Shadows Over Paradise

by Isabel Wolff

  Sophia glared at him. “What?”

  He held up his Nintendo. “Could you do my Super Mario for me, Phia? I’m stuck.”

  She peered at it. “Okay.”

  The boy passed the console to her, and she began tapping the screen with the stylus while he watched, rapt, resting his face in his hands.

  Some 108,000 civilians were herded into camps, where they were held in atrocious conditions; 13,000 died from starvation and disease. I tried to imagine the dreadful reality behind those figures. Klara must have been through so much, and at such a young age.

  As we left Plymouth, the woman put her phone down again. “I want you to stop playing and look out the window,” she told her children. “What huge ships,” she said as we passed the dockyard. “We’ll be crossing the river in a minute. Here we go,” she sang as the train rolled onto Brunel’s great railway bridge.

  The girl stood up to get a better view through the massive iron girders. “It’s like flying!”

  A hundred feet below, the Tamar glittered in the sunshine.

  “Look at all those boats,” said her mother. “Now we’re in Cornwall,” she added as we reached the other side.

  “Yay!” the children exclaimed.

  After Saltash the train proceeded slowly through steep pastureland, then through a conifer plantation. We passed Liskeard and Par, then St. Austell with its terraces of pale stone houses.

  The loudspeaker crackled into life. “This is your train manager speaking. Next stop, Truro.”

  My hands shook as I gathered up my things. I smiled goodbye to the children’s mum; then, as the train halted, I stepped off with my case.

  At the Hertz office at the front of the station I collected the keys for the small car I’d reserved. Then, my heart pounding, I drove off, past Truro’s cathedral with its three spires, out of the city. Following the signs for St. Mawes, I went down a winding road canopied by oak and beech, their branches pierced here and there by shafts of sunlight that dappled the tarmac.

  I drove through Glendurn and Trelawn, then, seeing the sign for Trennick, I turned onto a still narrower road, ringed with blackthorn and alder, the banks thick with brambles that scratched the sides of the car.

  I rounded the next bend. Then I stopped.

  Before me was the sea, shimmering in the sun. This was Polvarth, a place I’d vowed never to return to, yet which I saw, in my mind, every day.

  It was my idea.

  I closed my eyes as the memories rushed back.

  We did it all by ourselves.

  Beneath the sign that said HIGHER POLVARTH FARM was an old kitchen table on which had been left a crate of cauliflowers (50p each), a box of cabbages (50p), and a yellow bucket holding bunches of dahlias (75p). A jam jar contained a few coins. A smaller sign had a black arrow on it, pointing right. FARM SHOP, 200 YDS. CRABS, LOBSTERS & FISH, CAUGHT DAILY. OPEN 9 A.M.–11 A.M. & 5 P.M.–7 P.M., MON TO SAT.

  I turned in, bumped carefully down the track, then braked.

  In front of me rose the farmhouse, a square, white-painted building with a low-pitched slate roof and tall windows. Beside it were parked an old Land Rover and a white pickup, the back of which was piled with lobster pots. Behind me was a big, open-sided shed housing a wooden boat on a trailer; a stone barn served as the farm shop. A ginger cat lay curled in the sunlight.

  The door of the farmhouse opened, and a well-built man in blue overalls came out.

  “Jenni?” He held out his hand as he came closer. “Henry Tregear.”

  I shook it, feeling shy suddenly. “Good to meet you. I can see the resemblance to your brother.”

  Henry patted his head, grinning. “Vince has got rather more hair. You’ll meet my mother later—she’s just nipped over to Trelawn to see a friend. But in the meantime I’ll show you where you’re staying—if I could just hop in your car with you.”

  Henry got into the passenger seat, and I drove a few hundred yards down the lane to the modern cottage that I’d passed on the way up. I parked on the forecourt, then Henry got out, opened the boot, and carried my suitcase to the semi-glassed front door.

  There was a slate sign on the wall: LANHAY. The interior was quite plain, with wooden floors and neutral furnishings. On the walls hung framed prints of flowers and fish—typical of a holiday house. But in one of the bedrooms was an original oil painting—a striking seascape. I stared at the churning blue and green water, low cliffs, and jagged rocks.

  Henry noticed me looking at it. “That’s by my son, Adam. He sells quite a few; in fact he’s having an exhibition the week after next, at Trennick.”

  I shivered in recognition. “It’s the beach here, isn’t it?”

  “It is. How did you know? Have you just driven down there?”

  “No …” I tried to quell the thudding in my rib cage. “I’ve been to Polvarth before.”

  “I see. Anyway, the house is simple,” Henry remarked as we went downstairs again, “but comfy.” He fiddled with the boiler, then touched the nearest radiator. “You’ve got everything you need; the washing machine’s there. Give the door a little thump if it won’t start. Dishwasher, microwave, fridge …” He opened the latter, revealing milk, cheese, bacon, a dozen eggs, and a bottle of wine.

  “There’s some salad stuff as well, some veg, and a loaf of bread in the bread bin.”

  “That’s so kind. Thank you.”

  “Tea and coffee’s here.” He opened a cupboard. “But there’s a general store at Trennick for anything else you might want. It’s a couple of miles by road, or you can easily walk to it. You just go down to the beach, up the steps onto the cliff, then carry on round the coastal path for five minutes.”

  “Yes, I remember that path.”

  “Course you do—you’ve been here before. So, when was that?”

  “Oh … years ago.”

  “Well, we’re very glad that you’ve come again. Having my mother’s memoirs will mean a lot to her family; having said that, we’re not sure how forthcoming she’ll be.” He smiled ruefully.

  “Well, I’ll try to draw out her story, but what she says is up to her.”

  “Of course,” Henry agreed. “She has to feel happy with it.”

  I set my laptop on the table. “This will be a good place to work. Is there a broadband connection?”

  “There is, but I’m afraid the phone only takes incoming calls.”

  “That’s okay—I’ve got my mobile.”

  “Just to warn you, the signal’s patchy; you get better reception if you stand in the lane.”

  I walked to the window. There was a small garden, enclosed by a fence. In the center of the lawn was a windswept cherry tree, crusted with tufts of green lichen, and in the far corner, a battered-looking palm. On the other side of the fence a herd of tawny-colored cattle grazed peacefully, occasionally lifting their heads, as if enjoying the view. Beyond that was the sea. I could see a scattering of white sails, and to my right, the headland jutting out, like a prow.

  “It’s beautiful!” I exclaimed. I had forgotten how beautiful it was.

  “It is,” Henry agreed. “I still have to pinch myself after fifty-four years spent staring at it. Anyway, here are your keys. So come up to the farm at around seven and have supper with us.”

  I thanked Henry and promised that I would.

  After Henry left I texted Rick to say that I’d arrived. I wished that he could be with me. If he were, I’d take him down to the beach and I’d finally tell him what had happened there all those years ago. I tried to imagine his reaction—shock, swiftly changing to bewilderment that I could have kept my secret from him for so long.

  I sat at the garden table as the shadows stretched across the lawn. The sea was pewter now, patched with silver where the sun’s rays streamed through a bank of low clouds. A week ago I’d been at Nina’s wedding; now her wedding had brought me back to Polvarth. I repressed a shudder.

  I went inside and unpacked. As I opened my wash bag I looked at the pink blister pack
of pills that Rick had come to hate but which made me feel safe. I took one, then, having showered and changed, I walked the few hundred yards up to the farm. I was looking forward to meeting Klara. What would she be like? I wondered. Would she be easy to work with?

  The knocker on the farmhouse door was in the shape of a hand. I hesitated for a moment, then rapped.

  Henry, now in green cords and a blue checked shirt, ushered me into the large square kitchen with its red-and-black floor tiles, cream-colored Aga, and pine furniture. He took my jacket, then introduced me to his wife, Beth.

  “Welcome, Jenni,” she said. She was a fair-haired, cheerful woman in her midfifties. “Is everything okay at Lanhay?”

  “Oh yes, it’s great, thank you. It’s a gorgeous cottage.” Henry smiled at the elderly woman who was setting the table. “Mum, meet Jenni.” The woman set down the last plate, then turned and held out her hand.

  I took it. “Hello, Mrs. Tregear. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Please, call me Klara.”

  Klara Tregear was slim and upright, with high cheekbones and blue-gray eyes; her hair was a pure white, cut to the chin and held with a clip, like the little girl on the train. Her face was seamed with age, and tanned from the sun and wind.

  “So …” The smile she gave me was anxious. “You’re going to take me down memory lane.” Her voice was soft, and she spoke with a slight Dutch inflection. “I find the thought a little daunting.”

  “I completely understand. But I’ll try to make the process as pleasant as possible. Just think of it as a long conversation with someone who’s really interested in you.”

  “So you will be hanging on my every word,” she remarked wryly.

  “I certainly will.” I glanced around the kitchen. “Will we be doing the interviews here?”

  “No—at my flat.” Klara pointed through the window to the barn. “I live above the shop. But please, you must be hungry.” She gestured to the table.

  As I sat down I looked through the French windows. Clumps of agapanthus and scarlet sedums framed the long lawn. Beyond the garden, the land sloped down to the sea, indigo in the deepening dusk. A distant light glimmered from a boat or buoy.

  Klara poured me a glass of wine, then sat down beside me. “How long will we talk for each time?”

  “It’s quite an intense process, as you can imagine.” She nodded. “I usually aim to record three hours of material a day. Could we do two hours in the mornings? Would that be okay?”

  “Yes, after eleven would be best, when the shop shuts.”

  “Then another hour in the afternoon?” I suggested.

  “That would be fine. Tomorrow, being Sunday, we’re closed, so that’s a good day for us to start. I go to church first thing, but I’m usually back by ten. Could you come then?”

  “Ten will be fine.” I sipped the wine and felt my tension slip away. If I could just keep a grip on my emotions, I told myself, I’d be able to do this job.

  Beth carried a big earthenware dish to the table. “I hope you like fish pie, Jenni.” She put it on a trivet.

  “I do, very much.”

  “Then help yourself.”

  “Thanks.” But Klara had already picked up my plate and was spooning a huge portion onto it. “Oh, I couldn’t eat that much,” I protested.

  “Try,” Klara said firmly as she handed it to me.

  “It looks delicious. Is it made with your own fish?”

  “It is,” Beth answered. “Our son, Adam, goes to the cove every morning and puts down lobster pots. He also uses short nets that he stakes to the sea floor, just a few yards out. He gets plaice, monkfish, scallops, and sole, and we buy them from him to sell in the shop. It’s an important part of the business, especially in the season.”

  I took some salad. “Is it still the season now?”

  Henry joined us at the table. “Just about—it finishes at the end of the month. But we have local customers, and we supply the hotel, so we stay open nearly all the year round.”

  “And the cattle, I presume they’re yours.”

  “They are.” He unfurled his napkin. “We rear them for beef, which provides the greater part of our income. They’re South Devons. We used to have Friesians when this was a dairy farm.”

  “I remember them,” I said without thinking. “I remember them being herded down the lane; I remember the big silver churn at the end of your track. We used to scoop the milk out with a ladle and put the money in a jar.”

  Klara glanced at me in surprise. “You’ve been here before?”

  “She has,” said Henry.

  Klara put some fish pie on her own plate. “When was that?”

  “Oh, a long time ago; I was … a child.”

  Klara picked up her fork. “And where did you stay?”

  “At one of the holiday houses near the beach. I can’t remember which one.” I resorted to my usual strategy of deflecting unwelcome questions with questions of my own. “But could you tell me about the farm?”

  “Well …” Beth shrugged, smiling. “It’s a busy life. There’s always something to be done, whether it’s mending the fences, hedge cutting, bucket feeding a calf, or pulling up ragwort and nightshade. We work very long days, especially in the summer.”

  “Not that we complain,” Henry added. “We love this place.” He smiled at Klara. “And we’re very lucky in that my mum still does so much.”

  Klara laughed. “I’m sure I’d drop dead if I stopped! After sixty-three years, my body wouldn’t be able to cope with not working.”

  I studied her. She had a wiry vigor, her movements quick and efficient. Her hands were rough and callused, her fingertips bent with arthritis. Her shoulders were round, as though shaped by the wind.

  I had another sip of wine. “So Adam does the fishing …”

  “He does,” answered Beth. “He also paints.”

  “Your husband was telling me. I love the seascape in the cottage; he’s very talented.”

  “He lives in Porthloe,” Beth went on, pleased to hear her son praised, “with his girlfriend, Molly, and their baby. Klara runs the shop and grows most of our fresh produce. I prepare the shellfish, and I make the bread and preserves that we sell. Henry looks after the cattle and does the accounts.”

  “An unending task.” He rolled his eyes.

  Beth poured herself some water. “He’s also a Coastwatch volunteer.”

  “Really?”

  Henry nodded. “There are a few of us who do it from the old coast guard hut on Polvarth Point. We keep a lookout for any incidents at sea, or on the beach or the cliff paths.”

  “People do such silly things,” Klara said.

  “Like what?” I asked faintly.

  Henry sighed. “They walk too near the cliff edge and slip, or they go out in a kayak, with no knowledge of the currents, and get carried out to open sea. We have kids floating away in rubber dinghies, or getting stuck on the rocks at high tide.”

  “Sometimes people dig tunnels in the sand,” said Beth. “If I see that, I always warn them not to.” She looked at Klara. “Do you remember what happened to those boys?”

  “Oh, I do,” Klara responded quietly, then turned to me. “In fact I might talk about that to you.”

  Heat spilled into my face. “Why?” I asked, too abruptly.

  “Well …” Klara was clearly taken aback by my reaction. “For the book. I’ve been thinking about some of the more memorable things that have happened here over the years.”

  “Of course.” I sipped my wine to cover my growing distress. Why on earth had I come here? I should have followed my instincts and stayed away.

  Now Henry was talking about a calf that, the year before, got lost in the fog. “It ended up in the sea,” he told me.

  “In the sea?” I echoed.

  “Something must have spooked it,” Beth explained. “A dog or a fox, because it had swum two hundred yards out from the beach. Luckily, a friend of ours was out fishing, saw it
, and managed to get a rope round it and hauled it into his boat. When we got it back, its mum kept pushing it away because it smelt of brine.”

  “We had to tie them together,” Henry added. “In the end she let it feed and all was well. But it was a miracle it didn’t drown.”

  “Jenni …” Klara was looking at me reproachfully; she nodded at my plate. “You’ve hardly eaten.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. It was delicious, but a bit too much …”

  Henry laughed. “You have to eat up round here, otherwise my mum gets upset—don’t you, Mum?”

  “Don’t worry,” Klara told me. “He’s just teasing you. But you’ll have some ice cream.”

  “I’ve eaten so well, Klara, I couldn’t manage another thing, but thank you.”

  “Coffee, then?”

  “Oh, yes please. I never say no to that; I drink so much, it probably flows in my veins.”

  Over coffee and the petit fours that Klara pressed on me, I learned a bit more about Vincent. He was three years older than Henry, a civil engineer, divorced with one grown-up daughter.

  “I met Vincent years ago,” I told them, “at my friend Nina’s twenty-first—he’s her godfather.”

  “That’s right. He and her dad were at Imperial College together.”

  “We were at the same table at Nina’s wedding.”

  “That was lucky,” Henry remarked. “Otherwise I don’t suppose you’d be here now.”

  “No.” I fiddled with my napkin. “I don’t suppose I would.”

  “Vince never wanted to be a farmer,” Henry went on. “Fortunately for our parents, I did. Adam will take over in years to come.” He asked me about my book projects and how I got the memoir-writing work.

  “I advertise in magazines and on genealogy websites,” I replied. “I also put up notices in local libraries.”

  “You live in Islington, don’t you?” Beth topped up my coffee.

  “Yes—at the Angel.”

  “Are you from London?”

  I shook my head. “I grew up in a village near Reading, but we moved to Southampton when I was ten.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Klara asked.

  “None.” I gave her a quick smile in case she thought me abrupt. “Well …” I put my napkin on the table. “I think I should be getting back.”