Ghostwritten. Isabel Wolff

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, gala 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 Growbags planted with lollo rosso, Little Gem, 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 towards the field to our left in which I could now see a huge stone structure, like a little fortress.

      ‘What’s that?’

      ‘You’ll see,’ Klara answered as we went towards it, then into it, 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 redcurrant 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 him.’

      ‘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 shrivelled 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 recognised – and several biographies. ‘You read a lot, Klara.’

      ‘I do. And I’m lucky 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 favourite 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 realised that this wasn’t so much an invitation as a command. ‘Yes please – just a small piece.’

      ‘It needs a little caster sugar on the top.’ She sprinkled some on then got a knife out of the drawer.

      ‘It