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.

Sample or buy as any format Ebook: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stuartaken
            Barnes & Noble - Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Breaking-Faith/Stuart-Aken/e/2940011126079

Amazon paperback or Kindle To buy from USA Amazon

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Apple idevice:

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USA: http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/isbn9781849233149

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Are All Writers Liars?

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All writers are liars, you know. They all construct their own fictional version of the world in which they exist. But honesty's actually essential for an author. Readers are clever folk and very quickly spot inconsistencies, inaccuracies and attempts to fool them into believing something that just isn't true, so trying is a bit daft.

But, how do authors grab the attention of readers and convince them that the world they're about to drag them into is something they can accept? How do they take them on a journey into whatever fantasy they've devised? For, except in the case of straightforward journalism (assuming such a thing exists), all writing contains an element of fantasy. Whether or not the reader perceives it that way often depends more on the reader's experiences of life than the writer's presentation of events. Some people are more gullible than others, that's all.

There are clear works of fantasy, The Lord of the Rings, 1984, Maia, where the story unfolds in a land or society that's clearly invented. And these are lumped together by publishers under the genre of Fantasy as a way of enticing readers who enjoy such imaginative works. But other works, both fictional and factual, contain elements of fantasy in that they're always the creation of the mind of another human being. None of us experiences the world in exactly the same way, after all. We overlay our view of events and people with our personal sets of values and judgements, which are based on the combination of those things we've experienced and those we've been taught to believe.

Even a simple situation seen through the eyes of different people will contain elements in common but will also be a different experience for each viewer. The man brought up a Roman Catholic will have an entirely different world view from the woman raised in a strict Muslim tradition. This is perhaps an obvious example, but even siblings of the same age and gender will view life differently, filtered through their individual experiences and their responses to those things they've been involved in. Every interaction, every influence, every event impacts on each of us in slightly different ways to make us into the people we are. Yet each of us, presented with a simple event, will be sure that what we see is what the others will also see, or, worse, that we're the only ones to perceive the reality; when, in fact, of course, none of us sees the reality, even the person creating it.

An example? How do you portray what's actually experienced by another human being in such a way as to provide something that's likely to be seen by most people in a similar way? Here's an apple. A simple enough statement. But what do you see in your mind's eye? Do you see a French Golden Delicious, an orchard apple plucked fresh from the branch, a bruised and worm-eaten windfall, a golden representation as presented by Paris, a whole red fruit, or a crisp green apple with a bite already taken from it? If you're imbued with Abrahamic fundamentalism, you may be incapable of separating the image of the apple from the representation of the Garden of Eden and the fall of man, blaming Eve for her consumption of the apple. Even though you know, because it's been said many times, that no apple is ever mentioned in your sacred texts and that the story is, in any case, simply a myth created to explain the inexplicable, you'll be plagued by that image and it will skew your world view. Another obvious and well-known example of how we're formed by our own worlds. But, hopefully, you get the point. None of us exists without outside influence on our view of the world, but for each of us that perspective is unique.

So, to return to the original question: how do authors grab the attention of readers, convince them that the world they're about to enter is something they can accept, and then take them on a journey into whatever fantasy they have devised?

First; they accept that there are limits to their ability. There will be whole cultures that will stumble at the first mention of electricity, having never experienced this energy. There will be groups that will have difficulty accepting equality of the sexes, others that will baulk at the mention of bare skin, some for whom the idea that money is the only worthwhile pursuit, others who will insist that ghosts exist, and yet others who are incapable of accepting that a man may love a man, a woman a woman in a sexual way.

Because of these varied and sometimes opposing viewpoints, authors are often driven into writing for certain portions only of the population, levered into expressing their ideas only to a limited few.

The writer of horror, accepting the conventions of that genre, takes the reader into places that seem superficially ordinary, even mundane, and then introduces elements designed to raise anxiety, fear, distress, disgust, loathing and many other emotions that can be described as negative. Often, it's the contrast between the everyday and the unusual that feeds these emotions, the partially anticipated crisis arising from a foundation of apparent normality. Because the reader is familiar with the method, a slow beginning is often accepted on the promise of the horror to come.

The crime writer either pins attention with the nature of the crime in the opening scenes, relying on curiosity and fellow-feeling to make the reader need to discover what's happened and why, or sets a puzzle the reader wishes to solve, persuading them into believing they can reach the right answer before the detective and therefore pandering to their ego. Again, convention allows the author to use a form of creative shorthand, since the reader knows what to expect, certain aspects of the story can be held as being self-explanatory and therefore not worthy of description.

In romance, that wide and much-sub-divided genre, the emphasis is on the emotional bond between the loving protagonists. The reader expects to find a happy, or at least, a satisfying ending, where the conclusion to the contest is driven by the perception that justice will inevitably be visited on those who love and are loved.

The one area where the genre is less likely to determine the readership is what is loosely called 'literary fiction'. It's a field of creation in which language is often the primary concern, sometimes to the detriment of story and character. Because of this cerebral emphasis, the emotional content is frequently less easily assimilated by the reader, though, of course, there are exceptions. Indeed, when the best of the other genres meets the best of the literary, it generally results in something that either is or will become a classic. The melding of story, character, language and emotion creating something which is greater than its component parts.

And, finally, the writer for whom the challenge of portraying real emotion to a diverse readership is seen as too difficult can always turn to the thriller. Yes, I know, there are thrillers which are full of emotional content, of course there are. I've written one myself. But, as a genre, it's generally accepted by its readership that the story is what matters. It's this basic simplicity that brings readers to authors such as Dan Brown and that most inexplicably successful of writers, Jeffrey Archer.

So, to conclude; if you're hoping to capture the hearts of most of your readers, you're going to have to decide which genre to use to convey your ideas. If you're exceptionally brilliant, you can risk the literary route, accepting that your readership may be smaller. If, on the other hand, you want numbers and uncritical acclaim, you can write something mostly devoid of emotional content and label it a thriller. Up to you.

A silly question for you to ponder: Why is 'bra' singular, but 'panties' plural?

The 6th Target, by James Patterson, Reviewed

James Patterson's The 6th Target is, of course, a thriller. I'm not a particular lover of thrillers, though I wrote a romantic thriller as my own first novel. I read this book because it was amongst a large number on my shelves and I'd made a decision at the start of the year to read all that were unread. I think I picked this one up second hand at a charity shop.

Patterson's book took me some time to enter, largely because I couldn't initially find a character I cared about. But this book is one of a longish series, so perhaps the author assumed readers would already be familiar with his female homicide detective. It took me a lot of chapters to become involved but, once I was hooked, I read the book quite quickly.

With over a hundred chapters, some only 2 pages long, and the usual short sentence structure of the genre, it was a relatively quick and undemanding read. Though, at times, I lost track of who was who amongst the dozens of characters.

Three basic story threads weave through the book and at times I was puzzled about which we were looking at. But the stories are told in linear form and, once I got used to the style of presentation, I moved swiftly forward. I try not to write reviews with spoilers, so I'll leave the story itself unexplained. Enough to know that the book contains murders, of course, kidnapping and other crimes. Such acts should generally absorb the reader and make him care but I found I only started to really care towards the end of the book.

There is quite a lot of detail that adds little to the story and I guess a good fifth of the text could be removed without detriment. In fact, it would improve the pace.

There's plenty of drama here and some moral messaging amongst the violence that drives the story. There's a lot of procedural detective work, and some court scenes, that enlightened me about the US justice system.

I gradually came to know the main characters and slowly grew to find some empathy with the female detective, Lindsay Boxer, and her mission to capture the guilty parties for the various crimes. Naturally, she had a complication in her love life; what detective doesn't? But that aspect of her life was written in such bland terms that I had little response to it. Her professional concerns, however, were depicted with more emotional content and I was with her toward the end of the book as the denouement unwound and the natural conclusion was presented.

Would I read any more of this? Well, I have another Patterson book on the shelves, unread, and I won't be getting to it soon, though it was originally the first title on my 'to read' list. There just isn't enough emotional connection for me. The story is told and I prefer to be shown. But the guy sells a lot of books, so the failing is probably with me. I just didn't ever feel sufficiently involved; I felt like a neutral observer presented with enough superficial facts to make judgements on the crimes but lacking any real connection to the characters that might make me care about them.

If you're into crime and more interested in details than the deeper interaction of characters, you'll probably enjoy this a lot more than I did.

The Week and What I've Done With It

So, the end of another week. As usual, nothing like as much done as I'd hoped at the beginning. But, I've completed the first reading and marking up of the NaNoWriMo novel and begun the second phase, reaching chapter 3 and reducing the word count, so far, to 112,043. Along the way, I did a quick check for overused words, using Wordle.com and started to use this to reduce the repetitions in that chapter (the illustration shows the Wordle graphic after the changes). It then seemed to make sense to extend the search for those words to the whole MS. I have the file on the PC as a single file, since that way it's easier to make alterations that are global. Once I'd done about 4 of the repeated words, I suddenly realised this was a waste of time at this stage. I might as well wait to employ this exercise once I've made the other changes, as I'm otherwise replacing words that I might later completely remove.
I've also done a small update to the Writing Contest page - see the tab above. This is quite time consuming, but it keeps my own table up to date and hopefully allows my readers the opportunity to dip into those contests that might interest them.
I've been busy with the social networks, making changes and posts to Facebook, Goodreads, LinkedIn, Digg and tweeting on Twitter.
I'm currently reading a thriller and I've ploughed through a good number of its short chapters whilst Valerie has been watching the sport on TV.
Had a short spell organising a replacement windscreen for the car on Saturday. What's that to do with writing? Well, the chip that caused the old screen to crack happened as I was on my way to my writing group, so a tenuous link, I think.
So, still no contests entered and no short stories sent to magazines. But the coming week....

Reading Fiction Stimulates Brain Activity

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It's probably too early in the research to reach too many conclusions, but it looks as though reading fiction may do serious good to your brain. Have a read of this article - http://news.wustl.edu/news/Pages/13325.aspx from the Washington University website and see what you think.

Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 3.

Breaking Faith was first published as a paperback 3 years ago and, on 24 October 2010, I published it as an ebook through Smashwords and on Amazon Kindle. I'm now posting individual chapters here on the blog, 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 a link, if you missed it: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html .

Chapter 1 was posted on 13 January and the link can be found in the archive. (Subsequent chapters are posted each Friday and can be accessed via the archive).

Read, enjoy, tell your friends.

Just a bit of guidance, since you'll have read the previous chapter a week ago. The book is written from the viewpoints of the two main protagonists and each chapter is narrated in either Leigh or Faith's voice, in the first person. The viewpoints alternate, but sometimes one character will tell the tale over a couple of consecutive chapters.

Chapter 3

Faith’s unexpected conversational skills and sense of humour were not the only surprises she sprung, once she recovered from her faint. She picked up my dislike of Biblical quotations and allusions straight away and stopped using them, which was just as well, considering my views.

I found a well-organized, able and clever young woman, with a contradictory set of ideas and values and the most eclectic range of knowledge I’d ever come across. I was intrigued. I had nothing to lose by giving her a trial. But it was only fair to let her meet Merv before either of us made a decision.

She accompanied me from the office, through the small waiting area, where occasional reps and clients sat in ancient, leather, easy chairs and gazed at life-sized monochromes of women on the walls. Faith avoided the flesh but admired the smaller landscapes and sighed with audible relief when I led her into the studio.

The snow had stopped and early afternoon sun was sending shafts of light through the high windows to fall in dazzling rhomboids at the base of the far wall. Specks of dust, floating in the silent beams, leant the large space a cathedral quality.

She seemed entranced; though whether by the scale of the room, the atmosphere or the assorted equipment, I could only guess. I let her stand and stare at a sight I knew well. ‘Impressive, isn’t it? I spend so much time in here, I forget how strange it must appear.’

‘It’s wonderful; amazing.’ Her enthusiasm was genuine.

‘Used to be two storeys; hay barn above, animal quarters below. They built these longhouses to provide living space for the farmer’s family and animals all in one building. It was built in the sixteen seventies. Uncle Fred and I completed most of the work a year or so before he died. The old coach house at the end is now a garage on the ground floor with the darkroom above. That’s where I’m taking you.’

‘Is this where you work, Leigh?’

‘A lot of the time. The small items I do in here but the larger stuff’s done on site. I do mostly catalogue work in here; light industrial, tools and fastenings, things like that. Some portraiture and a bit of formal work with models. But I prefer to work in situ with the girls when I can.’

‘I noticed.’

The tone of her voice spoke volumes. I’d seen embarrassment and censure cloud her features as she looked at the work on display in the office and waiting room. Strangely, the print of the Velazquez Rokeby Venus, behind my desk, didn’t appear to unsettle her as much as my photographs. Perhaps because it wasn’t frontal, or because it was a painting, she found it less threatening.

‘If I decide to take you on, Faith, you’ll be spending some of your time around models, often topless, sometimes nude. How do you feel about that?’

She fixed me with a determined stare. ‘As long as I don’t have to take off my clothes, I’ll manage.’

I looked at her ragbag collection of hand-me-downs: brown tweed skirt to the ankles, long-sleeved, heavy cotton blouse in dingy white with appliquéd lace, hand-knitted brown cardigan with darned elbows and fraying cuffs. And, judging by the lines, she was wearing a heavy bra at least two sizes too big. I wondered what her knickers would be like: straight from the school gym? I hadn’t seen a young woman so badly dressed. Hardly the glamourpuss I was seeking. Maybe exposure to me and the girls would educate her tastes and show her the possibilities. She had potential as far as face and figure were concerned. A bit of weight, makeup, hair set free from its constricting band, limbs allowed to feel the air, and she could be a different and very attractive woman.

‘You can be as covered or uncovered as you like, though I do sometimes take off my clothes when I’m working with a model.’

‘All of them?’

I nodded.

‘Why?’ Her question was condemnatory.

‘Sex, a lot of the time. But a naked girl feels vulnerable in lots of ways. Not least, there’s the temperature. It’s easy, when you’re sweating under the lights in jeans and polo neck, to forget how cool it can be in your skin. I try to develop empathy with my models and being naked helps that.’

‘Don’t they mind?’

‘I wouldn’t do it if they did. In fact, some of them demand it. I never expect or ask anyone to do anything against their will, Faith. That’s one reason I’m making the situation clear to you now, so you know what you’re getting into. I’m not about to change my way of working just to avoid embarrassing you. Nudity is pleasure and delight for me. You find it disturbing or threatening and I sort of understand that; it’s depressingly common, but it’s your problem, not mine. If you find it unacceptable, we might as well close this interview right now.’

She crossed the space between us until she was looking up into my face with a challenging expression I found disconcerting. ‘You said yourself I’m not the idiot people think, Leighton Longshaw. But you don’t know that I’m also professional. I hate the idea of public nakedness. Your unclothed body might embarrass or offend me; I don’t know: I’ve never seen a naked man. Your behaviour is sinful and it’ll send you to Hell for eternity. But, if you employ me to work with naked women, or men, I’ll carry out my duties as required. My feelings and beliefs are my own and have nothing to do with you or the job.’

‘Are you always so truthful?’

‘I try to be. Life would be so much better if everybody was honest all the time, don’t you think?’

‘It’d be intolerable. But what matters is whether you can work in the conditions I’ve described.’

‘I thought I just said I can.’

I looked down into her face and saw truth shining in her eyes; her wide-set, large and very dark, brown eyes that stared at me so directly. Looking into those eyes, I saw potential for passion. I also saw her vulnerability and unique quality and I wanted to know her better; to know her well.

I needed to lighten the mood. ‘Do your eyes bother you?’

She frowned. ‘No. Why?’

‘They bother me.’ I laughed shortly, as much at my mistake in using an inappropriate line, as at her incomprehension. ‘Come on; let’s see what you make of Merv the Perv.’

‘Mervyn Tupper?’

‘Know him?’

‘He’s a neighbour, of sorts. I’d heard he worked for you. I hoped it wasn’t true.’

‘What do you know of him?’

‘Like most in the village, he’s called me names. But, really, only what I’ve heard about him from others.’

‘Reputation, then?’

‘And we both know how false that can be. Maybe he’ll surprise me.’

‘Prepare to be shocked.’ I led the way to the end of the studio and the foot of the vertical ladder. ‘Not pleasantly.’

I shinned up, aware she might worry I was looking up her skirt, an impossible feat, if I followed her. On the metal landing, I waited for her before opening the door into the suite of small rooms that served as printing, storage and finishing area.

I studied her as she watched the glazing drum turn slowly, its mirrored chromium cylinder reflecting the fluorescent tubes and the blue-white daylight streaming through the windows.

‘It’s very warm and there’s an odd smell. Would I work up here?’

‘Eventually; I’d want you to do most of the print finishing… drying, glazing, trimming and mounting. It’s all done in here. Merv’s kingdom is the darkroom.’ I indicated the blank white door with its bulbs mounted above. ‘When the red light’s on, you can’t go in. It means Merv’s loading film into tanks for processing. Stray light would fog the film and ruin it.’ I explained the light-trap and gave quick descriptions of the other equipment in the room until the red light went out and a green bulb shone. ‘That means Merv’s put the darkroom lights on; we can go in now.’

‘Why not just one bulb?’

I was pleased she was analysing; it showed promise. ‘The bulb might’ve blown. The green light’s insurance.’

I went through the light trap, closing the door behind me before I could open the one into the darkroom. Merv was working by white light, pouring developer from a glass measuring cylinder into a tall, stainless steel, processing tank on the wet bench. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

Faith entered, blinked with surprise at the brightness of the white room and turned quickly away from the wall facing her. Dozens of women, cut from the pages of porno magazines, displayed obscenely behind Merv. It was his realm and I chose not to impose my own standards on the way he decorated it, much as I disliked his preferences.

‘Faith Heacham; Mervyn Tupper.’

Faith, good as her promise to give him a chance, extended her hand. He leered unpleasantly, stripping her with his eyes as he briefly touched hers. I tapped his arm and caught his eye with a warning that stopped him moving too far into vulgarity.

‘Yeah.’

‘How do you do?’

‘Fu… great, given the chance. You?’

‘Fine, thank you.’

‘Talks, then? Never thought it could.’

Faith failed to recognize this as a reference to her and, unfamiliar with small talk, remained silent.

‘I’m considering offering Faith the position of Girl Friday, Merv. Do you think you could work with her?’

‘Any position it takes, I’ll go along with.’

‘And you, Faith, how do you feel about working with Merv?’

‘I don’t understand everything he says, but he seems less… coarse than I’d heard. I’m willing to try, as long as I don’t have to work under those… those pictures.’

‘Good. Good. Right, we’d best leave him to it; don’t want him ruining the films by forgetting to agitate the developer, do we?’

Merv immediately lifted the metal tank and upended it five times in quick succession before replacing it on the bench. I indicated that Faith should leave the room again. She was barely out of the door before I turned to Merv. ‘Well done, Merv. Think you can manage to remain as polite if she comes to work here?’

‘Once it gets its tight little bum under the desk I’ll ‘ave to tease it. It’s too thin. Keeps its curlies short and tidy though. You can see right through ‘em to its…’

‘Thank you for that, Merv. That order ready to go?’

‘Final rinse. ‘Ave ‘em on the dryer in a mo.’

‘Right. I’ll be up for them in half an hour.’

‘It’ll never let you, Leigh. Dunno why you’re botherin’.’

I found Faith blushing on the other side of the light trap. ‘He says some very strange things. Was he talking about me?’

‘All talk is Merv. Doesn’t mean anything by it, you know.’

‘He can’t possibly know what I look like.’

‘Guessing. Wishful thinking. Just guessing, that’s all. Shall we go back?’

I paced the office and Faith studied the local landscapes of the Dales I’d displayed on the walls in the hope that tourists might drop in to buy them.

‘Like them?’

‘They’re beautiful. I didn’t know you could do that with photography. It’s beautiful countryside. I recognise this one, but where were the others taken?’

I thought she was pulling my leg until I saw the genuine question on her face. They were all local, none more than a dozen miles from Longhouse.

Ma brought fresh coffee in before I had the opportunity to answer properly. Old Hodge poked his face around the door and saw Faith. He smiled at her and lifted his cap in greeting. She gave him a little nod of acknowledgement and smiled back. Everybody liked Old Hodge.

After Ma had placed the tray, she tested the white socks by the fire and found them dry at last. ‘You never took the lass traipsing into that cold studio with nowt on her feet, Leigh?’

I hadn’t noticed, and she’d said nothing. I found myself apologising for my thoughtlessness.

‘I had nothing to put on my feet and you wanted me to see the rest of the work place. I wanted to see it. I’m used to cold feet.’

‘See, Ma, she’s perfect. No complaints, no fuss. Just what I need.’

‘Taking her on, then?’

Faith’s eyes followed me as I moved to my desk and sat down in the leather chair, still trying to make up my mind.

The door from the hall opened and Abby stepped in, pink along one side from the hearthrug. I saw Faith close down her emerging look of surprised disapproval and turn it into polite indifference.

Abby glanced round the room. ‘Sorry. Thought you’d be done by now. Just wanted my wrap.’

It lay on the floor near my desk, where Ma had kicked it after Abby had discarded it for our earlier session. Her briefs lay at my feet, out of sight. Faith picked up the wrap, shook out the dust and creases and took it to the fire to warm for a few moments.

No one spoke.

She turned and held the gown, helping Abby into it. ‘Does the hair around your genitalia grow that short naturally or do you trim it?’ She sat down with no sign of a blush and gave me a look that spoke volumes.

Abby flicked her long tresses back over her shoulders and laughed a little uncertainly. ‘I …er wax and trim it, sweetie … But what an odd question to ask in mixed company.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know I shouldn’t…’ And this time she blushed.

‘It’s okay, sweetie. No one’s died.’ She perched on the edge of my desk and looked at Faith speculatively before twisting to face me. ‘Prettier than I expected but a bit on the thin side for you, I’d have thought. Taking her on?’

I’d almost made up my mind before Abby had come in. Faith’s demonstration of the professional attitude she’d described in the studio was enough to clinch it, in spite of that strangely personal question. ‘If she wants the job. What do you say, Faith?’

Her whole body relaxed and relief took the frown from her face. ‘Thank you. Thank you, very much, Leigh. I can start now, if you like.’

‘Now? I thought you had a job at the Dairy? You’ll have to give notice, surely?’

‘They’ll not want me to work notice after what I did this morning. No, I can start straight away, if that’s all right for you?’

She had no idea of the significance of her throw away admission. Abby and Ma exchanged curious glances.

‘What, exactly, did you do this morning, Faith?’ My tone alerted her to the seriousness of her comment. She was suddenly confused and unable to collect her thoughts. I wondered if I’d misjudged her or even been misled. ‘Out with it. Let’s have some of this famous honesty.’

Still she was reluctant to speak and I began to grow impatient. Ma stepped in to the rescue. ‘We’re not sitting in judgement, love. Just curious.’

She glanced at each of us in turn, fear and uncertainty distorting her pretty face. When she brought her eyes back to mine, I nodded and tried to take the suspicion from my features.

‘Tell us in your own words.’

She literally took a deep breath, as if about to plunge into cold water. ‘I told you Father got me the job at the Dairy?’

‘Working for one of his cronies… friends, yes.’

‘I’d worked there a few weeks when Mr Furnswurth asked me to move out of the general office and be his personal secretary. He’s a… a horrible man. The other women talked about his wandering hands and the way his eyes undress you. He looked at me like Mervyn did.’

‘Some men routinely undress women with their eyes. I find their attitude appalling. I know Furnswurth and he’s just the type. All outward respectability but seething with sexual repression.’

She considered that for a moment. ‘His office has a wall of shelves from floor to ceiling and steps so you can reach the top. Some of the women told me he sits at his desk and looks up their skirts when they get files from the top or bottom shelves. He couldn’t do that with me, of course. My skirt’s a decent length.’

She must have guessed my intention to try to change that because she stared at me sternly. ‘And always will be, in case you’re thinking any different.’

Her insight was vaguely unnerving after such brief acquaintance.

‘How you dress is up to you, Faith. Most men these days prefer the mini or micro, but the maxi’s fine, especially in a flowing fabric. Can’t say I’m a lover of your old lady’s tweeds but… up to you. You were telling us about Furnswurth…’

She let my criticism go but she’d have something to say should I raise the subject again. ‘He asked for one of the files on the top shelf. I was looking for it when he came and stood below me, pretending to help me look. Before I knew what was happening, he put his hand up my skirt.’

‘The man needs seeing to.’

She gave me the briefest of troubled smiles, for my support, I suppose. ‘I couldn’t believe it. He goes to Father’s chapel. I was too shocked to move at first but then he slid his hand even further up and actually touched my genitalia. I came to my senses then. I kicked his arm and bent down and slapped him across his nasty face as hard as I could. I almost fell off the steps.’ She stopped, awaiting judgement.

‘Dirty old sod. I’d have kicked him in the goolies.’ Abby slipped off the desk and put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

‘Do you think they’ll not have you back ‘cause you slapped his face, love? Is that it?’

She frowned at Ma. ‘They won’t have me back because I walked out, there and then, of course, Mrs Hodges.’

‘Did you hurt Furnswurth?’

‘I don’t know. I expect so. I know it’s very wicked of me, Leigh, but I hope so. Why? Does it matter?’

‘No. Just satisfying if you blacked his eye. I understand your comment now, Faith. I think you were right to do what you did. Showed courage and presence of mind. And I’d be happy for you to start work for me in the morning.’

Her relief was almost tangible. ‘I can start right now, if you like.’

‘Go home and have a short rest. There’s only a couple of hours of the working day left anyway. But there is just one thing.’

‘What time should I be here in the morning?’

‘Up to you; eight thirty to five or nine to five thirty in the week, up to lunch time on Saturdays. I don’t mind. But I want to know something, Faith. I’m curious to know why, having reacted so violently to Furnswurth’s sexual advances, you came straight here? You must’ve believed I was the most sexually dangerous man in the area.’

‘I was out of a job. I have to work. Father is… He wouldn’t understand me leaving like that. In fact, he won’t believe me.’ She shrugged as if resigned. ‘We really need the money because he can’t work, so I couldn’t go home without another job. Yours was the only one with the skills I have. I saw your postcard in Mrs Greenhough’s window. In the rack outside, a newspaper said that unemployment’s gone past a million and is still rising. Where else would I go?’

I grinned at Abby and Ma. ‘Honest, but she’ll gain no points for diplomacy.’

‘Bit of honesty from a pretty lass’ll do you no harm. Most of ‘em are so eager to have you in their knickers they’ll say owt to please you.’ Ma gave Abby a look full of meaning and received a protruding tongue in response. ‘You’re a real surprise to me, Faith, but you’re a welcome addition to Longhouse, and I for one hope you’ll not change your ways too much by working for Leigh.’

She managed a smile for Ma, and then turned to me with apprehension. ‘I must be completely honest, Leigh. I believe it’s as bad to miss out facts, as it is to make them up when it comes to truth. At the Dairy, they either think you’re a wicked libertine or else the most eligible and delectable bachelor in the district, whatever all that means. No one talks about you as if you’re a danger to women, though; just the opposite, in fact. They say you’re licentious and lewd; more words I don’t fully understand, except I know they’re bad. So I didn’t think I’d be in any actual danger unless I let you think I was willing to take off my clothes. Which, by the way, I most certainly am not! Also, I intend to help you see the error of your ways and lead you down the path of righteousness so that we can save your soul.’

I shook my head at her candour. Faith was showing all the signs of being a serious challenge and I relished the coming contest. But she hadn’t finished.

‘I also came here because Father’ll be livid when he learns I’m working for you. But he won’t stop me; we need the money. He calls you ‘Satan’s local henchman’ and believes no woman’s safe with you. I can tell him he’s mistaken about that, and for…’

‘You seem very sure.’

‘Oh, if you’d wanted to do something to me, you had the perfect opportunity when I was lying at your feet. As far as I can tell, you didn’t even try to look up my skirt. And you went up the ladder before me because you knew I’d feel more comfortable that way. In fact, you’ve behaved in a way that even Father would find hard to criticize. I believe you’re a gentleman, even if you do fornicate and take pleasure in the flesh, and I shall tell Father what I’ve learned when I get home’

‘You’ll ruin my reputation as the local despoiler of virgins.’

‘I don’t fully understand what that means, but I’m hoping you’ll ruin mine as the village idiot, Leigh.’

The studio door let Merv into the office. ‘Tight little twat gone…? Oh. Yeah, right. ‘Ere’s that order, Leigh. I’m done now. I’ll be off…’ He knew he’d overstepped the mark.

I wanted the girls, especially Faith, to know how strongly I objected to his attitude. ‘Merv. I’ll say this now, in front of Ma, Abby and Faith. I’ll give you a choice: either you start to treat the women in this household like human beings or you can leave for good. Understood?’

Merv looked at the floor.

‘Understood?’

He glanced up at me and nodded.

‘Understood?’

Faith jumped at my volume.

‘Yeah. Right, yeah, Leigh. Right.’

‘Good. Now, apologize to Faith and then bugger off home. And find another word to use when talking about women to me or anyone else in this household. You might start by using their names. Go.’

Merv turned to Faith, his face purple with a mix of anger and embarrassment. ‘Yeah. Right. Sorry, then.’ I knew we’d get no more from him and I gestured him to leave. He went without another word but he glared at Faith as he closed the door.

‘God, but he’s foul that one.’ Ma had never liked him.

‘Foul mouth, foul mind.’ Abby felt the same way.

‘It’s not just the words; it’s the attitude that lies behind them.’

‘If he upsets you, Leigh, why do you employ him?’

Her directness continued to surprise and amuse me. ‘There’s not much choice around here when it comes to skills and talent, Faith. If you turn out to be as good a Girl Friday as Merv is a printer, I’ll count myself extremely lucky.’

She looked around the room, skimming quickly past the photographs of women’s bodies, but taking in the rest of the details. ‘You’re expecting me to do most of the print finishing in that room next to the darkroom. I didn’t see a phone in there. I won’t be able to answer calls unless you have one put in.’

‘Hasn’t even started and already she’s costing me money. Hop it, wench, before I change my mind!’

She slipped her socks and shoes on quickly and was inside her shabby winter coat before I relented.

‘You’re right, of course. You can have your extension, but only when I’m satisfied you’re right for the job.’

A huge smile of relief brightened her clouded countenance.

Ma turned to Faith and nodded. ‘You’ll do.’

I foresaw those two forming an alliance against me in all sorts of subtle ways and I relished it. ‘Right. I’m off down to Garsington. Coming, Abby?’

She looked out of the window and then stretched, revealing tempting skin. ‘I’ll wait for you near the fire. You’ll need warming up when you come back.’

My look softened her eyes and parted her lips. I turned to Faith. ‘Can I take you home?’

‘Garsington? That’s a long way, isn’t it?’

I laughed. ‘Less than fifteen miles.’

‘Garsington.’ She spoke as if it were another world. ‘No, thank you, Leigh. I believe it’s in the wrong direction.’

‘Suit yourself. See you in the morning then.’

‘Eight thirty. And thank you for giving me a chance, Leigh. I’ll prove my worth.’

I wondered if she would or whether I’d saddled myself with problems simply from a desire to try to mould this strange little wench into a real woman. Time, no doubt, would tell.

###

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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 tells the 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.