Ghostwritten
Ghostwritten
Isabel Wolff
‘A deeply moving read – I loved it’ Dinah Jeffries, author of The Tea Planter’s WifeAs a child in the Second World War, Klara was interned in a Japanese prison camp on Java during the occupation. Her childhood years became an extraordinary and harrowing story of survival, a story that few people have heard.Jenni is a ‘ghost’: she writes the lives of other people – and Klara is her latest subject. Haunted by a childhood tragedy, Jenni finds it easier to take refuge in the memories of others than to dwell on her own.But as Jenni and Klara begin to get to know each other, Jenni begins to do much more than shed light on Klara’s family and girlhood in a neglected part of Second World War history. She is forced to examine her own devastating memories, too. Perhaps, finally, the two women will be able to lay the ghosts of their pasts to rest…Gripping, poignant and beautifully researched, Ghostwritten is a story of survival and love, of memory and hope.
GHOSTWRITTEN
ISABEL WOLFF
Praise for Isabel Wolff (#ulink_40b965af-acd6-587a-a391-014729c79e9f)
‘An engaging read and an intriguing page-turner.’
Sainsbury’s Magazine
‘Deftly blends past and present, romance and mystery, and a theme of forgiveness and redemption …’
Huffington Post
‘Isabel Wolff is a wonderful writer who weaves humour and pathos to great effect.’
Wendy Holden, Daily Mail
‘Intriguing and tugs at the heartstrings.’
Katie Fforde
‘An intelligent and deeply romantic tale. I loved it.’
Lisa Jewell
Dedication (#ulink_a6ef7ba2-3e0a-5435-b9a5-a2e44e2e0eb6)
In memory of my mother
Table of Contents
Title Page (#u296341c6-bf1a-5053-aa35-c47428dca726)
Praise for Isabel Wolff (#uf72d2d6d-82f2-5b60-b4ab-ac93aedfcf89)
Dedication (#ubbcb2ad5-8506-5b9e-869c-6986573f1a01)
Epigraph (#u89720ac7-9b19-517f-b0cf-6e7c10e0d1e7)
Prologue (#uffd33590-aec3-55fa-a97a-9066c2c6891c)
Chapter One (#uaecc89f9-9614-5b8f-a7ed-786ce7be4ffa)
Chapter Two (#u8feb448e-ab92-545f-8482-ad4a47ebdf13)
Chapter Three (#ud8a041a2-66cc-566c-a999-6f299170f59e)
Chapter Four (#udfa26d68-f9b5-5916-985f-a5e49f440e41)
Chapter Five (#u289711a3-4db2-5a65-a534-19639d271ef4)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Bibliography (#litres_trial_promo)
Q&A with Isabel Wolff (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Isabel Wolff (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
The past is never dead. It isn’t even past.
William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun
PROLOGUE (#ulink_450d7d88-056a-5bbc-8e34-fc2a7cc83c71)
31 August 1987
Holidaymakers speckle the beach, reclining behind brightly striped windbreaks, hands held to eyes against the late afternoon sun as they gaze at the glittering sea. On the horizon squats a huge grey tanker; in the middle distance a scattering of white-sailed yachts, their spinnakers billowed and taut. At the shoreline a young couple in surfing gear are launching a yellow canoe. He holds it while she climbs in, then he jumps on and they paddle away, the boat rocking and bumping through the swell. Two little girls in pink swimsuits stop paddling for a moment to watch them then dash in and out of the water, shrieking with laughter. Behind them, a family is playing French cricket. The ball soars towards the rocks, pursued by a dog, barking wildly, its claws driving up a spray of wet sand.
On the cliff path behind the beach, people are queuing at the wooden hut for tea and biscuits, or an ice cream, or bucket and spade or a ready-inflated Lilo, which is what a couple of teenage boys are buying now. ‘Don’t take it in the sea,’ warns the woman behind the counter. The taller boy shakes his head then he and his friend carry the airbed down the worn granite steps to the beach.
Here, the sand is pale and dry, glinting with mica. As they head for the water, the boys throw a covetous glance at a blonde woman in a black bikini, who’s lying on a white towel, perfectly still. She’s enjoying the warmth of the sun and the sound of the sea pulling in and out, as steady as breathing. A sandfly lands on her cheek and she brushes it away, then pushes herself up, resting on her elbows. She gazes at the headland, where the grass has dried to a pale gold: then she looks at the dark-haired man sitting beside her, and gives him an indolent smile. Now she turns on her front, reaches behind to unclip her bikini, then hands him a tube of Ambre Solaire. The man hesitates, glancing at the woman’s two children who are building a sandcastle a few feet away, then he removes the cap and starts rubbing the cream onto the woman’s shoulders. As his palm strokes her skin, she sighs with pleasure.
Her daughter, kneeling in the sand, looks up. Seeing the man’s hand moving over her mother’s waist, the girl reddens, then stumbles to her feet. ‘Let’s go rock-pooling,’ she says to her little brother.
He shakes his blond head and continues digging. ‘No.’
‘But I want you to.’
‘I’d rather stay with Mum.’
The girl picks up her plastic sandals and bangs them together. ‘You have to come with me.’
‘Why?’
She puts on the right shoe. ‘To help me.’
‘Don’t want to help you.’
‘Well you’ve got to …’ She shoves her left foot into the other sandal, bends to do it up, then grabs the bucket that the boy was filling and empties it. ‘I’ll carry this; you take the net.’
The boy shrugs his narrow shoulders, then stands. He hitches up his red swimming trunks, which are hand-me-downs and much too big; he picks up the net lying nearby.
Their mother lifts her head. ‘You don’t have long,’ she says. ‘We’ll be leaving at six, so you’re to come back when you hear the bell from the tea hut. Did you hear me?’ she adds to her daughter. ‘Hold his hand now. You must hold his hand.’ The girl gives a sullen nod then starts to walk towards the rocks that spill down from the low cliff to the sea. Her brother follows her, dragging the net, its stick leaving a sinuous trail, like the tail of the yellow kite which he now notices, swaying high up, against the blue. He cranes his neck to watch it, one eye closed against the sun.
The girl glances behind and sees that he’s not following her. ‘Ted!’ she calls. ‘Come on!’ She wants to get as far as possible from their mother and her so-called ‘friend’. ‘Teddy!’ The little boy tears his gaze from the kite and follows his sister, jumping onto her footprints, leaving no tracks of his own. A toddler wobbles across his path, naked except for a sun hat, then tumbles over, wails, and is hastily scooped up.
Now they’re passing a boy and girl who are digging. The trench they’ve made is six foot long, and so deep that they’re visible only from the waist up.
Ted stops, entranced. ‘Look, Evie!’ She turns. ‘It’s ’normous.’
‘It is,’ she agrees seriously. ‘Must have taken ages,’ she says to the girl who is about her own age, although tall and long-limbed. She’s wearing a white T-shirt with a large black ‘J’ on it. Evie wonders what it stands for. Julie? Jane?
‘It did take ages,’ the girl replies. Her face is a pale oval framed by long dark hair. She tucks a hank behind her ear and nods at the rampart of displaced sand. ‘We’ve been digging all afternoon, haven’t we, Tom?’
Tom, a thickset boy of about eight, straightens up. ‘We’re making a tunnel.’ He leans on his spade. ‘Like that Channel Tunnel they’re building.’
‘It was my idea,’ the girl adds. ‘We’ve done it all by ourselves.’ She turns to Tom. ‘Mum’ll be surprised when she sees it.’
Tom laughs. ‘She’ll be amazed.’
‘You making a real tunnel?’ Ted asks him.
‘Yes.’ Tom points to a deep recess at the back of the hole.
Ted peers at it. ‘Can I go in?’
‘Maybe,’ Tom shrugs. ‘When it’s finished. But we’ll have to be quick because the tide’s coming up.’
‘The time’s coming up?’ Ted looks at the sea.
‘The tide, silly,’ says Evie. ‘Come on, Ted, we’d better go …’
On the other side of the beach, the children’s mother closes her eyes as her companion’s hands caress the swell of her hips. ‘That’s lovely,’ she says. ‘Can you hear me purring?’ she adds with a laugh. Someone nearby is listening to Radio One. She can hear the Pet Shop Boys. ‘Always on My Mind’.
Her boyfriend lies down beside her. ‘You’re always on my mind, Babs,’ he murmurs.
She puts her hand to his chest, spreading her fingers against his skin. ‘This is the best holiday I’ve had for years …’
By now her children have reached the rocks – jagged grey boulders thinly striped with white quartz. They clamber up, and Ted peers into the first pool. He stares at the seaweed, some brown and knobbly, some as green and smooth as lettuce. He pokes his net at a sea anemone and, to his delight, it retracts its maroon tendrils. Then he spies a shrimp and thrusts the net at it. ‘Caught something!’ he shouts, but as he inspects the mesh his face falls – all that’s in it is a brown winkle. ‘Evie!’ he calls, dismayed to see that she is fifty or sixty feet away. ‘Wait for me!’ But Evie keeps on jumping across the rocks, the bucket swinging from her arm.
As Ted follows her he looks out to sea and spots a yellow canoe with two people in it, lifting and twisting their paddles. He hears a distant roar, and sees a motorboat rip across the water, the wake fanning out in widening chevrons that make the canoe rock and sway. Then he returns his gaze to Evie. She’s peering into a pool. ‘Evie!’ he yells, but she doesn’t respond.
Ted steps onto the next boulder but it’s crusted with tiny black mussels that cut into his feet. The rock beside it looks smooth, but when he stands on it, it wobbles violently, and his thin arms flail as he tries not to fall. Sudden tears sting his eyes. The rocks are sharp, and his trunks won’t stay up and his sister won’t wait for him, let alone hold his hand like she’s supposed to. ‘Evie …’ His throat aches as he tries not to cry. ‘Eeevieeee!’
At last she turns. Seeing his distress, she makes her way back to him. ‘What’s the matter, Ted?’ She stares at his feet. ‘Why didn’t you wear your beach shoes?’
He sniffs. ‘I forgot.’
Evie heaves an exasperated sigh then turns towards the sea. ‘Then we’d better go this way – the rocks are easier. Mind the barnacles,’ she adds over her shoulder. ‘Ooh there’s a good pool.’ It’s long and narrow, like a little loch, with bands of leathery-looking weed that sway to and fro. As Evie’s shadow falls onto the surface, a small brown fish darts across the bottom. ‘Give me the net!’ Ted passes it to her and takes the bucket as Evie crouches down, thrusts the net under a rock and swiftly withdraws it. There’s a glint of silver. ‘Got it!’ she yells. ‘Fill the bucket, Ted! Quick!’
Ted dips the bucket in the pool then hands it to her. Evie tips the fish in and it swims to the bottom then scoots under a shred of bladderwrack. ‘It’s huge,’ Evie breathes. ‘And there’s a shrimp!’ She feels a sudden euphoria – her loathing of her mother’s ‘friend’ forgotten. ‘Let’s get some more.’ As she dips the net in the water again she hears, faintly, the bell that the woman in the tea hut rings when she’s closing.
A few yards away the waves are breaking over the rocks; the two children can feel the spray on the backs of their legs.
Ted shivers. ‘Is it high time yet, Evie?’
Evie remembers Clive’s hands on their mother’s flanks. She thinks of his hairy chest and his thick arms, with their tattoos, and of the grunts that she hears through the bedroom wall.
‘It isn’t high tide,’ she answers. ‘Not yet …’
Ted picks up the net again. ‘The bell’s ringing.’
Evie shrugs. ‘I can’t hear it.’
‘I can, and ’member what Mum said, she said—’
‘Let’s find a crab!’ Evie yells. ‘Come on!’
Thrilled by the idea, Ted follows his sister, relieved that she’s going more slowly now, even if it’s only to avoid spilling their precious catch. Here the rocks are not sharp with mussels, but treacherous with seaweed, which slips like satin beneath Ted’s feet. He longs for Evie to hold his hand, but doesn’t like to ask in case it makes him seem babyish.
‘We should have brought some ham,’ he hears her say. ‘Crabs like ham. We’ll bring some tomorrow, okay?’
Ted nods happily.
On the beach, the man flying the kite is reeling it in. The mother of the girls in the pink swimsuits is calling them out of the sea. They run towards her, teeth chattering, and she wraps a towel around each one while the encroaching waves lick at their footprints. The family that were playing French cricket are packing up: the father hurls the ball and the dog tears after it.
People are folding their chairs, or collapsing sunshades and packing up baskets and bags as the sea advances, then retreats, then pushes forward again.
‘Five more minutes, Clive,’ Barbara says.
He winds a lock of her hair around his finger. ‘So what’s happening tonight?’
‘Well, I thought we’d walk to Trennick and get some fish and chips; we could buy a nice bottle of wine, and then … I’ll get the kids into bed early.’
‘You do that,’ Clive whispers. He kisses her. ‘You do that, Babs.’ Barbara smiles to think that she’s only known Clive for eight weeks. She remembers the rush of desire when she saw him – the first time she’d felt anything for a man in years. She thinks of how she’d loathed the job – sitting at her desk all day with nothing to see through the window but lorries and trucks with JJ Haulage on them; the only thing on her wall a road map of the UK. Just as she was wondering how much more of it she could stand, Clive had walked in. Tall and dark, with the shoulders of an ox, he’d reminded Barbara of a drawing of the Minotaur in one of Evie’s books. He’d come about his payslip – five overnights to Harwich that were missing. Flustered, Barbara had promised to correct it; then he’d suggested, cheekily, that she could ‘make it up to him’. She’d laughed and said maybe she would …
She’d told him that she had two kids – though no ex, God rest Finn’s soul; but Clive said that she could have had ten kids in tow and it wouldn’t have mattered. The fact that – at thirty-eight – he’s ten years older than she is makes Barbara feel light-headed.
The tricky thing had been introducing him to Evie and Ted. Ted had taken little notice of him, turning back to his Lego, but Evie had been hostile, and when Barbara told them that Clive would be coming on the holiday, she’d run to her room, slamming the door. But, as Barbara had said to her, Evie had friends – why shouldn’t Mummy have a friend? Why shouldn’t Mummy have a bit of happiness? Didn’t Mummy deserve it after all she’d been through? But Evie had simply stared at her, as though trying to drill a hole in her soul. Well she’ll just have to get used to him, Barbara decides, as Clive kisses her fingertips …
Suddenly Barbara realises that the bell has stopped ringing. She sits up.
On the rocks, Ted is getting tired. But now Evie has found another pool, a few feet from the water’s edge.
‘There’ll be crabs in here,’ she says authoritatively. ‘Okay, Ted, you hold the bucket. Be careful,’ she warns as she passes it to him. She takes the net. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I want to hold the net.’
‘You’re too young.’ Confident that this has settled the matter, she returns her gaze to the pool.
Ted thumps the bucket down on a ledge. ‘I’m five!’
‘Well I’m nine, so it’s better if I do it. It’s not easy catching crabs.’
‘It’s my turn. You caught the fish – and the shrimp. So it’s my turn with the net now and—’
‘Shhhh!’ Evie is holding up her left hand, her eyes fixed on the water. ‘I saw one,’ she hisses. ‘A big one.’
‘Let me get it.’
Evie leans forward, very slowly, then jabs the net at a clump of weed. As she lifts it out, a khaki-coloured crab, the size of her hand, is dangling from the mesh with one claw.
Ted lunges for the net. To his amazement he manages to wrest it from her; as he does so, the crab falls back into the water then pedals under a rock.
Evie’s mouth chasms with outrage. ‘You idiot!’
Ted’s chin dimples. ‘I’m not.’
‘You are.’ She glares at him. ‘You’re an idiot – and a baby: a stupid little baby! No wonder Mum calls you “Teddy Bear”.’
His face crumples. ‘Sorry, Evie …’ He offers her the net. ‘Catch it again. Please …’
Evie’s tempted, but then she notices how close the waves now are. ‘No. We’ve got to get back.’ She tips the bucket into the pool and the fish and shrimp dart away. Then she sets off for the beach, which looks improbably distant, as if viewed through the wrong end of a telescope. She can just see Tom and his sister, flinging sand out of that hole as though their lives depended on it. She turns back to Ted. He’s still standing by the pool, his fringe blown by the breeze. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I want to get the crab!’ Ted’s eyes glisten with tears. ‘I want to show it to Mum.’
‘You can’t.’
‘I can!’ A sob convulses his thin ribcage. ‘I can get it, Evie!’ He squats down and thrusts the net into the pool, frantically.
‘It’s too late! You ruined it – now come on!’ Ted doesn’t move. ‘I’m wait-ing.’ Her hands drop to her hips. ‘Right! Ten, nine, eight …’
Ted glances at her.
‘Seven, six, five …’
He looks longingly at the pool ‘But …’
‘Three, two … one! I’m going!’
Still sobbing, Ted starts to descend, but Evie is already springing across the rocks, the soles of her shoes slapping the stone. ‘This way,’ she calls as she moves higher up, towards the cliff. ‘Put your hand on that rock there.’ She points to it, then leaps across a gully. She jumps onto the next rock, then the next, stepping from boulder to boulder until, at last, she’s yards from the beach. Evie jumps onto the sand, surprised at how relieved she feels. There’s the girl with the ‘J’ T-shirt, sitting by the trench, observing Tom with a blend of curiosity and admiration. Evie stands beside her as he wriggles into the tunnel, then she walks on, looking for shells. She stops to pick up a piece of sea glass but decides that it’s too new-looking to keep. As she straightens up she can hear gulls crying, and the barking of a dog. Then she sees her mother coming towards her, in her dress now, scanning the rocks, one hand to her eyes, lips pursed. Evie lifts her left arm and waves. Her mother waves back, smiling with relief. Then her expression changes to one of consternation, then alarm. She starts running towards Evie.
Evie turns and looks behind. Her heart stops.
ONE (#ulink_ab5c3fc3-8da3-50ae-9490-70fbd7587e1c)
I guess it was inevitable that Nina’s wedding would change things between Rick and me, though I could never have guessed by how much. Up until then, it had been so easy being with Rick – we’d fitted into each other’s lives as though we’d always known one another. And now we were going to a wedding – our first one together – and suddenly being with Rick was hard.
‘They’ve got great weather for it,’ he remarked as I locked the door of our small north London flat. The early haze had given way to a pristine blue sky.
‘A good omen,’ I said as we walked to the car.
Rick beeped open his old Golf. ‘I didn’t know you were superstitious, Jenni. But then I don’t know everything about you.’ There was a slight edge to his voice.
‘Well, I am superstitious.’ I put our gift, in its silvery bag, on the back seat. ‘But then I was born on Friday the thirteenth.’
Rick smiled. ‘That should make you immune.’
We drove west, talking pleasantly, but with an unfamiliar reserve, born of the anguished conversations that we’d been having over the past two or three days.
We sped down the A40, and were soon driving along rural roads past fields still stubbled and pale from the harvest. It was very warm for mid-October, and clear – an Indian summer’s day, piercingly beautiful with its golden light, and long shadows.
Nina’s parents lived at the southern end of the Cotswolds. Over the years I’d visited the house for weekends, or the occasional party – Nina’s twenty-first, and her thirtieth, which was already five years ago, I reflected soberly. For fifteen years, she and Honor had been my closest friends. And today it was Nina’s wedding, and before long, no doubt, there’d be a christening.
Rick glanced at me. ‘You okay, Jen?’
‘Yes. Why?’
He changed down a gear. ‘You sighed.’
‘Oh … no reason. I’m just a bit tired.’ A bad sleeper at the best of times, I’d lain awake most of the night. As I’d stared into the darkness, I’d longed for Rick to hold me and whisper that everything would be alright, but he’d turned away.
‘So where do we go from here?’ For a moment I thought that Rick was talking about us. ‘Which way?’
I spotted the sign for Bisley. ‘Go right.’
Minutes later we turned into Nailsford Lane, where a clutch of white balloons bobbed from a farm gate.
‘Looks like we’re the first,’ Rick remarked as we drove into the parking field, which was empty except for an abandoned tractor. He parked in the shade of a huge copper beech; as he opened his door I could hear its leaves rustle and rattle. ‘Is it going to be a big do?’
‘Pretty big – about eighty, Nina told me.’
‘So who will I know, apart from her and Jon?’
I pulled down the visor and checked my reflection. ‘I’m not sure – she’s invited quite a few of the people we knew at Bristol; not that I’ve stayed in touch with that many …’ I winced at my red-veined eyes and pale cheeks. ‘I’ve only really kept up with Nina and Honor.’ I wound my long dark hair into a bun, then pinned onto that the pale pink silk flower that matched my dress.
Rick pulled a blue tie out of his jacket pocket. ‘So will Honor be there?’
‘Of course.’ Rick groaned; I glanced at him. ‘Don’t be like that, Rick – Honor’s lovely.’
‘She’s exhausting.’
‘Exuberant,’ I countered, wishing that my boyfriend was a bit keener on my best friend.
He grimaced. ‘She never stops talking. So she’s in the right job, not that I listen.’
‘You should – her show’s the best thing on Radio Five.’ As Rick looped and twisted the blue silk, I suppressed a dark smile. He’s tying the knot, I thought.
Reaching into the back for the gift, I saw more cars arriving, bumping slowly over the field. We made our way across the grass, which was studded with dandelion clocks, their downy seeds drifting like plankton. We strolled up Church Walk then pushed on the lych gate, which was garlanded with moon daisies, and went up the gravelled path.
Jon was waiting anxiously by the porch with his brothers, all three men in morning dress with yellow silk waistcoats. They greeted us warmly and we chatted for a minute or two; then the photographer, who had been sorting out his camera on top of a tomb, offered to take a picture of Rick and me.
‘Let’s have a smile,’ he said as he clicked away. ‘A bit more – it’s a wedding, not a funeral,’ he added genially. ‘That’s better …’ There was another volley of clicks then he squinted at the screen. ‘Lovely.’
Tim handed Rick and me our Order of Service sheets and we walked into the cool of the church.
I’d been to St Jude’s before, but had forgotten how small it was, and how simple the interior, with its plain walls, wooden roof and box pews. There was the smell of beeswax and dust and age, mingled with the scent of the oriental lilies that festooned the columns and pulpit. It was also very light, with clear glass, except for the East window, which depicted Christ blessing the children. The sun streamed through its coloured panes, scattering jewelled beams across the whitewashed walls.
‘Lovely church,’ Rick murmured as we sat down.
‘It is,’ I agreed, though today its beauty was a shard in my heart. Rick and I glanced through our service sheets as the church filled up, heels tapping over the flagstones, wood creaking as people sat down, then chatted quietly or just listened to the Bach partita that the organist was playing.
Jon’s parents went to their seats. Behind them I recognised a colleague of Nina’s, and now here was Honor, in a green ‘bombshell’ dress that hugged her curves and complemented her creamy skin and blonde hair. She blew me and Rick an extravagant kiss then sat near the front.
Now Jon and his older brother, James, took their places together, while their younger brother, Tim, ushered in a few latecomers. Nina’s mother, in a turquoise opera coat and matching hat, smiled benignly as she made her way to her pew.
I turned and caught a glimpse of Nina. She stood in the porch, in the white silk dupion sheath that Honor and I had helped her choose, her veil drifting behind her.
As the Bach drew to an end, the vicar stepped in front of the altar and welcomed everyone. Then there was a burst of Handel, and we all stood as Nina walked down the aisle on her father’s arm.
After the opening prayers we sang ‘Morning Has Broken’; then Honor stepped up to the lectern to read the sonnet that Nina had chosen.
‘My true love hath my heart, and I have his,’ she began, her dulcet voice echoing slightly. ‘By just exchange one for the other given. I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss. There never was a better bargain driven …’
As Honor read on, I felt a sting of envy. The lovers understood each other so well. I thought I’d had that with Rick …
‘My true love hath my heart – and I have his,’ Honor concluded.
The vicar raised his hands. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony …’ I looked at Nina and Jon, side by side in a pool of light, and wondered whether these words would ever be said for Rick and me. ‘Nor taken in hand wantonly,’ the vicar was saying, ‘but reverently, discreetly, advisedly and soberly, and in the fear of God, duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained.’ At that I felt Rick shift slightly. ‘First, it was ordained for the procreation of children …’ I stole a glance at him, but his face gave nothing away. ‘Therefore, if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else, hereafter, forever hold his peace.’
I tried to follow the service but found it suddenly impossible to focus on the music, or the Address, or on the beauty and solemnity of the vows. As Nina and Jon committed themselves to each other, with unfaltering voices, I felt another stab of pain. The register was signed, the last hymn sung and the blessing given; then, as Widor’s Toccata mingled with the pealing bells, we followed Nina and Jon outside.
We showered the couple with petals and took snaps with our phones; then the photographer began the formal photos of them while we all milled around by the porch.
‘Great to see you! Fantastic weather!’
‘Lovely service – much prefer the King James.’
‘Me too. Well read, Honor!’
‘Should we make our way to the house?’
‘Not yet. I think they want a group pic.’
Rick and I, keen to get away from the crowd, strolled through the churchyard; we looked at the gravestones, most of which were very old and eroded, blotched with yellow lichen.
Rick stopped in front of a slate headstone. ‘That’s odd. It’s got a pineapple on it.’
I looked at the carved image. ‘A pineapple means prosperity, as do figs, and I guess this was a prosperous area, probably because of the wool trade.’
We walked on, in silence, past stones that had angels on them, and doves and candles, the symbolism of which was clear.
We could hear the chatter of the guests, a sudden burst of Honor’s unmistakeable laughter, then the photographer’s voice. Could you look at me, Nina?
Rick approached another grave, by a yew. He peered at it. ‘This one’s got a bunch of grapes carved on it.’
‘Grapes represent the wine at the Last Supper.’
Rick glanced at me. ‘How do you know all this, Jen? I didn’t think you were religious.’
‘I had to research it for one of my books. It was years ago, but I’ve remembered a lot of it.’
Now look at each other again …
‘Here’s a rose,’ Rick said, pointing to another headstone. ‘I assume that means love?’
Oh, very romantic …
‘No. Roses show how old the person was when they died.’ I studied the worn emblem. ‘This is a full rose, which was used for adults.’ I read the inscription. ‘Mary Ann Betts … was …’ I peered at her dates. ‘Twenty-five. The stem’s severed, to show that her life was cut short.’
‘I see …’ Our conversation felt stiff and formal, as though we were strangers, not lovers.
Can we have a kiss?
‘A partially opened rose means a teenager.’
And another one. Lovely.
‘And a rosebud is for a child.’
Hold his hand now.
Rick nodded thoughtfully. ‘A sad subject.’
‘Yes …’ Okay, all stand together, please – nice and close!
Rick and I rejoined everyone for the group photo, for which the photographer climbed onto a stepladder, wobbling theatrically to make us all laugh. We smiled up at him while he clicked away then, hand in hand, Nina and Jon led us down the path, across the field, to the house.
The Old Forge was just as I remembered it – long and low, its pale stone walls ablaze with pyracantha and Virginia creeper. A large marquee filled the lawn. In the distance were the hills of Slad, the plunging pastures dotted with sheep, their bleats carrying across the valley on the still air.
We joined the receiving line, greeting both sets of parents, then the bride and groom.
Nina’s face lit up and we hugged. ‘Jenni …’
I had to fight back sudden tears. I didn’t know whether they were tears of happiness for her or of self-pity. ‘You look so beautiful, Nina.’
‘Thank you.’ She put her lips to my ear. ‘You next,’ she whispered.
Jon kissed me on the cheek, then clasped Rick’s hand. ‘Good to see you both! Thanks for coming!’
‘Congratulations, Jon,’ Rick said warmly. ‘It was a lovely service. Congratulations, Nina.’
Now we moved on into the large sunny sitting room where drinks were being served. I put our gift on a table amongst a cluster of other presents and cards. A waiter offered us a glass of champagne. Rick raised his glass. ‘Here’s to the happy couple.’
‘They are happy’ – I sipped my fizz. ‘It’s wonderful.’
‘How long have they been together?’
‘About the same as us. They got engaged on their first anniversary,’ I added neutrally, then laughed at myself for ever having thought that Rick and I might do the same.
I looked at Rick, so handsome, with his open face, short dark hair and blue gaze. I tried, and failed, to imagine life without him. We’d agreed to talk things over again the next day. Before I could think about that, though, a gong summoned us into the marquee, which was bedecked with white agapanthus and pink nerines, the tables gleaming with silver and china. We found our names, standing behind our chairs while the vicar said Grace.
Rick and I had been placed with Honor, and with Amy and Sean, whom I’d known at college but hadn’t seen for years, and an old schoolfriend of Jon’s, Al. I was glad that Nina had put him next to Honor; she’d been single for a while now, and he was very attractive. Also on our table was Nina’s godfather, Vincent Tregear. I vaguely remembered him from her twenty-first birthday. A near neighbour named Carolyn Browne introduced herself. I steeled myself for the effort of making small talk with people I don’t know; unlike Honor, I’m not good at it, and in my present frame of mind it would be harder than usual.
I heard Carolyn explain to Rick that she was a solicitor, recently retired. ‘I’m so busy though,’ she confessed, laughing. ‘I’m a governor of a local school, I play golf and bridge; I travel. I was dreading retirement, but it’s really fine.’ She smiled at Rick. ‘Not that you’re anywhere near that stage. So, what do you do?’
He unfurled his napkin. ‘I’m a teacher – at a primary school in Islington.’
‘He’s the deputy head,’ I volunteered, proudly.
Carolyn smiled at me. ‘And what about you, erm …?’
‘Jenni.’ I turned my place card towards her.
‘Jenni,’ she echoed. ‘And you’re …’ She nodded at Rick.
‘Yes, I’m Rick’s …’ The word ‘girlfriend’ made us seem like teenagers; ‘partner’ made us sound as though we were in business, not in love. ‘Other half,’ I concluded, though I disliked this too: it seemed to suggest, ominously, that we’d been sliced apart.
‘And what do you do?’ Carolyn asked me.
My heart sank – I hate talking about myself. ‘I’m a writer.’
‘A writer?’ Her face had lit up. ‘Do you write novels?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘It’s all non-fiction. But you won’t have heard of me.’
‘I read a lot, so maybe I will. What’s your name? Jenni …’ Carolyn peered at my place card. ‘Clark.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Jenni Clark …’
‘I don’t write under that name.’
‘So is it Jennifer Clark?’
‘No – what I mean is, I don’t write under any name.’ I was about to explain why, when Honor said, ‘Jenni’s a ghost.’
‘A ghost?’ Carolyn looked puzzled.
‘She ghosts things.’ Honor unfurled her napkin. ‘Strange to think that it can be a verb, isn’t it? I ghost, you ghost, he ghosts,’ she added gaily.
I rolled my eyes at Honor, then turned to Carolyn. ‘I’m a ghostwriter.’
‘Oh, I see. So you write books for people who can’t write.’
‘Or they can,’ I said, ‘but don’t have the time, or lack the confidence, or they don’t know how to shape the material.’
‘So it’s actors and pop stars, I suppose? Footballers? TV presenters?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t do the celebrity stuff – I used to, but not any more.’
‘Which is a shame,’ Honor interjected, ‘as you’d make far more money.’
‘True.’ I rested my fork. ‘But I didn’t enjoy it.’
‘Why not?’ asked Al, who was on my left.
‘It was too frustrating,’ I answered, ‘having to battle with my subjects’ egos, or finding that they didn’t turn up for the interviews; or that they’d give me some brilliant material then the next day tell me that I wasn’t to use it. So these days I only do the projects that interest me.’
Honor, who has a butterfly mind, was now discussing ghosts of the other kind. ‘I’m sure they exist,’ she said to Vincent Tregear. ‘Twenty years ago I was staying with my cousins in France; it was a warm, still day, just like today, and we were exploring this abandoned house. It was a ruin, so we could see right up to the roof … And we both heard footsteps, right above us, on the non-existent floorboards.’ She gave an extravagant shudder. ‘I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘I believe in ghosts,’ Carolyn remarked. ‘I live on my own, in an old house, and at times I’ve been aware of this … presence.’
Amy nodded enthusiastically. ‘I’ve sometimes felt a sudden chill.’ She turned to Sean. ‘Do you remember, darling, last summer? When we were in Wales?’
‘I do,’ he answered. ‘Though I believe it was because you were pregnant.’
‘No: pregnancy made me feel hot, not cold.’
‘A few years ago,’ said Al, ‘I was asleep in my flat, alone, when I suddenly woke up, convinced that someone was sitting on my bed.’
I shivered at the idea. ‘And you weren’t dreaming?’
He shook his head. ‘I was wide awake. I can still remember the weight of it, pressing down on the mattress. Yet there was no one there.’
‘How terrifying,’ I murmured.
‘It was.’ He poured me some water then filled his own glass. ‘Has anything like that ever happened to you?’
‘It hasn’t, I’m glad to say. But I don’t dismiss other people’s experiences.’
‘I’ve always been sceptical about these things,’ Sean observed. ‘I believe that if people are sufficiently on edge they can see things that aren’t really there. Like Macbeth seeing the ghost of Banquo.’
‘Shake not thy gory locks at me!’ intoned Honor, then giggled. ‘And Macbeth certainly is on edge by then, isn’t he, having murdered – what – four people?’ Then she went off on some new conversational tangent about why it was considered unlucky for actors to say ‘Macbeth’ inside a theatre. ‘People think it’s because of the evil in the story,’ she prattled away as a waiter took her plate. ‘But it’s actually because if a play wasn’t selling well, the actors would have to quickly rehearse Macbeth as that’s always popular, so doing Macbeth became associated with ill luck. Now … what are we having next?’ She picked up a gold-tasselled menu. ‘Sea bass – yum. Did you know that sea bass are hermaphrodites? The males become females at six months.’
Al, clearly uninterested in the gender-switching tendencies of our main course, turned to me. ‘So what sort of books do you write?’
‘A real mix,’ I answered. ‘Psychology, health and popular culture; I’ve done a diet book, and a couple of gardening books …’
I thought of my titles, more than twenty of them, lined up on the shelf in my study.
‘So you must learn a huge amount about all these things,’ Al said.
‘I do. It’s one of the perks.’
Carolyn sipped her wine. ‘But do you get any kind of credit?’
‘No.’
‘I thought that with ghostwritten books it usually said “with” so-and-so or “as told to”.’
‘It depends,’ I said. ‘Some ghostwriters ask for that. I don’t.’
‘So your name appears nowhere?’
‘That’s right.’
She frowned. ‘Don’t you mind?’
I shrugged. ‘Anonymity’s part of the deal. And of course the clients like it that way. They’d prefer everyone to think they’d written the book all by themselves.’
Carolyn laughed. ‘I couldn’t bear not to have any of the glory. If I’d worked that hard on something, I’d want people to know!’
‘Me too,’ chimed in Honor. ‘I don’t know why you want to hide your light under a bushel quite so much, Jen.’
‘Because it’s enough that I’ve enjoyed the work and been paid for it. I’m happy to be … invisible.’
‘You were always like that,’ Honor went on. ‘You were never one to seek the limelight – unlike me,’ she giggled. ‘I enjoy it.’
‘So are you still acting?’ Sean asked her.
‘Not for five years now,’ she answered. ‘I couldn’t take the insecurity any more, so I went into radio, which I love.’
‘I’ve heard your show,’ Amy interjected. ‘It’s really good.’
‘Thanks.’ Honor basked in the compliment for a moment. ‘And you two have had a baby, haven’t you?’
‘We have,’ Amy answered. ‘So I’m on maternity leave …’
‘And what are you working on now, Jenni?’ Carolyn asked.
I fiddled with my wine glass. ‘A baby-care guide.’
‘How lovely,’ she responded. ‘And are you a mum?’
My heart contracted. ‘No.’ I sipped my wine.
‘Doesn’t that make it difficult? Writing a book about something you haven’t been through yourself?’
‘Not at all. The client’s talked extensively to me about her experience – she’s a midwife – and I’ve written it up in a clear and, I hope, engaging way.’
‘I must buy it,’ Amy said to me. ‘What’s it called?’
‘Bringing Up Baby. It’ll be out in the spring. But I always get given a few complimentary copies, so if you give me your address I’ll send you one.’
‘Oh, that’s kind. I’ll write it down …’ Amy began looking in her bag for a pen.
‘You can contact me through my website,’ I suggested. ‘Jenni Clark Ghostwriting. So … how old’s your baby?’
At that Sean took out his phone and swiped the screen. ‘She’s called Rosie.’
I smiled at the photo. ‘She’s gorgeous. Isn’t she lovely, Honor?’
Honor peered at the image. ‘She’s a little beauty.’
‘She’s what, six months?’ I asked.
Amy’s face glowed with pride. ‘Yes – she’ll be seven months a week on Wednesday.’
‘So is she crawling?’ I went on, ‘Or starting to roll over?’ Beside me I could feel Rick stiffen.
‘She’s crawling beautifully,’ Amy replied. ‘But she’s not rolling over yet.’
Sean laughed. ‘It’ll be nerve-wracking when she does.’
‘You won’t be able to leave her on the bed or the changing table,’ I said. ‘That’s when lots of parents put the changing mat on the floor – not that I’m a parent myself, but of course we cover this in the book …’ Rick had tuned out of the conversation and was talking to Carolyn again. Al turned to me. ‘So can you write about any subject?’
‘Well, not something I could never relate to,’ I answered, ‘like particle physics – not that I’d ever get chosen for a book like that. But I’ll do almost any professional writing job: corporate reports, press releases, business pitches, memoirs …’
‘Memoirs?’ echoed Vincent Tregear. ‘You mean, writing someone’s life story?’
‘Yes – usually an older person, just for private publication.’
‘Do you enjoy that?’ Vincent wanted to know.
‘Very much. In fact it’s the best part of the job. I love immersing myself in other people’s memories.’
Vincent looked as though he was about to say something, but then Carolyn began asking him about golf, Amy was telling Rick about yoga, and Honor was chatting to Al about his work as an orthodontist. She was drawn to him, I could tell. Good old Nina for putting them together. Suddenly Honor looked at me, grinned, then tapped her teeth. ‘Al says I have a perfect bite.’
I raised my glass. ‘Congratulations!’
‘Not just good,’ Honor said. ‘Perfect!’
‘Don’t let it go to your head,’ Al said.
She laughed. ‘Where else is my bite supposed to go?’
Soon it was time for the speeches and toasts; the cake was cut, then after coffee there was a break before the evening party was to start.
Amy and Sean had to leave, to get back to their baby. Vincent Tregear also said his goodbyes. As the caterers moved back the tables, Rick and I went out into the garden.
We sat on a bench, watching the sky turn crimson, then mauve, then an inky blue in which the first stars were starting to shine.
‘Well … it’s been a great day,’ Rick pronounced. The awkwardness had returned, squatting between us like an uninvited guest.
‘It’s been a lovely day,’ I agreed. ‘We should …’
‘What?’ he murmured.
My nerve failed. ‘We should go inside. It’s getting cold.’
Rick stood up. ‘And the band’s started.’ He held out his hand.
So we returned to the marquee where Jon and Nina were dancing their first waltz. Soon everyone took to the floor. But as Rick’s arms went round me and he pulled me close, I felt that he was hugging me goodbye.
TWO (#ulink_26ecf870-0911-5c85-8be7-4b1aea708364)
‘So … what are we going to do?’ Rick asked me gently the following day.
We’d had lunch – not that I’d been able to eat – and now faced each other across our kitchen table. I shook my head, helplessly. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
‘We’ve got three options,’ Rick went on. ‘One, I change my mind; two, you change your mind; or three …’
I felt my stomach clench. ‘I don’t want to break up.’
‘Nor do I.’ Rick exhaled, hard, as though breathing on glass, then he looked at me, his blue eyes searching my face. ‘I do love you, Jen.’
‘Then you should be happy to let me have what I want.’
He flinched. ‘You know it’s not that simple.’
A silence fell in which we could hear the rumble of traffic from the City Road.
‘I keep thinking about this quote I once read,’ Rick said after a moment. ‘I can’t remember who it’s by, but it’s about how love doesn’t consist in gazing at the other person, but in looking together in the same direction.’ He shrugged. ‘But we’re not doing that.’
I cradled my coffee mug with its pattern of red hearts. ‘We’ve been together for a year and a half,’ I said quietly. ‘We’ve lived together for nine months, and we’ve been happy. Haven’t we?’ I glanced at the framed photo collage that I’d made of our first year together. There were snaps of us on top of Mount Snowdon, walking on the South Downs, sitting on the swing seat in his parents’ garden, cooking together, kissing. Then my eyes strayed to Nina’s wedding invitation on the kitchen dresser. I bitterly regretted having teasingly asked Rick when we might take our relationship forward.
‘We have been happy,’ Rick said at last. ‘That’s what makes it so hard.’
Another silence enveloped us. I could hear the hum of the fridge. ‘There is a fourth option,’ I said, ‘which is to go on as we were. So let’s just … forget marriage.’
Rick stared at me as though I were speaking in tongues. ‘This isn’t about marriage, Jen.’
I glanced at my manuscript, the typed pages stacked up on the table. Bringing Up Baby. From Newborn to 12 Months, the Definitive Infant-Care Guide. A page had fallen to the floor.
‘So what are we going to do?’ Rick asked me again.
‘I don’t know.’ A wave of resentment coursed through me. ‘I only know that I was always honest with you.’ As I picked up the sheet, random sentences leapt out at me. Great adventure of parenthood … bliss of holding your baby for the first time … what to expect, month by month.
‘You were honest.’ Rick nodded. ‘You told me right from the start that you didn’t want to have children and that this was something I had to know if we were to get involved.’
‘Yes,’ I said hotly, ‘and you said you didn’t mind, because you work with children every day. You said that your brother has four kids, so there was no pressure on you to have them. You told me that you’d never been bothered about it and that people can have a good life without children – which is true.’
‘I did feel like that, Jenni. But I’ve changed.’
‘Well, I wish you hadn’t, because now we’ve got a problem.’
Rick pushed back his chair; he went and stood by the French windows. Through the panes the plants in our small walled garden looked dusty and withered. I’d been too distracted and upset to water them. ‘People do change,’ he said quietly. ‘They’re allowed to change. And it’s crept up on me over the past few months. I’ve wanted to talk to you about it but was afraid to, precisely for this reason, but now you’ve brought the issue into the open.’
‘Why have you changed?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know – probably because I’m nearly forty now.’
‘You were nearly forty when we met.’
‘Or maybe it’s seeing the kids at school develop and grow, and wishing that I could watch my own kids do that.’
‘That didn’t seem to worry you before.’
‘True. But now it does.’
I glanced at the manuscript. ‘I think it’s because I’ve been working on this baby-care book.’ I felt my throat constrict. ‘I wish I’d never agreed to do it.’
‘The book has nothing to do with it, Jen. I wanted to be with you so much that I convinced myself I didn’t want children. Then I began to believe that because we were in love we’d naturally want to have them. So I thought you’d change your mind.’
‘Which is what you’re hoping for now?’
Rick sighed. ‘I guess I am. Because then we’d still have each other, but with the chance of family life too. I’ll be applying for head teacher posts before long: I’d like to try for jobs outside London, if you were happy to move.’
‘I’d be happy to be wherever you were,’ I said truthfully.
‘Jen …’ Rick’s face was full of sudden yearning. ‘We could have a great life: we’d be able to afford a bigger place.’ He looked around him. ‘This flat’s so small.’
‘I don’t care. I’d live in a bedsit with you if I had to. But, yes, it would be wonderful to have more space – with a bigger garden.’
He nodded. ‘I’ve been thinking about that garden a lot. I see a lawn, with children running around on it, laughing. But then they fade, like ghosts, because I know you don’t want any.’ Rick sat down again, then reached for my hands. ‘I want nothing more than to share my life with you, Jen, but we have to want the same things. And the question of whether or not we have children isn’t one that we can compromise on; and if we can’t agree about it—’
I withdrew my hands. ‘Let’s imagine that I do change my mind. What if we then find that I can’t have kids?’
‘At least I’d know that we’d tried. Or maybe, I don’t know … we could try IVF.’
‘A bank-breaking emotional rollercoaster with no guarantees. The other day Honor interviewed a woman who’s spent forty thousand pounds on it and still isn’t pregnant.’
‘Well, we might be luckier. If not, we could adopt.’
‘Could we?’ I echoed. ‘Would we really want that? In any case this is all academic, because I won’t be changing my mind; and if you really do love me, you’ll accept that. Can’t we just go on as we were?’ I added desperately.
Rick blinked. ‘I don’t see how we can.’
My throat ached with a suppressed sob. ‘Why not? Because now you’ve decided that you would like kids, you’d want to go right out there, as soon as possible, and find some woman to have them with? Is that it? Should I start knitting a matinee jacket for the baby right now?’
Rick flinched. ‘Don’t be silly, Jen. It’s because we’d only be putting off the inevitable. I’d come to resent you, then you’d be upset with me, and we’d break up anyway.’ He shook his head. ‘What I don’t understand is why you won’t at least explore why it is that you feel—’
‘No,’ I interrupted. ‘I won’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m not prepared to bare my soul to some stranger! In any case there’s nothing to explore. Yes, lots of women want children, but there are lots who don’t, and I’m one of them. So seeing a counsellor won’t make any difference. I mean, you’re the one who’s changed, Rick, not me, yet you’re making the condescending assumption that I don’t know my own mind!’
‘No, Jen, I’m just trying to work out why you feel as you do. Because you like children. You go out of your way to be with them.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘It is – you come into school every week and read to them.’
‘I … do it for you.’
‘Jen …’ Rick looked bewildered. ‘That’s how we met.’
Another silence fell. I could hear a magpie chattering in a nearby garden. ‘Well, it’s hardly a big deal, especially as my flat was practically next door. And liking children doesn’t mean I want to have them myself. I don’t.’
‘Yet you’ve said that if I’d been divorced, with children, you’d happily have had those kids in your life.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you won’t have a child of your own.’
‘No.’
‘I wish I knew why not. If you told me that it was because you felt that having children would wreck your career, or your lifestyle, or your body, I could at least understand that. I could try to accept it. But to say that you won’t have children because you’d be too scared …’
I put my hand on the table, tracing the grain with my fingertips. ‘I would be,’ I insisted quietly.
‘Why?’
I looked up. ‘I’ve told you; I’d be scared that something would go wrong. Or that I’d make a terrible mistake – that I’d drop the baby, or forget to feed it or give it enough to drink.’
‘Babies don’t let you forget, Jen; that’s why they cry. And you’ve just written a book about babies. Hasn’t that made you feel you could cope?’
‘It’s given me knowledge of how to care for them,’ I conceded. ‘But it hasn’t taken away my fear that something bad would happen.’ Panic swept through me. ‘Like … cot death, God forbid; or that I’d turn my back for a few seconds – that’s all it would take – and the child would fall down the stairs, or run into the road, or that there’d be some terrible accident that I could never, ever, get over.’ Tears stung my eyes. ‘Parenthood’s a white-knuckle ride, and I don’t want to get on.’
Rick gave a bewildered shrug. ‘Most people probably feel the same way, but they control their fears: you let them govern your life. You’re normally so level-headed, but with this I think you’re being—’
‘Don’t tell me – irrational?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not irrational to avoid anxiety and stress.’
‘It is irrational to presume that things will go terribly wrong – especially as you’ve no reason to think you wouldn’t be a good, careful parent. What’s your real fear, Jenni? That you wouldn’t love the child?’
‘On the contrary; I know that I would – which is precisely why I don’t want to have one.’
He groaned. ‘But you know, Jen, this isn’t just about whether or not we have a family.’
‘What do you mean?’
Rick gave a frustrated sigh. ‘We get on so well, Jen.’ I nodded. ‘We respect each other. We love being together, we talk easily – and we’re attracted to each other.’
‘We are,’ I agreed with a pang.
‘But you’re just not … open with me. Every time I ask you about your childhood you avoid my questions, or change the subject. And you never mention your mother, or explain why it is that you’re virtually estranged.’
‘I have explained.’
‘You haven’t – at least not in any way that I can understand. And as time’s gone on it’s bothered me more and more. This feeling I have, that although I love being with you, and desire you, I don’t really know you.’ He sighed. ‘You said that your mother neglected you.’
‘No. She looked after me. But she was distant and cold.’
‘That is neglect.’ Rick chewed his lip. ‘So … was she always like that?’
‘No.’ I saw my mother playing with me, reading to me. Holding my hand … ‘But as I grew older, it got worse; and it wasn’t as though I had a father to make up for it.’
‘Maybe that’s why she was so remote – though you’d think what happened might have brought her closer to you.’
‘Well … it didn’t.’
‘Is this the real reason why you don’t want kids?’ Rick asked. ‘Out of a fear that you’d be like that with your own child? Because you wouldn’t be, Jen.’
‘How do you know?’ I demanded bleakly. ‘I might be worse.’
‘Jenni, I wish that you’d at least talk to someone who might be able to help you overcome your fears.’
I laughed. ‘With a wave of their magic, psychotherapeutic wand? No. In any case, there’s nothing to resolve. I don’t want to have children. I like talking to them, and reading to them, and playing with them, and yes, I can see that having a child must in many ways be wonderful. But against that I set the never-ending, heart-wrenching anxiety of parenthood. I intend to protect myself from that.’
Rick stood up then walked over to the patio doors and unbolted them. He went out and sat on the wooden bench at the end of our small garden. After a moment he took a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket, lit one, released a nebula of smoke, then sat with his hands on his knees, head bowed.
I pushed back my chair, gathered up the manuscript, then went down the hall into my study. I dropped the pages beside the computer and sat staring at the darkened screen.
Three options … allowed to change … not open with me …
I heard an e-mail come in but ignored it. Was there any way Rick and I might resolve our problem? I refused to see a counsellor. I didn’t need counselling, and it would be more likely to destroy us than help us. Without thinking, I clicked the mouse and the screen flared into life.
I looked at the list of messages, desperate for distraction. The first three offered me laser lipo, cut-price hair extensions and fifty per cent off a pocket-sprung mattress. The fourth was headed Ghostwriting Enquiry and had been automatically forwarded from my website. It was from Nina’s godfather, Vincent Tregear. Surprised that he should contact me, I read it. It was a two-line message, asking me to call him. I was too upset to speak to him now. Instead, I opened the baby-guide document and stared listlessly at the screen, seeing the words, but not taking them in. Then I closed the document and, with an effort of will, I forced my mind away from Rick. I wiped my eyes, reached for the handset and dialled the number that Vincent had given.
After three rings the phone picked up, and I recognised Vincent’s voice.
He thanked me for getting back to him. ‘I know we hardly spoke at the wedding,’ he went on. ‘But I was very interested in what you were saying about writing memoirs. So I made a mental note of your website and last night I took a look at it and was impressed. The reason I’ve got in touch is because I’m wondering whether you might be able to help my mother write her memoirs.’
‘I see!’
‘She’s seventy-nine,’ he explained. ‘She’s in good health, and her memory’s fine. For years my brother and I have suggested that she write something about her life. She’s always been against the idea, but recently, to our surprise, she said that she would like to. But it won’t be easy as there are some parts of her life that she’s never talked about.’ Broken love affairs, I speculated, or marital difficulties. ‘She’s never talked about what happened to her during the war.’
My thoughts were racing, my mind already trying to shape a possible story for Vincent’s mother. She would have been a child at the time. Perhaps she’d lived in London, was evacuated, and was treated badly. Perhaps she’d stayed, and seen terrible things.
‘She doesn’t have a computer,’ I heard Vincent say. ‘So I offered to help her get her reminiscences onto paper; but she said that she’d find it too awkward, sharing such difficult memories with her own child.’
‘That’s completely understandable. I know I’d find it hard myself.’
‘So for a while we left it there; then last week, out of the blue, my mother suggested that we find someone for her to talk to. I thought about commissioning a journalist, but then at the wedding I heard you talking about what you do. So … how exactly would it work?’
I explained that I spend time with the person, and record hours of interviews with them. ‘With their permission I also read their diaries and correspondence,’ I went on. ‘I look at their photos and mementoes – anything that will help me to prompt their memories.’
‘Then you transcribe it all,’ he said.
‘Yes – except that it’s much more than a transcription. I’m trying to evoke that person, in their own voice. So I don’t simply ask them what happened to them, I ask them how they felt about it at the time; how they think their experiences changed them, what they’re proud of, or what they regret. It’s quite an intense exploration of who the person is and how they’ve lived – there’s a lot of soul-searching. Some people find it difficult.’
‘I can understand. And how long would it take?’
‘Three to four months. So … have a think,’ I added, still avidly wondering what his mother’s story might be.
‘I don’t need to think about it,’ Vincent responded. ‘I’m keen to go ahead. In fact I wanted to ask if you could start next week?’
‘That’s … soon.’
‘It is, but we’d like to have it done in time for my mother’s eightieth in late January. It’s to be our present to her.’
‘I see. Well, I’d have to check my work diary.’ I didn’t want to let on that there was precious little in it. ‘But before I do, could you tell me a bit more?’ I reached for a pad and pen, glad to have this distraction.
‘My mother’s farmed for most of her life.’ I scribbled farmer. ‘It’s not a big farm,’ he explained, ‘just a hundred and twenty acres; but it’s been in my father’s family since the 1860s. He died ten years ago.’
Widowed, I wrote. Farm. 150 yrs.
‘Mum has always worked very hard, and still works hard,’ Vincent went on. ‘She runs the farm shop and she grows most of what’s sold in it.’
‘And what sort of education did she have? Did she go to university?’
‘No. She married my father when she was nineteen.’
Married @ 19 … Mrs Tregear. ‘And what’s her first name?’ Vincent told me and I wrote it down. ‘That’s pretty.’
‘It’s Klara with a “K”.’
‘So … is your mother German?’
‘No. Dutch.’
As I turned the C into a K, I imagined Klara growing up in Holland, under German occupation. Perhaps she’d known Anne Frank, or Audrey Hepburn – they’d have been about the same age. I saw Klara standing in a frozen field trying to dig up tulip bulbs to eat.
‘My mother grew up in the tropics,’ I heard Vincent say. ‘On Java. Her father was the manager of a rubber plantation.’
Plantation … Java …
‘When the Pacific War started, after Pearl Harbor, she was interned with her mother and younger brother.’ Interned … I imagined bamboo fencing and barbed wire.
‘We know that internees suffered terrible privation, as well as cruelty, but she’s rarely talked about it, except to mention the odd incident in this camp or that.’
I’d have to do some research. I scribbled Dutch East Indies, then Japanese occupation.
‘Vincent, I would like to take on this commission.’
‘Really? That’s great!’
‘And in fact I could start next week.’ My pen had run out. I yanked open the drawer and rummaged in it for another one. ‘If you give me your address, I’ll send you my standard letter of engagement. Where do you live?’
‘In Gerrards Cross, near Beaconsfield.’
‘I know it. It’ll be easy to get there. It can’t take more than, what, half an hour by train, or I could borrow my boyfriend’s car – that’s Rick, he was there yesterday; he doesn’t use it much and so—’
‘Jenni, I must stop you,’ Vincent interjected. ‘My mother doesn’t live with me.’
‘Oh.’ Why had I assumed that she did?
‘She lives with my brother, Henry: he runs the farm.’
‘I see. And where is it?’
‘In Cornwall.’ My heart sank as I wrote it down. ‘At a place called Polvarth.’ My pen stopped. ‘It’s just a coastal hamlet,’ I heard him say. ‘It’s beautiful, with small fields going down to the sea, and there’s a wonderful beach. Jenni? Are you still there?’
I closed my eyes. ‘Vincent, have you contacted anyone else about this?’
‘No. As I say, I was going to try and find a journalist, perhaps someone from the Cornish Guardian, but then yesterday I heard you talking about your work and was very taken with what you said. I particularly liked the way you said that you love immersing yourself in other people’s memories.’
‘I do,’ I said quietly. Because it distracts me from my own.
‘And on your website you say that being a “ghost” isn’t just about being a writer; it’s like being a midwife – you’re helping to deliver the story of someone’s life.’
‘But I also say that it’s a very intense, emotional process, and that it’s therefore important to choose the right person.’
‘I can’t help feeling that you are. I also think that my mother would like you. I must say, I’m rather confused,’ Vincent added. ‘Didn’t you just say that you wanted to do it?’
‘I did say that … but I always advise prospective clients to, well, shop around. So that they have a choice,’ I went on, trying to keep the tension out of my voice. ‘I can recommend some other ghostwriters.’
There was a pause. ‘Are you unsure about it because of the distance?’
‘Yes,’ I said, gratefully. ‘That’s the reason. It’s such a long way.’
‘We’d pay your travel expenses. And my mother would put you up.’
‘That’s kind,’ I interrupted, ‘but I never stay with the client – it’s one of my rules.’
‘Fair enough, but she has a holiday cottage just down the lane. It’s not that big, but it’s comfortable.’
‘I’m sure it’s lovely but—’
‘You’d be completely independent. You could come up to the farm during the day. My mother’s a very pleasant person.’
‘I’m sure she is, Vincent, but that’s not why …’
‘You just want to think about it.’
‘I do. And I’d need to talk to Rick.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry, Jenni. I didn’t mean to push you. But if you could let me know, either way.’
‘I will.’
I hung up, then sat staring at the computer screen again, seeing nothing. I raised my eyes to the shelf above my desk. Battling the Enemy Within – Regain the Confidence to be Yourself. I’d bought that book a year before, but still hadn’t summoned the courage to read more than a few pages. Nor had I even opened the one beside it, Transcending Fear – How to Face Your Demons.
I’d never faced my demons. I’d buried them, in the sand.
I heard Rick’s footsteps; then there he was in the doorway. ‘Are you okay, Jen?’ He smiled, trying to reassure me that things were fine, when we both knew they weren’t. ‘I heard you talking,’ he went on. ‘You sounded agitated.’ I told him about Vincent’s call. ‘But that sounds interesting. And it’s work.’ He lifted a pile of magazines off the armchair, put them on the floor then sat down. I could smell the scent of his cigarette. ‘Do you have much to do at the moment?’
‘No. I have to get the baby guide to the publisher by Thursday, then there’s nothing.’
Rick stretched out his long, lean legs. ‘So why aren’t you sure about this job?’
I couldn’t tell him the truth. I’d wanted to, many times, but the dread of seeing shock and disappointment in his eyes had stopped me. ‘It’s so … far.’
He looked puzzled. ‘But you went up to Scotland to do that memoir last year. We e-mailed and Skyped, didn’t we? It was fine.’ I nodded. ‘If you did this one, how long would you have to go for?’
‘The usual.’ I put the top on my pen. ‘A week to ten days.’
‘Well …’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it’s come up now for a reason. It might be good for us to have some time apart.’
‘So that we can get used to it. Is that what you mean?’ I dreaded hearing his answer, but I had to ask.
‘No, so that we have some breathing space, to think about everything. It could … help.’ He didn’t look as though he believed that it would. ‘So where exactly is Polvarth?’
‘It’s in south Cornwall, close to a fishing village called Trennick. It’s very small – just one long lane that leads down to a beach. At the other end of it there’s a farm.’ The Tregears’ farm, I now realised.
‘You’ve been there before?’
I nodded. ‘There are a few holiday homes, built in the Sixties.’ I pictured the one that we’d stayed in, ‘Penlee’. ‘There’s also a hotel.’ It had a big garden with a play area at the end of it with swings and a seesaw. ‘Just below the hotel is the beach. And on the cliff path behind the beach is a tea hut; or there was. Perhaps it’s gone now.’
‘When were you last there? You’ve never mentioned the place to me.’
‘I … forgot about it. I was nine.’ ‘So you went there with your mother?’ I nodded. ‘And was it a happy holiday?’ I didn’t answer. Rick exhaled loudly, clearly frustrated by the conversation. ‘Obviously not. Then perhaps you shouldn’t go – if it’s going to upset you it won’t be worth it. But you’re thirty-four, Jen. You’re not a child.’ He stood up, abruptly. ‘I think I’ll walk up to school: I’ve got to plan tomorrow’s lessons and I might as well do it there.’ His smile was tight. ‘Whether you go to Cornwall or not is your decision. See you later, darling.’
I wanted to throw my arms round him and implore him to stay. Instead, I sat perfectly still.
‘Yes,’ I said coolly. ‘See you later.’
After Rick had left, I sat at my desk, frozen with misery, as the daylight began to fade. The nights were drawing in. I dreaded the thought of another winter in the city.
I took the phone out of the cradle. ‘It’s my decision,’ I murmured. ‘I don’t have to do it.’ I tapped in Vincent’s number. ‘I don’t want to do it.’ My finger hovered over the button. ‘And I’m not going to do it.’ I pressed ‘call’.
The phone was picked up after three rings. ‘Hello?’
‘Vincent? It’s Jenni Clark again.’
‘Hello, Jenni. Thanks for phoning me back.’
‘Vincent …’ I steeled myself. ‘I’ve thought about it.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve also discussed it with Rick. And the thing is …’ My eyes strayed to the shelf. Transcending Fear. ‘The thing is … that …’
‘So … what have you decided?’
How to Face Your Demons.
‘I’ll come.’
THREE (#ulink_bb46599d-01af-54e3-888c-521f5a12bb78)
The following Saturday I boarded the train at Paddington for Cornwall. The week had rushed by, with the final edits on the baby-care guide due. I was glad to finish the project and to stop thinking about babies. I’d then thrown myself into researching the Dutch East Indies and the Japanese occupation.
Rick and I hadn’t really discussed our problems again. In any case we’d hardly seen each other. He’d been busy at school with parents’ evenings, and he’d spent time at the gym. He was clearly avoiding being with me. But when we did finally talk, we decided that it would be better if we didn’t phone, text or Skype while I was away.
‘We need to find out how much we miss each other,’ Rick had said as he’d driven me to the station. ‘Perhaps that’ll give us the answer.’
‘Perhaps it will,’ I responded bleakly. I hated the uncertainty between us, but didn’t know what else to say.
On the train, I stowed my case in the luggage rack, then found my seat. Soon there was the slamming of doors, a shrill whistle, and the carriages began to creak and groan as we pulled out of the station. As we trundled though west London, my mind was in turmoil: my future with Rick hung in the balance, and I was heading for Cornwall, a place I’d shunned for twenty-five years. I’d been unable even to look at the county on a map without a stab of pain. Now, for reasons I didn’t even understand, I was going back.
Desperate to distract myself, I got out my laptop.
The Dutch East Indies was a colony that became Indonesia following World War II …
Through the window the urban sprawl had already given way to fields and coppiced hills that were tinged with gold.
Java lies between Sumatra to the west and Bali to the east … A chain of volcanic mountains forms a spine along the island … four main provinces …
Soon we were passing through the Somerset levels, where weeping willows lined the river banks. A heron shook out its wings then lifted into the air.
On 28 February 1942 the Japanese 16th Army landed at three locations on the coast of West Java; their main targets were the cities of Batavia (now Jakarta) and Bandung …
The train was running beside an estuary. The tide was out and flocks of wading birds had gathered on the silty shore. My mind filled with thoughts of Rick again, but I forced them away. I returned to my research and read on about the fall of Java.
At the next station, a woman got on with a small girl and boy and they sat at the table across the aisle.
The girl had short brown hair, held off her pretty face with a yellow clip. She read a book while her little brother, seated opposite her, played on a Nintendo.
The Japanese began interning non-military European men – mostly planters, teachers, civil servants and engineers – from March 1942. Their wives and children were interned from November of that year. For many, this was the start of an ordeal that was to last three and a half years.
‘Fear!’ I looked up. The boy had put down his Nintendo and was looking at his sister. ‘Fear!’ he repeated. Absorbed in her stickers, she ignored him. ‘Feear …’ He grabbed her arm. ‘FEAR!’
Their mother, who’d been texting, lowered her phone. ‘Sophia, answer your brother, will you!’
She glared at him. ‘What?’
He held up his Nintendo. ‘Could you do my Super Mario for me, Phia? I’m stuck.’
She peered at it. ‘Okay.’
The boy passed the console to her and she began tapping the screen with the stylus while he watched, rapt, resting his face in his hands.
Some 108,000 civilians were herded into camps, where they were held in atrocious conditions; 13,000 died from starvation and disease. I tried to imagine the dreadful reality behind those figures. Klara must have been through so much, and at such a young age.
As we pulled out of Plymouth the woman put her phone down again. ‘I want you to stop playing and look out of the window,’ she told her children. ‘What huge ships,’ she said as we passed the dockyard. ‘We’ll be crossing the river in a minute. Here we go,’ she sang as the train rolled onto Brunel’s great railway bridge.
The girl stood up to get a better view through the massive iron girders. ‘It’s like flying!’
A hundred feet below, the Tamar glittered in the sunshine.
‘Look at all those boats,’ said her mother. ‘Now we’re in Cornwall,’ she added as we reached the other side.
‘Yay!’ the children exclaimed.
After Saltash the train proceeded slowly through steep pastureland, then through a conifer plantation. We passed Liskeard and Par, then St Austell with its terraces of pale stone houses.
The loudspeaker crackled into life. ‘This is your train manager speaking. Next stop, Truro.’
My hands shook as I gathered up my things. I smiled goodbye to the children’s mum; then, as the train halted, I stepped off with my case.
I collected the keys for the small car I’d reserved at the Hertz office at the front of the station. Then, my heart pounding, I drove off in it, past Truro’s cathedral with its three spires, out of the city. Following the signs for St Mawes I went down a winding road over-canopied by oak and beech, their branches pierced here and there by shafts of sunlight that dappled the tarmac.
I drove through Glendurn and Trelawn then, seeing the sign for Trennick, I turned onto a still narrower road, ringed with blackthorn and alder, the banks thick with brambles that scratched the sides of the car.
I rounded the next bend. Then I stopped.
Before me was the sea, shimmering in the sun. This was Polvarth, a place I’d vowed never to return to, yet which I saw, in my mind, every day.
It was my idea.
I closed my eyes as the memories rushed back.
We did it all by ourselves.
Beneath the sign that said Higher Polvarth Farm was an old kitchen table on which had been left a crate of cauliflowers (50p each), a box of cabbages (50p) and a yellow bucket holding bunches of dahlias (75p). A jam jar contained a few coins. Another smaller sign had a black arrow on it, pointing right. Farm Shop, 200 yds. Crabs, lobsters & fish, caught daily. Open 9 a.m.–11 a.m. & 5 p.m.–7 p.m., Mon to Sat.
I turned in, bumped carefully down the track then braked.
In front of me rose the farmhouse, a square, white-painted building with a low-pitched slate roof and tall windows. Beside it were parked an old Land Rover and a white pick-up, the back of which was piled with lobster pots. Behind me was a big, open-sided shed in which there was a wooden boat on a trailer; a stone barn housed the farm shop. A ginger cat lay curled in the sunlight.
The door of the farmhouse opened and a well-built man in blue overalls came out.
‘Jenni?’ He held out his hand as he came closer. ‘Henry Tregear.’
I shook it, feeling shy suddenly. ‘Good to meet you. I can see the resemblance to your brother.’
Henry patted his head, grinning. ‘Vince has got rather more hair. You’ll meet my mother later – she’s just nipped over to Trelawn to see a friend. But in the meantime I’ll show you where you’re staying; if I could just hop in your car with you.’
Henry got in the passenger seat and I drove a few hundred yards down the lane to the modern cottage that I’d passed on the way up. I parked on the forecourt then Henry got out, opened the boot, and carried my suitcase to the semi-glazed front door.
There was a slate sign on the wall: Lanhay. The interior was quite plain, with wooden floors and neutral furnishings. On the walls were framed prints of flowers and fish – typical of what you might expect to find in a holiday house. But in one of the bedrooms was an original oil painting – a striking seascape. I stared at the churning blue and green water, low cliffs and jagged rocks.
Henry noticed me looking at it. ‘That’s by my son, Adam. He sells quite a few; in fact he’s having an exhibition the week after next, at Trennick.’
I shivered in recognition. ‘It’s the beach here, isn’t it?’
‘It is. How did you know? Have you just driven down there?’
‘No …’ I tried to quell the thudding in my ribcage. ‘I’ve been to Polvarth before.’
‘I see. Anyway, the house is simple,’ Henry remarked as we went downstairs again, ‘but comfy.’ He fiddled with the boiler, then touched the nearest radiator. ‘You’ve got everything you need: the washing machine’s there. Give the door a little thump if it won’t start. Dishwasher, microwave, fridge …’ He opened the latter, revealing milk, cheese, bacon, a dozen eggs, and a bottle of wine. ‘There’s some salad stuff as well, some veg, and a loaf of bread in the bread bin.’
‘That’s so kind – thank you.’
‘Tea and coffee’s here.’ He opened a cupboard. ‘But there’s a general store at Trennick for anything else you might want. It’s a couple of miles by road, or you can easily walk to it. You just go down to the beach, up the steps onto the cliff, then carry on round the coastal path for five minutes.’
‘Yes, I remember that path.’
‘Course you do – you’ve been here before. So when was that?’
‘Oh … years ago.’
‘Well we’re very glad that you’ve come again. Having my mother’s memoirs will mean a lot to her family; having said that, we’re not sure how forthcoming she’ll be.’ He smiled ruefully.
‘Well, I’ll try to draw out her story, but what she says is up to her.’
‘Of course,’ Henry agreed. ‘She has to feel happy with it.’
I set my laptop on the table. ‘This will be a good place to work. Is there a broadband connection?’
‘There is, but I’m afraid the phone only takes incoming calls.’
‘That’s okay – I’ve got my mobile.’
‘Just to warn you, the signal’s patchy: you get better reception if you stand in the lane.’
I walked to the window. There was a small garden, enclosed by a fence. In the centre of the lawn was a windswept cherry tree, crusted with tufts of green lichen, and, in the far corner, a battered-looking palm. On the other side of the fence a herd of tawny-coloured cattle grazed peacefully, occasionally lifting their heads, as if enjoying the view. Beyond that was the sea. I could see a scattering of white sails, and, to my right, the headland jutting out, like a prow.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I exclaimed. I had forgotten how beautiful it was.
‘It is,’ Henry agreed. ‘I still have to pinch myself after fifty-four years spent staring at it. Anyway, here are your keys. So come up to the farm at around seven and have supper with us.’
I thanked Henry, and promised that I would.
After Henry had left I texted Rick to say that I’d arrived. I wished that he could be with me now. If he were, I’d take him down to the beach and I’d finally tell him what had happened there all those years ago. I tried to imagine his reaction – shock, swiftly changing to bewilderment that I could have kept my secret from him for so long.
I sat at the garden table as the shadows stretched across the lawn. The sea was pewter now, patched with silver where the sun’s rays streamed through a bank of low cloud. A week ago I’d been at Nina’s wedding; now her wedding had brought me back to Polvarth. I repressed a shudder.
I went inside and unpacked. As I opened my wash bag I looked at the pink blister pack of pills that Rick had come to hate but which made me feel safe. I took one, then, having showered and changed, I walked the few hundred yards up to the farm. I was looking forward to meeting Klara. What would she be like, I wondered. Would she be easy to work with?
The knocker on the farmhouse door was in the shape of a hand. I hesitated for a moment then rapped.
Henry, now in green cords and a blue checked shirt, ushered me into the large square kitchen with its red-and-black floor tiles, cream-coloured Aga and pine furniture. He took my jacket then introduced me to his wife, Beth.
‘Welcome, Jenni,’ she said. She was a fair-haired, cheerful woman in her mid-fifties. ‘Is everything okay at Lanhay?’
‘Oh yes, it’s great, thank you. It’s a gorgeous cottage.’
Henry smiled at the elderly woman who was setting the table. ‘Mum, meet Jenni.’ The woman set down the last plate, then turned and held out her hand.
I took it. ‘Hello, Mrs Tregear. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’
‘Please, call me Klara.’
Klara Tregear was slim and upright, with high cheekbones and blue-grey eyes; her hair was a pure white, cut to the chin, and held with a clip, like the little girl on the train. Her face was seamed with age, and tanned from the sun and wind.
‘So …’ The smile she gave me was anxious. ‘You’re going to take me down memory lane.’ Her voice was soft, with a slight Dutch inflection. ‘I find the thought a little daunting.’
‘I completely understand. But I’ll try to make the process as pleasant as possible. Just think of it as a long conversation with someone who’s really interested in you.’
‘So you will be hanging on my every word,’ she remarked wryly.
‘I certainly will.’ I glanced around the kitchen. ‘Will we be doing the interviews here?’
‘No – at my flat.’ Klara pointed through the window to the barn. ‘I live above the shop. But please … you must be hungry.’ She gestured to the table.
As I sat down I looked through the French windows. Clumps of agapanthus and scarlet sedums framed the long lawn. Beyond the garden, the land sloped down to the sea, indigo in the deepening dusk. A distant light glimmered from a boat or buoy.
Klara poured me a glass of wine, then sat down beside me. ‘How long will we talk for each time?’
‘It’s quite an intense process, as you can imagine.’ She nodded. ‘I usually aim to record three hours of material a day. Could we do two hours in the mornings? Would that be okay?’
‘Yes, after eleven would be best, when the shop shuts.’
‘Then another hour in the afternoon?’ I suggested.
‘That would be fine. Tomorrow, being Sunday, we’re closed, so that’s a good day for us to start. I go to church first thing but I’m usually back by ten. Could you come then?’
‘Ten will be fine.’ I sipped the wine and felt my tension slip away. If I could just keep a grip on my emotions, I told myself, I’d be able to do this job.
Beth carried a big earthenware dish to the table. ‘I hope you like fish pie, Jenni.’ She put it on a trivet.
‘I do, very much.’
‘Then help yourself.’
‘Thanks.’ But Klara had already picked up my plate and was spooning a huge portion onto it. ‘Oh, I couldn’t eat that much,’ I protested.
‘Try,’ Klara said firmly as she handed it to me.
‘It looks delicious. Is it made with your own fish?’
‘It is,’ Beth answered. ‘Our son Adam goes to the cove every morning and puts down lobster pots. He also uses short nets that he stakes to the sea floor, just a few yards out. He gets plaice, monkfish, scallops and sole and we buy them from him to sell in the shop. It’s an important part of the business, especially in the season.’
I took some salad. ‘Is it still the season now?’
Henry joined us at the table. ‘Just about – it finishes at the end of the month. But we have local customers, and we supply the hotel, so we stay open nearly all the year round.’
‘And the cattle, I presume they’re yours.’
‘They are.’ He unfurled his napkin. ‘We rear them for beef, which provides the greater part of our income. They’re South Devons. We used to have Friesians when this was a dairy farm.’
‘I remember them,’ I said without thinking. ‘I remember them being herded down the lane; I remember the big silver churn at the end of your track. We used to scoop the milk out with a ladle and put the money in a jar.’
Klara glanced at me in surprise. ‘You’ve been here before?’
‘She has,’ said Henry.
Klara put some fish pie on her own plate. ‘When was that?’
‘Oh, a long time ago; I was … a child.’
Klara picked up her fork. ‘And where did you stay?’
‘At one of the holiday houses near the beach. I can’t remember which one.’ I resorted to my usual strategy of deflecting unwelcome questions with questions of my own. ‘But could you tell me about the farm?’
‘Well …’ Beth shrugged, smiling. ‘It’s a busy life. There’s always something to be done, whether it’s mending the fences, hedge-cutting, bucket-feeding a calf or pulling up ragwort and nightshade: we work very long days, especially in the summer.’
‘Not that we complain,’ Henry added. ‘We love this place.’ He smiled at Klara. ‘And we’re very lucky in that my mum still does so much.’
Klara laughed. ‘I’m sure I’d drop dead if I stopped! After sixty-three years, my body wouldn’t be able to cope with not working.’
I studied her. She had a wiry vigour, her movements quick and efficient. Her hands were rough and callused, her fingertips bent with arthritis. Her shoulders were round, as though shaped by the wind.
I had another sip of wine. ‘So Adam does the fishing …’
‘He does,’ answered Beth. ‘He also paints.’
‘Your husband was telling me. I love the seascape in the cottage; he’s very talented.’
‘He lives in Porthloe,’ Beth went on, pleased to hear her son praised, ‘with his girlfriend, Molly, and their baby. Klara runs the shop and grows most of our fresh produce. I prepare the shellfish,’ she continued, ‘and I make the bread and preserves that we sell. Henry looks after the cattle, and does the accounts.’
‘An unending task.’ He rolled his eyes.
Beth poured herself some water. ‘He’s also a Coastwatch volunteer.’
‘Really?’
Henry nodded. ‘There are a few of us who do it from the old coastguard hut on Polvarth Point. We keep a lookout for any incidents at sea, or on the beach or the cliff paths.’
‘People do such silly things,’ Klara said.
‘Like what?’ I asked faintly.
Henry sighed. ‘They walk too near the cliff edge and slip, or they go out in a kayak, with no knowledge of the currents, and get carried out to open sea. We have kids floating away on rubber dinghies, or getting stuck on the rocks at high tide.’
‘Sometimes people dig tunnels in the sand,’ said Beth. ‘If I see that I always warn them not to.’ She looked at Klara. ‘Do you remember what happened to those boys?’
‘Oh, I do,’ she responded quietly then turned to me. ‘In fact I might talk about that to you.’
Heat spilled into my face. ‘Why?’ I asked, too abruptly.
‘Well …’ Klara was clearly taken aback by my reaction. ‘For the book. I’ve been thinking about some of the more memorable things that have happened here over the years.’
‘Of course.’ I sipped my wine to cover my growing distress. Why had I come here? I should have followed my instincts and stayed away.
Now Henry was talking about a calf that, the year before, was lost in the fog. ‘It ended up in the sea,’ he told me.
‘In the sea?’ I echoed.
‘Something must have spooked it,’ Beth explained. ‘A dog or a fox, because it had swum two hundred yards out from the beach. Luckily, a friend of ours was out fishing, saw it, and managed to get a rope round it and hauled it into his boat. When we got it back its mum kept pushing it away because it smelt of brine.’
‘We had to tie them together,’ Henry added. ‘In the end she let it feed and all was well. But it was a miracle it hadn’t drowned.’
‘Jenni …’ Klara was looking at me reproachfully; she nodded at my plate. ‘You’ve hardly eaten.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry. It was delicious, but a bit too much …’
Henry laughed. ‘You have to eat up round here, otherwise my mum gets upset – don’t you, Mum?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Klara told me. ‘He’s just teasing you. But you’ll have some ice cream.’
‘I’ve eaten so well, Klara, I couldn’t manage another thing, but thank you.’
‘Coffee then?’
‘Oh, yes please. I never say no to that; I drink so much, it probably flows in my veins.’
Over coffee and the petit fours that Klara pressed on me, I learnt a bit more about Vincent. He was three years older than Henry, a civil engineer, divorced with one grown-up daughter.
‘I met Vincent years ago,’ I told them, ‘at my friend Nina’s twenty-first – he’s her godfather.’
‘That’s right. He and her dad were at Imperial College together.’
‘We were on the same table at Nina’s wedding.’
‘That was lucky,’ Henry remarked. ‘Otherwise I don’t suppose you’d be here now.’
‘No.’ I fiddled with my napkin. ‘I don’t suppose I would.’
‘Vince never wanted to be a farmer,’ Henry went on. ‘Fortunately for our parents, I did. Adam will take over in years to come.’ He asked me about my writing projects and about how I got work.
‘I advertise in magazines and on genealogy websites,’ I replied. ‘I also put up notices in local libraries.’
‘You live in Islington, don’t you?’ Beth topped up my coffee.
‘Yes – at the Angel.’
‘Are you from London?’
I shook my head. ‘I grew up in a village near Reading, but we moved to Southampton when I was ten.’
‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’ Klara asked.
‘None.’ I gave her a quick smile in case she’d thought me abrupt. ‘Well …’ I put my napkin on the table. ‘I think I should be getting back.’
‘Of course,’ Beth agreed warmly. ‘You must be tired after the journey. Are you okay to walk on your own? Or would you like Henry to go down the lane with you?’
‘Oh, I’ll be fine,’ I assured her. ‘I’m not scared of the dark.’
‘Well, let me give you a torch. It’s pitch black out there.’ As I put on my coat, Beth opened a cupboard under the sink, took a torch out and handed it to me. ‘Good night, Jenni. It was lovely meeting you.’
‘Good night, Beth. Thanks for supper – it was delicious. Good night, Henry.’ I turned to Klara and smiled. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Yes. See you then, dear. Sleep well.’
‘Thanks – you too.’ I knew that I’d be lucky to sleep at all.
I switched on the flashlight, then walked up the track, raking the ground with its beam. The evening had been fine – I’d liked Klara, and Henry and Beth had been warm and welcoming. But I’d given too much away. As I turned towards the cottage, I resolved to be more careful.
The blackthorn trees, sculpted by the wind, hunched over the lane. The stars glittered in a blue-black sky. I turned off the torch and looked up. I could see Orion’s belt, and Venus, and there were the seven points of the Plough. And now, as my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see the pale band of the Milky Way. I craned my neck, drinking in its nebulous beauty. ‘Wonderful,’ I whispered as I gazed at its star clouds and clusters. ‘It’s wonder—’
A sudden jolt ran the length of my spine. I froze, my pulse racing, and listened. The sound that had startled me must have been the wind. I was about to walk on when I heard it again. Adrenalin flooded my veins. It wasn’t the wind. There was someone there. I couldn’t see them, but I could feel their presence; they were very close, so close that I could hear them breathing. I tried to cry out but could make no sound; I wanted to run but my feet seemed clamped to the ground – and there it was again! So loud that it filled my ears; and now my own breath was ragged, my heart pounding … Then I felt it suddenly slow. I exhaled with relief as I realised that what I’d heard was just the slow gasp of the sea.
FOUR (#ulink_c87d3066-9fce-50a6-a89d-3f273f2fc20e)
I slept fitfully and, as usual, woke before dawn. In my half-asleep state I reached out for Rick, longing for his warm body, then, with a pang, remembered where I was. I lay staring into the darkness for a while, then I showered and dressed and drank a cup of coffee. Steeling myself, I set off for the beach.
I strolled past villas screened by dry-stone walls and fuchsia hedges still speckled with red flowers, then a converted barn that offered B&B. I came to Lower Polvarth where, set back from the lane, a row of houses stood with pretty front gardens and evocative names – ‘Bohella’, ‘Sea Mist’ and ‘Rosevine’.
I stopped in front of ‘Penlee’. I remembered the bank of hydrangeas and that lilac tree – I’d snapped a branch trying to climb it and Mum had been cross. The bedrooms were on the first floor. We’d had the one on the left, with bunk beds; she was in the room next to it.
Suddenly the curtains in ‘her’ room parted and I saw a woman framed in the window. She was in her mid-fifties – my mother’s age now. She gazed out to sea but then saw me standing there. I looked away and walked quickly on, past the old red phone box; and here were the stone gateposts of the Polvarth Hotel.
I turned in, my feet crunching over the gravel. The large Georgian house had been old-fashioned and shabby; now it looked smart and sleek, with two Range Rovers and a Porsche parked outside, and a pair of potted bay trees flanking the door.
The garden was just as I remembered it, framed by a cedar of Lebanon and a Monterey pine with a wind-blasted crown. The trees might look the same, but I had changed beyond all recognition.
I crossed the lawn then went down the steps to the play area. There were still swings, a slide, and a wooden playhouse.
I lifted my eyes to the view. Before me was the bay, a perfect horseshoe, and just beyond it the village of Trennick, its Victorian villas and snug ‘cob’ cottages jostling for position along the harbour walls.
I stepped back onto the lane through a gap in the hedge continuing downhill. Gulls wheeled above me, crying their sharp cries. The lane curved to the left, and there was the beach.
Ignoring the thudding in my chest I kept walking, past the wooden signs pointing to the coastal path and the lifebuoy in its scarlet case.
I stopped halfway down the slipway. The waves were flecked with white, and there were the cliffs, the tea hut, still there; the cobalt rocks and the crescent of sand. I felt a sudden, sharp constriction in my ribs, as though my heart was hooped with a tightening wire.
We’re making a tunnel …
I forced myself forward, the wind whipping my cheeks. A boy was walking a Labrador; the dog ambled beside him, sniffing at the seaweed. A young couple in wetsuits ran into the waves, scattering the spray in glittering arcs.
Mum’ll be so surprised …
She’ll be amazed.
Can I go in?
As I crossed the sand I felt the wire in my chest tighten. I saw the ambulance pull into the field behind the hut; I saw the medics with their stretcher and bags. I remembered the other holidaymakers standing there, in their eyes a strange blend of distress and avid curiosity. Now I recalled an arm going round me, drawing me away; then I saw the doors of the ambulance slam shut.
It was nine when I got back to Lanhay. As I unlocked the cottage door my hands were still trembling. I sat at the table, head bowed, perfectly still, struggling to absorb the blow to my soul. My mother had been twenty-eight then – six years younger than I was now. I remembered the drive home, in the police car, her fingers clasped so tightly that her knuckles were white. I’d put my hand on hers, but she didn’t take it.
I stood up, went into the sitting room, turned on the radio and tuned it to Honor’s show. Just the sound of her voice soothed and consoled me, bringing me back to myself. Honor had always had that effect on me, making me feel better when I was low. Her cheerfulness and exuberance were the perfect counterpoint to my shyness.
There was the usual miscellany – a funny interview with Emma Watson about her new film, then some Coldplay, followed by the news, and then a heated discussion about whether the world was going to end on 21 December, as predicted by the ancient Mayans using their Long Count calendar.
‘So what you’re saying,’ said Honor to her interviewee, ‘is that just two months from now, what we can expect is not so much Christmas as the Apocalypse.’
‘Yes,’ the woman replied grimly. ‘Because on that day the Sun will be in exact alignment with the centre of the Milky Way, which will affect the Earth’s magnetic shield, throwing the planet completely out of kilter, resulting in catastrophic earthquakes and flooding that could wipe us all out.’
‘But astronomers have trashed this theory,’ Honor pointed out. ‘As has NASA.’
‘They can trash it all they like, but it’s going to happen.’
‘Well, on 22 December I guess we’ll know who was right,’ Honor concluded. ‘But thanks for joining us today – and speaking of mass extinctions …’ There was a deafening roar, then she introduced the producer of a new documentary about the last days of the dinosaurs.
‘Weren’t they wiped out by an asteroid?’ Honor asked her guest. ‘Sixty-five million years ago?’
‘That’s the accepted theory,’ the man replied; ‘which is known as the Late Cretaceous Tertiary Extinction, but the truth is, no one really knows. So in the programme we explore alternative explanations, such as climate change caused by a massive volcanic eruption, or the evolution of mammals that ate dinosaur eggs. We also look at the possibility of a major change in vegetation, resulting in the plant-eating dinosaurs becoming unable to digest their food.’
‘And getting fatal constipation?’
‘Well … yes.’
Honor laughed. ‘I think I’d have preferred the meteor strike. But what’s your favourite dinosaur? I’ve always liked Ankylosaurus with that terrific club on the tail …’
‘Yes, a feature shared by Euoplocephalus, though that had spikes, not armoured plates, but my personal favourite has to be Spinosaurus, with that marvellous dorsal sail …’
By now Honor’s lively chatter had lifted my mood so much that I felt able to face the day. I had a job to do and I was going to do it.
It was twenty to ten. I switched off the radio and read through the notes I’d made, then opened my laptop and created a new document, Klara. I labelled five microcassettes, put one in the machine, tested it, then walked up to the farm.
On the way there I stopped to look at a chaffinch swinging about on a cluster of elderberries; I realised that this was where I’d been so frightened the night before. Closing my eyes I could hear the sea pulling in and out, but now it seemed distant, not near at all. Perhaps the darkness had amplified it, or perhaps it was just the effect of the wine. Even so, I shuddered as I remembered the sound.
As I approached the farm, I saw Klara, in a blue striped dress and white apron, setting out vegetables on the table. She put the jam jar down next to them and then turned at my footsteps. ‘Jenni! Good morning.’
‘Morning, Klara.’ I nodded at the cabbages and cauliflowers. ‘It’s nice that you do this.’
She shrugged. ‘We’ve always done it.’
‘Do people put the money in the jar?’
‘Usually, although I couldn’t care less if they don’t: I care only that good food shouldn’t be wasted.’ She folded the carrier bag that she’d been using and tucked it into her apron pocket. ‘Before we start talking, I’ve a few chores I need to do. Will you come with me?’
‘Of course – I’d love to see the farm.’
We crossed the yard and went into the shed. ‘This is our second boat,’ Klara explained. ‘It’s a Cornish cove boat like our first one – my grandson’s been repairing it.’ We stepped around the tins of black paint then picked our way through various bits of farm machinery and several sacks of animal feed. Klara half filled a plastic bowl with corn. I followed her into a small field. There were two large wooden coops there with long runs, in each of which were a dozen or so hens. At our approach there was a burst of frenzied clucking.
‘Ladies, please!’ Klara called as the hens rushed forward. ‘No pushing or pecking!’ She tossed the grain through the mesh. ‘These are Rhode Island Reds – they have dreadful manners, but they lay well.’ She threw in another handful. ‘I give them these corn pellets in the morning, then vegetable scraps at night.’ I stared about me in fascination as she topped up the water bowls from a rain butt. The hens in the second coop were black with tufty faces, like Victorian whiskers. ‘These are Araucana,’ Klara explained. ‘They’re very sweet natured, and their eggs are a beautiful blue.’ She gave them the rest of the corn, then wiped the bowl with the corner of her apron. ‘All done. Now we go up here.’
I dutifully followed Klara through another gate into the adjacent field. A large greenhouse on a brick plinth stood there. Its panes flashed and glinted in the sun.
As we went inside, we were hit by a wall of warm air mingled with the scent of damp earth and the tang of tomatoes. Klara took a pair of secateurs out of her apron and snipped some off a vine and laid them in the bowl. Then she snapped two cucumbers off their stems. ‘We grow peppers too,’ she told me as a bee flew past. ‘We have aubergines, okra, gala melons …’
‘And grapes.’ I glanced at the thick vine that trailed along the roof.
‘Yes, though they’re rather small and prone to mildew. I give them to the hens, as a treat.’ We walked on past Growbags planted with lollo rosso, Little Gem, coriander and thyme, then Klara stopped again. ‘These are my pride and joy.’
Before us were six lemon trees in big clay pots.
‘I love growing lemons.’ Klara twisted off three ripe ones, put them in the bowl, then indicated the two smaller trees to our left. ‘Those are kumquats. They’re too bitter to eat, but make good marmalade.’
‘And you sell all this in the shop?’
‘We do. Everything that we sell we have produced ourselves. Come.’
I followed her out of the greenhouse and towards the field to our left in which I could now see a huge stone structure, like a little fortress.
‘What’s that?’
‘You’ll see,’ Klara answered as we went towards it, then into it, through a wooden gate.
Inside, the air was still, the deep silence broken only by the silvery trills of a blackbird perched high on the wall. The air was fragrant with a late flowering rose.
We strolled along the gravel path, in the sunshine, past gooseberry and redcurrant bushes and teepee frames for peas and runner beans. There were rows of cabbages, cauliflowers and leeks, a strawberry patch, a bed of dahlias, and a small orchard of dwarf apple trees.
‘It’s amazing,’ I exclaimed, utterly charmed. ‘But it must be so much work.’
‘It is,’ Klara said as she twisted a few last apples off the nearest tree. ‘But I have a gardener who does the weeding and the heavy pruning. The watering is automated and the rest I can manage.’
‘How long is it?’ I asked as we walked on. ‘A hundred feet?’
‘A hundred and twenty, and thirty feet wide. The walls are eighteen feet high and two feet deep.’
‘It’s magnificent.’
‘It was my husband’s wedding present to me. He asked me what I wanted, and I said that what I wanted, more than anything, was a walled garden. So he and his farmhand, Seb, built this, using stones that they carried up from the cove. It took them a year.’
‘And when was that?’
‘They started it in 1952. I’d just arrived here, never having been to England, let alone Cornwall.’
‘You must have been very much in love with him.’
‘I was.’ I felt a sting of envy, that Klara’s love had clearly been so deeply reciprocated. ‘When I saw the farm for the first time, I made it my ambition to grow any crop, from A to Z.’
‘Really?’ I laughed. ‘And did you achieve that?’
‘Oh, I did,’ she replied as we passed a row of pumpkins. ‘We have everything from asparagus to … zucchini.’
‘What’s Q?’ I wondered aloud.
‘Quince.’ Klara pointed to a glossy shrub growing against the wall.
‘And Y?’
‘Yams. Though I don’t grow many as they tend to go mad and take over the place.’
We’d stopped by a peach tree that had been trained against the south-facing wall. Its leaves had yellowed and its fruit was all gone, except for one or two shrivelled ones that were being probed by wasps.
Klara pressed her hand against the thick, twisted trunk. ‘This was the first thing I planted. We’ve grown old together – old and rather gnarled.’ She smiled; wrinkles fanned her eyes. ‘I planted that too.’ She nodded at a huge fig tree. ‘I planted everything – it was an obsession, because when I was a child someone told me that the word “Paradise” means “walled garden”. And from that moment, that was my dream, to have my own little Paradise, that no one could ever take away.’
Klara’s flat occupied the upper floor of the barn. It had a high, raftered ceiling with skylights and a galley kitchen.
Klara put the bowl on the counter, then began to rinse the fruit and vegetables. I was enjoying being with her, but wondered whether she was ever going to sit down and start the interview.
‘I used to live in the farmhouse,’ she was saying. ‘I moved out after my husband died so that Henry and Beth could have it. But this flat suits me quite well. My bedroom and bathroom are downstairs, and this is my living and dining area.’
‘It’s wonderfully light.’ A floor-to-ceiling unit was crammed with books; I peered at the shelves. There were orange and green Penguin classics, a complete set of Dickens in maroon leather bindings, and novels by Daphne du Maurier, Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer and the Brontës. There were some Dutch titles – Max Havelaar was one I vaguely recognised – and several biographies. ‘You read a lot, Klara.’
‘I do. And I’m lucky in that my eyesight’s still good – afkloppen. Touch wood.’ She rapped on a cupboard and then untied her apron. ‘I’d much rather read than watch TV, though I do have a small television in my bedroom.’
On the bottom shelf were a couple of dozen Virago modern classics. ‘You like Elizabeth Taylor,’ I said. ‘She’s my favourite writer in the world.’
‘Mine too,’ Klara responded warmly. ‘My dearest friend, Jane, was a terrific reader and she introduced me to her books. I used to adore Sleeping Beauty but, now that I’m old, it’s Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont.’
‘I love that one too,’ I said, feeling sad for Klara that her best friend had died.
‘Please excuse the clutter,’ she said, changing the subject.
‘I hadn’t noticed. But it’s a lovely flat. And you can see the sea.’ Now I glanced at the wooden dresser; on it were rows of blue and white china plates decorated with flowers, peacocks and boats. ‘Is that Delft?’
Klara lifted up the kettle. ‘It is – it’s from my grandparents’ home.’
‘Which was where?’
‘In Rotterdam, which is where I was born – I’m a “Rotterdammer”.’ She filled the kettle. ‘Coffee?’
‘I’d love some. In fact I need some – I’m incredibly tired.’
Klara studied my face. ‘Didn’t you sleep well, my dear?’
‘Not really, no. I … was just excited from the trip,’ I lied.
‘I hope it’s not the bed.’
‘Oh, the bed’s very comfortable, Klara; but I never sleep well, wherever I am. My internal alarm goes off at an unspeakable hour.’
A look of sympathy crossed Klara’s face. ‘What a nuisance. So what do you do when that happens? Read?’
‘Yes, sometimes, or listen to the radio. Usually I get up and work.’
‘Well … I’m sorry you have that problem. I shall pick some valerian for you and dry it; it helps.’
‘Thank you. That’s kind.’ I felt a little flustered by Klara’s concern.
She opened the fridge, took out a Victoria sponge and put it on the kitchen counter. ‘You’ll have some cake.’ I realised that this wasn’t so much an invitation as a command. ‘Yes please – just a small piece.’
‘It needs a little caster sugar on the top.’ She sprinkled some on then got a knife out of the drawer.
‘It looks delicious. May I look at your pictures, Klara?’
She glanced up from her cake-cutting. ‘Of course.’
Arrayed on the sideboard were photos of Klara with her husband, and of Henry and Vincent. I stared at them avidly. I always love being with clients in their homes – it gives me a strong sense of who they are before we even begin the interviews. Then, once they start to talk, I feel as though I’m right inside their head; plunged into their thoughts and memories. It’s as close as I can get to being someone else.
Amongst the snaps were some formal portraits in silver frames. It wasn’t hard to guess who the people in these ones were – Klara’s parents on their wedding day; Klara herself at eight or nine, sitting on a pony. There was also a studio portrait of Klara, aged about six or seven, with her arm round a little boy. They both had short blond hair and stared solemnly at the camera with the same large round eyes.
‘This is you with your brother?’
She looked at me then glanced away. ‘Yes.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Peter.’ Klara’s face filled with grief. ‘His name was Peter.’ I immediately wondered when, and how, he’d died. ‘All those older photos belonged to my grandparents,’ Klara went on as she spooned coffee into a heavy brown jug. ‘Fortunately my mother always enclosed a few snaps in her letters to them, otherwise we’d have had no record of our ten years on Java. Everything we’d ever owned there was lost or destroyed.’
The kettle was boiling. Klara tipped the water into the jug and the aroma of coffee filled the air.
‘Let’s use the Delft, as we shall be talking about Holland.’ She took down some plates and cups and put them on a tray. So Klara was ready to start. I began asking her more direct questions.
‘How old were you when you went to Java?’
‘I was almost five. My father decided to try his luck in the NEI – the Netherlands East Indies, as it then was. He got a job on a rubber plantation, not far from Bandung.’
She picked up the tray and I stepped forward. ‘Let me help you.’
‘If you could take the jug, I can manage the rest.’
Klara carried the tray to the low wooden table and set it down; then she sat on the right side of the sofa while I took the armchair opposite. She poured me a cup of coffee then handed me an enormous wedge of Victoria sponge that almost covered the plate.
‘Oh, could I have half that?’
Klara passed me a fork. ‘I’m sure you can manage it.’
‘Well …’ I didn’t want to argue with her. ‘It does look good.’ I tasted it. ‘It’s delicious.’
‘We really ought to be eating madeleines,’ she quipped. ‘Not that I need help in summoning the remembrance of things past. My memory is quite undimmed. Which I sometimes feel is a disadvantage.’
‘What do you mean?’
Klara poured herself some coffee. ‘A few months ago, my dearest friend, Jane, was diagnosed with dementia.’
‘Oh, I see. When you said she “was” a great reader, I assumed that she’d died. I’m glad that’s not the case.’
‘Oh, she’s in good health – physically at least. But, in a way, the Jane I’ve known for fifty-five years has died. When I talk to her about some of the happy times we’ve had, the people we’ve known or the books we’ve both loved, she looks at me blankly, or becomes confused.’
‘That must be heart-breaking.’
‘It is. It makes me feel … lonely.’ Klara sighed. ‘But I assume that Jane’s unhappy memories are also disappearing and I must say there are times when I envy her this. How wonderful it must be, to be unable to remember things that once caused us distress. Yet we should embrace all our memories, whether joyful or painful. They’re all we ever really own in this life.’
As I murmured my agreement I wondered what painful memories Klara was thinking of and whether she would want to talk about them for the book.
Klara sipped her coffee then looked at me. ‘One might say that you’re in the memory “business”.’
I nodded. ‘You could put it that way. It’s my job to draw memories out of my clients.’ While fiercely protecting my own memories, I reflected wryly. I glanced at the old leather albums piled up on the table in front of us. Rick had sometimes remarked on my own lack of family photographs. ‘You’ve got quite a few photos, Klara.’
‘I have.’
‘They’ll help hugely in the interview process – and we can reproduce some of them in the book, if you’d like to.’
‘I would. Having committed myself to this memoir, I want it to be as vivid as possible.’
‘I think it will be, Klara – not because of any photos that we put in it, but because of what you say. The key to it is not just to remember what happened to you at this time or that, but to think about how those events affected you then, to make you the person that you are now.’
‘Put that way it sounds a bit like … therapy.’
‘Well, it’s a journey of self-discovery, so the process can be therapeutic, yes – cathartic, even.’
‘I’ve been thinking hard about the past.’ Klara laid her hand on one of the albums. ‘I’ve been looking at the much-loved faces in these pages, and remembering what they meant to me – still mean to me.’
‘When you talk about them, try to recall not just what they looked like, but how they talked or walked, or laughed, or dressed. Any little details that will bring them alive.’
Klara nodded and sipped her coffee again. She flashed me an anxious smile. ‘How strange to think that I barely know you, Jenni, yet I’m about to tell you so much about myself – more than I have ever told anyone in my own family – my own husband, even.’
‘It must feel very strange,’ I agreed. ‘But try to think of it as a conversation with an old friend.’
‘We aren’t friends though, are we?’
I was taken aback by her directness. ‘No … But we’ll get to know each other over these next few days.’
‘Well, you’ll get to know me.’ She put her cup on the table. ‘But will I get to know you?’
‘Of … course.’
‘Because, this has all come up so quickly; and now that we’re sitting here I realise that I simply can’t talk to you about myself, unless I know at least a little about you.’
‘You already … do.’ I wondered whether we were ever going to start the interview. Klara was expertly deflecting my questions, beating me at my own game.
‘I don’t,’ she countered. ‘All I know is that you live in London and grew up near Reading, an only child, then moved to Southampton. I know that you’re a friend of Vincent’s goddaughter, and that you came here on holiday, many years ago. So please, Jenni, tell me a bit more about yourself.’
This was the last thing I wanted to do. I forced a smile. ‘What would you like to know?’
‘Well … are you married? I don’t get the impression that you are.’
‘I’m not. But I live with someone – Rick. He’s a primary school teacher.’ Klara was looking at me expectantly. ‘He’s … easy-going,’ I went on, feeling myself flounder under her gaze. ‘He’s decent and attractive – at least I think so. He’s the same height as me, which I like, because we can look straight into each other’s eyes. His are the colour of the sea.’ Was that really all I could find to say about the man I loved?
Klara nodded approvingly. ‘He sounds lovely.’
‘He is. We’ve been together for a year and a half.’
‘So, you must feel that you know each other pretty well by now.’
‘I do feel that I know Rick, yes.’ Whether he really knew me was a different matter.
‘And do you hope to get married?’ Klara was certainly very direct.
‘I do,’ I answered. ‘We both do. If it’s right,’ I added, then wished that I hadn’t.
Klara nodded thoughtfully. ‘And why did you become a ghostwriter, rather than, say …’
‘A “proper” writer?’ I suggested, smiling.
Klara flinched. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude.’
I laughed. ‘I do get asked that question.’
‘How annoying.’
‘Not really; people don’t mean to be insulting; they genuinely want to know why I don’t write my own—’
‘Story?’
‘Yes.’
Klara stared at me. ‘So why don’t you?’
‘I guess I … prefer other people’s.’
‘I see. But how did you get to be a ghostwriter? Is that what you always wanted to do?’
‘Not at all – I was a researcher for a breakfast television show. It was my job to invite the studio guests onto the show and brief the presenters about them. One day I had to book a well-known actor; he was in his seventies …’
‘Can you say who he was?’
‘I can’t – I signed a confidentiality agreement – but he’s a household name. We got on well, and while I was chatting to him before he went on, he told me that he’d been approached by a publisher to write his memoirs. He said his agent was keen for him to do it, but that he didn’t want to, because he hated writing. He added that he wished he could find someone to write it for him. Without even thinking, I said that I could.’
‘And you did.’
‘Yes – and the book was a success and got good reviews. More importantly, I’d loved doing it – taking someone into their past, like a personal historian, helping them see the fabric and shape of their life – helping them tell their story; it fascinated me. I’d never done anything I loved as much. So I quit my job and set myself up as a ghostwriter. That was twelve years ago.’
‘Who else have you worked with?’
‘A few athletes, several actresses, a famous milliner, a couple of TV personalities, a well-known explorer … a fashion designer.’
‘Celebrities, then.’
‘Yes, but after a while that sort of work palled. I found myself more intrigued by the lives of “ordinary” people – not that they ever are ordinary. Far from it.’ I put my cup down. ‘But that’s how I got into ghostwriting – quite by chance.’
‘I don’t think it was just chance,’ Klara remarked. Her eyes were thoughtful.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that you must already have wanted to do it. Otherwise you’d simply have said to that actor, “How interesting, I hope you find someone,” then carried on with your job. I suspect that he simply showed you a path that you were already looking for.’
‘Perhaps. Anyway …’ I opened my bag. ‘I hope you feel a bit better acquainted with me now, Klara.’
‘I do, Jenni. Thank you.’ She cocked her head. ‘The odd thing is, I feel I’ve met you before.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Perhaps when you came here on holiday that time? Maybe I chatted to you when you collected the milk. You’d have been a little girl, and I’d have been in my fifties … Something about you is familiar.’
I had no recollection of her. ‘I’m sure we’ve never met.’
‘I think we have,’ she insisted. ‘It’ll suddenly come back to me.’
I knew that Klara was wrong, but there was no point in disagreeing with her. I took out the tape recorder and placed it on the table in front of her.
She glanced at it anxiously. ‘So what do I do? Just … start talking?’
‘No; I’ll guide the conversation with my questions. I already know quite a bit about you from Vincent.’ I glanced at my notes. ‘I’d like to divide up the interviews more or less chronologically, starting with your early life in Holland.’ Klara nodded. ‘Then we’ll talk about the move to Java, and your memories of the plantation, of your family, and your childhood friends. After that I thought we’d talk about the war. You would have been, what, nine, when Java was occupied?’ She nodded again. ‘Vincent told me that you were interned.’ She didn’t respond. ‘So … I imagine we’ll be talking about that,’ I pressed on. ‘Then we’ll come to the liberation of Java and the turmoil that accompanied the struggle for Indonesian independence. Following that I’d like to talk about Holland, and what it was like going back there.’ At that Klara smiled a grim little smile. ‘Then we’ll come on to your meeting your husband. He was in the British Navy, wasn’t he?’
‘He was. We met in September 1949. His ship, HMS Vanguard, had berthed in Rotterdam for a few days; he had some shore leave and I met him at a dance. I was sixteen, he was nineteen and he began chatting to me.’
‘Could he speak Dutch?’
‘Not a word.’ Klara smiled. ‘Fortunately I spoke good English, otherwise I don’t suppose we’d have “clicked” in the way that we did. Harry told me within a week that he’d fallen in love with me and hoped to marry me. But he had two more years to do in the Navy and I had to finish school; so we got engaged in 1951 and were married the following year.’
‘What a romantic story,’ I said wistfully. ‘I shall love writing about it. We’ll also talk about your life in Cornwall. Does that all sound okay?’
‘It sounds fine,’ Klara replied. ‘Except for one thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ll find it extremely difficult to talk about some of the things that happened during the occupation. I’ll talk about the historical facts, of course, and about the kinds of things that people suffered.’
‘During internment, you mean? In the camps?’
‘Yes. But there are some things … particularly towards the end, in the last camp that we were in, Tjideng. I don’t think I’d be able to find the words to describe what we … what I …’ She inhaled, judderingly.
‘Klara,’ I said gently, ‘you don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. Memoirs can take people into quite dark emotional territory. But it’s up to you how far, or how deep, you want to go. You have to feel comfortable with what you say.’
‘Yes.’ She swallowed. ‘I do.’
‘So you’ll see the manuscript before it’s printed, and you can add any further stories or reflections; and I can delete anything that you’re unhappy about, or regret having said.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. So don’t worry. This is your story. You’ll be in control.’
Klara gave a little sigh of relief. ‘I’d been feeling quite apprehensive, but that does make me feel … better.’
‘I’m glad. I want you to be comfortable. So …’ I put my pad on my lap, then turned off my phone. ‘Are you ready to start?’
Klara took a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap. Her eyes were steady on me. ‘I’m ready.’
As I pressed ‘Record’ I felt the frisson that I always feel when I begin a new memoir.
‘Klara, could you tell me what your earliest memory is?’
FIVE (#ulink_e7793992-39d7-5c21-8724-3a5bb52b8679)
Klara
My earliest memory is of the little tjik-tjaks, dainty beige lizards that used to run across our sitting room walls. I used to stare at them as they zipped about, mesmerised by their miraculous ability to cling to vertical surfaces, and even ceilings, without falling off. They were called tjik-tjaks because that was the noise that they made, and we loved them, because every night, when the lamps were lit, they would eat the mosquitos that might otherwise have given us malaria. Less welcome were the snakes that would sometimes slither across our verandah, especially during the rains. I remember once seeing my mother throw boiling water over a deadly black-and-yellow krait. I stood in the doorway while she did this and, with appalled delight, watched it writhe.
My mother told me, before we left Holland, that we were going to live in a faraway land that was warm and colourful – an ‘earthly Paradise’, I remember she said. To me this description seemed to be true. From our windows we could see mountains that were swathed in jungle that was every shade of green, yet was also filled with the hot pinks and reds of hibiscus, bougainvillea and oleander. These flowers not only looked gorgeous, they attracted butterflies – scarlet and yellow, emerald and black, burnt orange and shimmering blue.
When we first got there, I’d lie in bed, unable to sleep because of all the weird noises of the tropics – the trilling of crickets, which was always especially loud at night, or the sudden shriek of a bird or a boedung, one of the monkeys in the rubber forest that surrounded our house. Sometimes there’d be the howling of pye-dogs, and the strange, guttural cries of the tokeh, large stripy salamanders that sounded like frogs. If you heard the tokeh seven times in a row you could make a wish; so I’d listen to their croaks, and would get upset if I lost count and had to start all over again.
Our house was large, single storey, like most houses in the East Indies, and built of brown brick with a roof made of curved red tiles. It had a circular drive and low, wide steps on which my mother placed pink and white orchids in big pots. All the rooms had high ceilings and ceramic floors, which were polished with slices of coconut tightly wrapped in muslin. I still think of this house as my childhood home.
Around the sides of the house were covered walkways called empers, and behind it was a smaller house called a ‘pavilion’ in which were the kitchen, the gudang or storeroom, plus the washing facilities, bathroom and loo. We had an enormous garden, in which was a banana palm, a mango tree, a cherimoya and, at the end, a big waringin – an Indian fig, with a thick, rippled trunk and long aerial roots. Bats roosted in that tree. At dusk we’d see them spread their cloak-like wings and swoop out.
My mother loved gardening and created wonderful flowerbeds in which she grew roses, gerbera and lilies, and I’d make the petals into dresses for my dolls. The garden was full of exotic birds – hoopoes, golden orioles, bulbuls and humming birds, which hovered over the jasmine like iridescent bees. But my favourite bird was the Java sparrow because it looked like a puffin.
As Dutch colonials we had a privileged life. We employed a gardener, Ismail, who I thought of as extremely old, because his hair was grey, but he was probably only in his forties. We had a maid named Jasmine, who was married to the plantation’s head foreman, Suliman. They were in their mid-thirties but had no children, which caused them great sadness. Because of this, I think, Jasmine was very affectionate to my little brother, Peter, and me.
Jasmine and my mother were always cleaning, because in the tropics mould and mildew take hold very quickly. They’d hang the rugs up in the sun and bang the weevils out of them. They’d take books off the shelves and wipe the covers and give all the clothes a vigorous shake. I remember once my mother being very upset about a favourite dress of hers that Peter, ill with typhus, had thrown up on. She had taken it off and left it in the pavilion: when she went to wash it the following morning, the part he’d been sick on had been eaten away.
Every week the floors had to be disinfected or the insects would move in. If termites showed up we’d have to place the furniture legs in saucers of carbolic acid. Once, we forgot to do this with our piano, and they destroyed it from inside, leaving hillocks of sawdust beneath. And I remember, once, seeing a huge bird spider scuttle across my bedroom floor. It was so large that I could hear its feet clicking on the tiles, a memory that still makes me shudder seventy years later! So I remember this constant battle we all waged against bugs – cockroaches and moths, stick insects and giant centipedes the length of a forearm; creatures that I could never even have imagined back home. But I always thought of the East Indies – never the Netherlands – as home.
Although I’m Dutch, I have almost no childhood memories of Holland. I know about my early years there only from my parents, Anneke and Hans, and from my grandparents, ‘Oma’ and ‘Opa’, who lived near to us in Rotterdam. My grandfather worked on the canals, leading the horses along the towpath as they pulled the barges. I’m sad to say that I can barely remember him, because by the time we’d returned home he had died, in the terrible ‘hunger winter’, before Holland was liberated from the Nazis. I know that Opa was a simple man, with little learning, while Oma was well-educated, well-read, and determined for her daughter to be the same. So my mother went to high school, then on to college where she studied to be a teacher. She met my father ice-skating and they were married within a few months.
My father worked for an electrical engineering company but he was laid off because of the slump. According to my mother, he was in despair, especially as by that time they had two children; but then he got a job as the manager of a rubber plantation in West Java. He went out there first. Three months later my mother, Peter and I followed.
We left for Java on New Year’s Eve. I know this because my mother used to say that it had seemed such an auspicious day for us to be setting off for our new life. But she could never have imagined that the ‘earthly paradise’ to which we were sailing would, within a few years, become a living hell. But to Java we went, taking with us a single crate that contained my parents’ wedding china, their books and our clothes.
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Isabel Wolff
‘A deeply moving read – I loved it’ Dinah Jeffries, author of The Tea Planter’s WifeAs a child in the Second World War, Klara was interned in a Japanese prison camp on Java during the occupation. Her childhood years became an extraordinary and harrowing story of survival, a story that few people have heard.Jenni is a ‘ghost’: she writes the lives of other people – and Klara is her latest subject. Haunted by a childhood tragedy, Jenni finds it easier to take refuge in the memories of others than to dwell on her own.But as Jenni and Klara begin to get to know each other, Jenni begins to do much more than shed light on Klara’s family and girlhood in a neglected part of Second World War history. She is forced to examine her own devastating memories, too. Perhaps, finally, the two women will be able to lay the ghosts of their pasts to rest…Gripping, poignant and beautifully researched, Ghostwritten is a story of survival and love, of memory and hope.
GHOSTWRITTEN
ISABEL WOLFF
Praise for Isabel Wolff (#ulink_40b965af-acd6-587a-a391-014729c79e9f)
‘An engaging read and an intriguing page-turner.’
Sainsbury’s Magazine
‘Deftly blends past and present, romance and mystery, and a theme of forgiveness and redemption …’
Huffington Post
‘Isabel Wolff is a wonderful writer who weaves humour and pathos to great effect.’
Wendy Holden, Daily Mail
‘Intriguing and tugs at the heartstrings.’
Katie Fforde
‘An intelligent and deeply romantic tale. I loved it.’
Lisa Jewell
Dedication (#ulink_a6ef7ba2-3e0a-5435-b9a5-a2e44e2e0eb6)
In memory of my mother
Table of Contents
Title Page (#u296341c6-bf1a-5053-aa35-c47428dca726)
Praise for Isabel Wolff (#uf72d2d6d-82f2-5b60-b4ab-ac93aedfcf89)
Dedication (#ubbcb2ad5-8506-5b9e-869c-6986573f1a01)
Epigraph (#u89720ac7-9b19-517f-b0cf-6e7c10e0d1e7)
Prologue (#uffd33590-aec3-55fa-a97a-9066c2c6891c)
Chapter One (#uaecc89f9-9614-5b8f-a7ed-786ce7be4ffa)
Chapter Two (#u8feb448e-ab92-545f-8482-ad4a47ebdf13)
Chapter Three (#ud8a041a2-66cc-566c-a999-6f299170f59e)
Chapter Four (#udfa26d68-f9b5-5916-985f-a5e49f440e41)
Chapter Five (#u289711a3-4db2-5a65-a534-19639d271ef4)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Bibliography (#litres_trial_promo)
Q&A with Isabel Wolff (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Isabel Wolff (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
The past is never dead. It isn’t even past.
William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun
PROLOGUE (#ulink_450d7d88-056a-5bbc-8e34-fc2a7cc83c71)
31 August 1987
Holidaymakers speckle the beach, reclining behind brightly striped windbreaks, hands held to eyes against the late afternoon sun as they gaze at the glittering sea. On the horizon squats a huge grey tanker; in the middle distance a scattering of white-sailed yachts, their spinnakers billowed and taut. At the shoreline a young couple in surfing gear are launching a yellow canoe. He holds it while she climbs in, then he jumps on and they paddle away, the boat rocking and bumping through the swell. Two little girls in pink swimsuits stop paddling for a moment to watch them then dash in and out of the water, shrieking with laughter. Behind them, a family is playing French cricket. The ball soars towards the rocks, pursued by a dog, barking wildly, its claws driving up a spray of wet sand.
On the cliff path behind the beach, people are queuing at the wooden hut for tea and biscuits, or an ice cream, or bucket and spade or a ready-inflated Lilo, which is what a couple of teenage boys are buying now. ‘Don’t take it in the sea,’ warns the woman behind the counter. The taller boy shakes his head then he and his friend carry the airbed down the worn granite steps to the beach.
Here, the sand is pale and dry, glinting with mica. As they head for the water, the boys throw a covetous glance at a blonde woman in a black bikini, who’s lying on a white towel, perfectly still. She’s enjoying the warmth of the sun and the sound of the sea pulling in and out, as steady as breathing. A sandfly lands on her cheek and she brushes it away, then pushes herself up, resting on her elbows. She gazes at the headland, where the grass has dried to a pale gold: then she looks at the dark-haired man sitting beside her, and gives him an indolent smile. Now she turns on her front, reaches behind to unclip her bikini, then hands him a tube of Ambre Solaire. The man hesitates, glancing at the woman’s two children who are building a sandcastle a few feet away, then he removes the cap and starts rubbing the cream onto the woman’s shoulders. As his palm strokes her skin, she sighs with pleasure.
Her daughter, kneeling in the sand, looks up. Seeing the man’s hand moving over her mother’s waist, the girl reddens, then stumbles to her feet. ‘Let’s go rock-pooling,’ she says to her little brother.
He shakes his blond head and continues digging. ‘No.’
‘But I want you to.’
‘I’d rather stay with Mum.’
The girl picks up her plastic sandals and bangs them together. ‘You have to come with me.’
‘Why?’
She puts on the right shoe. ‘To help me.’
‘Don’t want to help you.’
‘Well you’ve got to …’ She shoves her left foot into the other sandal, bends to do it up, then grabs the bucket that the boy was filling and empties it. ‘I’ll carry this; you take the net.’
The boy shrugs his narrow shoulders, then stands. He hitches up his red swimming trunks, which are hand-me-downs and much too big; he picks up the net lying nearby.
Their mother lifts her head. ‘You don’t have long,’ she says. ‘We’ll be leaving at six, so you’re to come back when you hear the bell from the tea hut. Did you hear me?’ she adds to her daughter. ‘Hold his hand now. You must hold his hand.’ The girl gives a sullen nod then starts to walk towards the rocks that spill down from the low cliff to the sea. Her brother follows her, dragging the net, its stick leaving a sinuous trail, like the tail of the yellow kite which he now notices, swaying high up, against the blue. He cranes his neck to watch it, one eye closed against the sun.
The girl glances behind and sees that he’s not following her. ‘Ted!’ she calls. ‘Come on!’ She wants to get as far as possible from their mother and her so-called ‘friend’. ‘Teddy!’ The little boy tears his gaze from the kite and follows his sister, jumping onto her footprints, leaving no tracks of his own. A toddler wobbles across his path, naked except for a sun hat, then tumbles over, wails, and is hastily scooped up.
Now they’re passing a boy and girl who are digging. The trench they’ve made is six foot long, and so deep that they’re visible only from the waist up.
Ted stops, entranced. ‘Look, Evie!’ She turns. ‘It’s ’normous.’
‘It is,’ she agrees seriously. ‘Must have taken ages,’ she says to the girl who is about her own age, although tall and long-limbed. She’s wearing a white T-shirt with a large black ‘J’ on it. Evie wonders what it stands for. Julie? Jane?
‘It did take ages,’ the girl replies. Her face is a pale oval framed by long dark hair. She tucks a hank behind her ear and nods at the rampart of displaced sand. ‘We’ve been digging all afternoon, haven’t we, Tom?’
Tom, a thickset boy of about eight, straightens up. ‘We’re making a tunnel.’ He leans on his spade. ‘Like that Channel Tunnel they’re building.’
‘It was my idea,’ the girl adds. ‘We’ve done it all by ourselves.’ She turns to Tom. ‘Mum’ll be surprised when she sees it.’
Tom laughs. ‘She’ll be amazed.’
‘You making a real tunnel?’ Ted asks him.
‘Yes.’ Tom points to a deep recess at the back of the hole.
Ted peers at it. ‘Can I go in?’
‘Maybe,’ Tom shrugs. ‘When it’s finished. But we’ll have to be quick because the tide’s coming up.’
‘The time’s coming up?’ Ted looks at the sea.
‘The tide, silly,’ says Evie. ‘Come on, Ted, we’d better go …’
On the other side of the beach, the children’s mother closes her eyes as her companion’s hands caress the swell of her hips. ‘That’s lovely,’ she says. ‘Can you hear me purring?’ she adds with a laugh. Someone nearby is listening to Radio One. She can hear the Pet Shop Boys. ‘Always on My Mind’.
Her boyfriend lies down beside her. ‘You’re always on my mind, Babs,’ he murmurs.
She puts her hand to his chest, spreading her fingers against his skin. ‘This is the best holiday I’ve had for years …’
By now her children have reached the rocks – jagged grey boulders thinly striped with white quartz. They clamber up, and Ted peers into the first pool. He stares at the seaweed, some brown and knobbly, some as green and smooth as lettuce. He pokes his net at a sea anemone and, to his delight, it retracts its maroon tendrils. Then he spies a shrimp and thrusts the net at it. ‘Caught something!’ he shouts, but as he inspects the mesh his face falls – all that’s in it is a brown winkle. ‘Evie!’ he calls, dismayed to see that she is fifty or sixty feet away. ‘Wait for me!’ But Evie keeps on jumping across the rocks, the bucket swinging from her arm.
As Ted follows her he looks out to sea and spots a yellow canoe with two people in it, lifting and twisting their paddles. He hears a distant roar, and sees a motorboat rip across the water, the wake fanning out in widening chevrons that make the canoe rock and sway. Then he returns his gaze to Evie. She’s peering into a pool. ‘Evie!’ he yells, but she doesn’t respond.
Ted steps onto the next boulder but it’s crusted with tiny black mussels that cut into his feet. The rock beside it looks smooth, but when he stands on it, it wobbles violently, and his thin arms flail as he tries not to fall. Sudden tears sting his eyes. The rocks are sharp, and his trunks won’t stay up and his sister won’t wait for him, let alone hold his hand like she’s supposed to. ‘Evie …’ His throat aches as he tries not to cry. ‘Eeevieeee!’
At last she turns. Seeing his distress, she makes her way back to him. ‘What’s the matter, Ted?’ She stares at his feet. ‘Why didn’t you wear your beach shoes?’
He sniffs. ‘I forgot.’
Evie heaves an exasperated sigh then turns towards the sea. ‘Then we’d better go this way – the rocks are easier. Mind the barnacles,’ she adds over her shoulder. ‘Ooh there’s a good pool.’ It’s long and narrow, like a little loch, with bands of leathery-looking weed that sway to and fro. As Evie’s shadow falls onto the surface, a small brown fish darts across the bottom. ‘Give me the net!’ Ted passes it to her and takes the bucket as Evie crouches down, thrusts the net under a rock and swiftly withdraws it. There’s a glint of silver. ‘Got it!’ she yells. ‘Fill the bucket, Ted! Quick!’
Ted dips the bucket in the pool then hands it to her. Evie tips the fish in and it swims to the bottom then scoots under a shred of bladderwrack. ‘It’s huge,’ Evie breathes. ‘And there’s a shrimp!’ She feels a sudden euphoria – her loathing of her mother’s ‘friend’ forgotten. ‘Let’s get some more.’ As she dips the net in the water again she hears, faintly, the bell that the woman in the tea hut rings when she’s closing.
A few yards away the waves are breaking over the rocks; the two children can feel the spray on the backs of their legs.
Ted shivers. ‘Is it high time yet, Evie?’
Evie remembers Clive’s hands on their mother’s flanks. She thinks of his hairy chest and his thick arms, with their tattoos, and of the grunts that she hears through the bedroom wall.
‘It isn’t high tide,’ she answers. ‘Not yet …’
Ted picks up the net again. ‘The bell’s ringing.’
Evie shrugs. ‘I can’t hear it.’
‘I can, and ’member what Mum said, she said—’
‘Let’s find a crab!’ Evie yells. ‘Come on!’
Thrilled by the idea, Ted follows his sister, relieved that she’s going more slowly now, even if it’s only to avoid spilling their precious catch. Here the rocks are not sharp with mussels, but treacherous with seaweed, which slips like satin beneath Ted’s feet. He longs for Evie to hold his hand, but doesn’t like to ask in case it makes him seem babyish.
‘We should have brought some ham,’ he hears her say. ‘Crabs like ham. We’ll bring some tomorrow, okay?’
Ted nods happily.
On the beach, the man flying the kite is reeling it in. The mother of the girls in the pink swimsuits is calling them out of the sea. They run towards her, teeth chattering, and she wraps a towel around each one while the encroaching waves lick at their footprints. The family that were playing French cricket are packing up: the father hurls the ball and the dog tears after it.
People are folding their chairs, or collapsing sunshades and packing up baskets and bags as the sea advances, then retreats, then pushes forward again.
‘Five more minutes, Clive,’ Barbara says.
He winds a lock of her hair around his finger. ‘So what’s happening tonight?’
‘Well, I thought we’d walk to Trennick and get some fish and chips; we could buy a nice bottle of wine, and then … I’ll get the kids into bed early.’
‘You do that,’ Clive whispers. He kisses her. ‘You do that, Babs.’ Barbara smiles to think that she’s only known Clive for eight weeks. She remembers the rush of desire when she saw him – the first time she’d felt anything for a man in years. She thinks of how she’d loathed the job – sitting at her desk all day with nothing to see through the window but lorries and trucks with JJ Haulage on them; the only thing on her wall a road map of the UK. Just as she was wondering how much more of it she could stand, Clive had walked in. Tall and dark, with the shoulders of an ox, he’d reminded Barbara of a drawing of the Minotaur in one of Evie’s books. He’d come about his payslip – five overnights to Harwich that were missing. Flustered, Barbara had promised to correct it; then he’d suggested, cheekily, that she could ‘make it up to him’. She’d laughed and said maybe she would …
She’d told him that she had two kids – though no ex, God rest Finn’s soul; but Clive said that she could have had ten kids in tow and it wouldn’t have mattered. The fact that – at thirty-eight – he’s ten years older than she is makes Barbara feel light-headed.
The tricky thing had been introducing him to Evie and Ted. Ted had taken little notice of him, turning back to his Lego, but Evie had been hostile, and when Barbara told them that Clive would be coming on the holiday, she’d run to her room, slamming the door. But, as Barbara had said to her, Evie had friends – why shouldn’t Mummy have a friend? Why shouldn’t Mummy have a bit of happiness? Didn’t Mummy deserve it after all she’d been through? But Evie had simply stared at her, as though trying to drill a hole in her soul. Well she’ll just have to get used to him, Barbara decides, as Clive kisses her fingertips …
Suddenly Barbara realises that the bell has stopped ringing. She sits up.
On the rocks, Ted is getting tired. But now Evie has found another pool, a few feet from the water’s edge.
‘There’ll be crabs in here,’ she says authoritatively. ‘Okay, Ted, you hold the bucket. Be careful,’ she warns as she passes it to him. She takes the net. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I want to hold the net.’
‘You’re too young.’ Confident that this has settled the matter, she returns her gaze to the pool.
Ted thumps the bucket down on a ledge. ‘I’m five!’
‘Well I’m nine, so it’s better if I do it. It’s not easy catching crabs.’
‘It’s my turn. You caught the fish – and the shrimp. So it’s my turn with the net now and—’
‘Shhhh!’ Evie is holding up her left hand, her eyes fixed on the water. ‘I saw one,’ she hisses. ‘A big one.’
‘Let me get it.’
Evie leans forward, very slowly, then jabs the net at a clump of weed. As she lifts it out, a khaki-coloured crab, the size of her hand, is dangling from the mesh with one claw.
Ted lunges for the net. To his amazement he manages to wrest it from her; as he does so, the crab falls back into the water then pedals under a rock.
Evie’s mouth chasms with outrage. ‘You idiot!’
Ted’s chin dimples. ‘I’m not.’
‘You are.’ She glares at him. ‘You’re an idiot – and a baby: a stupid little baby! No wonder Mum calls you “Teddy Bear”.’
His face crumples. ‘Sorry, Evie …’ He offers her the net. ‘Catch it again. Please …’
Evie’s tempted, but then she notices how close the waves now are. ‘No. We’ve got to get back.’ She tips the bucket into the pool and the fish and shrimp dart away. Then she sets off for the beach, which looks improbably distant, as if viewed through the wrong end of a telescope. She can just see Tom and his sister, flinging sand out of that hole as though their lives depended on it. She turns back to Ted. He’s still standing by the pool, his fringe blown by the breeze. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I want to get the crab!’ Ted’s eyes glisten with tears. ‘I want to show it to Mum.’
‘You can’t.’
‘I can!’ A sob convulses his thin ribcage. ‘I can get it, Evie!’ He squats down and thrusts the net into the pool, frantically.
‘It’s too late! You ruined it – now come on!’ Ted doesn’t move. ‘I’m wait-ing.’ Her hands drop to her hips. ‘Right! Ten, nine, eight …’
Ted glances at her.
‘Seven, six, five …’
He looks longingly at the pool ‘But …’
‘Three, two … one! I’m going!’
Still sobbing, Ted starts to descend, but Evie is already springing across the rocks, the soles of her shoes slapping the stone. ‘This way,’ she calls as she moves higher up, towards the cliff. ‘Put your hand on that rock there.’ She points to it, then leaps across a gully. She jumps onto the next rock, then the next, stepping from boulder to boulder until, at last, she’s yards from the beach. Evie jumps onto the sand, surprised at how relieved she feels. There’s the girl with the ‘J’ T-shirt, sitting by the trench, observing Tom with a blend of curiosity and admiration. Evie stands beside her as he wriggles into the tunnel, then she walks on, looking for shells. She stops to pick up a piece of sea glass but decides that it’s too new-looking to keep. As she straightens up she can hear gulls crying, and the barking of a dog. Then she sees her mother coming towards her, in her dress now, scanning the rocks, one hand to her eyes, lips pursed. Evie lifts her left arm and waves. Her mother waves back, smiling with relief. Then her expression changes to one of consternation, then alarm. She starts running towards Evie.
Evie turns and looks behind. Her heart stops.
ONE (#ulink_ab5c3fc3-8da3-50ae-9490-70fbd7587e1c)
I guess it was inevitable that Nina’s wedding would change things between Rick and me, though I could never have guessed by how much. Up until then, it had been so easy being with Rick – we’d fitted into each other’s lives as though we’d always known one another. And now we were going to a wedding – our first one together – and suddenly being with Rick was hard.
‘They’ve got great weather for it,’ he remarked as I locked the door of our small north London flat. The early haze had given way to a pristine blue sky.
‘A good omen,’ I said as we walked to the car.
Rick beeped open his old Golf. ‘I didn’t know you were superstitious, Jenni. But then I don’t know everything about you.’ There was a slight edge to his voice.
‘Well, I am superstitious.’ I put our gift, in its silvery bag, on the back seat. ‘But then I was born on Friday the thirteenth.’
Rick smiled. ‘That should make you immune.’
We drove west, talking pleasantly, but with an unfamiliar reserve, born of the anguished conversations that we’d been having over the past two or three days.
We sped down the A40, and were soon driving along rural roads past fields still stubbled and pale from the harvest. It was very warm for mid-October, and clear – an Indian summer’s day, piercingly beautiful with its golden light, and long shadows.
Nina’s parents lived at the southern end of the Cotswolds. Over the years I’d visited the house for weekends, or the occasional party – Nina’s twenty-first, and her thirtieth, which was already five years ago, I reflected soberly. For fifteen years, she and Honor had been my closest friends. And today it was Nina’s wedding, and before long, no doubt, there’d be a christening.
Rick glanced at me. ‘You okay, Jen?’
‘Yes. Why?’
He changed down a gear. ‘You sighed.’
‘Oh … no reason. I’m just a bit tired.’ A bad sleeper at the best of times, I’d lain awake most of the night. As I’d stared into the darkness, I’d longed for Rick to hold me and whisper that everything would be alright, but he’d turned away.
‘So where do we go from here?’ For a moment I thought that Rick was talking about us. ‘Which way?’
I spotted the sign for Bisley. ‘Go right.’
Minutes later we turned into Nailsford Lane, where a clutch of white balloons bobbed from a farm gate.
‘Looks like we’re the first,’ Rick remarked as we drove into the parking field, which was empty except for an abandoned tractor. He parked in the shade of a huge copper beech; as he opened his door I could hear its leaves rustle and rattle. ‘Is it going to be a big do?’
‘Pretty big – about eighty, Nina told me.’
‘So who will I know, apart from her and Jon?’
I pulled down the visor and checked my reflection. ‘I’m not sure – she’s invited quite a few of the people we knew at Bristol; not that I’ve stayed in touch with that many …’ I winced at my red-veined eyes and pale cheeks. ‘I’ve only really kept up with Nina and Honor.’ I wound my long dark hair into a bun, then pinned onto that the pale pink silk flower that matched my dress.
Rick pulled a blue tie out of his jacket pocket. ‘So will Honor be there?’
‘Of course.’ Rick groaned; I glanced at him. ‘Don’t be like that, Rick – Honor’s lovely.’
‘She’s exhausting.’
‘Exuberant,’ I countered, wishing that my boyfriend was a bit keener on my best friend.
He grimaced. ‘She never stops talking. So she’s in the right job, not that I listen.’
‘You should – her show’s the best thing on Radio Five.’ As Rick looped and twisted the blue silk, I suppressed a dark smile. He’s tying the knot, I thought.
Reaching into the back for the gift, I saw more cars arriving, bumping slowly over the field. We made our way across the grass, which was studded with dandelion clocks, their downy seeds drifting like plankton. We strolled up Church Walk then pushed on the lych gate, which was garlanded with moon daisies, and went up the gravelled path.
Jon was waiting anxiously by the porch with his brothers, all three men in morning dress with yellow silk waistcoats. They greeted us warmly and we chatted for a minute or two; then the photographer, who had been sorting out his camera on top of a tomb, offered to take a picture of Rick and me.
‘Let’s have a smile,’ he said as he clicked away. ‘A bit more – it’s a wedding, not a funeral,’ he added genially. ‘That’s better …’ There was another volley of clicks then he squinted at the screen. ‘Lovely.’
Tim handed Rick and me our Order of Service sheets and we walked into the cool of the church.
I’d been to St Jude’s before, but had forgotten how small it was, and how simple the interior, with its plain walls, wooden roof and box pews. There was the smell of beeswax and dust and age, mingled with the scent of the oriental lilies that festooned the columns and pulpit. It was also very light, with clear glass, except for the East window, which depicted Christ blessing the children. The sun streamed through its coloured panes, scattering jewelled beams across the whitewashed walls.
‘Lovely church,’ Rick murmured as we sat down.
‘It is,’ I agreed, though today its beauty was a shard in my heart. Rick and I glanced through our service sheets as the church filled up, heels tapping over the flagstones, wood creaking as people sat down, then chatted quietly or just listened to the Bach partita that the organist was playing.
Jon’s parents went to their seats. Behind them I recognised a colleague of Nina’s, and now here was Honor, in a green ‘bombshell’ dress that hugged her curves and complemented her creamy skin and blonde hair. She blew me and Rick an extravagant kiss then sat near the front.
Now Jon and his older brother, James, took their places together, while their younger brother, Tim, ushered in a few latecomers. Nina’s mother, in a turquoise opera coat and matching hat, smiled benignly as she made her way to her pew.
I turned and caught a glimpse of Nina. She stood in the porch, in the white silk dupion sheath that Honor and I had helped her choose, her veil drifting behind her.
As the Bach drew to an end, the vicar stepped in front of the altar and welcomed everyone. Then there was a burst of Handel, and we all stood as Nina walked down the aisle on her father’s arm.
After the opening prayers we sang ‘Morning Has Broken’; then Honor stepped up to the lectern to read the sonnet that Nina had chosen.
‘My true love hath my heart, and I have his,’ she began, her dulcet voice echoing slightly. ‘By just exchange one for the other given. I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss. There never was a better bargain driven …’
As Honor read on, I felt a sting of envy. The lovers understood each other so well. I thought I’d had that with Rick …
‘My true love hath my heart – and I have his,’ Honor concluded.
The vicar raised his hands. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony …’ I looked at Nina and Jon, side by side in a pool of light, and wondered whether these words would ever be said for Rick and me. ‘Nor taken in hand wantonly,’ the vicar was saying, ‘but reverently, discreetly, advisedly and soberly, and in the fear of God, duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained.’ At that I felt Rick shift slightly. ‘First, it was ordained for the procreation of children …’ I stole a glance at him, but his face gave nothing away. ‘Therefore, if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else, hereafter, forever hold his peace.’
I tried to follow the service but found it suddenly impossible to focus on the music, or the Address, or on the beauty and solemnity of the vows. As Nina and Jon committed themselves to each other, with unfaltering voices, I felt another stab of pain. The register was signed, the last hymn sung and the blessing given; then, as Widor’s Toccata mingled with the pealing bells, we followed Nina and Jon outside.
We showered the couple with petals and took snaps with our phones; then the photographer began the formal photos of them while we all milled around by the porch.
‘Great to see you! Fantastic weather!’
‘Lovely service – much prefer the King James.’
‘Me too. Well read, Honor!’
‘Should we make our way to the house?’
‘Not yet. I think they want a group pic.’
Rick and I, keen to get away from the crowd, strolled through the churchyard; we looked at the gravestones, most of which were very old and eroded, blotched with yellow lichen.
Rick stopped in front of a slate headstone. ‘That’s odd. It’s got a pineapple on it.’
I looked at the carved image. ‘A pineapple means prosperity, as do figs, and I guess this was a prosperous area, probably because of the wool trade.’
We walked on, in silence, past stones that had angels on them, and doves and candles, the symbolism of which was clear.
We could hear the chatter of the guests, a sudden burst of Honor’s unmistakeable laughter, then the photographer’s voice. Could you look at me, Nina?
Rick approached another grave, by a yew. He peered at it. ‘This one’s got a bunch of grapes carved on it.’
‘Grapes represent the wine at the Last Supper.’
Rick glanced at me. ‘How do you know all this, Jen? I didn’t think you were religious.’
‘I had to research it for one of my books. It was years ago, but I’ve remembered a lot of it.’
Now look at each other again …
‘Here’s a rose,’ Rick said, pointing to another headstone. ‘I assume that means love?’
Oh, very romantic …
‘No. Roses show how old the person was when they died.’ I studied the worn emblem. ‘This is a full rose, which was used for adults.’ I read the inscription. ‘Mary Ann Betts … was …’ I peered at her dates. ‘Twenty-five. The stem’s severed, to show that her life was cut short.’
‘I see …’ Our conversation felt stiff and formal, as though we were strangers, not lovers.
Can we have a kiss?
‘A partially opened rose means a teenager.’
And another one. Lovely.
‘And a rosebud is for a child.’
Hold his hand now.
Rick nodded thoughtfully. ‘A sad subject.’
‘Yes …’ Okay, all stand together, please – nice and close!
Rick and I rejoined everyone for the group photo, for which the photographer climbed onto a stepladder, wobbling theatrically to make us all laugh. We smiled up at him while he clicked away then, hand in hand, Nina and Jon led us down the path, across the field, to the house.
The Old Forge was just as I remembered it – long and low, its pale stone walls ablaze with pyracantha and Virginia creeper. A large marquee filled the lawn. In the distance were the hills of Slad, the plunging pastures dotted with sheep, their bleats carrying across the valley on the still air.
We joined the receiving line, greeting both sets of parents, then the bride and groom.
Nina’s face lit up and we hugged. ‘Jenni …’
I had to fight back sudden tears. I didn’t know whether they were tears of happiness for her or of self-pity. ‘You look so beautiful, Nina.’
‘Thank you.’ She put her lips to my ear. ‘You next,’ she whispered.
Jon kissed me on the cheek, then clasped Rick’s hand. ‘Good to see you both! Thanks for coming!’
‘Congratulations, Jon,’ Rick said warmly. ‘It was a lovely service. Congratulations, Nina.’
Now we moved on into the large sunny sitting room where drinks were being served. I put our gift on a table amongst a cluster of other presents and cards. A waiter offered us a glass of champagne. Rick raised his glass. ‘Here’s to the happy couple.’
‘They are happy’ – I sipped my fizz. ‘It’s wonderful.’
‘How long have they been together?’
‘About the same as us. They got engaged on their first anniversary,’ I added neutrally, then laughed at myself for ever having thought that Rick and I might do the same.
I looked at Rick, so handsome, with his open face, short dark hair and blue gaze. I tried, and failed, to imagine life without him. We’d agreed to talk things over again the next day. Before I could think about that, though, a gong summoned us into the marquee, which was bedecked with white agapanthus and pink nerines, the tables gleaming with silver and china. We found our names, standing behind our chairs while the vicar said Grace.
Rick and I had been placed with Honor, and with Amy and Sean, whom I’d known at college but hadn’t seen for years, and an old schoolfriend of Jon’s, Al. I was glad that Nina had put him next to Honor; she’d been single for a while now, and he was very attractive. Also on our table was Nina’s godfather, Vincent Tregear. I vaguely remembered him from her twenty-first birthday. A near neighbour named Carolyn Browne introduced herself. I steeled myself for the effort of making small talk with people I don’t know; unlike Honor, I’m not good at it, and in my present frame of mind it would be harder than usual.
I heard Carolyn explain to Rick that she was a solicitor, recently retired. ‘I’m so busy though,’ she confessed, laughing. ‘I’m a governor of a local school, I play golf and bridge; I travel. I was dreading retirement, but it’s really fine.’ She smiled at Rick. ‘Not that you’re anywhere near that stage. So, what do you do?’
He unfurled his napkin. ‘I’m a teacher – at a primary school in Islington.’
‘He’s the deputy head,’ I volunteered, proudly.
Carolyn smiled at me. ‘And what about you, erm …?’
‘Jenni.’ I turned my place card towards her.
‘Jenni,’ she echoed. ‘And you’re …’ She nodded at Rick.
‘Yes, I’m Rick’s …’ The word ‘girlfriend’ made us seem like teenagers; ‘partner’ made us sound as though we were in business, not in love. ‘Other half,’ I concluded, though I disliked this too: it seemed to suggest, ominously, that we’d been sliced apart.
‘And what do you do?’ Carolyn asked me.
My heart sank – I hate talking about myself. ‘I’m a writer.’
‘A writer?’ Her face had lit up. ‘Do you write novels?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘It’s all non-fiction. But you won’t have heard of me.’
‘I read a lot, so maybe I will. What’s your name? Jenni …’ Carolyn peered at my place card. ‘Clark.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Jenni Clark …’
‘I don’t write under that name.’
‘So is it Jennifer Clark?’
‘No – what I mean is, I don’t write under any name.’ I was about to explain why, when Honor said, ‘Jenni’s a ghost.’
‘A ghost?’ Carolyn looked puzzled.
‘She ghosts things.’ Honor unfurled her napkin. ‘Strange to think that it can be a verb, isn’t it? I ghost, you ghost, he ghosts,’ she added gaily.
I rolled my eyes at Honor, then turned to Carolyn. ‘I’m a ghostwriter.’
‘Oh, I see. So you write books for people who can’t write.’
‘Or they can,’ I said, ‘but don’t have the time, or lack the confidence, or they don’t know how to shape the material.’
‘So it’s actors and pop stars, I suppose? Footballers? TV presenters?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t do the celebrity stuff – I used to, but not any more.’
‘Which is a shame,’ Honor interjected, ‘as you’d make far more money.’
‘True.’ I rested my fork. ‘But I didn’t enjoy it.’
‘Why not?’ asked Al, who was on my left.
‘It was too frustrating,’ I answered, ‘having to battle with my subjects’ egos, or finding that they didn’t turn up for the interviews; or that they’d give me some brilliant material then the next day tell me that I wasn’t to use it. So these days I only do the projects that interest me.’
Honor, who has a butterfly mind, was now discussing ghosts of the other kind. ‘I’m sure they exist,’ she said to Vincent Tregear. ‘Twenty years ago I was staying with my cousins in France; it was a warm, still day, just like today, and we were exploring this abandoned house. It was a ruin, so we could see right up to the roof … And we both heard footsteps, right above us, on the non-existent floorboards.’ She gave an extravagant shudder. ‘I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘I believe in ghosts,’ Carolyn remarked. ‘I live on my own, in an old house, and at times I’ve been aware of this … presence.’
Amy nodded enthusiastically. ‘I’ve sometimes felt a sudden chill.’ She turned to Sean. ‘Do you remember, darling, last summer? When we were in Wales?’
‘I do,’ he answered. ‘Though I believe it was because you were pregnant.’
‘No: pregnancy made me feel hot, not cold.’
‘A few years ago,’ said Al, ‘I was asleep in my flat, alone, when I suddenly woke up, convinced that someone was sitting on my bed.’
I shivered at the idea. ‘And you weren’t dreaming?’
He shook his head. ‘I was wide awake. I can still remember the weight of it, pressing down on the mattress. Yet there was no one there.’
‘How terrifying,’ I murmured.
‘It was.’ He poured me some water then filled his own glass. ‘Has anything like that ever happened to you?’
‘It hasn’t, I’m glad to say. But I don’t dismiss other people’s experiences.’
‘I’ve always been sceptical about these things,’ Sean observed. ‘I believe that if people are sufficiently on edge they can see things that aren’t really there. Like Macbeth seeing the ghost of Banquo.’
‘Shake not thy gory locks at me!’ intoned Honor, then giggled. ‘And Macbeth certainly is on edge by then, isn’t he, having murdered – what – four people?’ Then she went off on some new conversational tangent about why it was considered unlucky for actors to say ‘Macbeth’ inside a theatre. ‘People think it’s because of the evil in the story,’ she prattled away as a waiter took her plate. ‘But it’s actually because if a play wasn’t selling well, the actors would have to quickly rehearse Macbeth as that’s always popular, so doing Macbeth became associated with ill luck. Now … what are we having next?’ She picked up a gold-tasselled menu. ‘Sea bass – yum. Did you know that sea bass are hermaphrodites? The males become females at six months.’
Al, clearly uninterested in the gender-switching tendencies of our main course, turned to me. ‘So what sort of books do you write?’
‘A real mix,’ I answered. ‘Psychology, health and popular culture; I’ve done a diet book, and a couple of gardening books …’
I thought of my titles, more than twenty of them, lined up on the shelf in my study.
‘So you must learn a huge amount about all these things,’ Al said.
‘I do. It’s one of the perks.’
Carolyn sipped her wine. ‘But do you get any kind of credit?’
‘No.’
‘I thought that with ghostwritten books it usually said “with” so-and-so or “as told to”.’
‘It depends,’ I said. ‘Some ghostwriters ask for that. I don’t.’
‘So your name appears nowhere?’
‘That’s right.’
She frowned. ‘Don’t you mind?’
I shrugged. ‘Anonymity’s part of the deal. And of course the clients like it that way. They’d prefer everyone to think they’d written the book all by themselves.’
Carolyn laughed. ‘I couldn’t bear not to have any of the glory. If I’d worked that hard on something, I’d want people to know!’
‘Me too,’ chimed in Honor. ‘I don’t know why you want to hide your light under a bushel quite so much, Jen.’
‘Because it’s enough that I’ve enjoyed the work and been paid for it. I’m happy to be … invisible.’
‘You were always like that,’ Honor went on. ‘You were never one to seek the limelight – unlike me,’ she giggled. ‘I enjoy it.’
‘So are you still acting?’ Sean asked her.
‘Not for five years now,’ she answered. ‘I couldn’t take the insecurity any more, so I went into radio, which I love.’
‘I’ve heard your show,’ Amy interjected. ‘It’s really good.’
‘Thanks.’ Honor basked in the compliment for a moment. ‘And you two have had a baby, haven’t you?’
‘We have,’ Amy answered. ‘So I’m on maternity leave …’
‘And what are you working on now, Jenni?’ Carolyn asked.
I fiddled with my wine glass. ‘A baby-care guide.’
‘How lovely,’ she responded. ‘And are you a mum?’
My heart contracted. ‘No.’ I sipped my wine.
‘Doesn’t that make it difficult? Writing a book about something you haven’t been through yourself?’
‘Not at all. The client’s talked extensively to me about her experience – she’s a midwife – and I’ve written it up in a clear and, I hope, engaging way.’
‘I must buy it,’ Amy said to me. ‘What’s it called?’
‘Bringing Up Baby. It’ll be out in the spring. But I always get given a few complimentary copies, so if you give me your address I’ll send you one.’
‘Oh, that’s kind. I’ll write it down …’ Amy began looking in her bag for a pen.
‘You can contact me through my website,’ I suggested. ‘Jenni Clark Ghostwriting. So … how old’s your baby?’
At that Sean took out his phone and swiped the screen. ‘She’s called Rosie.’
I smiled at the photo. ‘She’s gorgeous. Isn’t she lovely, Honor?’
Honor peered at the image. ‘She’s a little beauty.’
‘She’s what, six months?’ I asked.
Amy’s face glowed with pride. ‘Yes – she’ll be seven months a week on Wednesday.’
‘So is she crawling?’ I went on, ‘Or starting to roll over?’ Beside me I could feel Rick stiffen.
‘She’s crawling beautifully,’ Amy replied. ‘But she’s not rolling over yet.’
Sean laughed. ‘It’ll be nerve-wracking when she does.’
‘You won’t be able to leave her on the bed or the changing table,’ I said. ‘That’s when lots of parents put the changing mat on the floor – not that I’m a parent myself, but of course we cover this in the book …’ Rick had tuned out of the conversation and was talking to Carolyn again. Al turned to me. ‘So can you write about any subject?’
‘Well, not something I could never relate to,’ I answered, ‘like particle physics – not that I’d ever get chosen for a book like that. But I’ll do almost any professional writing job: corporate reports, press releases, business pitches, memoirs …’
‘Memoirs?’ echoed Vincent Tregear. ‘You mean, writing someone’s life story?’
‘Yes – usually an older person, just for private publication.’
‘Do you enjoy that?’ Vincent wanted to know.
‘Very much. In fact it’s the best part of the job. I love immersing myself in other people’s memories.’
Vincent looked as though he was about to say something, but then Carolyn began asking him about golf, Amy was telling Rick about yoga, and Honor was chatting to Al about his work as an orthodontist. She was drawn to him, I could tell. Good old Nina for putting them together. Suddenly Honor looked at me, grinned, then tapped her teeth. ‘Al says I have a perfect bite.’
I raised my glass. ‘Congratulations!’
‘Not just good,’ Honor said. ‘Perfect!’
‘Don’t let it go to your head,’ Al said.
She laughed. ‘Where else is my bite supposed to go?’
Soon it was time for the speeches and toasts; the cake was cut, then after coffee there was a break before the evening party was to start.
Amy and Sean had to leave, to get back to their baby. Vincent Tregear also said his goodbyes. As the caterers moved back the tables, Rick and I went out into the garden.
We sat on a bench, watching the sky turn crimson, then mauve, then an inky blue in which the first stars were starting to shine.
‘Well … it’s been a great day,’ Rick pronounced. The awkwardness had returned, squatting between us like an uninvited guest.
‘It’s been a lovely day,’ I agreed. ‘We should …’
‘What?’ he murmured.
My nerve failed. ‘We should go inside. It’s getting cold.’
Rick stood up. ‘And the band’s started.’ He held out his hand.
So we returned to the marquee where Jon and Nina were dancing their first waltz. Soon everyone took to the floor. But as Rick’s arms went round me and he pulled me close, I felt that he was hugging me goodbye.
TWO (#ulink_26ecf870-0911-5c85-8be7-4b1aea708364)
‘So … what are we going to do?’ Rick asked me gently the following day.
We’d had lunch – not that I’d been able to eat – and now faced each other across our kitchen table. I shook my head, helplessly. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
‘We’ve got three options,’ Rick went on. ‘One, I change my mind; two, you change your mind; or three …’
I felt my stomach clench. ‘I don’t want to break up.’
‘Nor do I.’ Rick exhaled, hard, as though breathing on glass, then he looked at me, his blue eyes searching my face. ‘I do love you, Jen.’
‘Then you should be happy to let me have what I want.’
He flinched. ‘You know it’s not that simple.’
A silence fell in which we could hear the rumble of traffic from the City Road.
‘I keep thinking about this quote I once read,’ Rick said after a moment. ‘I can’t remember who it’s by, but it’s about how love doesn’t consist in gazing at the other person, but in looking together in the same direction.’ He shrugged. ‘But we’re not doing that.’
I cradled my coffee mug with its pattern of red hearts. ‘We’ve been together for a year and a half,’ I said quietly. ‘We’ve lived together for nine months, and we’ve been happy. Haven’t we?’ I glanced at the framed photo collage that I’d made of our first year together. There were snaps of us on top of Mount Snowdon, walking on the South Downs, sitting on the swing seat in his parents’ garden, cooking together, kissing. Then my eyes strayed to Nina’s wedding invitation on the kitchen dresser. I bitterly regretted having teasingly asked Rick when we might take our relationship forward.
‘We have been happy,’ Rick said at last. ‘That’s what makes it so hard.’
Another silence enveloped us. I could hear the hum of the fridge. ‘There is a fourth option,’ I said, ‘which is to go on as we were. So let’s just … forget marriage.’
Rick stared at me as though I were speaking in tongues. ‘This isn’t about marriage, Jen.’
I glanced at my manuscript, the typed pages stacked up on the table. Bringing Up Baby. From Newborn to 12 Months, the Definitive Infant-Care Guide. A page had fallen to the floor.
‘So what are we going to do?’ Rick asked me again.
‘I don’t know.’ A wave of resentment coursed through me. ‘I only know that I was always honest with you.’ As I picked up the sheet, random sentences leapt out at me. Great adventure of parenthood … bliss of holding your baby for the first time … what to expect, month by month.
‘You were honest.’ Rick nodded. ‘You told me right from the start that you didn’t want to have children and that this was something I had to know if we were to get involved.’
‘Yes,’ I said hotly, ‘and you said you didn’t mind, because you work with children every day. You said that your brother has four kids, so there was no pressure on you to have them. You told me that you’d never been bothered about it and that people can have a good life without children – which is true.’
‘I did feel like that, Jenni. But I’ve changed.’
‘Well, I wish you hadn’t, because now we’ve got a problem.’
Rick pushed back his chair; he went and stood by the French windows. Through the panes the plants in our small walled garden looked dusty and withered. I’d been too distracted and upset to water them. ‘People do change,’ he said quietly. ‘They’re allowed to change. And it’s crept up on me over the past few months. I’ve wanted to talk to you about it but was afraid to, precisely for this reason, but now you’ve brought the issue into the open.’
‘Why have you changed?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know – probably because I’m nearly forty now.’
‘You were nearly forty when we met.’
‘Or maybe it’s seeing the kids at school develop and grow, and wishing that I could watch my own kids do that.’
‘That didn’t seem to worry you before.’
‘True. But now it does.’
I glanced at the manuscript. ‘I think it’s because I’ve been working on this baby-care book.’ I felt my throat constrict. ‘I wish I’d never agreed to do it.’
‘The book has nothing to do with it, Jen. I wanted to be with you so much that I convinced myself I didn’t want children. Then I began to believe that because we were in love we’d naturally want to have them. So I thought you’d change your mind.’
‘Which is what you’re hoping for now?’
Rick sighed. ‘I guess I am. Because then we’d still have each other, but with the chance of family life too. I’ll be applying for head teacher posts before long: I’d like to try for jobs outside London, if you were happy to move.’
‘I’d be happy to be wherever you were,’ I said truthfully.
‘Jen …’ Rick’s face was full of sudden yearning. ‘We could have a great life: we’d be able to afford a bigger place.’ He looked around him. ‘This flat’s so small.’
‘I don’t care. I’d live in a bedsit with you if I had to. But, yes, it would be wonderful to have more space – with a bigger garden.’
He nodded. ‘I’ve been thinking about that garden a lot. I see a lawn, with children running around on it, laughing. But then they fade, like ghosts, because I know you don’t want any.’ Rick sat down again, then reached for my hands. ‘I want nothing more than to share my life with you, Jen, but we have to want the same things. And the question of whether or not we have children isn’t one that we can compromise on; and if we can’t agree about it—’
I withdrew my hands. ‘Let’s imagine that I do change my mind. What if we then find that I can’t have kids?’
‘At least I’d know that we’d tried. Or maybe, I don’t know … we could try IVF.’
‘A bank-breaking emotional rollercoaster with no guarantees. The other day Honor interviewed a woman who’s spent forty thousand pounds on it and still isn’t pregnant.’
‘Well, we might be luckier. If not, we could adopt.’
‘Could we?’ I echoed. ‘Would we really want that? In any case this is all academic, because I won’t be changing my mind; and if you really do love me, you’ll accept that. Can’t we just go on as we were?’ I added desperately.
Rick blinked. ‘I don’t see how we can.’
My throat ached with a suppressed sob. ‘Why not? Because now you’ve decided that you would like kids, you’d want to go right out there, as soon as possible, and find some woman to have them with? Is that it? Should I start knitting a matinee jacket for the baby right now?’
Rick flinched. ‘Don’t be silly, Jen. It’s because we’d only be putting off the inevitable. I’d come to resent you, then you’d be upset with me, and we’d break up anyway.’ He shook his head. ‘What I don’t understand is why you won’t at least explore why it is that you feel—’
‘No,’ I interrupted. ‘I won’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m not prepared to bare my soul to some stranger! In any case there’s nothing to explore. Yes, lots of women want children, but there are lots who don’t, and I’m one of them. So seeing a counsellor won’t make any difference. I mean, you’re the one who’s changed, Rick, not me, yet you’re making the condescending assumption that I don’t know my own mind!’
‘No, Jen, I’m just trying to work out why you feel as you do. Because you like children. You go out of your way to be with them.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘It is – you come into school every week and read to them.’
‘I … do it for you.’
‘Jen …’ Rick looked bewildered. ‘That’s how we met.’
Another silence fell. I could hear a magpie chattering in a nearby garden. ‘Well, it’s hardly a big deal, especially as my flat was practically next door. And liking children doesn’t mean I want to have them myself. I don’t.’
‘Yet you’ve said that if I’d been divorced, with children, you’d happily have had those kids in your life.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you won’t have a child of your own.’
‘No.’
‘I wish I knew why not. If you told me that it was because you felt that having children would wreck your career, or your lifestyle, or your body, I could at least understand that. I could try to accept it. But to say that you won’t have children because you’d be too scared …’
I put my hand on the table, tracing the grain with my fingertips. ‘I would be,’ I insisted quietly.
‘Why?’
I looked up. ‘I’ve told you; I’d be scared that something would go wrong. Or that I’d make a terrible mistake – that I’d drop the baby, or forget to feed it or give it enough to drink.’
‘Babies don’t let you forget, Jen; that’s why they cry. And you’ve just written a book about babies. Hasn’t that made you feel you could cope?’
‘It’s given me knowledge of how to care for them,’ I conceded. ‘But it hasn’t taken away my fear that something bad would happen.’ Panic swept through me. ‘Like … cot death, God forbid; or that I’d turn my back for a few seconds – that’s all it would take – and the child would fall down the stairs, or run into the road, or that there’d be some terrible accident that I could never, ever, get over.’ Tears stung my eyes. ‘Parenthood’s a white-knuckle ride, and I don’t want to get on.’
Rick gave a bewildered shrug. ‘Most people probably feel the same way, but they control their fears: you let them govern your life. You’re normally so level-headed, but with this I think you’re being—’
‘Don’t tell me – irrational?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not irrational to avoid anxiety and stress.’
‘It is irrational to presume that things will go terribly wrong – especially as you’ve no reason to think you wouldn’t be a good, careful parent. What’s your real fear, Jenni? That you wouldn’t love the child?’
‘On the contrary; I know that I would – which is precisely why I don’t want to have one.’
He groaned. ‘But you know, Jen, this isn’t just about whether or not we have a family.’
‘What do you mean?’
Rick gave a frustrated sigh. ‘We get on so well, Jen.’ I nodded. ‘We respect each other. We love being together, we talk easily – and we’re attracted to each other.’
‘We are,’ I agreed with a pang.
‘But you’re just not … open with me. Every time I ask you about your childhood you avoid my questions, or change the subject. And you never mention your mother, or explain why it is that you’re virtually estranged.’
‘I have explained.’
‘You haven’t – at least not in any way that I can understand. And as time’s gone on it’s bothered me more and more. This feeling I have, that although I love being with you, and desire you, I don’t really know you.’ He sighed. ‘You said that your mother neglected you.’
‘No. She looked after me. But she was distant and cold.’
‘That is neglect.’ Rick chewed his lip. ‘So … was she always like that?’
‘No.’ I saw my mother playing with me, reading to me. Holding my hand … ‘But as I grew older, it got worse; and it wasn’t as though I had a father to make up for it.’
‘Maybe that’s why she was so remote – though you’d think what happened might have brought her closer to you.’
‘Well … it didn’t.’
‘Is this the real reason why you don’t want kids?’ Rick asked. ‘Out of a fear that you’d be like that with your own child? Because you wouldn’t be, Jen.’
‘How do you know?’ I demanded bleakly. ‘I might be worse.’
‘Jenni, I wish that you’d at least talk to someone who might be able to help you overcome your fears.’
I laughed. ‘With a wave of their magic, psychotherapeutic wand? No. In any case, there’s nothing to resolve. I don’t want to have children. I like talking to them, and reading to them, and playing with them, and yes, I can see that having a child must in many ways be wonderful. But against that I set the never-ending, heart-wrenching anxiety of parenthood. I intend to protect myself from that.’
Rick stood up then walked over to the patio doors and unbolted them. He went out and sat on the wooden bench at the end of our small garden. After a moment he took a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket, lit one, released a nebula of smoke, then sat with his hands on his knees, head bowed.
I pushed back my chair, gathered up the manuscript, then went down the hall into my study. I dropped the pages beside the computer and sat staring at the darkened screen.
Three options … allowed to change … not open with me …
I heard an e-mail come in but ignored it. Was there any way Rick and I might resolve our problem? I refused to see a counsellor. I didn’t need counselling, and it would be more likely to destroy us than help us. Without thinking, I clicked the mouse and the screen flared into life.
I looked at the list of messages, desperate for distraction. The first three offered me laser lipo, cut-price hair extensions and fifty per cent off a pocket-sprung mattress. The fourth was headed Ghostwriting Enquiry and had been automatically forwarded from my website. It was from Nina’s godfather, Vincent Tregear. Surprised that he should contact me, I read it. It was a two-line message, asking me to call him. I was too upset to speak to him now. Instead, I opened the baby-guide document and stared listlessly at the screen, seeing the words, but not taking them in. Then I closed the document and, with an effort of will, I forced my mind away from Rick. I wiped my eyes, reached for the handset and dialled the number that Vincent had given.
After three rings the phone picked up, and I recognised Vincent’s voice.
He thanked me for getting back to him. ‘I know we hardly spoke at the wedding,’ he went on. ‘But I was very interested in what you were saying about writing memoirs. So I made a mental note of your website and last night I took a look at it and was impressed. The reason I’ve got in touch is because I’m wondering whether you might be able to help my mother write her memoirs.’
‘I see!’
‘She’s seventy-nine,’ he explained. ‘She’s in good health, and her memory’s fine. For years my brother and I have suggested that she write something about her life. She’s always been against the idea, but recently, to our surprise, she said that she would like to. But it won’t be easy as there are some parts of her life that she’s never talked about.’ Broken love affairs, I speculated, or marital difficulties. ‘She’s never talked about what happened to her during the war.’
My thoughts were racing, my mind already trying to shape a possible story for Vincent’s mother. She would have been a child at the time. Perhaps she’d lived in London, was evacuated, and was treated badly. Perhaps she’d stayed, and seen terrible things.
‘She doesn’t have a computer,’ I heard Vincent say. ‘So I offered to help her get her reminiscences onto paper; but she said that she’d find it too awkward, sharing such difficult memories with her own child.’
‘That’s completely understandable. I know I’d find it hard myself.’
‘So for a while we left it there; then last week, out of the blue, my mother suggested that we find someone for her to talk to. I thought about commissioning a journalist, but then at the wedding I heard you talking about what you do. So … how exactly would it work?’
I explained that I spend time with the person, and record hours of interviews with them. ‘With their permission I also read their diaries and correspondence,’ I went on. ‘I look at their photos and mementoes – anything that will help me to prompt their memories.’
‘Then you transcribe it all,’ he said.
‘Yes – except that it’s much more than a transcription. I’m trying to evoke that person, in their own voice. So I don’t simply ask them what happened to them, I ask them how they felt about it at the time; how they think their experiences changed them, what they’re proud of, or what they regret. It’s quite an intense exploration of who the person is and how they’ve lived – there’s a lot of soul-searching. Some people find it difficult.’
‘I can understand. And how long would it take?’
‘Three to four months. So … have a think,’ I added, still avidly wondering what his mother’s story might be.
‘I don’t need to think about it,’ Vincent responded. ‘I’m keen to go ahead. In fact I wanted to ask if you could start next week?’
‘That’s … soon.’
‘It is, but we’d like to have it done in time for my mother’s eightieth in late January. It’s to be our present to her.’
‘I see. Well, I’d have to check my work diary.’ I didn’t want to let on that there was precious little in it. ‘But before I do, could you tell me a bit more?’ I reached for a pad and pen, glad to have this distraction.
‘My mother’s farmed for most of her life.’ I scribbled farmer. ‘It’s not a big farm,’ he explained, ‘just a hundred and twenty acres; but it’s been in my father’s family since the 1860s. He died ten years ago.’
Widowed, I wrote. Farm. 150 yrs.
‘Mum has always worked very hard, and still works hard,’ Vincent went on. ‘She runs the farm shop and she grows most of what’s sold in it.’
‘And what sort of education did she have? Did she go to university?’
‘No. She married my father when she was nineteen.’
Married @ 19 … Mrs Tregear. ‘And what’s her first name?’ Vincent told me and I wrote it down. ‘That’s pretty.’
‘It’s Klara with a “K”.’
‘So … is your mother German?’
‘No. Dutch.’
As I turned the C into a K, I imagined Klara growing up in Holland, under German occupation. Perhaps she’d known Anne Frank, or Audrey Hepburn – they’d have been about the same age. I saw Klara standing in a frozen field trying to dig up tulip bulbs to eat.
‘My mother grew up in the tropics,’ I heard Vincent say. ‘On Java. Her father was the manager of a rubber plantation.’
Plantation … Java …
‘When the Pacific War started, after Pearl Harbor, she was interned with her mother and younger brother.’ Interned … I imagined bamboo fencing and barbed wire.
‘We know that internees suffered terrible privation, as well as cruelty, but she’s rarely talked about it, except to mention the odd incident in this camp or that.’
I’d have to do some research. I scribbled Dutch East Indies, then Japanese occupation.
‘Vincent, I would like to take on this commission.’
‘Really? That’s great!’
‘And in fact I could start next week.’ My pen had run out. I yanked open the drawer and rummaged in it for another one. ‘If you give me your address, I’ll send you my standard letter of engagement. Where do you live?’
‘In Gerrards Cross, near Beaconsfield.’
‘I know it. It’ll be easy to get there. It can’t take more than, what, half an hour by train, or I could borrow my boyfriend’s car – that’s Rick, he was there yesterday; he doesn’t use it much and so—’
‘Jenni, I must stop you,’ Vincent interjected. ‘My mother doesn’t live with me.’
‘Oh.’ Why had I assumed that she did?
‘She lives with my brother, Henry: he runs the farm.’
‘I see. And where is it?’
‘In Cornwall.’ My heart sank as I wrote it down. ‘At a place called Polvarth.’ My pen stopped. ‘It’s just a coastal hamlet,’ I heard him say. ‘It’s beautiful, with small fields going down to the sea, and there’s a wonderful beach. Jenni? Are you still there?’
I closed my eyes. ‘Vincent, have you contacted anyone else about this?’
‘No. As I say, I was going to try and find a journalist, perhaps someone from the Cornish Guardian, but then yesterday I heard you talking about your work and was very taken with what you said. I particularly liked the way you said that you love immersing yourself in other people’s memories.’
‘I do,’ I said quietly. Because it distracts me from my own.
‘And on your website you say that being a “ghost” isn’t just about being a writer; it’s like being a midwife – you’re helping to deliver the story of someone’s life.’
‘But I also say that it’s a very intense, emotional process, and that it’s therefore important to choose the right person.’
‘I can’t help feeling that you are. I also think that my mother would like you. I must say, I’m rather confused,’ Vincent added. ‘Didn’t you just say that you wanted to do it?’
‘I did say that … but I always advise prospective clients to, well, shop around. So that they have a choice,’ I went on, trying to keep the tension out of my voice. ‘I can recommend some other ghostwriters.’
There was a pause. ‘Are you unsure about it because of the distance?’
‘Yes,’ I said, gratefully. ‘That’s the reason. It’s such a long way.’
‘We’d pay your travel expenses. And my mother would put you up.’
‘That’s kind,’ I interrupted, ‘but I never stay with the client – it’s one of my rules.’
‘Fair enough, but she has a holiday cottage just down the lane. It’s not that big, but it’s comfortable.’
‘I’m sure it’s lovely but—’
‘You’d be completely independent. You could come up to the farm during the day. My mother’s a very pleasant person.’
‘I’m sure she is, Vincent, but that’s not why …’
‘You just want to think about it.’
‘I do. And I’d need to talk to Rick.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry, Jenni. I didn’t mean to push you. But if you could let me know, either way.’
‘I will.’
I hung up, then sat staring at the computer screen again, seeing nothing. I raised my eyes to the shelf above my desk. Battling the Enemy Within – Regain the Confidence to be Yourself. I’d bought that book a year before, but still hadn’t summoned the courage to read more than a few pages. Nor had I even opened the one beside it, Transcending Fear – How to Face Your Demons.
I’d never faced my demons. I’d buried them, in the sand.
I heard Rick’s footsteps; then there he was in the doorway. ‘Are you okay, Jen?’ He smiled, trying to reassure me that things were fine, when we both knew they weren’t. ‘I heard you talking,’ he went on. ‘You sounded agitated.’ I told him about Vincent’s call. ‘But that sounds interesting. And it’s work.’ He lifted a pile of magazines off the armchair, put them on the floor then sat down. I could smell the scent of his cigarette. ‘Do you have much to do at the moment?’
‘No. I have to get the baby guide to the publisher by Thursday, then there’s nothing.’
Rick stretched out his long, lean legs. ‘So why aren’t you sure about this job?’
I couldn’t tell him the truth. I’d wanted to, many times, but the dread of seeing shock and disappointment in his eyes had stopped me. ‘It’s so … far.’
He looked puzzled. ‘But you went up to Scotland to do that memoir last year. We e-mailed and Skyped, didn’t we? It was fine.’ I nodded. ‘If you did this one, how long would you have to go for?’
‘The usual.’ I put the top on my pen. ‘A week to ten days.’
‘Well …’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it’s come up now for a reason. It might be good for us to have some time apart.’
‘So that we can get used to it. Is that what you mean?’ I dreaded hearing his answer, but I had to ask.
‘No, so that we have some breathing space, to think about everything. It could … help.’ He didn’t look as though he believed that it would. ‘So where exactly is Polvarth?’
‘It’s in south Cornwall, close to a fishing village called Trennick. It’s very small – just one long lane that leads down to a beach. At the other end of it there’s a farm.’ The Tregears’ farm, I now realised.
‘You’ve been there before?’
I nodded. ‘There are a few holiday homes, built in the Sixties.’ I pictured the one that we’d stayed in, ‘Penlee’. ‘There’s also a hotel.’ It had a big garden with a play area at the end of it with swings and a seesaw. ‘Just below the hotel is the beach. And on the cliff path behind the beach is a tea hut; or there was. Perhaps it’s gone now.’
‘When were you last there? You’ve never mentioned the place to me.’
‘I … forgot about it. I was nine.’ ‘So you went there with your mother?’ I nodded. ‘And was it a happy holiday?’ I didn’t answer. Rick exhaled loudly, clearly frustrated by the conversation. ‘Obviously not. Then perhaps you shouldn’t go – if it’s going to upset you it won’t be worth it. But you’re thirty-four, Jen. You’re not a child.’ He stood up, abruptly. ‘I think I’ll walk up to school: I’ve got to plan tomorrow’s lessons and I might as well do it there.’ His smile was tight. ‘Whether you go to Cornwall or not is your decision. See you later, darling.’
I wanted to throw my arms round him and implore him to stay. Instead, I sat perfectly still.
‘Yes,’ I said coolly. ‘See you later.’
After Rick had left, I sat at my desk, frozen with misery, as the daylight began to fade. The nights were drawing in. I dreaded the thought of another winter in the city.
I took the phone out of the cradle. ‘It’s my decision,’ I murmured. ‘I don’t have to do it.’ I tapped in Vincent’s number. ‘I don’t want to do it.’ My finger hovered over the button. ‘And I’m not going to do it.’ I pressed ‘call’.
The phone was picked up after three rings. ‘Hello?’
‘Vincent? It’s Jenni Clark again.’
‘Hello, Jenni. Thanks for phoning me back.’
‘Vincent …’ I steeled myself. ‘I’ve thought about it.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve also discussed it with Rick. And the thing is …’ My eyes strayed to the shelf. Transcending Fear. ‘The thing is … that …’
‘So … what have you decided?’
How to Face Your Demons.
‘I’ll come.’
THREE (#ulink_bb46599d-01af-54e3-888c-521f5a12bb78)
The following Saturday I boarded the train at Paddington for Cornwall. The week had rushed by, with the final edits on the baby-care guide due. I was glad to finish the project and to stop thinking about babies. I’d then thrown myself into researching the Dutch East Indies and the Japanese occupation.
Rick and I hadn’t really discussed our problems again. In any case we’d hardly seen each other. He’d been busy at school with parents’ evenings, and he’d spent time at the gym. He was clearly avoiding being with me. But when we did finally talk, we decided that it would be better if we didn’t phone, text or Skype while I was away.
‘We need to find out how much we miss each other,’ Rick had said as he’d driven me to the station. ‘Perhaps that’ll give us the answer.’
‘Perhaps it will,’ I responded bleakly. I hated the uncertainty between us, but didn’t know what else to say.
On the train, I stowed my case in the luggage rack, then found my seat. Soon there was the slamming of doors, a shrill whistle, and the carriages began to creak and groan as we pulled out of the station. As we trundled though west London, my mind was in turmoil: my future with Rick hung in the balance, and I was heading for Cornwall, a place I’d shunned for twenty-five years. I’d been unable even to look at the county on a map without a stab of pain. Now, for reasons I didn’t even understand, I was going back.
Desperate to distract myself, I got out my laptop.
The Dutch East Indies was a colony that became Indonesia following World War II …
Through the window the urban sprawl had already given way to fields and coppiced hills that were tinged with gold.
Java lies between Sumatra to the west and Bali to the east … A chain of volcanic mountains forms a spine along the island … four main provinces …
Soon we were passing through the Somerset levels, where weeping willows lined the river banks. A heron shook out its wings then lifted into the air.
On 28 February 1942 the Japanese 16th Army landed at three locations on the coast of West Java; their main targets were the cities of Batavia (now Jakarta) and Bandung …
The train was running beside an estuary. The tide was out and flocks of wading birds had gathered on the silty shore. My mind filled with thoughts of Rick again, but I forced them away. I returned to my research and read on about the fall of Java.
At the next station, a woman got on with a small girl and boy and they sat at the table across the aisle.
The girl had short brown hair, held off her pretty face with a yellow clip. She read a book while her little brother, seated opposite her, played on a Nintendo.
The Japanese began interning non-military European men – mostly planters, teachers, civil servants and engineers – from March 1942. Their wives and children were interned from November of that year. For many, this was the start of an ordeal that was to last three and a half years.
‘Fear!’ I looked up. The boy had put down his Nintendo and was looking at his sister. ‘Fear!’ he repeated. Absorbed in her stickers, she ignored him. ‘Feear …’ He grabbed her arm. ‘FEAR!’
Their mother, who’d been texting, lowered her phone. ‘Sophia, answer your brother, will you!’
She glared at him. ‘What?’
He held up his Nintendo. ‘Could you do my Super Mario for me, Phia? I’m stuck.’
She peered at it. ‘Okay.’
The boy passed the console to her and she began tapping the screen with the stylus while he watched, rapt, resting his face in his hands.
Some 108,000 civilians were herded into camps, where they were held in atrocious conditions; 13,000 died from starvation and disease. I tried to imagine the dreadful reality behind those figures. Klara must have been through so much, and at such a young age.
As we pulled out of Plymouth the woman put her phone down again. ‘I want you to stop playing and look out of the window,’ she told her children. ‘What huge ships,’ she said as we passed the dockyard. ‘We’ll be crossing the river in a minute. Here we go,’ she sang as the train rolled onto Brunel’s great railway bridge.
The girl stood up to get a better view through the massive iron girders. ‘It’s like flying!’
A hundred feet below, the Tamar glittered in the sunshine.
‘Look at all those boats,’ said her mother. ‘Now we’re in Cornwall,’ she added as we reached the other side.
‘Yay!’ the children exclaimed.
After Saltash the train proceeded slowly through steep pastureland, then through a conifer plantation. We passed Liskeard and Par, then St Austell with its terraces of pale stone houses.
The loudspeaker crackled into life. ‘This is your train manager speaking. Next stop, Truro.’
My hands shook as I gathered up my things. I smiled goodbye to the children’s mum; then, as the train halted, I stepped off with my case.
I collected the keys for the small car I’d reserved at the Hertz office at the front of the station. Then, my heart pounding, I drove off in it, past Truro’s cathedral with its three spires, out of the city. Following the signs for St Mawes I went down a winding road over-canopied by oak and beech, their branches pierced here and there by shafts of sunlight that dappled the tarmac.
I drove through Glendurn and Trelawn then, seeing the sign for Trennick, I turned onto a still narrower road, ringed with blackthorn and alder, the banks thick with brambles that scratched the sides of the car.
I rounded the next bend. Then I stopped.
Before me was the sea, shimmering in the sun. This was Polvarth, a place I’d vowed never to return to, yet which I saw, in my mind, every day.
It was my idea.
I closed my eyes as the memories rushed back.
We did it all by ourselves.
Beneath the sign that said Higher Polvarth Farm was an old kitchen table on which had been left a crate of cauliflowers (50p each), a box of cabbages (50p) and a yellow bucket holding bunches of dahlias (75p). A jam jar contained a few coins. Another smaller sign had a black arrow on it, pointing right. Farm Shop, 200 yds. Crabs, lobsters & fish, caught daily. Open 9 a.m.–11 a.m. & 5 p.m.–7 p.m., Mon to Sat.
I turned in, bumped carefully down the track then braked.
In front of me rose the farmhouse, a square, white-painted building with a low-pitched slate roof and tall windows. Beside it were parked an old Land Rover and a white pick-up, the back of which was piled with lobster pots. Behind me was a big, open-sided shed in which there was a wooden boat on a trailer; a stone barn housed the farm shop. A ginger cat lay curled in the sunlight.
The door of the farmhouse opened and a well-built man in blue overalls came out.
‘Jenni?’ He held out his hand as he came closer. ‘Henry Tregear.’
I shook it, feeling shy suddenly. ‘Good to meet you. I can see the resemblance to your brother.’
Henry patted his head, grinning. ‘Vince has got rather more hair. You’ll meet my mother later – she’s just nipped over to Trelawn to see a friend. But in the meantime I’ll show you where you’re staying; if I could just hop in your car with you.’
Henry got in the passenger seat and I drove a few hundred yards down the lane to the modern cottage that I’d passed on the way up. I parked on the forecourt then Henry got out, opened the boot, and carried my suitcase to the semi-glazed front door.
There was a slate sign on the wall: Lanhay. The interior was quite plain, with wooden floors and neutral furnishings. On the walls were framed prints of flowers and fish – typical of what you might expect to find in a holiday house. But in one of the bedrooms was an original oil painting – a striking seascape. I stared at the churning blue and green water, low cliffs and jagged rocks.
Henry noticed me looking at it. ‘That’s by my son, Adam. He sells quite a few; in fact he’s having an exhibition the week after next, at Trennick.’
I shivered in recognition. ‘It’s the beach here, isn’t it?’
‘It is. How did you know? Have you just driven down there?’
‘No …’ I tried to quell the thudding in my ribcage. ‘I’ve been to Polvarth before.’
‘I see. Anyway, the house is simple,’ Henry remarked as we went downstairs again, ‘but comfy.’ He fiddled with the boiler, then touched the nearest radiator. ‘You’ve got everything you need: the washing machine’s there. Give the door a little thump if it won’t start. Dishwasher, microwave, fridge …’ He opened the latter, revealing milk, cheese, bacon, a dozen eggs, and a bottle of wine. ‘There’s some salad stuff as well, some veg, and a loaf of bread in the bread bin.’
‘That’s so kind – thank you.’
‘Tea and coffee’s here.’ He opened a cupboard. ‘But there’s a general store at Trennick for anything else you might want. It’s a couple of miles by road, or you can easily walk to it. You just go down to the beach, up the steps onto the cliff, then carry on round the coastal path for five minutes.’
‘Yes, I remember that path.’
‘Course you do – you’ve been here before. So when was that?’
‘Oh … years ago.’
‘Well we’re very glad that you’ve come again. Having my mother’s memoirs will mean a lot to her family; having said that, we’re not sure how forthcoming she’ll be.’ He smiled ruefully.
‘Well, I’ll try to draw out her story, but what she says is up to her.’
‘Of course,’ Henry agreed. ‘She has to feel happy with it.’
I set my laptop on the table. ‘This will be a good place to work. Is there a broadband connection?’
‘There is, but I’m afraid the phone only takes incoming calls.’
‘That’s okay – I’ve got my mobile.’
‘Just to warn you, the signal’s patchy: you get better reception if you stand in the lane.’
I walked to the window. There was a small garden, enclosed by a fence. In the centre of the lawn was a windswept cherry tree, crusted with tufts of green lichen, and, in the far corner, a battered-looking palm. On the other side of the fence a herd of tawny-coloured cattle grazed peacefully, occasionally lifting their heads, as if enjoying the view. Beyond that was the sea. I could see a scattering of white sails, and, to my right, the headland jutting out, like a prow.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I exclaimed. I had forgotten how beautiful it was.
‘It is,’ Henry agreed. ‘I still have to pinch myself after fifty-four years spent staring at it. Anyway, here are your keys. So come up to the farm at around seven and have supper with us.’
I thanked Henry, and promised that I would.
After Henry had left I texted Rick to say that I’d arrived. I wished that he could be with me now. If he were, I’d take him down to the beach and I’d finally tell him what had happened there all those years ago. I tried to imagine his reaction – shock, swiftly changing to bewilderment that I could have kept my secret from him for so long.
I sat at the garden table as the shadows stretched across the lawn. The sea was pewter now, patched with silver where the sun’s rays streamed through a bank of low cloud. A week ago I’d been at Nina’s wedding; now her wedding had brought me back to Polvarth. I repressed a shudder.
I went inside and unpacked. As I opened my wash bag I looked at the pink blister pack of pills that Rick had come to hate but which made me feel safe. I took one, then, having showered and changed, I walked the few hundred yards up to the farm. I was looking forward to meeting Klara. What would she be like, I wondered. Would she be easy to work with?
The knocker on the farmhouse door was in the shape of a hand. I hesitated for a moment then rapped.
Henry, now in green cords and a blue checked shirt, ushered me into the large square kitchen with its red-and-black floor tiles, cream-coloured Aga and pine furniture. He took my jacket then introduced me to his wife, Beth.
‘Welcome, Jenni,’ she said. She was a fair-haired, cheerful woman in her mid-fifties. ‘Is everything okay at Lanhay?’
‘Oh yes, it’s great, thank you. It’s a gorgeous cottage.’
Henry smiled at the elderly woman who was setting the table. ‘Mum, meet Jenni.’ The woman set down the last plate, then turned and held out her hand.
I took it. ‘Hello, Mrs Tregear. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’
‘Please, call me Klara.’
Klara Tregear was slim and upright, with high cheekbones and blue-grey eyes; her hair was a pure white, cut to the chin, and held with a clip, like the little girl on the train. Her face was seamed with age, and tanned from the sun and wind.
‘So …’ The smile she gave me was anxious. ‘You’re going to take me down memory lane.’ Her voice was soft, with a slight Dutch inflection. ‘I find the thought a little daunting.’
‘I completely understand. But I’ll try to make the process as pleasant as possible. Just think of it as a long conversation with someone who’s really interested in you.’
‘So you will be hanging on my every word,’ she remarked wryly.
‘I certainly will.’ I glanced around the kitchen. ‘Will we be doing the interviews here?’
‘No – at my flat.’ Klara pointed through the window to the barn. ‘I live above the shop. But please … you must be hungry.’ She gestured to the table.
As I sat down I looked through the French windows. Clumps of agapanthus and scarlet sedums framed the long lawn. Beyond the garden, the land sloped down to the sea, indigo in the deepening dusk. A distant light glimmered from a boat or buoy.
Klara poured me a glass of wine, then sat down beside me. ‘How long will we talk for each time?’
‘It’s quite an intense process, as you can imagine.’ She nodded. ‘I usually aim to record three hours of material a day. Could we do two hours in the mornings? Would that be okay?’
‘Yes, after eleven would be best, when the shop shuts.’
‘Then another hour in the afternoon?’ I suggested.
‘That would be fine. Tomorrow, being Sunday, we’re closed, so that’s a good day for us to start. I go to church first thing but I’m usually back by ten. Could you come then?’
‘Ten will be fine.’ I sipped the wine and felt my tension slip away. If I could just keep a grip on my emotions, I told myself, I’d be able to do this job.
Beth carried a big earthenware dish to the table. ‘I hope you like fish pie, Jenni.’ She put it on a trivet.
‘I do, very much.’
‘Then help yourself.’
‘Thanks.’ But Klara had already picked up my plate and was spooning a huge portion onto it. ‘Oh, I couldn’t eat that much,’ I protested.
‘Try,’ Klara said firmly as she handed it to me.
‘It looks delicious. Is it made with your own fish?’
‘It is,’ Beth answered. ‘Our son Adam goes to the cove every morning and puts down lobster pots. He also uses short nets that he stakes to the sea floor, just a few yards out. He gets plaice, monkfish, scallops and sole and we buy them from him to sell in the shop. It’s an important part of the business, especially in the season.’
I took some salad. ‘Is it still the season now?’
Henry joined us at the table. ‘Just about – it finishes at the end of the month. But we have local customers, and we supply the hotel, so we stay open nearly all the year round.’
‘And the cattle, I presume they’re yours.’
‘They are.’ He unfurled his napkin. ‘We rear them for beef, which provides the greater part of our income. They’re South Devons. We used to have Friesians when this was a dairy farm.’
‘I remember them,’ I said without thinking. ‘I remember them being herded down the lane; I remember the big silver churn at the end of your track. We used to scoop the milk out with a ladle and put the money in a jar.’
Klara glanced at me in surprise. ‘You’ve been here before?’
‘She has,’ said Henry.
Klara put some fish pie on her own plate. ‘When was that?’
‘Oh, a long time ago; I was … a child.’
Klara picked up her fork. ‘And where did you stay?’
‘At one of the holiday houses near the beach. I can’t remember which one.’ I resorted to my usual strategy of deflecting unwelcome questions with questions of my own. ‘But could you tell me about the farm?’
‘Well …’ Beth shrugged, smiling. ‘It’s a busy life. There’s always something to be done, whether it’s mending the fences, hedge-cutting, bucket-feeding a calf or pulling up ragwort and nightshade: we work very long days, especially in the summer.’
‘Not that we complain,’ Henry added. ‘We love this place.’ He smiled at Klara. ‘And we’re very lucky in that my mum still does so much.’
Klara laughed. ‘I’m sure I’d drop dead if I stopped! After sixty-three years, my body wouldn’t be able to cope with not working.’
I studied her. She had a wiry vigour, her movements quick and efficient. Her hands were rough and callused, her fingertips bent with arthritis. Her shoulders were round, as though shaped by the wind.
I had another sip of wine. ‘So Adam does the fishing …’
‘He does,’ answered Beth. ‘He also paints.’
‘Your husband was telling me. I love the seascape in the cottage; he’s very talented.’
‘He lives in Porthloe,’ Beth went on, pleased to hear her son praised, ‘with his girlfriend, Molly, and their baby. Klara runs the shop and grows most of our fresh produce. I prepare the shellfish,’ she continued, ‘and I make the bread and preserves that we sell. Henry looks after the cattle, and does the accounts.’
‘An unending task.’ He rolled his eyes.
Beth poured herself some water. ‘He’s also a Coastwatch volunteer.’
‘Really?’
Henry nodded. ‘There are a few of us who do it from the old coastguard hut on Polvarth Point. We keep a lookout for any incidents at sea, or on the beach or the cliff paths.’
‘People do such silly things,’ Klara said.
‘Like what?’ I asked faintly.
Henry sighed. ‘They walk too near the cliff edge and slip, or they go out in a kayak, with no knowledge of the currents, and get carried out to open sea. We have kids floating away on rubber dinghies, or getting stuck on the rocks at high tide.’
‘Sometimes people dig tunnels in the sand,’ said Beth. ‘If I see that I always warn them not to.’ She looked at Klara. ‘Do you remember what happened to those boys?’
‘Oh, I do,’ she responded quietly then turned to me. ‘In fact I might talk about that to you.’
Heat spilled into my face. ‘Why?’ I asked, too abruptly.
‘Well …’ Klara was clearly taken aback by my reaction. ‘For the book. I’ve been thinking about some of the more memorable things that have happened here over the years.’
‘Of course.’ I sipped my wine to cover my growing distress. Why had I come here? I should have followed my instincts and stayed away.
Now Henry was talking about a calf that, the year before, was lost in the fog. ‘It ended up in the sea,’ he told me.
‘In the sea?’ I echoed.
‘Something must have spooked it,’ Beth explained. ‘A dog or a fox, because it had swum two hundred yards out from the beach. Luckily, a friend of ours was out fishing, saw it, and managed to get a rope round it and hauled it into his boat. When we got it back its mum kept pushing it away because it smelt of brine.’
‘We had to tie them together,’ Henry added. ‘In the end she let it feed and all was well. But it was a miracle it hadn’t drowned.’
‘Jenni …’ Klara was looking at me reproachfully; she nodded at my plate. ‘You’ve hardly eaten.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry. It was delicious, but a bit too much …’
Henry laughed. ‘You have to eat up round here, otherwise my mum gets upset – don’t you, Mum?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Klara told me. ‘He’s just teasing you. But you’ll have some ice cream.’
‘I’ve eaten so well, Klara, I couldn’t manage another thing, but thank you.’
‘Coffee then?’
‘Oh, yes please. I never say no to that; I drink so much, it probably flows in my veins.’
Over coffee and the petit fours that Klara pressed on me, I learnt a bit more about Vincent. He was three years older than Henry, a civil engineer, divorced with one grown-up daughter.
‘I met Vincent years ago,’ I told them, ‘at my friend Nina’s twenty-first – he’s her godfather.’
‘That’s right. He and her dad were at Imperial College together.’
‘We were on the same table at Nina’s wedding.’
‘That was lucky,’ Henry remarked. ‘Otherwise I don’t suppose you’d be here now.’
‘No.’ I fiddled with my napkin. ‘I don’t suppose I would.’
‘Vince never wanted to be a farmer,’ Henry went on. ‘Fortunately for our parents, I did. Adam will take over in years to come.’ He asked me about my writing projects and about how I got work.
‘I advertise in magazines and on genealogy websites,’ I replied. ‘I also put up notices in local libraries.’
‘You live in Islington, don’t you?’ Beth topped up my coffee.
‘Yes – at the Angel.’
‘Are you from London?’
I shook my head. ‘I grew up in a village near Reading, but we moved to Southampton when I was ten.’
‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’ Klara asked.
‘None.’ I gave her a quick smile in case she’d thought me abrupt. ‘Well …’ I put my napkin on the table. ‘I think I should be getting back.’
‘Of course,’ Beth agreed warmly. ‘You must be tired after the journey. Are you okay to walk on your own? Or would you like Henry to go down the lane with you?’
‘Oh, I’ll be fine,’ I assured her. ‘I’m not scared of the dark.’
‘Well, let me give you a torch. It’s pitch black out there.’ As I put on my coat, Beth opened a cupboard under the sink, took a torch out and handed it to me. ‘Good night, Jenni. It was lovely meeting you.’
‘Good night, Beth. Thanks for supper – it was delicious. Good night, Henry.’ I turned to Klara and smiled. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Yes. See you then, dear. Sleep well.’
‘Thanks – you too.’ I knew that I’d be lucky to sleep at all.
I switched on the flashlight, then walked up the track, raking the ground with its beam. The evening had been fine – I’d liked Klara, and Henry and Beth had been warm and welcoming. But I’d given too much away. As I turned towards the cottage, I resolved to be more careful.
The blackthorn trees, sculpted by the wind, hunched over the lane. The stars glittered in a blue-black sky. I turned off the torch and looked up. I could see Orion’s belt, and Venus, and there were the seven points of the Plough. And now, as my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see the pale band of the Milky Way. I craned my neck, drinking in its nebulous beauty. ‘Wonderful,’ I whispered as I gazed at its star clouds and clusters. ‘It’s wonder—’
A sudden jolt ran the length of my spine. I froze, my pulse racing, and listened. The sound that had startled me must have been the wind. I was about to walk on when I heard it again. Adrenalin flooded my veins. It wasn’t the wind. There was someone there. I couldn’t see them, but I could feel their presence; they were very close, so close that I could hear them breathing. I tried to cry out but could make no sound; I wanted to run but my feet seemed clamped to the ground – and there it was again! So loud that it filled my ears; and now my own breath was ragged, my heart pounding … Then I felt it suddenly slow. I exhaled with relief as I realised that what I’d heard was just the slow gasp of the sea.
FOUR (#ulink_c87d3066-9fce-50a6-a89d-3f273f2fc20e)
I slept fitfully and, as usual, woke before dawn. In my half-asleep state I reached out for Rick, longing for his warm body, then, with a pang, remembered where I was. I lay staring into the darkness for a while, then I showered and dressed and drank a cup of coffee. Steeling myself, I set off for the beach.
I strolled past villas screened by dry-stone walls and fuchsia hedges still speckled with red flowers, then a converted barn that offered B&B. I came to Lower Polvarth where, set back from the lane, a row of houses stood with pretty front gardens and evocative names – ‘Bohella’, ‘Sea Mist’ and ‘Rosevine’.
I stopped in front of ‘Penlee’. I remembered the bank of hydrangeas and that lilac tree – I’d snapped a branch trying to climb it and Mum had been cross. The bedrooms were on the first floor. We’d had the one on the left, with bunk beds; she was in the room next to it.
Suddenly the curtains in ‘her’ room parted and I saw a woman framed in the window. She was in her mid-fifties – my mother’s age now. She gazed out to sea but then saw me standing there. I looked away and walked quickly on, past the old red phone box; and here were the stone gateposts of the Polvarth Hotel.
I turned in, my feet crunching over the gravel. The large Georgian house had been old-fashioned and shabby; now it looked smart and sleek, with two Range Rovers and a Porsche parked outside, and a pair of potted bay trees flanking the door.
The garden was just as I remembered it, framed by a cedar of Lebanon and a Monterey pine with a wind-blasted crown. The trees might look the same, but I had changed beyond all recognition.
I crossed the lawn then went down the steps to the play area. There were still swings, a slide, and a wooden playhouse.
I lifted my eyes to the view. Before me was the bay, a perfect horseshoe, and just beyond it the village of Trennick, its Victorian villas and snug ‘cob’ cottages jostling for position along the harbour walls.
I stepped back onto the lane through a gap in the hedge continuing downhill. Gulls wheeled above me, crying their sharp cries. The lane curved to the left, and there was the beach.
Ignoring the thudding in my chest I kept walking, past the wooden signs pointing to the coastal path and the lifebuoy in its scarlet case.
I stopped halfway down the slipway. The waves were flecked with white, and there were the cliffs, the tea hut, still there; the cobalt rocks and the crescent of sand. I felt a sudden, sharp constriction in my ribs, as though my heart was hooped with a tightening wire.
We’re making a tunnel …
I forced myself forward, the wind whipping my cheeks. A boy was walking a Labrador; the dog ambled beside him, sniffing at the seaweed. A young couple in wetsuits ran into the waves, scattering the spray in glittering arcs.
Mum’ll be so surprised …
She’ll be amazed.
Can I go in?
As I crossed the sand I felt the wire in my chest tighten. I saw the ambulance pull into the field behind the hut; I saw the medics with their stretcher and bags. I remembered the other holidaymakers standing there, in their eyes a strange blend of distress and avid curiosity. Now I recalled an arm going round me, drawing me away; then I saw the doors of the ambulance slam shut.
It was nine when I got back to Lanhay. As I unlocked the cottage door my hands were still trembling. I sat at the table, head bowed, perfectly still, struggling to absorb the blow to my soul. My mother had been twenty-eight then – six years younger than I was now. I remembered the drive home, in the police car, her fingers clasped so tightly that her knuckles were white. I’d put my hand on hers, but she didn’t take it.
I stood up, went into the sitting room, turned on the radio and tuned it to Honor’s show. Just the sound of her voice soothed and consoled me, bringing me back to myself. Honor had always had that effect on me, making me feel better when I was low. Her cheerfulness and exuberance were the perfect counterpoint to my shyness.
There was the usual miscellany – a funny interview with Emma Watson about her new film, then some Coldplay, followed by the news, and then a heated discussion about whether the world was going to end on 21 December, as predicted by the ancient Mayans using their Long Count calendar.
‘So what you’re saying,’ said Honor to her interviewee, ‘is that just two months from now, what we can expect is not so much Christmas as the Apocalypse.’
‘Yes,’ the woman replied grimly. ‘Because on that day the Sun will be in exact alignment with the centre of the Milky Way, which will affect the Earth’s magnetic shield, throwing the planet completely out of kilter, resulting in catastrophic earthquakes and flooding that could wipe us all out.’
‘But astronomers have trashed this theory,’ Honor pointed out. ‘As has NASA.’
‘They can trash it all they like, but it’s going to happen.’
‘Well, on 22 December I guess we’ll know who was right,’ Honor concluded. ‘But thanks for joining us today – and speaking of mass extinctions …’ There was a deafening roar, then she introduced the producer of a new documentary about the last days of the dinosaurs.
‘Weren’t they wiped out by an asteroid?’ Honor asked her guest. ‘Sixty-five million years ago?’
‘That’s the accepted theory,’ the man replied; ‘which is known as the Late Cretaceous Tertiary Extinction, but the truth is, no one really knows. So in the programme we explore alternative explanations, such as climate change caused by a massive volcanic eruption, or the evolution of mammals that ate dinosaur eggs. We also look at the possibility of a major change in vegetation, resulting in the plant-eating dinosaurs becoming unable to digest their food.’
‘And getting fatal constipation?’
‘Well … yes.’
Honor laughed. ‘I think I’d have preferred the meteor strike. But what’s your favourite dinosaur? I’ve always liked Ankylosaurus with that terrific club on the tail …’
‘Yes, a feature shared by Euoplocephalus, though that had spikes, not armoured plates, but my personal favourite has to be Spinosaurus, with that marvellous dorsal sail …’
By now Honor’s lively chatter had lifted my mood so much that I felt able to face the day. I had a job to do and I was going to do it.
It was twenty to ten. I switched off the radio and read through the notes I’d made, then opened my laptop and created a new document, Klara. I labelled five microcassettes, put one in the machine, tested it, then walked up to the farm.
On the way there I stopped to look at a chaffinch swinging about on a cluster of elderberries; I realised that this was where I’d been so frightened the night before. Closing my eyes I could hear the sea pulling in and out, but now it seemed distant, not near at all. Perhaps the darkness had amplified it, or perhaps it was just the effect of the wine. Even so, I shuddered as I remembered the sound.
As I approached the farm, I saw Klara, in a blue striped dress and white apron, setting out vegetables on the table. She put the jam jar down next to them and then turned at my footsteps. ‘Jenni! Good morning.’
‘Morning, Klara.’ I nodded at the cabbages and cauliflowers. ‘It’s nice that you do this.’
She shrugged. ‘We’ve always done it.’
‘Do people put the money in the jar?’
‘Usually, although I couldn’t care less if they don’t: I care only that good food shouldn’t be wasted.’ She folded the carrier bag that she’d been using and tucked it into her apron pocket. ‘Before we start talking, I’ve a few chores I need to do. Will you come with me?’
‘Of course – I’d love to see the farm.’
We crossed the yard and went into the shed. ‘This is our second boat,’ Klara explained. ‘It’s a Cornish cove boat like our first one – my grandson’s been repairing it.’ We stepped around the tins of black paint then picked our way through various bits of farm machinery and several sacks of animal feed. Klara half filled a plastic bowl with corn. I followed her into a small field. There were two large wooden coops there with long runs, in each of which were a dozen or so hens. At our approach there was a burst of frenzied clucking.
‘Ladies, please!’ Klara called as the hens rushed forward. ‘No pushing or pecking!’ She tossed the grain through the mesh. ‘These are Rhode Island Reds – they have dreadful manners, but they lay well.’ She threw in another handful. ‘I give them these corn pellets in the morning, then vegetable scraps at night.’ I stared about me in fascination as she topped up the water bowls from a rain butt. The hens in the second coop were black with tufty faces, like Victorian whiskers. ‘These are Araucana,’ Klara explained. ‘They’re very sweet natured, and their eggs are a beautiful blue.’ She gave them the rest of the corn, then wiped the bowl with the corner of her apron. ‘All done. Now we go up here.’
I dutifully followed Klara through another gate into the adjacent field. A large greenhouse on a brick plinth stood there. Its panes flashed and glinted in the sun.
As we went inside, we were hit by a wall of warm air mingled with the scent of damp earth and the tang of tomatoes. Klara took a pair of secateurs out of her apron and snipped some off a vine and laid them in the bowl. Then she snapped two cucumbers off their stems. ‘We grow peppers too,’ she told me as a bee flew past. ‘We have aubergines, okra, gala melons …’
‘And grapes.’ I glanced at the thick vine that trailed along the roof.
‘Yes, though they’re rather small and prone to mildew. I give them to the hens, as a treat.’ We walked on past Growbags planted with lollo rosso, Little Gem, coriander and thyme, then Klara stopped again. ‘These are my pride and joy.’
Before us were six lemon trees in big clay pots.
‘I love growing lemons.’ Klara twisted off three ripe ones, put them in the bowl, then indicated the two smaller trees to our left. ‘Those are kumquats. They’re too bitter to eat, but make good marmalade.’
‘And you sell all this in the shop?’
‘We do. Everything that we sell we have produced ourselves. Come.’
I followed her out of the greenhouse and towards the field to our left in which I could now see a huge stone structure, like a little fortress.
‘What’s that?’
‘You’ll see,’ Klara answered as we went towards it, then into it, through a wooden gate.
Inside, the air was still, the deep silence broken only by the silvery trills of a blackbird perched high on the wall. The air was fragrant with a late flowering rose.
We strolled along the gravel path, in the sunshine, past gooseberry and redcurrant bushes and teepee frames for peas and runner beans. There were rows of cabbages, cauliflowers and leeks, a strawberry patch, a bed of dahlias, and a small orchard of dwarf apple trees.
‘It’s amazing,’ I exclaimed, utterly charmed. ‘But it must be so much work.’
‘It is,’ Klara said as she twisted a few last apples off the nearest tree. ‘But I have a gardener who does the weeding and the heavy pruning. The watering is automated and the rest I can manage.’
‘How long is it?’ I asked as we walked on. ‘A hundred feet?’
‘A hundred and twenty, and thirty feet wide. The walls are eighteen feet high and two feet deep.’
‘It’s magnificent.’
‘It was my husband’s wedding present to me. He asked me what I wanted, and I said that what I wanted, more than anything, was a walled garden. So he and his farmhand, Seb, built this, using stones that they carried up from the cove. It took them a year.’
‘And when was that?’
‘They started it in 1952. I’d just arrived here, never having been to England, let alone Cornwall.’
‘You must have been very much in love with him.’
‘I was.’ I felt a sting of envy, that Klara’s love had clearly been so deeply reciprocated. ‘When I saw the farm for the first time, I made it my ambition to grow any crop, from A to Z.’
‘Really?’ I laughed. ‘And did you achieve that?’
‘Oh, I did,’ she replied as we passed a row of pumpkins. ‘We have everything from asparagus to … zucchini.’
‘What’s Q?’ I wondered aloud.
‘Quince.’ Klara pointed to a glossy shrub growing against the wall.
‘And Y?’
‘Yams. Though I don’t grow many as they tend to go mad and take over the place.’
We’d stopped by a peach tree that had been trained against the south-facing wall. Its leaves had yellowed and its fruit was all gone, except for one or two shrivelled ones that were being probed by wasps.
Klara pressed her hand against the thick, twisted trunk. ‘This was the first thing I planted. We’ve grown old together – old and rather gnarled.’ She smiled; wrinkles fanned her eyes. ‘I planted that too.’ She nodded at a huge fig tree. ‘I planted everything – it was an obsession, because when I was a child someone told me that the word “Paradise” means “walled garden”. And from that moment, that was my dream, to have my own little Paradise, that no one could ever take away.’
Klara’s flat occupied the upper floor of the barn. It had a high, raftered ceiling with skylights and a galley kitchen.
Klara put the bowl on the counter, then began to rinse the fruit and vegetables. I was enjoying being with her, but wondered whether she was ever going to sit down and start the interview.
‘I used to live in the farmhouse,’ she was saying. ‘I moved out after my husband died so that Henry and Beth could have it. But this flat suits me quite well. My bedroom and bathroom are downstairs, and this is my living and dining area.’
‘It’s wonderfully light.’ A floor-to-ceiling unit was crammed with books; I peered at the shelves. There were orange and green Penguin classics, a complete set of Dickens in maroon leather bindings, and novels by Daphne du Maurier, Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer and the Brontës. There were some Dutch titles – Max Havelaar was one I vaguely recognised – and several biographies. ‘You read a lot, Klara.’
‘I do. And I’m lucky in that my eyesight’s still good – afkloppen. Touch wood.’ She rapped on a cupboard and then untied her apron. ‘I’d much rather read than watch TV, though I do have a small television in my bedroom.’
On the bottom shelf were a couple of dozen Virago modern classics. ‘You like Elizabeth Taylor,’ I said. ‘She’s my favourite writer in the world.’
‘Mine too,’ Klara responded warmly. ‘My dearest friend, Jane, was a terrific reader and she introduced me to her books. I used to adore Sleeping Beauty but, now that I’m old, it’s Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont.’
‘I love that one too,’ I said, feeling sad for Klara that her best friend had died.
‘Please excuse the clutter,’ she said, changing the subject.
‘I hadn’t noticed. But it’s a lovely flat. And you can see the sea.’ Now I glanced at the wooden dresser; on it were rows of blue and white china plates decorated with flowers, peacocks and boats. ‘Is that Delft?’
Klara lifted up the kettle. ‘It is – it’s from my grandparents’ home.’
‘Which was where?’
‘In Rotterdam, which is where I was born – I’m a “Rotterdammer”.’ She filled the kettle. ‘Coffee?’
‘I’d love some. In fact I need some – I’m incredibly tired.’
Klara studied my face. ‘Didn’t you sleep well, my dear?’
‘Not really, no. I … was just excited from the trip,’ I lied.
‘I hope it’s not the bed.’
‘Oh, the bed’s very comfortable, Klara; but I never sleep well, wherever I am. My internal alarm goes off at an unspeakable hour.’
A look of sympathy crossed Klara’s face. ‘What a nuisance. So what do you do when that happens? Read?’
‘Yes, sometimes, or listen to the radio. Usually I get up and work.’
‘Well … I’m sorry you have that problem. I shall pick some valerian for you and dry it; it helps.’
‘Thank you. That’s kind.’ I felt a little flustered by Klara’s concern.
She opened the fridge, took out a Victoria sponge and put it on the kitchen counter. ‘You’ll have some cake.’ I realised that this wasn’t so much an invitation as a command. ‘Yes please – just a small piece.’
‘It needs a little caster sugar on the top.’ She sprinkled some on then got a knife out of the drawer.
‘It looks delicious. May I look at your pictures, Klara?’
She glanced up from her cake-cutting. ‘Of course.’
Arrayed on the sideboard were photos of Klara with her husband, and of Henry and Vincent. I stared at them avidly. I always love being with clients in their homes – it gives me a strong sense of who they are before we even begin the interviews. Then, once they start to talk, I feel as though I’m right inside their head; plunged into their thoughts and memories. It’s as close as I can get to being someone else.
Amongst the snaps were some formal portraits in silver frames. It wasn’t hard to guess who the people in these ones were – Klara’s parents on their wedding day; Klara herself at eight or nine, sitting on a pony. There was also a studio portrait of Klara, aged about six or seven, with her arm round a little boy. They both had short blond hair and stared solemnly at the camera with the same large round eyes.
‘This is you with your brother?’
She looked at me then glanced away. ‘Yes.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Peter.’ Klara’s face filled with grief. ‘His name was Peter.’ I immediately wondered when, and how, he’d died. ‘All those older photos belonged to my grandparents,’ Klara went on as she spooned coffee into a heavy brown jug. ‘Fortunately my mother always enclosed a few snaps in her letters to them, otherwise we’d have had no record of our ten years on Java. Everything we’d ever owned there was lost or destroyed.’
The kettle was boiling. Klara tipped the water into the jug and the aroma of coffee filled the air.
‘Let’s use the Delft, as we shall be talking about Holland.’ She took down some plates and cups and put them on a tray. So Klara was ready to start. I began asking her more direct questions.
‘How old were you when you went to Java?’
‘I was almost five. My father decided to try his luck in the NEI – the Netherlands East Indies, as it then was. He got a job on a rubber plantation, not far from Bandung.’
She picked up the tray and I stepped forward. ‘Let me help you.’
‘If you could take the jug, I can manage the rest.’
Klara carried the tray to the low wooden table and set it down; then she sat on the right side of the sofa while I took the armchair opposite. She poured me a cup of coffee then handed me an enormous wedge of Victoria sponge that almost covered the plate.
‘Oh, could I have half that?’
Klara passed me a fork. ‘I’m sure you can manage it.’
‘Well …’ I didn’t want to argue with her. ‘It does look good.’ I tasted it. ‘It’s delicious.’
‘We really ought to be eating madeleines,’ she quipped. ‘Not that I need help in summoning the remembrance of things past. My memory is quite undimmed. Which I sometimes feel is a disadvantage.’
‘What do you mean?’
Klara poured herself some coffee. ‘A few months ago, my dearest friend, Jane, was diagnosed with dementia.’
‘Oh, I see. When you said she “was” a great reader, I assumed that she’d died. I’m glad that’s not the case.’
‘Oh, she’s in good health – physically at least. But, in a way, the Jane I’ve known for fifty-five years has died. When I talk to her about some of the happy times we’ve had, the people we’ve known or the books we’ve both loved, she looks at me blankly, or becomes confused.’
‘That must be heart-breaking.’
‘It is. It makes me feel … lonely.’ Klara sighed. ‘But I assume that Jane’s unhappy memories are also disappearing and I must say there are times when I envy her this. How wonderful it must be, to be unable to remember things that once caused us distress. Yet we should embrace all our memories, whether joyful or painful. They’re all we ever really own in this life.’
As I murmured my agreement I wondered what painful memories Klara was thinking of and whether she would want to talk about them for the book.
Klara sipped her coffee then looked at me. ‘One might say that you’re in the memory “business”.’
I nodded. ‘You could put it that way. It’s my job to draw memories out of my clients.’ While fiercely protecting my own memories, I reflected wryly. I glanced at the old leather albums piled up on the table in front of us. Rick had sometimes remarked on my own lack of family photographs. ‘You’ve got quite a few photos, Klara.’
‘I have.’
‘They’ll help hugely in the interview process – and we can reproduce some of them in the book, if you’d like to.’
‘I would. Having committed myself to this memoir, I want it to be as vivid as possible.’
‘I think it will be, Klara – not because of any photos that we put in it, but because of what you say. The key to it is not just to remember what happened to you at this time or that, but to think about how those events affected you then, to make you the person that you are now.’
‘Put that way it sounds a bit like … therapy.’
‘Well, it’s a journey of self-discovery, so the process can be therapeutic, yes – cathartic, even.’
‘I’ve been thinking hard about the past.’ Klara laid her hand on one of the albums. ‘I’ve been looking at the much-loved faces in these pages, and remembering what they meant to me – still mean to me.’
‘When you talk about them, try to recall not just what they looked like, but how they talked or walked, or laughed, or dressed. Any little details that will bring them alive.’
Klara nodded and sipped her coffee again. She flashed me an anxious smile. ‘How strange to think that I barely know you, Jenni, yet I’m about to tell you so much about myself – more than I have ever told anyone in my own family – my own husband, even.’
‘It must feel very strange,’ I agreed. ‘But try to think of it as a conversation with an old friend.’
‘We aren’t friends though, are we?’
I was taken aback by her directness. ‘No … But we’ll get to know each other over these next few days.’
‘Well, you’ll get to know me.’ She put her cup on the table. ‘But will I get to know you?’
‘Of … course.’
‘Because, this has all come up so quickly; and now that we’re sitting here I realise that I simply can’t talk to you about myself, unless I know at least a little about you.’
‘You already … do.’ I wondered whether we were ever going to start the interview. Klara was expertly deflecting my questions, beating me at my own game.
‘I don’t,’ she countered. ‘All I know is that you live in London and grew up near Reading, an only child, then moved to Southampton. I know that you’re a friend of Vincent’s goddaughter, and that you came here on holiday, many years ago. So please, Jenni, tell me a bit more about yourself.’
This was the last thing I wanted to do. I forced a smile. ‘What would you like to know?’
‘Well … are you married? I don’t get the impression that you are.’
‘I’m not. But I live with someone – Rick. He’s a primary school teacher.’ Klara was looking at me expectantly. ‘He’s … easy-going,’ I went on, feeling myself flounder under her gaze. ‘He’s decent and attractive – at least I think so. He’s the same height as me, which I like, because we can look straight into each other’s eyes. His are the colour of the sea.’ Was that really all I could find to say about the man I loved?
Klara nodded approvingly. ‘He sounds lovely.’
‘He is. We’ve been together for a year and a half.’
‘So, you must feel that you know each other pretty well by now.’
‘I do feel that I know Rick, yes.’ Whether he really knew me was a different matter.
‘And do you hope to get married?’ Klara was certainly very direct.
‘I do,’ I answered. ‘We both do. If it’s right,’ I added, then wished that I hadn’t.
Klara nodded thoughtfully. ‘And why did you become a ghostwriter, rather than, say …’
‘A “proper” writer?’ I suggested, smiling.
Klara flinched. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude.’
I laughed. ‘I do get asked that question.’
‘How annoying.’
‘Not really; people don’t mean to be insulting; they genuinely want to know why I don’t write my own—’
‘Story?’
‘Yes.’
Klara stared at me. ‘So why don’t you?’
‘I guess I … prefer other people’s.’
‘I see. But how did you get to be a ghostwriter? Is that what you always wanted to do?’
‘Not at all – I was a researcher for a breakfast television show. It was my job to invite the studio guests onto the show and brief the presenters about them. One day I had to book a well-known actor; he was in his seventies …’
‘Can you say who he was?’
‘I can’t – I signed a confidentiality agreement – but he’s a household name. We got on well, and while I was chatting to him before he went on, he told me that he’d been approached by a publisher to write his memoirs. He said his agent was keen for him to do it, but that he didn’t want to, because he hated writing. He added that he wished he could find someone to write it for him. Without even thinking, I said that I could.’
‘And you did.’
‘Yes – and the book was a success and got good reviews. More importantly, I’d loved doing it – taking someone into their past, like a personal historian, helping them see the fabric and shape of their life – helping them tell their story; it fascinated me. I’d never done anything I loved as much. So I quit my job and set myself up as a ghostwriter. That was twelve years ago.’
‘Who else have you worked with?’
‘A few athletes, several actresses, a famous milliner, a couple of TV personalities, a well-known explorer … a fashion designer.’
‘Celebrities, then.’
‘Yes, but after a while that sort of work palled. I found myself more intrigued by the lives of “ordinary” people – not that they ever are ordinary. Far from it.’ I put my cup down. ‘But that’s how I got into ghostwriting – quite by chance.’
‘I don’t think it was just chance,’ Klara remarked. Her eyes were thoughtful.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that you must already have wanted to do it. Otherwise you’d simply have said to that actor, “How interesting, I hope you find someone,” then carried on with your job. I suspect that he simply showed you a path that you were already looking for.’
‘Perhaps. Anyway …’ I opened my bag. ‘I hope you feel a bit better acquainted with me now, Klara.’
‘I do, Jenni. Thank you.’ She cocked her head. ‘The odd thing is, I feel I’ve met you before.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Perhaps when you came here on holiday that time? Maybe I chatted to you when you collected the milk. You’d have been a little girl, and I’d have been in my fifties … Something about you is familiar.’
I had no recollection of her. ‘I’m sure we’ve never met.’
‘I think we have,’ she insisted. ‘It’ll suddenly come back to me.’
I knew that Klara was wrong, but there was no point in disagreeing with her. I took out the tape recorder and placed it on the table in front of her.
She glanced at it anxiously. ‘So what do I do? Just … start talking?’
‘No; I’ll guide the conversation with my questions. I already know quite a bit about you from Vincent.’ I glanced at my notes. ‘I’d like to divide up the interviews more or less chronologically, starting with your early life in Holland.’ Klara nodded. ‘Then we’ll talk about the move to Java, and your memories of the plantation, of your family, and your childhood friends. After that I thought we’d talk about the war. You would have been, what, nine, when Java was occupied?’ She nodded again. ‘Vincent told me that you were interned.’ She didn’t respond. ‘So … I imagine we’ll be talking about that,’ I pressed on. ‘Then we’ll come to the liberation of Java and the turmoil that accompanied the struggle for Indonesian independence. Following that I’d like to talk about Holland, and what it was like going back there.’ At that Klara smiled a grim little smile. ‘Then we’ll come on to your meeting your husband. He was in the British Navy, wasn’t he?’
‘He was. We met in September 1949. His ship, HMS Vanguard, had berthed in Rotterdam for a few days; he had some shore leave and I met him at a dance. I was sixteen, he was nineteen and he began chatting to me.’
‘Could he speak Dutch?’
‘Not a word.’ Klara smiled. ‘Fortunately I spoke good English, otherwise I don’t suppose we’d have “clicked” in the way that we did. Harry told me within a week that he’d fallen in love with me and hoped to marry me. But he had two more years to do in the Navy and I had to finish school; so we got engaged in 1951 and were married the following year.’
‘What a romantic story,’ I said wistfully. ‘I shall love writing about it. We’ll also talk about your life in Cornwall. Does that all sound okay?’
‘It sounds fine,’ Klara replied. ‘Except for one thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ll find it extremely difficult to talk about some of the things that happened during the occupation. I’ll talk about the historical facts, of course, and about the kinds of things that people suffered.’
‘During internment, you mean? In the camps?’
‘Yes. But there are some things … particularly towards the end, in the last camp that we were in, Tjideng. I don’t think I’d be able to find the words to describe what we … what I …’ She inhaled, judderingly.
‘Klara,’ I said gently, ‘you don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. Memoirs can take people into quite dark emotional territory. But it’s up to you how far, or how deep, you want to go. You have to feel comfortable with what you say.’
‘Yes.’ She swallowed. ‘I do.’
‘So you’ll see the manuscript before it’s printed, and you can add any further stories or reflections; and I can delete anything that you’re unhappy about, or regret having said.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. So don’t worry. This is your story. You’ll be in control.’
Klara gave a little sigh of relief. ‘I’d been feeling quite apprehensive, but that does make me feel … better.’
‘I’m glad. I want you to be comfortable. So …’ I put my pad on my lap, then turned off my phone. ‘Are you ready to start?’
Klara took a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap. Her eyes were steady on me. ‘I’m ready.’
As I pressed ‘Record’ I felt the frisson that I always feel when I begin a new memoir.
‘Klara, could you tell me what your earliest memory is?’
FIVE (#ulink_e7793992-39d7-5c21-8724-3a5bb52b8679)
Klara
My earliest memory is of the little tjik-tjaks, dainty beige lizards that used to run across our sitting room walls. I used to stare at them as they zipped about, mesmerised by their miraculous ability to cling to vertical surfaces, and even ceilings, without falling off. They were called tjik-tjaks because that was the noise that they made, and we loved them, because every night, when the lamps were lit, they would eat the mosquitos that might otherwise have given us malaria. Less welcome were the snakes that would sometimes slither across our verandah, especially during the rains. I remember once seeing my mother throw boiling water over a deadly black-and-yellow krait. I stood in the doorway while she did this and, with appalled delight, watched it writhe.
My mother told me, before we left Holland, that we were going to live in a faraway land that was warm and colourful – an ‘earthly Paradise’, I remember she said. To me this description seemed to be true. From our windows we could see mountains that were swathed in jungle that was every shade of green, yet was also filled with the hot pinks and reds of hibiscus, bougainvillea and oleander. These flowers not only looked gorgeous, they attracted butterflies – scarlet and yellow, emerald and black, burnt orange and shimmering blue.
When we first got there, I’d lie in bed, unable to sleep because of all the weird noises of the tropics – the trilling of crickets, which was always especially loud at night, or the sudden shriek of a bird or a boedung, one of the monkeys in the rubber forest that surrounded our house. Sometimes there’d be the howling of pye-dogs, and the strange, guttural cries of the tokeh, large stripy salamanders that sounded like frogs. If you heard the tokeh seven times in a row you could make a wish; so I’d listen to their croaks, and would get upset if I lost count and had to start all over again.
Our house was large, single storey, like most houses in the East Indies, and built of brown brick with a roof made of curved red tiles. It had a circular drive and low, wide steps on which my mother placed pink and white orchids in big pots. All the rooms had high ceilings and ceramic floors, which were polished with slices of coconut tightly wrapped in muslin. I still think of this house as my childhood home.
Around the sides of the house were covered walkways called empers, and behind it was a smaller house called a ‘pavilion’ in which were the kitchen, the gudang or storeroom, plus the washing facilities, bathroom and loo. We had an enormous garden, in which was a banana palm, a mango tree, a cherimoya and, at the end, a big waringin – an Indian fig, with a thick, rippled trunk and long aerial roots. Bats roosted in that tree. At dusk we’d see them spread their cloak-like wings and swoop out.
My mother loved gardening and created wonderful flowerbeds in which she grew roses, gerbera and lilies, and I’d make the petals into dresses for my dolls. The garden was full of exotic birds – hoopoes, golden orioles, bulbuls and humming birds, which hovered over the jasmine like iridescent bees. But my favourite bird was the Java sparrow because it looked like a puffin.
As Dutch colonials we had a privileged life. We employed a gardener, Ismail, who I thought of as extremely old, because his hair was grey, but he was probably only in his forties. We had a maid named Jasmine, who was married to the plantation’s head foreman, Suliman. They were in their mid-thirties but had no children, which caused them great sadness. Because of this, I think, Jasmine was very affectionate to my little brother, Peter, and me.
Jasmine and my mother were always cleaning, because in the tropics mould and mildew take hold very quickly. They’d hang the rugs up in the sun and bang the weevils out of them. They’d take books off the shelves and wipe the covers and give all the clothes a vigorous shake. I remember once my mother being very upset about a favourite dress of hers that Peter, ill with typhus, had thrown up on. She had taken it off and left it in the pavilion: when she went to wash it the following morning, the part he’d been sick on had been eaten away.
Every week the floors had to be disinfected or the insects would move in. If termites showed up we’d have to place the furniture legs in saucers of carbolic acid. Once, we forgot to do this with our piano, and they destroyed it from inside, leaving hillocks of sawdust beneath. And I remember, once, seeing a huge bird spider scuttle across my bedroom floor. It was so large that I could hear its feet clicking on the tiles, a memory that still makes me shudder seventy years later! So I remember this constant battle we all waged against bugs – cockroaches and moths, stick insects and giant centipedes the length of a forearm; creatures that I could never even have imagined back home. But I always thought of the East Indies – never the Netherlands – as home.
Although I’m Dutch, I have almost no childhood memories of Holland. I know about my early years there only from my parents, Anneke and Hans, and from my grandparents, ‘Oma’ and ‘Opa’, who lived near to us in Rotterdam. My grandfather worked on the canals, leading the horses along the towpath as they pulled the barges. I’m sad to say that I can barely remember him, because by the time we’d returned home he had died, in the terrible ‘hunger winter’, before Holland was liberated from the Nazis. I know that Opa was a simple man, with little learning, while Oma was well-educated, well-read, and determined for her daughter to be the same. So my mother went to high school, then on to college where she studied to be a teacher. She met my father ice-skating and they were married within a few months.
My father worked for an electrical engineering company but he was laid off because of the slump. According to my mother, he was in despair, especially as by that time they had two children; but then he got a job as the manager of a rubber plantation in West Java. He went out there first. Three months later my mother, Peter and I followed.
We left for Java on New Year’s Eve. I know this because my mother used to say that it had seemed such an auspicious day for us to be setting off for our new life. But she could never have imagined that the ‘earthly paradise’ to which we were sailing would, within a few years, become a living hell. But to Java we went, taking with us a single crate that contained my parents’ wedding china, their books and our clothes.
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Isabel Wolff
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: ‘A deeply moving read – I loved it’ Dinah Jeffries, author of The Tea Planter’s WifeAs a child in the Second World War, Klara was interned in a Japanese prison camp on Java during the occupation. Her childhood years became an extraordinary and harrowing story of survival, a story that few people have heard.Jenni is a ‘ghost’: she writes the lives of other people – and Klara is her latest subject. Haunted by a childhood tragedy, Jenni finds it easier to take refuge in the memories of others than to dwell on her own.But as Jenni and Klara begin to get to know each other, Jenni begins to do much more than shed light on Klara’s family and girlhood in a neglected part of Second World War history. She is forced to examine her own devastating memories, too. Perhaps, finally, the two women will be able to lay the ghosts of their pasts to rest…Gripping, poignant and beautifully researched, Ghostwritten is a story of survival and love, of memory and hope.