Ghostwritten (4 page)

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.’

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.

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.