Shadows Over Paradise (6 page)

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 riverbanks. 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 nonmilitary 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 story, she ignored him.

“
Feear …
” He grabbed her arm. “FEAR!”

Their mother, who’d been texting, lowered her phone. “Sophia, answer your brother, will you!”

Sophia 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 left Plymouth, the woman put her phone down again. “I want you to stop playing and look out 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.

At the Hertz office at the front of the station I collected the keys for the small car I’d reserved. Then, my heart pounding, I drove off, past Truro’s cathedral with its three spires, out of the city. Following the signs for St. Mawes, I went down a winding road 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. A 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 pickup, the back of which was piled with lobster pots. Behind me was a big, open-sided shed housing a wooden boat on a trailer; a stone barn served as 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 into 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-glassed 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 hung framed prints of flowers and fish—typical of 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 rib cage. “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 center 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-colored 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 left I texted Rick to say that I’d arrived. I wished that he could be with me. 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 clouds. 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-colored 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 midfifties. “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-gray 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, and she spoke 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.”