Sarah's Walk

By Brenda Mothersole

Sarah Waring, 32, naïve and immature, raised within a strict fundamentalist religious cult, the Jerusalem Brethren, inwardly yearns for a less repressive lifestyle. Marriage to Martin, a fellow adherent, is about as far as she is able to go towards breaking away from the fanatical grip of her dominating mother. That is, until she receives an invitation from her once disgraced school friend Fiona, to attend a family housewarming party at Barton Mill. She decides to attend against the pressure from her church and Martin. In doing so, her path to self-discovery and the people she meets comes at a tragic price.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781304398390

Book preview

Sarah’s Walk

Brenda Mothersole

Copyright © Brenda Mothersole 2020

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-304-39839-0

Edited by Alan Mothersole 2021

So our lives glide on, the river ends we don’t know where, and the sea begins, and then there is no more jumping ashore.

George Eliot (Felix Holt)

Chapters

Chapter 1 - On the Bridge

Chapter 2 - Across the Field

Chapter 3 - Alongside the Canal

Chapter 4 - Through the Wood

Chapter 5 - A Country Stream

Chapter 7 - Barton Mill

Chapter 8 - Changing Direction

Chapter 9 - The River Path to Higher Barton

Chapter 10 - Pause for a Picnic

Chapter 11 - The Track to the Vicarage

Chapter 12 - Over Heathland

Chapter 13 - Down into a Valley

Chapter 14 - A Diversion

Chapter 15 - Up Barton Hill

Chapter 16 - A Downward Trail

Chapter 17 - A Deep Hollow

Chapter 18 - A Wintry Stroll

Chapter 19 - Across A Country Park

Chapter 20 - The Miller’s Lane

Chapter 21 - A Glimpse of the Sea

Chapter 22 - A Meander About Town

Chapter 23 - The Homeward Path

Chapter 24 - Venturing Aboard

Chapter 25 - Home

PART I

Chapter 1 - On the Bridge

From afar the figure of a solitary woman could be seen standing on the bridge, a blustery wind whipping brown strands of hair across her face. Savouring the clean, sweet scents after a night’s rain, she contemplated in which direction they should take their walk?

Sarah Waring was not the kind of woman passers-by would immediately notice.  Behind the steel rims of her glasses was a plain angular face. She wore no make-up, and if she had a fine figure that was disguised by her grey baggy jacket over a navy-blue track suit. A small rucksack clung to her back.

Leaning over the parapet she examined the fast-flowing river savouring its clean, sweet smells. The waving reeds green, brown and grey, fascinated her as did the stretched shadow of the bridge, where the water was intercepted by three dazzling semi-circles of reflected sky and where the morning sun caught the fast flow of the stream as it tumbled onwards to the sea some fifty miles away. Yet, along its edge, caught in stagnating vegetation was an empty plastic bottle once carelessly thrown into the water, now bobbing helplessly, trapped in a dank pool of scum.  Her eyes focussed on that bottle, a strong feeling of futility gripped her, of being overcome by a kind of inertia, as if her life, like that bottle, was going nowhere in particular. She sighed; would she ever feel truly free to be herself?  Would the river one day rise and flood over its banks, releasing that trapped bottle from the pool of debris to send it bobbing freely on it way?

The letter received that morning now surreptitiously hidden in her pocket had unsettled her stirring up too many memories, arousing too many questions about her life. Meanwhile, the indifferent river, like existence itself, determinedly proceeded on its tortuous journey regardless of obstacles it encountered.

She allowed herself to ruminate on how water had often been a metaphor, in literature, in art, in religion, for life’s renewal, with human destiny and regeneration, and conversely with the passage of death. She recalled examples she had come across, of how the ancient Egyptians saw the Nile as a symbol of the source of life coming from heaven to fertilise the earth to make it fruitful, and of how the Christian symbolism of water in baptism signified personal renewal and hope. Yet, in Greek mythology, the subterranean rivers of the underworld were generally associated with life’s journey towards oblivion in death. What, she pondered did water signify for her, raised as a member of the oppressive religious cult, the Meadbury Jerusalem Brethren, with its suffocating impositions? Would she ever feel really free like that sparkling stream, or would she forever be doomed to float towards her dying end like Tennyson’s imprisoned Lady of Shallott, whose imposed view of life had been a mere reflection of the reality.

She sighed, half-wishing the letter had not been sent, it had unsettled her stirring up too many recollections of those lively times, her so-called ‘halcyon days’ when she and the sender were at school together, the games they played, their girlish chatter, the antics they got up to in the holidays, when she had felt truly free. The letter, weighing like jetsam in her pocket, was bringing back too many exhilarating memories.  She sighed, she would have to send a reply, she could not, would not, ignore it.

She looked down again at the whirling multicoloured flow of the river, to study the shadows of the broad parapet and her own head and shoulders blocking out the sun.  Another grey, more elongated shadow joined hers. Martin, her fiancé, had arrived for their walk.

‘Hello my dear. Not late, I hope,’ smiled Martin, glancing down at his gold watch then affectionately squeezing her hand.

‘Of course not,’ she replied aware it was his way of suggesting she was early. Time was important to Martin Cracknell, it satisfied his innate need for routine and reliability, it cocooned him into a sense of security, regulating his life into convenient slots. For him there was a time and place for everything, for work, for worship, and their courtship. To him this was a recipe for a well-organised individual, giving him a firm sense of well-being.  Despite his little idiosyncrasies, she was sure Martin loved her and was a kind man.

They had met four years ago at the Meadbury Meeting House, both being members of the strict religious sect, the Jerusalem Brethren. Members were required to marry into the sect, consequently, their own pending union had been ceremoniously endorsed by a panel of priest and elders. Martin, aged forty, eight years older than herself, was a conventionally good-looking man, tall, slim with a fresh clean-shaven complexion, neatly combed thinning brown hair which even the morning wind failed to ruffle, and a few wrinkles around his blue eyes.  Always neat in appearance, he was overtly conscious of keeping up his image as branch manager within a finance company.  He made Sarah feel comfortable and wanted. Marrying him would give her the very excuse she needed to break that tight hold that her religiously bigoted widowed mother had over her. He would provide her with a welcome escape from the grim, unloving home she had known all her life.

In which direction should they take their walk?  They decided to avoid the familiarity of their hometown of Meadbury with its nineteenth century town hall, neo-Gothic church, a conglomeration of modern coffee houses, supermarkets, take-away food outlets, garishly lit garage forecourts, an obtrusive multi-story car park, and sprawling red brick housing estates and high grey rise flats. More preferable was the circular route to their right, through the municipal gardens, across the fields, along the canal, then on through Siccate Woods where they could join an upper tributary of Meadbury River and the path back into town.

Martin took her hand as they left the bridge and descended the steps leading them into the nearby park. They paused to look at the colourful flower beds watered earlier that morning, neat rows of tulips all of even height, pink, purple-black, red, and yellow, pearls of water on their petals, standing upright in alternating groups. Along the borders squatted rows of polyanthus arranged in a profusion of culturally engineered colours – bright crimson, yellow, mauve and red.

‘Sarah, I do like to see flowers arranged like these,’ remarked Martin, ‘We must plan our garden like this one when we buy our house?’

To Sarah the display was too gaudy, yet she remained silent secretly preferring those creamy pale-yellow primroses randomly scattered in the nearby fields and woodlands.

They moved on, passing a stretch of neatly manicured lawns mowed to billiard table standard, with ‘Keep Off the Grass’ notices placed alongside the path. Images of that summer with Fiona flickered through her memory. She suppressed a giggle recalling how they had defiantly practised handstands and cartwheels on this forbidden lawn until an angry park attendant had driven them off.  Those were her so-called ‘halcyon days’ with Fiona when she had felt truly free to be herself. Her thoughts reverted to the letter secreted within the depths of her pocket. Neither her mother nor Martin would approve of its contents, they most certainly would not approve of the sender. A slight breeze ruffled her hair, or was it an inner flutter of nervous consternation?

The pair moved on past park benches on which were huddled a few elderly people watching the world go by; a busy children’s play area recently refurbished with various soft surfaces, and further on a dribbling water fountain. At the far end of the park a metal gate led them to a concrete footbridge straddling the Meadbury River, this brought them to a wooden stile and then into the field beyond.

Chapter 2 - Across the Field

A well-trodden footpath stretched across a field damp with the morning dew, a sweep of translucent silvery droplets spread before them.  Here, the grass, uneven in length, straggled under their feet sometimes tugging at their shoelaces. Sarah instinctively stepped over the splatters of cow pats, some dried, some more recently deposited, Martin, afraid of getting his brogues too muddy, was a little more cautious as to where he trod.

A herd of Friesian cows, their udders hanging low, grazed nearby.  In an almost simultaneous movement, they raised their heads and gazed at the intruders. Cows are curious animals, some senior members of the herd took a few paces nearer to the walkers to satisfy their curiosity, examining them with their large, brown, unblinking eyes, their tails lashing against their bulky oblong bodies, then they lost interest and resumed grazing.

Now feeling invigorated, Sarah strode out across the field, relishing the spring of the uneven turf below her feet. The open space appealed to her as she breathed in the air, conscious of smells of fresh vegetation and decomposing manure, smells which did not repel her, in fact she relished them as ‘country smells’ - being part of rural life as she perceived it.  So lovely it was to see the clumps of pale-yellow wild celandines, and then dark blue violets shyly half-hidden among the rough edges of the field!  The twittering mating song of a robin came from a nearby hedgerow. A dog was barking from afar. A distant red brick farmhouse and some barns came into view. She wondered if Martin was also experiencing a similar welcome sense of release from his weekly toil at his finance company.  It was while she had these thoughts that Martin’s phone gave an irritating musical ring.

‘Oh Martin,’ she timidly exclaimed, ‘Did you have to bring that on a walk, can’t you switch it off, and give work a break, just for once?’

He smiled at her unperturbed by her exasperation and announced his name into the mouthpiece.  ‘Sorry’ he mouthed to her, ‘An important business call. Oh, hi Oliver, how’s the transaction going?  What sort of price are they asking?’

As Martin conducted his business with Oliver, she walked on slowly considering their future together.  Between them they had enough savings to marry and settle down. Both had secure jobs and sufficient money to put a deposit on a house, to meet the solicitor’s fees, and have some in reserve for furniture and possibly for fitting a kitchen.  Martin was currently paying a mortgage on a modern one-bedroom bachelor flat situated in a complex of similar apartments built on the site of a former Meadbury warehouse.  His intention was to sell his flat when the market was right so that there would be enough equity for them to purchase a suitable property close to the Brethren chapel.  She was anxious to fix a wedding date as soon as possible, so desperate was she to escape her religiously despotic mother and the dreary house they shared in Station Road.

She looked back to see if he had yet finished talking to Oliver, but with his phone pressed to his ear, he was still discussing his business matter.  By the time she had reached the far end of the field, he had completed the call and had caught up with her. He explained half apologetically that it concerned an important share transaction and added he had thought it wise to bring the phone just in case one of them had an accident and would need to call for help. She admitted that made sense. They trudged along an unevenly rutted path stretched alongside a prickly hawthorn hedge, Sarah, stepping sprightly over the ruts randomly left by the winter plough.

Martin, a devote member of the Meadbury Jerusalem Brethren was unaware of her long unease and inner resentment of being the daughter in the strict religious sect, members of which were required to disassociate themselves from the ‘external’ world and it’s ‘evil ways’ in the belief that on death their reward would be a place in Eternal Paradise. Sarah’s own parents, an overpoweringly opinionated pair, had strictly and at times cruelly, controlled her life making sure of her unquestioning obedience, watching over where she was educated and with whom she associated.  The result was that Sarah was immature for her age. After her father’s death, she had remained living in the same house in Station Road as a dutiful, subservient daughter ‘honouring her mother’. Such a welcome relief it had been when Mrs Waring had approved of her marrying Martin, a devout fellow Brethren member, stating that, ‘After all, a woman, like her, in her thirties and plain looking, was very lucky to have found someone who would want her.’

Up to then she had only seen spinsterhood as her destiny.  Still a virgin, as sex out of marriage was considered sinful by the Brethren, and with a strong yearning for marriage and motherhood, she had seen no prospect of ever achieving those desires until dear Martin came along. She now broached the subject of whether he had put his flat on the market yet? She was dismayed by his reply.

‘Unfortunately, my love, the market is still not right for selling. It’s worth far more than I would get for it at the moment, interest rates being so high.  But things will change soon. I’m sure come next February we shall be married. Trust me.’

‘But, Martin, if we love each other do we really have to wait that long’, she timidly protested, ‘Next February is nearly a year away, I’d like to have fixed our wedding date well before now. Does it really matter if we don’t get a fair price for the flat?  Selling and buying property can be such a lengthy business. Surely, we can manage the first year or two without the extras. In fact, making do can often be more fun.  Martin, do let’s fix a date for an autumn wedding in September, the weather will be much warmer by then.’

Martin’s sense of fun did not extend to early domestic deprivation. He reassured her that their respective parents would prefer to see them settle down with every material comfort, with no worries no outstanding debts hanging over their heads.

‘We must be a little more patient, my love.’ he said, ‘You know I want the best for both of us....and our future family.’

Exasperated with his reply, she sighed despairingly. After her father had died of a stroke seven years ago, she had continued to live with her mother in the drab house in Station Road.  She now regretted what, at the time, had seemed to be a sensible arrangement. The three bed-roomed terraced-house was big enough for the two of them, the mortgage had been paid so the living costs were low. Despite her mother’s reluctance, Sarah had succeeded in making the third bedroom into a sitting room to her own design for her exclusive use. So imperative was it to have an escape route, a room of her own, away from the oppressive atmosphere that her parent exuded.

She recalled the telephone conversation that she had overheard that very morning between Mrs Waring and one of the members of her wives’ group. Her mother had the kind of excitable, high-pitched voice which was prone to penetrate the walls of any substantial building,

‘Well, you know I told Priest Bewes only yesterday...yes...yes, such a dear, understanding man!... Oooo,  really! Yes, the way young people behave these days is absolutely appalling. Some of the girls don’t like wearing a headscarf to worship. They come in late as if it didn’t matter…. Did they?  To him, to Priest Bewes of all people!  How disgraceful! … it’s just not good enough. That’s right, Mildred…(pause)...I agree...Oooo, that’s just too bad!.......’

At this point Sarah had grabbed her rucksack and had left the house. Uncharitable thoughts towards her mother and her cronies, their intolerance and bigoted views flowed through her mind, but a sense of guilt had made her hastily dismiss them. Yet, if she were to think matters through more dispassionately, she would have to acknowledge that despite the caring ethos of the Brethren there were those gaps, those barriers of faith between herself and other members of the congregation, which she had never totally been able to reconcile, the two member exceptions being Martin and Elaine Hannington, a proud Caribbean woman of around fifty, whose friendship she desperately valued, particularly as they shared an interest in Victorian literature.  From time to time she had tried to find a reason why she could not feel more at one with the ethics of the sect?  It was something she felt unable to define.  Faith?  No, it was impossible to move their rigid, rocklike beliefs. Hope? Unlikely, as there was the ingrained promise that they were the chosen few destined for Paradise.  Charity?  Difficult to say, yet they gave generously to various projects in the Third World run by the sect’s own missionaries.  Freedom to be oneself?  With a twinge of conscience, Sarah shook off disturbing conjectures.  Perhaps that was a question she was not yet ready to answer, or was she?

The pair walked on passing a clump of trees housing a rookery. In the black, finger-like, upper branches, cawing rooks were flocking together, silhouetted flakes of black against a thin blue sky. The exclusivity of the flock instantly reminded Sarah of the religious strictures imposed upon her, of the threat of everlasting damnation which had hung over her throughout her childhood. Any childish misdemeanour, any deviation by the young Sarah had been severely dealt with by her parents.  As a small child she had secretly invented Lucy, an imaginary playmate with whom she could confide. At school she had been on the edge of things, secretly longing to join the other girls at their parties and outings. But the cinema and theatre were forbidden pastimes. She had become withdrawn, a plain, nervous, lonely, quiescent shadow of herself, that was until Fiona came into her life. Then there was that exceptional summer, when, encouraged by Fiona she had enjoyed the happiest school holiday ever until things went so terribly wrong.

Fiona had been everything she wasn’t, her’s was a lively, open-hearted and carefree spirit, sometimes a dreamy scatterbrain, popular wherever she went. She was also beautiful, a natural blond with wide blue eyes and a pert snub nose. They had become acquainted when they were in the upper form at Meadbury comprehensive school. Fiona, who had sat in front of her in class, was renowned for forgetting to bring her books to class to the annoyance of her long-suffering teachers. The English teacher, Miss Haynes, had threatened her with detention the next time she forgot her books. On this particular occasion she had been given the part of Paulina in The Winter’s Tale to prepare for at home and to perform in class the next day.  Sarah sitting behind Fiona noticed as her turn to read drew near, she was desperately fishing around her satchel for her text. Sarah correctly guessed that she had left it at home, so surreptitiously prodded her own copy into Fiona’s back. Without turning her head, Fiona’s hand went up behind her, took the book, opened it to the correct page and enacted her part faultlessly. After class, she had laughingly thanked Sarah for saving her from the fate of a detention. From then on, much to Sarah’s astonishment and delight, they became firm friends.

She met Fiona’s parents, a kindly smiling couple, who, to her surprise, seemed to give their daughter a considerable amount of freedom to go and do what she liked and with whom she wished. Fiona listened with interest about her own restricted lifestyle at home and with the Brethren, which she opined seemed to be a leftover from a past century, but unlike some of the other girls at school, she never scorned or derided her because of her allegiance to what was to them, a stupid, bizarre cult. Although Sarah sensed her friend was secretly sorry for her, Fiona was never patronising, her friendship was overwhelmingly genuine.

She would never forget going to Fiona’s seventeenth birthday party with the grudging consent of her own parents, it was an event like she had never been to before. She had turned up as usual without make-up and in a long-sleeved navy-blue dress which she normally wore on Sundays, and contrasted herself with Fiona and the other girls, who were wearing make-up and between them an assortment of low cut dresses, some with long skirts to their ankles and others with short skirts barely reaching their thighs.  She had not been expecting to see boys there and felt nervous, wondering what her parents would think if they knew.  There was a table of all sorts of wonderful foods, nothing like the sausage rolls and jellies that her mother grudgingly gave to her few guests, but savouries of all kinds, quiches, filled pastry parcels, cold meats, and salads with a wide choice of fruit desserts, gateaux, and ice-creams to follow. Drinks, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic - fruit juices, lemonade, and coke, were all freely available. Fiona introduced her to some of the guests she did not know, including a likeable gangling youth with an acne-pock marked face, who politely tried to strike up a conversation with her. He was from a boy’s comprehensive school and they discussed the subjects each was taking for A-level. When the conversation dried up, he moved on to talk to other guests.  Despite the availability of alcoholic drinks, which Sarah had been taught were a source of evil, she witnessed little evidence of the temptations of the world she was expecting to see. As she had been given strict instructions to be home by ten o’clock sharp, well before the party was over, she was ignorant of what drunken behaviour might have taken place later into the night. A few of the guests did smoke outside in the garden, as for the taking of drugs she would not have known if it had been going on even if she had seen it.  In those days she had been that naive. In fact, most guests seemed well behaved.  After a hilarious celebrity guessing game using stickers on their foreheads, they had rolled back the carpet and danced to the latest music. One particular young man, who seemed older than the rest of the youths, well-built, with a shock of red hair, a ruddy face and mischievous brown eyes, wearing blue checked shirt and casual trousers, came up to her and invited her onto the floor.  Sarah had been watching what the other girls were doing so was quickly able to join in with her partner. They danced in a rhythmic manner and soon she was relaxed, enjoying being part of the party crowd. 

Later in the evening she noticed the red-haired man was dancing with Fiona, they were obviously familiar with each other, convulsed with laughter enjoying a private joke.  That man was Larry and Sarah was to meet him again some years later in very different circumstances. The time went by so quickly that at a quarter to ten she looked at the clock in the hall in despair. She had to be back by ten o’clock. It would take her at least half an hour to get home if she took the bus.  Mr Bennet, seeing her distress, offered to drive her home and succeeded in delivering her to her front door just in time.

Sarah and Fiona went on picnics together sharing their schoolgirl secrets. Their friendship was adding a new, welcome, and refreshing dimension to her claustrophobic life. She had felt so liberated. There was that gleeful afternoon when Fiona took her to the cinema to see ‘Ghandi’, a film about the life of the famous Indian ascetic and political leader. The experience of attending a cinema for the first time in her life, the story, and the large crowd scenes on the wide cinematic screen, had left a lasting impression on her. Her parents never knew about that particular rebellious exploit, if they had, they would have forbidden her to associate with Fiona ever again, cinemas being ‘sinful’ places. Yes, there was no doubt that summer in their last year at school had been the happiest of her life. By then she had grown to admire and love Fiona, she truly was her first and only special friend. 

Then one day, it all went terribly wrong. Fiona had become pregnant, something, which at this time was considered disgraceful by the school as it set a bad example to other girls. As a result of the scandal her friend was expelled from the school. It was the biggest shock and upset that Sarah had ever received in her life. When her parents found out she suffered the lecture and chastisement from Hell. She was immediately forbidden to associate with Fiona or her parents ever again.

On leaving school, she had decided to train as a librarian in the hope that she could live away from home to satisfy a strong desire to go to one of the better universities, to perhaps Durham, Manchester, or Reading, but her parents forbade this, insisting that influences at universities were evil but grudgingly permitted her to attend the nearby College of Education which offered a course on librarianship. Then she could continue to live at home away from the temptations of modern young people.

The letter in Sarah’s pocket, by now, was like flotsam floating to the surface.

Martin walked along wishing the field wasn’t so muddy, he preferred pavements, but he had come on the walk to please Sarah.  He loved her and wanted to protect and look after her. He recalled the time when he had first noticed her at one of the Brethren meetings, her pale, gaunt, haunted face, her vulnerability, had somehow appealed to him. Gradually, he had been overcome with a pressing urge to know and help this reserved, compliant, young woman. Happily, his own parents had approved of Sarah. When taking her out in those early days he had discovered an intelligent and thoughtful, if very timid, personality behind that sad exterior. He understood that she had endured a strict upbringing, with little emotional affection from her parents. Surely his love for her and marriage to him could compensate for what she had lacked. On visiting Sarah’s home, he had been appalled by the drab dreariness of the terraced house in Station Road where she lived with her widowed mother. Consequently, his over-riding aim was to give his bride-to-be the best, to find her a home in a desirable district, even if it meant delaying the wedding by a few months.

Sarah’s thoughts reverted to Martin’s deferring of their wedding plans. She was secretly beginning to wonder whether Martin’s hesitancy to fix a date for their wedding, was a sign that was scared of sex or his ability to perform the act.  Had he put it off for too long?  Could he be impotent? But she instantly dismissed the idea, after all many men seemed able to father children well into the fifties and even sixties. Both knew that they must not give way to those satanic animal instincts within them, that is, not until they were lawfully married in the sight of God. She was sure of Martin’s love for her. Yet, it was his disappointing habit of putting economic expediency before human emotions and desires that sometimes dismayed her. Marriage for them would be for life. The Brethren preached that both divorce and extra-marital sex were carnal sins.  Fornicators were deemed to be eternally damned, unless, of course, they repented and sought personal forgiveness. Curiously, on the subject of the sanctity of marriage the Brethren had a lot to say, but on the issues of sex, nothing. Although married couples were expected to produce large families, sex was a taboo subject strictly limited to the confines of each couple’s own private life.  Despite this dictate, most nights Sarah unashamedly, secretly indulged in fantasizing about a clandestine lover, usually during that dreamy, half-conscious interval between nestling down and falling to sleep. He came to her, naked to the waist, a white apparition against a hazy bucolic background.  He seemed taller than Martin, his hair may have been dark like Heathcliffe’s or Rochester’s, but she was not sure of this, he may have been fair. His face was indefinable except for that warm smile of desire for her, yet she knew his lips and hands well, the thrill it gave her as he ardently brought his lips to hers and gently caressed her breasts sending strange erotic sensations though her body which whirled like an eddy of clear, sparkling stream-water.  She deliberately refrained from giving her visionary lover a name, that would spoil the mystery.  Would making love with Martin be like her fantasy?  By Brethren rules she should have blotted out such sinful fantasies from her sub-conscious, but she could not, neither did she want to, they were a secret personal pleasure, and an antidote to those recurring scary nightmares of falling into a bottomless dark hole that she often suffered.

By now, they had reached the stile on the far side of the field, here the ground was heavy with thick mud, soft troughs churned up, still half-full of rainwater from the previous day.