Inseparable Bond (23 page)

John stroked
his body and fondled him, using his other hand to release his belt
and open the top of his trousers, keeping a watchful eye out for
intruders.

The driver
behind had been watching, his sexual frustration getting the better
of him. He left his car and idled over, peering in the window
watching John engaged in oral sex with the stranger.

Once the
stranger ejaculated, John reached into the glove box for the
handy-pack of tissues, which Jennifer kept in case of emergencies.
The stranger quickly left and walked to his car, which was parked
further up the promenade.

A few more
cars had begun to park, the motor home didn’t moved, nor did its
occupant.

It was getting
late, a small group who braved the bitter cold had gathered in the
shelter. John watched the silhouettes slowly moving around in the
exposed area, the tiled roof being the only shelter from the snow
which had just started to fall.

He started the
engine to warm the interior of his car, his feet were numb with the
cold and his fingers felt frozen. He rubbed his hands together as
the heat slowly circulated around him.

He decided to
drive further along, the other shelter was equally notorious but as
he approached he saw a group of fisherman adjacent to the shelter
and soon realised that any sexual activity would be confined to the
other shelter.

He decided to
drive back to Fleetwood. He was satisfied with his short encounter,
considering he had taken the best of a bad bunch.

The snow was
falling heavier and lay thick on the road. He felt a smoother ride
as the snow crunched under the tyres.

A small light
flickered from the half open door inside the beach hut, the old
tramps injuries must not have been life threatening he thought to
himself as he slowly drove passed.

His body was
chilled to the bone, he had a bath to warm himself through before
climbing into bed, but it was only temporary relief as the bed
sheets were icy cold.

The following
morning he opened his bedroom curtains expecting to see a thick
covering of snow. It must have stopped falling shortly after he had
returned home last night. Only a thin dusting was left, the early
morning sun and unexpected mild temperature had soon disposed of
it.

It was ten
past ten. He heard voices in the sitting room as he walked down the
stairs.

Jennifer and
the vicar were sitting on the sofa, drinking tea out of her best
china cups. A bunch of flowers were on the seat of the armchair,
wrapped in polythene paper.

‘You slept in
late, I’ve left your breakfast in the oven, dear,’ she said, as she
smiled at the vicar like a lovesick teenager. The vicar looked
around at John but didn’t speak. The atmosphere became very
subdued.

He stomped to
the kitchen, took his breakfast out of the oven and scraped it into
the waste bin. He went out to the back garden. He became enraged,
taking his anger out on the fallen tree stump which he kicked
repeatedly, his fists clenched, his eyes wide with rage. He prowled
the garden with explosive energy, violently kicking anything in his
path, showing the true extent of his paranoid schizophrenia.

Taking his
coat off the hook in the hall, he slammed the door behind him,
putting his arms through the sleeves as he stomped down the drive
and onto the street.

He sat on his
usual bench overlooking the sea, his hands shaking with anger, his
mind swilling with rage as he frantically inhaled the smoke from
his cigarette.

He briskly
walked along the promenade, his anger subsiding into mere
irritation before reducing him to his normal placid
temperament.

The vicar’s
silver Toyota had gone by the time he returned. Jennifer was
reaching into the deep sink, her arms covered in suds. She turned
her head towards John.

‘Where did you
go, dear? We were expecting you to join us, the vicar’s just left,’
she said, turning her face back to the soap filled sink.

‘I just went
for a packet of cigarettes, I didn’t want to disturb you both,’ he
said, taking off his jacket.

‘You are
silly, John, he’s a nice man and a good friend, he’s been very
lonely since his wife died last year,’ she said, as she remained
looking into the dishwater, pulling out a breakfast plate dripping
in suds.

‘He’s very
concerned about my fall and wants to drive me to Doctor Walker next
week,’ she said.

John replied,
‘I thought I was taking you to the doctors next week?’

‘Well, I know
dear, but he offered and I didn’t like to offend, so he has saved
you the trouble,’ she replied.

He lived at
the vicarage on Kingston Road, opposite the chapel. His son had
emigrated to Australia with his wife and son; his daughter lived in
Bournemouth with her husband and two children.

After a roast
chicken supper that night, John went for his evening stroll,
leaving Jennifer to clean the kitchen, her nightly ritual before
she went to bed.

The chapel was
prominently placed in the centre of town, the vicarage small in
comparison and set well back off the main road, camouflaged by a
large oak tree in the centre of a well manicured lawn.

A light shone
from one of the two front windows, the rest of the house in
darkness.

John jumped
the waist high stone wall at the side of the house, keeping a
watchful eye on any twitching net curtains from the surrounding
houses. Even though he was wearing his black coat, he would be
easily spotted if someone cared to look. Without looking back, he
crept over the soggy lawn to the house.

He peered
through the window of the vicar’s study. John was breathing
heavily, nervousness constricted his throat and he swallowed
quickly.

The vicar was
sitting on a captain’s chair at his desk. A green shaded desk lamp
illuminated the far end of the room as he sat writing with his head
hung low over his desk. He looked up and across to the window. John
Bell quickly ducked below the windowsill and crept to the side of
the house, crouching down as he moved to avoid detection.

The vicar came
over to the window peering through, looking across the garden
before returning to his desk. John’s hands were shaking, adrenalin
had started to race through his veins as his heart pumped faster
but he managed to control his jealous anger.

He jumped back
over the wall, looking through the window as he passed. The vicar
yawned and rubbed his forehead before switching off the desk lamp,
the house was now in darkness.

The muscles in
his lower back ached from his crouched position as he walked back
home past the winter worn birch trees and dirty remnants of
snow.

Jennifer was
in bed, she had courteously left a small side light on in the
hall.

The sitting
room was not too cold, Jennifer must been watching television and
had only recently gone to bed, the sweet odour of her perfume still
lingered in the room, the fire still generated a small amount of
heat.

He opened the
top button of his shirt, loosened his belt and leaned back in the
armchair. Gazing at the burnt out remains of the fire he remembered
his mother singing to the radio as she did the ironing, Jennifer
and he would play games on the rug by the fire.

His parents
weren’t religious, but they did encourage them to pray. They prayed
for the sick and suffering people in poor countries of the world.
Jennifer was similar to her mother in that respect, she prayed each
night before she slept and went to chapel every Sunday
religiously.

John had loved
his mother, she had been as tough as a man; she had to be, his
father was weak and not often at home. Any affection he gave was
towards Jennifer.

John sat until
the early hours remembering his childhood days.

He woke to
another dull day, listening to the distant sounds of the noisy
vacuum cleaner getting louder by the minute as it neared his
bedroom.

It was
Jennifer’s seventieth birthday. John had promised to take her for
lunch at Betty’s Café in Harrogate, followed by a walk through the
Valley Gardens. It was not the ideal day for the walk, unless the
rain eased throughout the morning, but since the rain had replaced
the snow, the drive should be pleasant enough.

Jennifer would
only drive on fine sunny days. She avoided driving in snow, rain,
fog and severe wind unless absolutely necessary, greatly reducing
any winter excursions.

John was
plainly uncomfortable with her driving; she was attentive but
reckless making sudden harsh stops at intersections and guiding the
car with the wheels on the centre white lines.

She had always
loved Harrogate as a child; their parents would occasionally spend
a family outing driving over the Yorkshire Dales in his black
Morris Oxford. His precious Jennifer always in the front passenger
seat next to him, with mother in the back slopping tea all over the
interior as she filled cups from the thermos flask.

The further
inland they travelled the less the rain fell. Jennifer sat upright,
overcoat tightly buttoned up clutching her handbag which sat firmly
on her knees, opening it occasionally to hunt around for a couple
of loose Polo mints, reaching over to place one in John’s mouth as
he drove.

The sun threw
spectacular orange coloured beams of light down to the hills of the
Dales as they descended the winding road to Grassington. Yorkshire
stone farmhouses were scattered along the green hills surrounded by
cows and sheep feasting on the lush grass, looking like toys
scattered around a nursery floor.

Jennifer made
odd comments of our childhood days when father had taken the same
route, making comments into the changes which had occurred over the
past fifty years.

Betty’s Café
was busy; they eventually got a small table for two after a lengthy
wait. They decided not to have lunch, but go for the traditional
afternoon tea. Jennifer had seen the array of delicious items
served at the next table.

The delicately
cut finger sandwiches, the cake tree with scones and cream and the
silver pot of tea were as good as they had looked. Jennifer was in
her element, sat amongst the fine ladies and immaculately dressed
men as she delicately buttered her scone, lifting her china cup
with her small finger raised.

Only an hour
of daylight remained as they left the café. The intended lengthy
stroll through the Valley Gardens would now be reduced to a brief
half an hours walk.

It was dark
when they left the town. Only the grass verges were visible in the
headlights and a few dotted around the hills from farmhouses in the
distance as he drove back through the Dales. Jennifer slept most of
the way back; her head hung low, her overcoat still well buttoned
up, clutching her handbag.

The orange
glow of Preston city lights soon came into view over the horizon,
an indication that Fleetwood was half an hour away.

She woke up as
he drove into Blackpool, the little powerless engine seemed to sigh
with relief as he de-accelerated off the motorway.

The house was
unusually warm as they entered, the Aga had been churning out heat
all day and the unusual mild weather had helped.

She quickly
filled the kettle before removing her hat and coat, and prised the
lid off the cake tin.

‘That was a
lovely day, John, I did enjoy that,’ she said, looking up with a
grateful smile.

‘You should
think about selling up, Jennifer, move to a smaller house in
Harrogate with a smaller garden,’ he said.

‘I could not
afford a house in Harrogate, John, don’t be so silly,’ she replied,
shaking her head, placing the tea cosy over the pot. ‘Just the
occasional day out there is fine for me,’ she said, pouring the
tea.

They decided
to skip supper, settling for a large portion of sponge cake she had
made. The generous afternoon tea had been very filling, besides
nothing had been prepared for supper and Jennifer was beginning to
tire after her outing.

The following
morning John lay in his bed, recalling the previous days outing,
the longest period they had both shared outside the confines of the
house.

It had been as
enjoyable for him as it had for Jennifer and somehow energized him
as he briskly washed, shaved and pulled out a change of fresh
clothes she had washed and tidily hung in his wardrobe.

His new spurt
of energy was short lived. Peering over the banister on his way
downstairs he looked down at the balding crown of a grey haired man
holding his trilby hat in his hands, clasped together behind his
back. He was walking backwards and forwards, as if on military
command. His tall body upright with his legs striding across the
hall. It was the vicar.

His presence
quickly reminded him of Jennifer’s doctor’s appointment.

John eyes
turned to the ornate flower vase on the side table, giving him the
strong urge to drop the heavy item on the crown of his head as he
passed below him.

He felt his
mellow temperament rapidly change as he headed back to his room.
The mere sight of the man enraged him. He knelt on his bed; his
tight shaking fists punched the pillow as explosive adrenalin raced
through his body.

He lay on his
back, his hands shaking with rage, his wild eyes glared down at the
pillow as he heard the front door close. Racing to the window, he
looked down to see the vicar holding open the car door for Jennifer
as she climbed into the passenger seat giving him a childish smile
in appreciation of his chivalry. As they drove away she looked up
at John’s bedroom, he ducked back before she could see him.

A bowl of
cereal had been left for him on the kitchen table He blamed the
absence of his cooked breakfast on the vicar’s intrusion. He
reached into his pocket for his cigarette packet, his hands still
shaking in rage.