Ghostwritten. Isabel Wolff

why did you become a ghostwriter, rather than, say …’

      ‘A “proper” writer?’ I suggested, smiling.

      Klara flinched. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude.’

      I laughed. ‘I do get asked that question.’

      ‘How annoying.’

      ‘Not really; people don’t mean to be insulting; they genuinely want to know why I don’t write my own—’

      ‘Story?’

      ‘Yes.’

      Klara stared at me. ‘So why don’t you?’

      ‘I guess I … prefer other people’s.’

      ‘I see. But how did you get to be a ghostwriter? Is that what you always wanted to do?’

      ‘Not at all – I was a researcher for a breakfast television show. It was my job to invite the studio guests onto the show and brief the presenters about them. One day I had to book a well-known actor; he was in his seventies …’

      ‘Can you say who he was?’

      ‘I can’t – I signed a confidentiality agreement – but he’s a household name. We got on well, and while I was chatting to him before he went on, he told me that he’d been approached by a publisher to write his memoirs. He said his agent was keen for him to do it, but that he didn’t want to, because he hated writing. He added that he wished he could find someone to write it for him. Without even thinking, I said that I could.’

      ‘And you did.’

      ‘Yes – and the book was a success and got good reviews. More importantly, I’d loved doing it – taking someone into their past, like a personal historian, helping them see the fabric and shape of their life – helping them tell their story; it fascinated me. I’d never done anything I loved as much. So I quit my job and set myself up as a ghostwriter. That was twelve years ago.’

      ‘Who else have you worked with?’

      ‘A few athletes, several actresses, a famous milliner, a couple of TV personalities, a well-known explorer … a fashion designer.’

      ‘Celebrities, then.’

      ‘Yes, but after a while that sort of work palled. I found myself more intrigued by the lives of “ordinary” people – not that they ever are ordinary. Far from it.’ I put my cup down. ‘But that’s how I got into ghostwriting – quite by chance.’

      ‘I don’t think it was just chance,’ Klara remarked. Her eyes were thoughtful.

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I mean that you must already have wanted to do it. Otherwise you’d simply have said to that actor, “How interesting, I hope you find someone,” then carried on with your job. I suspect that he simply showed you a path that you were already looking for.’

      ‘Perhaps. Anyway …’ I opened my bag. ‘I hope you feel a bit better acquainted with me now, Klara.’

      ‘I do, Jenni. Thank you.’ She cocked her head. ‘The odd thing is, I feel I’ve met you before.’

      ‘I don’t think so.’

      ‘Perhaps when you came here on holiday that time? Maybe I chatted to you when you collected the milk. You’d have been a little girl, and I’d have been in my fifties … Something about you is familiar.’

      I had no recollection of her. ‘I’m sure we’ve never met.’

      ‘I think we have,’ she insisted. ‘It’ll suddenly come back to me.’

      I knew that Klara was wrong, but there was no point in disagreeing with her. I took out the tape recorder and placed it on the table in front of her.

      She glanced at it anxiously. ‘So what do I do? Just … start talking?’

      ‘No; I’ll guide the conversation with my questions. I already know quite a bit about you from Vincent.’ I glanced at my notes. ‘I’d like to divide up the interviews more or less chronologically, starting with your early life in Holland.’ Klara nodded. ‘Then we’ll talk about the move to Java, and your memories of the plantation, of your family, and your childhood friends. After that I thought we’d talk about the war. You would have been, what, nine, when Java was occupied?’ She nodded again. ‘Vincent told me that you were interned.’ She didn’t respond. ‘So … I imagine we’ll be talking about that,’ I pressed on. ‘Then we’ll come to the liberation of Java and the turmoil that accompanied the struggle for Indonesian independence. Following that I’d like to talk about Holland, and what it was like going back there.’ At that Klara smiled a grim little smile. ‘Then we’ll come on to your meeting your husband. He was in the British Navy, wasn’t he?’

      ‘He was. We met in September 1949. His ship, HMS Vanguard, had berthed in Rotterdam for a few days; he had some shore leave and I met him at a dance. I was sixteen, he was nineteen and he began chatting to me.’

      ‘Could he speak Dutch?’

      ‘Not a word.’ Klara smiled. ‘Fortunately I spoke good English, otherwise I don’t suppose we’d have “clicked” in the way that we did. Harry told me within a week that he’d fallen in love with me and hoped to marry me. But he had two more years to do in the Navy and I had to finish school; so we got engaged in 1951 and were married the following year.’

      ‘What a romantic story,’ I said wistfully. ‘I shall love writing about it. We’ll also talk about your life in Cornwall. Does that all sound okay?’

      ‘It sounds fine,’ Klara replied. ‘Except for one thing.’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘I’ll find it extremely difficult to talk about some of the things that happened during the occupation. I’ll talk about the historical facts, of course, and about the kinds of things that people suffered.’

      ‘During internment, you mean? In the camps?’

      ‘Yes. But there are some things … particularly towards the end, in the last camp that we were in, Tjideng. I don’t think I’d be able to find the words to describe what we … what I …’ She inhaled, judderingly.

      ‘Klara,’ I said gently, ‘you don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. Memoirs can take people into quite dark emotional territory. But it’s up to you how far, or how deep, you want to go. You have to feel comfortable with what you say.’

      ‘Yes.’ She swallowed. ‘I do.’

      ‘So you’ll see the manuscript before it’s printed, and you can add any further stories or reflections; and I can delete anything that you’re unhappy about, or regret having said.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Yes. So don’t worry. This is your story. You’ll be in control.’

      Klara gave a little sigh of relief. ‘I’d been feeling quite apprehensive, but that does make me feel … better.’

      ‘I’m glad. I want you to be comfortable. So …’ I put my pad on my lap, then turned off my phone. ‘Are you ready to start?’

      Klara took a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap. Her eyes were steady on me. ‘I’m ready.’

      As I pressed ‘Record’ I felt the frisson that I always feel when I begin a new memoir.

      ‘Klara, could you tell me what your earliest memory is?’

       FIVE

       Klara

      My earliest memory is of the little tjik-tjaks,