Inseparable Bond

by David Poulter

  It was still raining when she arrived home. George didn’t come in as he had an early appointment in Preston the following morning.

  Jennifer went straight to bed, hoping for a better night’s sleep now that she had explained in detail to George. She was relieved he had been so understanding and supportive and the friendship had not suffered in view of it.

  The thunder had passed but the rain continued to pound on the window as she fell into a deep sleep.

  Monday morning, wearing warm wool slacks and a cardigan over her blouse; because she found it difficult to keep warm these days. She sat in the front bay window with her tea and toast reading the local church magazine that had been put through the door. Jennifer was 75 now and at times she looked it, irrespective of her vitality. Occasionally, when she saw herself in the mirror, she stared in amazement as if she had not lived with that face for nearly a century and was looking at a stranger. Somehow she expected to see a face of a young girl, as that’s how she felt at the moment.

  She was grateful for her mental acuity but lived in fear of a stroke leaving her physically impaired which could alter her personality.

  While looking at the constant rain, which had now declined from a fierce downpour to a drizzle, she began to reconsider the opportunity of selling her house and moving in with George. She looked around the sitting room at the old furniture which would have to be sold.

  She thought of the stunning view and how much she would miss the view of the sea when she woke every morning, until she realised that George had the same view, if not better, as the sea was visible from his lounge window due to the house being elevated. She decided to make a decision after Christmas and would possibly take the advice George had given her.

  She grabbed her coat and the car keys and drove into Fleetwood for the weeks shopping. It was only when she was in the supermarket that she realised she had driven to town in appalling weather. Something she had never done before.

  She bagged her bananas, oranges and apples before going over the road to the butcher for two pound of lamb’s liver. George liked lamb’s liver.

  John Bell had submitted transfer applications to Strangeways, Durham, Parkhurst and the Isle of White. All had been rejected. There was really no turning point for him. He had sunk into a deep depression. The walls of his cell were closing in on him and all he could see were the years and years ahead of him in the prison he hated.

  He was a prisoner under constant supervision, restricted visits, few perks and constant harassment. It was just a hopeless existence and his paranoia was getting worse as each day went by.

  He felt that trouble was everywhere, and on every corner he thought someone was waiting to jump him, although he had always kept himself to himself and had purposely kept out of trouble with the others.

  The prison doctor had explained to him that he was a chronic paranoid schizophrenic and needed medical help, but on the wing he was just regarded as one of the others.

  His personality was not dissimilar to that of Bradshaw’s, going into a deep depression before striking out in a violent rage at the sight of two people talking together thinking they were talking about him, really bad suspicion that becomes paranoia.

  He was desperate to return to the Buckinghamshire open prison. The staff were nurses and not screws. It was more of a hospital for the criminally insane where he was given freedom and a better chance of the right care and attention.

  He had felt comfortable and safe in Buckinghamshire, where prisoners didn’t roam the corridors in groups or gang up on other inmates. He found it an un-stressful environment and his symptoms were monitored and controlled by medication.

  The work details in the hospitals’ garden were very effective for his rehabilitation and he craved for the outdoors, which appeared to stabilise his mind.

  His previous cellmate, Peter Bradshaw, who had been transferred to the hospital wing in Dartmoor, didn’t help Bell’s condition. He had recently been encouraged by the introduction of his new cellmate, Mick Scott, who looked upon Bell as a protector against the paedophiles who constantly prowled the corridors and exercise yard in search of a vulnerable innocent and inexperienced teenager to violate either singularly or in a gang.

  Bell was a placid and amiable guy, if left alone he was fine, but if the inmates or the guards deliberately wound him up and got him agitated, he would release his frustration by lashing out in a violent rage.

  He had been put in solitary confinement on two occasions, mainly for his own safety, the cell was small dark and claustrophobic with a small bed and a blanket. The maximum time he ever spent in any one time in the cell was twenty-four hours.

  The authorities had assumed that he would regain self-control of his illness when released, but the physiatrist in the Wakefield hostel had been correct with his diagnosis and an innocent man would still be alive if the authorities had not failed to take his advice.

  Twice a month, Bell was given an injection in the prison hospital, which was specifically designed to curb the symptoms of schizophrenia, which was affective in reducing violence through bad dreams and depression.

  Jennifer had wanted to call into the city centre as York Minster came into view between the thrashing windscreen wipers. George persuaded her not to attempt pushing her way through the crowds of Christmas Eve shoppers, frantically buying up everything they could find before the shops closed down for three days, besides parking would be impossible.

  They skirted the city on the ring road as Jennifer transfixed her eyes on the Minster, standing proud over the rooftops of the houses.

  The rain was now turning to snow, giving a distinctive feel to the festive season. The flakes were getting heavy and large and had started to settle by the time they arrived in Malton. She had wanted to visit Castle Howard on the way but it was closed over the Christmas period, yet George had promised he would take her in the spring.

  The snow had turned to sleet on their arrival into Scarborough. The dark grey sea blended into the dark grey sky as they approached the Crown Hotel on the south cliff.

  The porter sprinted to collect the baggage from the boot. George supervised the removal while Jennifer gazed at the stunning view of the bay and the lighthouse below her.

  The hotel had been professionally dressed with festive decorations and a large Christmas tree stood in the centre of the reception area.

  George had insisted that Jennifer’s room looked onto the sea, which they had obliged. The two floor-to-ceiling French windows opened onto balconies with unobstructed views of the peaceful North Sea. The bathroom was large and the bedroom huge, containing two double beds and good quality free standing furniture.

  George had been issued a smaller room opposite hers, overlooking the town.

  Jennifer made two cups of tea from the complimentary tray and knocked on George’s door to invite him into her room.

  The hotel had placed a Christmas gift on the corner of the bed, which was wrapped in good quality wrapping paper with her name inscribed on the envelope of the attached Christmas card.

  George had booked the three-day event for Jennifer’s Christmas present. He had seen it advertised in the newspaper and wrote off for a hotel brochure, where the programme of events and festive menu was too good an opportunity to miss.

  They drank their tea in the bitter cold December weather on the balcony, admiring the stunning view before getting changed into their best attire for the Christmas Eve Ball, which was staged in the hotel’s ballroom.

  They danced until midnight, when local choir singers brought in Christmas Day, filling the stage between the performer’s intervals.

  Jennifer lay under the heavy duvet with her head on the large fluffy pillow watching the lights of the small houses and the continuing bright light of the lighthouse reflecting its strong beam across the room through the open windows.

  She slept long and peacefully and was woken by the automatic wake-up call on her telephone, which George had booked as they passed the reception des
k the previous evening.

  Before breakfast, they strolled along the south promenade gardens outside the front of the hotel, looking down at the sea, taking in deep breaths of sea air to clear their heads after consuming large amounts of alcohol the night before.

  After a full English breakfast, morning coffee with mince pies and a huge traditional Christmas Day lunch of mountainous proportions, they relaxed in the large Chesterfield chairs by the open fire in the lounge, adamantly refusing the brandy-laced Christmas cake being offered around to the guests by the waiter.

  After an hour’s sleep, George decided to drive Jennifer to Oliver’s Mount to show her a birds-eye view of the town from its highest point.

  They were the only people who had braved the bitter cold wind as Jennifer snapped photographs of the stunning view of the town and the surrounding coastline.

  George constantly reminded her of the time, repeatedly checking his wristwatch Jennifer had given him earlier in the day for his Christmas present.

  They arrived back to the hotel in time for afternoon tea, served in the residents lounge by the log fire.

  Christmas dinner was a selection of salads and cold meats, probably the remnants from lunch, but healthy and well received.

  Boxing Day was bright and sunny but bitterly cold. After breakfast, they ambled slowly down the steep hill to the beach and walked from the south bay, around the castle drive and onto the north shore, stopping for coffee in a beach café.

  The cold wind chilled through to their bones and they got a taxi for the journey back to town.

  The streets were crowded with shoppers frantically searching for Boxing Day bargains. The town’s Christmas decorations glistened in the strong winter sunshine as they pushed their way through the well wrapped-up shoppers.

  Jennifer spotted silver-plated candelabra at half its original price and quickly purchased it before it was snapped up by one of the crowd mingling around it.

  George struggled back with it under his arm as Jennifer grabbed his other to walk up the step hill back to the hotel.

  They were back just in time for a hearty lunch, and well deserved after their four mile walk along the coast.

  After lunch, they returned to the lounge for coffee. George had a slight snooze while Jennifer read the property section, which had been discarded from the local paper.

  Her eyes focused on a beautiful detached residence on the south cliff with stunning sea views. She read the accommodation details, which consisted of four large bedrooms, two en-suites, a lounge, dining room, study, sea-facing conservatory and a large modern kitchen. The majority of the rooms were sea-facing with gardens front and rear. It looked beautiful, but was expected to do with a price of half a million pounds.

  George woke from his afternoon nap and noticed her studying the property page.

  ‘Seen something you like?’ he asked, looking over her shoulder at the page.

  ‘Isn’t that beautiful, George, could you just imagine living in a house like that, and just look at the view, I’ve never seen such a beautiful house,’ she said, her eyes transfixed on the property.

  George took the page away from her to study it carefully. ‘Yes, you’re right, it’s stunning and reasonably priced for such a large house.’ He folded the page and put it under his arm as they walked to their bedrooms to change before dinner.

  They had to check out of the hotel by 11 o’clock, which gave them plenty of time to have breakfast and pack their cases.

  Rain lashed against the dining room windows as they walked along the splendid buffet display, Jennifer going for the lighter option of cereal and fruit.

  ‘George, I have something I would like to talk to you about,’ Jennifer said over the breakfast table.

  ‘Yes, my dear, what it is?’ George replied, looking up with a concerned expression.

  ‘I’ve thought carefully about this, but when you first asked me to move in with you, I refused because I didn’t know you too well at that time. But I have reconsidered and I think it could be a good idea, but I would rent my house in case it didn’t work out, and if the offer still stands, I would like to accept it,’ she said, smiling at him.

  George paused and looked over at her saying, ‘Of course it still stands, it’s what I’ve always wanted, but we first have to do something before we drive back to Fleetwood,’ he said, as he reached into his pocket for the property page he had taken to his room the previous afternoon.

  ‘Are you going to show me something else in this lovely town?’ she enquired.

  ‘Yes, we’re going to see this, I’ve made an appointment for 11.30 today,’ George said, as she showed her the house he had circled.

  ‘But that’s the house on the south cliff, the one I saw yesterday,’ she said, peering over at the page. ‘But it’s half a million pounds George, you can’t buy a house for half a million pounds,’ she replied, her eyes wide in amazement.

  ‘Yes I can. A partner in my old firm has been after my house for years and has offered me a good price which would make it possible to buy this one,’ he said, tapping his finger on the photograph of the circled house.

  The sun broke through the clouds at they approached the property. They both thought it was a good omen. The tall, young estate agent unlocked the front door as Jennifer gazed in amazement at the ocean from the front porch.

  The furniture had been removed, leaving only the fitted carpets and two sets of bedroom curtains. The photograph did not do the house justice; it was simply beautiful, with large rooms and high ceilings all in its original design apart from the kitchen, which was packed with built-in modern day appliances.

  ‘What do you think, Jennifer?’ George asked her, as she ran her hands down the oak banister rail.

  ‘It’s just out of this world,’ she replied, looking up at the expensive chandelier in the oak panelled hallway.

  Jennifer found it difficult to drag herself away from the house, retracing her tracks for a second time, leaving George to discuss details with the estate agent as she walked around the large rooms and opened the kitchen appliances.

  Jennifer was deep in thought on the drive back and didn’t say a word until she saw the large towers of York Minster in the distance.

  She listened intensely as George talked about the house and how a move to a more desirable location would be beneficial in starting a new life, leaving problems and ugly memories behind.

  Jennifer’s brother was also on the move, to the hospital wing of the prison. His state of deep depression had deteriorated and the guards had become concerned, transferring him to the medical unit for observation.

  Mick Scott had become frightened after Bell had violently attacked him in the cell, unprovoked and unintentional, but for the safety of Scott and for Bell, they found it in their interests to move him to an isolated dormitory in the prison hospital where he was sedated.

  The guards had quickly reacted to Scott’s screams as the cold-blooded killer attacked his young innocent, unarmed victim, leaving him only with a badly bruised face.

  Although Scott was strong, his strength could not withstand the power of an unexpected schizophrenic attack nor did he have the experience to understand it.

  Jennifer decided to rent her property to a middle-aged family who had recently moved to Fleetwood from Nottingham. Most of her furniture was sold at the local auction, bringing her a substantial amount of money, which she hadn’t expected.

  Beryl Parker’s son purchased her car after recently passing his driving test on the fifth attempt. She had found it difficult driving and the car had hardly been used since John had left.

  Two large removal trucks were required to transport the contents from one coast to the other, George and Jennifer followed on later with boxes of delicate glassware and easily breakable items securely strapped down on the back seat of the car.

  It was the 1st of February when they left Fleetwood on another wet and gloomy day, but the gloomy weather had given way to brilliant sunshine as they parked outsi
de the house in Scarborough four hours later. Another good omen they thought.

  George had booked into the Crown Hotel for the night to award them a good night’s sleep before they received the house contents the following day. George had taken the liberty of booking the same room as Jennifer had previously occupied over their Christmas break. He had only booked the one room and after evening dinner, they went to bed early, snuggling in each other’s arms for the first time, listening to the waves thunder down on the beach below them.

  It was early spring before the house was completely furnished and everything in its rightful place. George had contacted a company who had extended the front porch to enable Jennifer to sit in comfort as she looked out to the ocean over the large mature front garden. George spent the warmer days keeping the garden in a respectable condition. On the colder days he would sit at his desk in the conservatory while Jennifer prepared casseroles in the kitchen.

  John Bell remained in the prison hospital for the next twelve months before being returned to a single cell on the wing. He required regular medication to control the symptoms of mental illness and the authorities found it to be in his best clinical interest to remain in prison for the foreseeable future.

  NO REST FOR THE WICKED

  Seven bleak winters and seven balmy summers had passed since Jennifer and George moved from Fleetwood to Scarborough.

  George had moved their bed to the bay window to award an unobstructed view of the coastline and the harbour for Jennifer, as she lay propped up by a mound of pillows. Over the tops of the mature trees, she watched the crowds of weekend visitors pack the beach below as the large pleasure boat left the harbour for another two hour sightseeing trip along the coast, sailing directly passed her bedroom window.

  It was early evening on a late September evening; the sun was already sitting low in the sky with a light autumn breeze blowing in from the sea.

  Jennifer had aged considerably over the years. Her hair was so thin that her scalp gleamed through and the skin on her face draped slackly on her skull like wet muslin, robbed of power and reduced by some malfunction of nerve and muscle, nevertheless it was still Jennifer and her humour, appetite and love had not deserted her.