NOTE: This is part 1 or 3 of a romance novella. Whilst it contains graphic depictions of sex, this is a slow burn story told in 3 parts.
Wales, 1967
Moving In
The new lodger arrived on the bus with a holdall and a spare pair of boots. He was easy to spot, he was the only person to get off the rickety old thing. People rarely visited Cwmderw. The community was small, even by valley standards, and the pit was old. On its last legs everyone said, though they’d been saying that since he was a small lad. Yet it was still churning out coal, still paying their wages.
The boy clocked him and walked over.
Malcolm extended a hand, “S’mae, Rhodri?”
The boy, fresh faced, greeted him back, “S’mae, Mal?”
He was tall, probably an inch or so over 6 feet. That was going to be a problem. The mine shafts were narrower than normal in Cwmderw, the boy was going to have back issues within hours.
Aside from that he was pretty unremarkable. He had a mop of black hair kept close at the sides, thick eyebrows that framed a pair of blue eyes, and a slender frame. He hoped the lad could hold his own.
“C’mon then, lad. House isn’t far.”
The boy smiled, and followed.
The house was old but it had good bones. On the end of a row of redbrick terraces atop a ridge overlooking the valley, the front door opened straight onto the street. They entered, the lad polite enough to ask if he should take his shoes off before entering.
Malcolm hadn’t done that since Peg.
“If you want,” came his answer.
The room was as it had always been. A coal fire in the chimney breast, a beat up settee his mother would knit in, the armchair his dad would smoke his pipe in, the old radio, the new-ish telly, the books she’d left, ancient watercolours that had been on the walls since he could remember.
“Front room,” he gestured, “you can use it whenever. Radio works fine if you like that sort of thing.”
“Does the telly work?” the lad asked, eyeing the set.
“Aye, it does. Don’t watch it much, but you’re welcome to use it.”
He took him through to the kitchen, which was even more unchanged from his childhood. Great wooden sideboards, cupboards that were little more than shelves hidden by individual curtains, a gas powered stove, a farmers sink, and a great hulking table with four chairs. His socks and skivvies hung above them from a washing line strung between the walls. The only real modernity was the fridge that hummed in the corner, which he’d almost finished paying off.
“Kitchen,” he said, and then pointed to two doors in quick succession.
“Pantry under the stairs. Mind your head,” and then to one at the back of the room, just next to the obvious exit to the back yard, “Toilet. There’s a little sink in there and a mirror, just enough for shaving, not good for much else.”
He kept on up the stairs, emerging on a floor with two doors. “Showers at the pit after each shift, but on Sunday I bring the old tin bath in from the yard and soak in the front room for a bit. It’s good for the back, you’ll see. I’ll leave you the hot water if you like?”
The boy nodded, smiling politely like he was a teacher or something.
“Got one back home,” he said, “I used to go before my brothers.”
Malcolm smiled lightly, “We can take turns going first if it bothers you.”
But Rhodri shrugged, “It’s your house.”
Malcolm opened the door to the smaller of the two rooms. It wasn’t much smaller really, and a good size for one person. Though most families had four kids in one. A single bed he’d grown up in sat beside the wall. Besides that, a desk, chair, drawers and wardrobe were the only furnishings. His boyhood toys still sat scattered about.
“Yours,” he said, and let Rhodri drop his bag on the thin mattress.
“Never had my own room before,” the lad said, eyeing the space with an unexpected grin.
Malcom knew that look. He’d seen it on enough lads over the years. But it was the first time one had been in his house. Truth was he needed the rent or else he wouldn’t be doing this, but the boy had responded to his advert in the paper and he had good references. So far he seemed like the good sort, but he was a little anxious. Malcolm had his routine and introducing a lad, a teenager no less, into that, was a recipe for apprehension.
“Rent is due each Friday, two pounds five shillings. Beth comes twice a week and does the washing and gives the house a quick clean. Shopping day is Saturday. We’re on the same shifts for a few weeks, I saw to that. You do your own ironing, but am an okay cook if you fancy sharing dinner.”
Rhodri nodded attentively, “I’m a pretty good cook. My tad died when I was eleven and I was the oldest, so when mam had to go workI had to look after the little ones. Learnt to cook pretty quick like after that.”
“Sorry to hear that lad, but happy to let you have a go at the old range.”
He left him after that, returning to the sofa and his book.
Routine
To his surprise Rhodri fitted into daily life pretty quickly. It was a bit strange having someone in the house after so many years, finding someone else’s underpants on the line, having someone else use the toilet, and then there was his music. The Beatles, The Who, The Stones. His Elvis collection sounded a bit dated in comparison. It made him feel a bit dated himself, if he was being honest.
They weren’t actually too far apart in age. The boy being 19 and him 32, but the fresh faced lad made him feel older than that. He’d even caught himself looking in the mirror one day. Not just shaving or checking his hair to see if he needed a cut, but actually looking at himself. His hair was still thick and dark, the greys little more than strays, his skin still smooth. He saw the way the local women looked at him, not that he ever acknowledged it. Half the time they were only looking to gossip.
“There’s Mal”, they’d whisper, “the man who couldn’t keep his wife happy.”
When it came to work, the lad was doing well, or at least that's what he heard. Did as he was told, didn’t complain, the other men liked him well enough. Like a lot of the lads he sent a chunk of his wages back home.
“Just until my little brothers finish school,” he’d said.
Mal respected that.
When Saturday rolled around his surprise the boy hadn’t shown much interest in the pub, much to his relief. Too many of the younger lads spent their night off getting leathered. Too many of the older ones too, when he thought about it. Instead he watched Top of the Pops, read the paper, wrote to his mam, sorted what chores he needed too.
The lad hadn’t lied about his skills, either. The boy could cook. He’d shocked him when, on that Sunday morning, he’d come down and found him rolling pastry.
“I thought I’d make a pie,” he said, smiling as he worked, “chicken and leek, okay?”
They’d sat down to the best pie and mash he’d had since his old ma had passed.
That evening, when he’d dragged the old bath tub in and begun to fill it with boiled water, the lad had been in his room. Mal had stripped, laying his clothes on the armchair as normal, and scrubbed himself with the rough brush, trying in vain to get the coal residue that lived permanently under his nails.
When he’d finished, he knocked on the lads door to use the water if he wanted.
That night, laid in bed, the wind oddly quiet tonight, he heard the familiar sound he’d come to expect. A faint rhythmic shuffle, just against the wall their beds shared. He couldn’t help but grin.
Cold
The autumn weeks stretched into winter months, and their routine had shifted into the grey, wet close of the year. Even the psychedelic colours of the Beatles record covers couldn’t break through that gloom.
They kept the coal fire burning from the end of each shift until they went to sleep, but the moment they left the front room, winter bit hard and sharp.
Finally, snow began to fall.
“It’s bloody freezing out there,” Mal said, “my piss nearly froze on the way out.”
Rhodri laughed, his face creasing in that way that made him feel warm inside.
“I know, I won’t even tell you what nearly froze on the way outta me, earlier.”
Mal rolled his eyes, but grinned nonetheless, as the boy kept laughing.
The fire was warm enough, but the glow of the coals was on the turn. Another shovel would fix that, but they only had enough coal for one more before one of them would have to run the gauntlet with the outside shed.
A smattering of cards about the room was the only real proof of the approach of christmas. Most were for Rhodri, one of them a drawing from his youngest brother, a couple were from girls in the village who had taken a liking to him. Mal, having never had much use for the holiday, just had a few from the usual neighbours.
“I know what’ll keep us warm,” he said, and headed over to his fathers old drinks cabinet.
He folded down the lid, and pulled out a bottle of Old Navy and two tumblers.
The boy sat up in the armchair, like some animal aware of a rare treat coming his way.
He handed the boy the glass of sickly brown liquid before falling back onto the settee.
“You ever had rum before?”
The boy shook his head, examining the glass.
“Me mam wouldn’t have it in the house. Said it was sin in a glass, not that she was religious, like. Just that her old man was too liberal with it, or something.”
“Well, you sip at it. Don’t neck it like some cocky twat trying to prove a point unless you want to cough like you’ve been inhaling spoil.”
Mal raised his glass, and they took a sip. The warmth filling his gut and chest, stretching out into his limbs like smooth honey. He let out a pleased sigh.
Rhodri, grimaced at first, tried to suppress it, then shuddered like a shitting dog.
Mal couldn’t help but laugh.
“Don’t tease, it’s not gentlemanly!” the lad jokingly protested.
“I did the same thing when me dad gave me my first sip. He laughed too. Now I get why.”
They sipped more, their glasses slowly emptying as the wind howled outside and the fire flickered with every gust.
“It’s gonna be fucking freezing in that bed tonight,” Rhodri said when a particularly strong gust shook the window.
Mal remembered. He’d been lucky to be an only child, but on those cold nights when snow and ice threatened to freeze his dick off, he’d wished for a brother to share his bed with like his mates. They’d stay close for warmth. But not him, he’d just shiver all night, fully dressed and barely sleeping.
Mal, feeling a bit giddy, poured a second glass.
“Those books, whose are they?” Rhodri asked, pointing at the titles Mal never touched.
“I grabbed one earlier thinking it was one of your war stories, but it was all about secretarial work.”
Taking a bigger gulp, Mal pursed his lips.
“Wife. Ex-wife.”
Rhodri looked suddenly worried, like he’d walked onto a mine field and only realised half way across.
“Ah, sorry. I didn’t mean to-”
Mal cut him off with a wave of his hand.
“Nothing to be sorry for. Not a secret, was quite the village scandal back in the day. I’m sure someone will tell you if you ask.”
The look he received, though, wasn’t inquisitive, or pitying. It was kind.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Not gentlemanly?” he teased.
“Not something friends do,” he answered.
His cheeks suddenly warm with something other than rum, he took another sip.
“I’ll make you an offer. If you get the fire going in my room, you can share with me tonight.”
A broad smile broke out across the lad's face, and he stood up, eager, Mal noticing his manhood swaying in his pajamas.
“You got a deal, old man.”
Mal coughed into his drink as the lad took a swaying step toward the door.
Twenty minutes later they were climbing into the double bed, the thick blankets enveloping them in the coal lit glow. As he settled into his pillow, Mal tried to remember the last time he’d shared the bed. At least eight years, he reckoned.
Rhodri giggled behind him, and Mal turned to see the boy’s face contoured in the dim light. He had a five o’clock shadow, and he stunk of rum and sweat.
“What?” Mal asked, trying not to giggle himself.
“Now’t,” the lad said, suppressing another round of laughs.
“Tell me!” Mal whispered.
Rhodri stared back, the blue of his eyes warm and bright even in the semi-darkness.
“Just, when I got off the bus back in October, I thought you were a right hard arse. And now look at us.”
Mal blushed, and felt a sudden rush of blood head south, his cock growing and stretching in his pajamas. He shifted uncomfortably, hoping the lad didn’t accidentally brush his prick.
“Not a hard arse, just quiet.”
They continued to stare at each other, communicating in some language Mal didn’t understand, he just knew he liked it. His cock flexed under the sheets, and he felt a bead of precum wet his pants. His breathing changed, and he felt a sudden surge of panic.
“We best sleep, lad. Early day tomorrow.”
Rhodri’s brow ruffled, “It’s a sunday.”
Mal’s cheeks finally burned full red, and he turned over quick, his cock flopping as he did, until his back faced the lodger.
“Aye, but we’ll have to dig out way out of here, you’ll see.”
He could feel Rhodri’s eyes on the back of his head, but after a pause, the boy turned over himself.
“Night, old man.”
Mal, suddenly sad, said goodnight back.
Bath
He’d been right, they had had to shovel the front and back doors, clearing the pavement out front a path to the coal shed and dustbins. He’d shovelled three doors down, too, ostensibly to help out the neighbours, but in reality to have a little alone time.
He’d woken up in the night to find Rhodri holding him, an arm draped over his torso, hand resting close to his, and his body hugging the contours of his own. Worst of all, the boy had been sporting some serious wood. It had dug into his arse cheeks, hot and firm. His own cock had lengthened, achingly so, but he daren’t move, not even to breathe. The lad was snoring gently, and he didn’t want to wake him. Half because he didn’t want to embarrass the boy, half because he didn’t want it to end.
The rest of the day passed in much the same way as it always did. Rhodri cooked, Mal ironed, the snow fell.
But by afternoon the lad had been quiet for so long he put down his book and went to investigate, worried that perhaps he somehow knew about the night before. Instead, he found the lad in the back yard, turning the snow into a snowman.
Smirking, he pulled on his cold weather coat and wellies, and joined him.
“What is this?!” he asked, grinning from ear to ear.
Standing straight, Rhodri swept a hand through his snow-wet hair, and gestured to his budding creation.
“New lodger,” he said, and proceeded to pad more snow onto the conical body.
“I like my lodgers to have heads. Just a preference,” Mal said.
A snowball hit him in the shoulder.
“Well, you best make one then!”
They threw makeshift snowballs, laughing, as Rhodri ducked behind the bins, and Mal used the snowman as a barrier.
By late afternoon Gareth the snowman stared into the kitchen through the window, a few pebbles of coal arcing out a smile, and two odd buttons for eyes.
Later, as he washed up, he locked eyes with their little creation, and wondered if the neighbours would be commenting on their new friendship. “He’s brought Mal out of his cocoon,” they’d no doubt be saying. It worried him as much as it pleased him.
Hours later, night having fallen at five, he’d dragged the old tin bath in front of the fire, and begun to fill it. Mal had stayed in the living room, listening to the radio and tapping along to the tunes. He’d expected the boy to leave, but he hadn’t.
“Do you, er, want the bath first? It’s your turn. I went first last Sunday,” Mal said, gesturing to the clear, steaming water.
Rhodri nodded, and stood, unbuttoning his shirt as Mal arranged their two towels in a neat stack by the fire. As the boy revealed his bare, surprisingly hairy chest, Mal scooped up his book and went to leave, when Rhodri called out.
“You don’t have to leave on my account. It’s freezing everywhere but in here, may as well stay.”
Mal hesitated as Rhodri began to unbuckle his belt.
“But…” he began, his eyes flicking between the boys face and his crotch.
“We shower together six days a week. What's the difference?”
That wasn’t strictly true. Yes, all the men showered after a shift, but there were so many of them he’d never actually clocked the lad. This was new territory, but he was also right. It shouldn’t be a big deal.
Nodding, he sat down, and tried to focus on his book. He read the same text over and over as, over the top of the page, he saw trousers fall, and underpants follow. A blur of pale, pinkish skin and a triangle of black tempted his eyes, and he tried not to look. But he lost that fight, and his eyes darted up.
Rhodri’s long, lanky frame was thick with black hair from neck to ankle. It spread across his flat chest and stomach, thickening below the bellybutton into a mass of unkempt hair, and then, there it was. A long, fat, heavy looking cock that rested on two, hairy balls that hung low. Only the cock wasn’t resting, not fully. It was thickening. Suddenly aware of himself, he looked up, lips tight and breath a little ragged, only to find Rhodri watching him. They shared that look for a few seconds, and then the boy stepped into the water, and folded himself into a kneel, until only his chest, upper arms, and head were free of the surface. His knobbly knees poked above the water too.
Mal’s dick was so hard it could break rock.
For the next five minutes Rhodri used soap to clean his under arms, his hair, and the brush on his nails and hands.
“It never comes out, does it?” the boy asked, giving Mal the opportunity to look him dead in the eye.
The boy’s face was wet, shiny in the firelight, his hair slicked back with water, even blacker than before. His neck was long, his Adam's apple defined, and those eyes. Those eyes that communicated so much that Mal just couldn’t comprehend. He squirmed, his cock now straining under his trousers.
They returned to their routines, Mal pretending to read, Rhodri washing. Until finally he stood, his back to Mal, showing off a high, pale arse thick with that same black hair, now patterned by the water. He used the towel to dry his back and cheeks, and finally stepped out of the tin bath.
When he turned, Mal felt his breath hold in his lungs. The boy’s cock was standing hard and long from his body, the skin pulled back revealing a purple head that shone in the firelight. He was well hung, bigger than him and he was nothing to sniff at if the showers down the pit were anything to go by.
Rhodri caught his gaze, but didn’t say anything, just began to dress.
“All yours, old man,” he said, a small reassuring smile gracing his handsome features.
Mal, so transfixed by the scene in front of him, had completely forgotten that he would have to get naked now, and felt himself blush and his cock twinge in reminder.
“I, erm, yes. Yes, you’re right.”
Rhodri, his cock now tenting his white briefs and socks being dragged on damp feet, averted his eyes as if in a demonstration of privacy. But Mal suspected he was watching from the corner of his eye.
He could refuse, say he didn’t fancy it tonight, or even ask for the lad to leave a moment. But that felt wrong. Like he was pushing him away, and that might break this little moment they were sharing. Besides, the lad was right, why should they care?
He rose, and began to remove his clothes, gently folding them on the settee. When, at last, the time came to drop his underwear, Rhodri was back in the armchair in his shirt, socks and underwear, but had kept his trousers off. Mal, turned so his muscled back faced the lad, trying to hide the thick meat about to lurch out of his skivvies, and then bent, dragging the pants down. He felt the boys eyes on his own hairy arse, and his cock, newly free, jumped.
Quickly, almost awkwardly, he climbed into the bath, and, at the last moment, made the daring decision to turn and face his lodger.
He wasn’t showing off, not exactly, he just wanted to see him, to face him. His own tool stood turgid and obscene between them, his foreskin rolled all the way back, the thickness ridged with fat veins. His own black hair was more of a smattering than a thick covering, but it was definitely dense above his manhood, and he remembered that some of the younger men down the pit had taken to trimming with scissors, much to the amusement of the older blokes.
He stood like that only for the time it took to drop into the water, and spread his body out so that his head could rest against the rim of the water, his feet in the air, calves resting on the opposing rim. The murky water hid most of his body, but his cock bobbed close to the surface, his pulse making the head drift.
He didn’t start scrubbing, instead he let his hand wander to the base of his shaft, using the murky water as cover.
“Still warm?” the boy asked, eyes fixed on his.
“Enough,” he said.
He didn’t start pulling, just held it, occasionally letting the head and an inch or so of shaft break the surface. Every time Rhodri looked, his chest rising with shallow breaths. The lads' briefs strained with the throb of a cock the boys down the pub would probably compare, jealously, to a donkey.
Eventually, he had scrubbed his hands, and used the soap, Rhodri pretending to listen to the radio, but occasionally his lips would curl inwards and reappear shined with the fresh swipe of his tongue.
Mal didn’t know what to do, all he knew was his cock was harder than he could ever remember, and he didn’t want the moment to end, but he didn’t know how to make it last. And so, he got out of the bath, letting the lad see everything. The solid muscle of his frame, the dusting of hair across his legs and chest, the big set of balls his mates had compared to those on a bulldog in heat, and let the boy admire him a moment, drying slowly so he could let him watch without worry.
Finally, he dressed, mirroring Rhodri’s own attire and leaving his trousers off.
“Rum again?” Rhodri suggested, as a gust of wind made the fire ‘whoosh’ in the chimney.
Mal nodded, and gestured for the lad to pour, eyes tracking his arse as he worked the little cabinet.
“Home next Saturday, then?” he said, taking the freshly poured glass.
“Just for a couple days. Christmas and all that. What you going to do?”
Mal shrugged, and supped at the sweet liquid.
“Nothing. Not really for me. I’ll go down the church, the pub for a few, but thats it.”
They spoke as if each weren’t throbbing in their skivvies, leaking into the tatty white cotton until the colour of their cock heads was clear to both.
“I’d say you could come with me, but there isn’t any room for me, let alone you.”
“I’m small compared to you!” he said without thinking, then blushed.
“Not that small,” Rhodri said in answer, blushing himself.
Squirming again, Mal changed the subject.
“Besides, don’t you want to take one of them back to meet your old mam?” he nodded toward the cards from the boy’s admirers.
The lad shook his head, frowning as if it was a stupid question.
Mal didn’t pry, choosing to enjoy the sudden upswing in his stomach that made him smile like a school boy.
“I like the models in your room, by the way. The battleship, especially. How long did that take?”
Mal had forgotten about them. He’d been six when the war began, and grown up with the constant news of battles, fronts, and struggles. To him, childhood was excitement and fear, and he’d turned that into models. Some were paper kits he’d carefully cut from magazines and painstakingly glued together, but the battleship wasn’t.
He’d collected images from papers and magazines for months, alongside scraps of cardboard, wood, and later on, paint, to build the model. He’d cut himself more than once carving details, and gluing it together had been a bastard. But in the end he’d built it; a foot long model of HMS Hood. Sunk early in the war, the legend of the ship had stuck with him, and by the end of the war, he’d proudly shown the model to his friends, most of whom coveted it jealously.
“About a year,” he said, “I was nine when I started it. Ten when I finished.”
“It’s really impressive.”
Mal beamed.
They chatted well into the night, the wind replacing the radio as their soundtrack, until the rum was gone and their cocks were soft, replaced with giddy laughs and swimming heads. They staggered into the bedroom, and within minutes, Mal heard Rhodri’s giggles replaced by snores, and, fuelled by rum or bravery, he drew in close, and wrapped his body around the lad, and fell asleep.
Christmas
The Monday after the night before had seen Rhodri throwing the contents of his stomach up, his wretching making Mal’s own queasy tummy threaten to flip more than once. In the end, he’d kept it down. Luckily the deep snow had proven too much for the local plow, and the pit had remained closed, meaning they weren’t vomiting out the window of the bus or down in the heat of the mines. No one would thank them for that.
Mal had let Rhodri sleep in his room most of the day, leaving a bucket by the bed and the window open so that the cold brought down his hangover fever.
Rhodri’s first hangover had given Mal time to digest the previous night. The curve of the boy’s buttocks, the thick down of hair, the heft of his manhood. What the hell was going on? How had this happened? He tried to make sense of it, figure out when he went from the boy's landlord to his mate to, whatever. He knew about men like this, hushed whispers down the mine, down the pub. He knew the gossip about him mixed with those accusations now and then, only to be shut down by the lads on his crew who respected him too much to allow any such talk to become normalised.
Peg had even accused him of it once, only to back off when he’d exploded at her. He never shouted, but he was so afraid of that word. Afraid the neighbours might hear through the wall. Better he was shouting over her than they hear the words coming through her lips.
But here he was, practically dribbling watching the boy’s dick, his own leaking like a tap the whole time.
When Rhodri finally came down in the early evening, he looked like hell, and they barely spoke. Not out of awkwardness, but tiredness. Rhodri spent the day feeling sorry for himself, balled up in the armchair under a blanket, Mal occasionally teasing him.
They spent the rest of the week in their routine, the run up to Christmas fast approaching. The day itself landed on a Monday, and the pit would close for both the Monday and the Tuesday. With the Sunday being the usual down day, that gave most everyone a three day break.
Rhodri would be gone from the Friday night to the Tuesday evening, visiting his family. Mal however, would be working. The pit needed a few hands to keep an eye on the ventilation and pumps, and at double time, plus his normal pay, he was happy to do it. Besides, this year especially he didn’t want to be home. As the day approached that Rhodri’s bus would take him home, Mal found that his stomach was in knots, and he struggled to eat. Only work offered any respite, work and the regular night time chats with Rhodri, who always made him smile.
When the day came it was grey and raining, the snow having long since melted, giving way to an unseasonably mild chill. He’d almost offered to walk Rhodri to the bus stop, but didn’t, afraid of what people might say, or worse, what he might do.
“Have fun, lad,” he’d said as the boy pulled the strap of his holdall onto his shoulder, “Say hello to your mam, for me.”
“I think she’s tired of me talking about you to be honest,” he said, that kindly look in his eyes again.
They stared at each other a moment, their ritual pause at this moment, then Mal held out his hand.
“Nadolig Llawan, Rhodri.”
He took Mal’s hand and, surprising the older man, dragged him into a bear hug, wrapping his lanky, strong from the mines arms around him.
“Merry Christmas to you too, Mal.”
Then, separating, he opened the door into the rain, and was gone.
The next few days Mal worked. When he didn’t work he stewed. He missed Rhodri’s cooking. Missed the stories about his brothers. He missed cuddling with him at night. He missed his face. He took to putting the radio on and listening for the Beatles, and would smile when Fool on the Hill would play, remembering how it made Rhodri light up.
Christmas day finally came, and he joined the handful of other men on the bus early in the morning. Already kids were playing in the street with presents. Footballs, dolls, a new bike here and there.
But none of it had brought a smile to his face. The Christmas crew was the usual mix of hard up lads, and single blokes like himself. They were expected to take the hit for the family men, and Mal often did. He didn’t mind, they appreciated it and he got a little extra money. Perhaps between this and Rhodri’s rent he could afford a real bathroom in the new year. But then he’d miss seeing the boy naked, and the memory made his prick thicken in his overalls.
Peg had been right to call him what she did.
After his shift had ended he’d joined his mates down the pub, sharing a couple of pints as the women sang by the piano and the kids ran riot in the family room. He’d smiled, he’d laughed, but truthfully he felt empty. If they noticed they hid it well, but he doubted they had. Too far gone with a day’s drinking and jolly on Christmas cheer.
Eventually he’d made his excuses and shuffled off home. They’d tried to keep him out, but his dour nature asserted itself and they let him go, probably relieved they didn’t have to try so hard anymore.
Beth had kindly left him a plate of dinner in the fridge. She’s not even asked him for money, just done it. It was the kind of thing his neighbours had done for him ever since Peg had run off to Cardiff. He doubted they’d be taking quite the same care if they knew he’d spunked remembering his lodger's naked form a dozen times since last Sunday.
He’d put the plate in the oven, and made a note of the time. When he finally sat down to eat, he saw a tiny fold of paper under the salt shaker. Opening it, he read the message inside, recognizing Beth’s handwriting instantly.
Rhodri asked me to leave you a message. He said he’s grateful for everything you’ve done, and he’s left you something in the chest in his room - Beth
Shocked, he left his dinner and went upstairs. The room was much the same as ever, only now posters in bold colours, and stacks of magazines littered the otherwise dull space. Mal noted them, but made them for the chest.
Inside, wrapped in brown paper, was a box with his name on it and the message written in crude handwriting - “Mal, thought you’d like this. See you soon, R.”
Despite the fact his heart was thumping, he slowly unpicked the tape and peeled back the wrapping. It was an Airfix model kit, one of the new plastic ones with instructions and a painting on the front. And of course it was of the HMS Hood. Mal just stared at it, holding it, reading the information on the front and back. He couldn’t believe he’d bought this. He must have sent it off for it in the post weeks ago. Long before that night.
His stomach fell and his heart ached, and he felt the unfamiliar sting of tears.
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