Inseparable Bond

by David Poulter

  She went through to the kitchen to clear the table and wash the dishes from supper.

  He sat watching a group of youngsters walking around the small boating lake, their heads covered by the hoods of their jackets, reflected by the amber glow of the esplanade street lights.

  The weather forecast for the next few days had promised typical late autumn weather; wind rain, and chilly nights.

  It was John’s sixtieth birthday tomorrow. He had wanted to spend the day at home, taking Jennifer out for a meal in the evening to save her preparing an elaborate birthday supper.

  She had secretly booked a one night stay in a hotel in Keswick, taken from an advertisement in the local parish newspaper, offering a two for-one-price.

  Not wanting to offend her, he had appeared delighted at the offer, reciprocating with a rare affectionate embrace.

  She returned to the lounge, precariously carrying two glasses of white wine, placing them on the small table between the two large chairs.

  ‘I hope you’ll he alright driving tomorrow, John, that’s your fourth glass of wine,’ she said, placing her best crystal cut wine glass to her lips.

  She had been to her room and changed from her conservative bible class clothes, returning in a bright red dressing gown and fluffy white slippers. The smell of body talcum powder was almost overwhelming.

  ‘I do love sitting here, I’m so pleased we moved,’ she said. His smile illuminated by the dim light of the standard lamp at her side.

  Jennifer swayed out of the room as she went to bed, clinging onto the banister from the effects of alcohol. John cleared the wine glasses and emptied his ashtray into the remains of the fire. Looking around the room, he switched off the lights and went to his bedroom.

  A NIGHT AT THE LAKES

  Jennifer had woken early and was downstairs preparing a substantial breakfast and excitedly making sandwiches and a thermos for the journey to Keswick.

  John was placing the two overnight bags in the car when Jennifer called him in for the mountainous breakfast; two eggs, sausage, bacon, mushrooms, tomato and fried bread. His appearance was dapper, wearing a blue and white starched shirt with silver cuff links. Jennifer wiped some talc off his chin with the tea towel. A discreet smell of aftershave filled the air. He sat eating his breakfast, his appearance resembling a carefully assembled toy. The weather was dull but dry as they left the M6 and joined the country road to Keswick.

  Jennifer loved this part of the country, particularly at this time of the year.

  She rooted around in her coat pocket for her handkerchief, which she moistened with saliva, frantically rubbing the tea stain from her coat, which had occurred when she precariously poured tea from the thermos as John weaved between the traffic on the motorway.

  With the thermos tightly wedged firmly between her feet, she clutched her handbag on her knee as she looked out at the lush countryside.

  The hotel was at the end of a long winding road with a broken surface and potholes. It stood next to an abandoned quarry. A few genuine old wine barrels were arranged across the patio and in them some rhododendrons were struggling to stay alive. The hotel was tall, with one bay window at the front.

  John parked the car next to an old outbuilding, in which some derelict cars of indeterminate shape were rusting away undisturbed by human hand.

  A large sign said that all owners parked their cars at their own risk; John smiled as he looked around at the abandoned vehicles.

  He carried the two small bags to the front door, helping Jennifer up the steep flight of stone steps.

  Fearing the worst, he was suitably impressed as he walked through the front door. The dining room was clean and rather elegant, set with starched cloths and shining glass and cutlery. A large log fire threw heat across the small, well-furnished bar.

  A smart young girl checked them in, giving them their keys, room 3 and room 5. Jennifer went straight to her room; John went through to the bar and warmed his hands by the fire, looking at the glorious view from the high elevated building.

  He opened a door to a dilapidated conservatory, which appeared to have been hastily erected overlooking the disused quarry. Potted plants and flowers filled every shelf. It smelt musty and unused.

  He pushed through the heavy glass doors and went up the stairs. The carpet looked and smelt new, a rich ruby red, and a brass handrail was polished so it shone like gold. There was a sparkling chandelier over the stairs, and the elaborate mirrors on the walls had been recently cleaned, repeating his reflections as he walked up the stairs.

  His bedroom was small, basically furnished but comfortable. The small window looked over rooftops of the town. The tall steeple of the church dominated the horizon. The last rays of the setting sun shone brightly over the Cumbrian hills.

  The small bathroom had been squeezed into the room to offer the en-suite facility. A tray had been laid with a quality china cup and saucer offering complimentary tea.

  Jennifer was in the bar, sitting by the window when John walked in. She was wearing a long lilac dress buttoned up at the neck. She looked relaxed and radiant as she studied the menu she had been given by a smart young man standing behind the bar.

  The menu was impressive for such a small hotel. Veal strips in sour cream, garlic stewed beef with rich red paprika, roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, river fish flavoured with garlic and ginger, and roast pork with hot apple sauce.

  A smart lady was looking through one of the many magazines displayed on the table. She was wearing a tweed suit; an expensive crocodile handbag lay by her feet. An old man sat opposite was reading the newspaper, arms outstretched as he held the pages.

  An elderly woman sat at the bar. She wore a high lacy neckline and long ankle-length shirt with black high-heeled shoes. Her face was carefully painted and she had false eyelashes, which she fluttered like a schoolgirl. She smiled seductively at John.

  Jennifer looked at the guests over the top of her menu, feeling inappropriately dressed.

  The barman came over to take the order; Jennifer ordered the soup and beef. She had never been adventurous with food, always staying with what she knew. John decided on the smoked salmon and veal in sour cream. The log fire burned brightly in the stone hearth, filling the air with a smoky perfume.

  The barman had persuaded Jennifer to try a rum based cocktail, the house speciality. She sipped it, but pulled a face and abandoned it.

  The waiter sat them in the corner of the small dining room. The larger table by the window had been reserved for the old couple, probably staying for a lengthy period.

  The meal was good, very good, although Jennifer was critical about the under-cooked roast beef. She had always been opposed to blood. She always cremated red meat when she cooked at home. She didn’t complain.

  After a bottle of the house wine recommended by the barman, they went to their rooms. It was about 10 o’clock. He kissed her on the cheek as she went to her room.

  John was woken by the sound of a motorbike revving up outside his window. He quickly washed and shaved, rooted in his bag for a polo neck sweater, corduroy trousers and walking shoes.

  Jennifer was already in the dining room. She was deep in conversation with the lady at the next table. She had been sitting at the bar the night before.

  After a good breakfast and proper coffee, they walked into the small hallway with their raincoats over their arms.

  Jennifer peered through the glass doors, delving into her handbag, looking for a plastic rain hat. The other guests were still in the dining room, chatting to each other like they were members of an exclusive club. The reception desk was unmanned, as was the bar. An unattractive metal screen protected the small display of gleaming bottles.

  Jennifer walked over to look in the mirror, tucking her hair under her rain hat.

  They walked down the steep steps, down the potholed road and into the town. It was a long walk. The town was noisy and crowded with people and cruising traffic of all kinds. Walkers with heavy packs on their
backs pushed their way through the shoppers. It was a bright morning, but slight drizzle was in the air.

  There was a distinct taste of winter in the air. Overhead the dark clouds were low enough to skim the tops of the hills that surrounded the small town.

  They ambled slowly along the narrow streets, being pushed and shoved by locals frantically doing their shopping before the dark clouds released their cargo of torrential rain.

  Jennifer fingered a row of clothes in a charity shop as John looked through a pile of well read books scattered in disarray on a shelf, occasionally looking around at Jennifer in the hope she didn’t notice him looking at the box of women’s panties.

  Jennifer tucked into her bag of chocolate limes as they walked around the small public park. It was deadly quiet away from the crowds, as though nature had come to a complete standstill. There was no wind, not a leaf moved and no birds flew. The sun had shone briefly, but was now hidden behind the distant hills.

  Anticipating a heavy downpour, they briskly walked back into town. The drizzle turned to rain as they took shelter in a café, drinking tea and treating themselves to a huge portion of home made blackberry pie and ice cream. Jennifer wiped her mouth fastidiously with her handkerchief after each mouthful.

  Once the rain had eased, they struggled back up the uneven road and into the hotel. They were both breathless as they un-ceremonially sat down briefly in the comfortable chairs in the hallway, regaining strength before they attempted the stairs.

  A well-dressed portly woman sat opposite, reading the newspaper. She suited the surroundings of deep red carpets and red velvet furniture with red velvet curtains and an array of gold framed mirrors. Her red dress appeared to be stitched into the red flock wallpaper. She wore lots of jewellery, a gold necklace, half a dozen rings and a gold watch with diamonds around the face.

  ‘Would you like to read the paper? I’ve finished with it,’ she said, offering it to John.

  ‘No thank you, we are just about to leave,’ he replied.

  ‘Did you enjoy you brief stay with us?’ she asked, as she twisted the rings on her fingers as if they were uncomfortable, or perhaps making sure they were still there.

  ‘It was very nice,’ Jennifer replied, shaking her plastic rain hat on the pristine carpet.

  ‘The autumn is the best time of year to visit the lakes, not many tourists about,’ she said, looking at the specks of rainwater with a disgusted expression.

  She was Mrs Simpson, the hotel owner, obviously doing very well for herself.

  Jennifer hung onto the brass handrail as she pulled herself up the stairs, followed by John, hesitating as he put his wet hand on the gleaming rail.

  Jennifer paid the bill as John put the two small bags in the car, driving it to the bottom of the steps to avoid Jennifer having to walk any further.

  John drove down the narrow and potholed road until he reached the smooth surface of the high street. The rain had stopped so he decided to leave the busy M6, turning off towards Lancaster where he could take the coast road to Fleetwood.

  Jennifer precariously poured tea from the thermos, which they had offered to fill at the hotel for a small charge. The closer to the coast they drove, the windier it became. They drove along the coast road, looking at the spectacular breakers in the green sea exploding into lacy foam, spraying onto the car as they passed. The roar was so loud it could be heard above the sound of the car engine.

  The weather had not relented as they arrived back home. John took the bags inside. Jennifer put the kettle on.

  John woke early the next morning, desperately checking his beloved garden after his night away. It was Saturday and the neighbour – the bank manager, was planting a small bush in the frozen soil of his front garden. He waved over to John with his garden trowel. John was sweeping the relentless sand from the front steps.

  It was a cold morning but the sun shone on the row of large Victorian houses with large bay windows. Here and there, the fronts were picked out in tasteful pastel colours.

  It was Saturday, despite the early hour women were staggering home under the weight of heavy shopping bags, their heads low, preventing the chilling wind hitting their faces.

  Jennifer tapped on the window mouthing, ‘Your breakfast’s ready,’ and quickly disappeared. He was greeted by the smell of fresh coffee in the air.

  On the kitchen table were two glasses of orange juice and a rack of toast. Rashers of smoked bacon were arranged by the stove, alongside four brown eggs and the new Teflon frying pan Jennifer had bought in the charity shop in Keswick.

  He sat at the table drinking his orange juice, listening to the spluttering in the pan.

  The meteorologists had threatened an early snowfall, but it had not materialised, the sky was blue and clear as the early-morning sun beamed through the kitchen window. But it was damned cold, too cold to spend the day in the garden.

  Jennifer had never liked Blackpool, she found it rather downmarket, but she wanted to watch the sea cascade over the promenade as the local radio station had interrupted their programme to warn drivers of an exceptional high tide and continuing strong winds.

  After clearing the breakfast table, they set off for the short drive along the esplanade. She was disappointed to find the police had closed the promenade for safety and it was too cold to watch the spectacular natural display from outside the car.

  She suggested they had a cup of coffee in Blackpool and a root around the charity shop on Dixon Road. He stayed in the café reading the newspaper while Jennifer rooted around in the shop across the road.

  This was the charity shop where he regularly bought used panties and could not afford to be recognised with his sister.

  She returned clutching a carrier bag and produced a three-piece dark blue suit and a conservative striped tie.

  ‘I got you this dear, I hope it fits,’ she said, holding it from the hook on the hanger.

  He hesitated for a moment, looking at this old fashioned well-worn suit.

  ‘That’s lovely, Jennifer,’ he said, not wanting to offend, nor being in a financial position to decline.

  The drive back was precarious. The tide was at its highest, lashing spray covered the open part of the promenade, obstructing John’s vision as the car was buffeted by the strong wind.

  Once they were home, Jennifer ran to her bedroom to watch the rough sea from her window. The Irish Sea was greenish-grey, with dirty white crests that broke off the waves to make a trail of spray, although it was not as spectacular as pounding the sea wall on Blackpool promenade.

  Although being denied the opportunity, she was pleased with her short outing and happily criticised Blackpool for the rest of the day.

  The wind decreased about 4 o’clock. People surfaced from their homes and the gull’s returned from their shelters, swooping and diving for scraps of food washed up from the receding sea.

  John relaxed in a hot bath as Jennifer plated the cream cakes she bought in Blackpool.

  John Bell was now one day over 60. He was still slim, but not a tailored figure. He had retained his right jawed smile, and his hair, but now he had aged. His cheeks were drawn and his face wrinkled, yet something of that former youth had been replaced with distinction. He did gentle arm exercises each morning and his garden kept him fit, although he soon became out of breath, probably caused through smoking.

  He had kept himself fit in his prison years. The prison gym was well-equipped and he had not been restricted to its use.

  Jennifer looked radiant and youthful, but some days she looked her age, her afternoon naps got longer and at times, would have difficulty getting up the stairs.

  The move to the new house had rejuvenated her, as the old house was dark, cold and depressing, more so now as the entire roof had collapsed and most of the windows had been vandalised.

  The benefit of the new house was the bay window that was her place, the garden was his. She would sit in the window at any given opportunity, her feet on the footstool, and her cup of
tea on the side table and the corner of an embroidered handkerchief held tightly in her teeth.

  They lived in harmony and happiness, more like a married couple than brother and sister, but occasionally they clashed, and when one thing went wrong, other discords followed, but there had not been any major disagreements in the new house.

  They ate their cream cakes and drank tea by the fire, watching television. The Channel Four news was showing pictures of the gale-force winds, which had lashed the coastline, bringing chaos and havoc to Blackpool promenade.

  ‘So you saw the waves after all,’ he said to Jennifer with a smile.

  He got up and tapped the old brass barometer on the wall. It had been his fathers and his fathers before that. Jennifer had insisted it hung over the large dresser where she proudly displayed her collection of silverware.

  ‘It says it’s going to be a fine day tomorrow,’ he said, tapping it with his knuckle.

  Jennifer didn’t answer, she had fallen asleep.

  He quietly picked up the tray and crept into the kitchen, so as not to disturb Jennifer. His face reflected in the window as he proudly gazed at his garden and the two birds picking at the stale pieces of bread Jennifer had thrown out of the window.

  The large dining room table was always dressed with plates and glassware, but never used. They ate in the kitchen, occasionally on trays in the front bay window, but they didn’t have visitors, only the odd bible basher who called to see Jennifer from time to time. No one ever stayed long enough for a meal, nor were they ever invited.

  He went back to the lounge, turning the volume up on the television while Jennifer snored heavily in her chair, a cashmere shawl draped around her thin shoulders. He watched her mouth quiver as she slept, thinking to himself. Despite all the differences, there was no mistaking the facial resemblance to his mother. She had the same determined jaw and the large eyes and the mouth that could go easily from smile to snarl.

  She was a slight, shrivelled figure with thinning white hair. He looked at her with interest. She was looking old, her withered arthritic hands shook gently as she slept, but she was a woman who had come to terms with ageing. She hadn’t dyed her hair or painted her face to camouflage the wrinkles and always dressed conservatively.