Inseparable Bond

by David Poulter

  The Bentley’s lived at the other side. He was the manager in the local Barclays Bank. His wife worked part-time in the town library. They had two daughters who were schooled locally. They had a variety of pets from hamsters to golden Retriever’s.

  Jennifer had retained her favourite upholstered high back wing chair, positioning it to face the gardens opposite. She would sit there each evening in the setting sun, watching the tourists pass in their droves and children rowing boats on the small lake enclosed between the road and sand dunes leading to the sea.

  John would spend most of his free time in his bedroom, watching a pornographic video from his impressive collection, or selecting a raunchy magazine from his secret library.

  Jennifer had wanted to revisit the Lake District to see the abundance of autumn colours, they had done as children, and their parents would always reserve a Sunday afternoon drive to Windermere after chapel towards the latter end of summer.

  There were fewer holidaymakers about and the temperature was more bearable, mother had never liked hot weather.

  After Jennifer had fed the seagulls their daily bread, she filled a thermos with tea as mother had done and they set off just after breakfast. The morning was typically autumn, dull and windy. After an hour’s motorway driving, they joined the winding road to Windermere.

  She feasts her eyes on the trees lining the road, commenting on the array of golden brown withered leaves stubbornly hanging on to their branches. The strong rays of the sun shone over the lush green hills when it found a break between the dark clouds.

  A flash of blue lights in the wing mirror claimed John’s attention. He glanced around to see several police motorcycles pass the car. His heart jumped a beat. Up ahead, cars were beginning to move off. The riders were directing the traffic around an accident site, bringing a halt to the contra flow to do so.

  A police officer approached the car and tapped on the window. His heart began to race. He tapped on the window.

  ‘Wait for the signal,’ he told him, ‘and take it slowly.’

  The officer stared at him. Specks of rain dripped from his helmet.

  ‘Fine,’ John replied, ‘I’ll be careful.

  The officer stood by the car looking at John, bending down to see his passenger. Another officer was approaching the car, shouting something to him over the din of idling engines.

  John became nervous. The cars started to move; he slowly accelerated, driving around the overturned cattle truck as instructed.

  There were breaks in the rain clouds, leaving shafts of golden sunlight shining over the houses as they approached Windermere.

  There were ample parking spaces in the town. John parked outside a small café with a lead pained bay window and white net curtain.

  ‘That looks nice dear,’ Jennifer said, turning her head toward the café as he reversed. ‘Let’s have a cup of coffee before we walk down to the lakeside,’ she said, fastening the top button on her coat. The rain had stopped but the streets were still wet after the heavy downpour. The café smelt of damp clothes from the mass of raincoats draped over chairs. A group of hikers eagerly tucked in to a late breakfast to restore them.

  Jennifer ordered a toasted teacake and a pot of tea from the harassed and obese waitress, managing to squeeze herself through the chairs, their occupants politely pulled them in as she approached.

  They ambled slowly down to the lake. The heavy clouds hung heavy overhead making the lake appear black, its surface placid.

  It was late afternoon; the light was starting to dwindle as they made their way back along the quietness of the lakeside, stopping briefly to watch the swans and ducks pecking through the stones at the waters edge. The sun was well past its peak, the day beginning to cool as they approached the car for their journey home.

  Autumn rapidly approached. The winds were high, bringing passages of warm rain interspersed with stabs of liquid brightness. Fleetwood that day laid under clouds the colour of slate; the wind brought the smell of the sea; brought the seagulls too, dipping and weaving over the roofs.

  John was in the garden, putting it to sleep for the winter. The gulls swooping low over his head in search of food. The nights were growing longer, the portions of daylight shrinking.

  Jennifer was in the warmth of the house, ironing the week’s washing as she watched television in the lounge. John was twitching with the sudden cold wind blowing in off the sea. He locked the garden shed and went inside before his balls froze.

  Once inside the warm kitchen, he skimmed off his soaked jacket and equally sodden shirt, and was taking off his shoes, which oozed water like sponges, when Jennifer walked in with a towel, a sweater and a pair of his balding corduroys.

  ‘Put these on quickly, dear,’ she said, throwing them over to him, ‘I’ll make some tea to warm you up,’ she said. She filled the old kettle and placed in on the gas cooker.

  She took a pair of hiker’s socks and put them on his lap.

  ‘Getting warmer?’ she asked.

  ‘Much,’ he replied.

  Taking the teapot, sugar and two mugs, they went into the warm lounge. He drew up a chair next to hers in the bay window. They drank their tea, watching the spray from the rough sea drifting across the esplanade in the strong cold wind.

  People hurried along, shielding their faces from the rain and spray, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, seeking shelter from the sudden downpour.

  The meteorologists had forecast severe winds of hurricane proportions, but John was unprepared. As the winds violently increased, they watched the high tide lash over the sand dunes, spectacularly cascade into the small boating lake at the front of the house.

  As the gale gained strength, news bulletins were being reported on the television: Trains had ceased to run; aircraft in Manchester were grounded. Telephone and power lines were down throughout Yorkshire and Lancashire. The news reporter advised people to stay at home and not to drive unless absolutely necessary. The M55 out of town had been closed due to blown over lorries; the major roads were a nightmare, the esplanade and promenade impassable.

  The few hardy souls who were out in the storm hurried along as fast as their feet could allow, eager to be back in the warmth.

  The sat in the window watching the winds worsen, the sky now almost pitch black through it was still only the middle of the afternoon. Obstacles were now being thrown down the esplanade in the path of the occasional car. John walked through to the dining room, looking through the window at the sodden garden.

  The branches of the trees touched the lawn as if in search of shelter. The door on the garden shed had come loose and now hung on one hinge.

  The seagulls, which had recently been swooping down, had retreated for shelter.

  A piece of Molly Grimshaw’s guttering landed on his waterlogged lawn, the flat roof of her garden shed had become embedded between the two trees in John’s garden.

  The wrath of god continued into the late evening, leaving a trail of destruction in its path.

  John woke early the next morning; opening his curtains he looked down at his debris littered lawn. The trees were bare and motionless. A row of black birds appeared to look in a state of shock as they perched on the fence, which had withstood the gale.

  Jennifer was cooking breakfast as he walked through to the garden.

  ‘Good morning, breakfast won’t be long,’ she said, as he passed.

  He stood on the paved patio looking around. It was deathly quiet. The lull after the storm. He picked up the branches and remnants of neighbouring slates and guttering, nervously, looking up at the house for evidence of damage. To his relief, the house remained intact. It had weathered the storm; the only damage was the door of the garden shed, precariously hanging on one hinge.

  ‘Any damage to the house?’ Jennifer asked him as she plated his breakfast.

  ‘Not that I can see, Molly’s house took the brunt of it,’ he replied, buttering his toast.

  ‘It was a good purchase, dear, if the ho
use can withstand such a severe storm,’ she said.

  John finished his breakfast and went down to repair the door on the shed.

  The sun broke through the dispersing clouds. Sweat started to run down his back and chest. Even as he unbuttoned his large overcoat however, he realised the warmth was not self-generated. The sun was unseasonably hot, forming a light covering of steam over the sodden lawn.

  Jennifer walked onto the patio with a pile of washing hanging over the straw basket. She wiped a cloth along the washing line, looking over at John as he removed his coat.

  ‘It’s like a summer’s day,’ she said, as she pegged the washing on the line, holding a peg between her teeth as she spoke. ‘You would not believe it could be so hot after the terrible day yesterday. I’ll just go next door to see Molly; she’ll be very upset about her gutters.’ she said.

  He spent most of the day clearing the garden, washing the windows on the house and sweeping the mountain of sand accumulated on the front door step.

  He took the car to the car wash in the hope of removing the particles of sand which had become embedded in the grooves of the windows. He waited in line behind the queue of drivers sitting impatiently in their dirty cars, in need of the same.

  He drove back along the promenade, the setting sun warming the interior of the clean and sand free silver car. He parked briefly by the shelter. A lorry driver was sitting in his cab skimming through a girly magazine, in the hope of attracting the young guy from the shelter into his cab for some light hand relief.

  The young guy was so good looking. Tall, broad shouldered, with a mop of black hair that kept falling across his face.

  An elderly couple with a small dog approached. He quickly lowered his magazine out of sight until they had passed. The young guy showed little interest at the invitation.

  Two men sat in a Range Rover looking at the young guy, sitting with his arms outstretched and his athletic legs apart. He stared at the sky, enjoying the voyeurism he was purposely creating, occasionally stroking his crotch to further excite his audience.

  John started the ignition and drove off, leaving them to their games.

  It was past three when he got back home. Jennifer wasn’t in. She had gone to bible class at the chapel. A note was pinned to the back of the kitchen door asking him to collect her at 4.30. He took advantage of the last hour of daylight by clearing the remainder of the debris from the garden, piling the broken branches in a heap in readiness for a bonfire.

  He left the house at 4.15, giving him plenty of time to collect her. He parked outside the iron gates of the chapel. It had been three months since he last went anywhere near the vicarage or the chapel.

  Sylvia normally collects Jennifer, but this week she was visiting her sister in Colchester. Jennifer must have caught the bus for the ten minute journey as John had been delayed at the car wash.

  The churchyard was surrounded by a shoulder high stone wall festooned with ivy, the grass well tended and the gravestones weathered by centuries of rain and salt spray from the Irish Sea. There was a notice board at the entrance detailing times of services and a phone number on which the vicar could be reached, twenty-four hours a day. John smiled to himself when he noticed it was a mobile number; he found it amusing that a vicar would use modern technology to keep in touch with his flock.

  He sat in the car looking up at the impressive building, occasionally glancing over at the vicarage. The sound of laughter turned his attention to the huge doors of the church. Jennifer and a group of bible bashers were walking down the uneven slate path towards the gates. They were correcting their hats, buttoning their coats and clutching their bibles under their arms like a treasured possession.

  Jennifer approached the car, giving a slight wave. ‘You got my note then?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, sorry I was late back, the car wash was very busy,’ he replied.

  ‘I didn’t want to walk back, the weather is so unpredictable and I would hate to be caught in weather like yesterday,’ she said, as she climbed in.

  As John started the ignition, a portly built woman came over to the car, tapping on the car window as he pulled away. John lowered the window; she bent down and peered through.

  ‘Jennifer, I just caught you, your bible, you left it on the table,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Elizabeth,’ Jennifer replied, reaching over John for the book. ‘This is my brother, John,’ Jennifer said. ‘You haven’t met him before.’

  ‘Well, we haven’t been introduced, but I remember passing him on the street as he was coming out of the poor vicar’s house, terrible business, isn’t it, John?’ she said, shaking her head with an expression of disbelief.

  ‘Well, goodbye, Jennifer, see you next week, nice meeting you at last, John,’ she said, as she straightened her back and walked off in front. Jennifer fumbled with her bible on the short drive home, she didn’t speak.

  She entered the kitchen and filled the kettle and got the milk out of the refrigerator.

  ‘You didn’t say you had been to the vicarage dear, why would you go there?’ Jennifer asked, facing him with a stern expression.

  ‘I haven’t been to the vicarage, she must have been mistaken,’ he said, reaching in the cupboard for the teacups.

  ‘But Elizabeth seemed sure,’ Jennifer replied.

  ‘Well, like I said, she must have been mistaken, it was dark,’ he snapped back.

  ‘But Elizabeth didn’t say it was dark, and you said you hadn’t been to the vicarage,’ Jennifer said with a puzzled expression on her face.

  John sat the kitchen table fiddling with his watch. He was strangely nervous. Only the humming of the refrigerator and the loud tick from the old wall clock broke the silence. Jennifer pottered around the kitchen preparing the evening supper, gradually convincing herself that John had been the victim of mistaken identity.

  John looked up, turned his head over his shoulder to Jennifer and said, ‘I now remember when she must have seen me, it would have been the night I went to the Great Euston Hotel for a drink, do you remember Jennifer?’ he asked her.

  ‘No dear, I don’t, ‘she replied sharply.

  ‘I’d been in the garden that day, you brushed the back of my jacket as I left, we were living in the other house then,’ he said, desperately.

  ‘Well, I do remember that, but it was a long time ago and it still doesn’t explain why you were coming out of the vicarage,’ she replied.

  ‘I decided to walk home down the high street that night, past the vicarage,’ he relied.

  Jennifer paused and sat in the chair facing him. ‘That explains it then,’ she said, with a tight-lipped smile.

  John continued nervously fiddling with his watch as she sat studying him, her face cupped in her hands, elbows on the table looking directly into his eyes.

  The crumpets flung themselves out of the machine with a loud clatter which broke the silence. She quickly got up to rescue them before they slid onto the floor.

  The buttered crumpets, pot of tea and the biscuit tin were placed on the table. John filled the teapot and placed it alongside. Jennifer returned to her chair and poured the tea. She shook her head as a smile came to her face, looking relieved at John’s explanation.

  John drank some of his tea; it felt like it had turned to acid in his stomach.

  They ate their afternoon tea in silence. Jennifer slowly turning the pages of the Parish magazine she had put between the pages of her bible on the drive back from church.

  ‘I’ll need to get some petrol after my tea, do you want to come with me?’ he asked Jennifer.

  ‘No, thank you, dear, I’ve got more ironing to do,’ she replied.

  John grabbed his bright yellow hooded raincoat from behind the kitchen door, the car keys from the top of the washing machine and went out to the car.

  He drove along the esplanade, dodging the debris which had been washed up from the sea during the recent storm. His attention was drawn to a group of people bobbing up and down in the hig
h surf. He parked the car and watched the group of surfers in their shiny black rubber wetsuits, thinking how crazy they were, waiting for big waves in the rough Irish Sea, undeterred by the bad weather.

  He reclined his seat slightly and smoked a cigarette, looking up and down the beach at other hardy souls racing towards the waters edge, surfboards under their arms.

  He sat silently, trying to remember passing Elizabeth on the street after he left the vicarage. He had only recalled the street being deserted as he fled, but his concerns were with Jennifer, although she had seemed convinced and satisfied with his misleading accounts of the evening.

  There were grey clouds overhead and it was beginning to rain. He drove the car to the garage and put £20 worth of petrol in the tank.

  The winter nights were drawing in. It was getting dark as he drove back long Blackpool promenade, staring out through the windscreen at the orange, blue and green floodlights which shone up the hotels, their vacancy signs flashing in desperation in the hope of attracting a customer after an unprofitable summer season.

  He slowly ambled his way through the traffic, the headlights of approaching cars that shone suddenly and then disappearing like fireflies.

  It was after six when he arrived back. The good smell of food greeted him as he walked through the front door. Jennifer had made a chicken and vegetable stew followed by an apple pie and custard. They shared a bottle of white wine which they took to their high back chairs in the bay window overlooking the esplanade.

  They looked out onto the deserted road. The rain had stopped and the bright moon illuminated the puddles of rainwater which had gathered by the roadside. The sky was clear and every star in the sky seemed to gather over the horizon, but he felt cold. Jennifer had always disliked central heating and avoided switching it on, even on the coldest of nights.

  She had lit a fire in the lounge. Jennifer got up and took a log out of the basket on the hearth. She carefully placed it on the fire. It was wet, it sizzled in the red hot timbers, filling the air with the sweet smell of burning wood, flooding back nostalgic memories of the family home, now in a total ruin and awaiting demolition.