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A naive young woman, emerging from obscurity, a philandering photographer and his glamorous models, and a jealous misogynist eager for revenge turn the pages of this novel. Older friends, mistaken parents and a younger sister, all with their own motives, complicate Faith's voyage of self discovery. When she falls in love, her inexperience places her in great danger.

Breaking Faith, a romantic thriller, is about the influence of corruption in society and includes some explicit erotic content.

The novel is primarily a romance, heightened by aspects of the thriller. It is set mostly during the heat wave of 1976, in the Yorkshire Dales. The eponymous heroine, Faith Heacham, is naive and trusting. Raised in isolation by her hypocritical, abusive, Bible-bashing father as his skivvy and as nursemaid to her disabled sister, she has no knowledge of the wider world. Made to find work, in order to support the household, she takes a job with Leighton Longshaw, a notorious local photographer. His mysoginist assistant resents her presense and threatens her with violence. Just as Faith realises she is falling in love with Leighton, she rediscovers her estranged, beautiful, and sexually active younger sister, Netta, and introduces her to him without understanding the likely outcome of their meeting.

Here are a couple more reviews:

By Mr. P. F. Field (UK) (Real name)
"Breaking Faith" is the story of Faith, ignorant, naive and completely overshadowed by the sadistic bully Heacham. Faith struggles to nurse her brain-damaged younger sister, skivvy for Heacham and be the family's total financial support.

Awakening comes as she gets a job with Leighton, the local glamour photographer and she falls in love with him, despite the terrifying threats from Leighton's assistant, the disgusting Mervyn.

I read this book in one sitting, unwilling to put it down, immersed in the Yorkshire of the sweltering summer of 1976 and Faith's journey from darkness to self-knowledge. Her sometimes frightening honesty wash all hypocrisy away, for she is a girl who sees things as they are and tells it the way it is. The book is written from the alternating perspective of Faith and Leighton, giving the reader a greater understanding of their interactions with each other and those around them. The characters are drawn with a fine brush, especially Faith's mother and father. The denouement is sudden, violent and completely satisfying.

Karen Wolfe (Author)

This is a story of triumphant human spirit. Heroine Faith's rite of passage from horrific neglect and abuse to fulfilment and true love is an inspiring one. Stuart Aken's novel, set in the summer of 1976, simmers with heat, lust, decadence and sexuality, all of which Faith transcends to become her own woman. I loved the Yorkshire Dales setting, and I was rooting for Faith all the way to her well-deserved happy ending. Stuart Aken is indeed a writer to watch.

Review on Thisisull website.

A63 revisited is a site promoting and giving reviews of art projects in the Hull area. There is a review of Breaking Faith on this site.

The Introduction and first 2 chapters follow:

Prologue

I had to wait when I went to collect our bread and milk from our village store. The owner was serving the man that Father called ‘the Devil’s Henchman’. He said some really dreadful things to her but she laughed as I had never heard her laugh before. When he left the shop, she frowned at me.
‘What d’you want, girl?’
‘Father says Leighton Longshaw is evil, Mrs Greenhough. But he was making you laugh.’
She twisted her mouth into an ugly shape and sighed. ‘Your good-for-nothing father’s a hypocritical fool, girl. And you’re just a fool; plain and simple.’ She smiled to herself, as if she thought she had said something clever. ‘What do you want?’
‘Father says I’m to tell you I start work at the Dairy next week and can he have a bit of credit until I get my first wages, please? We’ve run out of sugar for his tea, you see.’
She almost threw a bag of sugar at me. ‘You’ll pay as soon as you’ve got your wages, girl. Though, God knows what sort of job an idiot like you’s going to get.’
I bowed my head, as Father had taught me, and took the bag back home. On the way, I passed a cottage with the door open. There was a thing I had never seen before in the far corner of the room. It had moving pictures on it and I was so surprised to see this that I actually stopped and watched to see if it was true. It was only a few seconds before the man who lived there saw me.
‘Bugger off, cretin.’ He started to shut the door.
His wife came and peered at me. She frowned. ‘Oh, it’s only that Heacham girl. She can’t help it, George; probably never seen a telly before, what with livin’ with that ne’er-do-well father of hers. Shouldn’t yell at her; she’s simple.’ She turned to me, her face firm but not unkind. ‘Off you go home, Faith, there’s a good girl. It’s not nice to peer into people’s houses, you know.’
It was as I was moving away that Leighton Longshaw walked past me in the street. He was a tall man with the happiest eyes I have ever seen, a mop of dark hair and a beard. And he smiled at me. Smiled. I remember it because no one ever smiled at me; people generally scowled. Because I was schooled at home, by Father, and lived outside the village in an isolated cottage, I had no friends I could ask about why this bad man should smile at me so nicely. When I got home, I mentioned it to Father but he warned me to have nothing to do with him.
‘Keep well away from him, girl! Evil beyond your worst nightmares. That man’s trouble through and through. You better not have done owt to encourage him or I’ll have to scourge you, girl.’
‘I just passed him in the street, Father.’
‘Make sure that’s all you ever do with Leighton Longshaw, girl. Now get my tea.’
I never argued with Father, of course. But I did think the man’s smile had been kind and friendly. It was such an unusual event for me and it left me feeling the sort of joy I only knew when I was up at the tarn; swimming or watching the birds flying. I very much wanted to experience it again.

~ 1 ~

1976

Monday 9th February

‘You’re having me on!’ I thought one of my former lovers must be playing silly buggers.
‘What do you mean, Mr Longshaw?’ Her voice had an edge of nervousness, almost fear, to it.
‘Pulling my leg. I mean you’re not really Faith Heacham.’ It couldn’t be her.
‘I’m sorry; I don’t know what you mean by pulling your leg.’ Her anxiety was briefly overcome by undisguised frustration. ‘But I am Faith Heacham.’
I struggled to accept that Faith Heacham was on the phone to me, of all people. But her naivety convinced me she was who she claimed to be. I answered the rest of her hesitant questions and, in spite of misgivings from a small warning voice, invited her for interview.
Abby tried to recapture my attention, playing the coquette, shrugging her gorgeous shoulders and bringing beguiling movement to her breasts.
I closed the mouthpiece with my hand. ‘Patience.’
The door from the kitchen opened and, apprehensive at once, Abby flung one arm across her chest. But, seeing it was only Ma, she relaxed again.
‘Yes. Until one o’clock, then. TTFN.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Ta ta for now.’
‘Oh, I see. Good morning, Mr Longshaw.’
The short call finished, I replaced the phone and wondered what had made me agree to interview this strange girl from the village.
Abby saw my puzzled frown. ‘Who was it, Leigh?’
Carrying coffee mugs on a tray, Ma stumbled over Abby’s polyester wrap on the floor and kicked herself free of it.
‘Faith Heacham.’
Ma frowned at the name. ‘Shilling short of a pound.’ Thumping down the tray in emphasis.
I decided against pointing out the anachronism in her expression; Ma didn’t take kindly to that sort of criticism. ‘I’m interviewing her after lunch.’
Abby arched delicate pencilled eyebrows. ‘You’re interviewing the village idiot?’
‘Didn’t sound like an idiot. Local, uncertain, nervous, naive but not stupid. Voice like burgundy silk, with none of the coarseness you’d imagine. Funny, I’ve never heard her speak, you know. Wouldn’t expect that voice from a tiny wench like her.’
‘Beats me why you want a Girl Friday anyway.’
‘Answer the phone when I’m working, amongst other things.’
‘Stick an extension in the Perv’s darkroom and get him to take messages.’
‘Of course! I never thought. Merv’s unique and candid misogyny would be perfect. Work like a charm on every secretary, receptionist and potential model who called. Good idea, Abby.’
‘Sarkey sod.’
I tripped the shutter. ‘Shift your lovely bum a tad to the left. Beautiful.’ Another work of genius captured on film.
‘Can’t Ma take messages?’
‘I do.’ Ma’s face said all she needed to on that subject and she left without another word.
‘She does. It’s not just that. Takes me hours to type a letter. Paperwork clogs up my creative cogs, I’m forever running out of film and paper, and the tax return’s murder. Anyway, a good pair of legs under a mini or micro and some bold boobs in a see-through might keep those damned reps out of my hair. Do wonders when clients visit in person.’
‘All three of them.’
‘Cheek. If I had some glamour here to greet them, there’d be more.’
‘Faith Heacham hasn’t got legs or tits. She’s not glam. She’s skinny and square. I’m glam. I’ve got legs and tits.’ She displayed to best advantage.
‘And very beautiful they are, Abby. But you’ve all the organisational skills of a bramble bush, and your idea of accounting is, “Any money? Yes, stroke no. Spend it”. Anyway, you’d not work the hours I want for the wages I’m offering.’
She yawned her boredom again and I prepared to finish the session with a last couple of shots. ‘Move a bit further over, honey, and don’t pose. It’s “Housework au Naturel.” remember? You’re supposed to be actually doing the hoovering.’
‘As if I’d get involved in housework. I’m not a skivvy. Anyway, if it’s supposed to be au naturel, shouldn’t I be completely nude?’
‘They’d never publish it. And I’d never get you on page three like that.’
‘Even so, wouldn’t you like…?’
‘Of course, even if it’s just for my personal collection.’
She did; leaving just the shoes to enhance the length and shape of her legs. I repeated the poses I’d already done.
The roll finished, Abby decided she’d had enough. She took my hand off the film magazine I was about to remove from the ‘Blad. ‘That’ll wait. I won’t.’ She dragged me into the sitting room, where Uncle Fred’s framed sepia parents, stiff in matching gilt frames, glared Victorian disapproval at us from the ancient oak mantelpiece. The roaring fire countered the ice in their stares, making the sheepskin rug yet more inviting. Abby rested her lovely skin on the soft wool and pulled me down to join her.
An hour or so later, I left her glowing inside and out, languorous on the creamy fibres. At her request, I stuck a stack of singles on the radiogram and wandered off as Hot Chocolate sang ‘You Sexy Thing’, appropriately enough.
Back in the office, I replaced denim flares and the psychedelic shirt Abby had insisted on removing from me during the shoot, and then took the films to the darkroom for processing.
Merv, however, was not lurking in the orange glow of his domain. The stockroom door was ajar and, fixated by his view through the tiny window, he didn’t hear my approach. I loathed his attitude to women.
‘Stripping another unfortunate female?’
‘You do it.’
‘Merv, comparing my photography of women with your lewd mental despoiling is like placing Velazquez in the same frame as Vargas.’
‘Like you’re a great master, Leigh.’
‘Could be, given the chance.’
He grunted. ‘Seen that ‘un starkers.’
I peered over his shoulder, down through the white-encrusted skeletal sycamore to the lane end where a small, anxious young woman stood ankle deep in fresh snow. It took me a moment to recognize her, though she wore her usual cast-offs and was expected.
‘Not that one, Merv. I doubt even the doctor’s seen that little body.’
‘I ‘ave! Seen the lot. Outside it were an’ all. Doesn’t shave its armpits. All ‘airy they was. Mucky little twat.’
I left Merv his fantasy, unwilling to explore or argue and suddenly aware of the dangers of his corruption and loathing meeting with her reputed purity. ‘Depending how things go this afternoon, you may soon see her; face to face.’
‘Eh?’
‘I’m interviewing her in twenty minutes.’
‘It’ll never effin’ model for you!’
‘Girl Friday, Merv.’
‘Waste o’ time. Less brains than a shagged sheep.’
‘I’ll accept your expert assessment of the sheep, Merv, but have you actually met the girl, spoken with her?’
‘Everyone knows. Even its effin’ dad says it’s thick as cow dung.’
‘I admit he seemed determined to brand her an idiot before he sent her out to work. Anyway, I’ve nowt to lose by giving her a hearing. The only other two who responded were great to look at and fun in bed but the blonde had all the mathematical aptitude of an artichoke and the redhead thought typewriter keys were arranged alphabetically.’
‘You’ll not gerrit in bed, Leigh. Never tecks its knickers off. It’ll not even teck off its coat if it knows a man’s lookin’ at it.’
I turned him away from the window to face me but he couldn’t meet my eyes, despite our equal height. ‘I want that order printed and finished, Merv. I’ll deliver it after the interview.’
‘Waste of effin’ time if you ask me. It’s got nothing you want.’
I left Merv to it; confident he’d do his usual perfect job. As a photographic printer and technician, he was brilliant; as a man… I shuddered.
At my desk, I picked up the morning paper and waited for Faith Heacham to knock at my door. Recalling her, apprehensive in the snow, I wondered again how the skinny, ragged, village idiot had persuaded me to interview her.

~ 2 ~

I crossed pristine snow on the village green to use the phone box for the first time in my life and trembled with more than just cold. Mrs Greenhough, cosy in her post office stores, might have let me use her phone but Father called her the village gossip and it was not worth the risk.
I followed the scratched and faded instructions and dialled the number, taken from a card in the post office window. The ringing tone stopped and I heard his voice for the first time, and felt an unexpected and disturbing tingle at its deep, musical quality.
A relief map of the local area stood next to the phone box to show tourists the walks. Fortunately, someone had scribbled ‘House of Sin’, in bright red felt tip on the map; otherwise I would not have known how to find Longhouse.
Four miles from the village; it took me less time to cross unknown fields of snow than I planned. Better early than late. Though, with feet and fingers numb from cold, I could have done without the wait. Father’s watch, leant so I would not be late for my job at the Dairy, showed I still had a few minutes before the interview.
Curiosity, and a sense of mission; to save Leighton Longshaw’s wicked soul, took me to Longhouse. The inevitable punishment from Father, if I returned home without a job, after walking out of the Dairy earlier that morning, had only a little to do with it.
I ploughed through deep drifts that lay against blackthorn hedges lining the steep lane. Fresh snow worked its way into worn shoes Father had bought from a jumble sale, joining slush already soaking my socks. Near the white five-bar gate, I considered running back home to face the belt. Better the devil you know….
On the gatepost, a sign warned ‘Beware’ above a blue and white glazed tile of a man chasing a woman. I had never seen a man without his clothes and, although I should have turned away, I was fascinated. Father often saw Hope and me undressed but I had not seen him, of course. A man, being forged in the image of God, must preserve some mystery.
I wondered if they all looked like that; if I got the job, I would soon know.
The long, old house crowned the soft curve of the hill, its three entrance doors facing me. The left one seemed to lead to a workshop or garage with a stone arch over closed double doors beside it. The right, with its deeply carved panels polished by time and use, had to be the main entrance. The plain centre door opened as I looked and a man, aged somewhere between twenty-five and forty, poked his head out and beckoned me in.
I drew breath sharply; this danger might overwhelm me, if I let it, and that was enough to make me enter. I closed the gate, crossed the space rutted only by one set of car tyres, and turned to find his deep-set eyes gazing into mine with a directness I had not met before.
‘Step on it, love. Ma’ll have my balls if I leave this door open much longer.’
Ma? Of course, Mrs. Hodge, his housekeeper; respected by everyone, in spite of all the dreadful things they said about Longhouse. I would be safe with her in the house. Though safe from what, I had no real idea. And I was not at all sure what his balls, whatever they were, had to do with it. He opened the door wider so I could step inside and the bright colours of his patterned shirt assailed my eyes.
‘No further in your shoes, love. Can’t have wet footprints all over Ma’s polished floor.’ He closed the door behind me. The trap snapped shut as I knelt uncertain on coarse cocoanut matting with ‘Welcome’ written on it.
My fingers were numb and the knots in my frozen laces almost defeated me. By the time I had them untied, the heat inside the room was overpowering. I got up too quickly as he offered to help with my coat. His next words made no sense through a loud buzzing in my head. My skin felt wet and cold. The walls swayed in and out of focus, as if they might fall in on me. Abruptly, everything went black.
Brightness, like white unbroken snow, made me squint; a fine black line cracking its surface as my eyes focussed. My face was too warm on one side and the ground hard but smooth beneath me. I heard the murmur of voices at the same time as I realized I was on my back. A second later, I knew where I was and that my feet were in the air, naked as my knees.
‘Steady. Steady, love. You’re safe.’ The voice made me tingle, again.
‘She’s concerned she’s decent.’ Mrs Hodge moved into my field of view. ‘Don’t worry, lass, no-one can see your unmentionables.’
The fold of skirt between my legs reassured me he could see no more than my knees and lower limbs, though that was bad enough. He held my bare feet in his hands, massaging them so that a dull, hot ache flowed through the flesh to offset the surprising pleasure of his skin on mine.
‘Stay there. No one’s going to harm you and you’re safer on your back than standing, for the moment.’
I must do as he said, though Father would punish me for this pleasure I could not help but feel. I turned to face the source of heat and saw flames flickering round thick logs in a large, black grate. His feet were in view, pale skin visible between the dark leather straps of his sandals. Blue, shaped inserts with embroidered flowers of gold, red and violet widened the bottoms of the legs of his pale khaki, denim jeans.
‘Fainted, love.’ Mrs Hodge frowned down at me. ‘Fainted with the heat after the snow.’ She spoke slowly and loudly, as if I might be deaf, or stupid, like so many others did.
‘Thank you, Mrs Hodge, I know. I’m sorry. I don’t usually fall over when I meet people.’
‘Don’t worry on my account, love. Women fall at my feet all the time.’
‘Bighead.’ Mrs Hodge accused him.
Father held women inferior to men but I had seen them behave almost as equals at the Dairy. It was good to know that, in this house of sin, women were able to speak their minds.
Mrs Hodge squinted down at me. ‘You all right, love?’
‘I’ll be fine if you’ll help me to my feet and let me sit for a bit, thank you.’
Her look of confusion deepened.
‘Told you.’ The man smiled back down at me with satisfaction. ‘Sure you’re ready to be upright?’
‘I’d feel happier perpendicular than prone, now my brain’s recovered its circulation, thank you.’
Mrs Hodge looked utterly flummoxed but helped me to my feet and guided me to a wooden chair in front of the desk. ‘It’s no good, love; I’ve got to know. You are Faith Heacham, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry about that. I normally just say hello, you know.’
The man grinned and held out his hand. ‘Leighton Longshaw; pleased to meet you, Miss Heacham, or is it Faith?’
I took his hand. It was warm, dry and firm. At the Dairy, I had started with Father’s formal approach but quickly learned most people preferred first names. ‘Faith.’
He held my hand for what seemed a long time and only let go when a slight frown crossed his brow. ‘Coffee or tea, Faith? Or something stronger?’
‘What are you having, Mr Longshaw?’
‘Call me Leigh, everybody does. “Mister” makes me feel a hundred.’
‘And he’s only ninety-eight, you know.’
I saw a twinkle in Mrs Hodge’s eye and, starting to understand some of the humour I had heard at the Dairy, wondered if I should risk joining in. The way she spoke to the man made me bold. ‘I can’t believe that, Mrs Hodge. I wouldn’t have thought Leigh was that old.’ She looked at me expectantly and I dared the rest. ‘No, not a day over eighty-nine.’
They both laughed and the look that passed between Leigh and his housekeeper showed me I had been right to try.
‘I’ll get the coffee.’ Mrs Hodge left, shaking her head.
‘Ma thought you were…, your reputation, you know?’
‘Reputations, Leigh. I suspect, and hope with all my heart, that you know more than most folk just how false they can be.’

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