Ghostwritten (29 page)

‘Yes. Except that I
would
, Jen, because I’d have you.’

Over the next two weeks Rick applied for a number of head teacher jobs, all over the country. I had several ghostwriting enquiries, including an invitation to write a ‘steamy romance’, aimed at women, with ‘very detailed description’, a project that Rick said he’d be happy to assist me with. Another woman asked me to ghostwrite a science-fiction novel.
I’ve done the plot and it’s a grate story
, she wrote.
So I hope your interested.
In the end I accepted a commission to write the memoirs of an elderly man who’d been a Spitfire test pilot. I was keen to learn more about the Second World War.

In the meantime I caught up with Nina, whose bump was showing, and with Honor, who was aglow from her new relationship with Al. I was sleeping much better, and there was a new closeness between me and Rick.

I was still rewriting and polishing Klara’s story and working out where the photos should go.

I spread them in front of me. There were photos of the SS
Indrapoora
, an aerial shot of Tempat Sungai; a snap of Peter and Jaya fishing and one of Klara and Flora on the steps of their school. There were photos of Klara shading Peter with a parasol, and of their parents arm in arm on the lawn. There was the Bloemencamp handkerchief, Anneke’s recipe book, the camp at Njimegen, and the farm at Polvarth. The last photo was one that I had taken of Klara in her beloved walled garden. I had made a copy of it, and it now stood in a frame in my office.

In mid-November I sent her a copy of the manuscript.
I wondered how she would feel, reading her own experiences, her fears, her happiness, her grief and her regrets, reshaped and polished by me. A week later she phoned, and I knew.

‘Well … I’ve read it,’ she began.

‘And …? Tell me,’ I said anxiously.

‘I’m happy, Jenni.’

I felt a wave of relief. ‘And … is there anything that you want me to take out?’

‘Nothing,’ she answered. ‘Not one word.’

‘So … that means that you’re happy about the guardhouse at Tjideng, and about Peter going to Tjimahi, and about what happened at Tjikalengka?’

‘Yes. I am happy. Or rather, I’m content for those things to be in the book. They’re an essential part of my story and I couldn’t live with myself if I had glossed over them.’

‘I’m glad, Klara. It’s brave of you.’

‘I think it’s better to tell the truth.’ Then Klara told me that she wanted to dedicate the book to her parents, in Dutch and in English.

I noted both. ‘What about the title? Have you decided on that?’

‘I have.’ She told me what it was and I wrote it down.
Shadows Over Paradise.

I looked at it, taken with its blend of beauty and menace. ‘It’s very evocative, Klara. So …’ I gave a shrug. ‘That’s
it.
We’re done. Next time you see the book it’ll be a bound hardback with your name on the cover. I’ll have them couriered to you the week before your birthday.’

‘I will then give everyone their copy when we go to the hotel for my party. I wish
you
could be there, Jenni.’

‘Thank you, Klara. I’ll be thinking of you, and I shall raise a glass to your next decade.’

‘And how’s everything with you, my dear?’

‘Well … it’s fine.’

‘And Rick? I hope you don’t mind my asking.’

‘I don’t mind at all. I feel I could tell you anything, Klara. But yes, Rick’s well, too.’

‘That’s good. I’ve been thinking about you both. You’re still together then?’

‘We are. And we’ve decided that we want to stay that way.’

‘I’m delighted. So … did you change your mind?’

‘No. He changed his.’

‘Well, that must mean a lot to you Jenni. That he loves you enough to do that.’

‘It means the world to me,’ I said.

Nailsford, Gloucestershire

It’s an Indian summer’s afternoon and in my arms is a baby with bendy arms and legs, dancing blue eyes, a cowlick of fair hair and a single tooth in her shiny pink gums.

‘Smile,’ says the photographer.

‘I
am
smiling,’ I say with a laugh.

‘More please. It’s a christening, not a funeral.’

‘I don’t think I
can
smile more than this. Can I, Rick?’

Rick, standing next to the photographer, looks at me then shakes his head. ‘She’s at maximum happiness, I’m afraid.’

‘Me too,’ says Honor beside me. ‘My cheeks are aching.’

‘Okay then, ladies, hold still …’ The photographer takes a couple more shots then turns and takes a bigger lens off a nearby tombstone and slots it onto the camera. ‘Just a few more … lovely.’

‘Now it’s my turn to hold her,’ Honor says. ‘Come on, Jen. Hand her over.’ I smooth the baby’s lace gown and pass her to Honor, then we compose ourselves for the next photo.

When this has been taken, Nina steps forward. ‘That’s the godmothers done. Can we have the godfathers in the next shot?’

Al goes and stands with Honor, and Jon’s brother James stands beside me. There’s a volley of clicks, then Nina and Jon go into the centre. Honor hands the baby to Nina and more pictures are taken.

The photographer peers at the back of his camera. ‘Very nice. So what now?’

‘We’ll go in for the service,’ Nina says.

And so, a year to the day after their wedding, Nina and Jon lead us back into St Jude’s for the christening of their baby, Clementine. The congregation is about fifty strong, and Jon’s younger brother, Tim, who is reprising his role as usher, hands us all an Order of Service. The organist is playing another Bach partita, and Rick and I sit in the same pew where we’d sat before. But instead of the tension and sadness that we felt then, we are relaxed and happy. Rick gives me a smile, and takes my hand. I lean in towards him.

We look at the stained-glass window, of Jesus with the children. The sunlight pours through its coloured panes, spangling the walls with little rainbows.

Hearing steps behind, I turn. Vincent Tregear is arriving. He’s holding a silvery gift bag. Seeing me, he lifts his hand and I lift mine. In a strange way, what’s happened has been thanks to him.

Now the vicar welcomes us back to St Jude’s, then we stand and sing ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’.

‘The birth of a child is a time for celebration and thanksgiving,’ the vicar says. ‘Many parents want to give thanks to God for their child.’ He calls Nina and Jon to the altar and they hand Clemmie to him. She bats her arms, then blows a raspberry, and we all laugh. Still smiling, the vicar turns to Nina and Jon. ‘Do you receive Clementine Alexandra as a gift from God?’

‘We do,’ they respond.

‘We now ask for God’s blessing on Clementine,’ the vicar goes on. ‘We all give thanks for her, and we pray for her parents as they commit to the responsibility of raising her.’

We bow our heads for the prayer, then the godparents are called and Honor and I and the two godfathers proudly take our places by the font …

‘Wasn’t that lovely?’ Honor says to me afterwards as we go out into the churchyard again. ‘I adored having to reject Satan,’ she adds with a giggle.

‘And all his works,’ I remind her.

‘Yes – most of them, at any rate.’

‘
And
all his empty promises.’

‘Okay – that goes for you too.’

We pose for a few group snaps then we stroll across the field to the house. Jon holds Clemmie and the lace of her christening robe lifts in the breeze.

The walls of the Old Forge are once again clad in pyracantha and Virginia creeper, the borders aglow with scarlet dahlias. The christening tea is served outside, and we sit on chairs on the lawn, thankful for the late summer sun that makes this possible.

Clementine is passed round, and Honor and I do our best not to fight over her.

‘She was so good in church,’ Honor says. ‘Weren’t you, darling?’ As Honor puts Clemmie on her lap, the diamond on her left hand sparkles in the sunlight. ‘To think that a year ago she barely existed.’ She turns to Al. ‘And to think that a year ago I hadn’t met
you.
We’d better not break up,’ she adds with a laugh. ‘As we’re
both
godparents it could be a bit awkward.’

‘I think we’ll be fine,’ Al smiles.

‘So when’s the wedding?’ Nina’s mother, Betty, asks them as she cuts the christening cake.

‘In June,’ Honor answers. ‘We’re just planning it now. So is that the first layer of the wedding cake?’

‘It is. Carefully kept for this occasion.’ Betty hands a piece to Rick. ‘I hear you’ve got a new job.’

‘Yes,’ he answers. ‘I just started this term.’

‘Rick’s a head teacher now,’ Nina tells her.

‘Wonderful,’ Betty responds. ‘Is that in London again?’

‘No – it’s in the New Forest,’ he answers. ‘Not far from Romsey. We’re still getting to know the area.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Betty says; ‘you’re only a few miles from the sea – and Southampton’s close. What a good move.’

‘I could have got a job in Norwich,’ Rick explains, ‘but we decided on Romsey so that we’d be nearer to Jenni’s mother.’

‘That’s nice for her.’

‘And for us,’ Rick says. ‘We see her quite often now.’

I think of my mother’s face when Rick and I first visited her last year. She was happy to see me, and to meet Rick, who has gone out of his way to be friendly to her, bridging the gap between us.

As my mother and I sat on the sofa, Rick had looked at the photos on the sideboard. ‘Jenni’s told me about Ted,’ he’d said quietly.

My mother nodded. ‘It was very sad,’ she said softly. ‘It was just one of those terribly sad things, wasn’t it, Genevieve?’ She puts her hand on mine and I take it.

‘Yes, it was.’ I felt that I had started to forgive myself.

Now Betty passes me a cup of tea. ‘So have you and Rick found somewhere to live?’ she asks me.

‘Not yet,’ I answer. ‘We’re renting for now, but hope to buy before too long.’

‘Seen anything you like?’ Nina’s father, Derek, asks us.

‘There’s one house that we love,’ Rick answers, and he’s about to say more when Vincent Tregear approaches, then sits on the empty chair next to me. He opens the silvery bag and hands Nina his gift. ‘A small present for my sweet grand-goddaughter.’ He smiles at Clemmie, sitting happily on Honor’s lap.

‘Thank you, Uncle Vincent,’ Nina says. ‘Can I open it now?’

‘Of course.’

Nina does so, helped by Clemmie, who leans forward and grasps the paper. Inside is a silver trinket box with a cherub on the lid. ‘It’s beautiful,’ Nina exclaims. She smiles at Vincent. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘I thought that you could put her first tooth in it,’ he suggests.

‘Well, when it comes out, that’s where it’ll go. You lucky little girl,’ she says to Clemmie and kisses her.

Then Vincent starts talking to me. ‘It’s nice to see you again, Jenni.’

‘It’s good to see you, Vincent. It’s funny to think that it was exactly a year ago that we met.’

He nods. ‘I’m so glad that we did. I know you’ve been in touch with my mother, but I just wanted to say that you did a wonderful job with her memoirs. You brought her story out so well.’

‘Thank you. It was a story that she wanted to tell. But we had a very good rapport and I think that helped.’

‘It must have done. She told us that you were a lovely “ghost”.’ Vincent puts his hand in the bag again. ‘But I was at the farm last week and I told my mother that I’d be seeing you today …’ He takes out a small parcel and hands it to me. ‘Before I left, she asked me to give you this.’

I look at it, puzzled, as he hands it to me. ‘What is it?’ It’s heavy.

‘I’ve no idea. She’d already wrapped it and wouldn’t tell me. She just said that it was something that she wants you to have.’

Still bemused, I untie the string and pull off the paper. As it falls away, my heart skips a beat.

‘She wants me to have this?’ I murmur.

‘She does.’ Vincent looks at it. ‘Is this the lizard that she talks about in the book?’

‘It is.’ It gleams softly in my hand.

‘Then I know how much it’s meant to her.’

I try to speak, but the words won’t come. ‘Please thank her,’ I manage to say. ‘I’ll write to her, but please, please thank her, and tell her that I’ll treasure it.’

‘I will. She’ll be happy to know that I saw you; you’re looking very well.’

‘You are,’ Nina says. ‘You’re positively glowing, Jenni.’
I smile, still gazing at the lizard, unable to believe that Klara had wanted to give me something so precious. I force myself to tune back into the rest of the conversation. Nina is asking Rick about the house that we’re interested in. ‘You were going to tell us about it,’ she says.

‘Oh yes,’ he answers. ‘Well … the house itself is nothing special – it’s just modern; but the garden is fantastic, with a big, wide lawn. It’ll be great for entertaining,’ he adds, but I know that Rick is really thinking, longingly, of children, playing and laughing. And I can see them too. But now, instead of fading like ghosts, they’re running towards us. Running across the grass.

I open my arms.

I would like to thank my brilliant editor, Thalia Suzuma, for her belief in the novel, for her inspired editorial guidance, and for her unfailing support for me as a writer. My gratitude to her is unbounded. I’m also grateful to Sarah Ritherdon, and to everyone at HarperCollins – Kate Elton, Martha Ashby, Claire Palmer, Lucy Upton and Jaime Frost. Huge thanks, as ever, to my agent Clare Conville, and to the terrific team at Conville and Walsh, especially Henna Silvennoinen, Alexandra Nicholl, Kinga Burger, Jake Smith-Bosanquet and Alexander Cochran. In the US, I’m indebted to my wonderful editor at Random House Inc., Kate Miciak, for her invaluable input. I would also like to thank Maria Adriana Boerstra and Louise Staël von Holstein, who shared with me their memories of internment on Java in camps Solo, Moentilan, Ambarawa, Tjihapit, Kampong Makassar and Tjideng. In Cornwall I’d like to thank Charlotte and Simon Taffinder of Curgurrell Farm for illuminating me about life on a coastal farm, and Robert Pepper of the National
Coastwatch at Pednvadan Point, Portscatho for telling me about tides. Grateful thanks to my friends and neighbours at Rosevine – especially Jo and Alan Mullet, Jane and Julian Noad, and Tim and Hazel Brocklebank at the Rosevine Hotel. Roland Bosch kindly corrected the Dutch translations, and Louise Clairmonte and Eliana Haworth, once again, read the manuscript along the way. Finally, huge thanks and love to my very patient and indulgent family – Greg, Alice and Edmund, and Freddie and George.