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Ghostwritten
Isabel Wolff
‘A deeply moving read – I loved it’ Dinah Jeffries, author of The Tea Planter’s WifeAs a child in the Second World War, Klara was interned in a Japanese prison camp on Java during the occupation. Her childhood years became an extraordinary and harrowing story of survival, a story that few people have heard.Jenni is a ‘ghost’: she writes the lives of other people – and Klara is her latest subject. Haunted by a childhood tragedy, Jenni finds it easier to take refuge in the memories of others than to dwell on her own.But as Jenni and Klara begin to get to know each other, Jenni begins to do much more than shed light on Klara’s family and girlhood in a neglected part of Second World War history. She is forced to examine her own devastating memories, too. Perhaps, finally, the two women will be able to lay the ghosts of their pasts to rest…Gripping, poignant and beautifully researched, Ghostwritten is a story of survival and love, of memory and hope.
GHOSTWRITTEN
ISABEL WOLFF
Praise for Isabel Wolff (#ulink_40b965af-acd6-587a-a391-014729c79e9f)
‘An engaging read and an intriguing page-turner.’
Sainsbury’s Magazine
‘Deftly blends past and present, romance and mystery, and a theme of forgiveness and redemption …’
Huffington Post
‘Isabel Wolff is a wonderful writer who weaves humour and pathos to great effect.’
Wendy Holden, Daily Mail
‘Intriguing and tugs at the heartstrings.’
Katie Fforde
‘An intelligent and deeply romantic tale. I loved it.’
Lisa Jewell
Dedication (#ulink_a6ef7ba2-3e0a-5435-b9a5-a2e44e2e0eb6)
In memory of my mother
Table of Contents
Title Page (#u296341c6-bf1a-5053-aa35-c47428dca726)
Praise for Isabel Wolff (#uf72d2d6d-82f2-5b60-b4ab-ac93aedfcf89)
Dedication (#ubbcb2ad5-8506-5b9e-869c-6986573f1a01)
Epigraph (#u89720ac7-9b19-517f-b0cf-6e7c10e0d1e7)
Prologue (#uffd33590-aec3-55fa-a97a-9066c2c6891c)
Chapter One (#uaecc89f9-9614-5b8f-a7ed-786ce7be4ffa)
Chapter Two (#u8feb448e-ab92-545f-8482-ad4a47ebdf13)
Chapter Three (#ud8a041a2-66cc-566c-a999-6f299170f59e)
Chapter Four (#udfa26d68-f9b5-5916-985f-a5e49f440e41)
Chapter Five (#u289711a3-4db2-5a65-a534-19639d271ef4)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Bibliography (#litres_trial_promo)
Q&A with Isabel Wolff (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Isabel Wolff (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
The past is never dead. It isn’t even past.
William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun
PROLOGUE (#ulink_450d7d88-056a-5bbc-8e34-fc2a7cc83c71)
31 August 1987
Holidaymakers speckle the beach, reclining behind brightly striped windbreaks, hands held to eyes against the late afternoon sun as they gaze at the glittering sea. On the horizon squats a huge grey tanker; in the middle distance a scattering of white-sailed yachts, their spinnakers billowed and taut. At the shoreline a young couple in surfing gear are launching a yellow canoe. He holds it while she climbs in, then he jumps on and they paddle away, the boat rocking and bumping through the swell. Two little girls in pink swimsuits stop paddling for a moment to watch them then dash in and out of the water, shrieking with laughter. Behind them, a family is playing French cricket. The ball soars towards the rocks, pursued by a dog, barking wildly, its claws driving up a spray of wet sand.
On the cliff path behind the beach, people are queuing at the wooden hut for tea and biscuits, or an ice cream, or bucket and spade or a ready-inflated Lilo, which is what a couple of teenage boys are buying now. ‘Don’t take it in the sea,’ warns the woman behind the counter. The taller boy shakes his head then he and his friend carry the airbed down the worn granite steps to the beach.
Here, the sand is pale and dry, glinting with mica. As they head for the water, the boys throw a covetous glance at a blonde woman in a black bikini, who’s lying on a white towel, perfectly still. She’s enjoying the warmth of the sun and the sound of the sea pulling in and out, as steady as breathing. A sandfly lands on her cheek and she brushes it away, then pushes herself up, resting on her elbows. She gazes at the headland, where the grass has dried to a pale gold: then she looks at the dark-haired man sitting beside her, and gives him an indolent smile. Now she turns on her front, reaches behind to unclip her bikini, then hands him a tube of Ambre Solaire. The man hesitates, glancing at the woman’s two children who are building a sandcastle a few feet away, then he removes the cap and starts rubbing the cream onto the woman’s shoulders. As his palm strokes her skin, she sighs with pleasure.
Her daughter, kneeling in the sand, looks up. Seeing the man’s hand moving over her mother’s waist, the girl reddens, then stumbles to her feet. ‘Let’s go rock-pooling,’ she says to her little brother.
He shakes his blond head and continues digging. ‘No.’
‘But I want you to.’
‘I’d rather stay with Mum.’
The girl picks up her plastic sandals and bangs them together. ‘You have to come with me.’
‘Why?’
She puts on the right shoe. ‘To help me.’
‘Don’t want to help you.’
‘Well you’ve got to …’ She shoves her left foot into the other sandal, bends to do it up, then grabs the bucket that the boy was filling and empties it. ‘I’ll carry this; you take the net.’
The boy shrugs his narrow shoulders, then stands. He hitches up his red swimming trunks, which are hand-me-downs and much too big; he picks up the net lying nearby.
Their mother lifts her head. ‘You don’t have long,’ she says. ‘We’ll be leaving at six, so you’re to come back when you hear the bell from the tea hut. Did you hear me?’ she adds to her daughter. ‘Hold his hand now. You must hold his hand.’ The girl gives a sullen nod then starts to walk towards the rocks that spill down from the low cliff to the sea. Her brother follows her, dragging the net, its stick leaving a sinuous trail, like the tail of the yellow kite which he now notices, swaying high up, against the blue. He cranes his neck to watch it, one eye closed against the sun.
The girl glances behind and sees that he’s not following her. ‘Ted!’ she calls. ‘Come on!’ She wants to get as far as possible from their mother and her so-called ‘friend’. ‘Teddy!’ The little boy tears his gaze from the kite and follows his sister, jumping onto her footprints, leaving no tracks of his own. A toddler wobbles across his path, naked except for a sun hat, then tumbles over, wails, and is hastily scooped up.
Now they’re passing a boy and girl who are digging. The trench they’ve made is six foot long, and so deep that they’re visible only from the waist up.
Ted stops, entranced. ‘Look, Evie!’ She turns. ‘It’s ’normous.’
‘It is,’ she agrees seriously. ‘Must have taken ages,’ she says to the girl who is about her own age, although tall and long-limbed. She’s wearing a white T-shirt with a large black ‘J’ on it. Evie wonders what it stands for. Julie? Jane?
‘It did take ages,’ the girl replies. Her face is a pale oval framed by long dark hair. She tucks a hank behind her ear and nods at the rampart of displaced sand. ‘We’ve been digging all afternoon, haven’t we, Tom?’
Tom, a thickset boy of about eight, straightens up. ‘We’re making a tunnel.’ He leans on his spade. ‘Like that Channel Tunnel they’re building.’
‘It was my idea,’ the girl adds. ‘We’ve done it all by ourselves.’ She turns to Tom. ‘Mum’ll be surprised when she sees it.’
Tom laughs. ‘She’ll be amazed.’
‘You making a real tunnel?’ Ted asks him.
‘Yes.’ Tom points to a deep recess at the back of the hole.
Ted peers at it. ‘Can I go in?’
‘Maybe,’ Tom shrugs. ‘When it’s finished. But we’ll have to be quick because the tide’s coming up.’
‘The time’s coming up?’ Ted looks at the sea.
‘The tide, silly,’ says Evie. ‘Come on, Ted, we’d better go …’
On the other side of the beach, the children’s mother closes her eyes as her companion’s hands caress the swell of her hips. ‘That’s lovely,’ she says. ‘Can you hear me purring?’ she adds with a laugh. Someone nearby is listening to Radio One. She can hear the Pet Shop Boys. ‘Always on My Mind’.
Her boyfriend lies down beside her. ‘You’re always on my mind, Babs,’ he murmurs.
She puts her hand to his chest, spreading her fingers against his skin. ‘This is the best holiday I’ve had for years …’
By now her children have reached the rocks – jagged grey boulders thinly striped with white quartz. They clamber up, and Ted peers into the first pool. He stares at the seaweed, some brown and knobbly, some as green and smooth as lettuce. He pokes his net at a sea anemone and, to his delight, it retracts its maroon tendrils. Then he spies a shrimp and thrusts the net at it. ‘Caught something!’ he shouts, but as he inspects the mesh his face falls – all that’s in it is a brown winkle. ‘Evie!’ he calls, dismayed to see that she is fifty or sixty feet away. ‘Wait for me!’ But Evie keeps on jumping across the rocks, the bucket swinging from her arm.
As Ted follows her he looks out to sea and spots a yellow canoe with two people in it, lifting and twisting their paddles. He hears a distant roar, and sees a motorboat rip across the water, the wake fanning out in widening chevrons that make the canoe rock and sway. Then he returns his gaze to Evie. She’s peering into a pool. ‘Evie!’ he yells, but she doesn’t respond.
Ted steps onto the next boulder but it’s crusted with tiny black mussels that cut into his feet. The rock beside it looks smooth, but when he stands on it, it wobbles violently, and his thin arms flail as he tries not to fall. Sudden tears sting his eyes. The rocks are sharp, and his trunks won’t stay up and his sister won’t wait for him, let alone hold his hand like she’s supposed to. ‘Evie …’ His throat aches as he tries not to cry. ‘Eeevieeee!’
At last she turns. Seeing his distress, she makes her way back to him. ‘What’s the matter, Ted?’ She stares at his feet. ‘Why didn’t you wear your beach shoes?’
He sniffs. ‘I forgot.’
Evie heaves an exasperated sigh then turns towards the sea. ‘Then we’d better go this way – the rocks are easier. Mind the barnacles,’ she adds over her shoulder. ‘Ooh there’s a good pool.’ It’s long and narrow, like a little loch, with bands of leathery-looking weed that sway to and fro. As Evie’s shadow falls onto the surface, a small brown fish darts across the bottom. ‘Give me the net!’ Ted passes it to her and takes the bucket as Evie crouches down, thrusts the net under a rock and swiftly withdraws it. There’s a glint of silver. ‘Got it!’ she yells. ‘Fill the bucket, Ted! Quick!’
Ted dips the bucket in the pool then hands it to her. Evie tips the fish in and it swims to the bottom then scoots under a shred of bladderwrack. ‘It’s huge,’ Evie breathes. ‘And there’s a shrimp!’ She feels a sudden euphoria – her loathing of her mother’s ‘friend’ forgotten. ‘Let’s get some more.’ As she dips the net in the water again she hears, faintly, the bell that the woman in the tea hut rings when she’s closing.
A few yards away the waves are breaking over the rocks; the two children can feel the spray on the backs of their legs.
Ted shivers. ‘Is it high time yet, Evie?’
Evie remembers Clive’s hands on their mother’s flanks. She thinks of his hairy chest and his thick arms, with their tattoos, and of the grunts that she hears through the bedroom wall.
‘It isn’t high tide,’ she answers. ‘Not yet …’
