Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 49

This is the penultimate chapter. Enjoy what’s left of the ride.

For those who haven’t been following the free read, I posted Chapter 1 on 13 January. Subsequent chapters have appeared each Friday, and will continue to be posted until all 50 have featured here. You can find those already posted via the archive; just search by chapter number. If you missed the start, you’ll find it here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html

Read, enjoy, invite your friends along. As an author, I want people to read my writing, simple as that.

Chapter 49

Tuesday 30th November

My return from Scotland had been so full of hope and expectation. Reality killed all that along with Netta. I examined my reactions to her death and found, amongst the grief and sorrow, I could blame both her and her attacker but neither Leigh nor myself. I felt no guilt, no responsibility, and Leigh’s insistence on his fault confounded me.

At first, I accepted he must be grieving in his own particular way. He would eventually leave that stage and return to his normal self. It was clear he found comfort in my arms and derived pleasure from our nearness, so I couldn’t understand his determination to avoid me. It wasn’t important, for the moment, that he couldn’t make love. The trauma of discovering Netta’s naked and abused body coupled with his natural grief at her loss caused that. Time would sort it out; time, patience and understanding from me. Alex Comfort’s book had taught me many things but that was a most important lesson.

Leigh, having lived so long through and for sex, seemed incapable of understanding it was just one aspect of our lives together, only part of our relationship.

I wanted him inside me again, I wanted to make love. Of course I did. But I could and did still love him without sex. Just to have him in my arms, to have his arms round me, was joy and pleasure. There was more than comfort in our embrace, more than mutual support.

He couldn’t see it.

And his obsession with Netta made it hard for him to accept she was dead. He had to keep her memory alive, had to keep the image of her clear before him as though that would somehow cover up his guilt. Guilt that was misplaced and unnecessary. It had been difficult enough for me to bear his fixation with Netta when she was alive; to have her form a barrier between us now she was dead was almost unbearable.

Eric’s death changed everything. In practical terms, it brought me a new home without the effort of finding one; and with it, an escape from the claustrophobic atmosphere of Longhouse. It brought me Bruce and his unquestioning devotion and loyalty. And it brought Zizi up from London, ostensibly to give me her support and comfort. When I heard them at it through the night I knew I had to leave. He could find a way to fuck Zizi, but not a way to make love with me.

I’d been in Dad’s old cottage for a week, though it wasn’t strictly mine in a legal sense until much later, with Bruce my only companion, when I received news that Heacham’s old Will had been found in favour of myself and Hope. He’d failed to change it after I’d left. I was surprised to learn I now had two cottages. I’d always thought Heacham’s place was rented. But he’d apparently inherited it from his parents. What, I wondered, had he done with all the rent I’d paid for him over the years? It turned out he, or rather I, had been the sole payer of rent for the old stone barn he and his cronies used as their chapel. The rest he’d hoarded in bank accounts and in a box in cash under the bed.

I found grim satisfaction in regaining what I’d lost to him and great delight in ending at once the informal agreement on the chapel. The few who’d joined him in his grotesque distortion of Biblical legend faded into obscurity amongst the community once their meeting place was advertised as ideal for conversion to holiday accommodation.

I would have to take decisions on behalf of Hope but I went to see her anyway. I wish I had let her be. She was all flab and bedsores; her lovely hair cut short, dry and unstyled, her skin red and flaking. There was no dignity in what she’d become. She was no more than meat kept alive and I wished they would let her die in peace if that was the best they could do for her. But I couldn’t and wouldn’t remove her from their care and knew I shared their guilt in my refusal. I used her share of the funds from the Will to employ a private nurse to see her three times a week and care for her skin and general health. I would do no more for her myself; it was pointless, she didn’t even know me. I’d spent my early life sacrificing my needs to the demands of others. It was time I lived for myself.

Heacham’s cottage was a mess and bore the stench of death. I threw the windows open to bring in fresh air but knew I could never live there. It was foul and full of memories I wanted to erase. For three days, I cleaned and cleared out rubbish, burning everything of his, including a handful of foreign-language, pornographic magazines that lay stained and scattered on the floors.

I restored it to some semblance of tidiness so I might do something with the place. Once finished, I was full of tension, angst and bitterness. I must free myself of the memories of Heacham and that house if I was ever to live in peace. I needed some sort of symbolic act, some spiritual rite to wash me free of the filth I associated with his memory. The tarn offered an attractive solution. It was November but not yet seasonally cold and the autumn rains had filled the lake with clear cleansing water.

I put on my working underwear, grabbed a towel and walked up the hill, Bruce running ahead of me as if impatient to get to the tarn. In the shadow of the trees, with sunlight sparkling on the silent water, I folded my outer clothes; the idea of Mervyn watching me swim naked had spoiled the place to some extent and I wasn’t prepared to risk treating him again.

The water was cold enough to take my breath away but I waded in until I was able to swim. The cold and the clarity of that fresh, untainted water flushed away my tension and I felt my spirit healing within me as the tension left. A few strokes took me to the very centre and I ducked myself beneath the surface and struck into the depths. Kicking hard, I touched the bottom and then pushed myself hard and fast toward the light above. I broke surface and gulped the sweet, fresh air and laughed aloud in exultation.

Bruce barked. I turned to see Mervyn in the trees, a large fallen branch in his hand. Bruce stood, hackles high, menacing the lout as he approached my clothes.

‘Go away, Mervyn! Leave me alone.’

His silence was unnerving. Bruce went for him and Mervyn shook him off his arm. I had no time to decide what to do. He fended Bruce off with the stick. I was swimming, wading, running for the bank before I ever thought of what I was doing. As I emerged from the water, Mervyn turned to me and gave a savage kick to Bruce. My poor dog was hurt and he caught him by his collar in one hand, the other holding the branch over his head.

‘Dog’s fuckin’ dead, less you do as I say. Get them off, cunt.’

‘Leave my dog alone. He’s done nothing to you.’

‘Off. Or the dog’s meat, cunt.’ He waved the bloodied bough and Bruce suddenly seemed so vulnerable. Perhaps I could buy time, distract the pervert. I slowly slipped off the bra and made myself stand proud.

‘Them an’all. Get the fuckers off.’ He waved the bough close above Bruce’s head and I knew I had no choice.

I stood naked before him and understood what he did not; that he had no way to rape me whilst holding Bruce. If I were to run, he’d be forced to make a choice. And I was certain I knew what choice he’d make. Bruce would be safe.

He took a step forward. ‘On the ground, cunt. Legs apart an’ arms underneath. Or I’ll whip your tits with this.’

I stooped and grabbed a handful of wet pebbles. He was so engaged by my body, he failed to notice what I was doing. As my stones peppered him, he was startled into dropping his weapon.

I took my chance and ran. ‘Come on, Bruce!’

The fool moved to my clothes. As if I cared about that when he threatened my very existence. I ran for the cottage as fast as I could, his mistake giving me the lead I needed.

Heavy, fat and unfit, he wasn’t as fleet as I. But I had to watch for sharp stones that might damage my bare feet and disable me. And I’d misjudged him. He paused only to batter Bruce hard enough to stop him running with me. I stopped, uncertain what I should do; concerned for my dog.

But he moved away from Bruce and started toward me. I turned and ran again. I gained on him only slowly and he was still within sight as I reached the cottage. I’d left the back door unlocked and I opened the garden gate, closing and bolting it behind me, and was quickly inside the cottage and safe. I locked and bolted the back door, top and bottom, and leant with my back against it, breathing hard and fast but relieved to be secure inside whilst he was locked outside.

The front door opened. I’d left the key in my coat. He’d watched me leave by the front door, seen me pocket the key, and followed me to the tarn. I suspect he took the key whilst I was in the water, just in case.

He took his time, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. He locked it and put the key in his pocket. I desperately tried to return to the back door I’d just secured. But he was in the kitchen before I’d undone the top bolt and I had to dodge round the table to escape him.

There was blood above one of his cold eyes. My stones had been more effective than I’d thought.

‘I’m gonna fuck you, cunt. On the table, on the floor, over the chair, up your cunt, up your arse, in your mouth. Then I’m gonna beat your fuckin’ brains out, just like I did that other lyin’ cunt. Onny, wi’ you, I’ll leave my cock in when I come ‘cos no-one’s ever goin’ to know what happened to you. Your body’ll burn with this house once I’ve ‘ad enough. But I’m gonna teck me time. I’ll tie you up an’ come back to fuck you every day for as long as I like. An’ no one’ll know.’

He studied me as he took off his coat. He eased each of his boots off in turn. He untied the string he used for a belt. ‘Gonna tie your ‘ands together wi’ this. Tight, so it hurts.’ He removed his trousers. ‘This is gonna split you an’ meck you bleed an’ scream before I’m done wi’ you.’

I was shivering now that I’d stopped moving, still damp from the tarn, cold from the air as I’d run, and terrified by his threats. ‘Leigh’ll be here soon. You’d better go, if you know what’s good for you, Mervyn.’

Fear flashed briefly across his face and then he sneered. ‘Think I’m fuckin’ stupid? You ‘aven’t seen Leigh in days. I bin watchin’ you ever since you come. Seen you around the ‘ouse in nowt but your knickers. See you now in nowt at all.’

‘I don’t understand why you hate me, Mervyn. What have I done to make you dislike me so?’

‘You and your whoring sister got me sacked. Cunts! Well, I did for her and she were beggin’ for mercy before I finished her. Your turn now. You’ll teck longer, be more fun. No one comes up ‘ere since your pervert father topped hissen. They say it’s haunted. Soon be haunted by more’n ‘im. Like being a ghost, will you?’

‘What do you want from me, Mervyn?’

He moved suddenly but I reacted as quickly and kept the table between us.

‘Want? I’m gonna ‘ave what I want, cunt, whether you like it or not. I’m gonna ‘ave you. Any way I want and as many times as I like. You can’t make no bargains wi’ me. I can do what I like wi’ you.’

I put my hands on the table to steady myself, emotion and physical fatigue making me suddenly unsteady. My hand caught the edge of the table. My finger caught the handle of the drawer. I opened it and grabbed the large carving knife that Heacham had kept razor sharp to slice the Sunday roast.

Mervyn saw the blade and backed involuntarily from the table. He searched for a weapon and I took my chance, grabbing the teapot from the sink behind me and throwing it at him as hard as I could. Caught off guard, he moved too late and it hit him on the side of his head. I dashed from the kitchen and slammed the door closed behind me.

Desperate, I pushed the armchair against it before he had time to recover. For a few seconds, I stood, uncertain of my next move. It gave him time to recover and barge through into the sitting room. He was armed with the wooden rolling pin and came straight at me.

I dodged his first blow and struck out blindly with the knife. I felt resistance and saw blood drip from his free hand.

‘Cunt!’

He swung at me again and I ducked, the end of the rolling pin crashing against my shoulder. I turned and side stepped. This time I held my ground as he rushed at me. The knife stabbed through his shirt and into his midriff as he brought the rolling pin down, hitting the top of my head.

I was stunned for a few seconds, blackness fighting my instinct to remain conscious. I won through the pain and dizziness to find blood flowing across my left eye. Mervyn was staggering nearby with the knife still in his body. I picked up the empty coalscuttle and slammed it as hard as I could across his head. He stumbled and turned to face me. His hands were scrabbling at the knife and his face was drained and white. I picked up the rolling pin from the floor and hit him back and forth across his face and head. He put up his hands to defend himself and rose from his knees to try to reach me. I moved aside as he came forward and he fell onto his face. I hit him again on the back of his head and then dashed to the front door. It was locked and he had the key.

I jumped hard on his writhing body as I passed and rushed for the back door. Frantic with terror, I undid the top bolt, turning to see if he was behind me. There was no sign of him in the kitchen as I ran from there into the back garden and opened the gate. I peered round the cottage, fearing he might have opened the front door. But he wasn’t there. I ran down the stony lane, heedless of the sharp stones cutting my feet.

Mrs Greenhough’s shop was closed. Early closing day.

I stumbled across the Green to the red telephone box, picked up the receiver and dialled 999.

‘Police and ambulance. I’ve been attacked and I think I might’ve killed….’

###

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Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 45

You’ve come this far, and you’re looking forward to the climax now. Continue to enjoy the ride.

For those who haven’t been following the free read, I posted Chapter 1 on 13 January. Subsequent chapters have appeared each Friday, and will continue to be posted until all 50 have featured here. You can find those already posted via the archive; just search by chapter number. If you missed the start, you’ll find it here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html

Read, enjoy, invite your friends along. As an author, I want people to read my writing, simple as that.

Chapter 45

The drive to the island was hot, long and tiresome. I made a mental note to have a car radio fitted as soon as I returned to Longhouse. Just beyond Glasgow, I stopped at a wayside café for a break and discovered I hadn’t replaced my knickers after that last pleasuring of Leigh. I smiled at the state of mind that had allowed such forgetfulness. For the rest of the journey, I found my mind filled with ideas about the way I’d altered over the months with Leigh and how making love with him had changed me so absolutely with regard to modesty, both false and real.

I arrived at the ferry station just in time and was grateful for the chance to spend a short spell out of the driving seat, letting the sea air blow through my hair and clothes. Though driving on and off the boat was an experience I hadn’t prepared for.

Once at the other side of the narrow straits, I had another twenty or so miles to drive before I reached the meeting place. We’d agreed on the village post office as our rendezvous since there was a small café there where one could wait if the other was delayed. As it turned out, we arrived within minutes of each other. I wondered if she’d been looking out for me.

Mrs McAlastair was a big boned woman with little flesh on her skeleton and she had a most unattractive face for a woman. But she smiled brightly when I introduced myself and offered her cash for the price we’d agreed.

‘Och, best see the bothy first, lassie. You’ll no be wantin’ to pay if you’ll no be wantin’ to stay. Will you be wanting bread and milk from the store afore you go?’

I spent a few minutes adding fresh food to my stockpile in the car.

‘Follow me.’

She drove a Landrover, which looked as though it might have been one of the first made. Great clouds of charcoal smoke billowed from the exhaust as she started it, but it ran cleanly after that.

I followed her for three miles along a tarmac road with a pecked white line down the middle and passed no other vehicle. We turned off at a three-way junction onto a single-track road with occasional passing places, which we never needed to use. Another four miles and we turned onto a stony track that crossed open fields with mountains frowning down at us. I was anxious about my Mini’s suspension but there were few potholes and I managed to miss those there were.

At last, we arrived at a gate and Mrs McAlastair got out and let me through, her own car staying the other side. As I drove past her, I got my first view of the croft and stopped the car at her signal.

‘I’ll not drive down there, lassie, and I’d advise you leave your wee car up here. I’ll help take your things down and show you where everything is.’

It was perfectly situated. The small whitewashed cottage lay at the foot of the steep track, hills on all three landward sides, rising to mountains on two. Beyond the cottage itself, a stretch of grass, dotted with windswept mountain ash, led to a shingle strip and a bar of brilliant white sand that plunged into the deep azure of the ocean. The water stretched to the horizon where a small island broke the line between sea and sky. The next land after that was America. I was impressed.

‘Aye, it’s bonny enough. But see it all afore ye make up your mind.’

‘Is it safe to swim?’

She looked me up and down as we took the case and bags from the car. ‘You’re a wee thing but strong enough I ken. You’ll be up to your navel five yards in and you’ll need to watch the currents further out. Otherwise, it’s just the cold’ll get you.’

As we walked down to the cottage, I noted the small outhouse to one side, at the back. ‘Aye, that’s the privy. There’s no light but there’s running water.’

She unlocked the only door into the cottage, facing the sea, and let me in before her. Small windows let the sunlight in. There was an odd smell I could not identify until she reminded me the lighting came from oil. The cooker used bottled gas and there was a supply already connected. A pile of peat rested by the fireplace, should I need it. Enough was stacked against the back wall, under a wooden lean-to, to last for several weeks so I should be fine for the fortnight.

‘I’ll ask no questions about why you’re here alone, lassie. Good-looking young woman like you no doubt has her reasons for solitude. You’ll not be disturbed here, by anyone. There’s red deer wander the shore for seaweed, otters and seals in the sea and eagles in yon crags. Once or twice, a lad in search of adventure might pass on his way to climb the hills but you’d be unlucky to be caught unawares. The sun’s still warm enough to sit out at this time of year.

‘The water’s from a wee loch up yonder so it’s peaty and sometimes runs brown from the fawcett but it’ll do ye no harm. There’s spare bedding in yon closet and a torch under the sink. New batteries. I’ve a radio if you wish? No?

‘Well, I’ll leave you to it, lassie, you’ll no doubt be anxious to get settled after your long drive. When you leave, put the key on the shelf in the privy. Anything you need you’ll get from the post office; it closes all day Wednesday and, since you’re from the mainland, ye’ll no be aware it’s shut all the Lord’s Day too.’

I handed her the cash and she counted it out carefully before she smiled and gave me a receipt. I walked with her as far as the foot of the track, from which I could make out the roof of my Mini.

‘No need to fret about your wee car, lassie. No one here to steal or damage it. We don’t have much in the way of crime on the island. The men are hard but fair-minded. They get drunk and they fight. But they’ll do nae harm to a lassie. Should you happen on one you teck a fancy to, he’s like to be safe. Willing as any man, if you let him. Talk travels, so I’ll no let it be known you’re here, less ye want me to?’

‘I’d not welcome a horde, Mrs McAlastair, but a clean, handsome young prince might come in handy next week.’

She gave me a knowing look and assessed me as breeding stock. ‘Aye, there’s handsome enough about, lassie, but you’re no likely to find a prince, I fancy; more likely the frog.’ She turned and made her way up the track.

I waited for her to drive away before I dashed to the cottage, pulled a towel from my case, stripped and ran down the shingle to let the ocean wash the travel from my skin.

It was the first and only time I made that mistake. The ocean was cold and there was no fire in the cottage. By the time I had one lit, I was chilled and rather subdued. I vowed the fire would remain alight for the rest of my stay, and it did.

The privy was home not only to gas bottles for the cooker but to a variety of spiders; large, huge and colossal. They generally moved away from the oil lamp I carried if I ventured there after dark but I was always anxious of the possibility of one dropping on me. My visits were brief and to the point.

I discovered that the best way to collect the peat for the fire was to use the shovel provided for the ashes and take as large a pile as I could carry at one time. I stacked it high beside the fireplace and used enough to keep the place warm throughout the cool nights.

I’d been warned about midges but they didn’t trouble me. The land surrounding the cottage was well drained and there was no standing water to attract them, I suppose.

The light from the windows was enough for dreaming but if I wanted to read I had to either go outside or be near an oil lamp. Much of my time I left the front door open to reduce the slightly oppressive feeling engendered by the low smoke-stained ceiling.

The cottage, a proper croft, consisted of a single room, which contained the small kitchen area in the corner facing the door, the bed in the corner furthest from the door and the sitting area near the fire on the same wall as the door. A window faced the ocean on each side of the chimneybreast and a smaller window looked out on the rising hills behind the croft. I found I could open the door wide and sit in the ancient armchair, warmed by the fire when the days were cloudy, and read in comfort with fresh air occasionally disturbing my hair.

I was obliged to bathe in a tin tub that hung on the back of the privy door. It housed three tarantulas when I first took it down but they scuttled away when I dropped it noisily on the stone path. I had to fill it from two kettles, one hung over the fire and the other boiled on the gas stove. My first attempt took me over an hour for a reasonable depth and even then, the water was only warm. I hung it back on the door for the spiders to recolonize and decided to stick to my daily dip in the ocean waves, followed by a strip wash in soft, brown fresh water at the kitchen sink. Washing my hair was the most difficult and I had to make do with the sink for that as well, allowing it to dry by the fire or in the sun.

But these privations didn’t worry me. I’d sought isolation and simplicity and that’s what I’d found. I was used to cold and discomfort from my time with Heacham and the croft on my own was infinitely more comfortable than the cottage had ever been when shared with that perverted excuse for a man.

The isolation, and Mrs McAlastair’s hints that I may sunbathe unwatched, together with the loss of my shyness after sharing my body with Leigh, allowed me to be relaxed about being naked. I spent my time wearing very little or nothing unless I needed clothing for warmth.

Each day I swam as I had on my first day and ran to the cottage to dry off on a towel left by the fire. I saw no one for the first days but had the privilege of watching red deer grazing on the seaweed just along the shore and catching sight of a pair of otters playing in the surf. Seals eyed me curiously when I swam but never approached close enough to touch. Eagles evaded me until the Thursday when two flew overhead, circling quite low until one found and caught a small rabbit in the field near my car. I managed to catch something of all these natural sights with my camera and the telephoto lens Leigh had loaned me for my trip.

The weather varied enormously and there wasn’t a day when I didn’t see both sunshine and rain. Some days a heavy shower would smite the windows with lashing drops so loud they drowned the ocean’s constant surge. Other days a few drops would precede unbroken, glorious sunshine when I could lie outside and laze under the warm rays, reading Watership Down or The Thorn Birds or Lord of the Rings or simply imagining myself alone with Leigh.

For the first three nights, I allowed myself the necessary freedom to weep. My sorrow and grief at Dad’s death, having been finally released by that incident at Longhouse, now swept from me in tears heeded by no one but me. By Tuesday, I could think of his passing without desperate sobbing, though I knew it would be years before I could think of his death and remain completely dry-eyed and I was relieved to have the worst of my grief expressed at last. I felt free to enjoy myself without the guilt that grieving brings so unfairly in its wake.

It was on my first Friday that I met Hamilton. I was trotting up the beach, fresh from the waves, when I became aware of him standing by the door and watching me with evident surprise and delight. He was the prince I’d jokingly requested Mrs McAlastair to provide. He didn’t attempt to look away or hide his enjoyment of the view. On the floor, at his feet, rested a large rucksack and I guessed he expected me to believe he was one of the occasional mountaineers his mother had mentioned.

‘Good morning.’ I walked past him into the cottage and started to dry myself.

‘Hello.’ He remained in the open doorway, with his back turned, just out of sight.

‘You’re welcome to step inside and take a seat. I’ll make a pot of tea once I’m dried’

He entered at once and sat and watched me dry myself, continuing to study me with frank admiration and ill-disguised lust as I made the tea, but he said nothing.

‘Quiet sort, aren’t you?’

He nodded and continued to study me.

‘I haven’t seen a soul all week so you’ll forgive me if I’m a bit chatty.’

‘You’ve a lovely wee body, miss. Aye, and a pretty face.’

I stood and considered. Leigh had told me I was beautiful, but he said that to all the women who had sex with him. Then, of course, since he invariably also took photographs of them with the intention of selling them, they all would have to be beautiful. ‘Thank you.’

‘Thank you. Do you no think it a wee bit risky walking about in that state in front of a stranger?’

‘Your mother said I’d nothing to fear from the men of the island and …’

His face was a picture.

‘Oh, it’s obvious she’s either your mother or your aunt; you’re like peas in a pod. She said I’d be in no danger but that the men were willing enough if invited. I expect you’re hoping for an invitation?’

He blushed wonderfully and I stopped teasing him, knowing how unpleasant a blush can be but happy it wasn’t me who suffered this time.

I suddenly became aware of exactly what I was doing and laughed out loud at my audacity. I felt such relief that I was finally free of that terrible shyness that had been forced on me for so many years. I was confident in my body and myself and felt no shame attached to its voluntary display. I was good to look at and it was up to me whether I was seen.

‘I’m going to ask you a few questions and I want you to know that I’m very good at detecting lies. I want you to answer me truthfully, even if you think I might prefer a different answer. Whether you get to have sex with me depends on you answering my questions truthfully. Do you understand?’

‘I do, but how d’you know I actually want sex with you.’

‘It’s self-evident. But, if you don’t, you might as well go. I’ve no other use for male company at present.’

He grinned at his deception and my discovery of it. ‘Mother said you were a strange wee lassie. She was right and no mistake.’

I smiled at this description. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Hamilton.’

‘Well, Hamilton McAlastair, how many women have you had sex with?’

He opened his mouth to speak, gave himself time to think and then looked at me as if seeking a clue.

‘When I talk about the truth, Hamilton, that is exactly what I require.’

He shrugged, a little ashamed. ‘None, then.’

‘Excellent.’

He brightened at my obvious pleasure in his answer. ‘Kissed a few, of course, touched the odd wee titty, but no more than that.’

There was something charming in his use of a word I generally disliked and I found myself smiling again. ‘Just a few rules.’ I handed him a cup of tea. I noticed he was sweating slightly in the heat of the cottage fire. ‘Why not take off your jumper?’

He put the tea on the floor and did as I suggested, revealing a broad chest clad in a sleeveless shirt.

I waited till he sat again before explaining my rules. ‘Nothing you do must hurt me. I do not want to be kissed; kissing is an intimate act between people who love each other. I don’t love you and I don’t expect you love me. What I offer you will be for the period I offer it, no longer. When I’ve had enough of you, you must go, at once and without argument. Will you agree to these terms?’

‘Mother didn’t know the half of it. You’re the most amazing wee lassie I’ve come across. Aye, for the chance of knowing that lovely body and learning a trick or two to help me wi’ a woman, I’ll do as you ask.’

‘Good. Drink your tea and we’ll start to explore a little. Just to set your mind at rest, Hamilton, I’m not a prostitute and I don’t expect payment. I’m not in the habit of inviting strange men to have sex with me and you’ll be only the second man to know my body. I won’t explain why I’m doing this, except that I’m fulfilling a rather odd but important obligation. The sign for you to go, by the way, will be when I put on some clothes, or when I ask you. I’ll be naked whilst I wish you to stay. I take it you’ll not be missed if I need you overnight?’

‘Astounding. I’ll no be missed for a night or two, lassie. May I know your name?’

I told him.

‘Am I to start the … the er, whatever, or do I wait for your lead?’

‘However the mood takes you, Hamilton. I’m adaptable and ready to respond to your advances.’

I was so nervous inside but I couldn’t show him how I really felt. I was doing this to satisfy my need to carry out Dad’s wishes. I had no wish at all to satisfy the lust of another man or to give myself to anyone other than Leigh. But Dad’s wishes had been explicit. This was the only way I could reach a satisfactory compromise and I’d already decided I might as well approach the task enthusiastically. Hamilton’s arrival allowed me to do some good to someone else along the way. I considered myself fortunate to have been given the chance to do some sexual comparison for my education whilst teaching this pleasant young man something of value to him. I had no doubt at all about the outcome of my experiment but I must fulfil Dad’s last request of me. I knew myself well enough to understand that I had no choice in that matter if I was to live with my future self in peace.

The sun was high in the sky on Saturday when I moved off his strong young body for the last time. He lay looking up at me as if I might be an angel or a magical princess and I was sufficiently moved by his obvious adoration that I leant over and kissed his lips softly. ‘Thank you, Hamilton; you’ve been exactly what I needed. I’m going for my swim now. I expect you to be gone when I return.’

‘You canna just leave like that. Surely you don’t expect me to…’

‘I expect you to keep your side of the bargain, Hamilton. I expect you to follow the rules of our agreement. I expect you to show me that your mother was right.’ I draped my towel over the chair before the fire and walked out of the door and down to the sea without a backward glance.

The sea seemed particularly cold that day but I gave him time to make up his mind and to get dressed. I had no wish to confront him or argue with him. He’d done the job and enjoyed himself in the process. I’d given him an opportunity he was unlikely to get again and he would now have a better idea of how to pleasure any woman he cared to form a relationship with in future.

I deliberately avoided looking at the cottage as I swam and tried to lose myself in the waves and the water as it washed me clean of the sex and the smell of him. Although we’d shared some pleasurable sensations, I’d experienced nothing of the passion and desire and indescribable joy I’d felt with Leigh and I now fully understood for myself the real difference between having sex and making love.

Chilled and tired, I left the waves and sauntered up the beach, reluctant to reach the cottage in case he was lurking, waiting for more of me. But the place was empty. I dried myself and cried a few tears of relief. The job was done, my pride and honour saved by the anonymity of my subject, my duty to Dad complete. I could return to Leigh and know that I loved him not from inexperience or ignorance but because I loved him.

As I made myself a pot of tea, I noticed something on the table. The small package was wrapped in sheets of my notepaper and tied with string from the kitchen drawer. Inside was a small wooden box with a thistle carved on the lid. It was a handmade piece and the lid fitted well on its tiny brass hinges; the carving was good but lacked finesse and I guessed he’d brought it with him as an offering should I need inducement. Inside the box were three small sheets of paper. Each bore a charcoal drawing of me; in one I was sleeping on top of the bed, in another I stood at the door looking out to the ocean and in the last I was at the kitchen sink, making tea.

On the back of the one of me sleeping was a short note.

‘Faith, you gave me less than all of yourself but more than I deserved. I will carry you with me in my heart through all of my life, though I know I will never see you again. Thank you for your generous education of a simple man. You said I would not love you. That was the only mistake you made. Goodbye, Hamilton.’

I tucked the pictures back into the box, wondering when he’d found the time and opportunity to draw me, closed the lid and wiped a tear from the corner of my eye with a fingertip.

That night, I started writing my letter to Leigh, intending to drop it into the post office on Monday when I went to the village to replenish my supplies.

###

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Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 12.

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

But, 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 12

I took her down to eat by the river. It was warm enough to sit outside and avoid the inevitable fug of the bar. She experimented, at my suggestion, with scampi and chips in the basket. Confident it would be the real thing and not the usual monkfish, I joined her. A half of bitter quenched my thirst and I persuaded her to a glass of the decent enough house white.

We visited the second-hand bookshop at Bootham Bar where I looked for photography books. She left me to my own devices and set off to explore the musty treasure trove. After a while, browsing, I discovered a volume of Ansel Adams landscapes, reasonably priced and went in search of Faith. She was sitting on the floor, displaying her knickers to the world, and reading a tatty paperback.

‘You’re not a student, Faith. You’ll get muck on your skirt sitting down there.’

She looked guilty, like a child caught with a hand in the cake tin, and struggled to get up. I helped her and made her turn so I could brush dust from her seat. Freed from the detritus of the shop floor, that bottom was tempting and I could not resist administering a very gentle tap.

‘Don’t you dare…’

But she saw my face and her quick anger dissolved into a grin at some private joke she wouldn’t share. She was chuckling as we went down to the till.

‘Word of advice, Faith. Tights outside knickers or you’ll get cystitis.’

She frowned, understood the significance, blushed and then nodded her thanks. She was carrying a large volume, already paid for, wrapped in a brown paper bag.

‘Money?’

‘I told Father I might have to pay for dinner today. I said we’d be going to a restaurant and I should pay my share. He was unhappy, but gave me some cash when I reminded him it was yours in the first place.’

We sauntered along the river to spend some time reading on the bank and found a secluded bench under willows and cherry trees not yet in leaf or blossom. Side by side, we sat with the water rippling a few feet from us.

‘It’s not much, but it seems more art than pornography and I thought you might like it. It’s a little “thank you” for today.’ She handed me the brown paper bag and pecked my cheek.

I withdrew the book and was astounded to find a slightly damaged but sumptuously illustrated volume on the nude in art. I flipped through the pages.

‘You don’t like it.’

‘Faith, it’s the most perfect present but I don’t want to embarrass you with the pictures. This is so unexpected and so undeserved.’

‘Unexpected?’

‘I’m amazed you’d buy me, of all things, a book of nudes. I thought you were offended by all images of nudity and didn’t know the difference between pornography and art.’

‘I’ve a lot to learn, Leigh. My life and education have been in the hands of one man. I’m growing more certain with each passing day, each passing hour, that Father’s mistaken about the world. Today’s been more of an eye opener than anything that’s ever happened to me. That doesn’t mean I’m going to put myself exclusively into the hands of another man, no matter how wonderful, kind and generous he may be.’

‘Thank you, Faith.’ What else was I to say?

I opened her gift again and saw she’d written a message on the inner flyleaf. ‘To Leigh, with deep affection and many thanks, Faith.’

‘There’s more to you than meets the eye.’

‘There’s more to everything than is seen by the eye alone. And looking at covers without sampling the content leads to a superficial and misleading understanding of things.’

Forgiving the unintended pomposity, since the comment was aimed more at herself than me, I was struck again by the extraordinary contrast between her knowledge and her intellect. As she came to know more things, so her powers of deduction and her native intelligence realigned her view of the world and of her place within it. It was rather like, I imagined, a parent watching an exceptionally gifted child growing up, except that this was happening much more quickly as Faith’s knowledge caught up with her chronological age.

I recalled my promise to discuss nude photography with her seriously and thought it a perfect opportunity. Neutral ground; public enough to curb our passion and private enough to allow us to speak freely. The book was a perfect introduction. It was almost as if she’d chosen it with this in mind.

‘Look at this, Faith.’ It was The Source by Auguste Ingres; a young woman pouring water from a vessel balanced on her shoulder. ‘What do you think of it?’

She studied the figure for a few moments without apparent embarrassment and I was as surprised as I was pleased by that.

‘It’s an allegory, I imagine. She’s nude and seems to be standing on the surface of the pool, so there’s a hint that she isn’t merely human, perhaps some sort of goddess. And the water from the urn is feeding the pool as if it’s from an everlasting source, which obviously can’t be true, so it’s telling a story.’

‘Amazing. Very perceptive. But I was really more concerned about your view of the woman herself and the way she’s displayed.’

‘Well, her breasts are openly displayed but she has no genitalia and no pubic hair, just a suggestion of shadow, so she can’t be a real woman.’

‘Idealized. She represents an idea of female beauty that was prevalent at the time the painting was made.’

‘Didn’t women have pubic hair in those days?’

I flipped through and found an illustration of Olympia by Edouard Manet. ‘And what about this one?’

‘She’s lying on a bed but she’s got shoes on, so I think there’s a sexual content. A bit like some of the shots you’ve taken of Abby, I suppose.’

I let that go, but it did make me think.

‘Her hand’s covering her genital area so we can’t see it, but I don’t think that’s for modesty. I think she’s trying to be mysterious. Does hiding it like that really make it more attractive to men?’

I found Adam and Eve by Jan Mabuse Gosseart. ‘This one?’

She studied the picture of the pair with the serpent and the apple in the garden. ‘The Garden of Eden, of course. Adam seems to have no penis and his testicles are hidden behind what could be leaves or stylised pubic hair. Eve’s genital area is hairless but there’s a hint of a cleft there, so she’s a real woman. The bodies are both imperfect and more human.’

I flipped and found Renoir’s Bather Adjusting Her Hair. ‘And this?’

‘The fabric’s covering just enough to disguise her vaginal opening, but she would have to be hairless. Why are they all…?’

‘Couple more and I’ll make my point.’ I found Delacroix’s Woman Caressing a Parrot.

She looked at the painting for a moment. ‘The pose hides her genitalia. We can see her breasts and her build makes her look like a real woman.’

‘Last one.’ I flipped through and eventually found what I sought. Eugene Lacadre’s La Reveil served my purpose with the woman lying half on her side and facing the viewer, completely unadorned.

Faith scrutinized the image. ‘She’s another one with breasts but no genitalia at all. Not a real woman, but another of those so-called idealised beauties. She seems to be inviting sex without the means to partake.’

I closed the book. ‘You’ve come a hell of a long way in a few weeks, Faith. A month ago, you couldn’t have looked at those without blushing. Now, you’re able to discuss them with more objectivity than most people. I’m amazed and proud.

‘The point I was trying to illustrate, though, is that almost all artists, regardless of their era, have portrayed women as hairless and without sexual organs. Breasts have always been acceptable and have actually replaced the orifice as the source of sexuality, regardless of their primary function of feeding. Germaine Greer makes the same point. Women are portrayed as hairless and sexless. Our ideal of female beauty now demands they are like that. It’s that image I would like to banish.’

‘But your pictures show women hiding their genitalia behind knickers or in miniskirts or other clothes. Isn’t that what you say you’re trying to do away with? Isn’t it the whole woman you want to portray, the way you sometimes have with Abby, when she takes off all her clothes, even her shoes?’

‘I’d love to be able always to picture women as they are. With or without pubic hair but always with the female essential of vulva to demonstrate their sex. I’d like not to have to use pose to hide their sexual organs, though sometimes a pose excludes them naturally. I’d love to do this, but, for the moment, I can’t.

‘I know, and bear in mind I’m no expert on the subject, of only two works of art produced before the turn of this century that give the woman sexual parts, apart from the Gosseart Eve with her hint of an entrance. One is El Greco’s sculpture of Venus, an ungainly piece that nevertheless has the honesty to display her vulva. The other is Goya’s Nude Maja where the openly sexual woman lying on a bed has a shadow of pubic hair above her closed thighs.’

‘What about men? I’ve seen a lot of pictures, as you selected your samples, of men and most of them showed their sexual parts completely.’

‘I know. Odd, isn’t it? There could be all sorts of reasons for the difference of approach. But you’re right about that difference.’

‘Doesn’t that mean that artists have always been dishonest in their portrayal of women?’

‘Exactly, though they mostly reflected the wishes and values of their patrons, usually men of the church, and the societies in which they lived. I’d like to reverse that dishonesty by portraying them the way they are. Women have sexual organs and pubic hair; I’d like to portray them that way. I don’t want to idealize them. I want to celebrate them as they are.’

‘But you only use the most perfect physical specimens you can find. Isn’t that also dishonest?’

‘The camera’s less forgiving than the eye, Faith. And more selective. Place a woman with generous thighs in front of a camera and all you see are fat thighs. The camera actually draws attention to them. That’s not fair on her or on women in general. I choose the best I can find because that way I can celebrate female beauty more fully. I don’t want to show the failures of age, the results of bad diet and lack of exercise, the effects of starvation. I want to show woman as an object of beauty. Naturally, I select the best examples. But I don’t idealize. I don’t pose them so they’re sexless or unattainable. I show them as women, as sexual, desirable, beautiful creations. And, once I’ve built a reputation in publishing, I intend to take a more radical position; I want to go along the route of Bill Brandt or Edward Weston. They won’t mean anything to you, Faith, but they portrayed women exactly as they saw them, celebrated their nude bodies in candid poses and without hiding their femininity. That’s what I want to do. Am I wrong to do that?’

‘Father would say you are. He believes we should cover our bodies so that men won’t be tempted to lust after our flesh.’

‘You believe in God, don’t you?’

‘Of course!’

‘And God created you and all the other living creatures on the planet?’

‘God created everything.’

‘Even better. God created you. God created photography. God created the ability to see and conceptualise and judge. Do you think God is ashamed of any of these creations?’

‘God’s perfect. Everything God creates is perfect.’

‘So, it’s a huge insult to God to hide the creations and make them appear shameful or undesirable, don’t you think?’

She was silent, considering what some would call a specious proposition.

‘I think that what I do, in celebrating the beauty of women, is a form of homage to God. I celebrate creation. I hold it up exactly as it is and declare it beautiful. Is that wrong?’

‘No. But it can be misinterpreted. Some men see your picture of a naked woman and believe she represents all women. Your picture sometimes invites sex with that woman and some men see that invitation as universal. Your woman wants you to have sex with her, therefore all women want all men to have sex with them. That’s the danger.’

‘God, but your perceptive. But not many of my pictures invite sex, only those where such an invitation is appropriate. In any case, that aspect’s not my fault. I’m not responsible for how people view my work. I can only produce the pictures and hope they’ll be viewed in the same way as they’re made. If men misuse my images I’m sorry, but I can’t stop them. I can avoid suggestiveness and explicit sexual content but I can’t make my images of women asexual. That’d be a denial of everything I believe and it’d be dishonest. Any depiction of a naked human being must contain a sexual element. I take pictures of women because I’m a man and I love women as sexual creatures and as beings who attract my eye as an artist. I’ve no interest in the bodies of men so I don’t take pictures of them, though I’d use the same techniques and processes if I did.’

‘Thanks, Leigh. For treating me like a mature woman and explaining what you’re about. I don’t know whether you’re right or wrong. I’ve so much to learn and I’m still very much the child of Father. I don’t know if my attitudes come from my own feelings or from what Father has told me. But I respect your point of view and I’ll try not to make judgements in future. You clearly believe what you’re doing is right and honest and generally to the good. I’ll need more time before I’ll know whether I agree with you.’

‘Faith, you’re a singular young woman. I’m in serious danger of becoming very fond of you. Thank you for the book and the opportunity to discuss our differences. If nothing else comes from today, at least we understand each other better.’

‘Nothing else? Leigh, you’ve changed me from a dowdy girl to a confident woman today. Thank you.’

She kissed my cheek again and I wanted so much to take her in my arms and embrace her. But she wasn’t yet ready for that and I could wait. We were silent for a while, both mulling over what we’d said and heard. I settled down to take a more leisurely look at the book, now I knew the content wouldn’t offend her, and left Faith to her musing.

She turned to her paperback whilst I was reading and, intrigued to know what she’d bought herself, I tried to look at the front cover. To my surprise, she resisted and placed her hands over it. My curiosity was thoroughly aroused.

‘Will you do something for me?’

‘Depends what it is.’

Her directness and literal approach still surprised me.

‘I’d like to take some pictures of you, standing over by the river.’

‘With or without my clothes?’

‘I’d not expect even a seasoned model to stand out here stark naked, Faith.’

Her little smile told me she was learning to pull my leg. I stuck out my tongue and she grinned at her success and placed her book, open and cover down, on the bench before she wandered toward the edge of the river. I sneaked a quick look at the title whilst her back was turned and had just replaced the book when she spun round. It was impossible to tell whether she’d caught me peeping.

‘Here?’

She was placed ideally within the frame and I took several shots from the seat and then from different viewpoints before I signalled I was done. We both returned to the bench and she sat very close to me so that we touched along one side.

‘Is that what drives you to ask women to take off their clothes?’

My face must have shown my perplexity.

‘Your incorrigible, unquenchable curiosity. Is that what makes you want to see what they look like in the flesh?’

‘Probably. Why?’

‘And what do you think of my choice of book, now you’ve seen it?’

‘Will you be taking this work of the devil back home with you?’ As soon as I said it, I knew it was a mistake. ‘You don’t have to. You can keep it at Longhouse.’ That seemed to relieve her a little but I’d undoubtedly cast a shadow.

‘I’m trying to understand the other point of view, Leigh.’ She said nothing else about the first book she’d ever bought herself, “Why I am not a Christian” by Bertrand Russell, but her sadness and seriousness made me realize how brave she’d been to select it.

I stood and held out my hand to help her to her feet. She rose reluctantly as if unsure what I might do. My embrace of pure affection, which was what I felt at that moment, put paid to any doubts and she hugged me gratefully in return. ‘Right, let’s go and take in a museum or Clifford’s Tower or some of the other shops, or the library. Whatever you wish.’

We walked part of the ancient walls, spent time in the museum, visited The Shambles and Goodramgate. She was full of wonder and interest in everything we saw, reawakening my own enthusiasm. Full of questions that I tried to answer with as much information as I could in an attempt to boost her knowledge and give her a wider appreciation of the world.

‘Are you really as wise as you seem, Leigh, or can you just string together words and thoughts in a way that makes what you say seem intelligent and considered?’

I was flummoxed by her question. Was she complimenting me, insulting me? I turned and saw that twinkle in her gorgeous dark eyes and knew I’d been had again. I just laughed and embraced her, held her close and found she held me with affection. I’d never felt so natural, so right, with any other woman. ‘God, but you’re amazing, Faith.’

She pulled a little face at my mild blasphemy but let it go and showed her pleasure at my remark. ‘You’re really quite extraordinary yourself, Leigh.’

Had we been somewhere less public, I swear she would have kissed me properly. As it was, her willingness to touch and be touched had surprised me as it had grown during the day. She was a different woman from the frowsy, uncertain girl I’d driven out of the Dale that morning.

Once more, we trekked to the car park, this time to deposit our books and pick up her dress.

‘Are we off back, now?’

‘Why? Had enough?’

‘Is there more?’

‘If you wish.’

‘I don’t want today to end, Leigh, ever.’

Neither did I and, in a way, that was a first for me. ‘If we’re to eat beforehand, we’d best find somewhere now. If you want to eat afterwards, we can find a little wine bar for the moment for a light snack, but we’ll be eating very late if we do it that way.’

‘Before what, Leigh?’

‘Oh, didn’t I mention it? I’ve got tickets for “Godspell”.’

She looked blank, of course.

‘The theatre. It’s a musical show; it’s about Christ, so I’m not sure it’ll be all it should for your first theatre experience, but that’s what’s on, so that’s what I’ve booked.’

‘A musical show about Jesus? I don’t understand. Is it in the Minster?’

‘The theatre. It’s a place where people go to watch all sorts of shows, sometimes serious, sometimes funny, sometimes bawdy, sometimes scary. This time it happens to be a musical. Songs, dance, a story; all celebrating the life of Christ. Willing to give it a go?’

‘Father would be apoplectic.’

‘And?’

She smiled mischievously. ‘All the more reason to do it.’

I grasped her hands and swung her round until she pleaded, laughing, that I stop.

‘Eat first?’

She nodded. I picked up the bag containing her new dress and we set off for the restaurant where I had a table booked.

###

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Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Face

Image via Wikipedia

Face: noun - front of head, from forehead to chin; visage, countenance; corresponding part of an animal, insect, or other creature; a portrait; form of address to someone, especially if admired or despised. Slang; the countenance as a way of expressing feelings, character; what's shown by expression; a grimace; the countenance with regard to beauty, make-up, cosmetics; the surface of anything; in Astrology - a third of a sign of the zodiac, extending over 10 degrees in longitude; a polished surface; either side of a medal or coin; the outer or upper side of a two-sided object; the front; the inscribed side of a document; the picture side of a playing card; in Architecture - the facade of a building; the exposed surface of a wall; the front of an arch; the main side, frequently vertical or steeply sloped, presented by the front of a cliff, a geological fault; an open slope or hillside; each surface of a solid; the dial of a clock or watch; the working surface of an implement or tool; the striking surface of a cricket bat, golf club, hockey stick, etc.; external look; semblance of; outward show; disguise, pretence; a pretext; visible state or condition; aspect; in Typography- the printing surface of type; a style of type; boldface, fat-face, old-face, etc.; in Mining - the end of a tunnel where work is going on; the principal surface from which coal is being removed.

'Karmen Kass is the face of Max Factor today.'

'George made a face when his mother tried to get him to eat sprouts.'

'Climbing the face of the cliff required more skill than Jennifer had developed at this stage and she fell off, plunging into the calm sea below.'

'The medallion awarded to the winning competitors had one face bearing the name and date of the contest but the main face carrying a depiction of a naked female athlete engaged in the sport.'

7^th December 1732 - The Royal Opera Houseopened in Covent Garden, London.

7^th December 1783 - Theatre Royal opened in Covent Garden, London
7^th December 1783 - William Pitt Jr (24) became Britain's youngest Prime Minister

7th December 2011- It's 70 years since Pearl harbour was attacked by the Japanese