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 mos
t 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.
He stomped around the back garden until his temperament returned to a more balanced level as he walked back to the house.
His head pounded with pain as he sat in the lounge, his head pushed back on the high upholstered chair, wiping the perspiration off his forehead with a handkerchief.
Two hours had passed and she had not returned. He grabbed his black bomber jacket and left the house. He walked briskly up the avenue towards the chapel, looking over at the vicarage opposite. Through the branches of the oak tree in the garden he noticed the silver roof of a small car parked in the drive alongside the house.
He crossed the road, keeping clear of the front of the house as he approached from the side; the car was the vicar’s silver Toyota, and Jennifer was probably inside the house with him, John thought to himself.
He felt enraged as he stomped briskly back home, approaching pedestrians stepped aside as he unceremoniously bushed through them on the narrow pavement.
He entered the house and stormed into the kitchen. He was surprised and relieved to see Jennifer sitting at the kitchen table having turned out the contents of her handbag, a powder compact, hair brush, money purse and Polo mints mixed with a few coins, littered the table top as she wiped the inside of her bag with the wet dishcloth.
‘Your back then?’ he said, taking off his coat and throwing it over the back of the chair.
‘Yes, just now,’ she answered, ‘the vicar dropped me off but he couldn’t come in as he’s expecting the chapel organist to call, where did you get to dear?’
‘I just went to the corner shop for cigarettes,’ he replied.
‘Well you must have just passed each other, do you want some tea dear?’ she asked him, getting up to fill the kettle.
THE VICARAGE
The doctor hadn’t found anything seriously wrong with Jennifer, other than being a little underweight and high blood pressure; her recent falls went undiagnosed other than the need for her to rest at regular intervals.
John offered to do the weekly shopping as she rested on the sofa in the sitting room. He walked back to the shops, looking over at the vicarage as he passed, noticing the vicar talking to an old man as he was leaving the house. That must be the organist he thought to himself as he entered the chemist shop to get Jennifer’s prescription. The supermarket was next door. He pulled a trolley out, pushing a young boy out of the way as he entered. The shop was busy, kids running around unsupervised by their parents who casually chattered in groups.
He walked down the aisle, getting more annoyed by all the prams and pushchairs blocking his route. His shopping list fell to the ground. It got stuck to the wheel of a passing pram as it disappeared out of the door.
He had remembered milk, potatoes, butter and bananas. He definitely had to get bananas; Jennifer would not eat cereal without them. He put the bananas in his basket; he took four oranges from a mountain of fruit and put them in a bag. He was having difficulty tying the knot when a man in the queue took it off him, returning it tightly sealed.
‘They’re a bugger to do up,’ the man said.
They chatted in the queue and walked together along the avenue, weighed down by their bags.
The man lived in a one bedroom flat further up the avenue, a house as large as Jennifer’s, which had recently been converted into five apartments.
He refused the invitation of going inside for a cup of coffee, and continued his walk past the few houses until he reached home.
Good smells were coming through the hall from the kitchen. Jennifer was sitting at the kitchen table, tears rolling down her face. She was peeling onions, dropping them into the casserole on the table.
John went for a long soak in his deep bath, then changed into a white shirt and black trousers. After an appetising lamb casserole, he walked down to the Great Euston Hotel leaving Jennifer by the fire, her head in a new book she had purchased.
The Great Euston was a large crescent shaped building overlooking the public gardens in the town centre. Not many guests ever stayed overnight, but the restaurant had a good reputation, the public bar was modern and also popular.
He walked through the revolving doors into the vast lobby. The highly polished bar counter was huge, its clean brass fixtures shining. A stiff, white shirted barman asked him formally what he would like to drink. He pushed past two fat men in suits and sank into a plush velvet booth.
The bar was busy. There were men dressed immaculately and some women laughing at jokes. On the stage a few men wearing women’s clothes and wigs prepared for a show. Cabaret music blared around the bar – tinny sounds straining the old speakers.
He noticed a guy sitting at the bar, when the guy turned around he realised it was the bloke he had invited into his car at the sex shelter a few nights previously, identified by his rugged face. John quickly drank his beer and left before the guy recognised him.
He walked back home through the town centre, briefly looking at the window displays. The streets were quiet, a couple sta
ggered out of the workingmen’s club. A group of youngsters came out of the burger bar. An empty tram rattled past on its way to the depot. As he came to the chapel on the square, he looked over at the vicarage. The house was in darkness apart from a light which shone from a side window, looked like a bathroom; the vicars Toyota was parked in the drive.
He stared at the house for a while before continuing his walk. A cold, black drizzle fell as he made his way down the road. He was cold all the way through; his jacket was very thin and more suitable for summer nights.
His slow walk increased as the house came into sight. It was late so he quietly opened the door and crept upstairs, not wanting to disturb Jennifer.
It was Saturday, Jennifer’s flower arranging day at the chapel. She was already dressed when John came down, a wide brim fur hat, her best coat and best shoes. Rather overdressed for sticking a few flowers in a vase, John thought. Her perfume was overpowering, the vicar would probably be further encouraged.
It was just after eleven when she left. John had woken with a headache and his mouth tasted foul from the previous night’s beer.
He walked into town and caught a tram to Blackpool. It was crowded with mothers and misbehaved children. He hung onto the leather strap with both hands, all the seats were full as it rattled and twisted along the tracks.
The weather was unseasonably warm. John had worn an old grey tracksuit and trainers, feeling conspicuous amongst the other passengers in their winter hats and coats. He sat at the first available seat when the traveller got off at the north shore stop, the seat still warm from the fat woman’s arse. He disembarked from the tram two stops earlier to escape the oppressive heat.
He looked along the shelf containing pornographic videos, selecting a couple and flicking through the pages of magazines on the way to the counter, a pathetically thin man with thick lenses and dirty long fingernails put John’s videos in a brown paper bag.
Inseparable Bond Page 17