Ghostwritten. Isabel Wolff

cherry tree, crusted with tufts of green lichen, and, in the far corner, a battered-looking palm. On the other side of the fence a herd of tawny-coloured cattle grazed peacefully, occasionally lifting their heads, as if enjoying the view. Beyond that was the sea. I could see a scattering of white sails, and, to my right, the headland jutting out, like a prow.

      ‘It’s beautiful,’ I exclaimed. I had forgotten how beautiful it was.

      ‘It is,’ Henry agreed. ‘I still have to pinch myself after fifty-four years spent staring at it. Anyway, here are your keys. So come up to the farm at around seven and have supper with us.’

      I thanked Henry, and promised that I would.

      After Henry had left I texted Rick to say that I’d arrived. I wished that he could be with me now. If he were, I’d take him down to the beach and I’d finally tell him what had happened there all those years ago. I tried to imagine his reaction – shock, swiftly changing to bewilderment that I could have kept my secret from him for so long.

      I sat at the garden table as the shadows stretched across the lawn. The sea was pewter now, patched with silver where the sun’s rays streamed through a bank of low cloud. A week ago I’d been at Nina’s wedding; now her wedding had brought me back to Polvarth. I repressed a shudder.

      I went inside and unpacked. As I opened my wash bag I looked at the pink blister pack of pills that Rick had come to hate but which made me feel safe. I took one, then, having showered and changed, I walked the few hundred yards up to the farm. I was looking forward to meeting Klara. What would she be like, I wondered. Would she be easy to work with?

      The knocker on the farmhouse door was in the shape of a hand. I hesitated for a moment then rapped.

      Henry, now in green cords and a blue checked shirt, ushered me into the large square kitchen with its red-and-black floor tiles, cream-coloured Aga and pine furniture. He took my jacket then introduced me to his wife, Beth.

      ‘Welcome, Jenni,’ she said. She was a fair-haired, cheerful woman in her mid-fifties. ‘Is everything okay at Lanhay?’

      ‘Oh yes, it’s great, thank you. It’s a gorgeous cottage.’

      Henry smiled at the elderly woman who was setting the table. ‘Mum, meet Jenni.’ The woman set down the last plate, then turned and held out her hand.

      I took it. ‘Hello, Mrs Tregear. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

      ‘Please, call me Klara.’

      Klara Tregear was slim and upright, with high cheekbones and blue-grey eyes; her hair was a pure white, cut to the chin, and held with a clip, like the little girl on the train. Her face was seamed with age, and tanned from the sun and wind.

      ‘So …’ The smile she gave me was anxious. ‘You’re going to take me down memory lane.’ Her voice was soft, with a slight Dutch inflection. ‘I find the thought a little daunting.’

      ‘I completely understand. But I’ll try to make the process as pleasant as possible. Just think of it as a long conversation with someone who’s really interested in you.’

      ‘So you will be hanging on my every word,’ she remarked wryly.

      ‘I certainly will.’ I glanced around the kitchen. ‘Will we be doing the interviews here?’

      ‘No – at my flat.’ Klara pointed through the window to the barn. ‘I live above the shop. But please … you must be hungry.’ She gestured to the table.

      As I sat down I looked through the French windows. Clumps of agapanthus and scarlet sedums framed the long lawn. Beyond the garden, the land sloped down to the sea, indigo in the deepening dusk. A distant light glimmered from a boat or buoy.

      Klara poured me a glass of wine, then sat down beside me. ‘How long will we talk for each time?’

      ‘It’s quite an intense process, as you can imagine.’ She nodded. ‘I usually aim to record three hours of material a day. Could we do two hours in the mornings? Would that be okay?’

      ‘Yes, after eleven would be best, when the shop shuts.’

      ‘Then another hour in the afternoon?’ I suggested.

      ‘That would be fine. Tomorrow, being Sunday, we’re closed, so that’s a good day for us to start. I go to church first thing but I’m usually back by ten. Could you come then?’

      ‘Ten will be fine.’ I sipped the wine and felt my tension slip away. If I could just keep a grip on my emotions, I told myself, I’d be able to do this job.

      Beth carried a big earthenware dish to the table. ‘I hope you like fish pie, Jenni.’ She put it on a trivet.

      ‘I do, very much.’

      ‘Then help yourself.’

      ‘Thanks.’ But Klara had already picked up my plate and was spooning a huge portion onto it. ‘Oh, I couldn’t eat that much,’ I protested.

      ‘Try,’ Klara said firmly as she handed it to me.

      ‘It looks delicious. Is it made with your own fish?’

      ‘It is,’ Beth answered. ‘Our son Adam goes to the cove every morning and puts down lobster pots. He also uses short nets that he stakes to the sea floor, just a few yards out. He gets plaice, monkfish, scallops and sole and we buy them from him to sell in the shop. It’s an important part of the business, especially in the season.’

      I took some salad. ‘Is it still the season now?’

      Henry joined us at the table. ‘Just about – it finishes at the end of the month. But we have local customers, and we supply the hotel, so we stay open nearly all the year round.’

      ‘And the cattle, I presume they’re yours.’

      ‘They are.’ He unfurled his napkin. ‘We rear them for beef, which provides the greater part of our income. They’re South Devons. We used to have Friesians when this was a dairy farm.’

      ‘I remember them,’ I said without thinking. ‘I remember them being herded down the lane; I remember the big silver churn at the end of your track. We used to scoop the milk out with a ladle and put the money in a jar.’

      Klara glanced at me in surprise. ‘You’ve been here before?’

      ‘She has,’ said Henry.

      Klara put some fish pie on her own plate. ‘When was that?’

      ‘Oh, a long time ago; I was … a child.’

      Klara picked up her fork. ‘And where did you stay?’

      ‘At one of the holiday houses near the beach. I can’t remember which one.’ I resorted to my usual strategy of deflecting unwelcome questions with questions of my own. ‘But could you tell me about the farm?’

      ‘Well …’ Beth shrugged, smiling. ‘It’s a busy life. There’s always something to be done, whether it’s mending the fences, hedge-cutting, bucket-feeding a calf or pulling up ragwort and nightshade: we work very long days, especially in the summer.’

      ‘Not that we complain,’ Henry added. ‘We love this place.’ He smiled at Klara. ‘And we’re very lucky in that my mum still does so much.’

      Klara laughed. ‘I’m sure I’d drop dead if I stopped! After sixty-three years, my body wouldn’t be able to cope with not working.’

      I studied her. She had a wiry vigour, her movements quick and efficient. Her hands were rough and callused, her fingertips bent with arthritis. Her shoulders were round, as though shaped by the wind.

      I had another sip of wine. ‘So Adam does the fishing …’

      ‘He does,’ answered Beth. ‘He also paints.’

      ‘Your husband was telling me. I love the seascape in the cottage; he’s very talented.’