The Recluse
Copyright© 2025 by Tedbiker
Chapter 3
Robert Bethune:
I can’t say it was easy. For either of us. Her seventeenth birthday came and went, marked by an application for a provisional driving licence and a ride out into Derbyshire for a meal at my favourite pub. Even though neither of us consumed any alcohol, Callie being underage, and my determination never to consume alcohol before riding the motorbike, separating for bed was a close-run thing when we got home.
But we kept the house tidy, sharing vacuuming and window-cleaning until, one day, I found Callie with a duster and one of those fluffy mops for dusting tricky places.
“You have dust-bunnies,” she told me.
“They’re pets!” I complained. Actually, I’d not given dust a thought since my parents’ deaths.
“The dust is a thick layer,” she stated, firmly, “and there are cobwebs as well, thick with dust. I dread to think what state the fans are in.”
We have only three fans in the house, in the bathrooms and kitchen.
“Okay. I’ll take a look.” I did. I spent about three hours, altogether, cleaning them.
Oh, I’m forgetting. The debit card. Some might think I was naive to trust Callie with my bank account. It wasn’t much of a risk, though. I kept a three-to-four figure account for household expenses, and topped it up from a business account. I gave Callie a card on the account so she could buy groceries and minor items which women need and might be embarrassed to ask for. I found that she was more economical than I in buying more fresh ingredients rather than convenient ready-to-eat items like quiches. She certainly spent a little on undies and such like, but she actually asked my permission before getting her hair cut. She came back from an appointment with her hair trimmed to a neat helmet. I’ve seen various ways of dealing with her type of hair, but that was perfect in my eyes and required only a minimum of care.
Don’t you just know, though, when you’re muddling along to a known goal, not necessarily easily, but making progress, that Murphy would step in to upset things?
“Mister Bethune, would it be possible for me to see Callie soon?”
“Certainly. She’s in and out, though, she’s taken on much of the shopping and so on for the housekeeping, and we usually manage a walk in the mornings so I get some fresh air and exercise. Give us a time, and I’ll make sure we’re in, or Callie’s in, if that’s better.”
“Oh, I think it’ll be good if you’re both there when I call. Tomorrow morning? Ten-ish?”
“Sounds okay. We’ll see you then.”
Callie was a little uncertain when I told her about it, but I tried to reassure her. “It didn’t sound as though she’s worried about us. On the other hand, she didn’t indicate what she wanted to talk about either.”
“Missus Franklin; do come in. Would you like coffee?”
She hesitated. She told me later that she was careful about accepting any food stuff or drink during her visits, but that she really knew that we kept a sanitary house. “Yes, please. Just milk with it.”
“Would you like to sit in the kitchen while I deal with it, or the lounge. Callie’s studying at the moment, but I’ll call her.”
“Oh, the kitchen sounds fine.” I led the way and set the coffee to dripping before calling Callie. She followed me cautiously and sat at the table with our visitor whilst I dealt with the carafe of coffee and put a jug of milk on the table and a plate of biscuits.
When each had a mug of coffee in front of us, ‘doctored’ to our preference, we all took a sip and a chocolate digestive (biscuit).
Missus Franklin took a deep breath. “Callie, I have some ... difficult news for you.”
Callie’s worried expression deepened. “Problems?”
“Problems indeed.” She sighed, took another deep breath. “It seems your mother is dead, Callie. It’s conjecture at the moment, but your father was released on licence about a week ago, then a few days after neighbours reported a disturbance. By the time the Police attended, I’m afraid they were too late for your mother, and her assailant was long gone.”
I watched Callie, who sat silent for a minute or so. A tear trickled down her cheek. I reached and laid my hand over hers, as Missus Franklin did the same.
“She wasn’t a good mother, but she was my mother,” Callie got out eventually. “I don’t think she could have helped how she was, not really.”
“It’s okay to be sad, to cry,” Missus Franklin advised, gently.
Callie stood and moved to sit in my lap, and I wrapped my arms around her. She buried her face against my shoulder and shook as she wept.
I looked at Missus Franklin. No detached bureaucrat, she. Her eyes were glistening, too. “Was there something else?” I queried.
“I’m afraid there is,” she responded. “Callie’s father, Khenan Williams, has disappeared. It would be foolish if he were to try to find you, Callie, but perhaps he is not entirely reasonable.”
“I think that might be an understatement, Missus Franklin. But I thank you for coming to give us the news.” I spoke, as Callie was still burrowing into my shoulder.
The lady accepted another cup of coffee, and in due course departed, leaving us to sort out our emotions. That night, I woke briefly to find Callie cuddled up to me, crying in her sleep. It was obvious she was there for comfort and reassurance, not sex, and I was half asleep anyway. When I woke in the morning she’d gone. It was very quiet in the house, not that we were ever particularly noisy, but Callie spoke even less than usual, and gave monosyllabic replies to my enquiries. I did what I could, mainly cuddling her when she came to sit on my lap, or joined me in bed in the middle of the night – which became quite a regular thing.
Four weeks later, almost to the day, Missus Franklin visited to let us know that the Coroner had ruled ‘Murder by person or persons unknown’, though the Police were still searching for Williams. The body having been released by the Coroner, we arranged a fairly basic funeral. We could have left it to the State, I suppose, but Callie gratefully accepted my offer to cover the costs, and David Staniland at St Jude’s agreed to take the service. David spent some time with Callie over a couple of weeks, partly to learn something of Donna McPherson, but mainly to support his parishioner. Later, I was to find out that he’d spoken quite a lot about Dulcie Chesterman. Callie was amazed to hear that the Reverend Dulcie Chesterman was a redeemed former prostitute and drug addict.
The day came, and Callie rode behind me on the bike. We were dressed in ‘Sunday best’ under one-piece water proof suits. The Crem at Hutcliffe Wood is a modern building, tastefully arranged. The service was attended by ourselves, but also by Missus Franklin, and a youngish couple from church, Rose-Marie and Ted. David spoke well, about love and forgiveness, mercy and redemption. “I never met Donna,” he ended, “but I know my God, who sees the essence of each of us. Knowing Him, I trust in His mercy, and His love.” He then went on to the Committal, and we watched as the simple coffin was obscured by the curtains. Music – canned music, sadly – began, and we left to the strains of Allegri’s Misere, to shake hands with David and thank him, then to stand in the little car park to speak to Missus Franklin, Rose-Marie, and Ted.
“We’d like you to come back to St Jude’s,” Rose-Marie told us. “We’ve put together a little buffet lunch.” She turned to Missus Franklin, “You’re invited, too.”
“I really ought to...” she began.
“No, no. Come along and come with us. Call it following up on Callie.”
“Oh, well. I suppose...”
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