Inseparable Bond (17 page)

She fumbled in
her handbag for the house keys, dropping her car keys in the
process. John picked them up and offered them to her.

‘No, dear, you
keep hold of those, you may fancy a drive later, the car’s very
easy,’ she said, with a gentle smile as she opened the front
door.

The hall was
long and wide. A large Chinese carpet laid over a dark wooden
floor, which continued up the wide wooden staircase. The house was
uninviting. He recalled Jennifer saying on their last meeting,
‘It’s impossible to heat in the winter and in summer impossible to
fill,’ which he now appreciated what she had meant.

He followed
Jennifer to the large kitchen. He remembered this as a child.
Nothing had changed except for the introduction of a new
refrigerator. The old cooker was chipped and greasy, which sat
alongside the old green Aga. ‘I’ll put the kettle on and make us a
nice cup of tea,’ Jennifer said, as she filled an old kettle from
the tap resting on the deep enamel sink. ‘You have a walk around
and see if you remember anything. I’ve put you in the front room
opposite the bathroom,’ she said, as she placed the large kettle on
the Aga.

He went
upstairs to the large landing. He looked over the banister to the
hall below.

All the
bedrooms doors were open, the furniture was old fashioned and felt
like they were kept in state of suspended life. The beds were made
with large white pillows. The wooden floors, not exactly clean, but
swept occasionally, the decoration faded but intact.

He peered into
Jennifer’s room. In the corner was a shrine on a small table, a
figure of the Virgin Mary was set on a lace cloth with some candles
scattered around. Her bed was not properly made; the eiderdown had
been hastily straightened over a tangle of blankets beneath. The
walls were painted an indulgent crimson.

He walked into
the smallest room, which he occupied as a lad. He frantically
searched his memory and remembered sitting at the small desk doing
his homework, the desk stood in its original place and in its
original condition.

He took his
bag to the front bedroom. It was an airy high-ceilinged chamber,
whose large windows overlooked the front garden. This had been his
parent’s room as he remembered running in as a child, jumping on
the bed to wake his father.

The family had
consisted of him, Jennifer and their parents, which even the most
fruitful parent’s could not have filled all the rooms in the
house.

He walked down
the wide corridor, looking up at the dusty chandelier attached to
the high ceiling. It was covered in dust, but hung majestically
under a rose cornice.

The house was
cold and draughty, even on the warm summer afternoon as the sun
beamed streams of light through the large plate-glass window,
colouring the recently disturbed dust which hovered in the air.

He stood at
the kitchen door watching Jennifer buttering bread. She looked a
lonely, pathetic figure in the dim light of the kitchen, yet she
was inwardly excited with her weekend visitor, probably her first
visitor in many years.

She turned
around to the door.

‘Oh, you’re
there, do you remember it all?’ she asked inquisitively.

‘Some of it. I
did remember my bedroom at the back,’ he replied, as he sat at the
kitchen table.

‘I don’t go in
many of the rooms,’ Jennifer replied, as she poured the tea from
the pot covered by a knitted tea cosy.

‘Why do you
live in such a large house, Jennifer, when there’s only you?’ John
asked.

‘Well, mother
left it to me when she died, and I feel obliged to live in it,
besides, where would I move to?’ she asked, as she passed a plate
of sandwiches to John.

He didn’t
answer, he just looked around the large kitchen and up to the high
grease covered ceiling.

‘Have you been
around the garden? It’s a bit of a mess, I need to get it sorted
but I can’t manage it, it’s too much for me,’ she said, turning to
look through the kitchen window.

‘I’ll have a
walk around the garden tomorrow and maybe trim it up a bit for
you,’ John said.

‘That would be
nice dear, but you are not here to work, it’s your weekend away,’
she replied, and smiled as she raised her cup to her thin lips.

‘When you’ve
had your tea you can go for a lie down, you must be tired after
your journey, we can chat later,’ she said.

‘Yes, I might
just do that,’ he replied.

Jennifer
gripped John’s hand, and for the first time she looked him deep and
direct in the eyes. ‘You do look tired,’ she said, as she loosened
her grip on his hand.

Jennifer
looked weary in her dowdy skirt and jumper as they cleared the
table. A raw chicken lay under a fly net on the work surface
waiting to be devoured at supper.

John went to
his bedroom. It was the only room Jennifer had taken much trouble
to make inviting. A vase of fresh flowers had been placed on a side
table with two fluffy white towels at the end of his three-quarter
sized bed.

Within minutes
he was asleep, lying on his back, dragging in deep breathes of
fresh air from the open window.

It was almost
6 o’clock when he woke. The room was dark; Jennifer had crept in
and closed the curtains while he slept.

In the vaulted
kitchen she took a coffee pot from the range and filled two white
cups. She took one through the scullery and out to the narrow back
staircase which gave her access to the first floor without having
to return to the main hall. She climbed the stairs watching the
coffee did not spill. She walked along the sunlit corridor to the
principle bedroom where John was sleeping. She paused outside his
room and placed the cup on the landing windowsill. She knocked
lightly on his door.

’It’s ten past
six John, there’s coffee on the windowsill,’ she quietly said, as
she returned down the main staircase.

John opened
the door and collected the cup of coffee. He quickly shaved and
changed. He combed his thick head of hair and wore a clean shirt,
which hung down outside his trousers almost to his knees. He stood
in front of the window looking down at the garden for a few minutes
before going downstairs.

He passed the
open door of the lounge, where Jennifer was sitting reading the
local paper, which had recently been delivered. She had also
changed and wore a long green silk skirt, white blouse and a pair
of thin-strapped sandals. She looked up over her small horn rimmed
spectacles,

‘Oh, you’re
up, just put the cup by the sink and come in here, you can join me
in a glass of sherry if you like,’ she said, as she folded the
newspaper and placed it on the table beside her chair.

The room was
cluttered and had a smell of stale air. Cloths containing books,
candles and more religious statues covered the numerous tables in
the room.

The widows
were large, which gave a view of the overgrown garden to the side;
the freed rectangle of light revealed a room full of formal
furniture of the nineteenth century, fussily scrolled and
uncomfortably upholstered. There was a large mirror in a gilded
frame above the marble mantelpiece and at the end of the room,
still in half- darkness, was what looked like an enormous flat desk
with a reading lamp.

John sat on
the end of the settee, watching Jennifer as she poured out two
glasses of sherry from a crystal decanter.

‛How do you
manage to clean a house this big, Jennifer?’ he asked.

‘There’s a
woman who comes to clean, but she has problems at home I think,
she’s very irregular,’ she replied, as she precariously carried the
glasses over to John.

Jennifer sat
with her chin cupped in her hands, staring across at John with
unblinking eyes. Her concentration appeared to be tireless.

‘Oh, the
chicken,’ she shrieked as she hurriedly left the room. John
followed her holding his glass. He watched her move efficiently
about the kitchen and taking crockery to the stone sink,
occasionally lifting the lid of the giant stockpot and shaking her
head in disappointment at the thin and meatless aroma it
released.

‛I think its
ready now, John, you go through to the dining room and I’ll bring
it in,’ she instructed, as she gave a final stir to the pot.

He went ahead
of her to the dining room at the far end of the hall. Jennifer had
laid a place for him at the head of the table. A bottle of wine had
been transferred into a decanter. John poured the wine into the
crystal glasses and sat at his place. He tucked a white napkin into
his collar, as though anxious to protect his new white shirt and
leaned back in his chair.

Jennifer
entered the room carrying two plates, which she carefully placed at
the settings at each end of the well-laid table.

‘Oh, you
poured the wine, that’s good,’ she said, as she pulled her chair
out.

The dining
room was similar to the other rooms, dark and dingy, yet this room
had a magnificent chandelier, although covered in dust. The
furnishings were original from the days when John was a young boy.
He remembered the dining room only being used on the odd occasion
when relations visited; otherwise they always ate in the
kitchen.

The chicken
had been cooked in a thin, tasteless sauce accompanied with
tomatoes, mushrooms and carrots. Two covered dishes had been placed
in the centre of the table. One contained mashed potato, the other
cauliflower with cheese sauce.

On the old
sideboard at the far end of the room sat a chocolate sponge cake
under a glass cover, adjacent to a silver jug of cream and two
dessert bowls.

‘How’s your
chicken, John?’ she asked.

‘Very nice,
Jennifer,’ he garbled with his mouth full.

When they had
finished, Jennifer came over and took John’s empty plate to the
sideboard, returning with a large helping of sponge cake where she
poured the cream over it as she placed it down in front of him.

‛That looks
good,’ he said, as his eyes followed the plate from her hand to the
table.

‛There’s
plenty more dear, just help yourself,’ she said, walking back to
her seat.

‘I will need
to speak to you after you’ve finished your meal, John, we’ll go
into the front lounge, its more comfortable there.’

He helped
Jennifer clear the table following her down the lengthy corridor.
The sounds of her shuffling feet from carpet to wood and onto the
cold slate floor of the kitchen echoed through the house.

‛You go
through, dear and I’ll bring the coffee,’ she said, struggling as
she lowered the dishes into the deep sink.

John returned
to his seat on the upholstered settee. Jennifer followed carrying a
silver tray containing a large white pot and two delicate cups
rattling on their saucers. She gently placed it on the low coffee
table. Her hand shook as she poured the coffee. John watched her
tiny frame bend awkwardly, as if in pain. She looked up to him.
‛You can smoke a cigarette if you like, I’ve put an ashtray next to
you,’ she said, as her eyes looked at the small clothed table next
to him containing a small glass ashtray.

He watched
Jennifer as she carefully sat in the upholstered wing chair,
looking up at the ceiling as she lowered her small frame onto the
hard seat. Her face was white. There were grey smudges around the
sockets of her eyes; her skin, he thought, was oddly changeable for
someone of her age. Her head hung still over the cup she held and
he could feel an awful weight of sleeplessness suggested by her
heavy movements.

She lifted her
head and directed her eyes towards John saying, ‛Now I’ve been
making some enquiries with the parole board and the warden at your
hostel. As you know, the licence of your sentence will shortly
expire, and you will be able to leave that dreadful hostel with
those dreadful people and start a new life on your own. We both
know you don’t have the funds to buy a property, and rents are so
very expensive.’ John listened earnestly as he raised his back from
the settee and reached for his coffee.

Jennifer
continued. ’I think it would be a good idea for you to stay here,
your probation officer and the warden agree with me, I hope you
don’t feel that I’ve gone behind your back, dear, I only want the
best for you. Your past years have been difficult, we all know
that. You will need lots of help and support once your licence
expires, what do you think John?’ she asked, her eyes being
transfixed on Johns.

He paused,
deep in thought as he looked around the room.

‘It’s a good
idea, Jennifer, but we don’t really know each other and this is
your home,’ he replied, looking at her expressionless face. She
reached to place her cup on the low table.

‘No, John,
this is our home, the family home, and like you said earlier, why
do I live alone in such a large house? There’s plenty of room, and
the garden is desperate for attention, I just can’t upkeep it on my
own and gardeners are so very unreliable. You’ve always enjoyed
gardening, your probation officer told me you had transformed the
grounds of the open prison, please say yes, John, it would make me
very happy,’ she said, with a broad smile, and reached for his
hand, giving it a further tight squeeze.

‘Can I mull it
over, Jennifer and tell you my decision before I leave on Sunday?’
John replied.

‘Yes of course
you may, we won’t say anymore about it tonight, the offer is there
if you need it, you know that,’ she said, as she pushed her shoes
off and sat back on the upholstered chair, drawing up her knees and
wrapping her small arms around them. John was in search of perfect
contentment, of which could be found in the family home, but he
wanted to disclose to Jennifer more of what had happened to him
over the past forty years.

He woke the
next morning at 7.30 and stared at the ceiling, which was lit by
strands of sunlight escaping through the top of the brass rails
supporting the large heavy burgundy velvet curtains.