Ghostwritten. Isabel Wolff

thanked me for getting back to him. ‘I know we hardly spoke at the wedding,’ he went on. ‘But I was very interested in what you were saying about writing memoirs. So I made a mental note of your website and last night I took a look at it and was impressed. The reason I’ve got in touch is because I’m wondering whether you might be able to help my mother write her memoirs.’

      ‘I see!’

      ‘She’s seventy-nine,’ he explained. ‘She’s in good health, and her memory’s fine. For years my brother and I have suggested that she write something about her life. She’s always been against the idea, but recently, to our surprise, she said that she would like to. But it won’t be easy as there are some parts of her life that she’s never talked about.’ Broken love affairs, I speculated, or marital difficulties. ‘She’s never talked about what happened to her during the war.’

      My thoughts were racing, my mind already trying to shape a possible story for Vincent’s mother. She would have been a child at the time. Perhaps she’d lived in London, was evacuated, and was treated badly. Perhaps she’d stayed, and seen terrible things.

      ‘She doesn’t have a computer,’ I heard Vincent say. ‘So I offered to help her get her reminiscences onto paper; but she said that she’d find it too awkward, sharing such difficult memories with her own child.’

      ‘That’s completely understandable. I know I’d find it hard myself.’

      ‘So for a while we left it there; then last week, out of the blue, my mother suggested that we find someone for her to talk to. I thought about commissioning a journalist, but then at the wedding I heard you talking about what you do. So … how exactly would it work?’

      I explained that I spend time with the person, and record hours of interviews with them. ‘With their permission I also read their diaries and correspondence,’ I went on. ‘I look at their photos and mementoes – anything that will help me to prompt their memories.’

      ‘Then you transcribe it all,’ he said.

      ‘Yes – except that it’s much more than a transcription. I’m trying to evoke that person, in their own voice. So I don’t simply ask them what happened to them, I ask them how they felt about it at the time; how they think their experiences changed them, what they’re proud of, or what they regret. It’s quite an intense exploration of who the person is and how they’ve lived – there’s a lot of soul-searching. Some people find it difficult.’

      ‘I can understand. And how long would it take?’

      ‘Three to four months. So … have a think,’ I added, still avidly wondering what his mother’s story might be.

      ‘I don’t need to think about it,’ Vincent responded. ‘I’m keen to go ahead. In fact I wanted to ask if you could start next week?’

      ‘That’s … soon.’

      ‘It is, but we’d like to have it done in time for my mother’s eightieth in late January. It’s to be our present to her.’

      ‘I see. Well, I’d have to check my work diary.’ I didn’t want to let on that there was precious little in it. ‘But before I do, could you tell me a bit more?’ I reached for a pad and pen, glad to have this distraction.

      ‘My mother’s farmed for most of her life.’ I scribbled farmer. ‘It’s not a big farm,’ he explained, ‘just a hundred and twenty acres; but it’s been in my father’s family since the 1860s. He died ten years ago.’

      Widowed, I wrote. Farm. 150 yrs.

      ‘Mum has always worked very hard, and still works hard,’ Vincent went on. ‘She runs the farm shop and she grows most of what’s sold in it.’

      ‘And what sort of education did she have? Did she go to university?’

      ‘No. She married my father when she was nineteen.’

      Married @ 19 … Mrs Tregear. ‘And what’s her first name?’ Vincent told me and I wrote it down. ‘That’s pretty.’

      ‘It’s Klara with a “K”.’

      ‘So … is your mother German?’

      ‘No. Dutch.’

      As I turned the C into a K, I imagined Klara growing up in Holland, under German occupation. Perhaps she’d known Anne Frank, or Audrey Hepburn – they’d have been about the same age. I saw Klara standing in a frozen field trying to dig up tulip bulbs to eat.

      ‘My mother grew up in the tropics,’ I heard Vincent say. ‘On Java. Her father was the manager of a rubber plantation.’

       Plantation … Java …

      ‘When the Pacific War started, after Pearl Harbor, she was interned with her mother and younger brother.’ Interned … I imagined bamboo fencing and barbed wire.

      ‘We know that internees suffered terrible privation, as well as cruelty, but she’s rarely talked about it, except to mention the odd incident in this camp or that.’

      I’d have to do some research. I scribbled Dutch East Indies, then Japanese occupation.

      ‘Vincent, I would like to take on this commission.’

      ‘Really? That’s great!’

      ‘And in fact I could start next week.’ My pen had run out. I yanked open the drawer and rummaged in it for another one. ‘If you give me your address, I’ll send you my standard letter of engagement. Where do you live?’

      ‘In Gerrards Cross, near Beaconsfield.’

      ‘I know it. It’ll be easy to get there. It can’t take more than, what, half an hour by train, or I could borrow my boyfriend’s car – that’s Rick, he was there yesterday; he doesn’t use it much and so—’

      ‘Jenni, I must stop you,’ Vincent interjected. ‘My mother doesn’t live with me.’

      ‘Oh.’ Why had I assumed that she did?

      ‘She lives with my brother, Henry: he runs the farm.’

      ‘I see. And where is it?’

      ‘In Cornwall.’ My heart sank as I wrote it down. ‘At a place called Polvarth.’ My pen stopped. ‘It’s just a coastal hamlet,’ I heard him say. ‘It’s beautiful, with small fields going down to the sea, and there’s a wonderful beach. Jenni? Are you still there?’

      I closed my eyes. ‘Vincent, have you contacted anyone else about this?’

      ‘No. As I say, I was going to try and find a journalist, perhaps someone from the Cornish Guardian, but then yesterday I heard you talking about your work and was very taken with what you said. I particularly liked the way you said that you love immersing yourself in other people’s memories.’

      ‘I do,’ I said quietly. Because it distracts me from my own.

      ‘And on your website you say that being a “ghost” isn’t just about being a writer; it’s like being a midwife – you’re helping to deliver the story of someone’s life.’

      ‘But I also say that it’s a very intense, emotional process, and that it’s therefore important to choose the right person.’

      ‘I can’t help feeling that you are. I also think that my mother would like you. I must say, I’m rather confused,’ Vincent added. ‘Didn’t you just say that you wanted to do it?’

      ‘I did say that … but I always advise prospective clients to, well, shop around. So that they have a choice,’ I went on, trying to keep the tension out of my voice. ‘I can recommend some other ghostwriters.’

      There was a pause. ‘Are you unsure about it because of the distance?’

      ‘Yes,’