Ghostwritten

‘Yes, a feature shared by Euoplocephalus, though that had spikes, not armoured plates, but my personal favourite has to be Spinosaurus, with that marvellous dorsal sail …’

By now Honor’s lively chatter had lifted my mood so much that I felt able to face the day. I had a job to do and I was going to do it.

It was twenty to ten. I switched off the radio and read through the notes I’d made, then opened my laptop and created a new document, Klara. I labelled five microcassettes, put one in the machine, tested it, then walked up to the farm.

On the way there I stopped to look at a chaffinch swinging about on a cluster of elderberries; I realised that this was where I’d been so frightened the night before. Closing my eyes I could hear the sea pulling in and out, but now it seemed distant, not near at all. Perhaps the darkness had amplified it, or perhaps it was just the effect of the wine. Even so, I shuddered as I remembered the sound.

As I approached the farm, I saw Klara, in a blue striped dress and white apron, setting out vegetables on the table. She put the jam jar down next to them and then turned at my footsteps. ‘Jenni! Good morning.’

‘Morning, Klara.’ I nodded at the cabbages and cauliflowers. ‘It’s nice that you do this.’

She shrugged. ‘We’ve always done it.’

‘Do people put the money in the jar?’

‘Usually, although I couldn’t care less if they don’t: I care only that good food shouldn’t be wasted.’ She folded the carrier bag that she’d been using and tucked it into her apron pocket. ‘Before we start talking, I’ve a few chores I need to do. Will you come with me?’

‘Of course – I’d love to see the farm.’

We crossed the yard and went into the shed. ‘This is our second boat,’ Klara explained. ‘It’s a Cornish cove boat like our first one – my grandson’s been repairing it.’ We stepped around the tins of black paint then picked our way through various bits of farm machinery and several sacks of animal feed. Klara half filled a plastic bowl with corn. I followed her into a small field. There were two large wooden coops there with long runs, in each of which were a dozen or so hens. At our approach there was a burst of frenzied clucking.

‘Ladies, please!’ Klara called as the hens rushed forward. ‘No pushing or pecking!’ She tossed the grain through the mesh. ‘These are Rhode Island Reds – they have dreadful manners, but they lay well.’ She threw in another handful. ‘I give them these corn pellets in the morning, then vegetable scraps at night.’ I stared about me in fascination as she topped up the water bowls from a rain butt. The hens in the second coop were black with tufty faces, like Victorian whiskers. ‘These are Araucana,’ Klara explained. ‘They’re very sweet natured, and their eggs are a beautiful blue.’ She gave them the rest of the corn, then wiped the bowl with the corner of her apron. ‘All done. Now we go up here.’

I dutifully followed Klara through another gate into the adjacent field. A large greenhouse on a brick plinth stood there. Its panes flashed and glinted in the sun.

As we went inside, we were hit by a wall of warm air mingled with the scent of damp earth and the tang of tomatoes. Klara took a pair of secateurs out of her apron and snipped some off a vine and laid them in the bowl. Then she snapped two cucumbers off their stems. ‘We grow peppers too,’ she told me as a bee flew past. ‘We have aubergines, okra, gala melons …’

‘And grapes.’ I glanced at the thick vine that trailed along the roof.

‘Yes, though they’re rather small and prone to mildew. I give them to the hens, as a treat.’ We walked on past Growbags planted with lollo rosso, Little Gem, coriander and thyme, then Klara stopped again. ‘These are my pride and joy.’

Before us were six lemon trees in big clay pots.

‘I love growing lemons.’ Klara twisted off three ripe ones, put them in the bowl, then indicated the two smaller trees to our left. ‘Those are kumquats. They’re too bitter to eat, but make good marmalade.’

‘And you sell all this in the shop?’

‘We do. Everything that we sell we have produced ourselves. Come.’

I followed her out of the greenhouse and towards the field to our left in which I could now see a huge stone structure, like a little fortress.

‘What’s that?’

‘You’ll see,’ Klara answered as we went towards it, then into it, through a wooden gate.

Inside, the air was still, the deep silence broken only by the silvery trills of a blackbird perched high on the wall. The air was fragrant with a late flowering rose.

We strolled along the gravel path, in the sunshine, past gooseberry and redcurrant bushes and teepee frames for peas and runner beans. There were rows of cabbages, cauliflowers and leeks, a strawberry patch, a bed of dahlias, and a small orchard of dwarf apple trees.

‘It’s amazing,’ I exclaimed, utterly charmed. ‘But it must be so much work.’

‘It is,’ Klara said as she twisted a few last apples off the nearest tree. ‘But I have a gardener who does the weeding and the heavy pruning. The watering is automated and the rest I can manage.’

‘How long is it?’ I asked as we walked on. ‘A hundred feet?’

‘A hundred and twenty, and thirty feet wide. The walls are eighteen feet high and two feet deep.’

‘It’s magnificent.’

‘It was my husband’s wedding present to me. He asked me what I wanted, and I said that what I wanted, more than anything, was a walled garden. So he and his farmhand, Seb, built this, using stones that they carried up from the cove. It took them a year.’

‘And when was that?’

‘They started it in 1952. I’d just arrived here, never having been to England, let alone Cornwall.’

‘You must have been very much in love with him.’

‘I was.’ I felt a sting of envy, that Klara’s love had clearly been so deeply reciprocated. ‘When I saw the farm for the first time, I made it my ambition to grow any crop, from A to Z.’

‘Really?’ I laughed. ‘And did you achieve that?’

‘Oh, I did,’ she replied as we passed a row of pumpkins. ‘We have everything from asparagus to … zucchini.’

‘What’s Q?’ I wondered aloud.

‘Quince.’ Klara pointed to a glossy shrub growing against the wall.

‘And Y?’

‘Yams. Though I don’t grow many as they tend to go mad and take over the place.’

We’d stopped by a peach tree that had been trained against the south-facing wall. Its leaves had yellowed and its fruit was all gone, except for one or two shrivelled ones that were being probed by wasps.

Klara pressed her hand against the thick, twisted trunk. ‘This was the first thing I planted. We’ve grown old together – old and rather gnarled.’ She smiled; wrinkles fanned her eyes. ‘I planted that too.’ She nodded at a huge fig tree. ‘I planted everything – it was an obsession, because when I was a child someone told me that the word “Paradise” means “walled garden”. And from that moment, that was my dream, to have my own little Paradise, that no one could ever take away.’

Klara’s flat occupied the upper floor of the barn. It had a high, raftered ceiling with skylights and a galley kitchen.

Klara put the bowl on the counter, then began to rinse the fruit and vegetables. I was enjoying being with her, but wondered whether she was ever going to sit down and start the interview.

‘I used to live in the farmhouse,’ she was saying. ‘I moved out after my husband died so that Henry and Beth could have it. But this flat suits me quite well. My bedroom and bathroom are downstairs, and this is my living and dining area.’

‘It’s wonderfully light.’ A floor-to-ceiling unit was crammed with books; I peered at the shelves. There were orange and green Penguin classics, a complete set of Dickens in maroon leather bindings, and novels by Daphne du Maurier, Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer and the Brontës. There were some Dutch titles – Max Havelaar was one I vaguely recognised – and several biographies. ‘You read a lot, Klara.’

‘I do. And I’m lucky in that my eyesight’s still good – afkloppen. Touch wood.’ She rapped on a cupboard and then untied her apron. ‘I’d much rather read than watch TV, though I do have a small television in my bedroom.’

On the bottom shelf were a couple of dozen Virago modern classics. ‘You like Elizabeth Taylor,’ I said. ‘She’s my favourite writer in the world.’

‘Mine too,’ Klara responded warmly. ‘My dearest friend, Jane, was a terrific reader and she introduced me to her books. I used to adore Sleeping Beauty but, now that I’m old, it’s Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont.’