Ghostwritten. Isabel Wolff

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 harbour walls.

      I stepped back onto the lane through a gap in the hedge continuing 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 lifebuoy 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 wetsuits ran into the waves, scattering the spray in glittering arcs.

       Mum’ll be so 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 holidaymakers 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 still 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 soothed and 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 centre 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 22 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 programme 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 favourite dinosaur? I’ve always liked Ankylosaurus with that terrific club on the tail …’

      ‘Yes, a feature shared by Euoplocephalus, though that had spikes, not armoured plates, but my personal favourite has to be Spinosaurus, with that marvellous 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 labelled 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 realised 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 the 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 butt. 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