Shadows Over Paradise Read online

  Many of Klara’s anecdotes were about her brother, Peter: Peter learning to swim, Peter catching a carp, Peter getting malaria and spending a month in hospital, Klara’s joy when he came home. Then, at the end of the afternoon, I’d reached forward and turned off the tape.

  “That’s probably enough for today, Klara.”

  “Is the hour up?” She looked surprised. “It’s gone by so quickly.”

  “For me too. I’ve absolutely loved listening to you. I feel I’m there, on Java, with you and Flora, and Peter.” I glanced at my pad. I’d scribbled tested to destruction, which must surely be a reference to what her mother had faced during internment. I’d also written Mrs. D—come back to haunt. “Klara, you mentioned that you’ve lived a lot longer than your parents.”

  “I have. My father was only forty-eight when he died.”

  “That’s young.” I tried to work out the dates. “Did he die during the war?”

  “No. Miraculously, he survived it, but his health had been ruined. So many men didn’t make it into their fifties because of what they’d been through. A vast number were held in prison camps, where they were starved, or got beriberi, or were tortured by the Kempeitai—the Japanese military police, who were utterly brutal. As we know, huge numbers of POWs were transported to build the Burma-Thailand Railway, where a third of them died. What isn’t widely known was that thousands more were taken to Japan to be slave labor in factories and coal mines. And that”—Klara blinked, as though still struggling to comprehend it—“was what happened to my father.”

  “Did your mother survive the war?”

  “She did. She lived to sixty-three, which, though better than forty-eight, is still not what you could call a long life.”

  “And … Peter?”

  Her eyes clouded. “Peter was ten.”

  “How terrible,” I murmured. “Did he die in the camp?”

  “Yes. In early August 1945.”

  “So close to the end.”

  “So close,” she echoed bleakly. “Five days.”

  “I’m so sorry. You’ve talked about Peter a great deal.”

  “Have I?” she said absently.

  “Yes. You obviously adored him.”

  Klara’s face grew pale. For a moment I thought she was going to cry. “I did adore him,” she said quietly, “and I still miss him. I think about him every day, every hour; he’s nearly always in my thoughts, and I just wish, with all my heart, that I …” She bit her lip. “Siblings share the same childhood memories,” she went on. “They even share the same genes. So to lose a brother or sister is to lose a part of oneself. People say that it’s like losing a limb, but it’s much more than that. It’s as though a piece has been gouged out of your heart.”

  “I know …” I’d said it impulsively. “I mean, I … understand.”

  Klara’s face hardened. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “but I don’t see how you could, unless the same thing had happened to you.” I was silent. “Not long after Harold died, a friend from church told me that she knew how I felt. But she was only fifty, and her husband was very much alive. She was simply showing sympathy, but sympathy is very different from genuine fellow feeling based on shared experience. I’m sorry, Jenni,” Klara went on quickly. “I didn’t mean to sound judgmental. I’m just glad, for your sake, that you don’t know how I feel.” I nodded my assent, then pretended to look for something in my bag while I composed myself. Klara stood up stiffly. “I’m a little tired,” she said softly.

  “It’s not surprising.” I put the top on my pen. “The memoir process is exhausting, physically and emotionally.” She nodded. “So I’ll leave you in peace for now. Thanks for all the coffee and cake you’ve plied me with; it was delicious.”

  I gathered up the cups and plates and took them to the kitchen; then I came back and picked up my bag.

  “So I’ll be here in the morning, Klara.” I smiled my goodbye, then walked to the door.

  “I see him,” I heard her say.

  I turned, my heart thudding. “What do you mean?”

  “Peter,” Klara murmured. “I see Peter. Or rather, I feel his presence.”

  “His presence?”

  “Yes. There are times when I’m certain that he’s with me, right beside me. Sometimes I even imagine that I can hear him breathing, but then I realize it’s just the sound of the sea. He’d be seventy-seven now,” she went on, “with white hair and wrinkled skin, like me. But he’d still be my little brother and we’d still be great friends, and we’d be able to talk to each other about our parents, and Jasmine, and Susan and Flora, and about all the happy times we had on Java before …” Tears glittered in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry you’re upset, Klara. I wish there was something I could say to make it easier, but I know there isn’t.” I opened my bag and passed her a tissue.

  “How can one look back on one’s whole life, and remember beloved family members and friends without being upset? I expected to be, which is why it’s taken me so long to agree to this memoir. Anyway …” She gave me a watery smile. “Until tomorrow, Jenni.”

  “Until tomorrow.”

  As I walked back I wondered what Klara had been about to say. I just wish with all my heart that I … What did she wish? It had been a cry of regret. And why, after so many years, was her grief so raw? It was clear that she was still profoundly affected by whatever had happened to Peter.

  As I went into the cottage, I switched on my phone and, to my surprise, saw a missed call from Rick. It jolted me out of Klara’s world, back into the dismal reality of my own failing relationship. I pressed the green button but couldn’t get a signal. Then, remembering what Henry had advised, I went back outside and walked down the lane. As the number rang, I could hear the soft roar of the waves.

  When Rick answered, the longing I felt for him overwhelmed me.

  “Jen—how are you?”

  “I’m all right. It’s so nice to hear your voice, Rick. How are things?”

  “Not bad, though I’m missing you.” I allowed myself to hope. “And how’s your Dutch lady?”

  I watched a thrush foraging in the hedgerow. “She’s fine. I’ve been with her most of the day.”

  “Is she a good talker?”

  “She was reserved at first, and nervous, but now she talks quite fluently, almost as if I’m not there. It’s as though she’s on her own, explaining her life to herself.” I shivered in the wind and walked on. “How’s everything with you?”

  “Pretty good. I went to see the folks today.” Rick’s parents, Tony and Joy, still lived in the house near Oxted that Rick had grown up in. “Mark and Becky were there with the kids; everyone sends you their love.”

  I imagined the noisy family lunch, the adults chatting over coffee while the four children squabbled over toys or ran around in the garden. “I’m sorry not to have seen them.” This was only half true. There were times when I found it a strain being with such a happy and close-knit family group.

  “Rick, I hope you didn’t talk to them about us.” His parents had always welcomed me, but I’d sensed their disappointment that their son was with a woman who didn’t want to have children.

  “Of course I didn’t. I just told them that you were in Cornwall, for work, and that I was missing you, which is true.”

  “And I’ve missed you, Rick, so much. But I thought we’d agreed not to contact each other for the first week.”

  “I wouldn’t have done,” he responded, “but your mother’s just phoned. As that happens so rarely, I felt I should tell you.”

  I’d come to a gap in the hedge; beyond it lay fields, then the lapis sea, filmed with gold in the sinking sun.

  “So … what did she say?”

  “Not much—only that she hadn’t spoken to you in a long time; she sounded regretful about it.” We hadn’t been in touch since February, I realized guiltily, when she’d rung to wish me a happy birthday. “She asked where you were, so I explained that you were in Cornwall, wor
king.”

  “You didn’t say where, did you?”

  “I did.” I imagined the blow that this would have given her. “I mean, why not?” Rick went on, clearly irritated by the conversation. He always hated the way I refused to talk about my mother. “You didn’t say that I shouldn’t tell her.”

  “True—but then I didn’t think that she’d phone. So … how did she react?”

  “She’d been chatting to me—she was friendly, but when I told her where you were, she went very quiet. Before she could hang up I said that you’d phone her.”

  “I will. When I’m back in London.”

  “Why not call her from there?” Rick heaved a frustrated sigh. “It’s really sad, Jenni, this thing you have about your mother. And it’s weird that I’ve never met her.”

  “I’ve told you why—”

  “No,” he interrupted vehemently. “You haven’t, at least, not in any way that I’ve been able to understand.”

  “She and I just don’t … get on.” I thought of Rick’s parents, still together after forty years, still in the same house in which they’d brought up their children. Rick had had only stability and continuity. All I’d known was tragedy and change.

  “It’s a shame, Jen. Especially as your mum’s so young: She’s going to be in your life for a long time, so why shut her out? I feel sorry for her.” He wouldn’t if he knew the truth, I reflected. I turned and headed back up the lane. “What I really wanted to say, though, is that if things do, somehow, work out, then I’d like us to visit her.” I stopped, my heart pounding. “Is that okay, Jen?”

  No, it isn’t, I wanted to say, because if we went to her house, then you’d know the truth.

  Instead, I closed my eyes and said, “Yes.”

  The next morning I woke at dawn, as usual; I lay there thinking about my mother. I’d texted her to say that I’d phone her when I was back in London. She hadn’t responded. But then it must have been a shock for her to learn where I was. She must think me callous, I reflected, going back to Polvarth—and for work, as though it was just another job. She wouldn’t understand it. As the light filtered in, my thoughts turned to Peter. How had he died? Klara clearly wasn’t ready to tell me, and every instinct told me not to ask.

  I got up and worked, transcribing the last part of our first interview. When I’d finished, I walked up to the farm. As I strolled down the track, the ginger cat came up to me and I bent to stroke it. I saw Henry lifting lobster pots off the pickup truck.

  “Morning,” I called out.

  He smiled. “Morning, Jenni.” A young man stepped down from behind the wheel. “This is my son, Adam. Adam, this is Jenni; she’s helping Granny with her memoirs.”

  Adam was in his late twenties, with his mother’s fair coloring and his father’s lean face. His blond hair was long, dreadlocked, and tied in a ponytail. As he lifted his right hand in greeting, I saw that it was flecked with green and blue paint. I imagined him behind an easel, gazing at the sea.

  “Hi, Adam. Caught much?” I gestured toward the pots.

  “Not bad,” he answered. “Two monkfish, five sole, eight bass, and six lobsters.” He lifted two of the pots off the truck, and I saw the speckled blue creatures, their antennae quivering through the ropework. The cat jumped up and batted its paws at them. “Cut it out, Ruby.” Adam lifted the pots out of the cat’s reach, then handed them to his father, who took them into the farmhouse, leaving a trail of water on the dusty ground. Adam turned back to me, squinting into the sunlight.

  “So how’s it going with my gran?”

  “We’ve made a good start. She’s a remarkable person.”

  He nodded. “Gran’s the bees’ knees. We’re really glad she’s doing it. I’d given up believing that she ever would.”

  “Why do you think she’s changed her mind?”

  “Turning eighty?” he suggested. “Becoming a great-grandmother probably had something to do with it too; my girlfriend, Molly, and I have a six-month-old. What do you think, Dad?” he asked his father, who’d just emerged from the farmhouse.

  “What do I think about what?”

  “Jenni was wondering why Gran’s decided to write her memoirs. I said it was probably the big eight-oh.”

  “Partly,” Henry answered. “But I suspect that it’s mainly because of Jane.” He swung two more pots off the truck. “She’s my mother’s best friend,” he explained to me.

  “She talked to me about her,” I said.

  “I think seeing Jane losing her memories has shocked my mother into wanting to preserve her own—she hasn’t said as much, but that’s what I believe. Anyway, my boy, we’d better get moving.”

  “Sure, Dad.” Adam gave me a broad smile. “See you then, Jenni.”

  “Yes. See you.”

  I went into the shop. It was large and cool, the walls painted white, with a refrigerated counter containing dressed lobsters and crabs, gleaming plaice and Dover sole and fat white scallops still in their shells. There were sacks of potatoes and, on the tables, neat piles of vegetables and fruit. The shelves were stacked with jars of Polvarth marmalade, Polvarth quince jelly, assorted Polvarth jams, and lemon curd. There were homemade loaves and cakes, and trays of eggs. By the door, in steel buckets, were bunches of red and yellow dahlias. Four of what I now recognized to be Adam’s paintings hung on the wall, next to a poster for the exhibition of his work at the Driftwood Gallery in Trennick.

  Klara was serving someone. She put the woman’s purchases into a paper carrier, then tore off the receipt and handed it to her.

  The customer left, then a moment later returned. “Sorry, I meant to ask if you’ll have any pumpkins. My grandchildren are coming down for half term next week. They’ll want one for Halloween.”

  “I’m growing a dozen,” Klara answered. “Shall I set one aside for you?”

  “Please,” the woman said. “The biggest, if you don’t mind.” She gave Klara her name and then left.

  As Klara wrote the woman’s name down, I glanced round the shop. “You do all this on your own?”

  She looked up. “I do, but it’s only open for two hours in the morning and two in the afternoon, so it’s not too bad, and Adam helps me when he’s got time. I saw him unloading—did he catch much?” I told her. “That’s good. All the lobsters will sell. So … let’s go.” She untied her apron and hung it on a hook. Then she turned over the Open sign and closed the shop door.

  Up in her flat, everything looked familiar, except for one change. On the table, next to the photo albums, was a large, intricately carved wooden box.

  As she made the coffee, Klara started chatting. “Before we begin, Jenni, do tell me about your friends. I’ve met Nina—many years ago. She came here with her parents. She was about twelve, and seemed a lovely girl.” It was odd to think of Nina being here, walking down the lane and playing on the beach that held such difficult memories for me. “What does she do?” Klara asked as she filled the coffee jug. “Vincent did tell me, but I’ve forgotten.”

  “She’s an account manager for one of the big advertising agencies. She’s run some very successful campaigns—for cars, and hair-care products and mobile phones. She’s done really well.”

  “Are you a close friend of hers?”

  “I am.”

  “So how did you meet?”

  “At Bristol; we were both reading history but didn’t become friends until the first summer term, when we took part in a student production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Nina was Titania, and the girl who was to become my other great friend, Honor, was Hermia. That’s how we all met.”

  “Who did you play? I can see you as Helena, with your height.”

  “The director did ask me to audition for the part, but I didn’t want to—I was happy just to do makeup.”

  “So you preferred a backstage role.”

  I nodded. “Always have done.”

  “And your friend Honor—tell me about her.”

  “Well … she’s very effusive, a
nd expressive. She used to be an actress—she read English and drama—but she gave it up to become a radio reporter. Now she presents a chat show on Radio Five. It suits her, because she’s always talking and laughing, engaging with other people, looking for common ground. She’s friendly and upbeat and—”

  “Extrovert?”

  “Yes. I’ve always found that very attractive in a person, perhaps because I could never be like that myself.”

  “You’re … not shy, Jenni; I don’t think you could do this job if you were shy. But you are reticent.”

  “I guess I am, but Honor charges straight in, which makes her easy to know.” Talking about Honor made me want to call her; we hadn’t spoken since the wedding.

  “So Honor and Nina are your closest friends.”

  “They are. After fifteen years, I don’t know what I’d do without them.”

  “I expect they feel the same way about you.”

  I smiled. “I hope so. Anyway, Klara, it’s nice to talk—I enjoy our conversations—but—”

  “We need to get on,” Klara concluded.

  “We should really. So … where had we got to?” I glanced at my notes. “The fall of Holland.”

  Klara heaved a painful sigh. “That was so dreadful, because there was a ceasefire in place, but the Germans bombed the country anyway, destroying the center of Rotterdam. Hundreds were killed.” She glanced at the tape recorder. “Is it running?”

  I pressed the button. “It is now. So shall we start?”

  “Yes,” Klara agreed. “Let’s start.” She clasped her hands in her lap.

  I leaned forward and turned on the tape.

  Seven

  Klara

  Holland was now bezet—occupied. My mother was distraught, believing that her parents must have been killed. But as the weeks went by we learned, to our relief, that their part of Rotterdam had escaped the devastation. I used to terrify myself, imagining them looking out of their windows and seeing German soldiers in the streets below.

  Peter had a wooden popgun that my father had made. He’d wave it about and say it was a machine gun, and that he’d use it if the Germans tried to occupy us.