Shadows Over Paradise Read online

  “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 ha
ve 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.”

  “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 cle
ared, 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.