Shadows Over Paradise (35 page)

“Onyx and marble,” I murmured. I looked away so that Klara wouldn’t see that I was crying.

She nodded, then lowered the letter. “Onyx and marble. My mother had bought it in Colombo. She told Jaya that she’d looked at dozens of chess sets, and that this was the most beautiful one that she could find. She explained what had happened to his wooden set, and how upset Peter had been to have to leave it behind. She told Jaya about the promise that she’d made Peter, and said how happy she felt to have kept it at last.”

“Jaya must have been … very touched.”

“He was; he promised that he would always treasure it. Then my parents said their goodbyes and drove to Jakarta, to board the ship that would take them home.”

“What about Arif?” I asked as Klara put the letter back into the wooden box. “Didn’t they see him at the village too?”

Klara shook her head. “He’d long since left.”

“What happened to him? Did you ever know?”

“Yes. He’d gone to a technical college in Tasikmalaya, living with relatives while he studied. He’d then been apprenticed to a printing firm, from which he’d gone on to become a typesetter at the
Jakarta Post
, an English-language newspaper.”

“And Susan? What about her?”

“She went to school in Fremantle, then to art college in Perth, and became a graphic designer. At twenty-five she married a man she worked with, but he didn’t treat her well and it ended. So there she was, divorced, at twenty-eight, and terribly upset. Her parents told her not to worry—she was still young; she’d be happy again.”

“I hope she was,” I murmured.

“She
was
.”

Klara opened one of the photo albums, turned the pages, then showed me a photo of a tall, dark-haired man standing on a lawn with an attractive blond woman, in her late thirties, and two girls of about ten and eight.

“So … that’s Susan,” I said.

“It is.”

“And that’s …” I looked at Klara, puzzled. “Arif?”

“Yes,” said Klara, laughing. “That was taken in their garden in Rockingham, just outside Perth.”

“So … how did they …?”

“Although she and Arif had written to each other for a while, their new lives, inevitably, took over, especially once Susan had married. But she’d never forgotten Arif. She kept thinking about the day he came to Tjideng; the way he’d walked for two weeks to find her, risking bullets and knives. So after her marriage
ended, she wrote to him, hoping that his old address would still find him. She had a phone call from him within the week! Arif, who by then spoke English well, left his job and came to Perth, where he worked on
The West Australian
. He and Sue were married in 1958.”

“I’m … 
glad
. And did you ever see them again, Klara?”

“I did. They came to London in ’65, and I went there with my boys, and we had a very happy reunion with them in Regent’s Park. Arif died in 2004, Susan four years later; but I still exchange Christmas cards with their two girls, Florence and Bea.”

“And what happened to Wil and Irene?”

“Wil was stronger than my father, and recovered well enough to work again. He was the general manager of a vineyard near Fremantle.”

“Another plantation, then.”

“Yes. He and Irene kept in touch with my parents—or with my mother, I should say, because my father died in 1957. After that, my mother came here more often, to be with Henry and Vincent, and with me. This was a time when she and I became close again, and we often spoke about Java. She died in 1981.”

Klara talked about her life on the farm—driving the cattle in from the fields and milking them in the shed where the boat now was; the bed and breakfast that they’d done to make ends meet, the daily fishing, the cow that went for a swim. She talked about the pleasures of parenting, the friends she’d made through her children and at the church. She spoke of her gratitude for her long and happy marriage, and remembered the golden wedding party that she and Harold had had. She talked of her closeness to her sons and their families and of her hope that she would still
be working when she got to ninety. Then I asked her for some final thoughts on her extraordinary childhood.

“My childhood wasn’t extraordinary,” she corrected me. “My childhood was stolen. We lost that time—time when we should have been at school, learning and reading and playing with our friends; it was taken from us, and we were forced to see and do things that no child should.”

“How do you think your time in the camps has affected you?”

Klara sighed. “That kind of privation teaches you that everything has a value, however small or seemingly insignificant—a piece of string, a nail, a length of thread from an old dress. I still find it hard to throw anything away. I learned to value food, and in a way my whole adult life has been about food—growing it, distributing it, and making sure that none of it is wasted.”

“Have you ever forgotten the hunger that you felt then?”

Klara’s eyes were shining. “You
never
forget it! Even now the fear of not having enough to eat is never far from my mind. But the time in the camps gave me strength in adversity,” she went on. “Whenever something bad has happened to me since, I’ve thought to myself,
I survived Tjideng—I can survive
this. Above all, I witnessed what mothers will do to save their children. I saw women who prostituted themselves to get food for them, or waded through sewage to fetch medicine for them, or held them, in their arms at
tenko
, for hours on end. I saw women who risked dreadful beatings and even death in order to trade through the
gedék
for the egg or the banana that might keep their child alive for one more day. And this has stayed with me all my life.”

Finally Klara looked through the photograph albums again
so that she could select those she wanted to be printed in the book. She chose fifteen, removed them from their corners, and slid them into a stiff-backed envelope for me to take to London. I put it carefully into my bag.

“So what happens next?” Klara asked me.

“I’ll go back to London and spend two weeks rewriting and editing the manuscript, and checking any facts; then I’ll send it to you, for you to go through.”

“You said that you’d take out anything that I’m unhappy about,” Klara reminded me anxiously.

“I will. You’ve been very open, Klara, but I want you to feel comfortable with every word that’s in it.”

“Thank you, Jenni. So”—she took my hands in both hers, then looked into my eyes—“I shall
miss
our conversations, my dear. I feel … it’s hard to describe
how
I feel.”

“Unraveled?” I teased.

“I feel … as though I’ve been on a journey into myself. It
has
been cathartic—more than I could ever have imagined. And you, Jenni? What do
you
feel?”

“That I’ve been on a journey too—one that wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been for you. You wanted to tell your story, Klara, and it brought out mine.”

“So … are you glad you came back?”

“I am.”

At Lanhay that night I packed my suitcase and then got ready to go to the gallery. I was just changing when I heard someone knock. I went downstairs and through the glazed panels saw a small silhouette. There was another, more urgent knock, and I
opened the door to find a diminutive Dracula with red-rimmed eyes and plastic fangs.

“Trick or treat?” The boy’s mother, hovering behind him, flashed me an apologetic smile. “Trick or treat?!” the boy demanded again.

“Ask nicely,” his mother said.

“Trick or treat
please
.”

“I’m a bit unprepared,” I said. “Just a moment …” I went into the kitchen and came back with a KitKat. “Will this do?”

The boy dropped it into his bag. “Thanks.” Then he sped away, his long black cloak flaring behind him.

A minute or two later there was more knocking, and I opened the door again to find two small skeletons.

“Trick or treat?!”

I gave them my remaining KitKats, then waved them off.

I put on a little makeup, then glanced at the clock. If I drove to Trennick, I wouldn’t be able to drink; in any case I was used to the walk, so I put on my coat and locked up.

In the lane, glowing pumpkins grinned at me from every house. I heard shrieks and laughter and saw witches and ghosts darting across the lane or standing expectantly at front doors. As I passed the hotel I saw flames at the bottom of the garden. In the field below the swings a bonfire blazed and crackled, sparks shooting out of it like fireflies. There was a crowd of small zombies, devils, and ghouls with their parents. Spider-Man was facedown in a bowl, apple bobbing. There was a smell of smoke, hot dogs, and mulled wine.

The moon was full but blanketed by the rain clouds that had filled the sky all day. I walked down to the beach, where the tide
was halfway up, then went along the path into the village, where more pumpkins flickered.

As I walked up to the village square I heard giggles and running footsteps from the narrow streets on either side; the sound of door knockers rapping and bells pressed. I went past the general store, then to the gallery.
ADAM TREGEAR: NEW WORKS
had been stenciled across the windows.

I opened the door, and a slim, straight-backed woman introduced herself as Celia, the gallery’s owner, and invited me to help myself to a drink. I hung my jacket on a coat stand, got myself a glass of wine, then looked at Adam’s paintings. There were dramatic seascapes with boiling clouds lowering over wild seas; there were calm coastal scenes, the sun shimmering on placid waves. There were still lifes of lobsters and speckled plaice and wildflowers; and there was a large canvas of a rock pool, the clear surface whipped into ripples by a breeze that you could almost feel.

I approached Adam. “Congratulations. These are wonderful.” I sipped my wine. “There are so many! How do you find the time?”

“I paint in the mornings, after I’ve staked the nets.” He glanced around the gallery. “This is two years’ worth of work. Don’t suppose I’ll ever make a living at it, but I enjoy it.”

The door opened and a pretty woman with short brown hair came in, waved at Adam, then came over to us. Strapped to her in a sling was a baby boy. The whorl of dark hair on his head looked like a tiny hurricane.

“This is my better half, Molly,” Adam told me. Molly smiled. “And this is little Leo.”

I held my hand up and Leo gripped my forefinger. “You’re beautiful,” I murmured.

“Moll, this is Jenni,” Adam explained. “She’s been helping Gran with her memoirs.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Molly lifted Leo out of the sling, then Adam unzipped the baby’s padded coat and pulled it off. “So how’s it gone with Klara?” Molly asked me as she took off the baby sling.

“It’s been wonderful; in fact I’ve just finished the interviews. So … are you a painter too?” Molly told me that she was an illustrator—she and Adam had met at art school in Falmouth five years before. “It must be hard to get things done with a young baby.”

“Almost impossible unless you have child care, which we can’t afford, so I try and do a bit of work when he’s asleep. Not that I’m complaining.” Molly kissed Leo, who closed his eyes and chuckled; so she did it again. She laughed. “He loves that, don’t you, my darling? But, Adam, I’d love to have a drink and a chat—will you take him for me?”

“Sure.” Adam took Leo from Molly and put him against his left shoulder. From this vantage point Leo looked about him benignly, sucking on his left hand.

As Molly went to the drinks table I glanced out the window and saw Klara getting out of her car. She went round to the passenger door and helped Jane out, then gave her her arm. The two old friends walked up the hill.

Celia opened the door for them. “Hello, ladies,” I heard her say. “You’re looking lovely, both. Good evening, Jane.”

“That’s right,” Jane said. “Lovely. Lovely. Now …” She glanced around, frowning. “Have I been here before?”

“You have, Jane,” Celia answered. “But it’s always nice to see you. Adam’s done some wonderful pictures. Can I take your coats?”

Henry and Beth arrived and came over to me.

“I’m sorry we’ve hardly seen you while you’ve been here,” Henry said. “We’ve had a late calf arrive, and it’s needed bottle feeding, so it’s been a busy time; but I hear you’ve got on very well with my mum.”

“I have—not that it was difficult; Klara’s a wonderful person.”

Henry glanced at Klara, who was looking at a large seascape in turquoise, cobalt, and white. “And was she forthcoming with you?”

“She was—more than I thought she’d be.”

He smiled. “You probably know all sorts of things about her that we don’t.”

“Well … that’s possible. But then, that’s the nature of what I do.”

“I hear you’re leaving tomorrow,” Beth said. I nodded. “Then do have supper with us tonight. Just knock on the door.”

“Thank you. I … might.”

“Now,” said Henry, “let’s look at the paintings.” Henry and Beth drifted away, and Klara and Jane came up to me.

Jane fixed me with her bright blue eyes. “I
know
we’ve met … somewhere …”

“It was at St. Mawes,” I reminded her. “Last week.” Jane gave a defeated shrug.

“At the café,” Klara prompted her. “We had tea together, Jane. Honor was there.”

Jane’s face lit up. “Oh yes. Honor! Now I remember
her
.” She looked at me. “But what’s
your
name again?”

“Jenni,” I answered. “Or Genevieve. That’s my real name.”

“
Genevieve
,” she echoed. “Of
course
.”

The gallery was filling up, the noise levels rising as people chatted by the pictures.

“I like that lobster!”

“Porthcurnick Beach, isn’t it?”

“Prefer the mackerel myself.”

“You can almost feel the spray.”

By now Leo was becoming fractious, emitting ear-piercing squawks, so Adam handed him to Beth, who cuddled him for a while, then she handed him to Klara, who bounced him in her arms.

Meanwhile, I persevered with Jane. “Jane, I was wondering if you’d like to say something to me about your friendship with Klara. This is for the book that I’m helping her to write.”