At breakfast and supper, he had made no attempt to open a conversation and his face had retained its formal expression, although Jennifer had not helped to defuse the situation, acting like a spoilt and selfish teenager.
He worked away on his car, cleaning the interior with the small hand-held vacuum cleaner and frantically polishing the windows, but feeling sick to the depths of his stomach through anxiety, upset, concern and anger at Jennifer’s continued stubbornness and hostility.
He was determined to discover why she had changed so suddenly and dramatically before the arrival of his son and daughter-in-law, who would definitely pick-up on the atmosphere as soon as they stepped through the front door.
He walked into the lounge where Jennifer was sitting by the fire, her eyes transfixed on the crackling logs. He kneeled down beside her and looked into her face for a moment before kissing her; and then his arms went around her tiny neck. She shook her head but tears were in her eyes, then she pushed him gently away, stood up, turned abruptly and walked out of the lounge and up to her bedroom.
He stood up and sat on the chair she had left, consoling himself as he stroked Walter, who lay by his side looking up with his loving spaniel eyes.
George returned to the garage, reversed the car out and drove off in the direction of the town centre.
He felt sad, and humiliated, having his affections rejected. He drove slowly along the North Bay, past the deserted holiday camp, around the castle bay and onto the south bay before parking outside the public toilets by the harbour.
The toilet was large, specifically designed for the use of the thousands of tourists which visited the town in the summer months. It was only one of the three which the council had kept open throughout the off-season. The remainder being closed, as their use would be limited in winter and too expensive to maintain.
The harbour toilets were generously equipped with thirty cubicles, a bank of twenty urinals, ten washbasins and an attendants’ room, although it wasn’t supervised in the winter months, only opened at seven in the morning and closed at eleven at night.
The urinals were occupied by three middle-aged men and a dishevelled looking teenager. One of the cubical doors was locked, occupied by someone who coughed constantly as George walked down the middle of the bank of cubicles to an available urinal.
The others looked over at him suspiciously, then returned to stare at the blue tiled walls in front of their urinals.
The teenager was standing in the middle cubicle, a man each side of him looking down at his manhood as he stood back from the urinal, proudly showing his erect penis. The other guy at the far end wore green high wellington boots over a pair of jeans, his yellow reflective work jacket being a compulsory safety item for the fish factory adjacent to the harbour. He stood looking along the line of urinals as the two middle-aged men fondled the teenager who stood with his hands in his trouser pockets.
George was also looking over before leaving his urinal to join the group at the far end.
The factory worker looked on, conveniently keeping a watchful eye on the door in the expectation of being disturbed by a cleaner or someone needing to use the toilet for a genuine purpose.
George and the other three men fondled the youngster before being alerted by the toilet flushing in the cubicle. They dispersed as the man came out of the cubical and washed his hands at the sink alongside the row of urinals.
A bus driver walked in followed by a taxi driver and a father holding his son’s hand.
George left the toilet first, got into his car and drove along the promenade towards his house on the south cliff.
It was 9.30 when he got back. Jennifer was in bed reading her library book. The house was in darkness, illuminated only by the small table lamp she had considerately left on in the hall for when he returned.
He walked through to the dark lounge, pouring himself a glass of whisky as he sat at his desk resting his elbows on the top of the desk and held his head in his hands, staring out at the blackness of the rear garden. He switched on the desk lamp, which shone across the room. He walked over to the front bay window, looking down at the large vase on the side table.
It contained the inevitable red roses, now drooping their heads, leaning down towards the floor as if even they were ashamed of their surroundings.
Jennifer would have been the first to notice their wilting condition and immediately rectified them or discarded them in the waste bin. It was most unlike her to lose interest in everything she had claimed to have loved.
She was up before seven the next morning. George lay fast asleep as she crept out of the bedroom and down to the kitchen. The bright fluorescing light startled Walter who was snuggled up on his blanket, keeping warm by the boiler.
A green carrier bag sat on the table. It had gold string handles and ‘House of Fraser’ written on the side in bold green letters.
The dress in the bag was obviously expensive, but Jennifer’s expression as she took it out of its tissue paper was that of a person torn between two moods. Part of her wanted to love it, because it was expensive and because George had obviously chosen it with great care; beautiful maroon which she loved and which went well with her colouring. The other part of her wanted to find fault with it, saying, ‘it won’t fit’ or ‘it’s the wrong design,’ or ‘the wrong colour.’ She held it against her small frame, swirling from side to side, catching her reflection in the glass of the kitchen door.
She ran upstairs and tried the dress on in one of the spare bedrooms. She looked at herself in the long dress mirror. The dress looked magnificent and fitted her so comfortably, she even had to recognise this in view of her current distaste for George.
She carefully pulled the dress over her head, hanging it on a velvet-covered clothes hanger in the wardrobe and went back downstairs to prepare breakfast.
As she reached into the carrier bag for the remaining tissue paper, she pulled out a small card with a hand painted red rose on the cover. She ran her tiny hand across the picture and opened the card reading the words, ‘I love you’ which George had written.
She heard the toilet flush in the upstairs bathroom. She quickly put the kettle on and laid the table for breakfast.
George walked nervously into the kitchen, unexpectedly relieved as she walked over from the cooker and kissed him gently on the cheek.
‘It’s beautiful, dear, absolutely beautiful,’ she said, smiling at him as he retained his anxious expression.
‘I’m pleased you like it, I saw it in the window when I went to collect the pantomime tickets and thought how fashionable it looked, as if it had been made exclusively for you,’ he said, sitting down at the kitchen table, the nervousness leaving him but being replaced with caution and slight anxiety.
She left the bacon grilling slowly as she ran upstairs, returning a few minutes later wearing the maroon dress, swirling around the kitchen table like an excited schoolgirl.
‘I shall wear my diamond earrings with it,’ she said.
George smiled at her as she pranced around the kitchen in the expensive garment, giving his open approval and admiration. He watched her with satisfying contentment as she tied her long apron over the dress to avoid the grease from the grilling bacon staining her new possession as it sizzled under the grill.
He poured out two cups of tea as she turned towards him, giving a loving and appreciative smile momentarily before lowering her head to crack two eggs into the frying pan.
Jennifer was in an agreeable mood all morning although George still felt strange and uneasy, expecting her to return to one of her depressing sulky moods at any moment. Taking advantage of her good humour, he suggested driving into the county, having lunch at a country pub on the way.
His eyes registered astonishment when she excitingly agreed, going up to her bedroom to pick something out to wear which would be suitable against the blustery December weather.
They drove inland towards the Yorkshire Moors, stopping at the highest point to gaze at
the miles of barren moorland surrounding them. They parked the car, walking through the wild heather, breathing deeply the fresh country air as they joyfully walked.
George was wearing his wellington boots, which he had taken from the boot of the car; Jennifer was in sensible walking shoes, her head wrapped in a large woollen scarf. Jennifer stood silent, shaking her head disbelievingly at the expanse of the countryside without a house or any visible signs of life. The silence was astonishing as they walked freely over the damp grass towards a fast flowing stream which appeared to come from nowhere, and leading to nowhere.
George slipped suddenly; his wellington boots couldn’t grip the watery base as he fell backwards with a frightening force.
Jennifer ran over to him, helping him up with her hands tucked tightly under his arms until she slid uselessly at the side of him, grabbing the tufts of grass to steady her fall. They laughed like naughty children as they scrambled up the small bank, inches from the fast flowing stream.
Jennifer wrinkled her face at the aching cold wind, which blew onto her face as they joyfully walked back to the warmth of the car. They drove along the coast road with the moors to one side and the rough sea to the other.
She was in her element, gazing at the fascinating view of endless golden brown colour of the moor, gloriously emphasised by the white breakers of the sea as they lashed against the cliffs.
They stopped at a country pub and ordered a ploughman’s lunch while looking down from the window at the violent sea, fat seagulls swooped low over the breakers as they returned to their nests tucked well into the face of the cliff.
All she wanted to do was walk and walk, until eventually they were so tired that when they returned home that had hardly enough energy to eat the casserole she had prepared earlier in the day.
Walter was wet and muddy, equally exhausted as George rubbed him vigorously with a towel as Jennifer prepared his dinner.
They both sat in front of the large fire, which Molly had cleaned and re-laid along with her other daily jobs, switching on the decorative Christmas tree lights in the hope of lightening the hostile atmosphere which had dominated most of the week.
The lights flickered alternately giving the room a warm and comfortable festive feel, emphasised by the church singing as she watched her favourite ‘Songs of Praise’ on the television.
The next morning as Jennifer prepared breakfast, she looked around noticing it was well below what it should be in terms of cleanliness. She had known this for sometime but didn’t have the courage to mention this to Molly, but in view of the poor atmosphere which Molly had been working in, a decline in standards was inevitable.
She set about cleaning down the walls, taking advantage of Molly’s day off.
George was disappointed to see her reaching high up to the ceiling as she stood on the work surface between the toaster and microwave.
‘We’ll have to let her go if she’s going to leave the work to you,’ George said, as he tucked into his eggs and bacon.
‘Oh, she’s all right. We have always known she’s never been the most attentive cleaner, but she’s good at washing and ironing,’ Jennifer replied, climbing down precariously.
She wiped her hands down the front of her apron and joined him at the table. ‘That was a lovely day yesterday, dear, I so enjoyed it,’ she said, smiling at him.
‘I don’t know why we don’t do it more often,’ he replied.
‘That would be nice, I love the countryside this time of year,’ she said.
George was pleased to see her back to her normal self after a week of silence, which had become more oppressive as each day went by, but she was now smiling and humming to herself as she worked. She had always enjoyed domestic work, irrespective of her age, but George did not have his old energy anymore. He was sleeping more and more in the day and would stay in bed all day if Jennifer had let him.
She hoped the spring season would encourage him to be more active as he loved his garden, which took most of his day to maintain, and which rewarded him in a glorious display of colour where passers-by would stop and stare at the beautifully manicured lawn which surrounded the house, edged by an abundance of mature trees.
The return of their conversation mirrored a warm normality through the house. The hostility appeared to have been replaced by joyfulness and laughter, even young Walter skipped around from room to room unlike the past week when he spent most of his day curled up tightly on his blanket.
Jennifer spent most of the morning cleaning around the kitchen and the two upstairs bathrooms as George read his morning paper, which he had retrieved from the letterbox.
As she frantically wiped the front lounge windowsill, she shrieked and quickly stepped back, suddenly occurring to her that George must have heard her shriek and capture her expression of surprise most precisely.
‘What’s the matter, dear?’ he said, looking over the top of his newspaper.
Jennifer had to think quickly as George folded his paper and quickly came over to her. She stepped away from the window as George placed his hands on her thin shoulders.
‘I’ve just scratched myself on one of the Christmas tree needles,’ she said. Jennifer felt so nervous as George sat her down as he inspected her arms for any abrasions, rubbing them gently with his hand. She breathed in and out very slowly and deeply several times, her body shaking with fear.
‘I can’t see any marks,’ he said, looking closely along the skin of her thin arms.
‘Oh, it’s nothing, it just startled me,’ she said, confidently and reassuringly.
As she had looked up from the windowsill, she had noticed a portly man dressed in a heavy black coat, his face hidden under a peaked cap with flaps over his ears and a cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth as he ambled along the cliff path, looking over the fences and up and down the row of substantial detached houses, trying to peer through the lounge windows over the large front gardens.
As he looked over the fence at the house next door, he lifted his head slowly as his eyes reached the top of the building. The face which was revealed was that of her brother.
‘You’re shaking like a leaf, dear,’ he said, passionately kissing her thin arm. He went through to the kitchen for some antiseptic cream, which they kept in a drawer.
She fearfully returned to the window, keeping out of sight behind the large, heavily decorated Christmas tree. She sighed with relief, which seemed to run down her small body as John had vanished out of sight. Her heart still beating loudly as she returned to her chair.
George returned with the cream, rubbing it slowly over her arm, looking pensive and concerned, yet he had been unable to identify the slightest of abrasions on her skin.
‘Oh, that feels better already,’ she said, lifting her head, smiling appreciatively. She remained nervous and unsettled for the rest of the morning, slyly peering over her shoulder at the window as George continued to read his newspaper.
She casually walked upstairs to afford her a better view as she precariously peered up and down the cliff path from the bedroom window. She quickly drew the curtains, running along the corridor and into the other front bedroom to draw the curtains also.
The properties on the south cliff were residential housing of large and imposing buildings. All shops, amusements, pubs and clubs were situated either in the town centre or in the north cliff area. She quickly realised that John’s sudden appearance could only be for the intention of seeking the house where she lived.
She kept the lights low as they watched the television, unable to draw the lounge curtains due to the Christmas tree, which filled the bay window. She remained nervous all evening but fortunately the large tree, which she had first criticised and bitterly complained about, had turned out to be a good investment blocking the view of the interior of the room from the outside pathway.
She had not expected such an eventuality, frantically getting up and down from her chair peering through the window into the darkness of the night as George wa
tched television inhaling the smoke of his small cigar, which was expelled back through his nose.
Making another excuse to George, she left the house immediately after breakfast and walked briskly through town and up to the top floor of the house. She knocked on John’s door, listening to movement from inside as he slowly opened the door.
His eyes were red and dull, his hair dishevelled and greasy. A thick growth of stubble covered his chin after days of not shaving. He smiled at her, showing yellowing teeth as he opened the door just wide enough for her to push her small body through.
The lounge smelt of stale cigarette smoke. Empty beer cans were thrown around and the ashtray brimmed over with cigarette stubs. The carpet was heavily stained and burnt where cigarettes had been stamped out. The room was dark with the curtains closed. The plants Jennifer had so carefully selected were now dead and various items of dirty clothes had been casually discarded and littered the floor.
The bedroom was in equally poor condition. The dirty sheets had been haphazardly thrown over the mattress. The smell of unwashed clothes and dirty socks was overpowering. An ashtray by the bed was full of cigarette ends and a tube of lubricating jelly and baby oil lay by the side of the bed, evidence of sexual activity.
The bath was stained with a thick residue line halfway up the inside. Dirty towels stank and the toilet had not been flushed from his morning’s ablutions.
The kitchen was in an indescribable condition as he washed two dirty mugs under the tap as the kettle boiled.
Jennifer looked around in disgust, making no attempt to assist as she sat down at the kitchen table.
He placed the coffee cups on the table. Jennifer looked around the kitchen and directed her large eyes at what she saw now was a most arrogant face on John.
‘I know the place looks a mess and I shan’t protest my innocence, I’ve already done that quite enough in my life,’ he said, lighting up the remaining half of a cigarette.
‘The flat looks disgraceful,’ Jennifer said, looking over her shoulder at the full sink.
‘So, that’s not your problem, I don’t have to explain myself to you. I’ve spent most of my life being told what to do, so mind your own fucking business,’ he said sharply.
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