Love and Tea Bags

by C F White

  Bradley snorted and Mark eyed him suspiciously. Not just because the man was like a giggling teenager, but mostly because of his ill-fitting attire. Ill-fitting as in not appropriate for manual labour and not that it didn’t accentuate all Bradley’s assets.

  “Are you seriously going to scale a roof dressed like that?”

  Bradley held his hands out in display, glancing down at his Lycra T-shirt, and pink running shorts that barely covered his arse cheeks. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Shouldn’t you be covered up more, in case of accidents? And steel-toe-capped shoes or something like that?” At least Bradley wasn’t in flip-flops, but his well-worn mesh trainers didn’t seem as though they would offer that much protection.

  “It’s two tiles, Mark. It’ll take me ten minutes. No need to dress up for that.” Bradley leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a quiver-making drawl. “Unless you’re keen for a man in steel-toe-cap boots? I did hear your rave five-star review of the last dude you had up in your loft.”

  Mark’s cheeks tinged, so he flapped his hand, ushering Bradley in again. “Are you coming in? If you stand there any longer Mrs Warley and Ms Richardson will have to start up their campaign again about how all the local jobs have been stolen by the immigrants.”

  Bradley arched an eyebrow.

  “Which is absolutely fine with me, by the way,” Mark stuttered on. “If us Brits can’t be bothered, then why not have others take on the tasks? You’re all cheaper for a start.”

  “I’m doing this for free.”

  “There you go. Case in point.”

  Bradley laughed. And still just hovered on his doorstep.

  “You’re letting all the cold air in.” Mark could almost hear that in his mother’s voice.

  “You got a back entrance I can use?” Bradley asked, once his laughter had subdued.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Bradley waggled a finger. “Tut, tut, Mark. You’ve got a right dirty mind, old man.”

  “Less of the old, please. I do not need to be constantly reminded. My mirrors do that for the both of us.”

  “Your mirrors need smashing.”

  “To add yet another few years’ bad luck? I’d rather just allow the image.”

  Bradley shook his head, his features softening from the cheeky chappy he’d been before. He sighed before starting up again. “I got some things to bring around the back. Rather not traipse it through your antique house. So if you got an alley, I can go that way?”

  “Ah, right, of course. I’ll unlock the gate for you. Just to the right of the house. And fuck you about the antique comment.”

  Bradley chuckled.

  Mark ran out to the back, fiddled with the rusty lock on his gate under the pretence that he hadn’t lost the key some years back and had broken the thing to ensure access, then ushered Bradley in. Bradley plonked his tool box on the floor, rubbed his hands together and squinted up at the house.

  “I got you a ladder.” Mark waved to the tiny stepladder resting up against the back wall.

  Bradley bit his bottom lip, curtailing yet another laugh. “Not sure that’ll get me far, but cheers.”

  “I see you have your own tools, but feel free to have a rummage in the shed for anything that might be of use.” Mark waved a hand. “Not sure there will be, though. DIY really isn’t my forte.”

  “Everyone should learn how to do it themselves, mate.” Bradley winked, then ambled up to the shed.

  Bradley poking his head through made his backside stick out of the door frame. Mark cocked his head, copping a load of those pink-cotton-covered buttocks, the material so thin that Mark could tell Bradley had forgone wearing anything underneath. It was just the criss-cross pattern of the white mesh inside that was visible through the pink. Slapping a hand either side of the door frame, Bradley leaned farther in and his calf muscles flexed, bulging from his hairless legs that looked delightful enough to lick. Mark had an abundance of hair, everywhere, and had never really been a fan of the swimmer look, but right then, his tongue tingled to taste flesh with no fluff.

  “You ride, Mark?”

  Mark shook himself out. “What? Pardon?”

  Bradley peered back out and chuckled. “Bikes?” He nudged a thumb into the shed “There’s a bike in there. Do you ride it?”

  “Oh.” Mark blew out a puff of air. “No, not really. That bike’s rather old. Could not tell you the last time I rode that thing.” He could, but it wasn’t a particularly pleasing story, so he didn’t bother.

  “Looks in pretty good nick.” Bradley rejoined Mark at the front of the house. “I hired one from the place down the seafront. After I fix your roof, we’ll go for a ride.”

  Bradley didn’t wait for any type of response, affirmative or negative, and set up the stepladder against the back wall. It hadn’t been much of a question anyway, more of a statement, and Mark was once again astounded by the confidence in the young man. No fear at all. Of rejection or heights, it would seem.

  “Um,” Mark stuttered, watching Bradley scale his house, holding his tool box and the tiles. “I’m not sure about the bike ride.”

  “What you not sure of?” Bradley knelt on the roof, his back to Mark. “We’ll just cycle to the next town, have a beer, cycle back.”

  “So now you want me to drink and ride?”

  “One beer, Mark.”

  Mark wiped his brow, squinting up at the roof. The scraping and clanging sounded like the noises one would expect.

  “I’m sure they’ll serve tea,” Bradley called down. “And I promise not to laugh if you order it.”

  “That’s very cordial of you.” Mark folded his arms.

  Bradley chuckled and continued with his rooftop task. Mark, undecided whether to leave the man to it or stand there as some safety net should Bradley slip and fall, shuffled on the spot. Not that Mark fancied his chances at catching the bloke. He couldn’t even catch a cold to get him out of work for a few days.

  “So was it Riker or Wesley you were keen on?” Bradley’s voice drifted down.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I worked out from your age that you must have been a Next Generationer. Probably teens, right? So you must have watched it for the tight onesie uniforms.” Bradley peered down at Mark. “So, which one? The smouldering number one, or the young handsome genius?”

  “Why couldn’t it have been Captain Picard? Bald guys can be extremely sexy, especially when a figure of authority.”

  “So, you have a thing for hairless men? Good to know.” Bradley winked. “And, I dunno, mate, I prefer something to tug, y’know?”

  Mark snorted, drifting a hand through his thick hair. “Why did you shave all your hair off, anyway? And why couldn’t you have sent that to friends back home? Surely they would be better for opinions on that sort of thing?”

  “Time difference, mate. You were online. And I got told I needed it all off for the stripping job this Saturday. The new place wants us all streamlined.”

  “Streamlined?” Mark echoed, elongating the word.

  “You know, smooth.”

  “Well, that you are.”

  Bradley chuckled. “So, come on, out with it. Riker or Wesley?”

  Mark sighed. “I have to admit that when I first started watching, Riker did exude a certain charm, and I will never understand why he and Dianna never lasted.”

  Bradley laughed, standing on the roof and wiping his hands down his shorts. “That’s all fixed for ya, mate.” With that, he skidded down the slants on his backside, the tool box in his lap and jumped down to ground level.

  Mark stood mouth agape as Bradley popped up in front of him.

  “Won’t hold forever—you’ll need to replace the whole thing. But at least that’ll keep you dry whilst you snuggle on the sofa, right?”

  Mark narrowed his eyes. “Did you hear the whole thing?”

  “Yep.” Bradley tapped Mark’s shoulder, then picked up his tool box. “I’ll go run this back home, grab my bike, and we
’ll go for a ride. You might want to change, though.” Bradley waved his free hand at Mark’s work attire. “Cycling in shirt and trousers can’t be good. See you in a sec.”

  Mark uttered a noise from his throat, but nothing that Bradley could hear nor decipher as he sped down his alleyway and out of view. Why the blasted hell did I open that damn shed?

  * * * *

  A few minutes later, Bradley turned up at Mark’s on his mountain bike, looking every inch a man who cycled the Tour De France, whereas Mark had had to dig really deep in his drawers to find something that would pass for work-out gear. He’d settled on a pair of jogging bottoms that still bore a few splodges of paint from the bathroom debacle, and an old university sweatshirt. His bike also hadn’t seen the light of day in a fair few years and was as rusty as Mark was at riding it.

  Bradley bit his bottom lip. “Nice trackie-dacks. Last one to the pub buys the first round.”

  “First round? I thought we were just having the—” Mark stopped talking for two reasons. One, Bradley had cycled off and therefore wouldn’t have heard him anyway, and two, Bradley had cycled off standing from the bicycle seat and his pert arse cheeks waggled in the air with those floaty shorts fluttering in the breeze.

  “Going for a ride, Mark?” Mr Cooper dumped a black bin bag at the edge of his front garden.

  Mark stared at the bag, then up at Mr Cooper’s friendly smile. Wiping his hands down his dirty jeans, Mr Cooper raised his eyebrows at the continued silence and Mark had never ridden away so fast. Because he didn’t want to get the first round in, that was all.

  Reaching the path along the beach, Mark cycled behind, with Bradley out front. Mark didn’t have a bicycle helmet, and the sea breeze wafted his hair into his face, destroying the delightful view up ahead. But he pounded on, passing the derelict fishing boat that the kids used as a playground, the huts selling pink rock and cheap flip-flops and past the sandy area where the old folk scouted for cockles and winkles. He started to relax and enjoy it. He hadn’t done this in a really long time, and considering he lived in such an idyllic area, he couldn’t fathom why. Since returning to his seaside home town, Mark had closed himself off to all this.

  Bradley waved his arm ahead in some circling motion, which Mark took to mean he was going to be taking the turn that would have him leaving the beachside to cycle the enclosed cliffside route instead. Mark was a little wary of that. Whilst he hadn’t ventured along the footpath that led along the sheer chalk cliff edge into the next village for some time, he doubted global warming erosion would have reduced the lethal three-hundred-and-fifty-feet fall into the English Channel. The view was breathtaking enough as it was.

  The footpath wasn’t designed for cycling, and whilst Bradley might have been a daredevil in off-road mountain biking, Mark was not. The cobbled cliff edge made his rusty bike shake and Mark’s heart rate elevated to newfound levels. The only thing keeping him going was the thought of the tea shop that he knew resided along the track. Sod Bradley and his search for the pub. This was a quaint seaside town where tea shops were as plentiful as tatty gift shops and sticks of rainbow rock. He could almost taste the tea through the scent of the sea air and the seagull squawks. He found his legs pumping harder—he even attempted standing-up cycling to catch up to Bradley. He’d have delight in whizzing past and showing him what skinny legs could achieve. But then his foot slipped off the pedal, followed by a clanking of the chain being ripped from the spokes and the bike waggled to one side, smashing into the ridiculously flimsy wired fencing.

  “Bugger!” Mark wiped his forehead, glancing up ahead where Bradley was now a mere dot on the horizon. Whilst it had been easy enough to remember how to ride a bike, fixing a chain wasn’t going to come so easy. Nor did Mark really want to have to get his hands oily. Plus the flimsy fence wouldn’t even hold the damn bike up, and the cliffside footpath was void of anything else that Mark could use to rest the bike up against. So he jumped off, huffed and kicked the tyre.

  “You all right, mate?” Bradley’s tyres skidded on the chalk surface, spitting up the grit onto Mark’s black trousers.

  “Could you hold the bike? I need to fix the chain.”

  Bradley straddled his bike and held Mark’s handlebars. Mark crouched, grimacing as he curled his fingers around the oily chain and attempted to lock it back into the spokes. A gust of wind blew from the left, crashing the sea waves against the rocks below and reminding Mark of how close he was to certain death, and also ruffling his wild and carefree hair. Mark shook his head, spluttering out the locks that had somehow gotten into his mouth, and swiped the fringe from his eyes.

  “That’s some hair.” Bradley smirked.

  “Thanks.” Chain now reattached, Mark stood and set one foot on the pedal. “I grew it all myself.”

  Bradley laughed, swiping a hand through his blond streaks. “Mine doesn’t grow out. Not in any style anyway.”

  Mark climbed on the bike. “This isn’t a chosen style, if that’s what you think? This is what happens when I can’t be bothered to go the barber’s for a few weeks. It grows faster than mould on economy sliced bread.”

  “Lucky you.” Bradley smiled. “I’ll bet that hair feels great to grip between your fingers.”

  Mark held Bradley’s brash gaze, then cocked his head and contemplated the meaning behind the statement. Eventually, Bradley laughed. So Mark, realising he was the butt of some joke, shoved his foot down on the pedal to cycle off. Not more than a few seconds later, Bradley raced past him, his rounded arse bopping from side to side over the seat. Forget it, Mark, he’s doing it on purpose, he’s a tease. He said as much.

  “Come on, Mark,” Bradley called over his shoulder. “First one there gets the round in, so if you want tea, you gotta beat me!”

  He’s also an arsehole.

  * * * *

  Two pints of beer plonked down on the wooden bench in front of Mark. Bradley grinned, slipped into the picnic table’s opposite seat and downed a quarter of his pint. Mark sighed. Not only had he not beaten Bradley, but both tea shops that resided on the clifftop walk had closed for the evening, leaving the pub-restaurant at the end the only option after all. It was a pretty decent place, at least. Set up against the cliff edge, it boasted a decent fencing around its beer garden, which was a good thing as otherwise the kids’ play area might cost quite a bit in public liability insurance.

  Mark gazed out at the view. The sun set into the blue of the English Channel and the ferries docked in Dover port up ahead. Rather quaint, rather English and rather tranquil, as Mark suspected not many people went for an early evening pint on a Tuesday. He’d all but forgotten how picturesque his home town could be. It was as though his eyes had been opened to the beauty.

  “Perfect.”

  Mark whipped his head forward. Bradley smiled, then drifted his gaze out to sea.

  “Yes.” Mark breathed it all in. “It is rather beautiful. I’d forgotten.”

  “You don’t come out here much then?”

  “Not anymore. I guess when you live atop somewhere, you stop seeing it.”

  Bradley took a gulp of beer and nodded, wiping the froth from his top lip.

  “Must be like that for you in Sydney?” Mark slurped from his glass, the beer actually a welcome relief.

  “Yeah. I guess.” Bradley shrugged. “It’s a cool place. Has its beauty, I suppose. The beaches. Good surf. Good nightlife.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I like to travel. See the world. Hate being stuck in one place. So I’ve done a few outback treks, rainforest stays. Testing my limits.”

  So the bloke’s a flighty one. Good to know.

  “Macy said you’re into extreme sports and survival. What brought you to England? Here of all places.” Mark waved his hand at the idyllic, yet still, surroundings. “It’s quite possibly the dullest place on Earth. Most you’ll need to survive against here are the pressures of Brexit.”

  Bradley laughed, his eyes shining, and gripped his pint.
“I needed out of my last place, y’know? I’d been full-on for a while, travelling, job after job since I left school at sixteen.” He hung his head. “I was told I’d find something in my last stop. But, well, I didn’t.”

  “Told?”

  Bradley shrugged, sipping from his pint glass and his cheeks tinged. Interesting.

  “Where was your last stop?”

  “London. Stayed with my gran for a bit.”

  “And what on earth were you told you’d find in the big smoke?” Perhaps there was a little bias in Mark’s scoffed-out query. London didn’t hold that many a good memory for him. He’d run from it, not to it. Okay, so he’d run to it first, then swivelled around and come back home, tail between his legs.

  Bradley’s chest rose. “Something.” He shrugged. “I was mistaken. So after another reading, my gran suggested I head out this way, to meet my cousin. Figured I’d come see what this place has to offer and still keep the occasional stripping gig in London.”

  “Reading?”

  “Yeah. Like, fortune? Gran kinda does it too.”

  “Like, crystal ball, palm reading, tarot card nonsense?” He should have kept the last word out of that question as, on witnessing the shrinking shoulders of the man before him, Mark had a stab of remorse at his mockery. Bradley looked much better being broad than being hunched.

  “Gran’s into tasseography. But I prefer the astrology method. Makes more sense that it’s written in the stars, y’know?”

  Mark didn’t bother asking what the stuffing of dead animals had to do with reading fortune and instead stuck to the easier question. “That what is?”

  “What’s coming to you.” Bradley shook his head. “Your turn to laugh at me, now.”

  Mark didn’t laugh. Instead, he stared into Bradley’s blue-green eyes as if he was seeing him for the first time, and was oddly fascinated by the man. So young, so confident, so brazen, yet there was something there. Something that maybe Bradley was running from. Or to?

  “You believe in that stuff?”

  “Yeah. A little. I believe the world gives you what you want when you really need it. Maybe not right away, but eventually. All you need to do is ask and trust the stars know what they’re doing. And to not think too much about what’s thrown at you.”