall Astra with dark
blue interior. It was only two years old with fifty-eight thousand
miles on the clock. Its previous owner had been a local man from
the chapel. He had recently died and his wife didn’t drive.
Jennifer had been used to a smaller car and found this one
difficult to manoeuvre; she left most of the driving to John.

She spent most
of her time in the kitchen. The previous family had recently
installed it. All appliances had been fitted in to the wooden base
units, including a dishwasher, which she avoided at all costs,
preferring the old fashioned method.

The house was
half the size as the other, so were the rooms, and less of them,
making it easier to clean. Jennifer had taken the master bedroom
overlooking the gardens and seashore. John took the back bedroom
overlooking the garden. The two remaining smaller bedrooms were
used to store some of the furniture. It would never be required but
she had been adamant in retaining it for nostalgic reasons.

The downside
of the property was the consistency of sea spray, regularly
smearing the windows of the house and the car. When John wasn’t in
the garden, he would be hosing the salt off the windows then
scraping them dry, sometimes on a daily basis.

Molly Grimshaw
lived alone next door. She was an elderly woman, virtually
housebound but had a constant stream of visitors.

The Bentley’s
lived at the other side. He was the manager in the local Barclays
Bank. His wife worked part-time in the town library. They had two
daughters who were schooled locally. They had a variety of pets
from hamsters to golden Retriever’s.

Jennifer had
retained her favourite upholstered high back wing chair,
positioning it to face the gardens opposite. She would sit there
each evening in the setting sun, watching the tourists pass in
their droves and children rowing boats on the small lake enclosed
between the road and sand dunes leading to the sea.

John would
spend most of his free time in his bedroom, watching a pornographic
video from his impressive collection, or selecting a raunchy
magazine from his secret library.

Jennifer had
wanted to revisit the Lake District to see the abundance of autumn
colours, they had done as children, and their parents would always
reserve a Sunday afternoon drive to Windermere after chapel towards
the latter end of summer.

There were
fewer holidaymakers about and the temperature was more bearable,
mother had never liked hot weather.

After Jennifer
had fed the seagulls their daily bread, she filled a thermos with
tea as mother had done and they set off just after breakfast. The
morning was typically autumn, dull and windy. After an hour’s
motorway driving, they joined the winding road to Windermere.

She feasts her
eyes on the trees lining the road, commenting on the array of
golden brown withered leaves stubbornly hanging on to their
branches. The strong rays of the sun shone over the lush green
hills when it found a break between the dark clouds.

A flash of
blue lights in the wing mirror claimed John’s attention. He glanced
around to see several police motorcycles pass the car. His heart
jumped a beat. Up ahead, cars were beginning to move off. The
riders were directing the traffic around an accident site, bringing
a halt to the contra flow to do so.

A police
officer approached the car and tapped on the window. His heart
began to race. He tapped on the window.

‘Wait for the
signal,’ he told him, ‘and take it slowly.’

The officer
stared at him. Specks of rain dripped from his helmet.

‘Fine,’ John
replied, ‘I’ll be careful.

The officer
stood by the car looking at John, bending down to see his
passenger. Another officer was approaching the car, shouting
something to him over the din of idling engines.

John became
nervous. The cars started to move; he slowly accelerated, driving
around the overturned cattle truck as instructed.

There were
breaks in the rain clouds, leaving shafts of golden sunlight
shining over the houses as they approached Windermere.

There were
ample parking spaces in the town. John parked outside a small café
with a lead pained bay window and white net curtain.

‘That looks
nice dear,’ Jennifer said, turning her head toward the café as he
reversed. ‘Let’s have a cup of coffee before we walk down to the
lakeside,’ she said, fastening the top button on her coat. The rain
had stopped but the streets were still wet after the heavy
downpour. The café smelt of damp clothes from the mass of raincoats
draped over chairs. A group of hikers eagerly tucked in to a late
breakfast to restore them.

Jennifer
ordered a toasted teacake and a pot of tea from the harassed and
obese waitress, managing to squeeze herself through the chairs,
their occupants politely pulled them in as she approached.

They ambled
slowly down to the lake. The heavy clouds hung heavy overhead
making the lake appear black, its surface placid.

It was late
afternoon; the light was starting to dwindle as they made their way
back along the quietness of the lakeside, stopping briefly to watch
the swans and ducks pecking through the stones at the waters edge.
The sun was well past its peak, the day beginning to cool as they
approached the car for their journey home.

Autumn rapidly
approached. The winds were high, bringing passages of warm rain
interspersed with stabs of liquid brightness. Fleetwood that day
laid under clouds the colour of slate; the wind brought the smell
of the sea; brought the seagulls too, dipping and weaving over the
roofs.

John was in
the garden, putting it to sleep for the winter. The gulls swooping
low over his head in search of food. The nights were growing
longer, the portions of daylight shrinking.

Jennifer was
in the warmth of the house, ironing the week’s washing as she
watched television in the lounge. John was twitching with the
sudden cold wind blowing in off the sea. He locked the garden shed
and went inside before his balls froze.

Once inside
the warm kitchen, he skimmed off his soaked jacket and equally
sodden shirt, and was taking off his shoes, which oozed water like
sponges, when Jennifer walked in with a towel, a sweater and a pair
of his balding corduroys.

‘Put these on
quickly, dear,’ she said, throwing them over to him, ‘I’ll make
some tea to warm you up,’ she said. She filled the old kettle and
placed in on the gas cooker.

She took a
pair of hiker’s socks and put them on his lap.

‘Getting
warmer?’ she asked.

‘Much,’ he
replied.

Taking the
teapot, sugar and two mugs, they went into the warm lounge. He drew
up a chair next to hers in the bay window. They drank their tea,
watching the spray from the rough sea drifting across the esplanade
in the strong cold wind.