Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 16

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Missed the start? Find it here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html

I posted Chapter 1 on 13 January. Following chapters appear each Friday. Find them via the archive.

Read, enjoy, invite your friends.

Chapter 16

Saturday 3rd April

When morning brought consciousness, my first thought was that I must face him again, must go back, apologize for my behaviour and beg his forgiveness. I was not sure I was up to it. I wasn’t even certain any more that I felt as sorry as I should, or had been as wicked as he accused.

There was a knock on my door.

‘Come in.’ I had to pull the cover up quickly as Leigh entered, carrying a tray with breakfast on it. He grinned at me, placed the tray on the cabinet beside the bed and unhooked a housecoat from the back of the door.

‘Modesty returns, eh? Pop this on. I’ll wait on the landing ‘til you’re decent.’

I slipped the towelling robe over my aching limbs and body, wrapping it protectively across my front, wondering what he meant about modesty and surprised by his cheerfulness. ‘Okay.’

He sat on the edge of my bed as I ate toast and drank tea with difficulty through my swollen lips.

‘I thought you’d be at work.’

‘Saturday.’

It should have been Friday.

‘You slept through most of yesterday. How are you feeling?’

I felt physically drained and my back and legs were sore. My mouth felt more uncomfortable than painful. ‘All right.’

‘Paul thought you might be a bit tearful. I don’t have the usual male fear of women’s tears, so don’t worry if you suddenly feel the need to weep.’

‘I don’t feel like crying, Leigh. I feel quite normal, really. Who’s Paul?’

‘Sorry, the doctor.’

‘Doctor?’

‘He examined you on Thursday; gave you something to help you sleep. Don’t you remember?’

I shook my head. Thursday was mostly blank. I recalled my return to the cottage and Father’s beating, but beyond that, nothing concrete.

‘Perhaps that’s just as well.’

Leigh had something on his mind, wanted to tell me something. ‘Out with whatever it is. I’m strong enough.’

‘You amaze me. I think I’ve got you sussed and then you go and surprise me again.’

He expected me to respond but I could think of nothing to say.

‘There’s no easy way of saying this, Faith. Your father’s in police custody.’

He let that sink in. At first, I thought I had misheard him but repeating the words in my head made no difference. ‘Because of me?’

‘No. Though you ought to charge the bastard with assault. No, not because of you, Faith, because of what he did to Hope.’

Now I knew I was hearing things. ‘Hope? Father would never harm Hope. He adores her. She’s his little angel, his piece of Heaven on Earth, his innocent amongst the sinners. He would never hurt Hope. You must be mistaken.’

‘I don’t know how to say this, Faith. I thought you must at least have some suspicions but I’m beginning to think, unlikely as it seems, you might not have known after all. I sincerely hope you didn’t…’

‘What? What’s happened to Hope?’

He leant forward and took my hand, squeezed it in such a way that I went cold at the prospect of what he might say. I wanted him to speak but did not want to hear the news of her death that I dreaded.

‘Your father’s been repeatedly raping Hope, since she was about twelve.’

Madness.

‘No.’

I could find no way to express my disbelief.

‘No!’

‘I’m sorry, Faith. I caught your father in the act, on Thursday, when I went to tackle him about you.’

‘It’s a mistake. Somehow it looked like that but he was…’

‘I didn’t knock, Faith. I walked in and he was raping her in the kitchen. She was making a high, keening sound each time he….’

‘Hope never makes a sound. She’s mute.’

‘I know this is hard for you, but I actually separated him from her. There’s no doubt he was raping her. In any case, he admitted it to the police and social services.’

I stared at him for what seemed an age whilst my mind tried to absorb this impossible news. Leigh watched me intently, his eyes never leaving mine. ‘Father was…? How could I not…? No. It doesn’t ... I can’t believe… I need to think. Can I be alone?’

He stood, gave my hand a gentle squeeze and bent to kiss my forehead. ‘I’ll be downstairs when you need me.’

I moved as soon as he left the room and went to look out of the window for no better reason than I needed to move.

Father was my rock, my foundation. Everything I was and everything I believed was based in him. If he was this evil creature that Leigh had described, what did that make me?

‘Leigh? Leigh!’

He was back in the room in an instant.

‘What about Hope? Is she hurt? Is she...? Where is she? Not still …?’

‘Hope seems unhurt, a little sore. But no real damage. I suspect because she couldn’t resist, she escaped the violence a lot of rape victims suffer. She’s fine, and safe. They’ve taken her to a residential home. Your father’s in the police cells for the moment. I hope he rots there.’

His face expressed utter disgust and contempt for the man who had brought me up. He expected me to challenge him in some way.

‘You think I knew.’

He was silent for too long for his denial to be true.

‘Oh, Leigh, I didn’t know, I promise you I didn’t. I don’t know what to … I’m so angry and hurt and unhappy and confused. My father. My own father.’ I turned back to the window and willed him to leave me to my shame and pain. I felt the softest touch on my shoulder and then he was gone.

I wept. Words punctuating my tears were random thoughts my mind gave out. Confusion mastered me as I wallowed in a quicksand of emotion, doubt and betrayal that threatened to drown and consume me. I could find no solid ground. There was nothing I could grip and hold for support.

‘I think it’s time we dried those tears.’

He was there, helping me up so I could sit on the floor. He knelt beside me and dabbed my face and eyes with tissues. I held onto him; he was the only solid in my fluid world and I would not let him go.

I had rarely wept before, even after he had beaten me. Father discouraged such displays and I had striven hard to please him.

Leigh eased me to my feet and to the edge of the bed. He dabbed softly at the last silent tears, cupped my chin gently in his other hand. ‘Better?’

I nodded.

‘I’ve brought your clothes to Longhouse. Do you want to dress for the evening meal, or are you more comfortable as you are?’

‘May I have a bath?’

‘Bath, shower. Help yourself. Treat Longhouse as your home, Faith. Once you’ve had time to collect your thoughts and work things out, you can decide whether you want to stay here or find a small place of your own. Your toothbrush and other toilet things are in the bathroom across the corridor. This can be your room for the moment. Later on, you can have a look at the other rooms and see if you’d prefer one of those.

‘Don’t be too long, now. Ma’s got the meal on and you know how she is about punctuality at the table. You’ve got about half an hour.’

He left me to it and I considered all he had said. There were too many new ideas there. I wanted no more questions for the moment, no more doubts, no choices. I must accept what he said as the reality of my situation for the moment. Later I could give it some thought and decide what I should do. For the moment, practicality was what I needed. And I must not be late down for the meal.

I discovered my clothes, both old and new, hanging in the wardrobe and folded in the drawers, all the creases of Father’s abuse ironed out. In the bathroom, I examined the shower but decided to work out its mysteries later. The bath water was deliciously hot. I could close the door and even slide a bolt across for privacy, if I wished. The bubble bath smelt of flowers and left me feeling soft and sweet skinned. There was a soft, clean, fluffy towel. The floor was carpeted and there was a soft rug beside the bath to step on whilst I dried myself. A radiator heated the room and a hot rail dried the towels. I realized what simple luxuries I had missed in Father’s house.

As usual, the table was heaving with food. Ma always cooked to feed a regiment and I suspected she was trying to fatten me up and put some flesh on my bones. They all smiled at me as I entered. I had put on the dress Leigh had bought me in York. But wore it with my shoulders covered this time.

‘You look very nice, Faith.’

I tried to smile at Ma.

‘Smashing.’

A nod at Old Hodge.

‘Very pretty.’ Leigh still seemed slightly distant and I guessed he was either ashamed of me or still not convinced I had been completely ignorant about what Father had done to Hope. I shrugged and sat at the table opposite Old Hodge, with Leigh to my left. They gave me a couple of minutes so I could say my private grace before the meal. Somehow, the words rang hollow in my head and I stopped half way through, unable to continue with sincerity.

After the meal, Leigh took me into the sitting room for coffee whilst Ma fed the new dishwasher before going home with Old Hodge. We listened to quiet piano music that Leigh identified as Chopin Nocturnes. He drank scotch with his coffee and poured a small measure of some sweet and pleasant liqueur into mine without asking. The fire roared in the grate, casting flickering shadows across the room and warming me inside as well as out.

Leigh moved from his chair to the sofa and patted it for me to sit beside him. I had no idea what he intended but joined him. From the floor, he picked up a small wooden box, from the cottage, and placed it on his lap. There was a single envelope on top addressed to me in neat purple handwriting.

‘Recognize the box?’

I knew it at once. ‘Father said…I don’t want to call him that now. I don’t know what to call him. I don’t want to swear.’

‘Compromise. You want to refer to him as “that bastard” or something similar. Just use the initial.’

I could do that. ‘The B said I was never to touch that, on pain of a severe beating every day for a week.’

‘Bastard. I’m not surprised. It reveals what a liar and a shit he really is.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘The same as this. Except this one’s addressed to you here and those in the box are addressed to the cottage.’

‘From my mother?’

‘From your mother. I’ve read some, Faith. I wanted to be sure there was nothing to harm you. Are you up to another weep; for different reasons?’

He was as different from my ... from the B as it was possible to be. He cared about me, cared about my feelings, consulted me, was considerate. So why was he still being distant? Why was he different from the way he was in York? I wanted him back like that. I wanted him warm and friendly with sparkling eyes that looked at me with wonder. Somehow, I had to find a way to make him see me as he had that day. Somehow, I had to regain the respect and affection he had shown me. I had to become worthy of him again. But I had no idea how.

‘Yes, I’m ready.’ I wanted to know why my mother had abandoned me and never come back.

I put out my hand and he handed me the most recent letter first. It was still sealed. He trusted my mother to write what would not hurt me. The other letters must have told him a good deal about her.

I had never received a private letter before. Leigh handed me the letter opener from the mantelpiece; a silver knife with a naked woman forming the handle. I weighed it in my hand for a moment and Leigh silently accused me of condemnation whilst I was actually considering the beautiful workmanship. The blunt blade slipped easily into the flap and opened the envelope. Three sheets of thick note paper nestled within and I drew them out with trembling fingers.

‘Dear Faith,

Letters don’t come naturally to me. I speak better than I write on personal issues. It’s so important I get this right. I just hope you’ll be able to hear my voice as you read it.

First of all, I did reply to all your previous letters and posted them to the cottage where you live. I can only assume your shit of a father never let you read them.

I was intrigued to learn that you’re now working for Leighton Longshaw. I know of him and gather he’s a real ladies’ man. I hope you’re taking full advantage!

It’s so hard to know what to tell you and where to begin. Why don’t you know when your birthday is? Anyway, you’ll be 21 on 5th August and I’d love to be able to see you before then, if I could.

I don’t know what Paul Heacham has told you about me and your sister, Netta, except that he probably still refers to her as Charity, a name she hates. She’ll be 18 on 11th July, by the way. Mind you, she’s been acting like a mature woman for years, so her birthday just means she’ll be doing more things legally.

I do love you, Faith. It broke my heart to leave you when you were just six but I had no choice. Paul Heacham’s a vicious and brutal man and he threatened you as well as Netta and me with violence if I made any trouble. That’s why I’ve never been back. He said he’d make sure you were hurt if I tried to see you. Hope, of course, was always safe because he knew she was his.

I expect life has been hard for you, living with that cretin and a younger sister who will still be a baby. I bet she’s huge, like a beached whale, isn’t she?

 I was encouraged when your letter came and told me you were working, especially for that wicked, lovely man. I hope he’s giving you as much as you can take. I admit I’m jealous. I saw him once and he’s a real dish. Still, I’d better not say too much on that score or you might not let me meet him!

Look, it’s really too difficult trying to explain so much to you, after all this time, by letter. My phone number’s at the top. Give me a call and, if you like, I’ll drive over with Netta, and perhaps that lovely man would let us all meet at Longhouse? I really daren’t go to Heacham’s cottage; I think he’d kill me, and I know Netta wouldn’t be safe either.

Call me soon. I’m dying to meet you.

All my love,

Matilda, oops, sorry, Mum!’

I read it through four times. It said so much and so little to me. I felt elated, frightened, embarrassed, curious, impatient and confused. Leigh sat silently beside me, watching and waiting. I handed him that letter and turned to the box to read the older ones.

Leigh had opened only three of them, almost at random, it seemed. The B had clearly not even opened them before he had hidden them in the box. I wondered why he had kept them, knowing I could have stumbled on them at any time. And, that, of course, was the reason: he was so certain of his hold over me that he knew I would never disobey him by opening the box. It must have given him a sense of great power to have that box under his bed, knowing I could open it each time I cleaned his room and knowing, with absolute certainty, that I would not. How blind had been my obedience to that monster.

The letters, nearly two dozen, were mostly included with birthday cards and most held money, a lot of which was no longer legal tender since decimalization. But my mother had been generous and I counted enough from the later letters to buy me a couple of new outfits. The letters told of her love and her wish to meet me but they told me little more about her than the first letter I had read. There was a lot in them about my sister who she described as beautiful and, in the later letters, as a very popular girl with the men.

I heard Leigh chuckle beside me and knew he had reached the part about him and my mother’s advice to take advantage. It highlighted her ignorance of the reality of her eldest daughter. I realized she had no idea how the B had raised me. It was disturbing to learn that she was the exact opposite of him as far as I could tell from her letters. She loved men and sex was obviously a favourite pastime for her. She was wise to suspect my caution over her meeting Leigh.

‘So, when are we to meet this interesting lady and her other daughter?’

‘You think I should meet her?’

‘Of course you must! Don’t you want to?’

‘In some ways I’m desperate to know her but in others I’m not sure she’d be good for me.’

‘You need the sense of fun and love of life she clearly has. She’s responsible for half of your genes. Your looks must have come from her since Heacham’s such an ugly, sour-looking bastard. Don’t you want to know what she looks like?’

‘You want to know what she looks like, Leigh. I’m more interested in what she’s like as a person.’

‘She sounds fascinating to me. I know I’d like to meet her.’

‘She’d obviously like to meet you. It might not be sensible for me to encourage that.’

‘Not jealous, are you?’ Leigh put his hand to his mouth very briefly as if he regretted his words.

I wondered what was behind his gesture, when he would previously have made a joke about it, but let it go. ‘Jealous? No. I don’t really understand that emotion. But I do know I’d be in danger of paling by comparison with her and, by all accounts, my youngest sister. And I’m just learning how important it is that you see me in a positive light. I have feelings about you that I don’t fully understand but I know I’d like you to feel the same way about me. It might be harder for you to see me if there were other attractive women about.’

On the other hand, I felt an overpowering need to impress Leigh as soon as I could in some positive way. My mother and sister might make up for some of my missing qualities and I could see no real reason to keep them away. They were hardly likely to do anything to hurt me, after all.

Leigh looked seriously bemused. I tried a smile but my lips refused to co-operate so I had to resort to stroking his face as a gesture of my affection. ‘Poor, Leigh, so confused. I suppose you’re going to meet them some time, so I might as well make it sooner than later. May I invite them here for my first meeting, please? I don’t really want to go out anywhere looking like this.’

‘Invite who you wish, when you want, Faith. For the moment, this is your home. But, if you’ll follow my advice, you’ll wait a little while before you meet your mum and sister. You need time to adjust to your new situation, time to get better. I think both of you would be better off meeting once you’re fully recovered.’

‘But I can invite them whenever I like?’

‘This is your home, Faith. And, at home, you may do as you please. I know you need some guidance, so I’ll lay down the ground rules of life at Longhouse: there are only two: Treat my things as you’d wish your own to be treated. Allow people the privacy they prefer in their bedroom and the bathroom. Otherwise, there are no rules. If you want to listen to music, listen. If you want to watch telly, watch. If you want to dance naked on the kitchen table… well, anyway, do what you please. This is now your home and I know I can trust you to treat it with respect and me and my friends with consideration. And I know you’ll accord me the same freedoms. A word of warning. I wear nothing in bed and I don’t bother to cover up on the way to and from the bathroom.’

That no longer mattered; I had seen him naked with models more than once. ‘I don’t wear anything in bed either. Seems an odd thing to do if it’s not cold. But I will be covering myself on the way to the bathroom.’

‘Faith, you’re a singular woman, a living contradiction; confusion manifest and I’m in serious danger of ... It’s high time you were in bed. I want you well again as soon as possible.’

I silently wondered why.

###

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Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 9.

You've come this far, so you don't need me blathering on with stuff you already know. Enjoy the read.

If you missed the start, here's the link to it: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html

Chapter 1 appeared on 13 January and following chapters appear each Friday. You can find them via the archive.

Read, enjoy, invite your friends.

Chapter 9

Wednesday 31st March

We had travelled for half an hour in uncomfortable silence.

‘Have I upset you, Leigh?’

‘I don’t say much about the way you look at work, Faith, because I know you’ve no fashion sense and clothes are just covers to you. But I thought I’d made it clear today was a bit special. I mean, that dowdy old tweed skirt, a blouse that’d look better on your grandmother and those shoes that seem to be all you ever wear. And that’s hardly an evening bag, is it?’

‘I’m sorry I’m a disappointment. Perhaps you’d better take me back home.’

‘Don’t get all injured with me. I hoped you’d make an effort, that’s all.’

‘I did what I could. I took up the hem of my skirt as far as I dare, persuaded Father to let me have a bath and washed my hair last night.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘What else could I do?’

‘Oh, come on! A bit of make up? Your best dress or skirt? A pair of new shoes? I’m sure you could…’

‘Oh, you’re sure are you? It’s easy for you, Leigh. You have a wardrobe full of clothes. Several pairs of shoes. What I’m wearing is what I have, Leigh. I can’t do better than that. Unless you’d have me travel in the stuff I wear for housework? Or naked?’

His silence unnerved me but I had said enough. The day had started badly and now I had made it worse. I wished he had never suggested the trip out.

‘I’m sorry, Faith. I just assumed that… Well, you’re a young woman, earning a decent wage. I automatically assumed you’d have new clothes and make up. What else would you spend your money on?’

‘Father doesn’t work because of his back and because he has to stay home to care for Hope. My money goes into the housekeeping.’

‘All of it?’

‘All.’

Again, he was silent. The hostility had gone but his continued silence unsettled me. From Ma and Old Hodge I had learned some of the basic social skills my father had neglected. A change of subject might help.

‘I never said before, but the lift you gave me when you asked me to come back to work was the first time I’d been in a car.’

His silence persisted for a few seconds that seemed an eternity. ‘I’m an idiot. I’ve taken on a bright, gifted, generous and hardworking assistant and I know nothing about you. It’s so easy to take things for granted. So easy to assume. Faith, I need to know something of your personal history. I need to know more about you.’

It was my turn for silence. Where to begin?

‘Begin from your earliest memory and take me as far as you like.’

‘I was very young; perhaps not even four. Father was shouting at my mother. At the time, I’d no idea what caused the argument, but now I know it must’ve been when Mother finally accepted Hope would never be any different, would always be a baby. Father won’t see it. He still believes; he has faith that she’ll somehow miraculously emerge from her silent imprisonment and start to talk and walk and laugh and cry. Of course, she never will. But that was the beginning of a change that made my mother leave and abandon me when I was six.

‘I’d had my first year at school and was doing quite well, I think. In any case, I remember Mother praised me, cuddled and kissed me for my efforts. Then, one day, I was waiting for her by the school gates and she didn’t arrive. Father came at last, with Hope in her pushchair that was too small, and took me home. I haven’t seen my mother since.’

I gazed at the curling strip of tarmac flowing quietly beneath the car, unwinding as we drove over hills and vales as foreign as a distant land. Pictures of my childhood filled my mind and I was suddenly aware that Mother took all joy and laughter with her. All the days since then were grey.

‘Don’t dream it, Faith, tell me. I can’t hear your unspoken memories.’

‘Sorry. I just discovered something very sad.’

‘Tell me.’

‘When my mother left, she took all the colour with her. Father only works in black and white, mostly black.

‘Don’t grow all lyrical and metaphysical on me. Now isn’t the time for poetry. Just tell me what happened.’

‘I went to school for one more day, but Father either wouldn’t or couldn’t take me after that. He was supposed to teach me at home. At any rate, when I was about thirteen, someone came to check and he persuaded her, with my help, that he was teaching me well enough. I’d started to learn to read before school and I was quick enough to learn the rules of language so I could read well very early.

‘There was an atlas, a history of the world, an old encyclopaedia and a dictionary in the house. Father had been through them with a thick black pen, crossing out words and paragraphs. There were entire pages missing from the encyclopaedia. There was the Bible, of course, and some books of sermons by eighteenth century clerics.’

‘You had no television, I know. Radio?’

‘Father says they’re instruments of the Devil, won’t have them in the house. Same with newspapers and magazines. I’ve seen those at Mrs Greenhough’s, of course, and I can understand why Father rejects a lot of them. All that flesh and talk of sex. It’s as if nothing else matters in the world.’

‘I know you’ve only travelled within a few miles of home, so all this is new to you?’ He waved a hand at the passing countryside with its flat fields and huge sky.

‘If I had to get out of the car now, I wouldn’t even know which way to go to get back home.’

‘Any idea how far you are from home, Faith?’

‘About ten miles?’

Leigh chuckled. ‘Sixty. Another ten and we’ll be in York. One thing you can teach me regarding local geography; you once mentioned a small tarn above your cottage. I don’t know of it. Is it far?’

I smiled secretly. ‘It’s my refuge. Small but quite deep in places. It’s where I go to be alone. I discovered it one day when Father wanted me to get some fresh air and sent me off for a few hours in the summer. Later on that same summer, it’s where I learnt to swim, almost by accident.’ I was too ashamed to tell him I had been trying to drown myself because my life was so miserable.

‘I’d like to see your tarn, Faith, like to see you swimming.’

‘I bet you would! But you’re not going to.’

‘Hey, no need to get all haughty. I’m not suggesting anything improper. Your swim suit would cover your...’

‘People don’t wear suits to swim. You’re pulling my leg again, Leigh. I’m not that daft. They’d get all wet and drag you under the water.’

‘No, really, it’s a special sort of…’ He realized the import of my words even if I did not. ‘You swim nude?’

‘Of course! Doesn’t everyone?’

‘But I thought you believed it was immoral to be naked?’

‘Only in public. I don’t wear anything in the bath or in bed, so why should I wear anything to swim? There’s never anyone about. No footpaths for walkers. And I’d hear a farmer with his dogs or tractor in plenty of time.’

‘But not a peeping tom.’

‘What’s a peeping tom?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Are there trees at the tarn, or nearby?’

‘There’s a small copse of mountain ash at the southern end, a few rocks along the western shore. Why?’

‘The farm where Merv lives with his father and brothers hugs the slopes on the other side of the hill above your cottage.’

This had nothing to do with what we were talking about. ‘I know; horrible family.’

Leigh grunted. ‘That explains that.’ He was silent for a while. ‘Apart from teaching yourself your many skills, keeping house for your father, nursing Hope and cleaning that barn your father calls a chapel, what else do you do?’

‘Read and sleep mostly; of course, I only have the books Father thinks are suitable.’

‘Does your father actually do anything at all?’

‘He has a back problem. He can’t lift anything or even walk far without pain. He hides it very well, though. Some people believe there’s nothing wrong with him, but that’s because he’s so brave and uncomplaining.’

‘Or such a good actor.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘No matter. We’ll be in York in a few minutes. After we’ve found somewhere to park, and that’ll take half a day, we’ll go for coffee and then find our new typewriter. Once that’s out the way, the rest of the day is ours to have a bit of fun, do some sightseeing, okay?’

‘Sounds exciting. Is it a very big place?’

‘You know we passed through Hawes earlier on?’

‘That big market town?’

‘That big market town is a very small market town. Think of fifty of them packed together, add a few buildings four or five storeys high and you’re getting near to the size of York. And York’s not a particularly big place.’

I shook my head and let him have his joke on me. I would discover the truth when we arrived.

‘There is one thing, Faith.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘I want no argument about what I’m going to say. No refusals, no fuss. Today is a treat for you, for me as well, but mostly for you. I’m going to spend some money on you, buy you a few presents, treat you. Okay?’

‘Why?’

He opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again and drove in silence for a few moments. ‘Faith, you’re extraordinary. Any other woman would’ve started suggesting things I might buy her. You just want to know why. I’m having to learn a whole new set of rules in dealing with you.’

‘You’re having to learn?’

‘Okay, fair point. Anyway, as to the “why?”, it’s quite simple. You earned me a great deal of money with your handling of those bad debtors and....’

‘I was just doing my job.’

‘Faith! I want to reward you. I want to buy you something. I want to do it, I can afford to do it, and I’m going to do it. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Mr Longshaw, sir.’

‘Good. And don’t be so cheeky.’

‘No, master.’

‘Mmm. In a couple of minutes, we’ll be on the outskirts of the city. You’ll begin to see what I mean about the size of the place. Do I have your word that you won’t argue about the presents I want to buy you?’

‘What will you expect in exchange?’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry, Leigh. It’s just that Father said I…’

‘Your bloody father’s got a lot to answer for. And he’s wrong. Not all of us expect to be paid with sex for presents. Not all men expect a girl to whip her knickers off for the price of a dress or a piece of jewellery. Some men like to give women presents because they like to give women presents. I like to give women presents. I expect and require nothing in return. Not even your gratitude. Do I make myself clear?’

‘I keep making you angry and disappointed. I’m sorry. There’s so much I don’t know and almost everything I do know has come from Father. His views differ so much from those of most other people. Thank you for your offer, Leigh. I accept gladly and I’ll try my best not to embarrass you.’

Leigh took his hand from the steering wheel, found mine and squeezed it gently. ‘Thank you. I’ll try to remember you’re an innocent with a fanatical puritan hypocrite for a father. Here comes York.’

We were travelling in a long queue of traffic. Leigh had called Father a hypocrite and I worried about that for a moment, especially when I remembered Mrs Greenhough had said the same thing. But then the volume of traffic and the buildings took my attention instead. In fact, there were more cars visible from my seat than I had ever seen in the space of a single day before. And houses lined both sides of the street; a street that seemed to go on forever. Where did all those people go when they wanted to be alone?

There were so many people on bicycles; so many people on foot. Men with beards and flared colourful trousers, men wearing shorts and coloured vests, women with skirts as short as Abby’s, some even shorter, some a lot longer, women with bare shoulders and necklines that made their breasts obvious. People in all sorts of clothes, people with different coloured skins, people of all shapes and sizes. And a huge stone wall with an arched gateway and towers. And so many shops I could not count them. It was amazing, exciting, frightening, fascinating, wonderful, alarming, incredible.

We drove into an open space that seemed big enough to hold my entire village and Leigh parked the car amongst hundreds of other cars in an area that seemed to exist only for that purpose. He switched off the engine and laughed at me. ‘Close your mouth, Faith, you’ll catch flies.’

‘It’s… everything’s so… I’ve never seen so many… I feel so small and … there’s so much to look at and…’

‘I thought it might be a little overwhelming for you. But you’re bright and brave and I’m sure you’ll cope. Don’t stare and gape, especially at people; they’re not so tolerant of innocence in cities. Country folk are a lot more accommodating of strangeness, rather oddly. I’ll answer any question you want to ask. And, please, do ask. Don’t be afraid or embarrassed. I’d much rather you asked than made an idiot of yourself.’

‘Or of you.’

‘True. But it’s you I’m most concerned about. Right. Stay in the car whilst I get the ticket.’

‘I want to come with you, Leigh. I want to see. I want to see everything.’

###

You've come this far, so it's unlikely you'll stop now. But, just in case you get impatient waiting, you know where to buy the book.

Web site: http://stuartaken.co.uk
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Faith Introduces Herself to Readers

Stuart's asked me to give you some insight into how I think, what matters to me, why I'm the person I am. Let me introduce myself. I'm Faith Heacham and I narrated the story of Breaking Faith along with Leigh. I hope that some of my rather strange background came through that narrative but there will be elements that you will either not know or be unfamiliar with, of course.

When I first started to work for Leigh, I was still imbued with my father's rather strange brand of Christianity and I was determined to develop Leigh's conscience and convert him into a devout follower of my religion. I don't tell you a lot about that aspect in the book, because I didn't want to come across as too evangelical. As it happened, I quickly learned that Heacham was in the wrong and that Leigh, for all his unusual and, dare I say, unconventional ways, was often in the right.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me set the scene. I was brought up for the first few years as part of a small family with my mother, and two younger sisters as well as Heacham. I'm sorry, I can't refer to him as my father knowing what I do now. He was, to me, relatively normal and although he was always a very strict parent, he seemed no more odd or different than any other parent, until Mother left him and took my youngest sister, Charity, with her. It was then that I certainly noticed changes in my life. I was very young but I was expected to take over most of the duties my mother had carried out.

Heacham was a man who gave the impression of being pious. It was only later I learned how truly awful he was, not only as a father but as a man. However, I was placed in a position where I was required to look after him domestically as well as nurse my severely disabled sister, Hope. She, of course, had no hope of ever becoming anything other than a baby in a woman's body. But I didn't know that until I was a lot older. My life was difficult and restricted, as I was no longer allowed to attend the local school but was taught by Heacham. His teaching took the form of indoctrination with his peculiar form of narrow-minded Christianity taken from the Bible and some books of sermons by a rather extreme clergyman. I was allowed an atlas, and a dictionary and two volume encyclopaedia, both of which he censored for all sexual matters apart from the purely biological aspects. We had no television, no radio and he would allow no magazines or newspapers in the house. Living in an isolated cottage well out of the small Dales village, I had virtually no contact with children or with other adults. This obviously left me with a very odd view of the world. But I was a quick learner and loved to read. As a result, I picked up a wide vocabulary and a knowledge of many things that most people never come across.

For exercise, I did the housework, kept Hope free of bedsores by massaging and manipulating her limbs and body, walked the local hills and swam in the isolated tarn up the hill from our cottage. I loved the freedom of those few hours, away from home and father's constant watchfulness. I would strip to my skin and plunge into the freezing clear water and splash about until I was thoroughly tired. By the time I returned home, my clothes had mostly dried on my body. Not that it mattered, since Heacham required me to work in the house wearing the bare minimum of cover. He told me it was to save my clothes from becoming stained and dirty. I know now that it was to afford him a sexual thrill of both watching me and controlling me in a state of more or less permanent exposure.

He indoctrinated me to believe that most men and women were inherently evil and would eventually spend eternity in the fires of Hell. If I erred, even slightly, he would beat me with his hand, a cane or his belt, always on my naked skin. He told me he was saving my soul and I believed him. We prayed together every morning and each evening before bed. He attended some old barn that he and a few other men with similar views had converted into their meeting place, which he called their chapel.

When I first started to work with Leigh and discovered his free-thinking ideas and his openness toward nudity and sex, I thought he must be the most wicked man alive. His models were all beautiful and showed no shame or shyness in displaying their entire bodies for his camera. I was initially incensed and later intrigued. But, though Leigh gave all the appearance to my uneducated mind of being a wicked heathen, I quickly learned that he was a kind, warm, generous and basically good man. I suppose it was inevitable that I would fall in love with him, as the only other mature male I had any contact with. Apart, that is, from his printing assistant, Mervin. He was the embodiment of true evil in my eyes. A crude, ugly, cruel and utterly selfish monster of a man.

If you've read the book, you'll know how I came to change and what those changes involved for me and those I came into contact with. If you haven't read it yet, I can only point you in the direction of this blog, where Stuart's posting the whole book for you to read, free of charge, a chapter at a time. I hope you get as much out of reading my story as I did from telling it from my point of view and learning Leigh's view of things along the journey.

Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 4.

Breaking Faith is available as a paperback and an ebook. I'm posting individual chapters here, each week, so that anyone who wishes can read the book in full and free of charge.

The Prologue, which begins the novel, was posted on 6 January. Here's the link, in case you missed it: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html.

Chapter 1 was posted on 13 January, subsequent chapters appear each Friday and can be accessed via the archive.

Read, enjoy, invite your friends.

Chapter 4

I walked quickly along the main road, eager to be home and out of the cold. On the crest of the first hill, out of sight of the house, a car was parked by the side of the road, its engine running, exhaust clouding the air behind it.

‘Word wi’ you, twat.’

I glanced at Mervyn then ignored him and continued on my way.

‘Do owt to meck me lose my job an’ I’ll break your scrawny neck. Gerrit?’

His hatred seemed genuine and I shivered with more than cold, wondering what I had done to deserve it. I walked on without looking back but he drove slowly after me and pulled alongside.

‘I’m good at what I do for Leigh. Skinny little twat like you’s not screwing it up for me. Right? Right? I said, Right?’

I refused to look at him and, as he continued beside me, I gathered my courage and dashed behind his car. A ladder style allowed me over the dry stone wall into a field. I did not intend to leave the road at that point but I had to be free of his foul tongue and threats; in the process, I learned a short cut home.

‘Remember it, twat. I mean it!’ His thick, vulgar voice bellowed at me over the barrier.

Then he was gone and silence surrounded me. I hugged myself briefly and strode on, determined not to let his vile threats spoil my victory. It was enough that I would have to face Father with all my news after arriving home late.

Mrs Greenhough’s shop was still open when I reached the dark village, its lights illuminating the fresh snow on the pavement. I had taken that first step; I was working for Leigh. It was time I started to make people alter their views and see the real me. I stopped before the shop door. Who was the real me? But it was not the time or place for such a question.

Mrs Greenhough looked up as I went in and her face quickly set into the one that said she would stand no nonsense. ‘There’s nowt for you here unless you’ve cash, girl. I’ve heard what happened at the Dairy and you’ll have no wages this week. No job; no credit.’

She expected me to leave the shop without a word and go home empty handed to face Father’s wrath. My confidence, however, had grown with my attack on Furnswurth and my success at Longhouse.

‘You may think you know what happened this morning, Mrs Greenhough but I don’t expect you know that I start another job tomorrow.’

She opened and closed her mouth like one of the tiny fish in the beck that ran through the fields below the cottage. No sound came out.

I had said more to her in that one sentence than I had in the past few weeks. ‘I’ll be paid more than I was at the Dairy, before Furnswurth put his hand up my skirt and touched my genitalia. I’m working for Leighton Longshaw at Longhouse now, so I’ll be able to settle the bill at the end of the week as usual.’

For a few more moments, Mrs Greenhough remained speechless. Then she glowered at me. ‘I’ve no idea what’s got into you, girl. But you’re clearly deranged, using language like that! And if you think I’m going to believe that you, of all people, are working for that villain, Longshaw, you’re sadly mistaken.’

I would have been frightened before but my success with Leigh had made me bold. ‘You won’t need the postcard in the window any more, Mrs Greenhough. I’ve got the job as Leigh’s Girl Friday. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you phone him? The number’s on the card. And he’s not a villain, but a gentleman.’

She looked at me as if I were mad and then strode to the window to remove the card. ‘I will! And when I hear the truth, I’ll be telling your good-for-nothing hypocrite of a father what a wicked little miss he’s brought up to lie to folk. He’ll give you the hiding you deserve.’

I decided on a treat to take home as a surprise for Father. No point in getting anything special for Hope, of course.

Mrs Greenhough returned and looked at me in a different way. It was obvious she found it hard to believe what Leigh had told her but she tore up the card. ‘Right. Well, it seems you will be paid, then. That’s different. You can take the things you want and pay on Saturday as usual. Mr Longshaw particularly said I was to thank you for remembering the card, by the way.’

I chose a couple of Eccles cakes, made with butter, to go with the fresh bread and the bottle of milk and a bag of potatoes. ‘Thank you, Mrs Greenhough. I’ll be in later in future, as I’ll be walking home from Longhouse after work. Good night.’

‘Good night, girl, er, Miss Heacham.’

‘My name is Faith.’ I was smiling as I left the shop and the smile remained as I walked through the village. Already my life had started to change, as I had hoped it would when I stood in the snow waiting for the interview.

The final half-mile from the village was no distance in my mood of newfound confidence. I passed the junction where the narrow lane ran round the side of the hill and led to the farm where Mervyn lived with his father and brothers. I shuddered and hoped my confidence was not misplaced. Father would not be pleased at my news but he needed my money and he would accept the change of work. I hoped the new experiences I faced would change me in time; even more than they already had.

There was a low moon shining over the tops of the fells and the trees cast deep black shadows over the drifted snow as I climbed the steep stone track to the cottage.

‘What time’s this, girl?’ Father was in his chair by the fire.

‘Sorry, Father. I’ll get tea on first and then explain. Has Hope been all right?’

‘Any reason she shouldn’t be?’

‘I’ll get tea, then.’

Upstairs in my room, I pulled the old, red satin slip on over my skin for my domestic chores, so my work clothes could remain clean and smart, as Father demanded. The kitchen was cold and cheerless but the hot water thawed out my hands as I washed out my knickers ready for the morning. Cooking brought a little more warmth to smooth away the goose pimples.

With our meal finished, I fed Hope. Then, over a cup of tea and the special cakes, I told him of my day. He remained silent, waiting until I had finished before demanding to know the salary and new hours of work. He grunted over the increase in my wages but was unhappy I would have to set off earlier each morning and arrive home later each evening.

‘Once the snow’s gone, I’ll find a cheap second hand bicycle; that’ll cut the travelling time.’

‘Women on bicycles. Devil’s work.’

‘I just thought it might save a bit of time, and I always wear a long skirt, Father, so…’

‘More expense. All right. I suppose you better had. But let no strangers see your flesh. Give me no further cause to correct you, girl.’

He said nothing about Furnswurth but I expected he would have words with him in private and then decide whether to beat me for my part in the incident.

‘Longshaw’s reputation will suffer less than your own, girl. You’re a fool if you think otherwise. You’re a fool anyway. Mind you give no cause for folk to gossip more than they will. You know the penalty for sin in this house. I’ll have no more whores under my roof. Your mother whored; wicked Jezebel. I scourged her but she was too steeped in wickedness to change the ways of her sex. Let me hear a word of you going the way Eve led and I’ll have the skin off your back. Understand me, girl?’

‘Yes, Father.’

Whilst I washed the dishes in the unheated kitchen, I weighed-up father’s uncharacteristically generous response to my news. No shouting, no lecture and no beating. He must have had a very good day and I offered a silent prayer of thanks for my escape. Even when I brushed the carpet as I cleaned around him, he made no complaint.

The evening’s housework complete, I lifted Hope from her bed beside the wall. Pulling her into a sitting position, I knelt in front of her and let her fall across my shoulder. The worst part, as always, was standing up with her dead weight on me, but I got her out to the back garden and sat her on the toilet. She had grown used to the routine, at last, and I was glad she was quickly finished as the air was freezing with the cloud cover gone. Once I had cleaned her, I got her back to bed.

For an hour, I worked her floppy limbs, bending her joints, curling and straightening her spine. I told her about my day, the weather, the animals I had seen on my walks, what the night sky looked like as I had made my way home. Hope’s expression, as always, remained unchanged, her hazel eyes blank and expressionless.

The exercises done, I filled the bowl with hot water and washed her. There was that strange smell from her again; it was there nearly every day. It seemed to come from a slight milky discharge. I asked Father.

‘Stop worrying. I’ll tell you if there’s anything to concern yourself about. You know nothing, so stop bothering me with what you don’t understand.’

He went back to his book.

She looked sore again and I blamed myself for failing to rub enough cream on that morning. I was generous with it, once I had towelled her dry. I rubbed her skin all over with baby oil to keep it soft and free from bedsores before fitting her overnight nappy.

‘It’s a cold night, Father. Shall I put her nightie on?’

‘You’ll take it off in the morning. I can’t lift her on my own.’

I struggled to pull the brushed cotton over her head, settled her breasts into the bodice and made my usual whispered complaint.

‘Not fair, Hope. Yours are bigger than mine!’ I giggled softly, hoping there might be some reaction to this habitual little joke that included her but left out Father. She made no response, of course. I straightened the skirt beneath her so she was not lying on folds or creases. I brushed her long, dark hair, cleaned her teeth and made sure her nose was clean. With a kiss, I lowered her onto the pillow and covered her with the light quilt.

The coalscuttle was empty so I filled it from the coalhouse next to the toilet and made my own visit whilst out there. The bulb blew as I switched on the light, so I got a new one from the kitchen. Father would be furious if he had to use it in the dark.

I rested the coalscuttle by the fire and stoked the flames with fresh coal and cinders to last overnight. ‘I’m for bed, Father. Goodnight.’

He grunted but did not lift his eyes from the book in his hands.

The bathroom was cold, as always, when I peeled off my slip and washed in a little warm water at the sink. Father came in as I was drying myself.

‘Run my bath, girl.’

He stood and watched as I put in the plug and brought the water to the right temperature for him. My towel slipped off and he hung it on the hook until I was finished.

‘That feels about right, Father. Deep enough?’

He grunted. I took my towel to my bedroom and left him to bathe undisturbed. Once he had finished and left, I returned to drain the bath and clean it. He came back in, wearing his dressing gown, as I was cleaning my teeth. I stood to one side whilst he cleaned his and then finished my own as he went to his bedroom.

It was half past eleven when I knelt beside my bed to say my prayers, the hard boards cold under my knees. At twenty to twelve I slipped, shivering, under the covers. I thought of Hope, wrapped and warm in her nightdress, and wished Father would find me something similar, just for the cold nights.

I set the alarm clock for five thirty so I could get everything done in the morning and start work on time for my first day at Longhouse and the beginning of what I hoped might be a new life.

###

Whilst it's great that you want to read the book, it'd be even better, for me, if you bought it. So, if you can't wait for next week's instalment, check the links below. They'll take you to places you can buy either as paperback or ebook, depending on your preference.

For those who live locally (East Riding of Yorkshire) you can also borrow the book from your local library.

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How Does A Writer Move You?

Image by stuartaken via Flickr

How does a writer enter the mind, heart and soul of a reader and persuade a mature human being that the fiction purveyed is true enough to deserve and elicit an emotional response? Of course, the question itself suggests that every writer does this. But we all know there are writers who succeed in the market place without ever stirring any deep emotion, relying on the pace and action of their stories to maintain the interest of the reader. Such writing invariably leaves the thoughtful reader unsettled and unsatisfied, as if they've devoted time and energy to a pursuit that has failed to reward them with a fully rounded experience. For me, such writers might persuade me to read one of their novels but I'll never return to waste more time on such superficial entertainment. It serves a purpose, of course, but holds little appeal for me and many other readers.

If the writing of fiction is about anything, it's surely about providing the reader with a multi-layered experience full of emotional content. As a writer, I want to entertain, of course. But I also want to cause my readers to laugh in amusement, cry with empathy, gasp in surprise, wail at injustice, call out in fear, retch with disgust, pause in thought, tremble in anticipation, wince at cruelty, warm with erotic response, scream in terror, applaud at justice, weep at despair  and cheer over a deserved outcome.

But how are such responses to be achieved? People are so different, so varied in outlook, experience and education, that it must surely be impossible to get under their skin in this way? Well, perhaps it isn't possible to succeed with every reader on every occasion. But it clearly is possible to form the desired response in enough of your audience to justify the time, energy and effort needed to invoke the emotion you're aiming for.

So, how does it work?

I suspect the most important factor is shared experience. All of us go through the basic events of life; births, deaths, illness, falling in love and out of it, fearing the unknown, having sex or getting none, admiring some natural or man-made phenomenon, witnessing a natural catastrophe. We may not experience all of these events personally, but we will have at least some awareness of them through our family, friends, acquaintances and the ever-present media. There is, therefore, some fellow-feeling which can be used as a platform from which a writer can launch an assault on the reader's senses.

I'll give a couple of personal examples, since these are things about which I know.

My real father died before I was born and I was raised, from the age of four, by the man who later married my widowed mother and called himself my father. I was loved, cared for, appreciated and nurtured. I've no cause to feel in any way that I missed out on anything due to my real father's untimely death.

But. Yes, the 'but' is the crucial aspect here.

But, I always felt that I was incomplete because I'd never known my biological father. Because of this, I'm susceptible to certain elements in fiction. One of these is the situation that drives the hugely successful movie, Mama Mia. The heroine, Sophie, wants to know who she is before she gets married, and sends invitations to each of the three men she identifies as her possible father. Now, this motion picture has much in it that should, by the measure of many, not appeal to an average guy. It has been much lauded as a picture for women. That it's also a musical, lends it even more of a feminine appeal in the minds of many. But, because I absolutely understand, empathise with, Sophie's desire to know about her father, I find the story moving. It touches me in a way that probably evades many men. There's a link for me. And that's the point. I respond to the emotional element that drives the story because I have direct personal experience of the central emotion of longing to know.

Another incident that never fails to move me is the denouement of The Railway Children. As Bobbie waits on that railway platform and her father appears through the mist, I'm unable to prevent tears falling. And it matters not that I've seen both recent versions of the film on more occasions than I should. The power of the emotion remains. 

Why?

I can identify two entirely separate reasons for this one, I think. The first is that I'm a father and have a strong love for my daughter. I can empathise with the way both a father and a daughter must feel during a period of prolonged forced separation. My personal experience lies in the necessary absence of my girl as she attends university. But there's a second factor at play here. I have a deep and enduring concern for justice. Injustice wounds me and always has; perhaps I suffered some unjust event as a child and this lurks beneath the surface of my consciousness to elevate the quality of justice into something of paramount importance to me. I don't know; but it's as good a reason as any for my concern. In The Railway Children, of course, the father returns from a spell in prison served for a crime he didn't commit. So, the daughter/father reunion is enhanced as an emotional experience for me by the fact that justice is restored. Hence, I think, my empathy and my inability to prevent the tears.

I use these two examples to demonstrate how powerful a tool emotion can be for the writer.

Not only the most obvious emotion, that of love between adults, as embraced by romantic fiction authors, but all emotion. The reader needs to be exposed to the emotional spectrum as experienced by the characters, to feel these emotions, not simply to be told that the character feels them.

'Rose felt the sorrow of loss at the death of her baby.' This tellsthe reader what happened. 'Rose gentled the tiny crumpled cot blanket in trembling hands, hardly aware of the damp trails she left as she brought it close to her face and inhaled the scent of that small perfect person she would never hold again.' This shows the reader her emotions. And, because the author will have built previous experiences into the writing, making the reader empathise with the character of Rose, the reader will experience the feelings of loss and utter devastation such an event gifts the victim.

This is one example of how it can be done. So, the writer engages the reader with the character(s), manipulates the reader into a relationship that involves concern and fellow-feeling. Where the thriller writer might get away with generic description and superficial emotional content, relying on pace and action to drag the reader through the story, the author of almost every other genre must actually become his characters, in the same way a good actor does, he must feel what the characters feel, in order to convey the real emotions experienced by the people who act out the tale. Only then will the reader experience what the character feels and be moved, amused, shocked, aroused or whatever is appropriate to the situation. 

It takes a clever combination of the right language with a description and presentation of character that persuades the reader to care. If the reader really doesn't give a damn what happens to the character(s), then the author has fallen at the first hurdle and might as well take up some other activity. It's for this reason that most serious (serious in the sense of intent rather than style) authors develop the plot through their characters rather than forcing characters into a pre-conceived plot.

If you're an author who wants readers to respond to your writing rather than skip through the text on a mad dash to the end, you need to be fully engaged with your characters and to allow them to dictate the direction of the story. Only in that way will you find the necessary empathy to share emotional events with them and, thereby, your readers. It's a demanding process but one that brings great rewards when handled well. 

The picture, by the way, shows my biological father, Ken Burden, about whom I've recently learned a good deal from his surviving sister, my 98 year old Aunt Vera.