Хилари Боннер - A Deep Deceit

‘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.