Pieter gives her a half-smile. ‘Actually, I was very tidy back then, bordering on fastidious, in fact. I only allowed myself to get like this afterwards, after I knew she wouldn’t be coming back, and after I knew no one would be coming to replace her. Then I filled the spaces with my papers and …’ He shrugs.
‘So,’ Clara ventures, fiddling with the edge of the sheet. ‘How did you know … How did you know that you wouldn’t, that no one would come to replace her?’
Pieter shrugs and, again, Clara waits.
‘She left because she wanted a child,’ he says at last. ‘And I couldn’t give her one. Well, no, not couldn’t – although perhaps I couldn’t, I don’t know, we never tried – but because I wouldn’t, because I didn’t want one.’
‘So she left?’
‘She really wanted a baby. She hoped I’d change my mind. She waited five years to see if I might. And then, when I didn’t – as I’d always, regretfully, promised her I wouldn’t – she, regretfully, left. She was four years older than I was, so she didn’t have endless amounts of time to find another man, one who wanted what she wanted.’
‘And did she? Did she find him? Did she have her baby?’
Pieter smiles. ‘Yes, she did. She came to visit me once, over a decade ago. She showed me her little boy. He was very sweet, actually. Though, of course, I couldn’t permit him to enter the house. I might have found him less so, after he ran rampage over my letters. Lena was a little horrified at the sight of the house, I think. If she’d had any doubts that she’d done the right thing, when she turned up on my doorstep, that visit confirmed that she had. I’m sure she was even happier when she left than when she arrived.’
‘And, why didn’t you want one?’
‘I don’t know … During our final year it was all Lena wanted – to understand why I didn’t want it. At least, that’s what she said. I think she was just hoping, amid all the questions, all the rationalising, that I would change my mind.’
‘And you didn’t?’ Clara asks. ‘You never thought of giving her a baby anyway, because she wanted one, because you loved her?’
Pieter sighs. ‘Of course I thought of it. I’d have given her a cat, even though I’m allergic. I’d have given her a dozen cats. Hell, I’d have given her a horse or an elephant, but not a baby. For a child to grow up with an unwilling father, that’s a pain I wouldn’t inflict on anyone.’
Clara catches his eye. ‘You knew it yourself?’
He nods. ‘After what he went through in the camps, my father could only survive, he had nothing left for anyone else. But, still he got married and had children because that’s what everyone did then. He was never a father to me, though, not in any sense of the word.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Clara shifts closer and kisses him. At first it’s tentative, gentle, soft, then Pieter presses his body against hers, slips his fingers though her hair and pulls her close, and the kiss is deep and passionate and long.
‘You’re very good,’ he says softly, when they finally separate.
‘Why, thank you.’
‘Well, yes, at that, of course.’ He smiles. ‘But, I actually meant, at getting me to talk about myself. And I don’t believe you’ve revealed one single thing about yourself yet. You never finished telling me about the pen your grandfather made for you.’
‘Okay.’ Clara nods. ‘Fair point. But I only mentioned it because of what you said about not writing letters.’
‘What did I say?’ Pieter asks. ‘Your kisses really are that good, I’ve completely forgotten anything and everything that went before them.’
Clara grins. ‘You said that you haven’t written a letter because you want to be as witty as Austen, as passionate as Anaïs Nin and—’
‘Ah, yes, my low expectations,’ Pieter agrees. ‘It’s all coming back to me now.’
‘Well, when I was a little girl my grandfather made me a pen and—’
‘I still can’t believe that,’ he interrupts, ‘that the great Lucas Janssen is – was – your grandfather and that he made you your very own pen.’
Clara pokes Pieter gently in his arm. ‘Hey, do you want to hear this story, or not?’
He grins. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll shut up. Tell me, please.’
‘Okay. Anyway, he gave it to me on my thirteenth birthday and told me that, one day, when I was ready, I’d write a great novel with it.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘He told me that he’d seen it … in my spirit, on the day I was born … that it was my destiny.’
‘Fok.’
Clara nods. ‘Exactly. No pressure, right?’
He smiles. ‘Ah, well, don’t worry, you young people do everything on computers now, don’t you? So you can just use the pen to write shopping lists. That’ll take the pressure off.’
‘So, did the power of my kisses also cause you to forget that I own a stationery shop?’ Clara says. ‘Along with the fact that I have never and will never own a computer.’
‘Yes,’ Pieter says. ‘In my defence, those are some quite mind-blowing kisses. It’s lucky you won’t be staying long, or I’d soon forget my own name.’
Clara’s breath catches in her throat. ‘Won’t I?’
Pieter frowns. ‘I didn’t mean … I only thought – you’ve got to get back to your shop, haven’t you? I just assumed …’
‘What? That this was a one-night stand?’ Clara sits up, pulling the sheet with her to cover herself, hurt by the assumption, even though she hadn’t intended to spend longer than one night with him in the first place.
Pieter shrugs softly. ‘No, I didn’t think about it like that – truly, I never even believed that you would ever, ever end up in my bed. It is some kind of miracle, really. But I know you’re only visiting, because of the letters, and I know that you have to go home, I imagine, sometime soon …’
Clara sniffs. ‘Yeah, okay, I know. Sorry. I just didn’t want you to think I was some sort of slut or something.’
Pieter laughs. ‘No danger of that.’
‘Well, good.’
Pieter eyes her. ‘Is this a ploy? An elaborately clever way of, once more, avoiding telling me anything about yourself?’
Clara gives him a guilty smile. ‘Perhaps. Well, anyway … As I was saying … the point is, I’ve never written anything longer than a letter. I’ve planned plenty of books and begun quite a few, but I’ve never even finished a first chapter. And it’s been twenty years now’ – she gives him a small, self-deprecating smile – ‘so I’m starting to think my grandfather may have made a mistake.’
Pieter considers this. ‘Or, perhaps … if you took the pressure off yourself, if you didn’t try so hard – if you weren’t trying to write a “great” novel, but just began with an “okay” one, or a really bad one, just for the sake of finishing it. Then you might find it a lot easier, perhaps …?’
‘Ah,’ Clara says. ‘Well, that is good advice. And I might be able to take you more seriously if you had’ – she raises an eyebrow at him – ‘I don’t know, written a novel yourself, or even a single tiny little letter.’
‘Oo, that’s fighting dirty,’ Pieter says, pulling her forward so she falls on top of him. ‘And, besides, whoever let an insignificant thing like lack of experience get in the way of giving advice?’ He kisses her neck. ‘You’re extremely beautiful, you know. Knockout beautiful, stop-and-stare-in-the-street beautiful …’
Clara grins. ‘Is that how you get out of all sticky situations? Via the use of hyperbolic compliments?’
Pieter kisses her again, smiling. ‘Is it working?’
‘Not yet,’ Clara says. ‘But perhaps you should just keep going until it does …’
Clara is strolling along a cobbled street, on her way back to her B&B, when her phone rings. Her first thought is of Pieter. She smiles.
‘Miss Cohen?’
Clara recognises the voice of the spidery woman instantly. She stops walking. ‘Yes?’
‘This is Mrs de Groot, from the—’
‘Yes, I remember
, is everything okay? Did you find something after all?’
‘As a matter of fact, we did.’
Clara wants to ask what, but her breath is trapped in her throat.
‘A colleague of mine overheard you, when you were asking, somewhat loudly, about the details of your relative. Anyway, he thought to search another archive and he found him.’
‘He did, really?!’
‘Yes. Would you like me to tell you over the phone, or would you prefer to come in?’
‘No, no, please. I’d like to know now.’
‘All right.’ Clara hears the rustling of papers. ‘Otto Josef Garritt van Dijk died in Herzogenbusch in 1943.’
‘I’m sorry, where is that?’ Clara says. ‘In the Netherlands?’
‘Yes.’ Mrs de Groot takes a short, sharp breath. ‘It was a concentration camp, Miss Cohen, in Vught. Over 30,000 people were interned there, I believe, many were transferred to other camps such as Auschwitz. But your relative died there, in December of 1943. Fortunately, if one can use such a word in this instance, the Nazis were very good at keeping records.’
Clara’s eyes fill. ‘But he would have been just a baby, only a few years …’
‘Well,’ the woman’s voice is soft now, ‘of course many children perished in the camps. But he wasn’t a child, he was listed as being twenty-three years old.’
‘What?’ Clara frowns, pressing her fingers into her forehead. ‘No, that’s not possible, he was just born – in 1939 at the earliest. It must be someone else.’
‘That’s very unlikely, Miss Cohen, given the specificity of his name.’
‘Then why weren’t you able to find a birth certificate?’
‘He clearly can’t have been born in Amsterdam. I checked the records myself and there was no record of his birth, I am quite certain of that.’
‘But, but …’ Clara trails off, feeling a little desperate. ‘I don’t, I don’t …’
‘As I said before, Miss Cohen, I can’t help you interpret the facts. But I thought you’d want to know them, nevertheless.’
‘Yes, of course, thank you,’ Clara mumbles. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘You’re very welcome, Miss Cohen. Good day to you.’
‘Yes, you …’ But, before she can get the sentence out, Clara hears the phone go dead as Mrs de Groot moves on to other, more important business.
Clara walks and walks. She has to see Pieter, has to tell him about this new twist in her tale, ask him what he thinks, ask him to hold her so she can stop shaking. And then, all of a sudden, she realises. But, of course. It wasn’t the baby Otto who died in Herzogenbusch. It was his father.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Hey, lassie, wait up!’
Ava turns to see her dance teacher hurrying along the street behind her. She stops, surprised, wondering if perhaps he’s come to critique her, perhaps he’s not seen such appalling dancing skills in all his years as a teacher. Perhaps he just didn’t want to embarrass her in front of the rest of the class. In which case, Ava is deeply grateful.
‘Hello,’ she says as he reaches her. ‘Hi.’
‘You’re a fast walker,’ he says, a little breathless.
Ava frowns. ‘I am?’
‘I wanted to catch you after class, I didn’t think you’d have got so far.’
An awful thought suddenly strikes Ava. ‘You’re not – I am allowed to keep taking your classes, aren’t I? I’m not that dreadful a dancer, am I? I’m practising, I promise, I even bought a CD. I think I’ll be much better quite quickly …’
Ross laughs. ‘What are you talking about? Of course you can keep taking my classes.’
Ava realises she’s been holding her breath. She exhales.
He holds out his hand. ‘I’m Ross.’
Ava nods. ‘I know. You introduce yourself at the beginning of your classes.’
‘Aye, of course, I’d forgotten.’ He smiles. ‘But I’ve not yet introduced myself to you personally.’
‘True,’ Ava acknowledges. She takes his hand. ‘I’m Ava.’
‘Lovely name.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Are you from Cambridge?’ Ross asks.
Ava nods again. ‘Born and bred.’
‘I’m from Scotland.’
Now, Ava smiles. ‘I’d never have guessed.’
Ross shrugs. ‘Some people think I’m Irish.’
‘American people?’ Ava asks.
Ross laughs. ‘Aye, usually. So …’ He shifts from foot to foot. ‘I’m glad you’re taking my classes.’
Ava grins. ‘Me too.’
Ross points down the road. ‘You going this way?’
Ava nods.
‘I’ll walk with you.’
‘Oh, okay,’ she says, wondering why, wondering what else he wants to talk about. They walk for a while, exchanging stilted sentences, until they fall into silence. Ava waits, deciding if Ross has something to say then she’ll just let him say it.
At the end of the street, a skinny young woman in ripped jeans is playing the guitar and softly singing. Her voice is lovely but she swallows her words, as if half of her wants to share them but the other half doubts they’re good enough.
Ross stops. ‘Hang on a sec.’
Ava looks at him, increasingly confused. ‘Sorry?’
‘I have to say something to her.’
‘Oh, okay,’ Ava says.
Ross walks up to the young woman, digging into his pockets. He stands a few feet away from her, in front of her open guitar case. He drops in a five-pound note. It floats down to settle among the few scattered pennies on the black velvet. The young woman looks up, surprised.
‘Never stop singing,’ Ross says, ‘never stop singing. You will succeed, one day you will. You have an exceptional voice. You just need to be a bit louder, a bit bolder. So, whatever happens, no matter how many times you think you should, just don’t give up, okay?’
The skinny young woman stares up at him, open-mouthed, wide-eyed.
‘Can you promise me that?’ Ross asks.
She nods, finally finding her voice. ‘Yes, I promise.’
‘Grand.’ Ross grins, then turns and walks back to Ava. ‘Thank you.’
‘What was that?’ she asks as they walk on. She glances back, to see the skinny young woman staring after them with a bemused but delighted look.
‘What?’ Ross asks. ‘With the singer?’
‘Of course.’ Ava laughs. ‘What else?’
Ross shrugs. ‘We all need a little encouragement now and then; don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ Ava agrees. ‘But that was rather more than that.’
Ross shrugs again. ‘Well, I just knew she needed to hear those words right now. When things get dark, she’ll hold on to them and they’ll help keep a small, flickering light on inside her.’
‘Dark?’ Ava frowns.
‘Aye,’ Ross says. ‘I’ve got a feeling that one’s going to have her faith tested.’
‘How do you know that?’ Ava asks, wondering if it’s possible that he could be like her, if he can see the things that she can see.
‘Sometimes I hear words in my head,’ Ross explains, ‘and I have to say them to someone, cos they need to hear them, and—’
Ava hesitates. ‘You hear voices?’
‘No, it’s not like that.’ Ross laughs. ‘I’m not crazy. It’s sort of … Heck, I guess you could say I’ve got a gift.’
‘A gift?’ Ava frowns, wondering if the Scotsman is about to declare himself to be the next Jesus. She hopes he’s not crazy, since he’s rather nice in an odd sort of way, and the most phenomenal dancer. She’d hate to have to give up his classes, especially on grounds of insanity. ‘So, this “gift” of yours, what does it involve, exactly?’
‘Okay.’ Ross takes a deep breath. ‘I help women realise their true potential, their innate beauty and brilliance. I enable them to see themselves through my eyes. I bring out everything that’s locked up inside them, so—’
Ava
raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re a motivational speaker?’
‘Not exactly.’ Ross laughs again, deep and mischievous. ‘I just go about my life and, when I see someone who needs my assistance, I assist them.’
Ava regards him with suspicion. ‘Is that why you’re following me, then, because you think I need “assistance”?’
‘Aye,’ Ross says. ‘You could say that. But don’t say it like it’s a bad thing. We all need a little help now and then.’
‘Hmm.’ Ava ponders this, unsure. ‘So, what do you think I need?’
Ross smiles. ‘Have you eaten? It’s late. I’m starving. Do y’ fancy a bite to eat?’
Ava and Ross sit cross-legged on the low stone wall outside King’s College, the remains of a takeaway pizza in a box between them. A bottle of red wine is secreted behind the wall, and Ava and Ross each cradle a half-full plastic cup hidden within the folds of their legs, taking discreet gulps now and then between bites of pizza. They talk about this and that, and nothing in particular, until Ross gets a gleam in his eye.
‘So,’ he says at last, licking his fingers and reaching for another slice. ‘Tell me everything.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Tell me everything. Your hopes, dreams, passions, longings, your desires …’ Ross continues, beginning to cast his particular kind of magic, ‘… the things you’ve always wanted to do but have never done.’
‘Oh,’ Ava says, surprised. No one has ever asked her this question before. Not even her sister when they were younger, even though they’d been as close as two people could be. Or so Ava had thought. ‘I don’t really know. I’ve never really thought about it.’
‘Really?’ Ross asks, incredulous.
Ava considers. ‘I do like dancing.’
Ross laughs. He throws his untouched slice of pizza back in the box, licks his fingers again then takes a gulp of wine. ‘Aye, of course, everyone loves dancing. Unless they’re so uptight they don’t even like sex.’
Ava stares at him. Is this a date? Is he suggesting something? Is she so naïve that she hadn’t even contemplated that before? Ava says nothing.
‘Do you like sex?’ Ross asks.
‘What?’ Ava splutters. She reaches for her plastic cup and takes a big gulp of wine. If this evening is going to develop in any sort of sexual direction, then she’s going to need the assistance of alcohol. A lot of alcohol.
The Lost Art of Letter Writing Page 15