Inseparable Bond (60 page)

‘Where did you
go for coffee?’ he enquired.

Jennifer
thought quickly, again avoiding the truth of which was now becoming
a regular occurrence, not wanting to mention the harbour coffee bar
near the toilets. ‘I have coffee in town, The Victorian tea shop
near Boots chemist,’ she replied.

‘Well, I’ve
got more to do in the garage, but I’ll leave Walter with you as he
wants his supper,’ he said, leaving the room, snatching his coat
from behind the door.

George was
probably the more dangerous of the two. He was the kind that
wouldn’t lose his temper, he would probe gently until he caused you
to trip up and she was only too aware of his methods when he had
become suspicious. It was through this method, which had probably
awarded him the respect of being one of the best solicitors in
Blackpool until he retired twelve years ago.

At breakfast
and supper, he had made no attempt to open a conversation and his
face had retained its formal expression, although Jennifer had not
helped to defuse the situation, acting like a spoilt and selfish
teenager.

He worked away
on his car, cleaning the interior with the small hand-held vacuum
cleaner and frantically polishing the windows, but feeling sick to
the depths of his stomach through anxiety, upset, concern and anger
at Jennifer’s continued stubbornness and hostility.

He was
determined to discover why she had changed so suddenly and
dramatically before the arrival of his son and daughter-in-law, who
would definitely pick-up on the atmosphere as soon as they stepped
through the front door.

He walked into
the lounge where Jennifer was sitting by the fire, her eyes
transfixed on the crackling logs. He kneeled down beside her and
looked into her face for a moment before kissing her; and then his
arms went around her tiny neck. She shook her head but tears were
in her eyes, then she pushed him gently away, stood up, turned
abruptly and walked out of the lounge and up to her bedroom.

He stood up
and sat on the chair she had left, consoling himself as he stroked
Walter, who lay by his side looking up with his loving spaniel
eyes.

George
returned to the garage, reversed the car out and drove off in the
direction of the town centre.

He felt sad,
and humiliated, having his affections rejected. He drove slowly
along the North Bay, past the deserted holiday camp, around the
castle bay and onto the south bay before parking outside the public
toilets by the harbour.

The toilet was
large, specifically designed for the use of the thousands of
tourists which visited the town in the summer months. It was only
one of the three which the council had kept open throughout the
off-season. The remainder being closed, as their use would be
limited in winter and too expensive to maintain.

The harbour
toilets were generously equipped with thirty cubicles, a bank of
twenty urinals, ten washbasins and an attendants’ room, although it
wasn’t supervised in the winter months, only opened at seven in the
morning and closed at eleven at night.

The urinals
were occupied by three middle-aged men and a dishevelled looking
teenager. One of the cubical doors was locked, occupied by someone
who coughed constantly as George walked down the middle of the bank
of cubicles to an available urinal.

The others
looked over at him suspiciously, then returned to stare at the blue
tiled walls in front of their urinals.

The teenager
was standing in the middle cubicle, a man each side of him looking
down at his manhood as he stood back from the urinal, proudly
showing his erect penis. The other guy at the far end wore green
high wellington boots over a pair of jeans, his yellow reflective
work jacket being a compulsory safety item for the fish factory
adjacent to the harbour. He stood looking along the line of urinals
as the two middle-aged men fondled the teenager who stood with his
hands in his trouser pockets.

George was
also looking over before leaving his urinal to join the group at
the far end.

The factory
worker looked on, conveniently keeping a watchful eye on the door
in the expectation of being disturbed by a cleaner or someone
needing to use the toilet for a genuine purpose.

George and the
other three men fondled the youngster before being alerted by the
toilet flushing in the cubicle. They dispersed as the man came out
of the cubical and washed his hands at the sink alongside the row
of urinals.

A bus driver
walked in followed by a taxi driver and a father holding his son’s
hand.

George left
the toilet first, got into his car and drove along the promenade
towards his house on the south cliff.

It was 9.30
when he got back. Jennifer was in bed reading her library book. The
house was in darkness, illuminated only by the small table lamp she
had considerately left on in the hall for when he returned.

He walked
through to the dark lounge, pouring himself a glass of whisky as he
sat at his desk resting his elbows on the top of the desk and held
his head in his hands, staring out at the blackness of the rear
garden. He switched on the desk lamp, which shone across the room.
He walked over to the front bay window, looking down at the large
vase on the side table.

It contained
the inevitable red roses, now drooping their heads, leaning down
towards the floor as if even they were ashamed of their
surroundings.

Jennifer would
have been the first to notice their wilting condition and
immediately rectified them or discarded them in the waste bin. It
was most unlike her to lose interest in everything she had claimed
to have loved.

She was up
before seven the next morning. George lay fast asleep as she crept
out of the bedroom and down to the kitchen. The bright fluorescing
light startled Walter who was snuggled up on his blanket, keeping
warm by the boiler.

A green
carrier bag sat on the table. It had gold string handles and ‘House
of Fraser’ written on the side in bold green letters.

The dress in
the bag was obviously expensive, but Jennifer’s expression as she
took it out of its tissue paper was that of a person torn between
two moods. Part of her wanted to love it, because it was expensive
and because George had obviously chosen it with great care;
beautiful maroon which she loved and which went well with her
colouring. The other part of her wanted to find fault with it,
saying, ‘it won’t fit’ or ‘it’s the wrong design,’ or ‘the wrong
colour.’ She held it against her small frame, swirling from side to
side, catching her reflection in the glass of the kitchen door.

She ran
upstairs and tried the dress on in one of the spare bedrooms. She
looked at herself in the long dress mirror. The dress looked
magnificent and fitted her so comfortably, she even had to
recognise this in view of her current distaste for George.

She carefully
pulled the dress over her head, hanging it on a velvet-covered
clothes hanger in the wardrobe and went back downstairs to prepare
breakfast.

As she reached
into the carrier bag for the remaining tissue paper, she pulled out
a small card with a hand painted red rose on the cover. She ran her
tiny hand across the picture and opened the card reading the words,
‘I love you’ which George had written.

She heard the
toilet flush in the upstairs bathroom. She quickly put the kettle
on and laid the table for breakfast.

George walked
nervously into the kitchen, unexpectedly relieved as she walked
over from the cooker and kissed him gently on the cheek.

‘It’s
beautiful, dear, absolutely beautiful,’ she said, smiling at him as
he retained his anxious expression.

‘I’m pleased
you like it, I saw it in the window when I went to collect the
pantomime tickets and thought how fashionable it looked, as if it
had been made exclusively for you,’ he said, sitting down at the
kitchen table, the nervousness leaving him but being replaced with
caution and slight anxiety.

She left the
bacon grilling slowly as she ran upstairs, returning a few minutes
later wearing the maroon dress, swirling around the kitchen table
like an excited schoolgirl.

‘I shall wear
my diamond earrings with it,’ she said.

George smiled
at her as she pranced around the kitchen in the expensive garment,
giving his open approval and admiration. He watched her with
satisfying contentment as she tied her long apron over the dress to
avoid the grease from the grilling bacon staining her new
possession as it sizzled under the grill.

He poured out
two cups of tea as she turned towards him, giving a loving and
appreciative smile momentarily before lowering her head to crack
two eggs into the frying pan.

Jennifer was
in an agreeable mood all morning although George still felt strange
and uneasy, expecting her to return to one of her depressing sulky
moods at any moment. Taking advantage of her good humour, he
suggested driving into the county, having lunch at a country pub on
the way.

His eyes
registered astonishment when she excitingly agreed, going up to her
bedroom to pick something out to wear which would be suitable
against the blustery December weather.

They drove
inland towards the Yorkshire Moors, stopping at the highest point
to gaze at the miles of barren moorland surrounding them. They
parked the car, walking through the wild heather, breathing deeply
the fresh country air as they joyfully walked.

George was
wearing his wellington boots, which he had taken from the boot of
the car; Jennifer was in sensible walking shoes, her head wrapped
in a large woollen scarf. Jennifer stood silent, shaking her head
disbelievingly at the expanse of the countryside without a house or
any visible signs of life. The silence was astonishing as they
walked freely over the damp grass towards a fast flowing stream
which appeared to come from nowhere, and leading to nowhere.

George slipped
suddenly; his wellington boots couldn’t grip the watery base as he
fell backwards with a frightening force.

Jennifer ran
over to him, helping him up with her hands tucked tightly under his
arms until she slid uselessly at the side of him, grabbing the
tufts of grass to steady her fall. They laughed like naughty
children as they scrambled up the small bank, inches from the fast
flowing stream.

Jennifer
wrinkled her face at the aching cold wind, which blew onto her face
as they joyfully walked back to the warmth of the car. They drove
along the coast road with the moors to one side and the rough sea
to the other.

She was in her
element, gazing at the fascinating view of endless golden brown
colour of the moor, gloriously emphasised by the white breakers of
the sea as they lashed against the cliffs.

They stopped
at a country pub and ordered a ploughman’s lunch while looking down
from the window at the violent sea, fat seagulls swooped low over
the breakers as they returned to their nests tucked well into the
face of the cliff.

All she wanted
to do was walk and walk, until eventually they were so tired that
when they returned home that had hardly enough energy to eat the
casserole she had prepared earlier in the day.

Walter was wet
and muddy, equally exhausted as George rubbed him vigorously with a
towel as Jennifer prepared his dinner.

They both sat
in front of the large fire, which Molly had cleaned and re-laid
along with her other daily jobs, switching on the decorative
Christmas tree lights in the hope of lightening the hostile
atmosphere which had dominated most of the week.

The lights
flickered alternately giving the room a warm and comfortable
festive feel, emphasised by the church singing as she watched her
favourite ‘Songs of Praise’ on the television.

The next
morning as Jennifer prepared breakfast, she looked around noticing
it was well below what it should be in terms of cleanliness. She
had known this for sometime but didn’t have the courage to mention
this to Molly, but in view of the poor atmosphere which Molly had
been working in, a decline in standards was inevitable.

She set about
cleaning down the walls, taking advantage of Molly’s day off.

George was
disappointed to see her reaching high up to the ceiling as she
stood on the work surface between the toaster and microwave.

‘We’ll have to
let her go if she’s going to leave the work to you,’ George said,
as he tucked into his eggs and bacon.

‘Oh, she’s all
right. We have always known she’s never been the most attentive
cleaner, but she’s good at washing and ironing,’ Jennifer replied,
climbing down precariously.

She wiped her
hands down the front of her apron and joined him at the table.
‘That was a lovely day yesterday, dear, I so enjoyed it,’ she said,
smiling at him.

‘I don’t know
why we don’t do it more often,’ he replied.

‘That would be
nice, I love the countryside this time of year,’ she said.

George was
pleased to see her back to her normal self after a week of silence,
which had become more oppressive as each day went by, but she was
now smiling and humming to herself as she worked. She had always
enjoyed domestic work, irrespective of her age, but George did not
have his old energy anymore. He was sleeping more and more in the
day and would stay in bed all day if Jennifer had let him.

She hoped the
spring season would encourage him to be more active as he loved his
garden, which took most of his day to maintain, and which rewarded
him in a glorious display of colour where passers-by would stop and
stare at the beautifully manicured lawn which surrounded the house,
edged by an abundance of mature trees.

The return of
their conversation mirrored a warm normality through the house. The
hostility appeared to have been replaced by joyfulness and
laughter, even young Walter skipped around from room to room unlike
the past week when he spent most of his day curled up tightly on
his blanket.