Leaving Gilead

By Robert Crompton

When young Tom Sparrow falls in love with Susan Ridley his dad insists that no good will come of it. Her family belongs to a strict religious sect and they disapprove of all outsiders. Against the odds their friendship develops until the time when Tom is all set to go to university and Susan is free at last to escape from her family’s religion and move to Manchester with Tom. What stopped her? Why was she no longer around?

Thirty years later when he is contemplating a change of career, the Ridley’s old house, tucked away in the forest, comes up for sale. It is just what he wants – though he isn’t sure about Melanie, a young woman who also has an interest in the house. Otherwise it is perfect for his plans for a new life back where he has his roots. As he prepares to move in he discovers something hidden away in an outbuilding and at last he begins to learn the truth of what happened all those years before.

Leaving Gilead is the story of two women’s struggles to build new lives after growing up in a religion that promotes irrational belief and conformity with arbitrary rules above above personal development.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Crompton
• Release date: Oct 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301294343

Robert Crompton

I've worked in the chemical industry and in townplanning. I've been a barman and a parson. I suppose I have been a historian as well because my first book, Counting the Days to Armageddon, was a history of a fringe religious group. But at heart I'm a storyteller.

Book preview

Leaving Gilead

a novel

by Robert Crompton

Copyright 2012 Robert Crompton

Smashwords Edition

Licence Notes

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All the characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For Jessica Liberty

Chapter One

The Snig’s Foot

Tom Sparrow had made up his mind. No more ifs, buts or let’s keep looking. He would buy the rambling old house on the edge of Ashton Moss, a wild open space tucked away in the forest. It wasn’t really as isolated as it appeared. If you listened carefully at half past the hour you would hear the train pulling out of the station on its way to Chester, and you’d hear its faint whistle as it entered the steep cutting at the southern edge of the forest. Louise would eventually come to love it as much as he did. Maybe. She did have a point, of course, for it was well outside the area where she needed to be when she was on call at the hospital. But they always stayed at her place then anyway, so what difference would it make? Opportunities, that’s what. They wouldn’t have the choice.

He would never again get the opportunity to buy this wonderful old place which had fascinated him since the first time he saw it as a small boy. Before the farmhouse was built, when there was no more to it than the small timber-framed cottage, it used to be a beer-house. The Snig’s Foot, they called it and Tom asked his gran what a snig was. It was an eel, apparently, which was just so wonderfully silly that the place came to look like a picture from one of his story books. Really the whole of the forest was Tom Sparrow’s story book. The Snig’s Foot became a rather different sort of story when he reached his teens and began to notice Susan, the very beautiful girl who lived there, who would come walking past his gran’s cottage from time to time on her way between home and the station.

All these years later it had come onto the market just as Tom had begun to look for somewhere to buy so that he could move back closer to his roots. But Louise didn’t really like it. So was he being serious, he asked himself as he drove along the narrow forest road to meet the estate agent, or was he just having a nosey?

A couple of hundred yards short of the house he parked on the firm ground at the side of the narrow road where felled timbers are sometimes stacked, and walked the rest of the way. The house came into view as he rounded the bend, the original three-centuries-old building leaning drunkenly against the newer wing with its steep brick gables and tall chimneys. Beyond it, at the far side of the Moss, there was a tent. It had been there the previous time as well, and the time before that.

He had looked elsewhere for something suitable, something more to Louise’s liking. But only half-heartedly and when she announced, without any prior hint, that she had been seconded to a hospital in Uganda for six months, he decided he would go ahead. Opportunities – you grab them before you lose them. So, no, he was not just having a nosey. He did feel a little guilty though, as if he’d stepped back thirty years to look up an old girl-friend while Louise was away, and Susan would soon come running to meet him.

Calling himself an old fool, he went through the gate and round the garden at the side of the house. This brought him much closer to the tent. A young woman was bobbing about beside it and apparently watching him through binoculars. He forgot about her almost immediately because a Toyota pick-up arrived and parked at the front gate. The estate agent stepped out from the passenger side leaving her companion at the wheel almost out of sight.

She led the way to the front door, sorting out the keys as she went. And she explained that the house, having been owned by a family who ran a small building firm, which Tom already knew, of course, was maintained to the highest standard. And it was John Ridley, the son, who had built the annex at the rear.

‘So the Ridleys still lived here?’ Tom asked casually.

‘Yes. Mrs Ridley, the mother, a lovely old lady, had the annex and Alan, her younger son, had the main house with his family.’

A lovely old lady? Winifred Ridley? Tom remembered her as a disagreeable person who was acutely aware of her own superior righteousness, but maybe she had mellowed with the years. Or maybe Mrs Greatorex belonged to the same extreme religious group that the Ridleys were involved with.

Upstairs he tried to work out which had been Susan’s room. Not that he had ever seen inside it, of course. Lightning from heaven would have struck if he’d set foot up here. He remembered that she had once said she could see the radio masts on Alvanley Hill from her window. So hers must have been the room with the small kitchen area and the en suite shower-room – a completely self-contained bedsit, though he didn’t recall her ever mentioning that. He followed the estate agent downstairs.

‘It’s good,’ he told her. ‘Just what I’m looking for really. I’ve got another house to look at in a couple of days so I’ll get back to you when I’ve seen that.’ But he had already decided what he would do.

‘Yes. Of course.’

‘Now, before you go just give me five minutes for another quick look round. Just need to take a few photos to send to my, er, partner.’ Wrong word, of course. Lover wouldn’t do because that’s someone with whom you cheat on a wife or husband. And girlfriend just seemed rather silly when you’re over fifty. Whatever the right word was, though, it probably wouldn’t be right for much longer.

He went into each room upstairs more to take a good look at the view all around than to take any pictures that Louise probably wouldn’t see for a couple of weeks. To the back and the side of the house it was forest. On the other side beyond the tops of low growing hazels and shrub oaks was the nursery plantation and the slopes of Alvanley Hill. And not another building anywhere in sight.

When they came out of the house, Mrs Greatorex’s driver was standing in the lane. He was the same youngish man who had brought her when she had come to do the valuation at his father’s old house and he was arguing with a shabbily dressed girl of about nineteen – the camper, Tom assumed. A stiff breeze blew her long fair hair across her face. She brushed it away with her hand and looked across when she heard the front door slam. Immediately she turned and began to walk back towards the far edge of the Moss.

*

A couple of days later there was a note through the door when he got back to his dad’s old house from work.

Saw you at Ashton Moss last week and I really need to speak to you. If you can make it, I’ll be in the Swan tonight. Or I’ll drop by at your place sometime. M. Blain.

Who the hell would that be? Not the estate agent, obviously. Her driver, maybe? Didn’t seem likely. There was the girl in the tent, of course. Was that who? Someone staking out Snig’s Foot House? Crazy. And no, he wasn’t going to call in at the Swan. Not that noisy, smoky dive.

But his curiosity was aroused and he wanted to find out what was going on so he went there after all. Just for one drink – long enough for whoever it was to approach him. The air was thick with stale tobacco smoke even at half past eight and before he’d been served he began to feel grimy. The juke box was playing loud enough to make the aluminium ashtray near his elbow vibrate. As soon as he was served, he looked round for somewhere to sit. But there was nowhere. It was too crowded. He stood between the juke box and the cellar door and tried to drink his beer without being jostled too much. Who on earth, in a place like this, would have any interest in a fifty-year-old guy who’s planning to live in an isolated house in the forest? Nobody, evidently, at least not before nine o’clock. Unable to stand the place any longer, he drank up and went to the Griffin.

After a couple of pints in relative tranquillity, he took the short cut across the Leisure Centre car park and along the unlit footpath behind the Library. That was where he stumbled upon the girl lying beside the path. Dead? Injured? No, just hopelessly drunk. He helped her struggle to her feet but she fell into the bushes and rolled over as if trying to get back to sleep. In the dim light from the road he recognised her as the girl he’d seen at Ashton Moss, who had come looking for him for some reason. He would have called for help but the phone outside the Post Office had been vandalised. Nothing for it but take her home and call for help from there. He shouldn’t really do that, but what else could he do?

He had to half carry, half drag her the quarter mile home. He fumbled with the gate whilst still trying to support her. Mrs Denny, the neighbour, came to her door to let her cat out. ‘Evening,’ she said and managed to fill the one word with enough disapproval for a whole orgy of unrighteousness. As Tom unlocked the front door and dragged the girl inside he could imagine Mrs Denny chunnering away to her husband. ‘Look at him,’ she’d be saying. ‘His dear old dad, Councillor Sparrow, Councillor, mark you, scarcely cold in his grave and there’s himself staggering home drunk with a little floosie young enough to be his daughter. Absolute disgrace, that’s what it is. Absolute disgrace. Thank goodness he’s not moving in here permanently.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Tom muttered to himself. There was no chance of that. He never did like this house as a kid. Specially not after his mum died and he had to come back home after having lived for a long time with his Uncle Frank and Auntie Doris in their super flat in the very grand Ringwood Hall. He carefully lowered the girl into an armchair and went to the phone. But now that he’d got her home, phoning emergency services didn’t seem the right thing to do. Not at all. He could imagine the questions they’d ask – and he’d give the impression he knew more than he was saying. He knew he would. Better just let her sleep it off. And then perhaps he’d find out what she wanted.

He woke early the following morning and went downstairs straight away. There was a lot of tidying up to do before the clearance man arrived to empty the house. ‘Time to get up,’ he said to the sleeping girl on the sofa. No reply. He tried again, a little louder. He shook her slightly.

‘Go away,’ she grunted and rolled over.

‘Come on, you need to get up. I’ll make some coffee. And then I’ll drop you off somewhere. But you need to hurry.’

‘Go away.’

She came into the kitchen while he was making coffee and toast. Her jeans and jumper looked even grubbier than when he had seen her before and she still had a couple of leaves from the shrubbery caught in her tangled hair. ‘The bathroom’s upstairs if you want to go and freshen up.’

‘Where am I?’ she asked nervously.

‘Well, you’re here at my place. Not far from where I found you last night. You were, er, well, out of it.’

‘Where’s Anna?’

‘No idea. You were on your own. What happened to you?’

‘I haven’t a frigging clue. I was supposed to be meeting this guy and Anna said don’t go alone. Hope she’s all right.’

‘Well, I expect you’ll catch up with her soon enough. Now why don’t you have some breakfast? And later I’ll drive you home if you like. I’m sure everything will look a lot clearer after a quiet morning to shake off, well... I mean, that must’ve been quite a skinful you had last night.’

‘No way. Had one. Had to make it last all evening, as always. Then Colin Overend came in – that’s this guy we know – and there was this really creepy mate of his and they bought us another one. I thought for a minute you... No, I don’t know what I thought. I suppose Anna must have gone with him, but I don’t really remember. Frig, you don’t think he drugged us, do you?’

Drugged, indeed? This could get complicated. ‘Did he try to make you go somewhere with him?’

‘God knows.’ And that was the full extent of her story.

A little while later the doorbell rang. It was the house clearance man.

‘Morning, Mr Sparrow. Everything except the stuff with a red sticker, was it?"

‘Oh for frig’s sake,’ said the girl in the living room.

Once the men had finished and the house was stripped bare of everything except the few bits and pieces he wanted to keep, Tom needed to pack himself some things, lock up and drive back to his own place in Leigh. Already it was midday and the girl was sitting in the corner hugging her knees and looking as if she intended to stay as long as possible.

‘So, can I give you a lift somewhere? And you can tell me whatever it was you were after.’

‘You’re this Sparrow geezer, aren’t you? Didn’t recognise you just then. I remember now. It’s coming back to me. Saw you on your way out of the pub so I came after you, but you’d disappeared.’

‘So why did you want to see me?’

‘Saw you the other day. You were just getting home when I came looking for you. Only I bottled out.’

‘You’re not making any sense at all. What’s this all about?’

‘Okay, back to the beginning. Last week I’m camping at Sindermere Forest, right? Just across from the Snig’s Foot. Then along comes this guy to take a look at the house.’

‘That’s right. That was me. I saw you. But how did you know where to find me?’

‘It was the guy in the truck. Colin Overend. He drives Mrs Greatorex around, him and a few others. She lost her licence cause she’s a piss artist. He’s a devious bastard but he’s useful. He gave me your addy.’

‘So what is it you’re after?’

‘Trying to find out where the folk are who lived there. Alan Ridley, actually. He’s my dad, sort of. Well he is.’

‘Sort of? What does that mean?’

‘What that means, Mister Smartarse, is he used to be my dad till my mum and me walked out and she divorced him. And then I discovered that my birth certificate is a frigging fairy story. It’s complicated. But that’s why my name’s not Ridley. No way. Left that behind with all the other crap. I’m Melanie Blain now. Anyway...’

‘I’d like to be able to help, but I can’t. Sorry. It’s about thirty years since I had anything to do with the Ridleys. Susan, that’s Alan’s and John’s young sister, was my first girlfriend.’

‘You knew them? You actually knew them? Oh wow, that’s great! But there wasn’t any sister. I mean I don’t remember her, she would’ve been before my time. There was John and my mum and dad and my grandmother. John lived in Hartford and the rest of us lived in the forest house, the Snig’s Foot. My grandmother hated people using that name. Anyway, I don’t remember this Susan character. But what do I know about the frigging Ridleys?’

‘She was real right enough. About five years younger than Alan. Same age as me.’

‘Bloody hell. I guess she must have got out of it years before I was born. What was she like? Was she a complete prat like the rest of them? Too frigging holy to be decent?’

‘Not at all. That’s how the brothers were. And Mrs Ridley. But Susan was different. So why do you want to find Alan now?’

‘Because he owes me, that’s why.’

‘I take it you tried calling at the house?’

‘Well of course I did. I’m not completely stupid. Nobody around. It’s been empty for ages, so I just sort of hung around. And then I thought, what the heck, why don’t I use... Well, never mind.’

‘Sorry I can’t help you.’

‘Oh well, I’ll catch up with the bastard eventually, I suppose.’ Melanie agreed reluctantly to let Tom drive her back home, which turned out to be a squat in the old Horeb Chapel which someone had started to convert to flats and then abandoned. She reckoned it was pretty good really – no gas or electricity but a lot better than the railway arches. Maybe not as good as... well, never mind. But lots better than putting up her tent in the park and being moved on every night which was a pain in the arse.

He felt a twinge of guilt when he drove away. He wished he could have helped her a bit more. Leaving her at the old chapel didn’t feel right. If he hadn’t cleared everything out of his dad’s house he might have been tempted to offer her a room for a couple of nights. But no, the chapel was fine. It was what she wanted. Much later than he had intended he set off, but at least he would be there in plenty of time for a meal and a couple of pints in the Cotton Tree.

*

‘Here, Tom! You’ve got to do something about it. And right now, if you please.’ It was Mrs Denny. She came to her door as soon as Tom stepped out of his car, as if she had been watching and waiting for him.

‘Something wrong, is there?’ he asked warily. There was always something wrong when Mrs Denny was around, especially since the house had been empty and the more so the longer it remained unsold which she seemed to think was Tom’s fault somehow.

‘It’s that young floosie. The foul-mouthed little madam has only taken up residence in your old dad’s greenhouse. No wonder you can’t get decent folks wanting to buy if you let that sort of thing go on.’

Tom tried hard to restrain himself. ‘I’m sure you’re quite right. I’ll sort it out.’ He went round to the back and left the outraged neighbour to mutter about complaining to the Council, the police and the MP if Tom didn’t get that little tart out of there that very minute. There was nobody around. But there was a sleeping bag in the greenhouse and beside it a rucksack spilling its contents all over the place. There was a small