Inseparable Bond (30 page)

It was John’s
sixtieth birthday tomorrow. He had wanted to spend the day at home,
taking Jennifer out for a meal in the evening to save her preparing
an elaborate birthday supper.

She had
secretly booked a one night stay in a hotel in Keswick, taken from
an advertisement in the local parish newspaper, offering a two
for-one-price.

Not wanting to
offend her, he had appeared delighted at the offer, reciprocating
with a rare affectionate embrace.

She returned
to the lounge, precariously carrying two glasses of white wine,
placing them on the small table between the two large chairs.

‘I hope you’ll
he alright driving tomorrow, John, that’s your fourth glass of
wine,’ she said, placing her best crystal cut wine glass to her
lips.

She had been
to her room and changed from her conservative bible class clothes,
returning in a bright red dressing gown and fluffy white slippers.
The smell of body talcum powder was almost overwhelming.

‘I do love
sitting here, I’m so pleased we moved,’ she said. His smile
illuminated by the dim light of the standard lamp at her side.

Jennifer
swayed out of the room as she went to bed, clinging onto the
banister from the effects of alcohol. John cleared the wine glasses
and emptied his ashtray into the remains of the fire. Looking
around the room, he switched off the lights and went to his
bedroom.

Jennifer had
woken early and was downstairs preparing a substantial breakfast
and excitedly making sandwiches and a thermos for the journey to
Keswick.

John was
placing the two overnight bags in the car when Jennifer called him
in for the mountainous breakfast; two eggs, sausage, bacon,
mushrooms, tomato and fried bread. His appearance was dapper,
wearing a blue and white starched shirt with silver cuff links.
Jennifer wiped some talc off his chin with the tea towel. A
discreet smell of aftershave filled the air. He sat eating his
breakfast, his appearance resembling a carefully assembled toy. The
weather was dull but dry as they left the M6 and joined the country
road to Keswick.

Jennifer loved
this part of the country, particularly at this time of the
year.

She rooted
around in her coat pocket for her handkerchief, which she moistened
with saliva, frantically rubbing the tea stain from her coat, which
had occurred when she precariously poured tea from the thermos as
John weaved between the traffic on the motorway.

With the
thermos tightly wedged firmly between her feet, she clutched her
handbag on her knee as she looked out at the lush countryside.

The hotel was
at the end of a long winding road with a broken surface and
potholes. It stood next to an abandoned quarry. A few genuine old
wine barrels were arranged across the patio and in them some
rhododendrons were struggling to stay alive. The hotel was tall,
with one bay window at the front.

John parked
the car next to an old outbuilding, in which some derelict cars of
indeterminate shape were rusting away undisturbed by human
hand.

A large sign
said that all owners parked their cars at their own risk; John
smiled as he looked around at the abandoned vehicles.

He carried the
two small bags to the front door, helping Jennifer up the steep
flight of stone steps.

Fearing the
worst, he was suitably impressed as he walked through the front
door. The dining room was clean and rather elegant, set with
starched cloths and shining glass and cutlery. A large log fire
threw heat across the small, well-furnished bar.

A smart young
girl checked them in, giving them their keys, room 3 and room 5.
Jennifer went straight to her room; John went through to the bar
and warmed his hands by the fire, looking at the glorious view from
the high elevated building.

He opened a
door to a dilapidated conservatory, which appeared to have been
hastily erected overlooking the disused quarry. Potted plants and
flowers filled every shelf. It smelt musty and unused.

He pushed
through the heavy glass doors and went up the stairs. The carpet
looked and smelt new, a rich ruby red, and a brass handrail was
polished so it shone like gold. There was a sparkling chandelier
over the stairs, and the elaborate mirrors on the walls had been
recently cleaned, repeating his reflections as he walked up the
stairs.

His bedroom
was small, basically furnished but comfortable. The small window
looked over rooftops of the town. The tall steeple of the church
dominated the horizon. The last rays of the setting sun shone
brightly over the Cumbrian hills.

The small
bathroom had been squeezed into the room to offer the en-suite
facility. A tray had been laid with a quality china cup and saucer
offering complimentary tea.

Jennifer was
in the bar, sitting by the window when John walked in. She was
wearing a long lilac dress buttoned up at the neck. She looked
relaxed and radiant as she studied the menu she had been given by a
smart young man standing behind the bar.

The menu was
impressive for such a small hotel. Veal strips in sour cream,
garlic stewed beef with rich red paprika, roast beef with Yorkshire
pudding, river fish flavoured with garlic and ginger, and roast
pork with hot apple sauce.

A smart lady
was looking through one of the many magazines displayed on the
table. She was wearing a tweed suit; an expensive crocodile handbag
lay by her feet. An old man sat opposite was reading the newspaper,
arms outstretched as he held the pages.

An elderly
woman sat at the bar. She wore a high lacy neckline and long
ankle-length shirt with black high-heeled shoes. Her face was
carefully painted and she had false eyelashes, which she fluttered
like a schoolgirl. She smiled seductively at John.

Jennifer
looked at the guests over the top of her menu, feeling
inappropriately dressed.

The barman
came over to take the order; Jennifer ordered the soup and beef.
She had never been adventurous with food, always staying with what
she knew. John decided on the smoked salmon and veal in sour cream.
The log fire burned brightly in the stone hearth, filling the air
with a smoky perfume.

The barman had
persuaded Jennifer to try a rum based cocktail, the house
speciality. She sipped it, but pulled a face and abandoned it.

The waiter sat
them in the corner of the small dining room. The larger table by
the window had been reserved for the old couple, probably staying
for a lengthy period.

The meal was
good, very good, although Jennifer was critical about the
under-cooked roast beef. She had always been opposed to blood. She
always cremated red meat when she cooked at home. She didn’t
complain.

After a bottle
of the house wine recommended by the barman, they went to their
rooms. It was about 10 o’clock. He kissed her on the cheek as she
went to her room.

John was woken
by the sound of a motorbike revving up outside his window. He
quickly washed and shaved, rooted in his bag for a polo neck
sweater, corduroy trousers and walking shoes.

Jennifer was
already in the dining room. She was deep in conversation with the
lady at the next table. She had been sitting at the bar the night
before.

After a good
breakfast and proper coffee, they walked into the small hallway
with their raincoats over their arms.

Jennifer
peered through the glass doors, delving into her handbag, looking
for a plastic rain hat. The other guests were still in the dining
room, chatting to each other like they were members of an exclusive
club. The reception desk was unmanned, as was the bar. An
unattractive metal screen protected the small display of gleaming
bottles.

Jennifer
walked over to look in the mirror, tucking her hair under her rain
hat.

They walked
down the steep steps, down the potholed road and into the town. It
was a long walk. The town was noisy and crowded with people and
cruising traffic of all kinds. Walkers with heavy packs on their
backs pushed their way through the shoppers. It was a bright
morning, but slight drizzle was in the air.

There was a
distinct taste of winter in the air. Overhead the dark clouds were
low enough to skim the tops of the hills that surrounded the small
town.

They ambled
slowly along the narrow streets, being pushed and shoved by locals
frantically doing their shopping before the dark clouds released
their cargo of torrential rain.

Jennifer
fingered a row of clothes in a charity shop as John looked through
a pile of well read books scattered in disarray on a shelf,
occasionally looking around at Jennifer in the hope she didn’t
notice him looking at the box of women’s panties.

Jennifer
tucked into her bag of chocolate limes as they walked around the
small public park. It was deadly quiet away from the crowds, as
though nature had come to a complete standstill. There was no wind,
not a leaf moved and no birds flew. The sun had shone briefly, but
was now hidden behind the distant hills.

Anticipating a
heavy downpour, they briskly walked back into town. The drizzle
turned to rain as they took shelter in a café, drinking tea and
treating themselves to a huge portion of home made blackberry pie
and ice cream. Jennifer wiped her mouth fastidiously with her
handkerchief after each mouthful.

Once the rain
had eased, they struggled back up the uneven road and into the
hotel. They were both breathless as they un-ceremonially sat down
briefly in the comfortable chairs in the hallway, regaining
strength before they attempted the stairs.

A well-dressed
portly woman sat opposite, reading the newspaper. She suited the
surroundings of deep red carpets and red velvet furniture with red
velvet curtains and an array of gold framed mirrors. Her red dress
appeared to be stitched into the red flock wallpaper. She wore lots
of jewellery, a gold necklace, half a dozen rings and a gold watch
with diamonds around the face.

‘Would you
like to read the paper? I’ve finished with it,’ she said, offering
it to John.

‘No thank you,
we are just about to leave,’ he replied.

‘Did you enjoy
you brief stay with us?’ she asked, as she twisted the rings on her
fingers as if they were uncomfortable, or perhaps making sure they
were still there.

‘It was very
nice,’ Jennifer replied, shaking her plastic rain hat on the
pristine carpet.

‘The autumn is
the best time of year to visit the lakes, not many tourists about,’
she said, looking at the specks of rainwater with a disgusted
expression.

She was Mrs
Simpson, the hotel owner, obviously doing very well for
herself.

Jennifer hung
onto the brass handrail as she pulled herself up the stairs,
followed by John, hesitating as he put his wet hand on the gleaming
rail.

Jennifer paid
the bill as John put the two small bags in the car, driving it to
the bottom of the steps to avoid Jennifer having to walk any
further.

John drove
down the narrow and potholed road until he reached the smooth
surface of the high street. The rain had stopped so he decided to
leave the busy M6, turning off towards Lancaster where he could
take the coast road to Fleetwood.

Jennifer
precariously poured tea from the thermos, which they had offered to
fill at the hotel for a small charge. The closer to the coast they
drove, the windier it became. They drove along the coast road,
looking at the spectacular breakers in the green sea exploding into
lacy foam, spraying onto the car as they passed. The roar was so
loud it could be heard above the sound of the car engine.

The weather
had not relented as they arrived back home. John took the bags
inside. Jennifer put the kettle on.

John woke
early the next morning, desperately checking his beloved garden
after his night away. It was Saturday and the neighbour – the bank
manager, was planting a small bush in the frozen soil of his front
garden. He waved over to John with his garden trowel. John was
sweeping the relentless sand from the front steps.

It was a cold
morning but the sun shone on the row of large Victorian houses with
large bay windows. Here and there, the fronts were picked out in
tasteful pastel colours.

It was
Saturday, despite the early hour women were staggering home under
the weight of heavy shopping bags, their heads low, preventing the
chilling wind hitting their faces.

Jennifer
tapped on the window mouthing, ‘Your breakfast’s ready,’ and
quickly disappeared. He was greeted by the smell of fresh coffee in
the air.

On the kitchen
table were two glasses of orange juice and a rack of toast. Rashers
of smoked bacon were arranged by the stove, alongside four brown
eggs and the new Teflon frying pan Jennifer had bought in the
charity shop in Keswick.

He sat at the
table drinking his orange juice, listening to the spluttering in
the pan.

The
meteorologists had threatened an early snowfall, but it had not
materialised, the sky was blue and clear as the early-morning sun
beamed through the kitchen window. But it was damned cold, too cold
to spend the day in the garden.

Jennifer had
never liked Blackpool, she found it rather downmarket, but she
wanted to watch the sea cascade over the promenade as the local
radio station had interrupted their programme to warn drivers of an
exceptional high tide and continuing strong winds.

After clearing
the breakfast table, they set off for the short drive along the
esplanade. She was disappointed to find the police had closed the
promenade for safety and it was too cold to watch the spectacular
natural display from outside the car.

She suggested
they had a cup of coffee in Blackpool and a root around the charity
shop on Dixon Road. He stayed in the café reading the newspaper
while Jennifer rooted around in the shop across the road.