Inseparable Bond

by David Poulter

  She had been so fierce, and so resolute but now all her strength had gone, but not forever. She had been confined to her bed for ten days now due to a bout of summer flu after catching a severe cold while hiking with the local walking club in nearby Bridlington.

  The doctor had been very concerned and warned George to expect the worst, but she was showing signs of improvement as each day went by.

  George walked into the room with a mug of tea and a plate of biscuits. He sat on the chair by her bed, looking at her as she opened her blue-veined eyelids, giving him a loving and appreciative smile.

  For a moment, it seemed Jennifer’s eyes had focused somewhere beyond George, then her gazed sharpened, and the look was as compelling as George had remembered it. She pulled herself from the pillows and sat upright. Her lips were fever-dried as she passed her tongue across them and lifted her hand from under the crisp white sheet to take hold of the cup.

  ‘What time is it, dear?’ she asked, her breath uneven as she struggled to shape a word.

  ‘It’s 5.30, you’ve been sleeping nearly all afternoon,’ George replied, squeezing her hand gently.

  ‘I think I’ll get up for supper,’ Jennifer said, brushing a wisp of hair from her forehead.

  ‘I’ve put a chicken casserole in the oven, it should be ready by seven,’ he said.

  George realised how close death had been waiting at the door the week before when Jennifer could only produce a grunt in her throat as she tried to speak and had given up trying to make words, apparently perhaps she was giving up entirely.

  Then with assistance of the local nurse and George’s loving attention, she seemed to pull herself free from the virus and had made a remarkable recovery over the last two days.

  Her bedroom was warm and fresh with a hint of perfumed lavender from the tallboy at the far side of the room, circulated by the light sea breeze blowing in from the slightly opened window. The sounds of children playing on the beach in the last few daylight hours could be heard in the distance along with the sounds of the speedboats carving up the still sea water as they swayed at high speed around the harbour walls.

  Only a couple of days ago she had been incoherent, now she is asking for supper downstairs as if she was protesting against death on her eighty second year.

  George had not left the house since she had contacted the virus. The local supermarket delivered all the week’s groceries, milk and newspapers and he spent his days in the garden in earshot of Jennifer should she call out for anything. His nights had been spent sitting by her bed, frightened as he had never been frightened in his life before.

  His hands would tremble so much he could hardly hold the glass of whisky he had nursed through all but sleepless nights as he listened to Jennifer reaching for breath, expecting any breath to be her last.

  George had taken one of the other bedrooms to award Jennifer a peaceful night’s sleep, the doctor advising this to avoid him contacting the virus, but he was eager to return to their bedroom and cuddle her in his arms as he had done every night since they had stayed at the Crown Hotel seven years earlier.

  Her intention of coming downstairs for supper was short lived, she fell back to sleep as George ate alone in the kitchen to avoid disturbing her.

  The following morning, Jennifer stepped out onto the patio as George worked in the garden, preparing it for another wild coastal winter beating.

  Jennifer took in a deep breather of the humid stale air. It would not be long before summer let autumn take its toll, even the breeze seemed weary and its condition was contagious. Leaves were starting to release their hold of the tree branches and the sea looked slate grey and uninviting. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon and the sun appeared desperate to burn through the relentless clouds.

  George left the garden and climbed the steps up to the patio.

  ‘Nice to see you up and about,’ he said to her, placing his arm around her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, it’s so nice to stand and breathe in the fresh sea air, I’ve missed the garden so much and it’s looking beautiful,’ she replied as she slowly walked back in to the hall.

  She ate a small portion of scrambled egg and a piece of toast and took her cup of tea onto the terrace, slowly lowering herself onto one of the two cushioned patio chairs, resting her tiny feet on the covered foot stool.

  The sea front was deserted, as was the beach with the forecast of heavy rain, although it was rapidly coming to the end of the summer season and the holiday makers were now packing up and heading back inland for the winter.

  George was a member of the local Rotary Club and Jennifer a member of the Scarborough Women’s Institute. Much of their spare time was spent keeping fit and healthy with the other ground warriors of the Bridlington walking club.

  They were blissfully happy in each other’s company and had enjoyed everyday of their seven-year existence on the east coast. They had accumulated many friends and were very popular in the neighbourhood. They occasionally had Jennifer’s friends over to stay from Fleetwood, but the journey proved too far for regular visits.

  Jennifer had experienced difficulties with her tenants and had sold the house two years previously to a businessman from Blackpool.

  They had only returned to Fleetwood on two brief day visits but hadn’t been back for the past three years.

  George’s son and family visited through the summer months and Jennifer loved the children, where the large house appeared to come alive with their laughter and playful games. They looked upon her as Grandma and loved her dearly.

  George had employed Molly Parkinson, who assisted Jennifer cleaning the large house. Molly was a big woman, all of five foot eight and broad with it, but her width was made up of bone and muscle. She came in three mornings a week but her company for Jennifer was far better than her cleaning; yet she was honest and reliable.

  Jennifer wrote once a month to her brother John, yet a day didn’t pass without her having fond memories and thoughts of him.

  She had become a regular visitor at Armley prison but George had persuaded her to reduce her visits, as she would go into a deep depression for three days after returning.

  George always drove her to the prison and escorted her to the visiting room on every occasion.

  John had always ignored George on visitations, making it obvious his disapproval of the relationship, but being so confined, he was unable to disrupt his sister’s happiness and voice his displeasures in front of George.

  Jennifer would wipe tears from her eyes each time they drove the three hour journey back home and although George was sympathetic and offered an understanding approach, she remained inconsolable throughout the drive and for a few days afterwards, becoming a virtual recluse, walking alone along the sea front.

  John was a constant thorn in their idyllic life but George never interfered with this inseparable bond between brother and sister, due to the love and admiration he had towards Jennifer.

  The first night after the visit was always the worst. George would keep awake, holding Jennifer tightly close to him while she cried between sleep and wakefulness, the bed feeling cold and uncomfortable as if being shared by her brother.

  The following day resulted in a quiet and disturbing atmosphere through the house, unlike the normal gaieties and distant sounds of classical music drifting through the house from the study. Jennifer would be confined to the patio, her eyes transfixed out to sea, her mind firmly within the confined walls of Armley prison.

  It normally took a couple of days before she returned to normality, giving her loving attention to George and humorously pottering about the house and garden.

  George washed the supper dishes as Jennifer went through to the lounge. He mopped the floor and laid the table in readiness for breakfast, taking the bacon and sausage out of the freezer to defrost overnight.

  He walked into the lounge carrying a tray containing two coffee cups and placed them on the small table next to Jennifer as she slept in a low hide-padded chair to the s
ide of a roaring fire. She looked comfortable but old after her illness. George reached for a cashmere blanket and placed it around her, tucking it into the sides of the chair to keep her warm.

  The house was silent, only the crashing of the waves against the harbour walls could be heard in the distance. The flickering lights of the candles reflected on Jennifer’s thinning white hair as she breathed deeply, her feet rested on the brass fender which Molly had polished to shine like gold.

  George had promised Jennifer a drive out to nearby Whitby, a town she had come to love. She had slept well that night, most of it by the fire and was up at the crack of dawn on a bright and sunny morning.

  George brought the car around to the front of the house, Jennifer climbed into the passenger seat. He covered her knees with the cashmere blanket before he drove off down the steep hill and onto the south promenade.

  The new BMW was only a couple of months old. Jennifer fiddled with the glove box and wiped finger marks off the door handles with the sleeve of her sweater as George carefully drove over the Yorkshire moors which skirted the coastline.

  They stopped briefly for coffee at the Robin Hoods Bay Hotel, looking down at the small red roofed houses which used to hide the tobacco smugglers many years before.

  The small fishing town of Whitby soon came into view. Jennifer peered out of the window at the many fishing boats which were leaving the safety of the harbour out to the precarious rough seas. Large white seagulls swooped and dived over the boats as they left for their daily catch.

  George parked the car on the harbour as Jennifer eagerly walked along the quayside to satisfy her desire to know more about the town and the history it held. She took photographs of the small narrow streets littered with lobster pots and fishing nets.

  There was a swinging sign over a door, and it simply said Harbour Fish Bar. Both the door and the bay window beside it had panels of bottle-glass to prevent passers-by peering in, but evidently let in a great deal of light, as he saw when he opened the door and stepped into the large room. Jennifer sat at the small table in the bay window.

  The sun shone blue streams of light over Jennifer’s face as the waitress came over to take their order. The room was taken up with various sizes of tables. It was only half past twelve and the café was full of tourists with the buzz of conversation, threaded here and there with laughter. A strong appetising smell of fresh fried fish came from the kitchen as waitresses hurried past with large pieces of Whitby cod hanging off the edges of the plates. The fresh sea air made Jennifer’s complexion glow as they sat on the harbour wall looking out to sea letting the sea spray chill her face.

  Jennifer was back to her normal self as she flung open the grey bedroom curtains to see the early autumn sky, which exactly matched them.

  George was already downstairs preparing breakfast and lighting the sitting room fire.

  She sprinted downstairs and tucked into her poached eggs on toast while George enjoyed his more unhealthy option of a full fried breakfast.

  They took their coffee onto the patio, taking advantage of the last of the summer days.

  Early autumn was Jennifer’s favourite season and she always thought that this time of the year approached perfection. After the summer heat, before the winter bleakness, before snow and frost are even dreamed of. A time that stands out crystal clear, as the air begins to cool; a time when the skies are still bright blue and when she could wear her favourite woollen cardigan.

  Jennifer seemed to come alive in the autumn and winter, when September marched into October. George had always thought she looked better and happier in the colder months after her lazy months of summer. She would come alive at the same time of the rough seas and her spectacular view of the ocean seemed to lift her spirits once the waves crashed violently on the sea wall.

  They drank their coffee, watching people walking quickly past the house on their way to town.

  The garden looked spectacular, George had done a fine job over the summer but gardening was in his veins, his heart and his spirits and he had an uncanny gift for garden design and brilliance with colour along with the knowledge of what worked and what didn’t after studying his large collection of gardening books.

  Jennifer took the empty cups inside while George marvelled at his work of art. She stood in the large hall for a moment and smiled to herself as she looked around the striking elegance of the hallway with its large gleaming chandelier.

  The house had made Jennifer happy and George had made her even more so. She seemed to grow in his presence and felt infinitely precious and totally safe. Safe enough to be what she was and to do what she wanted, to dare to move in a world with no limits at all.

  Over the past eight years George had made her feel limitless so she could be everything she wanted to be and do everything she wanted to do, and she did it all with the power of George’s love.

  She took the cups into the kitchen and returned to the patio to watch George inspecting his garden, walking in a military style with his hands clasped behind his back. There was unfettered pleasure in his eyes, a kind of gentle adoration that always drew her to his arms like a magnet. It was the gentleness in him, which she loved so much, the kindness and compassion he always had.

  Friends and neighbours adored George, but he had only adoration for Jennifer.

  ‘You look beautiful today,’ George shouted to her from the far side of the garden.

  ‘Better than the last two weeks,’ she shouted back. They both laughed.

  The last seven seasons had passed virtually unnoticed for John Bell in Armley jail. He also tended his garden every morning, the three plants sitting in pots on the windowsill of his cell.

  He would place small pieces of bread along the inside of the bars at the window to attract the birds, but they were fortunate, they could fly off when they had been fed and had got tired of the place.

  Although Bell had been moved to a new wing of the prison, it was virtually as depressing as the old block where many inmates were still housed.

  The new block had been built in drab colours, dark red bricks and grey roof slates. When it rained the gloomy colours reflect the mood of the weather, and the mood of those locked up inside. Even the birds seemed institutionalised. You didn’t seem them until Bell put the pieces of bread out when suddenly hundreds appeared and all of them tame and friendly; yet would attack each other at any time.

  After his attack on young Scott, John Bell was assigned his own cell and had been unaccompanied for the past seven years. Most of his money was spent of telephone calls to Jennifer, although George normally answered the phone where no words were exchanged. This constantly upset George, but he was unable to refuse the call.

  Bell spent most of his day in the cell staring up at the barred window. All he could see was a patch of pale grey, featureless sky and knowing that the pubs, clubs, shops and all the places he had taken for granted might as well not exist.

  The choices in his life were limited and were laid down by others. Tea or coffee, stew or fish, weights or treadmill, top bunk or bottom. Choices that were no real choice but John Bell was in prison through his own choice. He could have been an ordinary member of society and wake up each morning in his own comfortable bed in his own comfortable home, instead of alone in an uncomfortable bunk surrounded by racist thugs, murderers and rapists.

  He was now serving his tenth year of his twenty-year sentence and decided how badly he wanted his freedom, and the price he was prepared to achieve it. He’d kill to get out if he could.

  On Jennifer’s last visit to the prison, John had informed her that he could soon be eligible for parole. This delighted Jennifer, but made George very ill at ease. He had always seen a touch of cruelty in John’s smile and it frightened him, but he didn’t mention this to Jennifer as she could only see good in her brother and appeared to ignore any criticism made towards him.

  When not in his cell, Bell would be found in the exercise yard, swinging his arms and taking in deep breaths of
fresh air while he jogged on the spot.

  He hated the idea of George’s relationship with his sister and wanted to kill him as he had the vicar in Fleetwood, more so because he had made Jennifer happier than he had been able to do.

  He was aware that she had moved to Scarborough, but had promised George that she would not disclose the address and any correspondence came via a post office box which George had set up for this purpose and for their own security.

  Jennifer was now well enough to do the weekly shopping. She walked down the hill into town with a sharp wind nipping her bare ankles. Her first stop was Ben Frank’s butchers for her weekly supply of lamb’s liver, being George’s favourite.

  Ben Franks had always had a soft spot for Jennifer and frequently saved her bones to stew up in the casserole.

  By the time she reached the shop the queue stretched out onto the street, but she joined it anyway, accustomed to his good reputation like the many others.

  She was soon joined by Mildred Shepherd, who lived three houses up from them. They chatted to pass the time and eventually reached the doorway of the butcher and then found themselves actually inside the shop at last.

  They walked together along the high street and called into Marks & Spencer, looking through the new winter fashion collection.

  George was putting the garden to sleep for the long winter ahead.

  The afternoon was wearing on as Jennifer climbed back up the hill to the house, weighed down with shopping bags full of fruit, vegetables and meat, which would be plentiful for the week.

  She came across a vacant bench on Marine Parade and rested for a while, placing the bags on the seat each side of her. The sea was blue and still as she gazed out towards the horizon, her eyes transfixed on a fishing boat in the far distance. The pale sun had given up its fight and the clouds were supreme now. The wind was getting up and she felt chilly as she continued her climb back home.