Shadows Over Paradise (8 page)

As I approached the farm, I saw Klara, in a blue striped dress and white apron, setting out vegetables on the table. She put a jam jar down next to them and then turned at my footsteps. “Jenni! Good morning.”

“Morning, Klara.” I nodded at the cabbages and cauliflowers. “It’s nice that you do this.”

She shrugged. “We’ve always done it.”

“Do people put the money in the jar?”

“Usually, although I couldn’t care less if they don’t. I care only that good food shouldn’t be wasted.” She folded the carrier
bag that she’d been using and tucked it into her apron pocket. “Before we start talking, I’ve a few chores I need to do. Will you come with me?”

“Of course—I’d love to see the farm.”

We crossed the yard and went into the shed. “This is our second boat,” Klara explained. “It’s a Cornish cove boat like our first one—my grandson’s been repairing it.” We stepped around the tins of black paint, then picked our way through various bits of farm machinery and several sacks of animal feed. Klara half filled a plastic bowl with corn. I followed her into a small field. There were two large wooden coops there with long runs, in each of which were a dozen or so hens. At our approach there was a burst of frenzied clucking.

“Ladies, please!” Klara called as the hens rushed forward. “No pushing or pecking!” She tossed the grain through the mesh. “These are Rhode Island Reds; they have dreadful manners, but they lay well.” She threw in another handful. “I give them these corn pellets in the morning, then vegetable scraps at night.” I stared about me in fascination as she topped up the water bowls from a rain barrel. The hens in the second coop were black with tufty faces, like Victorian whiskers. “These are Araucana,” Klara explained. “They’re very sweet-natured, and their eggs are a beautiful blue.” She gave them the rest of the corn, then wiped the bowl with the corner of her apron. “All done. Now we go up here.”

I dutifully followed Klara through another gate into the adjacent field. A large greenhouse on a brick plinth stood there. Its panes flashed and glinted in the sun.

As we went inside, we were hit by a wall of warm air mingled with the scent of damp earth and the tang of tomatoes.
Klara took a pair of secateurs out of her apron and snipped some off a vine and laid them in the bowl. Then she snapped two cucumbers off their stems.

“We grow peppers too,” she told me as a bee flew past. “We have aubergines, okra, galia melons …”

“And grapes.” I glanced at the thick vine that trailed along the roof.

“Yes, though they’re rather small and prone to mildew. I give them to the hens, as a treat.” We walked on past grow bags planted with Lollo Rosso and Little Gem lettuce, coriander, and thyme, then Klara stopped again. “These are my pride and joy.”

Before us were six lemon trees in big clay pots.

“I love growing lemons.” Klara twisted off three ripe ones, put them in the bowl, then indicated the two smaller trees to our left. “Those are kumquats. They’re too bitter to eat but make good marmalade.”

“And you sell all this in the shop?”

“We do. Everything that we sell we have produced ourselves. Come.”

I followed her out of the greenhouse and toward the field to our left, where I could now see a huge stone structure, like a little fortress.

“What’s that?”

“You’ll see,” Klara answered as we approached it, then entered through a wooden gate.

Inside, the air was still, the deep silence broken only by the silvery trills of a blackbird perched high on the wall. The air was fragrant with a late-flowering rose.

We strolled along the gravel path, in the sunshine, past gooseberry and red currant bushes and teepee frames for peas
and runner beans. There were rows of cabbages, cauliflowers, and leeks, a strawberry patch, a bed of dahlias, and a small orchard of dwarf apple trees.

“It’s amazing!” I exclaimed, utterly charmed. “But it must be so much work.”

“It is,” Klara said as she twisted a few last apples off the nearest tree. “But I have a gardener who does the weeding and the heavy pruning. The watering is automated, and the rest I can manage.”

“How long is it?” I asked as we walked on. “A hundred feet?”

“A hundred and twenty, and thirty feet wide. The walls are eighteen feet high and two feet deep.”

“It’s magnificent.”

“It was my husband’s wedding present to me. He asked me what I wanted, and I said that what I wanted, more than anything, was a walled garden. So he and his farmhand, Seb, built this, using stones that they carried up from the cove. It took them a year.”

“And when was that?”

“They started it in 1952. I’d just arrived here, never having been to England, let alone Cornwall.”

“You must have been very much in love with your husband.”

“I was.” I felt a sting of envy, that Klara’s love had clearly been so deeply reciprocated. “When I saw the farm for the first time, I made it my ambition to grow any crop, from A to Z.”

“Really?” I laughed. “And did you achieve that?”

“Oh, I did,” she replied as we passed a row of pumpkins. “We have everything from asparagus to … zucchini.”

“What’s Q?” I wondered aloud.

“Quince.” Klara pointed to a glossy shrub growing against the wall.

“And Y?”

“Yams. Though I don’t grow many, as they tend to go mad and take over the place.”

We’d stopped by a peach tree that had been trained against the south-facing wall. Its leaves had yellowed and its fruit was all gone, except for one or two shriveled ones that were being probed by wasps.

Klara pressed her hand against the thick, twisted trunk. “This was the first thing I planted. We’ve grown old together—old and rather gnarled.” She smiled; wrinkles fanned her eyes. “I planted that too.” She nodded at a huge fig tree. “I planted everything—it was an obsession, because when I was a child someone told me that the word
paradise
means ‘walled garden.’ And from that moment, that was my dream, to have my own little paradise, that no one could ever take away.”

Klara’s flat occupied the upper floor of the barn. It had a high, raftered ceiling with skylights and a galley kitchen.

Klara put the bowl on the counter, then began to rinse the fruit and vegetables. I was enjoying being with her but wondered whether she was ever going to sit down and start the interview.

“I used to live in the farmhouse,” she was saying. “I moved out after my husband died so that Henry and Beth could have it. But this flat suits me quite well. My bedroom and bathroom are downstairs, and this is my living and dining area.”

“It’s wonderfully light.” A floor-to-ceiling unit was crammed
with books; I peered at the shelves. There were orange-and-green Penguin Classics, a complete set of Dickens in maroon leather bindings, and novels by Daphne du Maurier, Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer and the Brontës. There were some Dutch titles
—Max Havelaar
was one I vaguely recognized—and several biographies. “You read a lot, Klara.”

“I do. And I’m lucky in that my eyesight’s still good—
afkloppen
. Touch wood.” She rapped on a cupboard and then untied her apron. “I’d much rather read than watch TV, though I do have a small television in my bedroom.”

On the bottom shelf were a couple of dozen Virago Modern Classics. “You like Elizabeth Taylor,” I said. “She’s my favorite writer in the world.”

“Mine too,” Klara responded warmly. “My dearest friend, Jane, was a terrific reader, and she introduced me to her books. I used to adore
Sleeping Beauty
, but now that I’m old, it’s
Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont
.”

“I love that one too,” I said, feeling sad for Klara that her best friend had died.

“Please excuse the clutter,” she said, changing the subject.

“I hadn’t noticed. But it’s a lovely flat. And you can see the sea.” Now I glanced at the wooden dresser; on it were rows of blue-and-white china plates decorated with flowers, peacocks, and boats. “Is that Delft?”

Klara lifted up the kettle. “It is. It’s from my grandparents’ home.”

“Which was where?”

“In Rotterdam, which is where I was born—I’m a Rotterdammer.” She filled the kettle. “Coffee?”

“I’d love some. In fact I need some—I’m incredibly tired.”

Klara studied my face. “Didn’t you sleep well, my dear?”

“Not really, no. I … was just excited from the trip,” I lied.

“I hope it’s not the bed.”

“Oh, the bed’s very comfortable, Klara; but I never sleep well, wherever I am. My internal alarm goes off at an unspeakable hour.”

A look of sympathy crossed Klara’s face. “What a nuisance. So what do you do when that happens? Read?”

“Yes, sometimes, or listen to the radio. Usually I get up and work.”

“Well, I’m sorry you have that problem. I shall pick some valerian for you and dry it; it helps.”

“Thank you. That’s kind.” I felt a little flustered by Klara’s concern.

She opened the fridge, took out a Victoria sponge, and put it on the kitchen counter. “You’ll have some cake.” I realized that this wasn’t so much an invitation as a command.

“Yes, please—just a small piece.”

“It needs a little caster sugar on the top.” She sprinkled some on, then got a knife out of the drawer.

“It looks delicious. May I look at your pictures, Klara?”

She glanced up from her cake cutting. “Of course.”

Arrayed on the sideboard were photos of Klara with her husband, and of Henry and Vincent. I stared at them avidly. I always love being with clients in their homes—it gives me a strong sense of who they are before we even begin the interviews. Then, once they start to talk, I feel as though I’m right inside their head; plunged into their thoughts and memories. It’s as close as I can get to being someone else.

Amongst the snaps were some formal portraits in silver
frames. It wasn’t hard to guess who the people in these ones were—Klara’s parents on their wedding day; Klara herself at eight or nine, sitting on a pony. There was also a studio portrait of Klara, aged about six or seven, with her arm round a little boy. They both had short blond hair and stared solemnly at the camera with the same large round eyes.

“This is you with your brother?”

She looked at me, then glanced away. “Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Peter.” Klara’s face filled with grief. “His name was Peter.” I immediately wondered when, and how, he’d died.

“All those older photos belonged to my grandparents,” Klara went on as she spooned coffee into a heavy brown jug. “Fortunately my mother always enclosed a few snaps in her letters to them, otherwise we’d have had no record of our ten years on Java. Everything we’d ever owned there was lost or destroyed.”

The kettle was boiling. Klara tipped the water into the jug, and the aroma of coffee filled the air.

“Let’s use the Delft, as we shall be talking about Holland.” She took down some plates and cups and put them on a tray. So Klara was ready to start. I began asking her more direct questions.

“How old were you when you went to Java?”

“I was almost four. My father decided to try his luck in the NEI—the Netherlands East Indies, as it then was. He got a job on a rubber plantation, not far from Bandung.”

She picked up the tray and I stepped forward. “Let me help you.”

“If you could take the jug, I can manage the rest.” Klara carried the tray to the low wooden table and set it down; then she
sat on the right side of the sofa while I took the armchair opposite. She poured me a cup of coffee, then handed me an enormous wedge of Victoria sponge that almost covered the plate.

“Oh, could I have half that?”

Klara passed me a fork. “I’m sure you can manage it.”

“Well …” I didn’t want to argue with her. “It does look good.” I tasted it. “It’s delicious.”

“We really ought to be eating madeleines,” she quipped. “Not that I need help in summoning the remembrance of things past. My memory is quite undimmed. Which I sometimes feel is a disadvantage.”

“What do you mean?”

Klara poured herself some coffee. “A few months ago, my dearest friend, Jane, was diagnosed with dementia.”

“Oh, I see. When you said she ‘was’ a great reader, I assumed that she’d died. I’m glad that’s not the case.”

“Oh, she’s in good health—physically at least. But in a way, the Jane I’ve known for fifty-five years
has
died. When I talk to her about some of the happy times we’ve had, the people we’ve known or the books we’ve both loved, she looks at me blankly, or becomes confused.”

“That must be heartbreaking.”

“It is. It makes me feel … lonely.” Klara sighed. “But I assume that Jane’s
un
happy memories are also disappearing, and I must say there are times when I envy her this. How wonderful it must be, to be unable to remember things that once caused us distress. Yet we should embrace all our memories, whether joyful or painful. They’re all we ever really own in this life.”

As I murmured my agreement I wondered what painful memories Klara was thinking of and whether she would want to talk about them for the book.

Klara sipped her coffee, then looked at me. “One might say that you’re in the memory ‘business.’ ”

I nodded. “You could put it that way. It’s my job to draw memories out of my clients.”
While fiercely protecting my own memories
, I reflected wryly. I glanced at the old leather albums piled up on the table in front of us. Rick had sometimes remarked on my own lack of family photographs. “You’ve got quite a few photos, Klara.”

“I have.”

“They’ll help hugely in the interview process—and we can reproduce some of them in the book, if you’d like to.”

“I would. Having committed myself to this memoir, I want it to be as vivid as possible.”

“I think it will be, Klara—not because of any photos that we put in it, but because of what you say. The key to it is not just to remember what happened to you at this time or that, but to think about how those events affected you then, to make you the person that you are now.”

“Put that way it sounds a bit like … therapy.”

“Well, it’s a journey of self-discovery, so the process
can
be therapeutic, yes—cathartic, even.”