Christmas day was wet, cold and windy. The vicar had called on his rounds to offer his seasonal greetings to Jennifer, ignoring John Bell throughout his brief visit.
Christmas lunch was a quiet affair, just the two of them at the kitchen table hacking into a roast chicken, the rain lashing at the window and branches tapping at the glass in the cold, strong wind.
A woman from the church had visited the previous evening to wash and set Jennifer’s hair. John looked over the table at her, noticing the hairstyle which he thought had made her look older, her wrinkles had seemed clearer now the fringe had gone, leaving her forehead unprotected.
They spent the afternoon watching the television, each wrapped in a blanket by the built up fire, warming the front of their legs before escaping into the cold air which circulated the room.
John left the room and returned, zipping up his new quilted coat, his Christmas present from Jennifer. ‘Wear a tie, John,’ she said sternly, ‘it is Christmas.’ He ignored her command and walked down to the promenade as he braved the lashing rain.
The streets were deserted of cars and people. In the far distance he saw a couple walking on the beach, a young boy proudly showed off his skateboard as he rode by the shelter.
The cold wind became unbearable, he walked back to the house.
He entered the hall as Jennifer tidied and fussed around, her obsession with cleaning drove him mad. He stepped over the cord of the vacuum cleaner and walked into the lounge.
He noticed a boxed candle and a small rose in a thin vase on the sideboard. ‘Where did that come from?’ he asked Jennifer, who pushed the noisy vacuum cleaner into the room.
‘The vicar’ she replied, without looking up.
His hands started to shake, the muscles in his neck were in knots as he took deep breaths to control his inner anger. He reached over and threw a piece of wood on the fire from the pile Jennifer had carefully laid by the fireplace.
He walked out of the room and into the kitchen. Jennifer was sitting on the floor by the back door. ‘Will you help me, John, I don’t seem to be able to stand,’ Jennifer said, looking at him with fearful eyes. John went over to her as she tried to get up. Her legs were very thin, she tried to walk. She couldn’t, even when she used the door to support herself.
John lifted her from the floor and sat her on the kitchen chair. She was sweating profusely, she lowered her head, and her hands supported it as John filled a glass of water from the sink. ‘You’ve tired yourself out with this cleaning,’ he said, wiping her brow with a wet cloth.
‘I’ll go and have a lie down dear, I’ll feel better later,’ she said.
John walked her slowly to the stairs and carefully held onto her as they entered her bedroom. ‘I’ll be fine now, dear, I’ll see you downstairs later,’ she said, lowering herself onto the bed, pressing her fingers to her temple.
John watched helplessly as tears fell from her eyes and she fished around in her sleeve for her hanky. The incident had clearly upset and frightened her.
He made her a cup of tea; she was asleep when he returned. He left the cup by her bed.
He stayed home that evening, realising their would be little activity in the late night shelter, the majority of oversexed men, transvestites and voyeurs would be celebrating Christmas night with their wives and children.
It was after midnight when he went to bed. He peered into Jennifer’s room, she was sleeping, and he watched his pornographic video before falling asleep.
He was woken by a strip of sunlight squeezing its way in through the gap in the large velvet curtains. He lay still for a long time, listening. The neighbourhood was quiet, being Boxing Day. His alarm clock had said ten minutes past nine.
It was only when he went to the bathroom that he remembered Jennifer. He looked at the windowsill, no cup of tea. He tiptoed down the landing and peered around the door of her room. She was sleeping on her back with her mouth open, but there was no noise. The blanket had slipped half off to reveal her small thigh.
As he approached, she grunted with a short snort. She turned over in her sleep to find a new position. The blanket fell to the floor. He picked it up and quietly replaced it over her.
He went into the kitchen and made breakfast, laying a tray of tea and toast to take up to Jennifer, he heard the water pipes clatter.
He heard her footsteps coming down the stairs and watched her enter the kitchen. There was fresh colour in her cheeks, she didn’t look ill at all and certainly not tired.
John went over to her as she stood by the open door, giving her a gentle kiss on the cheek. Her skin felt dry and cold. She sat at the kitchen table breathing heavily, John poured he some tea as he began to eat his breakfast.
‘How do you fee this morning?’ he asked.
‘I feel much better, thank you,’ she replied reassuringly.
The dry weather gave him the opportunity to replace the tiles on the roof; they had dislodged causing leakage through one of the top bedrooms. He needed to get on the roof. Some rungs were missing from the old ladder lying at the side of the house, but it got him there after he finally managed to get the ladder in place.
It took only twenty minutes to repair. He precariously lowered himself to the ground as Jennifer held tightly at the base of ladders.
‘Thank you,’ she said, flinging her small arms around him, squeezing him tightly.
She had never responded as affectionately before. He gave her a gentle squeeze back and walked her back into the kitchen, his arm around her small shoulder.
Jennifer had barely enough money to cover more than the basic maintenance. John did most of it himself, as plumbers and electricians cost money. The previous week he had put in a new water pipe when the old one burst and there was a list of repairs which needed to be done. Jennifer didn’t want to sell the house, although the estate agents pestered her with reasonably high offers for the property, realising the value of the land in which it stood was of higher value than the house.
Any buyer would probably pull the whole lot down. It was the location also that was attractive. She regularly sent the estate agent packing, telling him to spare himself any more visits. He was notoriously known for pressuring old ladies in the town.
John lit the fire in the lounge, spending the rest of the morning watching religious programmes which he had put on for Jennifer’s benefit, she lay on the sofa under a thick woollen blanket, her head resting on a pillow John had got from her room.
For reasons he didn’t understand, his thoughts that day were of the showman, falsely imprisoned for the murder of the gypsy fortune-teller last summer. He wondered why he should be reminded of this after six months.
He made an omelette for Jennifer, putting it on a tray and taking it through to her in the lounge. She ate only half but drank the glass of milk.
She slept for the rest of the afternoon, going to bed early at 7 o’clock.
John spent the evening watching television, wrapped in his blanket. He had let the fire go out for the little use it had been. He continued watching television in his bedroom, the end of the pornographic video.
Jennifer constantly used the bathroom throughout the early hours, giving John a restless night.
The grey morning light sneaked through the gap in the curtain. His bedroom was colder than normal; quickly putting on his dressing gown he opened the curtains, the glare blinding him for a second.
Overnight there had been a heavy fall of snow, followed by a severe frost. The avenue looked as if it had been made of silver. Long icicles like crystal daggers hung down the eaves of the houses.
The strong fluorescent light from the open kitchen door lit the polished parquet floor.
She was mopping the floor as John walked in, the draining board was full of detergent bottles and cleaning utensils, her wrap-around apron was a sign to John that she intended spending most of the day cleaning through the house.
‘Should you be doing that?’ he asked.
‘Oh I feel fine no
w dear, you go out for the day,’ she replied, frantically mopping the floor.
She had made him some breakfast, plated on the Aga next to a bubbling casserole.
Jennifer mopped around his feet, the smell of disinfectant clinging to the back of his throat each time he fed something in to his mouth.
Wearing his hooded duffle coat he stepped onto the freshly laid snow, crunching under his feet. The fall of snow had brought a natural stillness, broken only by the distant bark of a dog and the rattling of milk bottles from the approaching milk float.
The promenade was eerily quiet. The shops and stalls remained closed, many with their metal shutters lowered. He peered over the net curtains of the corner café; a couple of old men were drinking tea, reading newspapers as they munched buttered toast.
The sea was motionless; its grey colour blending with the grey sky on the horizon, a few small waves lapped the shore. A lonely figure stood by the waters edge, throwing a stick for his dog that braved the icy water to retrieve it.
The snow crunched underfoot as he passed a few fishermen, well insulated in their heavy coats, hoods covering their heads while they stared into the ocean, holding their rods patiently waiting for a bite.
He came across the sex shelter, not realising he had walked so far along.
The daylight revealed the remnants of used condoms, cigarette butts and a pair of black lace panties discarded under the bench indicating the previous night’s activities, the stench of urine becoming stronger as he approached.
An elderly man and woman were sitting drinking tea from their vacuum flask in the warmth of their car parked next to the shelter, innocently unaware of the sexual theatre which would be performed in the shadow of darkness.
The sun was shining through the broken clouds, turning the light layer of white snow to a slushy grey as John made his way back to Fleetwood.
The sun had attracted a few brave souls out of hibernation as they strolled the promenade in the still icy air.
Jennifer was nowhere to be seen when he arrived home. He sat on a kitchen chair, exhausted after his long walk back. The kitchen had a strong odour of disinfectant, the cooker still caked with burnt grease.
He looked around the kitchen at the once white paintwork which had turned yellow. She had done her best to clean the kitchen but it needed attention, handles on the units were loose, so were some of the slate floor tiles. These inside jobs could be done while the weather was so bad, the first sign of dry warm weather he would sort out the garden, starting with the front.
He went into the garage in search of the toolbox Jennifer had tidied away. The garage contained all sorts of junk. He found the small toolbox in the drawer of an old Welsh dresser, returning to the kitchen to fasten the handles tight.
He heard the front door open. ‘It’s only me,’ Jennifer called. She struggled into the kitchen, weighed down by the bulging shopping bags she carried.
Reaching her arms she placed them heavily on the table, one carrier bag tipping over, sending the contents on the table and across the clean kitchen floor.
‘Why didn’t you take the car, Jennifer?’ he asked, scrambling around the floor to retrieve an orange which was heading for the back door.
‘I don’t like to drive in this weather, the roads are very icy, so I caught the bus,’ she replied, as she unpacked the upright bag.
She pulled open the cutlery drawer for the scissors she needed to break the string bag containing tangerines. ‘Oh, that’s better,’ she said, with a broad smile across her face, ‘you are a good boy, I’ve been meaning to mend that handle for some time,’ she said, peering inside the drawer, feeling the new screws with her tiny cold fingers. ‘Did you have a nice walk, dear?’ she asked.
‘It was very cold, but I walked further than I usually do,’ he replied. He watched her scuttle around the kitchen, storing the abundance of food she had purchased. The cupboards contained an amazing display of food of every description; tinned beans and soups regimentally lined up, labels always facing forward.
She washed the oranges which had scattered around the floor before placing them in the glass fruit bowl with apples, tangerines, grapes and bananas.
She sat down with a heavy sigh, her head back, gazing at the ceiling. ‘Well that’s all out of the way,’ she said, reaching for her mug of tea. ‘I had another little fall in the supermarket, a kind couple helped me to my feet and stayed with me until I felt a bit better,’ she said.
‘I think you should see Doctor Walker, this is the second time now,’ John said, sternly.
‘Well if you think so dear, but he’ll still be on his Christmas holiday with his family, I’ll wait until next week when everybody’s back at work,’ she replied.
‘I’ve made a casserole for supper, John, can you smell it?’ she asked.
‘Yes, it smells good, can’t wait,’ he replied, as he turned his head towards the cooker.
The odour of disinfectant still hovered in the air, disguising the remotest aroma of the food.
John left Jennifer in the kitchen cleaning down the work surfaces, having regained her strength and obsession to clean.
The snow had almost gone by the time the afternoon sun had set. The road was wet and slushy, the garden revealed back to its untidy condition.
John walked to the end of the drive; leaning against the wall he smoked a cigarette cupped in his hands to keep warm, remembering the many nights he would do the same back at the hostel in Wakefield.
After the casserole supper, they watched Coronation Street on television before Jennifer went to bed, clutching a hot water bottle as she gave John his nightly kiss on his cheek.
He watched television for another couple of hours, zipped up his black hooded winter coat, loosely fitting jeans and black trainers, picking up the car keys on his way out.
The car had not been used for the past three days, the interior was freezing cold and the heater would not be effective until he had reached the sex shelter on the promenade.
The headlights picked out the dark figures of unaccompanied men ambling their way along the sea wall, a hooded stroller walked his dog as they approached the shelter, probably with the intention of calling in as a reciprocate or a mere voyeur.
Another dog was jumping up at his owner as he held his ball in his hand high above his head, another possible voyeur.
John parked his car behind a white motor home, turning his car lights off before the car had come to a halt.
The curtains on the side of the motor home were slightly open, revealing the small fat man inside, laid naked on a fold-down settee watching a portable television.
Only two men were in the shelter, but it was a bitterly cold night. A few others slowly walked along the pavement, peering through the window of the motor home and continuing to walk on after seeing the repulsive little man inside.
John hadn’t noticed the guy leaning against the wall of the shelter, stroking his crotch, staring at him sitting in his car behind the motor home.
He was a thin guy with broad shoulders wearing tight denim jeans, black bomber jacket, white trainers and a black baseball cap pulled low over his ruggedly handsome face. He gave the occasional glance at the passing cars, which slowed down then accelerated off again due to the lack of activity, returning his attention to John.
He idled over to the car, stroking his crotch and bending his tall body to look through the closed window. John lowered the window and turned to him. ‘Fancy some company?’ he asked John.
‘Well, it’s warmer in here than out there,’ he replied, as he reached over to unlock the passenger door.
The guy walked in front of the car and climbed in. The interior light illuminated as the door opened, giving John a clear view of his handsome face. He reached for John’s leg and ran his hand up to his crotch. John reciprocated, and the guy reached his arm backwards and fumbled in the darkness for the lever positioned on the side.
With the back of his seat reclined, he unfastened his belt and raised hi
s buttocks off the seat as he lowered his jeans over his knees.
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.
Inseparable Bond Page 16