A Deep Deceit by Hilary Bonner Page A

barely been alone together. I had never had even the most casual and innocent boyfriend. I barely knew what to expect even of our wedding night – Gran had been an excellent tutor of Shakespeare, the Magna Carta and trigonometry but, predictably enough, sex education had not featured on her curriculum – let alone our life together.
    I just knew that this marriage was what Gran wanted, that she thought it was the right thing to do and she had never let me down. But, of course, she had a blind spot when it came to Christianity and those who represented it. She honestly thought she could do no better thing on earth than to marry off her awkward unworldly granddaughter to a clergyman – and, more than that, the pastor of her own chapel.
    The truth was that she had never really looked beyond the pulpit at the man himself. And, slavishly following her wishes as I always had done, neither did I until it was too late.
    Gran died within six months of the wedding and after that there was no one in the world for me to turn to apart from my new husband.
    And he turned out to be a monster wearing a dog collar.
    I dread to think what might have happened to me were it not for Carl.

Six
    I could not travel. I certainly could not go abroad. I had never been abroad in my life. I did not even have a passport.
    But Carl used to take me with him to his homeland. Through his wonderful stories I felt as if I had toured the Florida Keys, driven over the Seven-mile Bridge, drunk in the bars of Key West, visited Hemingway’s house, ridden the Conch Train, basked in the tropical sun and even danced in the streets after dark in the hazy hippieland of Carl’s childhood.
    Carl had such a wonderful way of bringing it all to life.
    He told me stories of how he grew up with the smell of oil paint in his nostrils. From when he was a very little boy he used to sit at his father’s feet as he painted and was allowed to visit the studios of many of the other painters, including Eugene Otto, who became perhaps Key West’s first really well-known painter.
    Carl’s childhood sounded so exciting to me, although I knew it had not actually been a very happy one. His father had never achieved the success he hoped for as an artist and as a result – or that was his excuse, Carl used to say – had consoled himself with drink and drugs. As time passed the days spent painting were increasingly replaced by days passed in a drunken drugged haze.
    â€˜What about your mother?’ I had asked him once as we sat together in the little public garden on the cliffside off the road to Hale, where a splendid Barbara Hepworth bronze stands proudly before the backdrop of what must be one of the most beautiful sea views in the world.
    Carl’s eyes grew wistful. But he just shrugged. ‘In the beginning she often used to join in. I suppose it was fun to start with, that’s how it is with drugs, isn’t it? She smoked dope, but I never saw her do anything else, not like him . . .’ Carl shuddered. ‘Anyway, it meant I had plenty of time to myself . . .’
    Indeed, from what I could gather the young Carl was more or less ignored by both his parents most of the time. He ran free in the streets, learning to cook and fend for himself from an early age, and even, when things got really bad, how to hustle and beg from tourists.
    â€˜I was good at that,’ he told me, smiling.
    â€˜I’m surprised you didn’t turn into a druggie yourself.’
    Carl was as reasonable and logical as ever. ‘I suppose you go one way or the other,’ he replied quietly. ‘I’ve known people who regularly smoke dope and even do coke who are just fine. It wasn’t like that with my folks, that’s all . . .’
    He didn’t mind telling me tales of the folklore and history of Key West, in fact, I think he positively enjoyed doing so, but when it came to confiding in me about his