Shadows Over Paradise Page 4

  “No.” I saw my mother playing with me, reading to me. Holding my hand. “But as I grew older, it got worse; and it wasn’t as though I had a father to make up for it.”

  “Maybe that’s why she was so remote—though you’d think what happened might have brought her closer to you.”

  “Well … it didn’t.”

  “Is this the real reason why you don’t want kids?” Rick asked. “Out of a fear that you’d be like that with your own child? Because you wouldn’t be, Jen.”

  “How do you know?” I said bleakly. “I might be worse.”

  “Jenni, I wish that you’d at least talk to someone who might be able to help you overcome your fears.”

  I laughed. “With a wave of their magic, psychotherapeutic wand? No. In any case, there’s nothing to resolve. I don’t want to have children. I like talking to them, and reading to them, and playing with them, and yes, I can see that having a child must in many ways be wonderful. But against that I set the never-ending, heart-wrenching anxiety of parenthood. I intend to protect myself from that.”

  Rick stood up, then walked over to the patio doors and unbolted them. He went out and sat on the wooden bench at the end of our small garden. After a moment he took a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket, lit one, released a nebula of smoke, then sat with his hands on his knees, head bowed.

  I pushed back my chair, gathered up the manuscript, then went down the hall into my study. I dropped the pages beside the computer and sat staring at the darkened screen.

  Three options … allowed to change … not open with me …

  I heard an email come in but ignored it. Was there any way Rick and I might resolve our problem? I refused to see a counselor. I didn’t need counseling, and it would be more likely to destroy us than help us. Without thinking, I clicked the mouse and the screen flared into life.

  I looked at the list of messages, desperate for distraction. The first three offered me laser lipo, cut-price hair extensions, and 50 percent off a pocket-sprung mattress. The fourth was headed Ghostwriting Enquiry and had been automatically forwarded from my website. I was surprised to see that it was from Nina’s godfather, Vincent Tregear. It was a two-line message, asking me to call him. I was too upset to speak to him now. Instead, I opened the baby-guide document and stared listlessly at the screen, seeing the words but not taking them in. Then I closed the document and, with an effort of will, forced my mind away from Rick. I wiped my eyes, reached for the handset, and dialed the number that Vincent had given.

  After three rings the phone picked up, and I recognized Vincent’s voice.

  He thanked me for getting back to him. “I know we hardly spoke at the wedding,” he went on. “But I was very interested in what you were saying about writing memoirs. So I made a mental note of your website, and last night I took a look at it and was impressed. The reason I’ve got in touch is because I’m wondering whether you might be able to help my mother write her memoirs.”

  “I see.”

  “She’s seventy-nine,” he explained. “She’s in good health, and her memory’s fine. For years my brother and I have suggested that she write something about her life. She’s always been against the idea, but recently, to our surprise, she said that she would like to. But it won’t be easy, as there are some parts of her life that she’s never talked about.” Broken love affairs, I speculated, or marital difficulties. “She’s never talked about what happened to her during the war.”

  My thoughts were racing, my mind already trying to shape a possible story for Vincent’s mother. She would have been a child at the time. Perhaps she’d lived in London, was evacuated, and treated badly. Perhaps she’d stayed, and seen terrible things.

  “She doesn’t have a computer,” I heard Vincent say. “So I offered to help her get her reminiscences onto paper; but she said that she’d find it too awkward, sharing such difficult memories with her own child.”

  “That’s completely understandable. I know I’d find it hard myself.”

  “So for a while we left it there; then last week, out of the blue, my mother suggested that we find someone for her to talk to. I thought about commissioning a journalist, but then at the wedding I heard you talking about what you do. So … how exactly would it work?”

  I explained that I spend time with the person, and record hours of interviews with them. “With their permission I also read their diaries and correspondence,” I went on. “I look at their photos and mementoes—anything that will help me to prompt their memories.”

  “Then you transcribe it all,” he said.

  “Yes—except that it’s much more than a transcription. I’m trying to evoke that person, in their own voice. So I don’t simply ask them what happened to them, I ask them how they felt about it at the time; how they think their experiences changed them, what they’re proud of, or what they regret. It’s quite an intense exploration of who the person is and how they’ve lived—there’s a lot of soul searching. Some people find it difficult.”

  “I can understand. And how long would it take?”

  “Three to four months. So, have a think,” I added.

  “I don’t need to think about it,” Vincent responded. “I’m keen to go ahead. In fact I wanted to ask if you could start next week?”

  “That’s … soon.”

  “It is, but we’d like to have it done in time for my mother’s eightieth in late January. It’s to be our present to her.”

  “I see. Well, I’d have to check my work diary.” I didn’t want to let on that there was precious little in it. “But before I do, could you tell me a bit more?” I reached for a pad and pen, glad to have this distraction and wondering what his mother’s story might be.

  “My mother’s farmed for most of her life.” I scribbled farmer. “It’s not a big farm,” he explained, “just a hundred and twenty acres, but it’s been in my father’s family since the 1860s. He died ten years ago.”

  Widowed, I wrote. Farm. 150 yrs.

  “Mum has always worked very hard, and still works hard,” Vincent went on. “She runs the farm shop, and she grows most of what’s sold in it.”

  “And what sort of education did she have? Did she go to university?”

  “No. She married my father when she was nineteen.” Married @ 19 … Mrs. Tregear.

  “And what’s her first name?” Vincent told me and I wrote it down. “That’s pretty.”

  “It’s Klara with a K.”

  “So … is your mother German?”

  “No. Dutch.”

  As I turned the C into a K, I imagined Klara growing up in Holland, under German occupation. Perhaps she’d known Anne Frank, or Audrey Hepburn—they’d have been about the same age. I saw Klara standing in a frozen field trying to dig up tulip bulbs to eat.

  “My mother grew up in the tropics,” I heard Vincent say. “On Java. Her father was the manager of a rubber plantation.”

  Plantation … Java …

  “When the Pacific war started, after Pearl Harbor, she was interned with her mother and younger brother.” Interned … I imagined bamboo fencing and barbed wire. “We know that internees suffered terrible privation, as well as cruelty, but she’s rarely talked about it, except to mention the odd incident in this camp or that.”

  I’d have to do some research. I scribbled Dutch East Indies, then Japanese occupation.

  “Vincent, I would like to take on this commission.”

  “Really? That’s great!”

  “And in fact I could start next week.” My pen had run out. I yanked open the drawer and rummaged in it for another one. “If you give me your address, I’ll send you my standard letter of engagement. Where do you live?”

  “In Gerrards Cross, near Beaconsfield.”

  “I know it. It’ll be easy to get there. It can’t take more than, what, half an hour by train, or I could borrow my boyfriend’s car—that’s Rick, he was there yesterday; he doesn’t use it much, and so—”

  “Jenni, I must sto
p you,” Vincent interjected. “My mother doesn’t live with me.”

  “Oh.” Why had I assumed that she did?

  “She lives with my brother, Henry; he runs the farm.”

  “I see. And where is it?”

  “In Cornwall.” My heart sank as I wrote it down. “At a place called Polvarth.” My pen stopped. “It’s just a coastal hamlet,” I heard him say. “It’s beautiful, with small fields going down to the sea, and there’s a wonderful beach … Jenni? Are you still there?”

  I closed my eyes. “Vincent, have you contacted anyone else about this?”

  “No. As I say, I was going to try and find a journalist, perhaps someone from the Cornish Guardian, but then yesterday I heard you talking about your work and was very taken with what you said, especially that you love immersing yourself in other people’s memories.”

  “I do,” I said quietly. It distracts me from my own.

  “And on your website you say that being a ghost isn’t just about being a writer; it’s like being a midwife—you’re helping to deliver the story of someone’s life.”

  “But I also say that it’s a very intense, emotional process, and that it’s therefore important to choose the right person.”

  “I can’t help feeling that you are. I also think that my mother would like you. I must say, I’m rather confused,” Vincent added. “Didn’t you just say that you wanted to do it?”

  “I did say that … but I always advise prospective clients to, well, shop around. So that they have a choice,” I went on, trying to keep the tension out of my voice. “I can recommend some other ghostwriters.”

  There was a pause. “Are you unsure about it because of the distance?”

  “Yes,” I said gratefully. “That’s the reason. It’s such a long way.”

  “We’d pay your travel expenses. And my mother would put you up—”

  “That’s kind,” I interrupted, “but I never stay with the client—it’s one of my rules.”

  “Fair enough, but she has a holiday cottage just down the lane. It’s not that big, but it’s comfortable.”

  “I’m sure it’s lovely, but—”

  “You’d be completely independent. You could come up to the farm during the day. My mother’s a very pleasant person.”

  “I’m sure she is, Vincent, but that’s not why …”

  “You just want to think about it,” he said after a moment.

  “I do. And I’d need to talk to Rick.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry, Jenni. I didn’t mean to push you. But if you could let me know, either way.”

  “I will.”

  I hung up, then sat staring at the computer screen again, seeing nothing. I raised my eyes to the shelf above my desk. Battling the Enemy Within: Regain the Confidence to Be Yourself. I’d bought that book a year before but still hadn’t summoned the courage to read more than a few pages. Nor had I even opened the one beside it, Transcending Fear: How to Face Your Demons.

  I’d never faced my demons. I’d buried them, in the sand.

  I heard Rick’s footsteps; then there he was in the doorway. “Are you okay, Jen?” He smiled, as if to reassure me that things were fine, when we both knew they weren’t. “I heard you talking,” he went on. “You sounded agitated.” I told him about Vincent’s call. “But that sounds interesting. And it’s work.” He lifted a pile of magazines off the armchair, put them on the floor, then sat down. I could smell the lingering scent of his cigarette. “Do you have much to do at the moment?”

  “No. I have to get the baby guide to the publisher by Thursday, then there’s nothing.”

  Rick stretched out his long, lean legs. “So why aren’t you sure about this job?”

  I couldn’t tell him the truth. I’d wanted to, many times, but the dread of seeing shock and disappointment in his eyes had stopped me. “It’s so … far.”

  He looked puzzled. “But you went up to Scotland to do that memoir last year. We emailed and Skyped, didn’t we? It was fine.” I nodded. “If you did this one, how long would you have to go for?”

  “The usual.” I put the top on my pen. “A week to ten days.”

  “Well …” He shrugged. “Perhaps it’s come up now for a reason. It might be good for us to have some time apart.”

  “So that we can get used to it. Is that what you mean?” I dreaded hearing his answer, but I had to ask.

  “No, so that we have some breathing space, to think about everything. It could … help.” He didn’t look as though he believed that it would. “So where exactly is Polvarth?”

  “It’s in south Cornwall, close to a fishing village called Trennick. It’s very small—just one long lane that leads down to a beach. At the other end of it there’s a farm.” The Tregears’ farm, I now realized.

  “You’ve been there before?”

  I nodded. “There are a few holiday homes, built in the sixties.” I pictured the one that we’d stayed in, Penlee. “There’s also a hotel.” It had a big garden with a play area at the end of it with swings and a seesaw. “Just below the hotel is the beach. And on the cliff path behind the beach is a tea hut—or there was. Perhaps it’s gone now.”

  “When were you last there? You’ve never mentioned the place to me.”

  “I … forgot about it. I was nine.”

  “So you went there with your mother?” I nodded. “And was it a happy holiday?” I didn’t answer. Rick exhaled loudly, clearly frustrated by the conversation. “Obviously not. Then perhaps you shouldn’t go—if it’s going to upset you, it won’t be worth it. But you’re thirty-four, Jen. You’re not a child.” He stood up abruptly. “I think I’ll walk up to school. I’ve got to plan tomorrow’s lessons, and I might as well do it there.” His smile was tight. “Whether you go to Cornwall or not is your decision. See you later, darling.”

  I wanted to throw my arms round him and implore him to stay. Instead, I sat perfectly still. “Yes,” I said coolly. “See you later.”

  After Rick left, I sat at my desk, frozen with misery, as the daylight began to fade. The nights were drawing in. I dreaded the thought of another winter in the city.

  I took the phone out of the cradle. “It’s my decision,” I murmured. “I don’t have to do it.” I tapped in Vincent’s number. “I don’t want to do it.” My finger hovered over the button. “And I’m not going to do it.” I pressed Call.

  The phone was picked up after three rings. “Hello?”

  “Vincent? It’s Jenni Clark again.”

  “Hello, Jenni. Thanks for phoning me back.”

  “Vincent …” I steeled myself. “I’ve thought about it.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve also discussed it with Rick. And the thing is …” My eyes strayed to the shelf. Transcending Fear. “The thing is … that …”

  “So … what have you decided?”

  How to Face Your Demons.

  “I’ll come.”

  Three

  The following Saturday I went to Paddington station and boarded the train for Cornwall. The week had rushed by, with the final edits on the baby-care guide due. I was glad to finish the project and to stop thinking about babies. I’d then thrown myself into researching the Dutch East Indies and the Japanese occupation.

  Rick and I hadn’t really discussed our problems again. In any case we’d hardly seen each other. He’d been busy at school with parents’ evenings, and he’d spent time at the gym. He was clearly avoiding being with me. But when we did finally talk, we decided that it would be better if we didn’t phone, text, or Skype while I was away.

  “We need to find out how much we miss each other,” Rick had said as he drove me to the station. “Perhaps that’ll give us the answer.”

  “Perhaps it will,” I responded bleakly. I hated the uncertainty between us but didn’t know what else to say.

  On the train, I stowed my case in the luggage rack, then found my seat. Soon there was the slamming of doors, a shrill whistle, and the creaking and groaning of the trai
n cars as we pulled away from the platform. As we trundled through West London, my mind was in turmoil; my future with Rick hung in the balance, and I was heading for Cornwall, a place I’d shunned for twenty-five years. I’d been unable even to look at the county on a map without a stab of pain. Now, for reasons I didn’t even understand, I was going back.

  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!”