A Deep Deceit (2 page)

I was certainly totally ill prepared for marriage so young – particularly to a strong, domineering man who turned out to have none of the kindness about him that Gran had always shown me, and which I had somehow expected to receive automatically from someone I was to share my life with. Instead, he turned out to be both cruel and violent.

Gran was long dead by the time I met Carl, and I felt completely alone in the world. Even though I was only twenty, I honestly believed that my life was over, that I would be forever trapped in a vicious, loveless marriage.

The Isabella was one of my hiding places, one of my sanctuaries. It's famous for its wonderful shows of spring shrubs, when the blooming rhododendrons and azaleas and camellias display themselves in all their blazing multicoloured glory. The autumn can also be glorious there, but not the winter. And this was a particularly unpleasant December Wednesday, cold, damp and relentlessly grey. But even so, I was grateful for the peace of the place.

I sat by a murky-looking pond weeping silently, and I thought I had the garden more or less to myself. Even the ducks seemed to have found somewhere more pleasantly hospitable. I was certainly not aware that there was another person nearby as I perched on an old, dead, moss-covered tree trunk, oblivious to its soggy wetness, lost in my own misery.

He must have approached very quietly because he was standing quite close to me before I noticed him. My head was bowed. My eyes were filled with tears. I saw his feet first, clad in Wellington boots. Then a hand reached out to me, offering a red-spotted handkerchief, the kind I had only seen before in films tied round a cowboy's neck.

He didn't startle me. There was nothing threatening about his presence and somehow I knew that immediately.

I looked up at him, seeing his face for the first time. It was a broad, unevenly featured face, but nevertheless quite pleasing. He had a big craggy chin, a reddish complexion emphasised by his cropped pale-blond hair, a wide, full-lipped mouth and the brightest, kindest blue eyes I had ever seen. But then, it was a long time since I had known any kindness at all.

I was aware at once of the gentleness in him. And there was concern in those blue eyes too, concern for a stranger. He had the look of someone who knew what pain was when he saw it.

He did not say anything at first, just continued to hold that spotted handkerchief in front of me. Eventually I took it, blew my nose and did my best to dry my eyes.

Only then did he speak, with that slight stammer which, I would learn later, occurred just when he was nervous. ‘A-are are you all r-right?'

I didn't answer. It was, after all, pretty obvious that I wasn't all right.

He shook his head and made a kind of tutting sound. ‘S-sorry, silly question,' he said.

‘It's OK,' I replied. ‘I'll be fine in a minute.'

He stood silently for a while as I sniffed inelegantly into his handkerchief, struggling desperately to stem the tears and regain control. ‘I'm s-sorry,' he said again. ‘Would you like me to leave you? I d-don't want to intrude?'

He took a couple of steps backwards towards the pond, without looking where he was going. His left foot sank deeply into the thick, gooey mud around the edge of the water. He stumbled and for a moment I thought he was going to fall, then he recovered himself and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Typical,' he said.

He was unsure of himself, and hesitant and clumsy in his movements, but there was humour in his eyes. And even at that moment he managed to coax a smile out of me.

Immediately he grinned back. I reckoned he was in his early thirties, maybe twelve or thirteen years my senior, but in spite of the lines etched quite deeply round his mouth and across his forehead the grin was a boyish one. He positively beamed at me and his mouth stretched so wide that it seemed as if his face might crack. His teeth were perfect: bright, white and wonderfully even. His accent had already told me that he was American. I didn't know much of the world, but I had read somewhere that being American and having good teeth went together. Involuntarily I felt my own smile widen.

‘That's b-better,' he remarked. He ran the fingers of one hand through his stubbly blond hair, stepped towards me again and reached out with the other for his handkerchief. ‘Finished with that?' he asked.

I glanced at the now damp and soiled piece of cotton with horror. ‘I can't give you it back in that state . . .' I began.

‘It doesn't matter,' he murmured, interrupting me. He took the handkerchief, put it back in his pocket and sat down next to me on the moss-covered tree trunk.

Although I had barely noticed its cold wetness until then, suddenly I was concerned for him. He wasn't wearing a long coat like me, just a short leather jacket over blue jeans.

‘The moss is sodden,' I warned.

‘Oh right.' He glanced down at the tree trunk beneath him as if seeing it for the first time, then jumped to his feet, pulling at his jeans, which were already very wet and had stuck to him. ‘Y-yuk,' he stammered.

Somewhat to my surprise, I burst out laughing. I could barely remember when I had last laughed.

As though reading my mind, he said: ‘You have a lovely laugh, you should try it m-more often.'

It was gone three o'clock and the day was starting to grow even colder and more unpleasant. All too soon it would be dark. That's England in December for you. He shivered and thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He had big, capable hands, scrubbed scrupulously clean but rough-skinned and battered-looking, the kind of hands that were accustomed to working for their living.

‘Horrible weather,' I remarked, falling back in true English fashion on the safest conversation topic of them all.

He nodded.

I was suddenly curious about him. ‘It's really ghastly, so what brought you here today?' I asked.

He removed his right hand from his jacket pocket and I saw that he was clutching a small sketch pad and a pencil. ‘Just l-looking for a few ideas,' he said.

‘You're an artist?' I enquired.

‘Trying to be,' he said easily.

I took the pad from him, surprisingly forward for me back then, and leafed through it. He was being modest. Books and painting were my one solace in life. The ultimate escape. Along with exploring the parks and gardens of west London, they were all that made life worth living for me. If I wasn't at the Isabella or Kew Gardens, or strolling through the grounds of Chiswick House, whenever I could get out of the house for long enough I would be browsing in one of the local libraries or a bookshop or wandering around an art gallery just staring and dreaming. It was almost like running away. One way and another books and paintings were everything to me, and I was pretty sure that this stranger's drawings were exceptionally good.

His sketches of the cowering shrubs and skeletal trees of winter were bleak and angular, only vaguely representational and totally individual.

‘These are wonderful,' I said.

I glanced at him, open admiration in my eyes.

He blushed. He had the kind of complexion which colours easily. I found that endearing. I blushed easily too, and hated it, so I felt for him. He shuffled his feet nervously and put his hands back in his pockets. ‘You enjoy looking at drawings and paintings?' he queried.

I nodded.

‘Anything in particular?'

It was my turn to hesitate. I wasn't used to talking about art. My husband and I did not have those kinds of conversations. In fact, we didn't have any kind of conversation at all. He told me what to do and I did it. Anything in order not to provoke those outbursts of rage I was so afraid of.

‘Oh, everything really . . .' I began.

He was smiling at me encouragingly but I was sure I must sound pathetic. I strove to explain. ‘I go to galleries when I can, but mostly I've only been able to look at books. I get them from the library and I've tried to gain a sense of how painting and sculpture has developed. Somebody in almost every period has made some kind of gigantic leap forward, haven't they? Leonardo da Vinci broke every rule in the book during the Renaissance. But who could have dreamed that one day we would have the Impressionists and the Cubists? There's so much that's wonderful. And it's all led to what modern painters are trying to do today, and it's just so exciting . . .'

I paused. I seemed to have progressed from stupefied silence to verbal diarrhoea. But he was looking at me as if he was fascinated by what I was saying.

‘You like abstracts then?'

I nodded.

‘That's what I try to do, well mostly. These are inclined to be my bread and butter.' He patted the pocket containing his sketches. ‘It's the use of colour and shape that intrigues me. You see, you're right about every generation making a leap forward. You wouldn't think any artist could still produce something new, something original. But we can. Well, some can. The best ones.'

I noticed that he had stopped stammering.

He spoke with quiet enthusiasm, his voice a slow drawl, gentle as his eyes. ‘Have you seen the Kandinsky exhibition at the Royal Academy?' he asked suddenly.

I shook my head. It was hard for me to get away for long enough to visit any central London galleries, and in any case I rarely had money of my own for fares and admission fees.

‘But you know him, you know Kandinsky?' he persisted.

‘Oh yes. Wassily Kandinsky. He was so ahead of his time it's difficult to believe that he's been dead for over half a century. I think he was an absolute genius.'

He nodded his agreement. ‘Of course he was and you must see the exhibition. You really must. No book can do justice to the scale and the drama of Kandinsky. Look, I'll take you. I'd love to take you, I really would . . .'

I was startled. ‘You don't know anything about me,' I blurted out suddenly. ‘I can't go anywhere with you.'

‘N-no, of course not. I'm s-sorry.' He backed off at once. And I noticed that the stammer was back.

I could feel the tears pricking again. I looked away.

‘I kn-know that you need a friend,' he said hesitantly.

I suppose I wore my pain like a cloak in those days. His voice was even more quiet and gentle. I couldn't stop myself shedding just a few more tears.

He reached out and touched my cheek, very lightly. ‘Are you s-sure you couldn't come, it wouldn't take long, we c-could go on the Tube.'

Hesitant he might have been, but he wasn't giving up easily. I was later to learn that was very much part of the man. He didn't give up – not on anything or anyone that he cared about. None the less, what he was suggesting, such a small thing, was quite impossible.

I shook my head.

‘Well, look, perhaps we could m-meet here again and just talk. C-could you come tomorrow afternoon?'

‘I don't know.' He obviously realised that I was not free to do as I pleased. He did not, however, ask if I was married. Instead he just said, with that boyish grin: ‘O-or the next day?'

‘Well, perhaps,' I heard myself reply, thinking that I must be quite mad. Didn't I have enough troubles?

‘I'll be here,' he told me firmly, without even a hint of a stammer.

He walked with me through the garden and up the path to the car park where I had left my bicycle chained to a post. My bike was about the only thing I owned that I valued. It made it possible for me to escape at least sometimes from the horrible reality of my life. About the nearest I ever got to any feeling of freedom was when I cycled through Richmond Park to the Isabella, or down by the river, or to any other of my special haunts.

I sought out peace and tranquillity. And the few snatched hours I managed to steal in these places were precious to me.

It was extraordinary to have met someone who I felt understood that, and so much else about me, even though we were still strangers. Carl said very little that first time, but walked close by my side. Silent. Calm. It felt good, somehow, from the beginning.

He watched me as I unchained my bicycle – a bright red mountain bike, my last present from Gran. It had been state of the art when she had given it to me and I was still very proud of it. I kept it spotlessly clean and shiny.

‘I could give you a lift in my van,' he said eventually. ‘The bike will fit in the back, I think.'

I replied far too quickly. ‘No,' I said at once, and my voice was much louder and sharper than I had intended.

He held up both hands, palms towards me. ‘No, o-of course not. I'm s-sorry . . .'

I battled to recover myself. The thought of arriving home loaded into a strange van sent me into a panic. It also made me remember how dangerous it would be for me even to consider seeing this man again.

Swiftly I clambered aboard my bike and set off. ‘The day after tomorrow,' I called over my shoulder. ‘I don't think I can make it after all.'

I could barely see his face. He was already in the distance and in any case I had to watch the road. He did not shout after me. But I was aware of him standing there, staring silently at my retreating back.

I did not return to the Isabella two days later. I wanted to, but I did not dare. I didn't visit the garden for almost three weeks – although almost every day I thought about my gentle American stranger.

Eventually I did go back there, telling myself there was nothing unusual in this. After all, the garden was one of my special places and I was certainly not going there in the hope of meeting the stranger again.

But as I wandered through the garden I was somehow led to the same tree trunk and I did vaguely wonder if he would be there. It was a silly thought and I knew it. I gave myself a telling off as I sat down on the old broken tree and threw a few pieces of stale bread at the ducks.