Ghostwritten. Isabel Wolff

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СКАЧАТЬ with Emma Watson about her new film, then some Coldplay, followed by the news, and then a heated discussion about whether the world was going to end on 21 December, as predicted by the ancient Mayans using their Long Count calendar.

      ‘So what you’re saying,’ said Honor to her interviewee, ‘is that just two months from now, what we can expect is not so much Christmas as the Apocalypse.’

      ‘Yes,’ the woman replied grimly. ‘Because on that day the Sun will be in exact alignment with the centre of the Milky Way, which will affect the Earth’s magnetic shield, throwing the planet completely out of kilter, resulting in catastrophic earthquakes and flooding that could wipe us all out.’

      ‘But astronomers have trashed this theory,’ Honor pointed out. ‘As has NASA.’

      ‘They can trash it all they like, but it’s going to happen.’

      ‘Well, on 22 December I guess we’ll know who was right,’ Honor concluded. ‘But thanks for joining us today – and speaking of mass extinctions …’ There was a deafening roar, then she introduced the producer of a new documentary about the last days of the dinosaurs.

      ‘Weren’t they wiped out by an asteroid?’ Honor asked her guest. ‘Sixty-five million years ago?’

      ‘That’s the accepted theory,’ the man replied; ‘which is known as the Late Cretaceous Tertiary Extinction, but the truth is, no one really knows. So in the programme we explore alternative explanations, such as climate change caused by a massive volcanic eruption, or the evolution of mammals that ate dinosaur eggs. We also look at the possibility of a major change in vegetation, resulting in the plant-eating dinosaurs becoming unable to digest their food.’

      ‘And getting fatal constipation?’

      ‘Well … yes.’

      Honor laughed. ‘I think I’d have preferred the meteor strike. But what’s your favourite dinosaur? I’ve always liked Ankylosaurus with that terrific club on the tail …’

      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ