Inseparable Bond (45 page)

They settled
back in the large easy chairs in the lounge. Jennifer felt bloated
after such a large lunch and sufficiently reinvigorated.

George had
been so reassuring and comforting. Right now she needed a lot of
that.

As she slept
by the fire, George stared at her, admiring her beauty and
vitality, happy in her company but slightly concerned into her
welfare and safety when her brother leaves prison.

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
desk 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.