Shadows Over Paradise (36 page)

“Book?” said Jane, looking astounded.

“Yes. Klara’s been doing her memoirs.”

“Oh,”
she said, as though it was the first she’d heard of it.

“It’s going to be published for her birthday in January.”

“January the thirtieth,” Jane said. “Her birthday’s on January the thirtieth.”

“That’s right—and I’m collecting a few thoughts about her from her family and friends. So I just wondered if you could tell me what Klara means to you.”

“Well … Klara is wonderful,” Jane said. “She’s a wonderful friend, yes, yes, of
course
she is,” she added irritably, as though we’d been arguing about it. “I’ve known her so long
—so
long, but she’s a marvelous friend, and it’s ten out of ten for Klara every time,
every
time.”

“That’s a lovely tribute.” I made a mental note of it. “Thank you, Jane.”

I heard her sigh. “But it was
sad
.” She shook her head. “He
died
, you know, in the war. Just once she talked to me about him, just the once. Fell and hurt his head, poor little boy.”

Klara came over to us, still holding Leo, and I was glad for the interruption. “My arms are getting tired, Jenni. Would you mind holding the baby?”

“Sure, if Adam and Molly don’t mind.”

“Oh, they’re fine. You’ve written a book about babies, so I’m sure you know what to do with one. Here.” Before I could say anything, she’d placed him in my arms.

To my relief, Leo didn’t cry. I enjoyed the feel of his solid little body as I walked round with him, pointing at the paintings. I was just wondering whether he was still comfortable or wanted to change position when I realized that he’d fallen asleep, his right cheek on my shoulder. I stroked his head, which was as soft as swansdown, and inhaled the sweet scent of his hair.

Jane was sitting on a small sofa in a corner of the gallery. The seat beside her was empty, so I carefully lowered myself beside her. As I sat there I could feel Leo’s breath on my neck like a tiny zephyr, and his small rib cage rising and falling. His heartbeat was rapid, and I felt anxious until I remembered that babies have a fast pulse. Suddenly Jane’s head slumped onto her chest. Alarmed, I waved at Klara.

She peered at her friend. “She’s fine,” she told me quietly. “It’s her new medication—it makes her drop off. She’ll wake up in a bit, fresh as a daisy. Did you get anything out of her for the book?”

“I did,” I whispered. “She said some lovely things about you. She was quite lucid, and could remember the date of your birthday, but then she … got in a muddle again.” I didn’t explain how.

“That’s the nature of it,” Klara remarked. “Some days we can almost have a conversation; other days she makes no sense at all. But are you okay holding Leo? He’s having a lovely snooze there, but I’ll take him if you’re tired.”

“No, I’m fine, Klara. You enjoy yourself.”

I sat there cradling the sleeping baby and listening to the party hubbub.

“Yes, carved pumpkins
do
look lovely,” Klara was saying to someone. “But it’s an awful waste because you can’t eat them afterward, as they’re all black and smoky from the candle!”

Now some trick-or-treaters were coming in to find their parents. There was a masked ghost and a girl dressed all in black with a silver cobweb painted on her face.

Suddenly Jane woke up, as alert as if she’d never been asleep. As she started talking to me, Leo began to stir. He pushed his hands against my chest and lifted his head, his cheeks patched with pink from where he’d rested against me. A thread of dribble hung from his lip, and I took out a tissue and wiped it. Jane peered at Leo, then at me. “He’s got your eyes.”

Now people were saying goodbye. Klara brought Jane her jacket and helped her on with it; then Molly came up to me and smiled at Leo. “You look happy there, my sweetie, but it’s nighty-night time.” She put his coat on him while I held him.

Adam came up to us. “Thanks for holding the baby, Jenni.”

“It’s been a pleasure. He’s a little love.”

“So let’s get you home, Leo,” Molly said. She lifted him off
my lap, which felt warm from where he had lain against me, and suddenly hollow. “It’s been great to meet you, Jenni. Perhaps you’ll come here again.”

“Perhaps,” I answered. “I’m not sure. But it’s been good to meet you too. And it’s been a privilege to spend so much time with your grandmother, Adam.”

He smiled. “Goodbye then, Jenni.”

“Bye, and thank you for this evening.” I stroked the baby’s hand. “Bye, sweetie.”

As they left, Klara came up to me. She touched my arm. “So …” She looked sad. “You’re leaving tomorrow morning.”

“Yes—at around ten. But I’ll drop in to see you before I go. Bye, Jane,” I added. But she was already heading for the door.

I walked down the hill past still-flickering pumpkins, then left the village behind. The clouds had almost cleared, though a few dark shreds marbled the moon. As I reached the tea hut I saw a sky lantern drifting out to sea, like an incandescent jellyfish.

I went down the steps, to the water.

Evie …

I watched the waves roll forward, then draw back, then push forward again with a
shhhhhh
.

Evie …

I walked toward the rocks, jagged against the silvery sea, and climbed up.

Evie … wait … wait for me …

“Don’t cry,” I whispered. “I’m here now, Ted. I’m here. I’ll help you. I’ll help you. Come …”

Please …

I felt a small hand slip itself into mine.

——

That night I dreamed of Ted, with the usual longing, but without the piercing pain that had always accompanied my dreams about him. Then Ted faded and I opened my eyes. The room was light. I glanced at the clock. It was nine. To my surprise, I had slept the night through.

After I’d put my bags in the car, I went to take one last look at the beach. As I walked down the lane I realized that it was the first of November—the feast of All Hallows. Tomorrow would be All Souls, the day of the dead.

I took in the headland and the fields. From the top of the slipway I watched a cormorant dive into the sea like a small black missile, then I walked down to the sand. I picked up a smooth gray-blue stone and put it into my pocket, then I went back to the cottage and drove to the farm.

As I parked in the yard, a seagull was perched on the farmhouse roof, like a weather vane. The cat sat by the shop door, cleaning its fur.

I went inside, knowing that I’d find Klara there. She was standing beside the counter, in her white apron.

She smiled. “Morning, Jenni.”

“Good morning, Klara.”

“So … are you all packed?”

“Yes, and ready to leave. Here.” I put the key to Lanhay on the counter.

Klara handed me a waxed-paper shopping bag. “I hope you can carry this.” Inside were a pot of Polvarth marmalade, some apples, and a chocolate cake wrapped in cellophane and tied with a red ribbon.

“Thank you, Klara. That’s very kind. And thank you for putting me up. It’s been a lovely place to stay.” My words sounded oddly formal and stilted.

“You’re welcome to have the cottage anytime, Jenni. You only have to let me know.”

“That’s sweet of you. But … I’m not sure I’ll ever come here again.”

Klara gave a helpless shrug. “I do understand that, of course. But I shall miss you,” she went on. “And I hope so much to see you again, if not here, then perhaps somewhere else, or … could we phone each other from time to time?”

“Of course we could,” I replied, “and we will. I do want to stay in touch with you, Klara. How could I not, after all that we’ve …” I held out my hand, and she took it in both of hers. “Thank you for being such a great client, Klara—far more than a client actually. You’ve been a real friend.”

Klara drew me into a hug, and we stood like that for a few moments. She patted my shoulders. “Thank
you
, Jenni,” she whispered. As we drew apart she smiled. “I shall be thinking about you. You have some important choices to make.”

“Yes,” I murmured, my heart sinking.

Now we walked outside. I got into the car and Klara waved to me as I drove away. When I looked back in my mirror, she was still standing there, still waving.

On the train I gazed out the window as Cornwall receded, Klara’s parting words echoing in my head. I turned my thoughts toward home.

One, I change my mind; two, you change your mind; or three …
 
Rick and I were still at three. I wondered whether we’d break up gradually, or find the courage to do it quickly but painfully, like ripping off a plaster. I didn’t feel that our phone conversation had resolved anything. Perhaps Rick felt that he understood me a bit better? I wasn’t sure that that was enough.

As I got the underground train to the Angel, I felt my pulse race. I walked down City Road, then turned onto Noel Terrace. As I put the key into the lock, the door drew back, and there was Rick in jeans, a polo shirt, and bare feet, smiling the blue-eyed smile that always made me feel weak.

“Hi,” he said. “I heard you coming.”

“Hi.”

He kissed me on the cheek—the kiss of a friend, not a lover.

“You’ve had a haircut.”

He ran his hand over his head. “Needed it. You look well,” he added, as if to someone he was simply fond of.

The flat looked strange and unfamiliar, no longer
gezellig
. I glanced at the orderly shelves, clear floor, and plumped-up sofa. “It’s tidy.”

“In your honor. And I’ve made dinner.”

“That’s nice. Thank you. Klara gave me a cake.” I opened the bag and put it on the kitchen counter. “We could have some for pudding.”

Rick opened the fridge and took out a bottle. “Glass of wine? You probably need it after being on the train all day.” He took the corkscrew out of the drawer.

“It was five hours actually, but yes, that would be great. I’ll unpack first though.”

I put my laptop in my study and placed the pebble on my
desk; then I went up to the bathroom, undressed, and ran a shower. I stepped into the stream and closed my eyes. When I opened them, Rick was sitting in the wicker chair. After a moment he stood up and pulled off his shirt, then unzipped his jeans, took them off with his boxers, then pulled back the glass screen and stepped in with me. He soaped me and washed my hair, twisting it in his fingers; then, as the water poured down, he kissed me. I stroked his chest and his back, then ran my hands over the swell of his buttocks, feeling his erection against me, springy and firm. We got out and dried each other, then, weak with desire, I followed him into the bedroom.

We were passionate and intense, in the way people often are when their relationship is ending. Afterward we lay entwined, not daring to articulate the sadness that we felt.

By now it was almost dark. Rick got up and drew the curtains, then put on his dressing gown. “Let’s have that drink now, and then talk over dinner.”

“Sure,” I responded casually, though the word
talk
had filled me with dread. Not that there would be much to talk about, I reflected as I pulled on a clean T-shirt and some jeans. It would be a simple matter of discussing how we’d manage our breakup and who would stay in the flat and who would leave.

We went downstairs. Rick poured the wine and lit a candle; I set the table and made a salad. He took the lasagne out of the oven, gave me some, then served himself. Drips from my still-wet hair trickled down my shoulders into the small of my back.

Neither of us seemed to want to start the conversation. Finally I broke the silence. “So, did you apply for that job you mentioned? The one in Norwich?”

“Yes—I sent the form off yesterday. There are a few others I’ve seen—two in Sussex, one in North Wales, and there’s a junior school I like the sound of in Bath.”

“Bath would be great.” I took some salad. “I can imagine you there.”

Rick lowered his glass. “You can imagine
me
there? Is that what you meant to say, Jen?” he added gently. “Or did you mean that you can imagine
us
there?”

I stared at him, taken aback. “I meant you, Rick, because how can I possibly talk about us when we still have this huge problem—a problem that isn’t going to go away? We want different things,” I went on, “and they’re completely incompatible, because you’d like to have children—”

“Yes, I would like to have children,” Rick interjected.

I put down my fork. “I understand that.”

“I’d love to have children.”

“I know,” I said, feeling impotent. “But I
don’t
.”

“So …” He exhaled. “It’s going to be hard.”

“It will be.” I felt a sob rise in my throat. “It’ll be
very
hard.”

Rick gave another pained sigh, and I waited to hear the words that would finally bring our relationship to an end. I closed my eyes.

“But what I want, even more than children, is you.” I looked at Rick, startled. “I’ve hated being without you, Jenni. Before you went to Cornwall I thought that we
could
break up—that we’d
have
to. But I don’t feel like that now.”

“Then … why didn’t you say this straightaway? When I arrived?”

“Because it’s such an important decision. And I was waiting to see how I felt when I saw you again, spoke to you again, held
you in my arms again. Now that I have, I know that I don’t want to lose you. I need you, Jen … for my happiness. I have to be with you.”

“But … nothing’s really changed between us, Rick. Except that now you know … now you know about …” The candle was bending and blurring. I lowered my head and let the tears come.

Rick reached across the table and wiped my cheeks with his fingers. “When you told me about Ted, I felt full of tenderness for you, Jenni.”

I swallowed. “I thought it would make you think that you could never really know me. I thought that it would make it easier for you to leave.”

“No. It’s made me want to stay. And if I’m to build a new life, then I’d rather build it with you.”

“Even though that would mean … not having what you want?”

“But I
would
, Jen, because I’d have you.”

Over the next two weeks Rick applied for a number of head teacher jobs, all over the country. I had several ghostwriting inquiries, including an invitation to ghostwrite a science-fiction novel. In the end I accepted a commission to write the memoirs of an elderly man who’d been a Spitfire test pilot. I was keen to learn more about the Second World War.