Free Ghostwritten by Isabel Wolff Page B

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 coffee into a heavy brown jug. ‘Fortunately my mother always enclosed a few snaps in her letters to them, otherwise we’d have had no record of our ten years on Java. Everything we’d ever owned there was lost or destroyed.’
    The kettle was boiling. Klara tipped the water into the jug and the aroma of coffee filled the air.
    ‘Let’s use the Delft, as we shall be talking about Holland.’ She took down some plates and cups and put them on a tray. So Klara was ready to start. I began asking her more direct questions.
    ‘How old were you when you went to Java?’
    ‘I was almost five. My father decided to try his luckin the NEI – the Netherlands East Indies, as it then was. He got a job on a rubber plantation, not far from Bandung.’
    She picked up the tray and I stepped forward. ‘Let me help you.’
    ‘If you could take the jug, I can manage the rest.’
    Klara carried the tray to the low wooden table and set it down; then she sat on the right side of the sofa while I took the armchair opposite. She poured me a cup of coffee then handed me an enormous wedge of Victoria sponge that almost covered the plate.
    ‘Oh, could I have half that?’
    Klara passed me a fork. ‘I’m sure you can manage it.’
    ‘Well …’ I didn’t want to argue with her. ‘It does look good.’ I tasted it. ‘It’s delicious.’
    ‘We really ought to be eating madeleines,’ she quipped. ‘Not that I need help in summoning the remembrance of things past. My memory is quite undimmed. Which I sometimes feel is a disadvantage.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    Klara poured herself some coffee. ‘A few months ago, my dearest friend, Jane, was diagnosed with dementia.’
    ‘Oh, I see. When you said she “was” a great reader, I assumed that she’d died. I’m glad that’s not the case.’
    ‘Oh, she’s in good health – physically at least. But, in a way, the Jane I’ve known for fifty-five years
has
died. When I talk to her about some of the happy times we’ve had, the people we’ve known or the books we’ve both loved, she looks at me blankly, or becomes confused.’
    ‘That must be heart-breaking.’
    ‘It is. It makes me feel … lonely.’ Klara sighed. ‘But I assume that Jane’s
un
happy memories are alsodisappearing and I must say there are times when I envy her this. How wonderful it must be, to be unable to remember things that once caused us distress. Yet we should embrace all our memories, whether joyful or painful. They’re all we ever really own in this life.’
    As I murmured my agreement I wondered what painful memories Klara was thinking of and whether she would want to talk about them for the book.
    Klara sipped her coffee then looked at me. ‘One might say that you’re in the memory “business”.’
    I nodded. ‘You could put it that way. It’s my job to draw memories out of my clients.’ While fiercely protecting my own memories, I reflected wryly. I glanced at the old leather albums piled up on the table in front of us. Rick had sometimes remarked on my own lack of family photographs. ‘You’ve got quite a few photos, Klara.’
    ‘I have.’
    ‘They’ll help hugely in the interview process – and we can reproduce some of them in the book,