The Recluse
Copyright© 2025 by Tedbiker
Chapter 1
I suppose ‘recluse’ is as good a description as there is. His parents having succumbed to Covid early in the pandemic, Robert Bethune just continued in the house he’d grown up in. A life-long nerd, he’d often been ridiculed in school and, rather shy, he’d never pursued any of the girls who’d caught his eye. Rosie Palm, imagination and porn formed the sum of his sexual experience. Working in IT, much of the time at his systems at home, left little opportunity to meet a partner as well.
As Christmas approached, he didn’t bemoan his situation, but bought his favourite winter treats and drinks. He saw no oddity in purchasing a chicken for Christmas day – that would provide him with food for much of the holiday. But otherwise he went about his usual routine; his father had drummed into him the necessity of daily exercise and a healthy diet, so for at least an hour a day he walked briskly through a local park and on a regular basis called in to the cafe for a coffee.
Christmas Eve, he made his way to the parish church for the Midnight Mass. While he would have denied belief in God, that, and Easter, had always been a family occasion. The church wasn’t exactly warm. Outside, it was below freezing and the sky was clear, but it was certainly not cold, and decorations and lights, plus the altar candles and the elaborate robes of the priest, warmed the congregation in their own way. Normally, he’d let the music and the words of liturgy and sermon flow over him without any real penetration, but somehow the young priest, preaching from the dais in the centre of the church rather than from the pulpit, caught his attention and held it. He couldn’t recall what was said, afterwards, but the lights seemed brighter, and the colours more intense. For the first time he looked to his side – usually he kept his attention firmly ahead, so as not to invite conversation. Beside him was a man, dressed in jeans and a thick white roll-neck sweater. His long hair was braided, and his beard and moustache trimmed. The man smiled.
“It’s good to see you here,” the man said. “You should come more often. Happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas to you too,” Robert responded, automatically. “My name’s Robert.”
“I know,” the man said, smiling, “you can call me Emmanuel.”
Robert smiled back, uncertainly. He’d never been confirmed, but at the Communion, his neighbour encouraged him to approach the altar rail for a blessing. The man went with him, but went to speak to someone else, and Robert lost sight of him. A young woman in a white robe prayed for him, holding a hand over his head. He didn’t understand what she was saying, but was conscious of warmth spreading through himself. He made his way back to his seat, his neighbour apparently engaged elsewhere, and the service ended with “Christians awake! Salute the happy morn!”
Unusually, after the final blessing, Robert remained in his seat for several minutes – he told himself it was to let the crowd clear – but as he stood, he saw a small figure sitting at the back. The street people who habitually joined the Midnight service halfway through, all sat at the very back, and he assumed that she’d been among them. He was all set to walk past, carefully not looking at her, but a quiet voice – he didn’t register it was in his head rather than his ears – said, “Why don’t you stop and say hello?”
That was so far out of his normal ‘comfort zone’ he would have ignored the voice had he given it any thought, but he did pause. “Happy Christmas,” he said.
The figure looked up. She was gaunt, her eyes sunken in her face. “Thank you,” her voice a slightly hoarse contralto. “I don’t suppose you could spare me a little change, could you?”
That was not an unusual request from a street person, and Robert responded as he would usually. “I won’t give you money,” he said, then, realising he wasn’t in a position to buy her a hot drink and a sandwich – his usual response – was momentarily at a loss. From out of nowhere, he found himself offering, “If you’d like to come home with me, I’ll give you a hot drink and a sandwich, and a bed for the night.”
The woman, who might have been almost any age between fifteen and fifty, looked at him thoughtfully, her gaze somehow penetrating. “I think I’d do anything for that,” she told him, “anything.”
“No need,” Robert said, his mind inevitably focussing on the ‘anything’. He led the way to the exit, to shake hands with the preacher before leaving. She followed, also shaking the vicar’s hand but looking a little embarrassed.
Outside, the freezing temperature and wind made her hunch and wrap her arms around herself.
“It’s not far,” Robert reassured her, and led the way. Neither of them were aware of the man following them, the one who’d been sitting next to Robert. “Could I have a name?”
It really wasn’t far, but the woman was far from fit, and walked slowly. She stopped and looked at him. “Callie,” she said, before turning and walking on.
At his house, he unlocked and opened the door and ushered her inside. It was warm; very warm indeed after the outside.
“I’ve never disposed of my parents’ things,” Robert told her. “Come upstairs to their room. I’m sure you can find something warm to cover you, and you can use their en suite bathroom. I’m sure you’d like to be clean and warm while I find something for you to eat.”
She stared at him, wondering. “Sounds good,” she admitted, eventually, thinking, ’I suppose he would prefer me to be clean when he fucks me.’
Robert left the room, and she poked through two wardrobes and two chests-of-drawers. His mother’s clothes were obvious, of course, and she found panties, vests, and thermal pyjamas which were not too much larger than she needed, the trousers having a draw-string. She took her selection into the bathroom and stripped gratefully out of her grubby, worn clothes. She was tempted by the bath, but decided on a shower instead. There she found shampoo and shower gel that was feminine, if perhaps something an older woman would prefer.
She spent longer than she intended under the hot stream, and decided to just wrap her hair in a towel rather than trying to dry it. Dressed, she made her way downstairs and to the kitchen. Robert had been busy, and had soup heating on the stove. The smell of tomato soup and also toasting cheese permeated the kitchen and tickled her nostrils.
“Come and sit,” he invited. “I thought you’d enjoy a toastie, and that tempted me too, so I’ve made two.”
“Wonderful,” she sighed, and picked up a spoon to start on her soup. Not much later, she’d finished the soup and her toastie. She leaned back and closed her eyes.
“Don’t go to sleep yet,” Robert chided, a smile in his voice. “I’m not sure I could carry you upstairs.”
Her eyes opened and she slowly stood. “Okay. Where am I sleeping?”
“I suggest you use my parents’ bed, so you’ll have the en suite to yourself. To reassure, I have my own room.” When she didn’t react, he went on, “Come along. And, please, don’t worry. There is a key in the lock of the room if you wish to lock yourself in.”
Upstairs, he left her at the door of the master bedroom. She hesitated, but turned the handle and went in. Meanwhile, Robert retreated to his room, removed his outer clothing and fell into bed, asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Callie entered the room, undressed slowly and thoughtfully before donning a long nightdress, slid into bed and turned the light out. She lay there musing at the strange turn of her situation, but drifted off to sleep before she came to any conclusion.
The sun woke her as she hadn’t completely closed the curtains. Warm and comfortable, well rested, she snuggled into the bed. ’It’s Christmas morning,’ she thought. ‘Not quite what I expected. Of course, I can’t expect presents, and I haven’t anything to give my host ... except, well, of course there’s always my body. If he’s interested in sex with a street person. Actually, I don’t think I’d mind. I was expecting him to want sex, after all. Oh, well.’ She climbed out of bed, took herself into the bathroom and emptied her bladder. Washed her hands, dried them, and went to get dressed in the same thermals she’d picked out earlier.
Downstairs, Robert was busy in the kitchen. He smiled when she entered. “Um ... Happy Christmas,” he said. “Come in. Tea or coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
“Well, I’ve got coffee here, but I can make tea easily if you prefer.”
“Coffee is fine. Milk and sugar, please.”
He poured coffee into a mug, ‘a souvenir of Scarborough’, and put a jug of milk and a sugar bowl next to it. “Cereal? Toast? I’m going to scramble some eggs if you’d like some?”
Robert Bethune:
I had no idea why I listened to that little voice and, at the time didn’t give any thought to the source of it, but the result was that, small hours of Christmas morning, I wasn’t alone in the house. The young woman, Callie – yes, she was young, as I realised when she came downstairs, showered, in some loose, warm pyjamas of my mother’s – was of medium height and very slim. Freshly showered, it was apparent that – am I allowed to refer to her ethnicity? That’s a minefield these days – she was of mixed ethnicity. Her hair was a frizzy light brown, and her skin a lovely shade of milk chocolate. (At College I was shot down quite brutally for using that term, so you can understand my reluctance to make that reference). She was, in my opinion, a very attractive young woman. She sat at the kitchen table and looked at me.
“Yes, please. That’d be lovely.”
As I went about preparing breakfast, not a big deal, really, she tentatively asked,
“Why are you doing this?”
I paused for a moment. “I don’t honestly know. But let me do this for right now.” The kettle boiled, and I poured the contents into a cafetière. The toaster popped as I was doing that, and having given the cafetière a stir, I got out a couple of plates, buttered the toast, and tipped eggs into the pan, butter already melted in the bottom. It took only a minute or so of stirring to get the eggs just right and serve them up, and I placed a plate in front of her and the other in my place, before depressing the plunger. Mugs for both of us, milk in a jug, not something I usually bother with, and a bowl of demerara sugar on the table. I sat and bowed my head briefly before reaching for the coffee.
“You religious?” there was an odd tone to her voice.