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.’
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.’
‘I love that one too,’ I said, feeling sad for Klara that her best friend had died.
‘Please excuse the clutter,’ she said, changing the subject.
‘I hadn’t noticed. But it’s a lovely flat. And you can see the sea.’ Now I glanced at the wooden dresser; on it were rows of blue and white china plates decorated with flowers, peacocks and boats. ‘Is that Delft?’
Klara lifted up the kettle. ‘It is – it’s from my grandparents’ home.’
‘Which was where?’
‘In Rotterdam, which is where I was born – I’m a “Rotterdammer”.’ She filled the kettle. ‘Coffee?’
‘I’d love some. In fact I need some – I’m incredibly tired.’
Klara studied my face. ‘Didn’t you sleep well, my dear?’
‘Not really, no. I … was just excited from the trip,’ I lied.
‘I hope it’s not the bed.’
‘Oh, the bed’s very comfortable, Klara; but I never sleep well, wherever I am. My internal alarm goes off at an unspeakable hour.’
A look of sympathy crossed Klara’s face. ‘What a nuisance. So what do you do when that happens? Read?’
‘Yes, sometimes, or listen to the radio. Usually I get up and work.’
‘Well … I’m sorry you have that problem. I shall pick some valerian for you and dry it; it helps.’
‘Thank you. That’s kind.’ I felt a little flustered by Klara’s concern.
She opened the fridge, took out a Victoria sponge and put it on the kitchen counter. ‘You’ll have some cake.’ I realised that this wasn’t so much an invitation as a command. ‘Yes please – just a small piece.’
‘It needs a little caster sugar on the top.’ She sprinkled some on then got a knife out of the drawer.
‘It looks delicious. May I look at your pictures, Klara?’
She glanced up from her cake-cutting. ‘Of course.’
Arrayed on the sideboard were photos of Klara with her husband, and of Henry and Vincent. I stared at them avidly. I always love being with clients in their homes – it gives me a strong sense of who they are before we even begin the interviews. Then, once they start to talk, I feel as though I’m right inside their head; plunged into their thoughts and memories. It’s as close as I can get to being someone else.
Amongst the snaps were some formal portraits in silver frames. It wasn’t hard to guess who the people in these ones were – Klara’s parents on their wedding day; Klara herself at eight or nine, sitting on a pony. There was also a studio portrait of Klara, aged about six or seven, with her arm round a little boy. They both had short blond hair and stared solemnly at the camera with the same large round eyes.
‘This is you with your brother?’
She looked at me then glanced away. ‘Yes.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Peter.’ Klara’s face filled with grief. ‘His name was Peter.’ I immediately wondered when, and how, he’d died. ‘All those older photos belonged to my grandparents,’ Klara went on as she spooned
