Ghostwritten (20 page)

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he murmured. ‘Anyway, I can’t even remember.’

‘I bossed you around, and quarrelled with you, and called you names.’

‘Well … you didn’t mean it. Anyway the war’s going to be over soon, and Daddy and I will come back, then we’ll all go home to Tempat Sungai.’

Then we talked about the plantation. We remembered the day the bees came and how bravely Suliman had dealt with them. We talked about Sweetie and Ferdi. Then we shared other memories – our father squirting us with the hose on hot days; our mother’s pink and white orchids in their pots; our games with Flora and Jaya; the panther padding past; the bats swooping out of the Indian fig tree at dusk.

The following morning we rose at first light. Peter got dressed, and rolled up his mattress. Then he opened his case, took out his jacket and put it on. It was the first time he’d worn it in nearly two years, but it still fitted him because he’d hardly grown.

My mother smiled at him. ‘You look so smart.’

‘I need to,’ he replied, ‘because I’ll be seeing Daddy. I shall run to him.’

My mother nodded, unable to speak. She did up the gold buttons, then we picked up his things and went outside. As we came out of the house we saw small solemn groups walking down Laan Trivelli. Each group was clustered around a little boy. Some women and girls were already in tears. I glanced at my mother; her face was pale, but her eyes were dry.

Irene, Susan and Flora fell in step with us as we walked to the gate. There, a large truck was waiting, its engine running: the smell of petrol hung in the air. Boys were being herded into a line-up. Some were wearing their school backpacks; others carried worn-looking soft toys. Mrs Nicholson shouted out names and numbers from her list and, as the boys answered, the guards hurried them onto the truck.

Lekas! Lekas!

All too soon, it was Peter’s turn. His arms went round my mother, and he leaned into her as she held him tightly.

‘This is just another part of the adventure,’ she promised him, ‘but we’ll all be together again very soon.’ She kissed him, then laid her cheek against his. ‘I love you, Pietje,’ she whispered. ‘Goodbye, my darling. Goodbye for now.’

I put my arms round my brother. ‘Bye, Peter. I love you too.’

Irene, Susan and Flora all hugged him, then my mother kissed Peter once more, handed him his case, and he stepped forward into the line. As he climbed onto the vehicle, Irene put her arm round my mother – they
were both crying – then the tailgate slammed shut. Some boys were weeping, but Peter, in his smart jacket, was smiling and waving as the truck moved off, through the gate, out of sight.

On Saturday evening I re-read what I’d written. I thought of Peter leaving his mother and sister, not knowing whether he’d ever see them again, and tears sprang to my eyes. But they had been able to say goodbye, and express their love, I reflected enviously. And at least Klara wasn’t to blame for what happened to her brother, whereas
I
… I closed the document, and tried to pull myself together. After a few moments I looked at my e-mails. The first was from Nina.

Godmother … I impulsively clicked to a number of baby-wear sites and looked at pink and blue blankets, and babygros and tiny hats and shoes. Like Honor, I had to fight the urge to buy something straight away.

I looked at the photos that Nina had sent. There was the one that the photographer had taken of Rick and me outside the church; it was good, though our smiles didn’t quite reach our eyes. There was the group photo, Honor laughing into the camera as she stood a few feet from Al, who at that stage she hadn’t met. There was a candid shot of us all at our table; Amy and Sean were chatting to Rick; I was talking to Carolyn, while Vincent was looking at me with a thoughtful expression. That had only been two weeks ago.

There was also a message from Vincent’s daughter, Jill.

I was about to close the inbox when another message arrived. It was from Honor to say that she’d just got back to London.
I’m so glad I came down
, she wrote,
and I hope that everything will be all right with Rick. But, Jenni, whatever happens, you need to tell him what you told me.

If only it was so easy! Surely Rick would want to break up with me. If I had concealed something so huge, for so long, then how could he ever really know me, or trust me? I turned back to Honor’s message.

Afterwards, I went down to the beach – the moon was enormous and so bright that I could see my shadow as I walked down the lane. I sat on the bench by the tea hut, looking at the lights of Trennick, shimmering on the dark water. Rick and I had spoken for over an hour. I’d let him tell me his news – that half-term had started, but that he wasn’t going to go away because he needed to write job applications. He said that he’d seen a head teacher’s job advertised in
The Times
, for a school in Norwich. I’d said how nice that might be, with the Broads, and the Norfolk coast, and he’d said that he’d give it a shot. He wanted to know how the writing was progressing. It was going well I replied, then I told him about Honor’s visit and he asked me what we’d done. I answered that we’d walked and talked, about all sorts of things. Then, somehow, I found the words to tell Rick what had happened at Polvarth twenty-five years before.

When I’d finished there was a silence so deep I thought that he’d hung up. Then I heard him say that he now understood why I’d hesitated to go to Polvarth, and why I hadn’t wanted my mother to know where I was. I told him that Klara had been there that day, and that I’d met her. Rick asked me how I could remember, given that it was so long ago, and I explained that I remembered it very clearly because I’d spent years going over and over it in my mind. I asked him if he was angry that I hadn’t told him before. He said that he wasn’t angry,
just shocked, and bewildered – he couldn’t imagine keeping something so huge a secret. I told him that I’d been unable to talk about it, out of shame.

‘I was worried that you’d think badly of me,’ I’d confessed.

‘But you were a child,’ Rick said vehemently. ‘I don’t think badly of children, whatever they do: and you didn’t intend any harm to come to Ted …’ It gave me a jolt to hear Rick say Ted’s name – a name I’d concealed from him for so long.

‘My mother said that I
did
intend to harm him.’

‘But … why would she say that, Jenni?’

‘She said that whenever Ted annoyed me, I’d tell him that I wished he was dead.’

‘Children do say that kind of thing. Siblings struggle against each other; they can be vicious.’

‘She told me that I’d often say I wished he’d never been born.’

‘You wouldn’t have
meant
it though.’

‘But I
did
mean it.’

‘Why?’ Rick asked after a moment. ‘Were you envious of Ted? Because he was younger?’

‘No. That wasn’t the reason …’

I saw my father, hoisting me onto his shoulders, and charging round the garden with me; I remembered him reading to me in bed, telling me stories that he’d made up, just for me, about a mouse called Milo. Then I remembered my mother, with her big tummy, tearfully pleading with him not to leave.

I exhaled. ‘My father left us the day Ted arrived. Not long after that, he was killed, and so in my mind, my father died because Ted had been born. Perhaps
my mother was right. Perhaps that was the real reason why I walked away from him …’

‘Now I understand,’ Rick said quietly. ‘I understand why you don’t see your mother, and why you’ve never wanted me to meet her.’

‘Because if we’d gone there, you’d have seen the photos of the brother you didn’t even know I’d had.’

‘But where was
she
when it happened?’ I told Rick where my mother had been at the time. ‘Then she should have blamed herself,’ he said. ‘Or maybe blamed no one. Because from what you say, it was just one of those awful things – a combination of circumstances that led to a tragedy no one could have foreseen. You didn’t want Ted to die, Jenni.’

‘Of course I didn’t. But I’ve never been able to forget my mother saying that I did; and now I’m here in Polvarth again, I feel …’

‘What?’

‘Ted’s presence.’

‘You must be acutely aware of him.’

‘I am, but it’s far more than an awareness – I
hear
him, Rick. I hear him crying, and calling to me. He’s here. He’s haunting me.’

‘Haunting you?’ Rick echoed. ‘No, Jenni, he isn’t. Don’t talk like this, please. Just finish the job and come home …’ Then the signal went and I couldn’t hear him any more.

I descended the steps and walked across the sand to the water’s edge. I listened, but could hear nothing except the rush and suck of the waves.

I walked back to the slipway and up the lane, past the hotel, aglow with lights, then unlocked the cottage
door. I went upstairs, undressed and got into bed, leaving the curtains open.

I slept fitfully, and dreamed of Peter, in the truck, waving goodbye.

Sometime before dawn, I awoke. I sat up, my pulse racing. There was someone with me in the room. I could sense them in the darkness. As I peered into the gloom my heart beat wildly, thumping against my ribs. Then it gradually slowed as I realised that there was no one here but me.

I pushed back the duvet, went to the window and sat looking at the moonlit garden and the glimmering sea. I stayed there for a time, then went back to bed. As I got in, I looked at the painting on the wall. There was the churning sea beneath the marbled sky, the waves rearing and breaking, smashing the water into foam. But now I saw something that hadn’t been there before. Standing on the rocks, clutching a net, was a small fair-haired boy in red trunks.

I lay awake, seized by fear. Then I heard Honor’s voice. For a moment I thought that she was back in the cottage, then realised that I’d fallen asleep and that it was just the radio coming on. I pushed myself up then stared at the painting. The figure in the red trunks had gone. Or, rather, it had never been there, I told myself sternly. My tortured mind had conjured it. I was going mad.

‘Remember the clocks go back today,’ Honor said. ‘So if you were about to drag yourself out of bed – don’t! Stay snuggled under the covers for the second half of the show, in which we’ll be talking about Halloween. What do you think of Trick or Treat? Do you enjoy it,
enthusiastically carving pumpkins, spraying fake cobwebs on the windows and dragging your kids round the block dressed as vampires and zombies? Or do you thoroughly disapprove of the whole thing and pine for the good old days of “Penny for the Guy”? We’ll be hearing your views on that a little later, but first here’s Jason with the news …’

I went into the bathroom and showered. When I came back Honor was chatting to the weather presenter, then, still focused on Halloween, she began talking about ghosts.

‘Do ghosts exist?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I murmured.

‘That’s what we’ll be discussing this morning as a new survey shows that a whopping forty per cent of us believe that they do. Joining us now is Barri Ghai, founder of the Ghostfinders Paranormal Society. Barri, welcome to the show – you’re obviously a believer.’

‘I am,’ Barri responded. ‘Not only do I believe in ghosts, I’m certain that they exist, and walk amongst us.’

‘What makes you so sure?’ Honor asked as I pulled on my jeans.

‘Because I’ve seen them,’ Barri replied. ‘I’ve seen objects move on their own; I’ve seen a figure drift through a wall; I’ve heard a child’s toy play music, with no batteries in it; I’ve seen things that simply can’t be explained by logic or scientific reasoning.’

‘We’re going to take your calls now,’ Honor announced. ‘You can tell us about your own ghostly encounters or put questions to Barri. And we have Cathy calling us from Sevenoaks. Good morning, Cathy. Have you ever seen a ghost?’

‘I have,’ a woman answered firmly. ‘It happened thirty years ago, when I was ten. I saw my grandfather standing at the top of the stairs, smiling at me. I was surprised because I hadn’t realised that he was in the house. What I didn’t know was that he’d collapsed and died two hours before; my parents broke the news to me later that night. When I told them that I’d seen him, they said that I couldn’t have done, but I
did.
I believe that my grandfather had come to see me to say goodbye.’

‘Ooh, you’ve made me go all goose-bumpy,’ Honor exclaimed. ‘Thanks for that, Cathy, and do stay on the line for a moment while we talk to Patrick, from Bath, on line two. What’s your view, Patrick?’

‘I’m sceptical. I think that once people are dead, that’s it – we don’t see them again.’

‘So you’re saying that Cathy couldn’t have seen her grandfather?’

‘I … guess I am saying that, yes.’

‘Look, if I say I saw my own grandfather, then I did,’ Cathy retorted. ‘It’s like if someone says that they’ve had a religious experience – a vision say, or a visit from an angel. No one has the right to say to that person, no, you
didn’t.
That would be total arrogance.’

‘Non-believers
can
seem arrogant,’ Barri agreed. ‘I’m with Cathy on this. If a person believes they saw a ghost, or experienced an angelic presence, then that is that person’s subjective truth.’

‘Yes,’ said Patrick, ‘“subjective” being the operative word. So, as I was saying, I don’t believe in ghosts – but I
do
believe in hauntings.’

‘What’s the difference?’ Honor asked.

‘I believe that under acute psychological pressure we
can feel ourselves to be “haunted”, but that there’s nothing really
there.
’

‘Which is to reduce it all to hallucination,’ Honor said. ‘Or … neurosis.’

‘I don’t buy that,’ Barri insisted. ‘Non-believers say that to see a figure float through a wall could never happen, because it defies the laws of physics – the person’s “seeing things”. But who’s to say that a ghost isn’t a manifestation from some
other
universe that has different physical laws to our own?’

‘That’s certainly food for thought,’ Honor said. ‘Pattie on line three – what do you think?’

‘I think that the dead can leave behind an imprint of themselves,’ Pattie answered. ‘Like an echo that we can sometimes detect. I believe this is more likely if the person has died in a violent or traumatic way …’

I switched off the radio, not wanting to hear more.

Remembering that Honor had recommended the Tjideng Revisited website, I turned on my laptop and found it. There was a history of the camp, with photos of the derelict houses, their gardens strewn with basins and potties and buckets and broken chairs, their verandahs strung with lines of ragged washing. There were haunting images of children with stick legs and huge eyes, and of lines of women, bowing, their arms clamped to their sides.