Stuart Aken's Blog, page 255

Five Finger Exercise, a Play by Peter Shaffer, Reviewed

First performed in 1958, this is a play of its time. I’m not sure the modern generation would understand the subtleties of the upper middle class family and its seething social and class tensions. The addition of the German tutor as a fulcrum for change, so short a time after the war, would nowadays not have the power and relevance it must have had for an audience of the day. Of course, those of my own generation, and earlier, would appreciate these factors, but whether the play could be enjoyed by a younger audience is open to debate.
In the written text, there’s an ambiguity surrounding the relationship between the tutor and the son that could hint at homosexuality. But the resolution of this in performance would be dependent on the actors playing those parts and the direction they were given, and I’m still unable to decide whether their attempt at friendship is platonic or subconsciously sexual.
Employing a girl developing into early womanhood as the object of the young tutor’s teaching, enclosed, as they are, in a tight and intimate setting, would now be seen through different eyes. In fifties England, paedophilia was a taboo subject and one not considered for public exposure or discussion as it now is. Again, the playwright may have had ulterior motives and may have been adding a layer of complexity to the plot by suggesting a sexual longing on behalf of the daughter. Certainly she develops a crush on her tutor, and this, once perceived by the mother, is a cause for the older woman’s jealousy, since she also fancies herself in love with the young man. But the crush may have been intended as no more than the sort of puppy love displayed by young girls for objects of devotion, without the sexual connotation it would inevitably acquire for today’s audience.
The relationship between the businessman father and the social climbing mother with artistic pretentions is almost clichéd, though here it is rescued from that fate by making the woman of French origin. The tensions formed by her sensitivity and his pragmatism, especially as these pertain to the raising of the son, are classic in their portrayal. The fight about his education at university, studying English Literature, instead of taking the route of practical apprenticeship in his father’s furniture business, is so well drawn that it may well be based on the author’s own experience. I don’t know whether that’s the case, however. This sort of conflict, where the mother wants her son raised to appreciate the finer things in life and the father wants him to be moulded into his own image in order to carry on the business, is a fairly common element of fiction and drama or the era.
This is a play about class war, the then prevalent theme of the war between the sexes, prejudice regarding nationality, and the ever-present conflict between those who make money and those who merely spend it. Whether it would work for a contemporary audience I couldn’t say. Certainly, however, if it were to be performed locally, I’d attend. As a study of the times, this is an excellent example of drama, and, given the pedigree of the creator, is as   well written as you’d expect. I enjoyed it.

Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 41

Hendrick van Balen - The Judgement of Paris - WGA01228 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The reviews of Breaking Faith, under the 'My Books' tab, might convince you to read the book, if you’re not already doing so.
Still along for the journey? Enjoy the ride.
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. I’m an author; I want people to read my writing, simple as that.
Chapter 41
Monday 6th September
I drove Eric in relative silence to the solicitor’s office in Garsington. He was drawn and haggard, his hair unkempt, his clothes untidy and dirty.‘You’re not looking after yourself, Eric.’‘No point.’I understood his despair. He had lost his love to death; I had barely discovered mine only to have him snatched from me by experience.Mum met us in the car park and the three of us walked the narrow, steep hill to the grey stone building where Dad’s Last Will and Testament would be read.Mr Strunglove, which he pronounced “strun glove,” crouched behind his huge, document-strewn desk like a toad, blinking over the top of rimless bifocals. The wall behind him bore a cockeyed, framed print of Hendrick Van Balen’s “The Judgement of Paris.” It seemed an odd accessory for a solicitor’s office; its fleshy sensual heroes and pagan gods at odds with the dry dusty greyness of the room. I recognized it as twin to one in the library at Longhouse.‘Good morning, Miss Heacham, Mrs Ashington, Mr Pandleston, please be seated.’I sat in the central one of three identical hard wooden chairs ranged in an arc before his desk. Mum sat to my right, Eric to my left. Mum’s unstockinged thighs, exposed by her miniskirt, drew Mr Strunglove’s eyes throughout the interview. Clearly, his picture of half naked women would have served him better opposite his desk.‘Sad times, sad times. Can I get my secretary to provide any refreshment?’‘Just get on with it, Strunglove and let us get out of here.’His glance at Eric, almost the only one he made, was brief and poisonous. I wondered what caused their mutual dislike.‘Miss Heacham, Mrs Ashington?’I shook my head and Mum smiled as she improved her position and declined the offer.‘Very well. The matter before us, then. Mr David Lengdon was my client for much of his adult life and I pride myself that I grew to know the man as well as the client. He called me to the cottage, which he shared with Mr Pandleston, on the fifth day of August, the day preceding the occasion of your twenty first birthday, I understand, Miss Heacham?’I nodded and he tore his eyes from Mum’s legs to see my acknowledgement.‘Precisely. He told me then that he was to attend the celebration and I must confess I advised him against the visit due to his deteriorating health. No matter, Mr Lengdon was a man of strong opinions and he was wont to do as he would. The matter he wished to discuss with me was the drawing up of a new Will to replace that we had arranged when he first became a partner to Mr Pandleston.’ This time he made no effort to release his stare from Mum’s crossed legs.I noted Eric’s look of distaste. ‘Get to the nub, man.’For the briefest of moments, I feared Strunglove might accuse Eric of being impatient to learn of his bequest, but he thought better of it and continued his account as though it hadn’t been interrupted.‘The new Will is the one I shall now present to you. It names the three of you as sole beneficiaries and was witnessed by someone I believe you all know well.’ He paused for effect. ‘Mr Leighton Longshaw.’ Again a pause, during which I wondered whether Mum was as surprised as I was. Eric, of course, already knew. ‘All necessary legal functions to permit the release of funds have been completed and, in accordance with Mr Lengdon’s express wishes, those of you who are to receive monetary bequests will leave this office with cash in hand, so to speak.‘Mr Lengdon was very insistent that there should be as little inconvenience for his loved ones as possible and I have therefore been at great pains to obviate the need for any of you to have dealings with the financial and administrative houses concerned and to secure all necessary deeds and covenants in readiness for this day. It will not surprise you to learn that he also stipulated that his wishes be expedited within a previously agreed timeframe and I am proud to declare that I have arranged matters in such a way as to fulfil my functions with one day to spare.’‘In other words you did the job you were handsomely paid to do. None of us is impressed, Strunglove, not even Mrs Ashington. Get on with it.’Again, Mr Strunglove failed to look at Eric but he did flinch and remove his glasses to clean them on a cloth, which he took from the case on his desk. ‘That is the conclusion of my preamble. Mr Lengdon required that I merely read his Last Will and Testament to you, and I request that you hear it without interruption, if you please. Apart from my own advice, given for legal and technical reasons, the words are his own.’He picked up the sheaf of papers and held it in front of him, I suspect to hide Mum’s legs from his eyes so he might concentrate on the document. He coughed, to clear his throat.‘I, David Charles Longfellow Lengdon, being of sound mind and frail but competent body, do hereby declare my wishes for the disposal of my worldly goods upon the event of my death.‘First, I wish my body to be burnt rather than buried. This is at odds with the wishes of my long time friend, Eric, but he understands my reasons. My ashes may go on the compost heap for all it matters to me, but should any of you wish, please spread them on the fields around your chosen spot for remembrance. I leave that entirely to you.‘As to the wealth I have accrued during my lifetime, I wish it to be disposed of as follows to the three people named in full at the foot of this document.‘Eric, you gain possession of the half of the cottage that is in my name. Dispose of it as you wish when you grow tired of life and decide to join me in death, where I believe we will merge as spirits more closely than we did as men when living. Keep whatever items of furniture remain in the cottage; it is your home and I have no wish to reduce your comfort. Please, have some personal effect, should you desire it, as a memento of me.‘Matilda, you should have been my wife. As the mother of my child and the only woman I ever had as a lover, you brought joy and colour into my life and into my dying weeks and I thank you for that renewal of our early days of passion and wonder. Take whatever personal effects you wish for your memory of me. One half of the accrued settlements from my various insurance policies are to go to you, Matilda, as is the entire income from my pensions both occupational and private. This should provide you with adequate support and leave you free to lead your life as you wish. I loved you from our first meeting. I loved you all my life. I loved you, Matilda, at my death. Live free and well and remember me.’Mum cried silent tears, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.‘Into my life, almost at the end, came the most wonderful person I have ever known. Faith, you have been a source of enormous pride and joy to me. Your innocence and naivety, although the product of another man’s idiocy, have found a natural home in the goodness of your unselfish spirit. You are a strong, kind, loving, pure and wonderful woman and I have grown to love you more dearly than life itself. That you found me in spite of barriers I placed against discovery is testament to your determination and intelligence.‘You were brought up by an amoral creature without shame who gave you rules to live by for his own dark purposes. The puritan ethic he claimed to espouse, for public consumption, is strong on blame, sin, punishment and guilt. It holds no place for love, mercy, forgiveness and joy. Inevitably, you have been indoctrinated into his view of the world. But I ask you, Faith, to be aware always that he brought you up within that strict code in order that he might control and abuse you. There was no spiritual subtext, no measure of worship, no ethical concern. He wanted you to live in fear, to obey without question, to do his bidding and appear to the outside world as a fool not worthy of attention. That you developed as you did in spite of his cruelty, his propaganda, his bullying and his perverse desires, shows what a truly remarkable person you are. Some day you will make a marvellous partner for your chosen man. I hope and pray you choose well and are not defeated by the foibles of fate.‘I cannot be at hand now to guide you and would only advise you to take your time in choosing a mate. It is clear to me that one man in particular has caught your eye and, perhaps, even your heart. But I hope you sample more than one man, taking care to avoid disease and unwanted pregnancy. It is impossible to know the delights available by tasting one source only. I was fortunate in Matilda. Such good luck is rare and you, Faith, deserve the best possible opportunity of happiness. Do not squander your chances on the first man to turn your head. You do not, of course, have to savour every fruit in order to make an educated selection. A few well-chosen representatives should do. I will lecture you no more on that subject.‘To you, Faith, goes the residue of my estate, being the remaining half of the insurance provisions, all stocks and shares and all material possessions that remain at my death. This should amount to a sum that will render you independent of other means of support. You should not need to work to earn a living, if you invest wisely, and you should be able to live comfortably for the rest of your life, inflation and politics permitting. I must pass on a further warning, however. Be wary of suitors. Once it is known that such a lovely and accomplished young woman is also relatively wealthy, you will become the target of treasure hunters who will try to beguile you with promises and charm you with intentions that may not be as honourable as they pretend. Beware those with neither proven talent nor independent means of support, Faith; they may persuade you that they love you but take care it is not your wealth that is their real objective.‘You will note that no conditions or restrictions are attached to these bequests, in spite of Mr Strunglove’s attempts to persuade me otherwise. I lived my life as I saw fit and rarely took advice. That I made appalling mistakes is evident from the recently revealed history of events. Much as I would wish to prevent others making the same or similar mistakes, attaching conditions to these bequests would not prevent errors of judgement or alter actions or behaviour. In any case, such interference with free will is abhorrent to me and I feel I am the last person qualified to impose restrictions on others.‘Finally, I ask that your grief be short and that you recall me, if at all, in the moments of happiness we shared.‘Matilda, I bid you dwell not on the past few desperate weeks but on that final day of our young love when, reckless and abandoned, we feasted on each other’s unclad forms on that deserted frozen hill and felt only the heat of our love. Remember how we loved that day and, as far as can be ascertained, made with our love the daughter I now hold so dear.‘Eric, look on our days under the summer sun, stripped to the waist and sweating side by side to build a wall to split the hillside into two distinct pastures and thus prevent a war between neighbouring farmers.‘And, Faith, recall not the day I died but the day we found each other and I knew you to be the fruit of my love with Matilda. On that day, you brought more joy into the life of one dying man than any other single event before or since.‘Know, then, that I love you all and wish you joy and pleasure in your futures. Live fully and believe you are the best a man could know. Farewell, until our spirits merge into the force that lives beyond the grave.’Tears trickled down the cheeks of Eric and Mum. Even Strunglove seemed moved enough to wipe moisture from behind his spectacles. But, although I felt full of strong emotions, I could not release my feelings there and then in tears.The solicitor gave us a short time to absorb Dad’s words and recover from them. ‘Mr Pandleston, your Deeds. I need only one signature, here, to conclude your part of the business.’Eric scanned the title deed and signed his name.‘I will post the document on once I have informed the Land Registry. Is that in order?’Eric nodded curtly.‘Mrs Ashington, I have here a cheque to cover the insurance bequest together with a receipt requiring your signature, and covenants you must sign to accept the benefits of the pensions, which will, of course, be paid directly to you in monthly amounts.’Mum read the cheque and I heard her gasp. She examined it again and frowned, looking at Strunglove for confirmation.‘It is correct, I assure you. Mr Lengdon may have made mistakes in his personal life as he himself admitted, but he was shrewd and well informed regarding investment. The sum represents the total of the insurances as detailed here, divided by two as required by the Will.’Mum signed the documents and remained in a daze that combined her grief and shock with surprise at her material good fortune.‘Miss Heacham, your father made no suggestion to you in his Will, but I think you should know that he conjectured that you might at some stage consider changing your surname to match your parentage. I will say no more on that, other than to offer you my services, free of charge, should you wish to make such a change.’It was a thought I’d played with and, since I had no wish to bear Heacham’s name for the rest of my life, I looked at Mum for her opinion. She nodded.‘Please do whatever’s needed to change my name to that of my father, Mr Strunglove. I’d appreciate that.’He again tore his gaze away from Mum’s legs to look at me and nodded. ‘From you, Miss Heacham, soon to be Lengdon, I need four signatures, one of which is a receipt for this cheque. Should you require advice on investment, I am happy to act for you in that capacity.’I looked at the figure and registered six figures preceding the pence but the actual amount didn’t sink in. ‘Did you advise my father on such matters, Mr Strunglove?’‘I did not, Miss Heacham. Your father was a man who rarely took advice on any matter. However, he seemed to have a knack for selecting the most beneficial areas regarding investment. Perhaps you have inherited it.’I signed the documents and picked up the cheque. Our business, it seemed, was concluded. I wanted to be out of that office. I stood at once and held out my hand to the solicitor. He rose and shook my hand, then, perfunctorily, Eric’s. Mum’s hand he seemed reluctant to release and she was apparently content at his extended contact.We left together. Once beyond the office door but in a voice loud enough for Strunglove to hear, Eric touched Mum’s shoulder. ‘I reckon David’s advice about fortune hunters mightn’t apply just to Faith, Matilda, eh?’Mum stopped in her tracks and looked at Eric speculatively for a second before she turned slightly to face the door of the office we had just left. ‘And I thought he was only interested in my body! Thanks for your timely observation, Eric; I’ll bear it in mind.’We all wanted a spell of relaxation after what had been a strangely demanding ordeal but my first port of call was the local branch of my bank. That cheque was heavy in my bag and I wanted it secure.It was only as Mum and I completed our paying-in slips that I realized how much I’d inherited. As Dad had said, I need never work again. Strangely, that thought increased the pressure and tension that had been building in me for the weeks following his death.I’d thought independence would bring freedom and relief but it seemed to amplify my sense of responsibility to those around me. Because I was now in a position where I really could do as I wished, I felt obliged to look more closely at the effects my actions might have on others. How, I wondered, would Leigh react to the news of my sudden wealth?
###
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Does it Matter if the Words Are Not Right?

This might seem an odd question from a writer. I was prompted to ask by a fit of annoyance over poor language used by a journalist on television. She was reporting on a local news item and used the expression, ‘This problem is, of course, very unique to…’ and went on to ask her interviewee just ‘how unique’ he felt the issue was.
So what? Well, ‘unique’ is an absolute. There are no degrees of uniqueness. Something is either unique or not; it can’t be partially unique, very unique or, indeed, almost unique. We have other words to express such things. ‘Rare’, comes to mind, as do ‘uncommon’ and ‘scarce’. Because rarity is an elastic concept, we can use qualifiers with impunity. It’s fine to discuss degrees of scarcity, that degree dependent on the amount by which the object under discussion veers from the commonplace. 
If we begin to use absolutes in such a way, we diminish their real power in describing an event or quality. If I say that a woman conveys a ‘unique beauty’ I paint a picture of someone who is singular, incomparable. If, on the other hand, I describe her as a ‘rare beauty’, then I put her in a class along with others; the number contained in that class can be defined more or less by using qualifiers such as ‘very rare’, ‘unusually rare’, ‘moderately rare’, etc. So, in the ‘unique’ case, the reader is clear that the person described has no equal. In the ‘rare’ case, we know that there are others, though not a great number, who are comparable. It’s a fine distinction, but one worth retaining, I think.
In another example of poor journalism, one increasingly repeated these days, I heard a reporter talking about how ‘…there are less people involved in…’, when, of course, he should have said, ‘...there are fewer people involved in…’.  This is a slightly different matter, however. The use of less or fewer always provides the information that a smaller number is involved than the comparison. Whilst the use of the correct word is preferable, it doesn’t actually alter the basic idea being communicated. So, whilst I find the usage lazy and inaccurate, I can reluctantly accept its adoption because meaning isn’t changed when the error occurs.
This, then, is my question: If meaning is maintained, does it really matter if the wrong word is used to convey that meaning?
Are we concerned about correct usage simply for the sake of correct usage? Or is our concern, as writers, more to do with style, perhaps? Does wrong usage, whilst acceptable to many non-writers, merely illustrate a lack of care, education, or intelligence to those of us who write?  Language is primarily a means of communicating ideas. So, if those ideas are expressed without confusion in spite of wrong usage, does that incorrect usage really matter?
I pride myself on knowing correct usage, most of the time, but do my readers care, or even notice when such errors occur? As a writer, I feel duty bound to utilise the many fine shades of meaning possible within the English language. I feel that allowing such distinction to be eroded by ignorance, carelessness or expedience is a step along the road toward ultimate confusion and bedlam, as fine discriminations disappear under a carpet of banality. The poet in me abhors such laziness. But, apart from other poets and writers, do my readers care? That’s what I ask you. And I welcome your responses.
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The Viscount and the Witch, by Michael J. Sullivan, Reviewed

This short story, from the author’s fantasy series, Riyria Revelations, came to me via my Kindle as a free read. It features a couple of characters from the series but can be read as a separate tale, which is just as well, since I haven’t read any of the previous work by this author.
There’s almost no backstory detailing the fantasy world in which the story takes place and the details of the characters are cleverly woven into the fabric of the tale itself. I have a built in prejudice against stories in which thieves are the stars, feeling that glorification of thievery is not a good idea. But I accept that the thieves of most fantasy works are in that situation as a consequence of the society in which they dwell rather than as a matter of real choice, and I’m aware that there’s quite a body of work by a number of authors revolving around guilds of thieves.
This piece is well written and the characters are well drawn. I particularly like the Viscount, with his resigned air. The author has managed to convey the idea of a different world and time without actually describing the setting in great detail. It’s more a feeling derived from the interaction of the characters and the circumstances in which they find themselves. I enjoyed Royce, with his irritation, patience and worldliness that allows him to seem other than he is. Hadrian’s name was a little distracting for me, because of the association with the historical character, but the character was real enough and, once I understood we were not being told about the Roman Emperor, I was able to get on with him a lot better.
There’s humour in the story, which is told with a touch of ‘tongue in cheek’ that raises it above the level of many fantasy works. The author’s familiarity with, and clear love of, his characters comes across in the telling of the story and lends it some authenticity.
I enjoyed this brief insight into the world of Riyria and may well be tempted to investigate further (once I’ve read the 150 other titles lying unread on my shelves!). If you like fantasy or have an urge to try it, you could do worse than give this short piece a go. 
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A Pleasure to Burn, by David Bain, Reviewed.

I read this short on my Kindle. It has references to Ray Bradbury, which I didn’t fully get until I discovered Ray wrote a story with the same title (one I haven’t read). I felt the style was closer to some of the US detective stories I read in Ellory Queen, when I was younger, than to the sublime style of Bradbury.
The tale is told from two points of view; the ‘hero’, a celebrity returning to his home town, scene of a family tragedy, and the young female reporter following him and intent on getting a unique story. The writing is tight and moves the action along well. I felt the ending was predictable but that didn’t spoil my enjoyment of the story.
This was one of those books that held my attention whilst I was reading but left me with no after-impression. So, an entertainment rather than a deep piece of work. Nevertheless, I enjoyed this work of horror/ghost story and would recommend it as a way to spend a short spell of time alone in an old house, especially if you’re of a suggestible nature.
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The Millionaire’s Nanny, by Carol Grace, Reviewed.

I read this, as a free read, on my Kindle. It’s clearly a romance written with a female readership in mind, but that rarely stops me from reading. What matters is a combination of the quality of the writing and my interest in the characters. The story will generally interest me regardless of subject matter, since I’m interested in the interaction of characters and how they deal with the objects strewn in their paths by the author.This is a love story involving the relationship between the millionaire of the title, who, by the way, doesn’t act like a normal wealthy man, and the nanny sent to look after his 6 year old son. The separation that caused the need for the nanny, the fact that said nanny has been sent in error to the wrong place, the man’s initial response to an attractive woman when he was expecting an older matron and is currently trying to get over the mess of separation, and the nanny’s recent loss of her own babies and the breakdown of her previous relationship all mingle to form the body of the story.Misunderstandings roll in thick and fast, sometimes just a tad unbelievable, but acceptable due to the quality of the character building. There are some awkward changes of viewpoint, which can throw the reader when inserted more or less randomly. There is a suggestion, no more than that, of authorial morality, which explains some of the attitudes of the protagonists to their relationship but which I felt might sit a little uneasily with modern readers.This is a gentle love story with no erotic content but an underlying sexual tension that works well. You could happily let your spinster aunt read this; there’s nothing to offend here. But, having said that, it isn’t anodyne; there’s courage and conviction, along with plenty of incident in a plot that gently wanders rather than twists and turns. It’s by no means a ‘page-turner’, but it jogs along comfortably at a pace that suits the material and style of the story.I have to admit that I enjoyed the book and happily recommend it to those who enjoy their romance without eroticism or violence. It’s a charming ‘feel-good’ novel.
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Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 40

The reviews of Breaking Faith, under the 'My Books' tab, might explain why you should read the book, if you’re not already doing so.
Still along for the journey? Enjoy the ride.
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. I’m an author; I want people to read my writing, simple as that.
Chapter 40
Sunday 5th September
Naturally, I was the donkey; leaving the girls unencumbered. Faith had relented and agreed to my camera, as she was carrying her own, on condition I didn’t point it in her direction without permission. And her leave was worth seeking.She’d chosen white cotton hipster shorts that fitted close round the tops of her lovely thighs, with a plain white sleeveless tee shirt over her skin. Her small feet were clad in white ankle socks and the walking shoes Ma had bought for her birthday. She was very attractive.Netta wore a bright yellow, cropped blouse, tied under her wonderful breasts, and a flared purple mini that was so short she couldn’t sit and remain decent. She had tan sandals on bare feet, sunglasses in her hair and she looked stunning.I was in short, navy shorts and a sleeveless tee shirt tie-dyed in blue, with training shoes on my feet. The small backpack was full and I carried my camera and a couple of spare lenses.We crossed the field behind the house down to the river and the stepping-stones. I sent Faith ahead and noted the stiffness in her movements, as if her entire body was taut with unexpressed emotion. This tension had inspired me to suggest the picnic. The knife attack had simply jerked me into action and brought Netta onto my side. I was deeply concerned about Faith’s state of mind and hoped the day might somehow start her healing process.‘Wake up, Leigh. I’m waiting.’I snapped back to the present and took some shots of Netta on the stepping-stones then asked her to turn. She spun on the spot and lost her balance. One leg plunged into the cool water and she screamed. Faith, on the far bank, laughed mirthlessly. I joined in once it was clear she was unhurt.Knowing Netta could be touchy if she was made to look foolish, I quickly stepped along the uneven stones and helped her back onto the rock. Once on dry ground, I made a point of drying her leg with a towel from the backpack, stroking her skin from toes to the top of her thigh until her pout subsided.‘No harm done.’‘I’ve got a soggy foot.’‘Makes a change from a soggy fanny.’Netta and I both stared at Faith in amazement. She laughed derisively at our open mouths and we felt obliged to join her. There was potential for bad feeling in that little incident but we managed not to spoil the start to the day.I led them from the riverbank to the point where we were to leave the public footpath, which followed the river for a mile or so upstream. An ancient five bar gate, secured with yards of faded orange baling twine, marked our point of departure.‘We have to cross to the far corner of the field.’‘It says “Beware of the bull”.’‘Don’t worry, Ferguson’s doing his duty elsewhere. I checked with Les yesterday. We’re perfectly safe.’They weren’t convinced, so I climbed the rickety gate first and jumped into the field. Faith came next and Netta followed reluctantly, her leap from the top of the gate lifting her skirt delightfully. Faith looked on with a resigned expression but said nothing. Netta scanned the horizon the whole time we were in the field but there was never a sign of the bull. I failed to let on that there never was; it was the farmer’s way of keeping people off his land.At the wall, I help Netta over the well-built barrier. Faith crossed it like a mountain goat. I had climbed it often and knew it would be unhurt by our passage. On the far side, open moorland with grass and heather fighting patches of bracken replaced the rough pasture of the field. Here there were no walls to guide or impede us and few landmarks to point the way. But I was familiar with the route, having used it many times to take girls into a landscape where they could pose confident they would be unseen by eyes other than mine.Faith stopped now and then to take close-ups of flowers, the landscape on this part of the route being mostly uninspiring. But, when we crested the hill and began our descent into the hidden valley where we would spend the day, she turned her camera on the wider view.A great rocky scar frowned across the divide, topped by a wide limestone pavement. The whole valley slope under the scar was massed with trees and below, as we left the gentle shoulder of the slope and found the steeper drop, lay the flat bottom of the valley where the small beck snaked, glittering silver and gold in the sunlight. Ash and alder dotted the banks of the stream and, to our left, the floor narrowed into a lightly wooded area with rocky outcrops and the glistening thrill of falling water.The meadows were unspoilt and full of colour even this late in the season, having been spared the destructive cropping of the sheep. No fence or wall in sight. It was landscape as it had been for centuries, unspoiled by the activity of modern man. Even the drought had left it unscathed, its colours undiminished by the heat of the sun.Faith stopped at her first sight of it and breathed in the atmosphere of history and permanence and I knew I’d chosen well. She took her careful landscapes until Netta grew impatient and moved into her field of view.‘If you must intrude into a natural landscape, at least be natural yourself.’It wasn’t a thought I’d expected from Faith, though it did match my own. Netta needed no further encouragement to be entirely natural, leaving me to collect her things to add to my load. I watched as Faith continued to picture the landscape, with Netta adding scale and vitality to the rocks and grass and trees.We reached my chosen spot and Netta was in the pool at the base of the small fall before I’d downed the backpack. Faith came to my aid, laying out towels to sit on whilst I found a small shaded pool to cool the white wine and opened the red to breathe. The overhead sun was as hot as it had been all summer and I glanced at Faith for an indication of her feelings.‘Go on, then. That’s why we came, isn’t it?’I stripped and dived into the water.The pool under the fall was full of cold clear water that in winter would be brown and foaming with peat. Netta and I swam to wash off the sweat of the walk before joining Faith on the flat rocks under the sheer limestone scar. She watched us emerge from the water and her eyes surveyed me rather than her sister.‘There’s no one here but us, you know.’‘She’ll not take off her pants in front of you, Leigh. Doubt you’ll even get a glimpse of her top.’Netta’s use of euphemism surprised me as much as Faith’s open frankness about bodily parts and functions shocked me with its directness.‘If you mean I won’t expose my breasts and nipples, my pubic mound and vagina to Leigh’s gaze, say so. Or are you frightened of the words that describe what you display so eagerly?’Netta tensed, all too ready to rise to the bait of Faith’s challenge. My hand, stroking the top of her thigh with promise, was enough to signal her to silence.We ate; chicken legs roasted in Ma’s special savoury coating, thin cut cucumber sandwiches, fresh salad, cheese and fresh buttered crusty bread. The white wine was cool, the red mellow and the glasses had stood the journey undamaged. We slowly relaxed and soaked up silence and sunshine as we fed and drank.Replete, Faith rolled the bottom of her tee shirt up to expose her belly and lay on her back with the pack under her head for a pillow. She closed her eyes and, after a while, her breathing suggested she was at ease even if not sleeping.‘Faith?’Netta was ready to be convinced she was asleep and quickly took me by the hand to the rocks at the far side of the pool. She persuaded me onto my back. The rock was hard against my skin but I soon forgot that, as well as the fact that we were on full view for Faith should she open her eyes. Our promise of the previous day was forgotten in mutual passion.When we made our way back to the pool, I realized Faith was no longer lying asleep. At first, I feared she’d gone and I felt irritation rise at our selfish desertion on this day that was supposed to be for her. But her clothes lay folded on the rocks and suddenly she rose for air from the depths of the pool. I was in the water with her before Netta could react.We swam idly at first, circling without touching. Netta quickly joined us and I spotted a sulk forming so suggested we play tag. We were tentative at first but freedom and wine under the sun soon combined to bring enthusiasm and childlike enjoyment to the game. We left and entered the water frequently to chase or escape.I was chasing Faith and she barely escaped my touch as she dashed out of the water onto the rocks. I followed and caught her as she came up against the sheer cliff at the back of our sunbathing area. I stroked her back and she turned to face me. Before I could move, she grabbed my shoulders and pulled me close so that our bodies touched. I felt myself respond rapidly and unambiguously to the feel of her skin against mine and, though the physical response was unusual only in its rapidity, there was that something other, that magic in our contact that I’d felt before with Faith but with no other woman. I didn’t want to let her go.We remained together for a moment without time and I grew conscious of the shape of her beneath my hands, the moulding of her soft palms to my eager flesh. I wanted her in a sense I’d never known with any other woman. And it was clear she felt the same about me.‘What are you two up to? I’m getting cold waiting here.’Whether it was me or Faith who let that strident interruption come between us, I felt our parting as a physical jolt. Despite the innocence of our contact, something that transcended mere sex had passed between us and I wanted more of it.The magic was shattered in the instant of parting. Faith walked to her towel and lay down to dry under the sun, her body unashamedly exposed to me, legs uncrossed and breasts unconcealed by folded arms. She lay open and displayed for me alone. No clearer signal could she make of her intention and desire.Netta scrambled from the pool and grabbed me possessively. If she detected any lack of response in my mechanical clasp, or the ebbing signs of my immediate response to Faith’s embrace, she didn’t refer to them. She persuaded me onto my towel and lay beside me on hers, between me and Faith.I wanted to move but Netta would make a fuss and nothing must spoil the day. Instead, I rolled onto my front and raised my head on my hands to look across Netta’s body at Faith so I could relive, in my mind, that brief magical contact.For the walk back in the early evening, Faith replaced her shorts and tee shirt but Netta remained in her skin. It amused me that I spent more time watching Faith than I did Netta as they walked ahead of me up the steep slope out of the valley. The pack was lighter with the wine and food inside us and I felt uplifted and filled with a strange optimism as I returned with them to Longhouse.At the stepping-stones, Faith made a final attempt to persuade Netta to dress as we approached the public footpath but shrugged her indifference when ignored. I tried to persuade her in turn.‘I like being naked. Who’s to complain at this time of the day? And who’d listen to them anyway?’I followed the girls across and took a couple of shots, with Faith’s permission. Netta played the fool and fell headlong into the river this time. Faith laughed at her as she struggled to find a foothold in the strong current on the weed-covered stones. I eventually helped her out but she slipped as she struggled to gain secure ground and twisted her ankle quite badly. Without a word, Faith took the backpack from me so I could assist Netta the rest of the way home.A young walker, alone and clearly very weary, passed us on the path. He stared open mouthed at Netta, and stood rooted to the ground as she passed within inches of him. I glanced back over my shoulder and he was staring still. Netta, revelling in the attention, pretended to ignore him.At the stile, I had to help her, almost carrying her across the wall into the garden. I set her on the grass and she cockled over again on the injured ankle and fell to the ground. As I bent to help her up, she pulled me down on top of her. Even as I was protesting and watching Faith’s disapproving back, she was removing my shorts.It was only as we returned to the house much later that I realized how much of an act it had been. She needed no help to walk over the grass.‘I thought you’d turned your ankle?’‘No. Turned your head, that’s all. Back to look at me, where it belongs.’In the kitchen, Ma was preparing to leave, our evening meal ready for us. ‘Nice little exhibition. Never knew it was a spectator sport. Mind, there’s one as thinks it is and he’s been spying on you all day I’d say.’ She indicated the front of the house. I stepped into my shorts and dashed to the front in time to see Merv’s back disappearing down the lane.‘He’s been watching us all day?’‘Reckon so. He was behind you on the footpath after you set off and again as you came back.’‘Pervy bastard. What’s he up to?’‘Likes to see me naked, didn’t you know?’‘Any man would like to see you naked, Netta, but few of them would follow you with a pair of binoculars. I’m going to have words with that pervert.’‘Don’t fret on my behalf, Leigh. Any man can look at me as long and as often as he likes. I enjoy being looked at. I’m worth looking at, aren’t I?’I nodded, less enthusiastically than was required. ‘Where’s Faith?’‘Who cares?’Ma looked at me as if I was an idiot but said nothing.‘Bugger!’I was suddenly sure Netta’s demonstration at the foot of my private stile had undone all the good the day had performed on Faith’s spirits. Netta was becoming a serious cause for concern and I was having doubts about how much longer I should put up with her behaviour in exchange for her superb sexual favours and her undoubted prowess before my lens.The burst of magic I’d felt with Faith, whilst not exactly fading, had little power over my obsessive need for Netta. I wanted them both and foolishly imagined I could live my fantasies if I waited long enough.


###
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Related articles Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 39 Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 38 Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 37 Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 36

Sorry, No Post Today

Sorry for the lack of a writing matters post today, folks. My computer decided to sulk. It demanded to be returned to factory settings, so I've had to re-load all my ancillary software and then restore all my backed-up files (76,376 or 43.2 GB) And then, of course, I had to catch up on the activity I'd missed during the past three days. The free chapter will appear as usual tomorrow, and I'm intending to write a post for Sunday.
So, see you all for those.[image error]

Whose Water Is It, Anyway?

Water cycle http://ga.water.usgs.gov/edu/watercyc... Other language versions: Català Czech español Finnish Greek Japanese Norwegian (bokmål) Portugese Romanian עברית Diné bizaad (Navajo) and no text and guess water vapor (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
As far as I know, no individual or corporation has laid claim to the air we breathe or the light that stems from sun, moon and stars (though the possibility clearly exists in this materially-obsessed world of ours). We accept that these are naturally occurring phenomena that have enabled life on the planet we inhabit. Logic suggests that water be included in that short list. It’s a natural consequence of a long-established cycle that was not initiated by human activity and it’s a substance that’s the very essence of life. Yet there are those who lay claim to the water that exists in a given region. My view is that water, like air and sunlight, should not be allowed to ‘belong’ to anyone.
I hear the cries of those who either run or own shares in water companies, berating me for robbing them of their profits, and telling me that treated water doesn’t get that way for free. I know. I wouldn’t dream of arguing that it does. That isn’t what I’m suggesting. I’m saying that they do not and cannot make water.
We may clean and modify the raw material. But that raw material is a natural resource and is therefore not something over which someone can rightly claim ownership. The processing, storage and delivery are those elements for which we should expect to pay, allowing the companies concerned to add their reasonable profit for future investment and to pay their workers a living wage. But, to allow anyone to claim rain, which is what all drinking water is at source, as an owned resource is patently mad, bad and stupid. So, as a society, and I am talking worldwide here, we should accept that water, which exists without our intervention, isn’t a commodity to be traded but a resource to be distributed without reference to either profit or boundaries.
Treatment, modification, extraction, storage and delivery are the only elements that should be subject to cost. The raw material should be considered a zero cost component of such a business.
Drinking Water (Photo credit: SEDACMaps)Logic suggests that I should go further in my argument. Is rainfall a matter of human control? Only inasmuch as, occasionally, societies have seeded clouds in order to encourage precipitation at a specific time in a specific place, with variable success. We have no control over where and when those clouds are formed. That’s a natural process. It’s true that our activities are increasingly distorting it, but that’s an accidental by-product of our irresponsible behaviour.
So, it follows that not only is water not the property of any individual or company; it isn’t the property of any country or state either. The water cycle knows no boundaries. The presence or absence of water in any given location is due to a combination of natural influences: geology, geography and climate. Of course, there are man-made aquifers, reservoirs and other capture and storage facilities where man has usurped the natural product to direct it for his own purposes. But such activity doesn’t constitute ownership of the actual resource, it merely permits the transient capture of a quantity of it for local consumption and is therefore part of what I’ve referred to as storage.
Over the history of our species, we have instinctively tended to settle near sources of drinking, or fresh, water. The exceptions are nomadic peoples who have taken their chances and followed certain natural cycles in order to obtain their food and water. These are stateless peoples who, for historical reasons often lost in the annals of unrecorded history, have not been able, or allowed, to settle in any given location. But, for the majority of us, a settled existence has been the norm for millennia. And settlements have almost always developed near sources of drinking water simply because its absence would prevent expansion.
English: Mwamanongu Village water source, Tanzania. "In Meatu district, Shinyanga region, Tanzania, water most often comes from open holes dug in the sand of dry riverbeds, and it is invariably contaminated." . Français : Point d'eau du village de Mwamanongu, en Tanzanie. "Dans le district de Meatu (région de Shinyanga, Tanzanie), L'eau provient le plus souvent de trous creusés dans le sable de lits de rivières asséchées. Elle est systématiquement contaminée." (Photo credit: Wikipedia)So, whether that water is obtained from boreholes, lakes, wells or rivers, it remains a natural resource. Yes, there have been more recent settlements that have provided their own man-made storage facilities and collected or redirected the water needed to fill them. But the water, the result of rainfall, remains a natural resource, along with sunlight and air. (I’m aware that my argument can be developed to include other natural resources, by the way, but I intend to discuss that in a later piece).
It follows that national borders are irrelevant to the incidence of water. Presence or absence is an accident of geography for any state, since this aspect of the cycle is unfixed. A city can grow up on the banks of a river which then changes course. A settlement can develop around a lake which subsequently drains due to tectonic or mineralogical activity. The boreholes leading to an underground aquifer can end up as mere holes in the ground when natural changes shift the level of that aquifer.
Yes, we, as a species, can and do make changes aimed at preventing such dangers to our second most essential resource. But the fact remains that the substance itself stands outside ownership or borders. Something that falls from the sky in the way that precipitation develops water sources can hardly be claimed as the property of any person, corporation or state. We are custodians only. Modifiers; nothing more.
In the near future, water, or its lack, will become an increasing source of dispute between nations. There are already signs of conflict arising from the reduction of available water in certain geographical areas. The famines in parts of Africa are almost entirely driven by changes in the water cycle in those regions; increased population has merely exacerbated the problem. My guess is that the problems in Israel are fundamentally caused by the perception that the most important source of fresh water is growing insufficient to sustain more than a given population. There are signs that drought will soon invade the fertile plains of the Punjab in India, making it impossible for them to provide the food on which that huge continent depends. The western states of the USA are finding more and more difficulty in obtaining water for agriculture, industry and human consumption. Not that this has stopped certain organisations from squandering the precious resource in displays of irresponsible excess.
If, as a world society, we fail to recognise the basic fact that water is a natural resource belonging to all and to none, regardless of source, we will have conflict in the near future. Almost certainly, the next major wars will be over the ownership of fresh water: man killing man through an inability to accept a basic truth. Water, like air and sunlight, is a natural consequence of the location and geography of the planet and belongs to no one and to everyone. It is time we dealt with it in that way.
Related articles San Antonio leaders eying water creation as future source Drought Relief with Water Independence New clues about ancient water cycles shed light on US deserts How Much Water is your Home Wasting? [Infographic] [image error]

Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 39

Why read Breaking Faith?  Try the reviews under the 'My Books' tab, they might explain.
Still along for the journey? Enjoy the ride.
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. I’m an author; I want people to read my writing, simple as that.
Chapter 39
Saturday 21st August
Saturday brought blazing sunshine yet again and I found myself at odds with everything; sunshine wasn’t what I needed. If the sky would only weep, perhaps I might find my own tears and begin to wash away my grief.Netta had done with what sympathy she felt for my loss after a couple of days. She sauntered through the kitchen on her way to the back garden where she would lie exposed for as long as the sunshine kept her warm. Already she was a deep honey colour with no sign of the tell tale white patches I displayed when showering.I couldn’t fault her, but nor could I accept her ready resumption of normality. My life had altered irrevocably and a man who had become a part of my life had gone without hope of return. I felt his loss and mine.‘You need some fresh air, lass. Get yourself outside with your book and let the sunshine cure you. You’ll feel better for it.’I didn’t want to feel better but I had neither energy nor inclination to argue with Ma. I picked up my unread book and went to sit in the bower under climbing roses redolent of life and beginnings.Netta was clearly in my sight, lying on her front with legs and arms spread for maximum exposure.I sat on the carved wooden bench and opened my book. The words of Howard Spring I had recently come to enjoy couldn’t reach me now; My Son, My Son lay in my lap, open but unread. My mind endlessly cycled questions I had asked since Dad’s death.What, until a few months previously, had been a steadfast and unquestioning faith in a personal God and everlasting life after death, had now become a total lack of belief in either. And that vacuum, which had been developing since my separation from Heacham and his indoctrination, had been encouraged by Dad’s own passionate atheism and my recent superficial acceptance of it for his sake. But, if Dad was right, what had become of him? I couldn’t countenance his oblivion. He must be somewhere. That his body had vanished in fire and smoke, I could accept, but his spirit, his essence must remain somewhere. I could feel him still with me, though part of me quarrelled that that was no more than my wish that it be so.I was left without support. Leigh was obsessed with his willing nymph and had little time for me in spite of his superficial questions about my feelings. To my surprise, Mum was so stricken by grief herself that she was as much in need of my support as I was of hers. But, for reasons neither of us understood, we seemed incapable of coming together for mutual comfort, finding each other unbearable in grief. Netta was so dismissive of my loss that she caused further pain each time she spoke.‘You only knew him a few weeks. You can’t expect me to sympathize after that short time. If he’d been around all your life, I might feel different.’As if love was bound up with time. As if love were a measurable quality dependent on weeks and months and years.Eric was devastated and desolate.There was no one with whom I could find solace. Ma and Old Hodge tried their best but their practical suggestions weren’t what I needed. I needed…I needed an ear that would listen without judging, a heart that would feel and understand, a soul that would absorb my despair and open the door to light again. But there was no one.I had learned that those who belonged to the various sects of religious organisations would turn to the leaders, priests, mullahs, rabbis, for solace, though they wouldn’t always find it. My only religious experience was as an unwanted outsider on the edge of a spectacularly hypocritical group of extremists whose main interest in me would be a repressed sexual duplicity. I’d consigned them to the same amoral cesspit as Heacham as soon as I’d discovered their real motives. I was left alone in my grief.My dark musings were interrupted by voices as Old Hodge, on his way back into the house for tea, greeted Leigh on his way out to see Netta. I looked down at my book and saw it was in shade. I was in deep shadow, matching my emotions. It was cool beneath the shelter of foliage and the scent of the blooms was mildly soothing.Leigh stripped to join Netta on her rug. Not watching but without moving my eyes from him, I understood he wasn’t sunbathing but engaged in sex with her. I was witnessing this private act without their knowledge. I couldn’t move without revealing my presence, to Netta at least. But my stillness would conceal me until they were done.The harmony of their movement and their joint passion was at such odds with my feelings of inner grief and turmoil that I found myself incapable of looking away. Their rhythm quickened for the climax of the act and they cried their pleasure. The sound released me and I rose to leave them their privacy.Netta looked directly into my eyes over Leigh’s shoulder as I left the bower. Her look of challenge and complacency made me certain she’d known I was there all the time. This had been a demonstration for my benefit but I was too deep in other emotions to respond and went back into the house. I was amazed to discover it was time to eat again.‘Do me a favour, Faith, and tell Leigh and Netta it’ll be on the table in five minutes, will you?’Another of Ma’s attempts to get me to swap desolation for the mundane. I nodded and returned to the scene of their act. They were still linked, Netta’s hands clasping Leigh’s buttocks as if she wished to prevent him leaving her. Leigh, supported on his elbows, was gentling her head on each side with his hands as he looked down into her face.‘If you’ve stopped frightening the birds, you might want to eat.’Leigh at least had the grace to look discomfited.Netta, however, seemed intent on driving home what she saw as her advantage. ‘Get us some tissues, Fay. There aren’t any handy and I don’t want to have to go in soggy, you know? Oh, forgot, you wouldn’t know, would you?’‘All acts have their consequences. Get your own fucking tissues.’The expletive came so naturally that it was seconds before I understood I’d uttered it. I wasn’t in a fit state to analyse the nature of the outburst or my reaction to it. But I allowed my mind to dwell on the fact that my recent reading of Shirley’s book had at least given me a greater insight into the practicalities of sexual activity so that I understood at least something of the reason for Netta’s request. And, for all my protest, I took a box from the kitchen and dropped it on the rug beside them.Still coupled, Netta smiled up at me as she pulled a small handful free. Clearly against his wishes, she urged Leigh up from her and stuffed a wad against the space he’d left. There was no embarrassment about her at all but Leigh couldn’t look at me as he dried himself. I became aware of a slightly sweet scent that seemed familiar but I couldn’t place why I recognized it.Over dinner, as so often with memory, the answer to my unvoiced question came to me unbidden. ‘Of course! That’s how Hope smelled when I wiped her clear of the discharge...’ And suddenly I understood why Leigh had doubted my ignorance of her rapes. ‘I never knew until now.’Leigh looked up from his plate and his expression changed as he caught my eye. He said nothing but I hoped he would properly reconsider his judgement.All through the following week, I worked in the office or the darkroom as need dictated. Netta, as usual, divided her time alone between bed and sunshine.Leigh was busy and away for much of the week and Netta loudly expressed her annoyance at his absences each day on his return. He found ways to compensate her imagined deprivation.‘Take me for a drink. And not to the Bored Bed.’That was our name for the local Boar’s Head.‘I want to go to the Red Lion.’‘I have to drive there.’‘Drive, then. You can drive with a couple of beers in you, Leigh. For God’s sake, who’s going to catch you out here anyway?’And they would go and I knew that Leigh had had his beer and driven in spite of his vow never to drive after drinking. Other times Netta would demand a night out in one of the larger towns so she could dance and show off in front of other people. She was a party person, a lover of the nightlife and a good time girl. Leigh began to neglect his business because of her and my anger at her behaviour grew stronger with each passing day.The weather was no help to my pent up rage. The unrelenting sun shone in cloudless skies and baked the earth hard, as if the climate had forgotten this was temperate England and had mistaken us for some semi-tropical dessert. To Netta it was bliss and she abandoned all pretence of modesty, wandering naked all the time. Leigh was hardly less considerate and my rage threatened to overwhelm me, as their sexual behaviour grew increasingly overt and public.On Friday evening I entered the kitchen after a spell of quiet contemplation in the garden to find them fucking on the cool stone-flagged floor. Leigh was on his back with Netta astride him and they were oblivious of me. Their self-obsession and hedonistic carelessness twisted and tightened the bands of anger inside me. My control snapped.A wooden block, holding kitchen knives, rested on the bench. I snatched up a long-bladed carving knife. Shrieking my rage and despair, I plunged it downwards.Netta screamed.Leigh cried out in alarm.The blade embedded deep into the kitchen table inches from Netta’s naked shoulder and remained there, quivering.For a moment, we were a pageant made immobile by my violence. I breathed again, and sought the solitude of my bedroom.Sleep evaded me again that night. My violent act had done nothing to alleviate my pent up frustration and anger. It had simply added to my problems. Now there was potential murder on my mind. I spent much of that night leaning on the windowsill with the casement wide open to allow the night air to drift over my skin and cool me.They were subdued over breakfast, glancing at me furtively, nervous of my every move. In turn, I was tense to the point of screaming out loud but could find no release.Lunch was no better, though they’d come up with some plan to appease my anger, an anger they failed to understand.‘Netta and I were thinking, if the weather holds, perhaps we might go for a picnic tomorrow. Would you like to come with us?’‘And mingle with the tourists?’‘Most of them have gone; school holidays end tomorrow. Anyway, I know a place we can be entirely alone; a place no tourist would know.’‘So you’ll be able to take pictures of Netta with no clothes on and fuck her under the sun. I don’t think so.’My language got to him. ‘Okay, Faith, we’ll be chaste and I won’t take my camera.’That had me listening. I doubted his ability to curb Netta’s sexual activity but Leigh sacrificing his camera was like a runner giving up a leg.‘Ma’ll make us some food and we can take some wine. Make a day of it. There’s a lovely pool under a small waterfall surrounded by meadow and trees. You’ll love it. Come with us and give yourself a bit of a holiday, Faith.’Leigh must have made some sort of deal with Netta because she piped up with something that sounded close to enthusiasm. ‘Come on, Fay. I promise I’ll be good. Let’s have some fun together for a change. You need to get out and enjoy yourself.’I had no wish to enjoy myself but misery had failed to release whatever blocked my ability to mourn and start the process of healing. They’d made the effort because they were concerned. Even if Netta’s anxieties were entirely personal, I could believe Leigh was at least slightly worried about me.‘Why not? I’ll come along.’They brightened at once. In agreeing, I’d gone some way to reducing their anxiety after my attack in the kitchen. I actually slept that night in spite of the continued hot weather. The morning found my anger reduced to a background smouldering that I knew might burst into incandescence at the slightest provocation. But I was at least willing to face the day with some hope of relief from despair and pain.

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If you're impatient for the next chapter, you can buy the book in paperback or ebook format for whatever ereader you use, just click on the cover picture or visit ‘My Books’. If you do, I’d appreciate a review, posted wherever possible - Amazon, Goodreads, Smashwords, or any other bookish site. Reviews get indie published books noticed, you see.
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