by Isabel Wolff
“Of course,” Beth agreed warmly. “You must be tired after the journey. Are you okay to walk on your own? Or would you like Henry to go down the lane with you?”
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” I assured her. “I’m not scared of the dark.”
“Well, let me give you a flashlight. It’s pitch-black out there.” As I put on my coat, Beth opened a cupboard under the sink, took a torch out, and handed it to me.
“Good night, Jenni. It was lovely meeting you.”
“Good night, Beth. Thanks for supper—it was delicious. Good night, Henry.” I turned to Klara and smiled. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yes. See you then, dear. Sleep well.”
“Thanks. You too.” I knew that I’d be lucky to sleep at all.
I switched on the flashlight, then walked up the track, raking the ground with the beam. The evening had been fine—I liked Klara, and Henry and Beth had been warm and welcoming. But I’d given too much away. As I turned toward the cottage, I resolved to be more careful.
The blackthorn trees, sculpted by the wind, hunched over the lane. The stars glittered in a blue-black sky. I turned off the torch and looked up. I could see Orion’s Belt, and Venus, and there were the seven points of the Big Dipper. And now, as my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see the pale band of the Milky Way. I craned my neck, drinking in its nebulous beauty. “Wonderful,” I whispered as I gazed at its star clouds and clusters. “It’s wonder—” A sudden jolt ran the length of my spine. I froze, my pulse racing, and listened. The sound that had startled me must have been the wind. I was about to walk on when I heard it again. Adrenaline flooded my veins. It wasn’t the wind. There was someone there. I couldn’t see anyone, but I could feel a presence; someone was very close, so close that I could hear breathing. I tried to cry out but could make no sound; I wanted to run, but my feet seemed clamped to the ground—and there it was again! So loud that it filled my ears; and now my own breath was ragged, my heart pounding. Then I felt it suddenly slow. I exhaled with relief as I realized that what I’d heard was just the slow gasp of the sea.
Four
I slept fitfully and, as usual, woke before dawn. In my half-asleep state I reached out for Rick, longing for his warm body, then, with a pang, remembered where I was. I lay staring into the darkness for a while, then I showered and dressed and drank a cup of coffee. Steeling myself, I set off for the beach.
I strolled past villas screened by dry-stone walls and fuchsia hedges still speckled with red flowers, then a converted barn that offered B and B. I came to Lower Polvarth, where, set back from the lane, a row of houses stood with pretty front gardens and evocative names—Bohella, Sea Mist, and Rosevine.
I stopped in front of Penlee. I remembered the bank of hydrangeas and that lilac tree—I’d snapped a branch trying to climb it, and Mum had been cross. The bedrooms were on the first floor. We’d had the one on the left, with bunk beds; she was in the room next to it.
Suddenly the curtains in “her” room parted and I saw a woman framed in the window. She was in her midfifties—my mother’s age now. She gazed out to sea but then saw me standing there. I looked away and walked quickly on, past the old red phone box; and here were the stone gateposts of the Polvarth Hotel.
I turned in, my feet crunching over the gravel. The large Georgian house had been old-fashioned and shabby; now it looked smart and sleek, with two Range Rovers and a Porsche parked outside and a pair of potted bay trees flanking the door.
The garden was just as I remembered it, framed by a cedar of Lebanon and a Monterey pine with a wind-blasted crown. The trees might look the same, but I had changed beyond all recognition.
I crossed the lawn, then went down the steps to the play area. There were still swings, a slide, and a wooden playhouse.
I lifted my eyes to the view. Before me was the bay, a perfect horseshoe, and just beyond it the village of Trennick, its Victorian villas and snug cob cottages jostling for position along the harbor walls.
I stepped back onto the lane through a gap in the hedge and continued downhill. Gulls wheeled above me, crying their sharp cries. The lane curved to the left, and there was the beach.
Ignoring the thudding in my chest, I kept walking, past the wooden signs pointing to the coastal path and the life buoy in its scarlet case.
I stopped halfway down the slipway. The waves were flecked with white, and there were the cliffs, the tea hut, still there, the cobalt rocks and the crescent of sand. I felt a sudden, sharp constriction in my ribs, as though my heart was hooped with a tightening wire.
We’re making a tunnel …
I forced myself forward, the wind whipping my cheeks. A boy was walking a Labrador; the dog ambled beside him, sniffing at the seaweed. A young couple in wet suits ran into the waves, scattering the spray in glittering arcs.
Mum’ll be surprised … She’ll be amazed.
Can I go in?
As I crossed the sand, I felt the wire in my chest tighten. I saw the ambulance pull into the field behind the hut; I saw the medics with their stretcher and bags. I remembered the other holiday makers standing there, in their eyes a strange blend of distress and avid curiosity. Now I recalled an arm going round me, drawing me away; then I saw the doors of the ambulance slam shut.
It was nine when I got back to Lanhay. As I unlocked the cottage door, my hands were trembling. I sat at the table, head bowed, perfectly still, struggling to absorb the blow to my soul. My mother had been twenty-eight then—six years younger than I was now. I remembered the drive home, in the police car, her fingers clasped so tightly that her knuckles were white. I’d put my hand on hers, but she didn’t take it.
I stood up, went into the sitting room, turned on the radio, and tuned it to Honor’s show. Just the sound of her voice consoled me, bringing me back to myself. Honor had always had that effect on me, making me feel better when I was low. Her cheerfulness and exuberance were the perfect counterpoint to my shyness.
There was the usual miscellany—a funny interview with Emma Watson about her new film, then some Coldplay, followed by the news, and then a heated discussion about whether the world was going to end on 21 December, as predicted by the ancient Mayans using their Long Count calendar.
“So what you’re saying,” said Honor to her interviewee, “is that just two months from now, what we can expect is not so much Christmas as the Apocalypse.”
“Yes,” the woman replied grimly. “Because on that day the sun will be in exact alignment with the center of the Milky Way, which will affect the earth’s magnetic shield, throwing the planet completely out of kilter, resulting in catastrophic earthquakes and flooding that could wipe us all out.”
“But astronomers have trashed this theory,” Honor pointed out. “As has NASA.”
“They can trash it all they like, but it’s going to happen.”
“Well, on the twenty-second of December I guess we’ll know who was right,” Honor concluded. “But thanks for joining us today—and speaking of mass extinctions …” There was a deafening roar, then she introduced the producer of a new documentary about the last days of the dinosaurs.
“Weren’t they wiped out by an asteroid?” Honor asked her guest. “Sixty-five million years ago?”
“That’s the accepted theory,” the man replied; “which is known as the Late Cretaceous Tertiary Extinction, but the truth is, no one really knows. So in the program we explore alternative explanations, such as climate change caused by a massive volcanic eruption, or the evolution of mammals that ate dinosaur eggs. We also look at the possibility of a major change in vegetation, resulting in the plant-eating dinosaurs becoming unable to digest their food.”
“And getting fatal constipation?”
“Well … yes.”
Honor laughed. “I think I’d have preferred the meteor strike. But what’s your favorite dinosaur? I’ve always liked Ankylosaurus, with that terrific club on the tail.”
“Yes, a feature shared by Euoplocephalus, though
that had spikes, not armored plates. But my personal favorite has to be Spinosaurus, with that marvelous dorsal sail …”
By now Honor’s lively chatter had lifted my mood so much that I felt able to face the day. I had a job to do, and I was going to do it.
It was twenty to ten. I switched off the radio and read through the notes I’d made, then opened my laptop and created a new document: “Klara.” I labeled five microcassettes, put one in the machine, tested it, then walked up to the farm.
On the way there I stopped to look at a chaffinch swinging about on a cluster of elderberries; I realized that this was where I’d been so frightened the night before. Closing my eyes, I could hear the sea pulling in and out, but now it seemed distant, not near at all. Perhaps the darkness had amplified it, or perhaps it was just the effect of the wine. Even so, I shuddered as I remembered the sound.
As I approached the farm, I saw Klara, in a blue striped dress and white apron, setting out vegetables on the table. She put a jam jar down next to them and then turned at my footsteps. “Jenni! Good morning.”
“Morning, Klara.” I nodded at the cabbages and cauliflowers. “It’s nice that you do this.”
She shrugged. “We’ve always done it.”
“Do people put the money in the jar?”
“Usually, although I couldn’t care less if they don’t. I care only that good food shouldn’t be wasted.” She folded the carrier bag that she’d been using and tucked it into her apron pocket. “Before we start talking, I’ve a few chores I need to do. Will you come with me?”
“Of course—I’d love to see the farm.”
We crossed the yard and went into the shed. “This is our second boat,” Klara explained. “It’s a Cornish cove boat like our first one—my grandson’s been repairing it.” We stepped around the tins of black paint, then picked our way through various bits of farm machinery and several sacks of animal feed. Klara half filled a plastic bowl with corn. I followed her into a small field. There were two large wooden coops there with long runs, in each of which were a dozen or so hens. At our approach there was a burst of frenzied clucking.
“Ladies, please!” Klara called as the hens rushed forward. “No pushing or pecking!” She tossed the grain through the mesh. “These are Rhode Island Reds; they have dreadful manners, but they lay well.” She threw in another handful. “I give them these corn pellets in the morning, then vegetable scraps at night.” I stared about me in fascination as she topped up the water bowls from a rain barrel. The hens in the second coop were black with tufty faces, like Victorian whiskers. “These are Araucana,” Klara explained. “They’re very sweet-natured, and their eggs are a beautiful blue.” She gave them the rest of the corn, then wiped the bowl with the corner of her apron. “All done. Now we go up here.”
I dutifully followed Klara through another gate into the adjacent field. A large greenhouse on a brick plinth stood there. Its panes flashed and glinted in the sun.
As we went inside, we were hit by a wall of warm air mingled with the scent of damp earth and the tang of tomatoes. Klara took a pair of secateurs out of her apron and snipped some off a vine and laid them in the bowl. Then she snapped two cucumbers off their stems.
“We grow peppers too,” she told me as a bee flew past. “We have aubergines, okra, galia melons …”
“And grapes.” I glanced at the thick vine that trailed along the roof.
“Yes, though they’re rather small and prone to mildew. I give them to the hens, as a treat.” We walked on past grow bags planted with Lollo Rosso and Little Gem lettuce, coriander, and thyme, then Klara stopped again. “These are my pride and joy.”
Before us were six lemon trees in big clay pots.
“I love growing lemons.” Klara twisted off three ripe ones, put them in the bowl, then indicated the two smaller trees to our left. “Those are kumquats. They’re too bitter to eat but make good marmalade.”
“And you sell all this in the shop?”
“We do. Everything that we sell we have produced ourselves. Come.”
I followed her out of the greenhouse and toward the field to our left, where I could now see a huge stone structure, like a little fortress.
“What’s that?”
“You’ll see,” Klara answered as we approached it, then entered through a wooden gate.
Inside, the air was still, the deep silence broken only by the silvery trills of a blackbird perched high on the wall. The air was fragrant with a late-flowering rose.
We strolled along the gravel path, in the sunshine, past gooseberry and red currant bushes and teepee frames for peas and runner beans. There were rows of cabbages, cauliflowers, and leeks, a strawberry patch, a bed of dahlias, and a small orchard of dwarf apple trees.
“It’s amazing!” I exclaimed, utterly charmed. “But it must be so much work.”
“It is,” Klara said as she twisted a few last apples off the nearest tree. “But I have a gardener who does the weeding and the heavy pruning. The watering is automated, and the rest I can manage.”
“How long is it?” I asked as we walked on. “A hundred feet?”
“A hundred and twenty, and thirty feet wide. The walls are eighteen feet high and two feet deep.”
“It’s magnificent.”
“It was my husband’s wedding present to me. He asked me what I wanted, and I said that what I wanted, more than anything, was a walled garden. So he and his farmhand, Seb, built this, using stones that they carried up from the cove. It took them a year.”
“And when was that?”
“They started it in 1952. I’d just arrived here, never having been to England, let alone Cornwall.”
“You must have been very much in love with your husband.”
“I was.” I felt a sting of envy, that Klara’s love had clearly been so deeply reciprocated. “When I saw the farm for the first time, I made it my ambition to grow any crop, from A to Z.”
“Really?” I laughed. “And did you achieve that?”
“Oh, I did,” she replied as we passed a row of pumpkins. “We have everything from asparagus to … zucchini.”
“What’s Q?” I wondered aloud.
“Quince.” Klara pointed to a glossy shrub growing against the wall.
“And Y?”
“Yams. Though I don’t grow many, as they tend to go mad and take over the place.”
We’d stopped by a peach tree that had been trained against the south-facing wall. Its leaves had yellowed and its fruit was all gone, except for one or two shriveled ones that were being probed by wasps.
Klara pressed her hand against the thick, twisted trunk. “This was the first thing I planted. We’ve grown old together—old and rather gnarled.” She smiled; wrinkles fanned her eyes. “I planted that too.” She nodded at a huge fig tree. “I planted everything—it was an obsession, because when I was a child someone told me that the word paradise means ‘walled garden.’ And from that moment, that was my dream, to have my own little paradise, that no one could ever take away.”
Klara’s flat occupied the upper floor of the barn. It had a high, raftered ceiling with skylights and a galley kitchen.
Klara put the bowl on the counter, then began to rinse the fruit and vegetables. I was enjoying being with her but wondered whether she was ever going to sit down and start the interview.
“I used to live in the farmhouse,” she was saying. “I moved out after my husband died so that Henry and Beth could have it. But this flat suits me quite well. My bedroom and bathroom are downstairs, and this is my living and dining area.”
“It’s wonderfully light.” A floor-to-ceiling unit was crammed with books; I peered at the shelves. There were orange-and-green Penguin Classics, a complete set of Dickens in maroon leather bindings, and novels by Daphne du Maurier, Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer and the Brontës. There were some Dutch titles—Max Havelaar was one I vaguely recognized—and several biographies. “You read a lot, Klara.”
“I do. And I’m l
ucky in that my eyesight’s still good—afkloppen. Touch wood.” She rapped on a cupboard and then untied her apron. “I’d much rather read than watch TV, though I do have a small television in my bedroom.”
On the bottom shelf were a couple of dozen Virago Modern Classics. “You like Elizabeth Taylor,” I said. “She’s my favorite writer in the world.”
“Mine too,” Klara responded warmly. “My dearest friend, Jane, was a terrific reader, and she introduced me to her books. I used to adore Sleeping Beauty, but now that I’m old, it’s Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont.”
“I love that one too,” I said, feeling sad for Klara that her best friend had died.
“Please excuse the clutter,” she said, changing the subject.
“I hadn’t noticed. But it’s a lovely flat. And you can see the sea.” Now I glanced at the wooden dresser; on it were rows of blue-and-white china plates decorated with flowers, peacocks, and boats. “Is that Delft?”
Klara lifted up the kettle. “It is. It’s from my grandparents’ home.”
“Which was where?”
“In Rotterdam, which is where I was born—I’m a Rotterdammer.” She filled the kettle. “Coffee?”
“I’d love some. In fact I need some—I’m incredibly tired.”
Klara studied my face. “Didn’t you sleep well, my dear?”
“Not really, no. I … was just excited from the trip,” I lied.
“I hope it’s not the bed.”
“Oh, the bed’s very comfortable, Klara; but I never sleep well, wherever I am. My internal alarm goes off at an unspeakable hour.”
A look of sympathy crossed Klara’s face. “What a nuisance. So what do you do when that happens? Read?”
“Yes, sometimes, or listen to the radio. Usually I get up and work.”
“Well, I’m sorry you have that problem. I shall pick some valerian for you and dry it; it helps.”
“Thank you. That’s kind.” I felt a little flustered by Klara’s concern.
She opened the fridge, took out a Victoria sponge, and put it on the kitchen counter. “You’ll have some cake.” I realized that this wasn’t so much an invitation as a command.
