Inseparable Bond

by David Poulter

  He smiled at John, and with a flick of the head he went downstairs for his evening meal. He always ate alone, often lighting a candle at his table overlooking the garden.

  John went down for his meal and joined Dorothy, Gary and Harold.

  He looked over at Graham Banks as he sat at his table touching up his bouffant hair in the reflection of the window with a silver hair pick, and looking totally at ease with himself.

  John stared in amazement, but regarded his appearance as outstanding although he had accumulated many years of experience.

  Peter Scott walked into the room. The earphones of a Walkman were hanging around his neck. He was wearing tight jeans and butter-coloured cowboy boots. He looked across at Gary and gave him a seductive smile; Gary reciprocated with a wink of his eye. Dorothy and Harold had noticed his returned gesture, but it went ignored and without comment.

  Ronnie Baxter had woken from the small reading room and walked in for his evening meal, clutching a paperback book in his hand. He always walked quickly and never in a straight line, constantly sidestepping or giving the effect of avoiding land mines with sudden unpredictable pivots that left you watching the space where he had been instead of the place he was going. ‘Who’s nicked my fucking fags?’ he yelled as he looked around the room walking to his table.

  They shrugged their shoulders and continued to eat, hunched over their meals.

  It had been a warm day, resulting in a balmy evening. John went to the car park to smoke a cigarette from the packet he had stolen previously from Baxter as he slept.

  He cupped his hands to shield his lighter from the warm breeze and lit his cigarette as he walked slowly up the hill. The warmth of the evening intensified as the setting sun sends almost horizontal shafts through the gaps in the trees. The light fades as John returns and enters the car park hostel.

  Plastic dining room chairs had been scattered around the lawn, most of them occupied, leaving only a handful of residents in the lounge.

  He decided to have an early night and went to his bedroom where he lay on his bed and watched his small television perched precariously on the edge of his washbasin.

  It was Wednesday. John walked to work to start the early shift. It was hot and humid with a warm wind, which cut across the wasteland as he passed. The sun was breaking through the heavy dark clouds, and the weather forecast was for a wet and miserable day. It took twenty minutes on foot from the hostel to the hotel, including his brief visit to the shop for his daily packet of cigarettes.

  Today would be slightly longer, as he needed to obtain a train ticket from the railway station opposite the hotel for his weekend visit to his sister in Fleetwood.

  A WEEKEND WITH JENNIFER

  John’s alarm clock woke him at 7.30. It was a dull day after a night of heavy rain. He showered in the bathroom at the end of the corridor, and shaved when he returned to his room.

  He dressed in his new trousers and shirt, which he had purchased purposely for the trip, and slipped on a pair of cheap new shoes. He packed his small bag with a change of clothes and a wash bag. He left his room with his recently dry cleaned jacket, which he folded and neatly placed across his arm.

  He ate his breakfast early and sat outside the warden’s office, waiting for him to arrive. The warden rushed in carrying his briefcase and wearing an overcoat.

  ‘Good morning John, you look smart, come through,’ he said, as he unlocked his office door.

  The warden explained the procedure of weekend visits, with emphasis placed on his return by 10pm Sunday evening.

  He left the hostel with a spring in his step, looking back at the building as he entered the street for his walk to the railway station. The morning sun was burning off the overnight mist from the wasteland. He crossed the road to the shop for his cigarettes.

  The station platform was busy with commuters as he pushed his way through to the cafeteria at the far end. He purchased the daily paper and ordered a cup of tea. He went to the only unoccupied table, situated at the far end. He took one sip of his tea and noticed his train arriving at the platform.

  Leaving his tea behind, he raced to the platform and stood amongst the usual confusion of people pushing their way through. He peered through the steamed up windows as the train slowly pulled to a halt alongside him. He pushed through the scrambling passengers and made his way down the aisle. He found a vacant seat where an obliging lady removed her shopping bag as if reserving it for him. Although the sun had begun to force its way through the clouds, it was cold in the unheated carriage. The train slunk beneath the old bridge opposite the station hotel, gathering speed as it left the platform.

  After an hour in the chilly carriage, he went to the lavatory and read the scribbled feelings of previous passengers as he sat on the pan, getting warmth from an air-vent at his side.

  He returned to his seat just in time to see the outskirts of Manchester where he was to connect to his Blackpool train.

  The passengers left their seats as if they had been instructed to evacuate. They raced to the doors as the train approached the station.

  He had only five minutes connection time as the inaudible voice echoed through the station informing passengers that the train to Blackpool was ready for departure.

  He briskly walked to platform 4 and boarded the awaiting train.

  He was relieved on entering the half empty carriage and took the first available seat by the window. He removed his jacket and settled into his seat, relieved at catching the train and finding a heated carriage for the one-hour journey.

  He found the views of the open countryside were unfamiliar, along with the buildings. It had been over twenty years since he last visited his neighbouring towns. As the train approached the outskirts of Blackpool, the only recognised structure was Blackpool Tower which stood high and proud in the distance as the train slowed into the station.

  He left the train, correcting his jacket as he walked up the platform searching for a glimpse of Jennifer among the group of people at the barrier. His eyes were directed to a waving hand at the far end, it was Jennifer desperately trying to attract his attention.

  Her face was grey, unfeminine and without make-up; she wore a long tan coloured coat with a small grey brimmed fur hat covering most of her dark, short cut hair. She looked older than he had remembered five months earlier when she visited him at the hostel. She firmly gripped the sides of his head pulling his face to hers and gave him a reassuring kiss on his cheek. He did not reciprocate. He smiled at her as she led him through the concourse and into the car park.

  ‘It’s so good to see you John, how was your journey?’ she asked, as she gave him a slight squeeze on his arm.

  ‘It was fine, but the first train was cold and very busy,’ he replied, as Jennifer reached into her pocket for her keys.

  It was a small red Vauxhall Nova with grey seats. John threw his bag in the back seat as Jennifer excitingly got into the driving seat.

  ‘Do you still drive, John?’ she asked, as she started the ignition.

  ‘Yes, but I haven’t driven since I came out of…’ he hesitated as Jennifer continued with his sentence. ‘Prison, John, there is no reason to feel embarrassed about it, it’s over now, and you must try and forget about it. You are coming home for a weekend, away from all that, it’s only two days, so you must enjoy yourself,’ she said, as she pulled out of the car park. Her seat was pulled to its most forward position as she peered over the small steering wheel, which appeared to rest on her knees. The whine of the underpowered engine sounded like a sewing machine as they drove along the promenade towards Fleetwood.

  ‘Do you recognise anything, John?’ she asked, as she stared at the road.

  ‘Yes, nothing’s changed except the new tram shelters,’ he replied.

  ‘Did you eat anything, John?’ she asked, facing him as they stopped at a set of traffic lights.

  ‘Well, I had breakfast before I left but nothing since,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, I’ve made
you a bit of dinner, it’s not much but it will keep you going before tea time,’ Jennifer said, as she accelerated heavily, making the engine scream as if in agony.

  He noticed the drastic changes as they drove through Fleetwood town centre. The old school was now the town’s library, the old fishing port now housed a huge glass shopping centre, and the newly-built health centre occupied the land where his old school had stood.

  As Jennifer carefully turned into Redwood Drive, he recognised the houses, although they had been extended over the years, and many supported conservatories and paved drives. The trees were large and well established; which gave the road a more affluent feel, affording extra privacy to the large houses which lined each side.

  As she turned into the drive, hitting the curb as she entered, the house looked larger from the outside to what he remembered. It was surrounded by a large un-kept garden. It had been nearly forty years since his father had evicted him, refused to accept him as a son and cutting him out of the family will.

  Jennifer parked the car facing the doors of the double garage. They were in desperate need of a paint and repair.

  ‘We’re home, John,’ she said, as she struggled out of her seat. John followed her along the uneven path to the large front door; also in need of paint along with the window frames.

  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.