Ghostwritten. Isabel Wolff

      At the next station, a woman got on with a small girl and boy and they sat at the table across the aisle.

      The girl had short brown hair, held off her pretty face with a yellow clip. She read a book while her little brother, seated opposite her, played on a Nintendo.

       The Japanese began interning non-military European men – mostly planters, teachers, civil servants and engineers – from March 1942. Their wives and children were interned from November of that year. For many, this was the start of an ordeal that was to last three and a half years.

      ‘Fear!’ I looked up. The boy had put down his Nintendo and was looking at his sister. ‘Fear!’ he repeated. Absorbed in her stickers, she ignored him. ‘Feear …’ He grabbed her arm. ‘FEAR!’

      Their mother, who’d been texting, lowered her phone. ‘Sophia, answer your brother, will you!’

      She glared at him. ‘What?’

      He held up his Nintendo. ‘Could you do my Super Mario for me, Phia? I’m stuck.’

      She peered at it. ‘Okay.’

      The boy passed the console to her and she began tapping the screen with the stylus while he watched, rapt, resting his face in his hands.

      Some 108,000 civilians were herded into camps, where they were held in atrocious conditions; 13,000 died from starvation and disease. I tried to imagine the dreadful reality behind those figures. Klara must have been through so much, and at such a young age.

      As we pulled out of Plymouth the woman put her phone down again. ‘I want you to stop playing and look out of the window,’ she told her children. ‘What huge ships,’ she said as we passed the dockyard. ‘We’ll be crossing the river in a minute. Here we go,’ she sang as the train rolled onto Brunel’s great railway bridge.

      The girl stood up to get a better view through the massive iron girders. ‘It’s like flying!’

      A hundred feet below, the Tamar glittered in the sunshine.

      ‘Look at all those boats,’ said her mother. ‘Now we’re in Cornwall,’ she added as we reached the other side.

      ‘Yay!’ the children exclaimed.

      After Saltash the train proceeded slowly through steep pastureland, then through a conifer plantation. We passed Liskeard and Par, then St Austell with its terraces of pale stone houses.

      The loudspeaker crackled into life. ‘This is your train manager speaking. Next stop, Truro.’

      My hands shook as I gathered up my things. I smiled goodbye to the children’s mum; then, as the train halted, I stepped off with my case.

      I collected the keys for the small car I’d reserved at the Hertz office at the front of the station. Then, my heart pounding, I drove off in it, past Truro’s cathedral with its three spires, out of the city. Following the signs for St Mawes I went down a winding road over-canopied by oak and beech, their branches pierced here and there by shafts of sunlight that dappled the tarmac.

      I drove through Glendurn and Trelawn then, seeing the sign for Trennick, I turned onto a still narrower road, ringed with blackthorn and alder, the banks thick with brambles that scratched the sides of the car.

      I rounded the next bend. Then I stopped.

      Before me was the sea, shimmering in the sun. This was Polvarth, a place I’d vowed never to return to, yet which I saw, in my mind, every day.

       It was my idea.

      I closed my eyes as the memories rushed back.

       We did it all by ourselves.

      Beneath the sign that said Higher Polvarth Farm was an old kitchen table on which had been left a crate of cauliflowers (50p each), a box of cabbages (50p) and a yellow bucket holding bunches of dahlias (75p). A jam jar contained a few coins. Another smaller sign had a black arrow on it, pointing right. Farm Shop, 200 yds. Crabs, lobsters & fish, caught daily. Open 9 a.m.–11 a.m. & 5 p.m.–7 p.m., Mon to Sat.

      I turned in, bumped carefully down the track then braked.

      In front of me rose the farmhouse, a square, white-painted building with a low-pitched slate roof and tall windows. Beside it were parked an old Land Rover and a white pick-up, the back of which was piled with lobster pots. Behind me was a big, open-sided shed in which there was a wooden boat on a trailer; a stone barn housed the farm shop. A ginger cat lay curled in the sunlight.

      The door of the farmhouse opened and a well-built man in blue overalls came out.

      ‘Jenni?’ He held out his hand as he came closer. ‘Henry Tregear.’

      I shook it, feeling shy suddenly. ‘Good to meet you. I can see the resemblance to your brother.’

      Henry patted his head, grinning. ‘Vince has got rather more hair. You’ll meet my mother later – she’s just nipped over to Trelawn to see a friend. But in the meantime I’ll show you where you’re staying; if I could just hop in your car with you.’

      Henry got in the passenger seat and I drove a few hundred yards down the lane to the modern cottage that I’d passed on the way up. I parked on the forecourt then Henry got out, opened the boot, and carried my suitcase to the semi-glazed front door.

      There was a slate sign on the wall: Lanhay. The interior was quite plain, with wooden floors and neutral furnishings. On the walls were framed prints of flowers and fish – typical of what you might expect to find in a holiday house. But in one of the bedrooms was an original oil painting – a striking seascape. I stared at the churning blue and green water, low cliffs and jagged rocks.

      Henry noticed me looking at it. ‘That’s by my son, Adam. He sells quite a few; in fact he’s having an exhibition the week after next, at Trennick.’

      I shivered in recognition. ‘It’s the beach here, isn’t it?’

      ‘It is. How did you know? Have you just driven down there?’

      ‘No …’ I tried to quell the thudding in my ribcage. ‘I’ve been to Polvarth before.’

      ‘I see. Anyway, the house is simple,’ Henry remarked as we went downstairs again, ‘but comfy.’ He fiddled with the boiler, then touched the nearest radiator. ‘You’ve got everything you need: the washing machine’s there. Give the door a little thump if it won’t start. Dishwasher, microwave, fridge …’ He opened the latter, revealing milk, cheese, bacon, a dozen eggs, and a bottle of wine. ‘There’s some salad stuff as well, some veg, and a loaf of bread in the bread bin.’

      ‘That’s so kind – thank you.’

      ‘Tea and coffee’s here.’ He opened a cupboard. ‘But there’s a general store at Trennick for anything else you might want. It’s a couple of miles by road, or you can easily walk to it. You just go down to the beach, up the steps onto the cliff, then carry on round the coastal path for five minutes.’

      ‘Yes, I remember that path.’

      ‘Course you do – you’ve been here before. So when was that?’

      ‘Oh … years ago.’

      ‘Well we’re very glad that you’ve come again. Having my mother’s memoirs will mean a lot to her family; having said that, we’re not sure how forthcoming she’ll be.’ He smiled ruefully.

      ‘Well, I’ll try to draw out her story, but what she says is up to her.’

      ‘Of course,’ Henry agreed. ‘She has to feel happy with it.’

      I set my laptop on the table. ‘This will be a good place to work. Is there a broadband connection?’

      ‘There is, but I’m afraid the phone only takes incoming calls.’

      ‘That’s okay – I’ve got