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GHOSTWRITTEN
ISABEL WOLFF
Praise for Isabel Wolff
‘An engaging read and an intriguing page-turner.’
Sainsbury’s Magazine
‘Deftly blends past and present, romance and mystery, and a theme of forgiveness and redemption …’
Huffington Post
‘Isabel Wolff is a wonderful writer who weaves humour and pathos to great effect.’
Wendy Holden, Daily Mail
‘Intriguing and tugs at the heartstrings.’
Katie Fforde
‘An intelligent and deeply romantic tale. I loved it.’
Lisa Jewell
Dedication
In memory of my mother
Table of Contents
Title Page
Praise for Isabel Wolff
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Bibliography
Q&A with Isabel Wolff
Keep Reading
About the Author
Also by Isabel Wolff
Copyright
About the Publisher
The past is never dead. It isn’t even past.
William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun
PROLOGUE
31 August 1987
Holidaymakers speckle the beach, reclining behind brightly striped windbreaks, hands held to eyes against the late afternoon sun as they gaze at the glittering sea. On the horizon squats a huge grey tanker; in the middle distance a scattering of white-sailed yachts, their spinnakers billowed and taut. At the shoreline a young couple in surfing gear are launching a yellow canoe. He holds it while she climbs in, then he jumps on and they paddle away, the boat rocking and bumping through the swell. Two little girls in pink swimsuits stop paddling for a moment to watch them then dash in and out of the water, shrieking with laughter. Behind them, a family is playing French cricket. The ball soars towards the rocks, pursued by a dog, barking wildly, its claws driving up a spray of wet sand.
On the cliff path behind the beach, people are queuing at the wooden hut for tea and biscuits, or an ice cream, or bucket and spade or a ready-inflated Lilo, which is what a couple of teenage boys are buying now. ‘Don’t take it in the sea,’ warns the woman behind the counter. The taller boy shakes his head then he and his friend carry the airbed down the worn granite steps to the beach.
Here, the sand is pale and dry, glinting with mica. As they head for the water, the boys throw a covetous glance at a blonde woman in a black bikini, who’s lying on a white towel, perfectly still. She’s enjoying the warmth of the sun and the sound of the sea pulling in and out, as steady as breathing. A sandfly lands on her cheek and she brushes it away, then pushes herself up, resting on her elbows. She gazes at the headland, where the grass has dried to a pale gold: then she looks at the dark-haired man sitting beside her, and gives him an indolent smile. Now she turns on her front, reaches behind to unclip her bikini, then hands him a tube of Ambre Solaire. The man hesitates, glancing at the woman’s two children who are building a sandcastle a few feet away, then he removes the cap and starts rubbing the cream onto the woman’s shoulders. As his palm strokes her skin, she sighs with pleasure.
Her daughter, kneeling in the sand, looks up. Seeing the man’s hand moving over her mother’s waist, the girl reddens, then stumbles to her feet. ‘Let’s go rock-pooling,’ she says to her little brother.
He shakes his blond head and continues digging. ‘No.’
‘But I want you to.’
‘I’d rather stay with Mum.’
The girl picks up her plastic sandals and bangs them together. ‘You have to come with me.’
‘Why?’
She puts on the right shoe. ‘To help me.’
‘Don’t want to help you.’
‘Well you’ve got to …’ She shoves her left foot into the other sandal, bends to do it up, then grabs the bucket that the boy was filling and empties it. ‘I’ll carry this; you take the net.’
The boy shrugs his narrow shoulders, then stands. He hitches up his red swimming trunks, which are hand-me-downs and much too big; he picks up the net lying nearby.
Their mother lifts her head. ‘You don’t have long,’ she says. ‘We’ll be leaving at six, so you’re to come back when you hear the bell from the tea hut. Did you hear me?’ she adds to her daughter. ‘Hold his hand now. You must hold his hand.’ The girl gives a sullen nod then starts to walk towards the rocks that spill down from the low cliff to the sea. Her brother follows her, dragging the net, its stick leaving a sinuous trail, like the tail of the yellow kite which he now notices, swaying high up, against the blue. He cranes his neck to watch it, one eye closed against the sun.
The girl glances behind and sees that he’s not following her. ‘Ted!’ she calls. ‘Come on!’ She wants to get as far as possible from their mother and her so-called ‘friend’. ‘Teddy!’ The little boy tears his gaze from the kite and follows his sister, jumping onto her footprints, leaving no tracks of his own. A toddler wobbles across his path, naked except for a sun hat, then tumbles over, wails, and is hastily scooped up.
Now they’re passing a boy and girl who are digging. The trench they’ve made is six foot long, and so deep that they’re visible only from the waist up.
Ted stops, entranced. ‘Look, Evie!’ She turns. ‘It’s ’normous.’
‘It is,’ she agrees seriously. ‘Must have taken ages,’ she says to the girl who is about her own age, although tall and long-limbed. She’s wearing a white T-shirt with a large black ‘J’ on it. Evie wonders what it stands for. Julie? Jane?
‘It did take ages,’ the girl replies. Her face is a pale oval framed by long dark hair. She tucks a hank behind her ear and nods at the rampart of displaced sand. ‘We’ve been digging all afternoon, haven’t we, Tom?’
Tom, a thickset boy of about eight, straightens up. ‘We’re making a tunnel.’ He leans on his spade. ‘Like that Channel Tunnel they’re building.’
‘It was my idea,’ the girl adds. ‘We’ve done it all by ourselves.’ She turns to Tom. ‘Mum’ll be surprised when she sees it.’
Tom laughs. ‘She’ll be amazed.’
‘You making a real tunnel?’ Ted asks him.
‘Yes.’ Tom points to a deep recess at the back of the hole.
Ted peers at it. ‘Can I go in?’
‘Maybe,’ Tom shrugs. ‘When it’s finished. But we’ll have to be quick because the tide’s coming up.’
‘The time’s coming up?’ Ted looks at the sea.
‘The tide, silly,’ says Evie. ‘Come on, Ted, we’d better go …’
On the other side of the beach, the children’s mother closes her eyes as her companion’s hands caress the swell of her hips. ‘That’s lovely,’ she says. ‘Can you hear me purring?’ she adds with a laugh. Someone nearby is listening to Radio One. She can hear the Pet Shop Boys. ‘Always on My Mind’.
Her boyfriend lies down beside her. ‘You’re always on my mind, Babs,’ he murmurs.
She puts her hand to his chest, spreading her fingers against his skin. ‘This is the best holiday I’ve had for years …’
By now her children have reached the rocks – jagged grey boulders thinly striped with white quartz. They clamber up, and Ted peers into the first pool. He stares at the seaweed, some brown and knobbly, some as green and smooth as lettuce. He pokes his net at a sea anemone and, to his delight, it retracts its maroon tendrils. Then he spies a shrimp and thrusts the net at it. ‘Caught something!’ he shouts, but as he inspects the mesh his face falls – all that’s in it is a brown winkle. ‘Evie!’ he calls, dismayed to see that she is fifty or sixty feet away. ‘Wait for me!’ But Evie keeps on jumping across the rocks, the bucket swinging from her arm.
As Ted follows her he looks out to sea and spots a yellow canoe with two people in it, lifting and twisting their paddles. He hears a distant roar, and sees a motorboat rip across the water, the wake fanning out in widening chevrons that make the canoe rock and sway. Then he returns his gaze to Evie. She’s peering into a pool. ‘Evie!’ he yells, but she doesn’t respond.
Ted steps onto the next boulder but it’s crusted with tiny black mussels that cut into his feet. The rock beside it looks smooth, but when he stands on it, it wobbles violently, and his thin arms flail as he tries not to fall. Sudden tears sting his eyes. The rocks are sharp, and his trunks won’t stay up and his sister won’t wait for him, let alone hold his hand like she’s supposed to. ‘Evie …’ His throat aches as he tries not to cry. ‘Eeevieeee!’
At last she turns. Seeing his distress, she makes her way back to him. ‘What’s the matter, Ted?’ She stares at his feet. ‘Why didn’t you wear your beach shoes?’
He sniffs. ‘I forgot.’
Evie heaves an exasperated sigh then turns towards the sea. ‘Then we’d better go this way – the rocks are easier. Mind the barnacles,’ she adds over her shoulder. ‘Ooh there’s a good pool.’ It’s long and narrow, like a little loch, with bands of leathery-looking weed that sway to and fro. As Evie’s shadow falls onto the surface, a small brown fish darts across the bottom. ‘Give me the net!’ Ted passes it to her and takes the bucket as Evie crouches down, thrusts the net under a rock and swiftly withdraws it. There’s a glint of silver. ‘Got it!’ she yells. ‘Fill the bucket, Ted! Quick!’
Ted dips the bucket in the pool then hands it to her. Evie tips the fish in and it swims to the bottom then scoots under a shred of bladderwrack. ‘It’s huge,’ Evie breathes. ‘And there’s a shrimp!’ She feels a sudden euphoria – her loathing of her mother’s ‘friend’ forgotten. ‘Let’s get some more.’ As she dips the net in the water again she hears, faintly, the bell that the woman in the tea hut rings when she’s closing.
A few yards away the waves are breaking over the rocks; the two children can feel the spray on the backs of their legs.
Ted shivers. ‘Is it high time yet, Evie?’
Evie remembers Clive’s hands on their mother’s flanks. She thinks of his hairy chest and his thick arms, with their tattoos, and of the grunts that she hears through the bedroom wall.
‘It isn’t high tide,’ she answers. ‘Not yet …’
Ted picks up the net again. ‘The bell’s ringing.’
Evie shrugs. ‘I can’t hear it.’
‘I can, and ’member what Mum said, she said—’
‘Let’s find a crab!’ Evie yells. ‘Come on!’
Thrilled by the idea, Ted follows his sister, relieved that she’s going more slowly now, even if it’s only to avoid spilling their precious catch. Here the rocks are not sharp with mussels, but treacherous with seaweed, which slips like satin beneath Ted’s feet. He longs for Evie to hold his hand, but doesn’t like to ask in case it makes him seem babyish.
‘We should have brought some ham,’ he hears her say. ‘Crabs like ham. We’ll bring some tomorrow, okay?’
Ted nods happily.
On the beach, the man flying the kite is reeling it in. The mother of the girls in the pink swimsuits is calling them out of the sea. They run towards her, teeth chattering, and she wraps a towel around each one while the encroaching waves lick at their footprints. The family that were playing French cricket are packing up: the father hurls the ball and the dog tears after it.
People are folding their chairs, or collapsing sunshades and packing up baskets and bags as the sea advances, then retreats, then pushes forward again.
‘Five more minutes, Clive,’ Barbara says.
He winds a lock of her hair around his finger. ‘So what’s happening tonight?’
‘Well, I thought we’d walk to Trennick and get some fish and chips; we could buy a nice bottle of wine, and then … I’ll get the kids into bed early.’
‘You do that,’ Clive whispers. He kisses her. ‘You do that, Babs.’ Barbara smiles to think that she’s only known Clive for eight weeks. She remembers the rush of desire when she saw him – the first time she’d felt anything for a man in years. She thinks of how she’d loathed the job – sitting at her desk all day with nothing to see through the window but lorries and trucks with JJ Haulage on them; the only thing on her wall a road map of the UK. Just as she was wondering how much more of it she could stand, Clive had walked in. Tall and dark, with the shoulders of an ox, he’d reminded Barbara of a drawing of the Minotaur in one of Evie’s books. He’d come about his payslip – five overnights to Harwich that were missing. Flustered, Barbara had promised to correct it; then he’d suggested, cheekily, that she could ‘make it up to him’. She’d laughed and said maybe she would …
She’d told him that she had two kids – though no ex, God rest Finn’s soul; but Clive said that she could have had ten kids in tow and it wouldn’t have mattered. The fact that – at thirty-eight – he’s ten years older than she is makes Barbara feel light-headed.
The tricky thing had been introducing him to Evie and Ted. Ted had taken little notice of him, turning back to his Lego, but Evie had been hostile, and when Barbara told them that Clive would be coming on the holiday, she’d run to her room, slamming the door. But, as Barbara had said to her, Evie had friends – why shouldn’t Mummy have a friend? Why shouldn’t Mummy have a bit of happiness? Didn’t Mummy deserve it after all she’d been through? But Evie had simply stared at her, as though trying to drill a hole in her soul. Well she’ll just have to get used to him, Barbara decides, as Clive kisses her fingertips …
Suddenly Barbara realises that the bell has stopped ringing. She sits up.
On the rocks, Ted is getting tired. But now Evie has found another pool, a few feet from the water’s edge.
‘There’ll be crabs in here,’ she says authoritatively. ‘Okay, Ted, you hold the bucket. Be careful,’ she warns as she passes it to him. She takes the net. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I want to hold the net.’
‘You’re too young.’ Confident that this has settled the matter, she returns her gaze to the pool.
Ted thumps the bucket down on a ledge. ‘I’m five!’
‘Well I’m nine, so it’s better if I do it. It’s not easy catching crabs.’
‘It’s my turn. You caught the fish – and the shrimp. So it’s my turn with the net now and—’
‘Shhhh!’ Evie is holding up her left hand, her eyes fixed on the water. ‘I saw one,’ she hisses. ‘A big one.’
‘Let me get it.’
Evie leans forward, very slowly, then jabs the net at a clump of weed. As she lifts it out, a khaki-coloured crab, the size of her hand, is dangling from the mesh with one claw.
Ted lunges for the net. To his amazement he manages to wrest it from her; as he does so, the crab falls back into the water then pedals under a rock.
Evie’s mouth chasms with outrage. ‘You idiot!’
Ted’s chin dimples. ‘I’m not.’
‘You are.’ She glares at him. ‘You’re an idiot – and a baby: a stupid little baby! No wonder Mum calls you “Teddy Bear”.’
His face crumples. ‘Sorry, Evie …’ He offers her the net. ‘Catch it again. Please …’
Evie’s tempted, but then she notices how close the waves now are. ‘No. We’ve got to get back.’ She tips the bucket into the pool and the fish and shrimp dart away. Then she sets off for the beach, which looks improbably distant, as if viewed through the wrong end of a telescope. She can just see Tom and his sister, flinging sand out of that hole as though their lives depended on it. She turns back to Ted. He’s still standing by the pool, his fringe blown by the breeze. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I want to get the crab!’ Ted’s eyes glisten with tears. ‘I want to show it to Mum.’
‘You can’t.’
‘I can!’ A sob convulses his thin ribcage. ‘I can get it, Evie!’ He squats down and thrusts the net into the pool, frantically.
‘It’s too late! You ruined it – now come on!’ Ted doesn’t move. ‘I’m wait-ing.’ Her hands drop to her hips. ‘Right! Ten, nine, eight …’
Ted glances at her.
‘Seven, six, five …’
He looks longingly at the pool ‘But …’
‘Three, two … one! I’m going!’
Still sobbing, Ted starts to descend, but Evie is already springing across the rocks, the soles of her shoes slapping the stone. ‘This way,’ she calls as she moves higher up, towards the cliff. ‘Put your hand on that rock there.’ She points to it, then leaps across a gully. She jumps onto the next rock, then the next, stepping from boulder to boulder until, at last, she’s yards from the beach. Evie jumps onto the sand, surprised at how relieved she feels. There’s the girl with the ‘J’ T-shirt, sitting by the trench, observing Tom with a blend of curiosity and admiration. Evie stands beside her as he wriggles into the tunnel, then she walks on, looking for shells. She stops to pick up a piece of sea glass but decides that it’s too new-looking to keep. As she straightens up she can hear gulls crying, and the barking of a dog. Then she sees her mother coming towards her, in her dress now, scanning the rocks, one hand to her eyes, lips pursed. Evie lifts her left arm and waves. Her mother waves back, smiling with relief. Then her expression changes to one of consternation, then alarm. She starts running towards Evie.
Evie turns and looks behind. Her heart stops.
ONE
I guess it was inevitable that Nina’s wedding would change things between Rick and me, though I could never have guessed by how much. Up until then, it had been so easy being with Rick – we’d fitted into each other’s lives as though we’d always known one another. And now we were going to a wedding – our first one together – and suddenly being with Rick was hard.
‘They’ve got great weather for it,’ he remarked as I locked the door of our small north London flat. The early haze had given way to a pristine blue sky.
‘A good omen,’ I said as we walked to the car.
Rick beeped open his old Golf. ‘I didn’t know you were superstitious, Jenni. But then I don’t know everything about you.’ There was a slight edge to his voice.
‘Well, I am superstitious.’ I put our gift, in its silvery bag, on the back seat. ‘But then I was born on Friday the thirteenth.’
Rick smiled. ‘That should make you immune.’
We drove west, talking pleasantly, but with an unfamiliar reserve, born of the anguished conversations that we’d been having over the past two or three days.
We sped down the A40, and were soon driving along rural roads past fields still stubbled and pale from the harvest. It was very warm for mid-October, and clear – an Indian summer’s day, piercingly beautiful with its golden light, and long shadows.
Nina’s parents lived at the southern end of the Cotswolds. Over the years I’d visited the house for weekends, or the occasional party – Nina’s twenty-first, and her thirtieth, which was already five years ago, I reflected soberly. For fifteen years, she and Honor had been my closest friends. And today it was Nina’s wedding, and before long, no doubt, there’d be a christening.
Rick glanced at me. ‘You okay, Jen?’
‘Yes. Why?’
He changed down a gear. ‘You sighed.’
‘Oh … no reason. I’m just a bit tired.’ A bad sleeper at the best of times, I’d lain awake most of the night. As I’d stared into the darkness, I’d longed for Rick to hold me and whisper that everything would be alright, but he’d turned away.
‘So where do we go from here?’ For a moment I thought that Rick was talking about us. ‘Which way?’
I spotted the sign for Bisley. ‘Go right.’
Minutes later we turned into Nailsford Lane, where a clutch of white balloons bobbed from a farm gate.
‘Looks like we’re the first,’ Rick remarked as we drove into the parking field, which was empty except for an abandoned tractor. He parked in the shade of a huge copper beech; as he opened his door I could hear its leaves rustle and rattle. ‘Is it going to be a big do?’
‘Pretty big – about eighty, Nina told me.’
‘So who will I know, apart from her and Jon?’
I pulled down the visor and checked my reflection. ‘I’m not sure – she’s invited quite a few of the people we knew at Bristol; not that I’ve stayed in touch with that many …’ I winced at my red-veined eyes and pale cheeks. ‘I’ve only really kept up with Nina and Honor.’ I wound my long dark hair into a bun, then pinned onto that the pale pink silk flower that matched my dress.
Rick pulled a blue tie out of his jacket pocket. ‘So will Honor be there?’
‘Of course.’ Rick groaned; I glanced at him. ‘Don’t be like that, Rick – Honor’s lovely.’
‘She’s exhausting.’
‘Exuberant,’ I countered, wishing that my boyfriend was a bit keener on my best friend.
He grimaced. ‘She never stops talking. So she’s in the right job, not that I listen.’
‘You should – her show’s the best thing on Radio Five.’ As Rick looped and twisted the blue silk, I suppressed a dark smile. He’s tying the knot, I thought.
Reaching into the back for the gift, I saw more cars arriving, bumping slowly over the field. We made our way across the grass, which was studded with dandelion clocks, their downy seeds drifting like plankton. We strolled up Church Walk then pushed on the lych gate, which was garlanded with moon daisies, and went up the gravelled path.
Jon was waiting anxiously by the porch with his brothers, all three men in morning dress with yellow silk waistcoats. They greeted us warmly and we chatted for a minute or two; then the photographer, who had been sorting out his camera on top of a tomb, offered to take a picture of Rick and me.
‘Let’s have a smile,’ he said as he clicked away. ‘A bit more – it’s a wedding, not a funeral,’ he added genially. ‘That’s better …’ There was another volley of clicks then he squinted at the screen. ‘Lovely.’
Tim handed Rick and me our Order of Service sheets and we walked into the cool of the church.
I’d been to St Jude’s before, but had forgotten how small it was, and how simple the interior, with its plain walls, wooden roof and box pews. There was the smell of beeswax and dust and age, mingled with the scent of the oriental lilies that festooned the columns and pulpit. It was also very light, with clear glass, except for the East window, which depicted Christ blessing the children. The sun streamed through its coloured panes, scattering jewelled beams across the whitewashed walls.
‘Lovely church,’ Rick murmured as we sat down.
‘It is,’ I agreed, though today its beauty was a shard in my heart. Rick and I glanced through our service sheets as the church filled up, heels tapping over the flagstones, wood creaking as people sat down, then chatted quietly or just listened to the Bach partita that the organist was playing.
Jon’s parents went to their seats. Behind them I recognised a colleague of Nina’s, and now here was Honor, in a green ‘bombshell’ dress that hugged her curves and complemented her creamy skin and blonde hair. She blew me and Rick an extravagant kiss then sat near the front.
Now Jon and his older brother, James, took their places together, while their younger brother, Tim, ushered in a few latecomers. Nina’s mother, in a turquoise opera coat and matching hat, smiled benignly as she made her way to her pew.
I turned and caught a glimpse of Nina. She stood in the porch, in the white silk dupion sheath that Honor and I had helped her choose, her veil drifting behind her.
As the Bach drew to an end, the vicar stepped in front of the altar and welcomed everyone. Then there was a burst of Handel, and we all stood as Nina walked down the aisle on her father’s arm.
After the opening prayers we sang ‘Morning Has Broken’; then Honor stepped up to the lectern to read the sonnet that Nina had chosen.
‘My true love hath my heart, and I have his,’ she began, her dulcet voice echoing slightly. ‘By just exchange one for the other given. I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss. There never was a better bargain driven …’
As Honor read on, I felt a sting of envy. The lovers understood each other so well. I thought I’d had that with Rick …
‘My true love hath my heart – and I have his,’ Honor concluded.
The vicar raised his hands. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony …’ I looked at Nina and Jon, side by side in a pool of light, and wondered whether these words would ever be said for Rick and me. ‘Nor taken in hand wantonly,’ the vicar was saying, ‘but reverently, discreetly, advisedly and soberly, and in the fear of God, duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained.’ At that I felt Rick shift slightly. ‘First, it was ordained for the procreation of children …’ I stole a glance at him, but his face gave nothing away. ‘Therefore, if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else, hereafter, forever hold his peace.’
I tried to follow the service but found it suddenly impossible to focus on the music, or the Address, or on the beauty and solemnity of the vows. As Nina and Jon committed themselves to each other, with unfaltering voices, I felt another stab of pain. The register was signed, the last hymn sung and the blessing given; then, as Widor’s Toccata mingled with the pealing bells, we followed Nina and Jon outside.
We showered the couple with petals and took snaps with our phones; then the photographer began the formal photos of them while we all milled around by the porch.
‘Great to see you! Fantastic weather!’
‘Lovely service – much prefer the King James.’
‘Me too. Well read, Honor!’
‘Should we make our way to the house?’
‘Not yet. I think they want a group pic.’
Rick and I, keen to get away from the crowd, strolled through the churchyard; we looked at the gravestones, most of which were very old and eroded, blotched with yellow lichen.
Rick stopped in front of a slate headstone. ‘That’s odd. It’s got a pineapple on it.’
I looked at the carved image. ‘A pineapple means prosperity, as do figs, and I guess this was a prosperous area, probably because of the wool trade.’
We walked on, in silence, past stones that had angels on them, and doves and candles, the symbolism of which was clear.
We could hear the chatter of the guests, a sudden burst of Honor’s unmistakeable laughter, then the photographer’s voice. Could you look at me, Nina?
Rick approached another grave, by a yew. He peered at it. ‘This one’s got a bunch of grapes carved on it.’
‘Grapes represent the wine at the Last Supper.’
Rick glanced at me. ‘How do you know all this, Jen? I didn’t think you were religious.’
‘I had to research it for one of my books. It was years ago, but I’ve remembered a lot of it.’
Now look at each other again …
‘Here’s a rose,’ Rick said, pointing to another headstone. ‘I assume that means love?’
Oh, very romantic …
‘No. Roses show how old the person was when they died.’ I studied the worn emblem. ‘This is a full rose, which was used for adults.’ I read the inscription. ‘Mary Ann Betts … was …’ I peered at her dates. ‘Twenty-five. The stem’s severed, to show that her life was cut short.’
‘I see …’ Our conversation felt stiff and formal, as though we were strangers, not lovers.
Can we have a kiss?
‘A partially opened rose means a teenager.’
And another one. Lovely.
‘And a rosebud is for a child.’
Hold his hand now.
Rick nodded thoughtfully. ‘A sad subject.’
‘Yes …’ Okay, all stand together, please – nice and close!
Rick and I rejoined everyone for the group photo, for which the photographer climbed onto a stepladder, wobbling theatrically to make us all laugh. We smiled up at him while he clicked away then, hand in hand, Nina and Jon led us down the path, across the field, to the house.
The Old Forge was just as I remembered it – long and low, its pale stone walls ablaze with pyracantha and Virginia creeper. A large marquee filled the lawn. In the distance were the hills of Slad, the plunging pastures dotted with sheep, their bleats carrying across the valley on the still air.
We joined the receiving line, greeting both sets of parents, then the bride and groom.
Nina’s face lit up and we hugged. ‘Jenni …’
I had to fight back sudden tears. I didn’t know whether they were tears of happiness for her or of self-pity. ‘You look so beautiful, Nina.’
‘Thank you.’ She put her lips to my ear. ‘You next,’ she whispered.
Jon kissed me on the cheek, then clasped Rick’s hand. ‘Good to see you both! Thanks for coming!’
‘Congratulations, Jon,’ Rick said warmly. ‘It was a lovely service. Congratulations, Nina.’
Now we moved on into the large sunny sitting room where drinks were being served. I put our gift on a table amongst a cluster of other presents and cards. A waiter offered us a glass of champagne. Rick raised his glass. ‘Here’s to the happy couple.’
‘They are happy’ – I sipped my fizz. ‘It’s wonderful.’
‘How long have they been together?’
‘About the same as us. They got engaged on their first anniversary,’ I added neutrally, then laughed at myself for ever having thought that Rick and I might do the same.
I looked at Rick, so handsome, with his open face, short dark hair and blue gaze. I tried, and failed, to imagine life without him. We’d agreed to talk things over again the next day. Before I could think about that, though, a gong summoned us into the marquee, which was bedecked with white agapanthus and pink nerines, the tables gleaming with silver and china. We found our names, standing behind our chairs while the vicar said Grace.
Rick and I had been placed with Honor, and with Amy and Sean, whom I’d known at college but hadn’t seen for years, and an old schoolfriend of Jon’s, Al. I was glad that Nina had put him next to Honor; she’d been single for a while now, and he was very attractive. Also on our table was Nina’s godfather, Vincent Tregear. I vaguely remembered him from her twenty-first birthday. A near neighbour named Carolyn Browne introduced herself. I steeled myself for the effort of making small talk with people I don’t know; unlike Honor, I’m not good at it, and in my present frame of mind it would be harder than usual.
I heard Carolyn explain to Rick that she was a solicitor, recently retired. ‘I’m so busy though,’ she confessed, laughing. ‘I’m a governor of a local school, I play golf and bridge; I travel. I was dreading retirement, but it’s really fine.’ She smiled at Rick. ‘Not that you’re anywhere near that stage. So, what do you do?’
He unfurled his napkin. ‘I’m a teacher – at a primary school in Islington.’
‘He’s the deputy head,’ I volunteered, proudly.
Carolyn smiled at me. ‘And what about you, erm …?’
‘Jenni.’ I turned my place card towards her.
‘Jenni,’ she echoed. ‘And you’re …’ She nodded at Rick.
‘Yes, I’m Rick’s …’ The word ‘girlfriend’ made us seem like teenagers; ‘partner’ made us sound as though we were in business, not in love. ‘Other half,’ I concluded, though I disliked this too: it seemed to suggest, ominously, that we’d been sliced apart.
‘And what do you do?’ Carolyn asked me.
My heart sank – I hate talking about myself. ‘I’m a writer.’
‘A writer?’ Her face had lit up. ‘Do you write novels?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘It’s all non-fiction. But you won’t have heard of me.’
‘I read a lot, so maybe I will. What’s your name? Jenni …’ Carolyn peered at my place card. ‘Clark.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Jenni Clark …’
‘I don’t write under that name.’
‘So is it Jennifer Clark?’
‘No – what I mean is, I don’t write under any name.’ I was about to explain why, when Honor said, ‘Jenni’s a ghost.’
‘A ghost?’ Carolyn looked puzzled.
‘She ghosts things.’ Honor unfurled her napkin. ‘Strange to think that it can be a verb, isn’t it? I ghost, you ghost, he ghosts,’ she added gaily.
I rolled my eyes at Honor, then turned to Carolyn. ‘I’m a ghostwriter.’
‘Oh, I see. So you write books for people who can’t write.’
‘Or they can,’ I said, ‘but don’t have the time, or lack the confidence, or they don’t know how to shape the material.’
‘So it’s actors and pop stars, I suppose? Footballers? TV presenters?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t do the celebrity stuff – I used to, but not any more.’
‘Which is a shame,’ Honor interjected, ‘as you’d make far more money.’
‘True.’ I rested my fork. ‘But I didn’t enjoy it.’
‘Why not?’ asked Al, who was on my left.
‘It was too frustrating,’ I answered, ‘having to battle with my subjects’ egos, or finding that they didn’t turn up for the interviews; or that they’d give me some brilliant material then the next day tell me that I wasn’t to use it. So these days I only do the projects that interest me.’
Honor, who has a butterfly mind, was now discussing ghosts of the other kind. ‘I’m sure they exist,’ she said to Vincent Tregear. ‘Twenty years ago I was staying with my cousins in France; it was a warm, still day, just like today, and we were exploring this abandoned house. It was a ruin, so we could see right up to the roof … And we both heard footsteps, right above us, on the non-existent floorboards.’ She gave an extravagant shudder. ‘I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘I believe in ghosts,’ Carolyn remarked. ‘I live on my own, in an old house, and at times I’ve been aware of this … presence.’
Amy nodded enthusiastically. ‘I’ve sometimes felt a sudden chill.’ She turned to Sean. ‘Do you remember, darling, last summer? When we were in Wales?’
‘I do,’ he answered. ‘Though I believe it was because you were pregnant.’
‘No: pregnancy made me feel hot, not cold.’
‘A few years ago,’ said Al, ‘I was asleep in my flat, alone, when I suddenly woke up, convinced that someone was sitting on my bed.’
I shivered at the idea. ‘And you weren’t dreaming?’
He shook his head. ‘I was wide awake. I can still remember the weight of it, pressing down on the mattress. Yet there was no one there.’
‘How terrifying,’ I murmured.
‘It was.’ He poured me some water then filled his own glass. ‘Has anything like that ever happened to you?’
‘It hasn’t, I’m glad to say. But I don’t dismiss other people’s experiences.’
‘I’ve always been sceptical about these things,’ Sean observed. ‘I believe that if people are sufficiently on edge they can see things that aren’t really there. Like Macbeth seeing the ghost of Banquo.’
‘Shake not thy gory locks at me!’ intoned Honor, then giggled. ‘And Macbeth certainly is on edge by then, isn’t he, having murdered – what – four people?’ Then she went off on some new conversational tangent about why it was considered unlucky for actors to say ‘Macbeth’ inside a theatre. ‘People think it’s because of the evil in the story,’ she prattled away as a waiter took her plate. ‘But it’s actually because if a play wasn’t selling well, the actors would have to quickly rehearse Macbeth as that’s always popular, so doing Macbeth became associated with ill luck. Now … what are we having next?’ She picked up a gold-tasselled menu. ‘Sea bass – yum. Did you know that sea bass are hermaphrodites? The males become females at six months.’
Al, clearly uninterested in the gender-switching tendencies of our main course, turned to me. ‘So what sort of books do you write?’
‘A real mix,’ I answered. ‘Psychology, health and popular culture; I’ve done a diet book, and a couple of gardening books …’
I thought of my titles, more than twenty of them, lined up on the shelf in my study.
‘So you must learn a huge amount about all these things,’ Al said.
‘I do. It’s one of the perks.’
Carolyn sipped her wine. ‘But do you get any kind of credit?’
‘No.’
‘I thought that with ghostwritten books it usually said “with” so-and-so or “as told to”.’
‘It depends,’ I said. ‘Some ghostwriters ask for that. I don’t.’
‘So your name appears nowhere?’
‘That’s right.’
She frowned. ‘Don’t you mind?’
I shrugged. ‘Anonymity’s part of the deal. And of course the clients like it that way. They’d prefer everyone to think they’d written the book all by themselves.’
Carolyn laughed. ‘I couldn’t bear not to have any of the glory. If I’d worked that hard on something, I’d want people to know!’
‘Me too,’ chimed in Honor. ‘I don’t know why you want to hide your light under a bushel quite so much, Jen.’
‘Because it’s enough that I’ve enjoyed the work and been paid for it. I’m happy to be … invisible.’
‘You were always like that,’ Honor went on. ‘You were never one to seek the limelight – unlike me,’ she giggled. ‘I enjoy it.’
‘So are you still acting?’ Sean asked her.
‘Not for five years now,’ she answered. ‘I couldn’t take the insecurity any more, so I went into radio, which I love.’
‘I’ve heard your show,’ Amy interjected. ‘It’s really good.’
‘Thanks.’ Honor basked in the compliment for a moment. ‘And you two have had a baby, haven’t you?’
‘We have,’ Amy answered. ‘So I’m on maternity leave …’
‘And what are you working on now, Jenni?’ Carolyn asked.
I fiddled with my wine glass. ‘A baby-care guide.’
‘How lovely,’ she responded. ‘And are you a mum?’
My heart contracted. ‘No.’ I sipped my wine.
‘Doesn’t that make it difficult? Writing a book about something you haven’t been through yourself?’
‘Not at all. The client’s talked extensively to me about her experience – she’s a midwife – and I’ve written it up in a clear and, I hope, engaging way.’
‘I must buy it,’ Amy said to me. ‘What’s it called?’
‘Bringing Up Baby. It’ll be out in the spring. But I always get given a few complimentary copies, so if you give me your address I’ll send you one.’
‘Oh, that’s kind. I’ll write it down …’ Amy began looking in her bag for a pen.
‘You can contact me through my website,’ I suggested. ‘Jenni Clark Ghostwriting. So … how old’s your baby?’
At that Sean took out his phone and swiped the screen. ‘She’s called Rosie.’
I smiled at the photo. ‘She’s gorgeous. Isn’t she lovely, Honor?’
Honor peered at the image. ‘She’s a little beauty.’
‘She’s what, six months?’ I asked.
Amy’s face glowed with pride. ‘Yes – she’ll be seven months a week on Wednesday.’
‘So is she crawling?’ I went on, ‘Or starting to roll over?’ Beside me I could feel Rick stiffen.
‘She’s crawling beautifully,’ Amy replied. ‘But she’s not rolling over yet.’
Sean laughed. ‘It’ll be nerve-wracking when she does.’
‘You won’t be able to leave her on the bed or the changing table,’ I said. ‘That’s when lots of parents put the changing mat on the floor – not that I’m a parent myself, but of course we cover this in the book …’ Rick had tuned out of the conversation and was talking to Carolyn again. Al turned to me. ‘So can you write about any subject?’
‘Well, not something I could never relate to,’ I answered, ‘like particle physics – not that I’d ever get chosen for a book like that. But I’ll do almost any professional writing job: corporate reports, press releases, business pitches, memoirs …’
‘Memoirs?’ echoed Vincent Tregear. ‘You mean, writing someone’s life story?’
‘Yes – usually an older person, just for private publication.’
‘Do you enjoy that?’ Vincent wanted to know.
‘Very much. In fact it’s the best part of the job. I love immersing myself in other people’s memories.’
Vincent looked as though he was about to say something, but then Carolyn began asking him about golf, Amy was telling Rick about yoga, and Honor was chatting to Al about his work as an orthodontist. She was drawn to him, I could tell. Good old Nina for putting them together. Suddenly Honor looked at me, grinned, then tapped her teeth. ‘Al says I have a perfect bite.’
I raised my glass. ‘Congratulations!’
‘Not just good,’ Honor said. ‘Perfect!’
‘Don’t let it go to your head,’ Al said.
She laughed. ‘Where else is my bite supposed to go?’
Soon it was time for the speeches and toasts; the cake was cut, then after coffee there was a break before the evening party was to start.
Amy and Sean had to leave, to get back to their baby. Vincent Tregear also said his goodbyes. As the caterers moved back the tables, Rick and I went out into the garden.
We sat on a bench, watching the sky turn crimson, then mauve, then an inky blue in which the first stars were starting to shine.
‘Well … it’s been a great day,’ Rick pronounced. The awkwardness had returned, squatting between us like an uninvited guest.
‘It’s been a lovely day,’ I agreed. ‘We should …’
‘What?’ he murmured.
My nerve failed. ‘We should go inside. It’s getting cold.’
Rick stood up. ‘And the band’s started.’ He held out his hand.
So we returned to the marquee where Jon and Nina were dancing their first waltz. Soon everyone took to the floor. But as Rick’s arms went round me and he pulled me close, I felt that he was hugging me goodbye.
TWO
‘So … what are we going to do?’ Rick asked me gently the following day.
We’d had lunch – not that I’d been able to eat – and now faced each other across our kitchen table. I shook my head, helplessly. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
‘We’ve got three options,’ Rick went on. ‘One, I change my mind; two, you change your mind; or three …’
I felt my stomach clench. ‘I don’t want to break up.’
‘Nor do I.’ Rick exhaled, hard, as though breathing on glass, then he looked at me, his blue eyes searching my face. ‘I do love you, Jen.’
‘Then you should be happy to let me have what I want.’
He flinched. ‘You know it’s not that simple.’
A silence fell in which we could hear the rumble of traffic from the City Road.
‘I keep thinking about this quote I once read,’ Rick said after a moment. ‘I can’t remember who it’s by, but it’s about how love doesn’t consist in gazing at the other person, but in looking together in the same direction.’ He shrugged. ‘But we’re not doing that.’
I cradled my coffee mug with its pattern of red hearts. ‘We’ve been together for a year and a half,’ I said quietly. ‘We’ve lived together for nine months, and we’ve been happy. Haven’t we?’ I glanced at the framed photo collage that I’d made of our first year together. There were snaps of us on top of Mount Snowdon, walking on the South Downs, sitting on the swing seat in his parents’ garden, cooking together, kissing. Then my eyes strayed to Nina’s wedding invitation on the kitchen dresser. I bitterly regretted having teasingly asked Rick when we might take our relationship forward.
‘We have been happy,’ Rick said at last. ‘That’s what makes it so hard.’
Another silence enveloped us. I could hear the hum of the fridge. ‘There is a fourth option,’ I said, ‘which is to go on as we were. So let’s just … forget marriage.’
Rick stared at me as though I were speaking in tongues. ‘This isn’t about marriage, Jen.’
I glanced at my manuscript, the typed pages stacked up on the table. Bringing Up Baby. From Newborn to 12 Months, the Definitive Infant-Care Guide. A page had fallen to the floor.
‘So what are we going to do?’ Rick asked me again.
‘I don’t know.’ A wave of resentment coursed through me. ‘I only know that I was always honest with you.’ As I picked up the sheet, random sentences leapt out at me. Great adventure of parenthood … bliss of holding your baby for the first time … what to expect, month by month.
‘You were honest.’ Rick nodded. ‘You told me right from the start that you didn’t want to have children and that this was something I had to know if we were to get involved.’
‘Yes,’ I said hotly, ‘and you said you didn’t mind, because you work with children every day. You said that your brother has four kids, so there was no pressure on you to have them. You told me that you’d never been bothered about it and that people can have a good life without children – which is true.’
‘I did feel like that, Jenni. But I’ve changed.’
‘Well, I wish you hadn’t, because now we’ve got a problem.’
Rick pushed back his chair; he went and stood by the French windows. Through the panes the plants in our small walled garden looked dusty and withered. I’d been too distracted and upset to water them. ‘People do change,’ he said quietly. ‘They’re allowed to change. And it’s crept up on me over the past few months. I’ve wanted to talk to you about it but was afraid to, precisely for this reason, but now you’ve brought the issue into the open.’
‘Why have you changed?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know – probably because I’m nearly forty now.’
‘You were nearly forty when we met.’
‘Or maybe it’s seeing the kids at school develop and grow, and wishing that I could watch my own kids do that.’
‘That didn’t seem to worry you before.’
‘True. But now it does.’
I glanced at the manuscript. ‘I think it’s because I’ve been working on this baby-care book.’ I felt my throat constrict. ‘I wish I’d never agreed to do it.’
‘The book has nothing to do with it, Jen. I wanted to be with you so much that I convinced myself I didn’t want children. Then I began to believe that because we were in love we’d naturally want to have them. So I thought you’d change your mind.’
‘Which is what you’re hoping for now?’
Rick sighed. ‘I guess I am. Because then we’d still have each other, but with the chance of family life too. I’ll be applying for head teacher posts before long: I’d like to try for jobs outside London, if you were happy to move.’
‘I’d be happy to be wherever you were,’ I said truthfully.
‘Jen …’ Rick’s face was full of sudden yearning. ‘We could have a great life: we’d be able to afford a bigger place.’ He looked around him. ‘This flat’s so small.’
‘I don’t care. I’d live in a bedsit with you if I had to. But, yes, it would be wonderful to have more space – with a bigger garden.’
He nodded. ‘I’ve been thinking about that garden a lot. I see a lawn, with children running around on it, laughing. But then they fade, like ghosts, because I know you don’t want any.’ Rick sat down again, then reached for my hands. ‘I want nothing more than to share my life with you, Jen, but we have to want the same things. And the question of whether or not we have children isn’t one that we can compromise on; and if we can’t agree about it—’
I withdrew my hands. ‘Let’s imagine that I do change my mind. What if we then find that I can’t have kids?’
‘At least I’d know that we’d tried. Or maybe, I don’t know … we could try IVF.’
‘A bank-breaking emotional rollercoaster with no guarantees. The other day Honor interviewed a woman who’s spent forty thousand pounds on it and still isn’t pregnant.’
‘Well, we might be luckier. If not, we could adopt.’
‘Could we?’ I echoed. ‘Would we really want that? In any case this is all academic, because I won’t be changing my mind; and if you really do love me, you’ll accept that. Can’t we just go on as we were?’ I added desperately.
Rick blinked. ‘I don’t see how we can.’
My throat ached with a suppressed sob. ‘Why not? Because now you’ve decided that you would like kids, you’d want to go right out there, as soon as possible, and find some woman to have them with? Is that it? Should I start knitting a matinee jacket for the baby right now?’
Rick flinched. ‘Don’t be silly, Jen. It’s because we’d only be putting off the inevitable. I’d come to resent you, then you’d be upset with me, and we’d break up anyway.’ He shook his head. ‘What I don’t understand is why you won’t at least explore why it is that you feel—’
‘No,’ I interrupted. ‘I won’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m not prepared to bare my soul to some stranger! In any case there’s nothing to explore. Yes, lots of women want children, but there are lots who don’t, and I’m one of them. So seeing a counsellor won’t make any difference. I mean, you’re the one who’s changed, Rick, not me, yet you’re making the condescending assumption that I don’t know my own mind!’
‘No, Jen, I’m just trying to work out why you feel as you do. Because you like children. You go out of your way to be with them.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘It is – you come into school every week and read to them.’
‘I … do it for you.’
‘Jen …’ Rick looked bewildered. ‘That’s how we met.’
Another silence fell. I could hear a magpie chattering in a nearby garden. ‘Well, it’s hardly a big deal, especially as my flat was practically next door. And liking children doesn’t mean I want to have them myself. I don’t.’
‘Yet you’ve said that if I’d been divorced, with children, you’d happily have had those kids in your life.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you won’t have a child of your own.’
‘No.’
‘I wish I knew why not. If you told me that it was because you felt that having children would wreck your career, or your lifestyle, or your body, I could at least understand that. I could try to accept it. But to say that you won’t have children because you’d be too scared …’
I put my hand on the table, tracing the grain with my fingertips. ‘I would be,’ I insisted quietly.
‘Why?’
I looked up. ‘I’ve told you; I’d be scared that something would go wrong. Or that I’d make a terrible mistake – that I’d drop the baby, or forget to feed it or give it enough to drink.’
‘Babies don’t let you forget, Jen; that’s why they cry. And you’ve just written a book about babies. Hasn’t that made you feel you could cope?’
‘It’s given me knowledge of how to care for them,’ I conceded. ‘But it hasn’t taken away my fear that something bad would happen.’ Panic swept through me. ‘Like … cot death, God forbid; or that I’d turn my back for a few seconds – that’s all it would take – and the child would fall down the stairs, or run into the road, or that there’d be some terrible accident that I could never, ever, get over.’ Tears stung my eyes. ‘Parenthood’s a white-knuckle ride, and I don’t want to get on.’
Rick gave a bewildered shrug. ‘Most people probably feel the same way, but they control their fears: you let them govern your life. You’re normally so level-headed, but with this I think you’re being—’
‘Don’t tell me – irrational?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not irrational to avoid anxiety and stress.’
‘It is irrational to presume that things will go terribly wrong – especially as you’ve no reason to think you wouldn’t be a good, careful parent. What’s your real fear, Jenni? That you wouldn’t love the child?’
‘On the contrary; I know that I would – which is precisely why I don’t want to have one.’
He groaned. ‘But you know, Jen, this isn’t just about whether or not we have a family.’
‘What do you mean?’
Rick gave a frustrated sigh. ‘We get on so well, Jen.’ I nodded. ‘We respect each other. We love being together, we talk easily – and we’re attracted to each other.’
‘We are,’ I agreed with a pang.
‘But you’re just not … open with me. Every time I ask you about your childhood you avoid my questions, or change the subject. And you never mention your mother, or explain why it is that you’re virtually estranged.’
‘I have explained.’
‘You haven’t – at least not in any way that I can understand. And as time’s gone on it’s bothered me more and more. This feeling I have, that although I love being with you, and desire you, I don’t really know you.’ He sighed. ‘You said that your mother neglected you.’
‘No. She looked after me. But she was distant and cold.’
‘That is neglect.’ Rick chewed his lip. ‘So … was she always like that?’
‘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 demanded 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 e-mail come in but ignored it. Was there any way Rick and I might resolve our problem? I refused to see a counsellor. I didn’t need counselling, 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 fifty per cent off a pocket-sprung mattress. The fourth was headed Ghostwriting Enquiry and had been automatically forwarded from my website. It was from Nina’s godfather, Vincent Tregear. Surprised that he should contact me, I read it. 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, I forced my mind away from Rick. I wiped my eyes, reached for the handset and dialled the number that Vincent had given.
After three rings the phone picked up, and I recognised 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 was 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, still avidly wondering what his mother’s story might be.
‘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.
‘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?’
Darmowy fragment się skończył.
