Inseparable Bond

by David Poulter

  ‘It was a lovely service, they did him proud,’ she said, standing up to take her coat off. John helped her release her arms from the sleeves. ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said, taking the coat off him, folding it over the chair.

  ‘I met the new minister, he’s a charming man,’ she said.

  ‘Will you still be doing the flower arrangements on Saturdays?’ John asked.

  ‘Sadly no, he’s married and his wife will be doing it from now on,’ she replied.

  John looked straight at her and fell silent. His eyes had an apologetic look, as if he was embarrassed about what he had actually done.

  ‘Patricia had heard the police had not found any fingerprints or footprints or marks of any kind to link the person to the crime,’ she said, with a puzzled expression.

  ‘Did she say how he died?’ John asked, standing up to clear the table.

  ‘No, nobody seems to know,’ she said, watching John walk to the sink, her face resting in her hands.

  It had been difficult to find a parking place. The supermarket car park was normally busy, especially on Friday morning, but this was pure chaos. Mothers clutched their children tightly by the hand and youngsters were strapped to their pushchairs, weaving in and out of the parked cars.

  John looked over his newspaper, watching the chaos as he sat in the car. SUSPICIOUS DEATH was written on the right side column of the paper.

  Jennifer was in the supermarket doing a big shop, the fridge was empty and the cupboards bare as she didn’t shop the week before.

  She had slept badly after the funeral and woke in a bad mood, pushing her way through the trolleys and pushchairs, as people stood around in groups talking about the vicar’s death.

  The sun was searching for a gap through the clouds. A mild south-westerly wind had brought the temperature back up.

  It was twenty to twelve when Jennifer finally came out of the supermarket. She had been in there for over an hour.

  John climbed out of the car and opened the boot as she approached; her trolley was full to the top with bulging plastic carrier bags.

  ‘There’s so many people in there,’ she said, wiping the sweat from her brow as she threw the bags into the back of the car.

  ‘If the weather keeps dry, I’ll do some more in the garden,’ John said, looking up.

  ‘Yes, dear, best to continue now that you’ve started,’ she replied, as she closed the boot.

  He slowly manoeuvred his way through the shoppers pushing their laden trolleys to their cars as he reached the safety of the exit gate.

  He drove along the promenade and noticed a parking space outside Jennifer’s favourite café.

  ‘Shall we have some coffee here before we go home?’ he turned to ask her.

  ‘Yes, that would be nice, dear, I feel exhausted after fighting through the crowds,’ she replied, as John reversed into the parking bay.

  They sat by the window looking out to sea. A large container ship was slowly making its way to the open ocean from its mooring in the harbour.

  The well dressed waitress poured the coffee into beautiful porcelain cups, nearly transparent. The coffee was pretty thin too.

  Jennifer chattered about the previous day’s funeral, who was there, what they had said, how they looked and where they had travelled. John listened, saying very little.

  He reversed the car into the drive, making it easier to offload the mountain of shopping bags.

  Jennifer had fresh colour in her cheeks. She didn’t look as tired as she had earlier and was in a better frame of mind now the shopping expedition was out of the way.

  John unpacked the shopping as Jennifer sat at the table with the magazine she had purchased from the supermarket. She reached into her handbag for her small gold-rimmed glasses and slowly polished the left glass with the corner of her skirt.

  There was little sign that it was nearly midsummer. John was desperate to finish his garden project but had found it difficult by a summer of torrential rain and sudden, sweltering days. Some of the trees in the back garden were still bare. A few eager plants showed their roots and the few flowers stretched up on long stems, Otherwise it could have been October and not the beginning of June.

  The front garden was looking respectable with its herbaceous borders; the large rear garden would not be completed this summer after the years of neglect.

  John walked down the beleaguered garden path to the ramshackle hut at the end, keeping his eye on the sky as he went. He searched around in the smell of dust and creeping rot for a large saw to fell the trees in the rear garden.

  Jennifer was hanging washing on the line in the hope of a dry day.

  He discovered the rusty old saw hidden under an old car wheel, having belonged to his father. It would not cut through a loaf of bread, let alone tree branches. He emerged from the hut brushing the dust off his shirt and shaking the dirt from his hair. He looked up at the tree, his hands on his hips as he felt rain in the wind. He quickly un-pegged the washing and ran into the kitchen.

  Jennifer was slicing vegetables on the table.

  ‘Oh, thank you, dear,’ she said, coming over to pick up the garments he had dropped on the way. The light rain soon turned to a heavy downpour, the temperature suddenly plummeted, and Jennifer shivered and vigorously rubbed her arms as she closed the kitchen door. The telephone rang in the hall; she rushed through to answer it.

  She was laughing with whoever had called her. John was relieved to hear her laugh after the past couple of weeks silence and tension. Jennifer was shaking her head as she came back into the kitchen.

  ‘That was Sylvia Flintoff on the telephone,’ she said, looking over at John with a glazed expression as she continued, ‘She had just been told the police have taken the chapel organist for further questioning at the police station, Oh, that poor man, he couldn’t do such a thing,’ she said, frantically drying the already dry plates in the rack.

  ‘Do they think he murdered the vicar, Jennifer?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know, dear, why else would they take him to the police station?’ she replied.

  ‘But I thought it was the organist who had found him,’ John replied.

  ‘Well it was, but he couldn’t,’ she paused, as she gazed out of the window.

  ‘But I heard you laughing on the telephone,’ he said.

  ‘I was laughing at the stupidity of it. They were good friends, more than just friends,’ she said, her eyes fixed on John’s.

  ‘How do you mean, more than friends,’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I suppose I can say now, but the vicar and Ronald Belington the organist, were a couple and had started a relationship shortly after his wife had died,’ she said.

  John stared at Jennifer in disbelief. ‘You mean the vicar was gay?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, dear, but he didn’t want anyone in the parish to know, he only told me,’ she said.

  Not only had John Bell murdered another innocent victim, he had murdered his sister’s best friend, who had posed no threat to their relationship.

  He went to his bedroom and sat on the end of his bed with his head lowered, supported by his murderous hands. He rummaged through his wardrobe, looking for a shirt, jeans and a coat, not giving a conscious thought to the choice. He slipped on his threadbare jacket and glanced out of the window. The sun had lowered and the rain was a silver torrent through the rays.

  Jennifer was at the bottom of the stairs as he walked down.

  ‘Where are you going, dear?’ she asked.

  ‘Just for a drive along the promenade,’ he replied, grabbing the car keys off the hall table and opening the front door, closing it behind him.

  He drove along the promenade and onto the M55 motorway.

  After an hour of driving, the effects of little sleep and the subsequent news he had been given began to catch up with him. The road in front of him blurred. He turned off at the Charnock Richard service station on the M6 and went in search of a caffeine fix.

  The cafeteria was thronge
d with customers, which he was thankful for. Amongst so many people, he was insignificant. He bought coffee from the vending machine, chocolate and biscuits from the shop and went back to the car. As he unwrapped his biscuit, his thoughts of the heartache he had needlessly caused Jennifer and the killing of an innocent man who he considered a threat to their relationship became too much to bear.

  He thought to himself. If the vicar had been more open about his sexuality, he would still be alive and his lover would not be interrogated in the police station.

  There was a period of confusion while he worked out where he was. He constantly banged his head against the small headrest of the seat. He was alarmed by a man knocking on the car window, ‘Are you alright, mate?’ the man shouted through the glass.

  John looked towards him with wide eyes, turned on the ignition and drove away. He stopped before he reached the motorway, quickly opened his door and vomited on the concrete surface. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and drove off.

  It was dark by the time he turned off the M6 to the M55. The headlights shining through the back window, reflecting in his rear view mirror gave him a blinding headache. Drowsiness overtook him again. He opened his window where the cold air revived him; he sat up and breathed deeply, letting the chill slap him to wakefulness.

  He was relieved to see the lights of Blackpool Tower in the distance as the motorway delivered him back to the promenade.

  The engine of the small car laboured as he pulled into the drive. He held onto the car door for a while before approaching the front door of the house.

  The flickering light of the television came through the open door and into the hall, lighting his way as he climbed the stairs. He noticed Jennifer sleeping in the wing chair. He lay on his bed, cupping his hands over his eyes.

  The morning was dull and damp after the overnight rain. John was determined to get to grips with the garden despite the unpredictable weather.

  It was not easy work. The earth was heavy and damp, he quickly got muddied, but the sheer sweat of it and the fact of getting to grips with the digging made for healthy and strangely rewarding labour. It took him a long time, during which Jennifer and a neighbour watched him as they chatted over the garden wall. Jennifer would occasionally catch his eye, smiling at him with gratitude.

  The smoke from the bonfire was drifting over the road, the burning wood smelling sweet as it hovered around the building; the sudden wind had fanned the flames.

  He straightened his back, scratching his balls as he looked up at the sky as he went in the house through the kitchen door. Jennifer was making a plate of sandwiches of monstrous proportions.

  ‘Sylvia has just telephoned me, John, the police have released Ronald Belington as they didn’t have enough evidence to keep him,’ she said, smiling up at him.

  ‘That’s good news then,’ he answered,

  ‘I know he could not have done such a thing, they were very close according to Norman,’ she said.

  After a fish pie supper, John slumped into a chair and fell asleep. Jennifer sat opposite under a standard lamp, deeply involved in her coloured tapestry work.

  She tapped him on his shoulder at 10 o’clock, pointing at a cup of hot chocolate she had made them both. A nightly ritual before they retired for the night.

  The sun was high in the sky by the time John came downstairs. Jennifer had let him sleep after the previous days labour.

  He put his fried egg and a piece of bacon between two pieces of bread and walked into the back garden, as if fearing his previous hard work had disintegrated or disappeared in the darkness of night. He sat on the fallen tree stump, sandwich in one hand, mug of coffee in the other, looking around at his labours. Birds were hovering around the fresh turned earth. The atmosphere was all tranquillity.

  Jennifer ambled slowly down the uneven path; her hands cupped a mug of tea. She joined John and sat down on the tree trunk beside him.

  ‘We should have a holiday,’ Jennifer suggested a week after the funeral. ‘I haven’t been sleeping well.’

  ‘We need to do some work on the house before the winter sets in,’ John said.

  ‘I can always sell it,’ she replied.

  ‘That’s a bloody good idea, but where would we go?’ John asked, in amazement.

  ‘I’d like to stay in the area dear, but we don’t need such a large house,’ she said.

  ‘But I’m still doing the garden,’ he said, looking around at his recent work.

  ‘We can find a house with a smaller garden, one that’s already been done,’ she said.

  They started searching for another house immediately, before the better weather inflated prices. Jennifer was in her element, leading him round the properties with a seamless outpouring of observations and ideas. They found a modest terraced house on King Street which they both liked. It was big enough for a family, with well mature gardens at the front and back. They put an offer in for it which was accepted, but Jennifer’s house proved difficult to sell for their asking price and the condition it was in. Two purchasers came to the brink of signing contracts, and then withdrew.

  Even Jennifer’s high spirits lost buoyancy as the weeks drew on. They lost the house on King Street and were obliged to begin the search over again. But their enthusiasm was much depleted, and they found nothing they liked.

  A property developer had offered an attractive price for the land value. He felt it more financially viable to knock the house down and build a block of flats in its place.

  Jennifer was opposed to the idea but the price offered was too good an opportunity to miss. The approaching winter would be costly. The roof required urgent attention, all windows needed replacing, the entire property needed re-wiring and the plumbing was in a seriously poor state.

  John was encouraged by the offer from the start. He eventually persuaded Jennifer to seriously consider the offer. She would only agree to signing a contact with the developer on condition he did not take possession of the property until they acquired a new house. The developer agreed.

  Their search intensified. They came across a four bedroom semi-detached house with a large garden at the rear, a small garden at the front, good sizable rooms and in good condition. The most attractive feature of the house was its position. It overlooked the public gardens along from the esplanade with fine sea views from the front bedroom windows.

  The price was affordable, with money to spare on the sale of Jennifer’s house. The vendors were emigrating to South Africa, reducing the chance of the sale falling through. Jennifer submitted an offer, it was accepted.

  The row of substantial late Victorian semi-detached dwellings stretched as far as the equally substantial square towered church of the same period. All the houses were in excellent condition; none of the houses were alike.

  The nearer to the removal day, the more excited Jennifer became. She appeared to gain a new lease of life, like a young child excitingly packing for her first holiday.

  John was looking forward to a winter of centrally heated comfort, an already well-maintained garden to keep tidy and the close proximity of the promenade, a few steps across the road. The only drawback was the lack of a garage, but the car was never garaged at the other house so it wasn’t imperative.

  Two removal trucks arrived early morning on the 27th September, immediately beginning the awesome task of packing the mountainous collection of antiques.

  Jennifer remained in the house, supervising the removal of her possessions, John waited for their arrival at the house, 659 The Esplanade, Fleetwood.

  It was nearly a year since John Bell had been discharged from the hostel in Wakefield, moving in with his sister on his release. The last of the summer’s balmy evenings were slowly being replaced by autumn’s chilly nights.

  The meteorologists had forecast an early and severe winter, of less concern now to John and Jennifer, despite facing the furious Irish Sea, their new house being centrally heated and draught free.

  Jennifer was happy and
contented with the new house. She avoided passing the old family property. It quickly fell in a ruin and now left to the open winter elements.

  John had peered through the windows. The fine wood panelling, marble fire surrounds, and ceiling covings had already been stripped out. The garden had soon returned to its original overgrown wilderness along with evidence of vandalism.

  He didn’t mention it to Jennifer. He saved her the unnecessary pain and anguish.

  There had been a substantial amount of funds acquired after the purchase of the house. John had persuaded Jennifer to invest in a new car. It was doubtful if the Nova would see through another winter, being parked outside the house, exposed to the elements of the winter sea. Guided by John, she purchased a silver Vauxhall Astra with dark blue interior. It was only two years old with fifty-eight thousand miles on the clock. Its previous owner had been a local man from the chapel. He had recently died and his wife didn’t drive. Jennifer had been used to a smaller car and found this one difficult to manoeuvre; she left most of the driving to John.

  She spent most of her time in the kitchen. The previous family had recently installed it. All appliances had been fitted in to the wooden base units, including a dishwasher, which she avoided at all costs, preferring the old fashioned method.

  The house was half the size as the other, so were the rooms, and less of them, making it easier to clean. Jennifer had taken the master bedroom overlooking the gardens and seashore. John took the back bedroom overlooking the garden. The two remaining smaller bedrooms were used to store some of the furniture. It would never be required but she had been adamant in retaining it for nostalgic reasons.

  The downside of the property was the consistency of sea spray, regularly smearing the windows of the house and the car. When John wasn’t in the garden, he would be hosing the salt off the windows then scraping them dry, sometimes on a daily basis.

  Molly Grimshaw lived alone next door. She was an elderly woman, virtually housebound but had a constant stream of visitors.