Page 10 of The Sky Beneath Us
The driver turns the key to start the engine, with a cough and a splutter, and we jolt forward into the morning traffic.
Despite the early start and a lack of traffic on the roads out of Kathmandu, we end up not doing any walking at all on the first day. At first we sail along, the wheels of the jeep humming over the tarmac until we reach the town of Jiri, where we stop for lunch, five hours later. But then the road becomes an unmade, potholed track. We make slow progress and I’m tired, hot and thirsty. Every bone in my body hurts from the jouncing and swerving (to avoid goats, cows and people, not just potholes).
‘All okay, Mrs Daisy?’ Tashi asks from the front seat. I nod and smile and give him a thumbs up. ‘Only few more miles to Shivalaya. No worry.’
I’m longing for the car to stop, and then all of a sudden it does, in the middle of nowhere, behind a large truck that has its back wheels stuck in a deep pothole, completely blocking the track. Dense bushes line both sides of the road, hemming us in. Our driver, Tashi and Sonam jump out and go over to talk to the truck driver, so I ease my stiff legs out of the jeep too, and stand in the dust, thankful – at least – for the opportunity to stretch.
After an animated discussion and a couple of failed attempts to push the truck out of the hole, our driver comes back to the jeepand cheerfully pulls a long, machete-like knife from the boot. I go over to see if I can lend a hand. He begins to hack at the bushes and Tashi and Sonam start pulling the cut branches away. ‘No, no,’ they tell me, insisting I go back to the relative comfort of the jeep, showing me the vicious thorns on the stems of the brush.
Darkness is beginning to fall. I take out my phone but there’s no signal. Half an hour later, the men return to the car, having cut a way through the thorn bushes and hefted several large rocks out of the way to form a new, makeshift track. ‘We can go now,’ says Tashi, as calmly as if we’ve stopped for a rest rather than a stint of road building.
‘But what about the truck?’ I ask.
‘No worry. We will send tractor from Shivalaya in morning.’
By the time we reach the village the sky is pitch black, studded with a million stars. We drive slowly along what appears to be the main street. Only one or two houses have a light in their windows and the few teahouses appear to be shut.
‘Is there anywhere for us to stay?’ I ask. I want the driving to stop. I want to be able to wash my hands and face, which are covered with dust. I want to change out of my stale, sweat-stained clothes. I want to lie down on a bed and stretch out my aching body. Such luxuries as food and sleep seem extremely unlikely, but I don’t even care any more.
Tashi’s smile gleams from the front seat. ‘My cousin has teahouse just here. We will stay there tonight, no worry.’
And we do. And there is a room with a narrow bed that seems like one of the most comfortable things I’ve ever lain on. Not only that, there’s also a shower with a trickle of warm water, and a dish of lentil dhal and rice that’s one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted. I can hardly keep my eyes open as I stumble up the stairs to my bedroom and I fall into my bed and a deep, deep sleep.
I wake to the sound of rain. I’m used to Scottish rain – everything from a drizzle to a downpour – but this has a different quality to it. It sounds like the roar of the ocean in a storm, crashing on the tin roof of the teahouse and engulfing us from all sides. I pull on my clothes and hurry downstairs. Tashi and Sonam are already sitting at the table, cups of steaming tea before them, and the cousin who owns the teahouse sets another one down in front of me.
‘No walking today, Mrs Daisy,’ Tashi says, his smile undimmed as he shares this news. ‘The rains should be stopped by now, but very late this year. So we stay here and keep dry. Leave tomorrow, no worry.’
‘Do you think the rain will stop by the morning?’ I ask, taking a sip of my tea. While I’m disappointed by yet another delay to stop us getting going on the trek, my aching body could certainly do with another night’s rest in a comfortable bed. And Tashi’s cousin’s wife is an excellent cook, too. I take a spoonful from the bowl of some sort of vegetable stew that’s been put in front of me for breakfast, relishing the taste of garlic and herbs.
‘For sure,’ says Sonam. ‘Shouldn’t be raining now anyway. But the climate’s changing here, like everywhere else. We’re at the very tail end of the winter rains now though. This won’t last long.’
After we’ve eaten, I settle myself on a pile of cushions by the iron stove in the corner of the room. It’s not cold – in fact, it’s still pretty muggy – but the dampness pervades everything, and the glow of warmth from the stove helps dispel it a little. I feel strangely contented, cocooned in the teahouse with the sound of the rain, overlain by the noises of pans clattering in the kitchen and the murmur of the men as they talk quietly around the table. There’s nointernet here, no phone signal, nothing. So I curl my feet beneath me on the cushions and take out Violet’s journal.
I reread the pages detailing her studies at the gardening school – she continues to struggle with chemistry but enjoys her time working in the Herbarium at the Botanic Garden as winter gives way to spring. She describes the first colour appearing. And as the snowdrops emerge and the early rhododendrons begin to bloom, her relationship with Callum blossoms too.
Violet’s Journal
MONDAY, 9THAPRIL, 1928
Home at Ardtuath for the Easter break. It feels so very strange to be back. I hadn’t realised how much the distance has grown with having been away and experiencing such a different world in the city.
Callum is here too. I persuaded him to come as I wanted to introduce him to Ma and Pa. A momentous step, and one that both of us faced with a good deal of trepidation. Correctly so, it turns out, because it’s been something of a disaster. Rather than being welcomed as a guest of the house, Callum has been put in the keeper’s cottage, given a bed in the attic room there, and it has been made very plain that my parents see him as nothing more than another labourer.
Ma insists on calling him ‘your friend the gardener’. And when we first arrived, sitting uncomfortably in the drawing room with teacups – not the best ones, I noted – perched precariously on the wobbling side tables at our elbows, Pa asked him what wage he’d expect if he were to be employed up this way. As if it was a job interview, presumably because that could be the only possible reason for him to be here at Ardtuath House. It wasmortifying. Callum is taking it all with good grace, though I can tell it wounds him.
Today we went to Inverewe, where we both felt far more at home in the gardens. Mrs Hanbury was her usual interesting and interested self and I could tell she warmed to Callum. His knowledge of Himalayan plants rapidly earned her respect as we walked amongst the rhododendrons and sweet-scented azaleas, with the bristly leaves of the blue poppies beginning to show alongside the path leading to the shore. We could almost imagine ourselves in the mountains of Nepal or Bhutan and I knew Callum was in his element.
He always seems more at ease outdoors, pursuing his passion for plants. He’s not had much in the way of formal schooling, but his natural thirst for knowledge and sharp, enquiring mind have made me realise that education is of secondary importance: it’s innate intelligence that really matters. I love that in him. I love a lot of other things about him as well. But most of all, I love him because he is so completely and utterly himself, unburdened by the veneer of social strictures, and that speaks straight to my heart.
After showing us the latest plantings in the walled garden, Mrs Hanbury left us to walk at leisure and told me to bring Callum back every day whilst we’re here. I think she’d guessed how we would be being treated at Ardtuath.
We walked through the woodland to the point, and I showed him Cuddy Rock and the hidden bay. We sat there for a while, turning our faces to the sun, and I felt – for the first time since arriving back home – that I could breathe again. Ardtuath is stifling, with Ma and Pa’s unspoken disapproval of ‘my gardening friend’ all too apparent, and Charles worse than ever with his headaches and moods when he condescends to call in. I do love Helen, though, she’s such a kind and gentle sister-in-law, and little Alecis a delight. I don’t think Charles realises how lucky he is to have them there to brighten his dark moments.
There’s more news on the wedding front, too. Hetty is to marry Rufus Ogilvy. She saved the news to tell me herself, coming to my room on my first night back. I feigned delight, of course, although I’m sure she can guess my reservations. He’s so much older than she is, a widower with two grown children and I doubt he will be wanting more. It seems a sad sacrifice to make. I asked Hetty if she is truly happy and her smile was just a little too bright when she replied, ‘It’s a good match, Vi, and he’s a kindly man.’ He offers her financial security and the promise of a good home, of course, but I was left feeling that what I share with Callum – our true intimacy and mutual understanding – is worth more than all of those worldly considerations.
As Callum and I sat side by side on the rocks by the shore at Inverewe, he talked about the caste system in India, which he’d read about. I realised he was relating it to his situation here, being made to feel a second-class citizen, his ‘place’ being made all too apparent by the treatment he’s received at the hands of my parents. I worried he was trying to tell me that we cannot be together, that society conspires against us in ways too powerful to overcome. To reassure him, I pointed out that he and I are at exactly the same level in society because of our chosen profession. He laughed a little hollowly at that.
‘What you mean to say, Vi, is that you have taken a step down to join me.’
