The Recluse
Copyright© 2025 by Tedbiker
Chapter 10
Romantic Story: Chapter 10 - Robert is a shy nerd, living alone in the house where he grew up after both parents died in the Pandemic. Not especially religious, he went to the Midnight service one Christmas, did something quite out of character, and met Callie McPherson. I am intending to post a chapter a week, but may run out of material!
Caution: This Romantic Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Slow
Robert:
Leaving Callie was a shock to my system! There was a sense of unreality as I headed home alone, back to my ‘old’ life. But she was going to marry me. Not until after her exams, even though that would be a month after her birthday, but she was going to marry me. We hadn’t settled where we’d live, but the city seemed likely, rather than Maldon. I was taking advice from Rebecca, Dulcie and Eileen Meadows among others. I would speak to Callie often, of course, but not visit until the exams were over and done. That meant not seeing her in person until the end of May, with the wedding in June.
That didn’t mean I was bored. Far from it. Quite apart from work, there was HIG. HIG being the interim title – Homelessness Intervention Group – for the committee assembled to consider an orderly and effective approach to the issue of homelessness in the area. The church had professionals, psychiatric, social, medical professionals to throw at the problem, but we’d also co-opted representatives from several outside groups. Shelter, of course, Crisis, Street Angels, all of whom had practical experience and interest in the issue of street people.
“You’ve got to realise,” one said, “that some street people choose that life. Makes no sense to me, but they have a right to choose. All we can do is offer sleeping bags or blankets, food, medical and dental treatment and let them get on with it.”
“And,” another inserted, “there’s this issue of drug and alcohol abuse.”
Suzannah, a church member and psychiatric nurse, raised a hand. “I think a Therapeutic Community approach will be necessary, at least if the aim is rehabilitation. Oh, another thing, since it’s a church initiative, we need to be careful that the religion thing doesn’t put people off. I know it’s important, but they do not need to be preached at.”
David, local GP, added, “I know what you’re talking about, Su, but perhaps some of us need an explanation of Therapeutic Community?”
Su looked round at the assembled group and saw smiles and nods. “A therapeutic community is essentially self-governing, with professionals to guide rather than prescribe. An occasional lapse of behaviour needs to be tolerated up to a point because the sort of issues we’ll be dealing with don’t disappear overnight. I have some explanatory articles on the subject which give examples of how problems might be handled, but the important point is that each resident is a full member of the group, and subject to peer pressure.”
“Perhaps, Su,” I offered, “it would be good if we could all have copies of your articles? And maybe suggestions for further study? If I’m going to be in the position of having some responsibility I ought to know more about the options.” I intended to send copies to Callie, too, even though she’d probably not have time to read and digest them.
Another matter was looking at facilities the Diocese was offering us to use, all of which needed to be visited and evaluated. Time. “Ask me for anything except time.” Not that I didn’t have time to spare, just that I was pushing hard and so were my companions.
We did settle on two places. One, which had been offices, near the centre of the city. It would need some modifications, though it did have toilet facilities. On three floors, with a variety of room sizes, the ground floor had a reception area and a canteen as well as a space which would make a common-room or lounge.
A second property just outside the inner ring-road, was a large house – ten bedrooms. The once large garden had been cut in half and a second house erected behind the large one. The driveway to both was paved with stone setts; a nice bit of remnant history, but subject, I was certain, to the formation of slippery green algae in wet weather. But the house was almost perfect for our purposes. It was going to be our second-stage house for people who’d demonstrated a desire and, more importantly, the motivation, to find a way off the streets. In some cases, to defeat addiction or other mental issues.
None of this would have been possible without money. Money which wasn’t going to come from Council or Central Government. I was amazed at the way churches, not just Anglican ones, had got behind the project with money and volunteer manpower. Modifications to the two properties were forging ahead. Suzannah’s contacts in the Health Services had also produced volunteers from among nurses and occupational therapists. A local GP surgery had signed up, too. Inevitably, I had been drawn in further and often found myself shaking my head at the changes in my life. Actually dealing with people! Not just sorting out IT problems for customers, but having real conversations. Learning about religion. Learning about health – physical, emotional and psychological.
The time did, in fact, pass. Callie seemed unworried by her exams; in fact, I thought she was sailing through the whole thing amazingly well.
Towards the end of May, as we chatted and I watched her animated, sparkling expression on FaceTime, she said, “Last exam tomorrow. You will be coming down to celebrate with me, won’t you? And you did remember to get the Banns published?”
I had, to both. In England, a church wedding requires the participants to pay their local minister to ‘publish’ a warning of the forthcoming wedding in each participant’s parish, three weeks in a row. I was a ‘bachelor of the Parish of St Jude’s’. Callie’s situation was a little different, and in the end hers were published at St Mary’s – as ‘Spinster of the Parish of St Mary the Virgin’. I had taken the precaution of sending an invitation to F. & C.S. too, though I doubted that they would bother to send anyone a hundred and eighty miles to Maldon in order to attend.
I had, of course, known the schedule of the exams, so was at least somewhat prepared, though I hadn’t quite expected her imperative suggestion. I had intended to travel at the weekend. However, there was little to stop me going immediately. Just one problem; I was going to require a smart suit, an ‘occasion’ type suit. And such garments are not suited to being stuffed into a rucksack. Oh, and another issue was Khenan Williams. His relationship with his daughter was now strong enough that she asked him to give her away at the wedding. That meant he needed a suit as well, not to mention transport.
Well, I could rent a car. That would solve the transport of clothing and two people. Khenan’s probation officer had agreed to his visit to Maldon for his daughter’s wedding, with a seven day limit. I’d chewed this over previously. I wanted to use the bike as it would render me independent of Khenan. He could drive the car, of course. I spoke to him after my conversation with Callie.
In the end, I rented a car. Not the compact I wanted, but a VW Passat. We could load our luggage and ourselves and, although it would make us a little late leaving town, it would at least transport us in relative comfort.
Another phone call found Khenan a bed with the Stephensons – I’d be with the Camerons again – and we were on the road by ten o’clock. I like my bike. I love my bike. But I have to admit that if you want comfort, you can’t beat a good car. And while a bike can avoid or circumvent congestion, unless it’s intended as a high-speed tourer (mine isn’t), a car is faster. Not to mention, one can have a comprehensible conversation with a passenger en route. In short, I could take fast roads instead of ‘scenic’ ones, and wouldn’t need more than one stop on the way.
We stopped at Stibbington at twelve-thirty, rather than Peterborough to avoid the lunch time noise and congestion. The Stibbington Diner is quite popular, but quieter, cheaper, and with more parking space compared to its own capacity. We ate a good lunch and got back on the road, to arrive in Maldon at four-thirty. I left Khenan with the Stephensons and headed to the Camerons’, parked, and lugged my suitcase and suit-hanger to the house.
Bridie opened the door with a welcoming smile. She took the suit-hanger and hooked it on a coat hook in the hall. “Dump that case,” she told me, and stepped aside.
A tornado hit me. Actually, of course, it was Callie, but the impact was very like a tornado. Her arms and legs wrapped around me and reflexively I returned the embrace as her lips met mine. No words. Just the pressure of her body on mine, her lips on mine, and a sense of rightness, of ‘coming home’ in some way. How long did we stay like that? Don’t know. But Bridie coughed politely to get our attention and, reluctantly, we parted and turned to her. “Take him to his room, Callie, get him settled, then come down again so he can get us up to date on what’s going on.”
Callie smiled. “Yes, Auntie. Thank you.” She led the way upstairs after I collected my suit and case to follow.
I hung my suit carefully while Callie emptied my case into drawers and put it away. “Dulcie has had words with me,” she said, “as you might expect. But I was a little surprised by what she said. She told me a marriage is not synonymous with ‘wedding’. So, not only will I sleep with you tonight and every night, we will be married tonight.”