Shadows Over Paradise

by Isabel Wolff

  “You’re welcome to have the cottage anytime, Jenni. You only have to let me know.”

  “That’s sweet of you. But … I’m not sure I’ll ever come here again.”

  Klara gave a helpless shrug. “I do understand that, of course. But I shall miss you,” she went on. “And I hope so much to see you again, if not here, then perhaps somewhere else, or … could we phone each other from time to time?”

  “Of course we could,” I replied, “and we will. I do want to stay in touch with you, Klara. How could I not, after all that we’ve …” I held out my hand, and she took it in both of hers. “Thank you for being such a great client, Klara—far more than a client actually. You’ve been a real friend.”

  Klara drew me into a hug, and we stood like that for a few moments. She patted my shoulders. “Thank you, Jenni,” she whispered. As we drew apart she smiled. “I shall be thinking about you. You have some important choices to make.”

  “Yes,” I murmured, my heart sinking.

  Now we walked outside. I got into the car and Klara waved to me as I drove away. When I looked back in my mirror, she was still standing there, still waving.

  On the train I gazed out the window as Cornwall receded, Klara’s parting words echoing in my head. I turned my thoughts toward home.

  One, I change my mind; two, you change your mind; or three … Rick and I were still at three. I wondered whether we’d break up gradually, or find the courage to do it quickly but painfully, like ripping off a plaster. I didn’t feel that our phone conversation had resolved anything. Perhaps Rick felt that he understood me a bit better? I wasn’t sure that that was enough.

  As I got the underground train to the Angel, I felt my pulse race. I walked down City Road, then turned onto Noel Terrace. As I put the key into the lock, the door drew back, and there was Rick in jeans, a polo shirt, and bare feet, smiling the blue-eyed smile that always made me feel weak.

  “Hi,” he said. “I heard you coming.”

  “Hi.”

  He kissed me on the cheek—the kiss of a friend, not a lover.

  “You’ve had a haircut.”

  He ran his hand over his head. “Needed it. You look well,” he added, as if to someone he was simply fond of.

  The flat looked strange and unfamiliar, no longer gezellig. I glanced at the orderly shelves, clear floor, and plumped-up sofa. “It’s tidy.”

  “In your honor. And I’ve made dinner.”

  “That’s nice. Thank you. Klara gave me a cake.” I opened the bag and put it on the kitchen counter. “We could have some for pudding.”

  Rick opened the fridge and took out a bottle. “Glass of wine? You probably need it after being on the train all day.” He took the corkscrew out of the drawer.

  “It was five hours actually, but yes, that would be great. I’ll unpack first though.”

  I put my laptop in my study and placed the pebble on my desk; then I went up to the bathroom, undressed, and ran a shower. I stepped into the stream and closed my eyes. When I opened them, Rick was sitting in the wicker chair. After a moment he stood up and pulled off his shirt, then unzipped his jeans, took them off with his boxers, then pulled back the glass screen and stepped in with me. He soaped me and washed my hair, twisting it in his fingers; then, as the water poured down, he kissed me. I stroked his chest and his back, then ran my hands over the swell of his buttocks, feeling his erection against me, springy and firm. We got out and dried each other, then, weak with desire, I followed him into the bedroom.

  We were passionate and intense, in the way people often are when their relationship is ending. Afterward we lay entwined, not daring to articulate the sadness that we felt.

  By now it was almost dark. Rick got up and drew the curtains, then put on his dressing gown. “Let’s have that drink now, and then talk over dinner.”

  “Sure,” I responded casually, though the word talk had filled me with dread. Not that there would be much to talk about, I reflected as I pulled on a clean T-shirt and some jeans. It would be a simple matter of discussing how we’d manage our breakup and who would stay in the flat and who would leave.

  We went downstairs. Rick poured the wine and lit a candle; I set the table and made a salad. He took the lasagne out of the oven, gave me some, then served himself. Drips from my still-wet hair trickled down my shoulders into the small of my back.

  Neither of us seemed to want to start the conversation. Finally I broke the silence. “So, did you apply for that job you mentioned? The one in Norwich?”

  “Yes—I sent the form off yesterday. There are a few others I’ve seen—two in Sussex, one in North Wales, and there’s a junior school I like the sound of in Bath.”

  “Bath would be great.” I took some salad. “I can imagine you there.”

  Rick lowered his glass. “You can imagine me there? Is that what you meant to say, Jen?” he added gently. “Or did you mean that you can imagine us there?”

  I stared at him, taken aback. “I meant you, Rick, because how can I possibly talk about us when we still have this huge problem—a problem that isn’t going to go away? We want different things,” I went on, “and they’re completely incompatible, because you’d like to have children—”

  “Yes, I would like to have children,” Rick interjected.

  I put down my fork. “I understand that.”

  “I’d love to have children.”

  “I know,” I said, feeling impotent. “But I don’t.”

  “So …” He exhaled. “It’s going to be hard.”

  “It will be.” I felt a sob rise in my throat. “It’ll be very hard.”

  Rick gave another pained sigh, and I waited to hear the words that would finally bring our relationship to an end. I closed my eyes.

  “But what I want, even more than children, is you.” I looked at Rick, startled. “I’ve hated being without you, Jenni. Before you went to Cornwall I thought that we could break up—that we’d have to. But I don’t feel like that now.”

  “Then … why didn’t you say this straightaway? When I arrived?”

  “Because it’s such an important decision. And I was waiting to see how I felt when I saw you again, spoke to you again, held you in my arms again. Now that I have, I know that I don’t want to lose you. I need you, Jen … for my happiness. I have to be with you.”

  “But … nothing’s really changed between us, Rick. Except that now you know … now you know about …” The candle was bending and blurring. I lowered my head and let the tears come.

  Rick reached across the table and wiped my cheeks with his fingers. “When you told me about Ted, I felt full of tenderness for you, Jenni.”

  I swallowed. “I thought it would make you think that you could never really know me. I thought that it would make it easier for you to leave.”

  “No. It’s made me want to stay. And if I’m to build a new life, then I’d rather build it with you.”

  “Even though that would mean … not having what you want?”

  “But I would, Jen, because I’d have you.”

  Over the next two weeks Rick applied for a number of head teacher jobs, all over the country. I had several ghostwriting inquiries, including an invitation to ghostwrite a science-fiction novel. In the end I accepted a commission to write the memoirs of an elderly man who’d been a Spitfire test pilot. I was keen to learn more about the Second World War.

  In the meantime I caught up with Nina, whose bump was showing, and with Honor, who was aglow from her new relationship with Al. I was sleeping much better, and there was a new closeness between me and Rick.

  I was still rewriting and polishing Klara’s story and working out where the photos should go.

  I spread them in front of me. There were photos of the SS Indrapoera, an aerial shot of Sisi Gunung, a snap of Peter and Jaya fishing, and one of Klara and Flora on the steps of their school. There were photos of Klara shading Peter with a parasol, and of their parents arm in arm on the lawn. There was the Bloemencamp handker
chief, Anneke’s recipe book, the camp at Nijmegen, and the farm at Polvarth. The last photo was one that I had taken of Klara in her beloved walled garden. I had made a copy of it, and it now stood in a frame in my office.

  In mid-November I sent her a copy of the manuscript. I wondered how she would feel, reading her own experiences, her fears, her happiness, her grief, and her regrets, reshaped and polished by me. A week later she phoned, and I knew.

  “Well … I’ve read it,” she began. “And …”

  “Tell me,” I said anxiously.

  “I’m happy, Jenni.”

  I felt a wave of relief. “But … is there anything that you want me to take out?”

  “Nothing,” she answered. “Not one word.”

  “So … that means that you’re happy about the guardhouse at Tjideng, and about Peter going to Tjimahi, and about what happened at Tjitjalengka?”

  “Yes. I am happy. Or rather, I’m content for those things to be in the book. They’re an essential part of my story, and I couldn’t live with myself if I had glossed over them.”

  “I’m glad, Klara. It’s brave of you.”

  “I feel more at ease, telling the truth.” Then Klara told me that she wanted to dedicate the book to her parents, in Dutch and in English.

  I noted both. “What about the title? Have you decided on that?”

  “I have.” She told me what it was and I wrote it down.

  Shadows Over Paradise.

  I looked at it, taken with its blend of beauty and menace. “It’s very evocative, Klara. So …” I gave a shrug. “That’s it. We’re done. Next time you see the book, it’ll be a bound hardback with your name on the cover. I’ll have them couriered to you the week before your birthday.”

  “I will then give everyone their copy when we go to the hotel for my party. I wish you could be there, Jenni.”

  “Thank you, Klara. I’ll be thinking of you, and I shall raise a glass to your next decade.”

  “So how’s everything with you, my dear?”

  “Well … it’s fine.”

  “And Rick? I hope you don’t mind my asking.”

  “I don’t mind at all. I feel I could tell you anything, Klara. But yes, Rick’s well, too.”

  “That’s good. I’ve been thinking about you both. You’re still together, then?”

  “We are. And we’ve decided that we want to stay that way.”

  “I’m delighted. So … did you change your mind?”

  “No. He changed his.”

  “Well, that must mean a lot to you, Jenni. That he loves you enough to do that.”

  “It means the world,” I said.

  Epilogue

  Nailsford, Gloucestershire

  It’s an Indian summer’s afternoon, and in my arms is a baby with bendy arms and legs, dancing blue eyes, a cowlick of fair hair, and a single tooth in her shiny pink gums.

  “Smile,” says the photographer.

  “I am smiling,” I say with a laugh.

  “More, please. It’s a christening, not a funeral.”

  “I don’t think I can smile more than this. Can I, Rick?” Rick, standing next to the photographer, looks at me, then shakes his head. “She’s at maximum happiness, I’m afraid.”

  “Me too,” says Honor beside me. “My cheeks are aching.”

  “Okay, then, ladies, hold still.” The photographer takes a couple more shots, then turns and takes a bigger lens off a nearby tombstone and slots it onto the camera.

  “Just a few more … lovely.”

  “Now it’s my turn to hold her,” Honor says. “Come on, Jen. Hand her over.” I smooth the baby’s lace gown and pass her to Honor, then we compose ourselves for the next photo.

  When this has been taken, Nina steps forward. “That’s the godmothers done. Can we have the godfathers in the next shot?”

  Al goes and stands with Honor, and Jon’s brother James stands beside me. There’s a volley of clicks, then Nina and Jon go into the center. Honor hands the baby to Nina, and more pictures are taken.

  The photographer peers at the back of his camera.

  “Very nice. So what now?”

  “We’ll go in for the service,” Nina says.

  And so, a year to the day after their wedding, Nina and Jon lead us back into Saint Jude’s for the christening of their baby, Clementine. The congregation is about fifty strong, and Jon’s younger brother, Tim, who is reprising his role as usher, hands us all an Order of Service. The organist is playing another Bach partita, and Rick and I sit in the same pew where we’d sat before. But instead of the tension and sadness that we felt then, we are relaxed and happy. Rick gives me a smile and takes my hand. I lean in toward him.

  We look at the stained-glass window, of Jesus with the children. The sunlight pours through its colored panes, spangling the walls with little rainbows.

  Hearing steps behind, I turn. Vincent Tregear is arriving. He’s holding a silvery gift bag. Seeing me, he lifts his hand and I lift mine. In a strange way, what’s happened has been thanks to him.

  Now the vicar welcomes us back to Saint Jude’s, then we stand and sing “All Things Bright and Beautiful.”

  “The birth of a child is a time for celebration and thanksgiving,” the vicar says. “Many parents want to give thanks to God for their child.” He calls Nina and Jon to the altar, and they hand Clemmie to him. She bats her arms, then blows a raspberry, and we all laugh. Still smiling, the vicar turns to Nina and Jon. “Do you receive Clementine Alexandra as a gift from God?”

  “We do,” they respond.

  “We now ask for God’s blessing on Clementine,” the vicar goes on. “We all give thanks for her, and we pray for her parents as they commit to the responsibility of raising her.”

  We bow our heads for the prayer, then the godparents are called and Honor and I and the two godfathers proudly take our places by the font.

  “Wasn’t that lovely?” Honor says to me afterward as we go out into the churchyard again. “I adored having to reject Satan,” she adds with a giggle.

  “And all his works,” I remind her.

  “Yes—most of them, at any rate.”

  “And all his empty promises.”

  “Okay—that goes for you too.”

  We pose for a few group snaps, then we stroll across the field to the house. Jon holds Clemmie, and the lace of her christening robe lifts in the breeze.

  The walls of the Old Forge are once again clad in pyracantha and Virginia creeper, the borders aglow with scarlet dahlias. The christening tea is served outside, and we sit on chairs on the lawn, thankful for the late-summer sun that makes this possible.

  Clementine is passed round, and Honor and I do our best not to fight over her.

  “She was so good in church,” Honor says. “Weren’t you, darling?” As Honor puts Clemmie on her lap, the diamond on her left hand sparkles in the sunlight. “To think that a year ago she barely existed.” She turns to Al. “And to think that a year ago I hadn’t met you. We’d better not break up,” she adds with a laugh. “As we’re both godparents, it could be a bit awkward.”

  “I think we’ll be fine,” Al says with a smile.

  “So when’s the wedding?” Nina’s mother, Betty, asks them as she cuts the christening cake.

  “In June,” Honor answers. “We’re just planning it now. So is that the first layer of the wedding cake?”

  “It is. Carefully kept for this occasion.” Betty hands a piece to Rick. “I hear you’ve got a new job.”

  “I have,” he answers. “I just started this term.”

  “Rick’s a head teacher now,” Nina tells her.

  “How wonderful,” Betty responds. “Is that in London again?”

  “No, it’s in the New Forest,” he answers. “Not far from Romsey. We’re still getting to know the area.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Betty says. “You’re only a few miles from the sea—and Southampton’s close. What a good move.”

  “I could have got a job in
Norwich,” Rick explains, “but we decided on Romsey so that we’d be nearer to Jenni’s mother.”

  “That’s nice for her.”

  “And for us,” Rick says. “We see her fairly often.” I think of my mother’s face when Rick and I first visited her last November. She was happy to see me, and to meet Rick, who has gone out of his way to be friendly to her, bridging the gap between us.

  As my mother and I sat on the sofa, Rick had looked at the photos on the sideboard. “Jenni’s told me about Ted,” he’d said quietly.

  My mother nodded. “It was very sad. It was just one of those terribly sad things, wasn’t it, Genevieve?” She put her hand on mine, and, as I took it, I felt that I had started to forgive myself …

  Now Betty passes me a cup of tea. “So, have you and Rick found somewhere to live?”

  “Not yet,” I answer. “We’re renting for now, but hope to buy before long.”

  “Seen anything you like?” Nina’s father, Derek, asks.

  “There’s one house that we love,” Rick responds, and he’s about to say more when Vincent approaches, then sits on the empty chair next to me. He opens the silvery bag and hands Nina his gift. “A small present for my sweet grand-goddaughter.” He smiles at Clemmie, sitting happily on Honor’s lap.

  “Thank you, Uncle Vincent,” Nina says. “Can I open it now?”

  “Of course.”

  Nina does so, helped by Clemmie, who grasps the paper. Inside is a cut-glass trinket box with a silver lid. “It’s beautiful,” Nina exclaims. She smiles at Vincent. “Thank you.”

  “I thought that you could put her first tooth in it,” he suggests.

  “Well, when it comes out, that’s where it’ll go. You lucky little girl,” she says to Clemmie, and kisses her.

  Then Vincent starts talking to me. “It’s nice to see you again, Jenni.”

  “It’s good to see you, Vincent. Funny to think that it was exactly a year ago that we met.”

  He nods. “I’m so glad that we did. I know you’ve been in touch with my mother, but I just wanted to say that you did a wonderful job with her memoirs. You brought her story out so well.”