A Deep Deceit by Hilary Bonner Page A

autumn, were caught by net in shallow water, a process known as seining. Great mountains of the small silvery fish would be dumped on the harbour side, then salted in big wooden tubs and exported to the Mediterranean in sailing ships. I could see the scenes so clearly: the men on their boats emptying their nets and on shore women, children, the elderly, picking up the fish, sorting them, carrying them to the salt vats, everyone involved in gathering this extraordinary autumn harvest. Maybe I romanticised it inside my head, but I couldn’t help it. Neither could I help being enthralled by the tales of the wreckers and smugglers whose wild exploits form such a part of Cornish history. St Ives had relied almost entirely on its tourist industry for decades but, in my opinion anyway, the old fishing port had not to lost its unique character, its special magic.
    I gazed out to sea, blinking against that last brilliant fire of the sun. The light in St Ives is almost always special, which is why artists still flock there, but that day it somehow seemed more spectacular than ever.
    Switching my gaze briefly inland, I saw Fenella Austen disappear into the narrow streets of the town, no doubt to pester somebody else.
    â€˜Let’s forget the b-bloody woman,’ said Carl.
    â€˜Too right,’ I replied. ‘Stand still.’
    I used his shoulder to lean against as I removed my shoes and socks, something I almost always did on the beach unless the weather was really bitterly cold. I loved the feel of the coarse damp sand against my bare feet. I dug my heels in and curled up my toes.
    Carl grinned at me. ‘Come along, Robinson,’ he said and he grasped my hand and led me along the beach at a trot.
    Laughing together, the way we did so much of the time, we eventually slowed to a walk and spent several dreamy minutes enjoying the sunset and looking at the boats before we decided to double back and have that drink as intended in the Sloop.
    A few days later, right out of the blue, Mariette invited me to her house for what she described as a ‘girls’ night in’. ‘A good gossip and a few drinks,’ she said. ‘Bring a bottle.’
    I was quite excited. In spite of everything it seemed that I was beginning to exist as an individual. It felt as if I were being invited into some kind of inner circle.
    Carl seemed pleased for me too, although, as we were meeting well after dark at 7 p.m., he insisted that he walk me to Mariette’s house and pick me up later, and he cautioned me to take care when he left me at the door of her cottage at the top end of Fore Street, just a few minutes walk from the library.
    â€˜Don’t be silly.’ I smiled at him and he had the grace to look a bit sheepish before grinning back at me.
    Mariette still lived with her mother. The first surprise came in the narrow hallway of their cottage, two-bedroomed, I knew, but not an awful lot bigger than ours, which was so cluttered you could hardly make your way through. The walls were lined on either side with shelves packed with brassware. Loads of the stuff.
    â€˜Front door was open one day and a party of tourists just walked straight in; they thought the place was a shop,’ murmured Mariette smilingly. ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet,’ she continued as she led the way into the small lace-curtained front room.
    More pieces of brass were everywhere, horse brasses, brass weights, plates, jugs, candlesticks and a vast assortment of ornaments ranging from a Madonna and Child to a range of animals including cats, dogs, pigs and rabbits.
    â€˜She’s got about 4000 pieces,’ said Mariette, gesturing me to a chintz-covered armchair. ‘Cleans ’em in rotation and it takes her an hour and a half every day.’
    â€˜Amazing,’ I said. It was the best I could come up with.
    â€˜Now you know the Cornish are barking,’ Mariette giggled.
    I did not meet Mrs Brenda Powell that