Page 2 of The Sky Beneath Us
12 Corstorphine Gardens
Edinburgh
Sunday, 28th August, 1927
Dearest Hetty,
Tomorrow is the day when at long last I can call myself a student of the Edinburgh School of Gardening for Women! And I admit to feeling more than a little trepidation this morning as I sit writing this to you. How I wish you were here to distract me with the latest news from home, to make me laugh at myself for these last-minute qualms, when we both know how much I’ve wanted this and been looking forward to making a start.
After all the years of pleading with Ma and Pa to allow me to apply to the school, my stomach isnow a-churn with equal measures of excitement and worry at the prospect of actually beginning the two-year course. The hard physical work every day doesn’t alarm me, but will I be up to the evening classes in bookkeeping and agricultural chemistry? Two years is a long time to study when there’s no assurance of a career at the end of it. I hope all those hours spent working for Mrs Hanbury will stand me in good stead. Without her encouragement and her trust in letting me loose on her beloved gardens at Inverewe, I wouldn’t be here. I don’t want to let her down, nor do I want to prove our parents right when – like so many others – they’ve made it so very clear they heartily disapprove of my ambitions and think horticulture an entirely unsuitable occupation for a young lady. ‘If you really must turn yourself into an unkempt harridan with dirt engrained beneath her fingernails, then I suppose I can’t stop you’ were Ma’s parting words to me when she bade me goodbye at the station. She may be right. But at least I’ll be a happy unkempt harridan!
Fortunately, I have a sister-in-arms as a roommate. Her name is Marjorie Howard and she too starts at the gardening school tomorrow. The other lodgers at The Laurels are what I’m sure our parents would consider suitable young ladies, pursuing careers of a secretarial nature in the city’s law firms and financial institutions. I sense they rather look down their well-powdered noses at the strange pair of cuckoos who’ve invaded the nest, ruffling feathers with our ambition to ruin our complexions, out in all weathers wielding trowels and grubbing aboutin the mud. We are watched over by our landlady, the formidable Mrs MacDougall, who runs her establishment with an iron fist. ‘There will be no gentlemen callers and I expect my lodgers to make their beds every morning and not outstay their welcome in the bathroom’ were her words of greeting when I arrived yesterday. There’s no danger on either of those fronts, as far as I’m concerned: I’ve already overheard the other girls complaining of the lack of young men in Edinburgh, as in all other corners of this land where the Great War has taken such a toll, as you and I are only too well aware; and the bathroom is even draughtier and less welcoming than those at home at Ardtuath, where at least one could run a hot bath when needed. Here at The Laurels guesthouse, we are ordered to make do with a bath containing only an inch of lukewarm water on our allocated evening of the week (mine is a Thursday, so I will have to jolly well make sure I don’t get too dirty on Fridays, when all that will be available to me is a cold washcloth at the basin in the chilly room Marjorie and I share).
We are at the very top of the house and Marjorie, who is a good few inches taller than I am, has already given herself a good crack on the head standing up too quickly where the ceiling slopes beneath the eaves as she was unpacking. We have a chest of drawers each and a shared cupboard in which to hang our gardening smocks and skirts. The sink in one corner at least saves us the ordeal of tramping down a steep flight of stairs to wash our faces and brush our teeth before turning in. From the dormer window ofthis hilltop perch, when the smoggy haze allows it, I can see all the way across to where the castle stands proudly on its rocky crag, with Arthur’s Seat crouching like a lion beyond it, reminding me of our hills back at home. If I crane my head as far to the right as is humanly possible and peer over the thick laurel hedge that surrounds the property (no doubt another deterrent to any potential gentlemen callers), I can just make out the gates of the gardening school. So we are very conveniently placed, unlike the secretaries, who have to catch the tram into town to reach their own places of work.
When I first stuck my head out of the window, I heard the strangest noises – a sort of jabbering, high-pitched babble of voices, reminiscent of a madhouse. Marjorie laughed at my expression of astonishment and explained that it was only the sound of the monkeys in the ape house at the zoo, which is just a few hundred yards away. I suppose I’ll get used to it, although last night I fell asleep imagining I was in some tropical jungle rather than suburban Edinburgh. It made my feet itch with an instant longing to travel and see such exotic places in real life!
Yesterday, Marjorie and I ventured into the city and strolled through Princes Street Gardens, admiring the floral clock and the neat squares of bedding plants. The design is certainly a far cry from the more natural approach we take at Inverewe and Ardtuath, and far too regulated for my taste, but I suppose it’s appropriate for a city centre park. The bright colours of begonias and pansies certainly cheer up the grime of the surrounding buildings: Auld Reekie is aptlynicknamed. After our walk, we decided to treat ourselves to tea at Jenners and splashed out on a shared currant bun as well. Luxury indeed!
I shall finish now, dear Hetty, and walk down the hill to the postbox so this will catch the mail tomorrow. I’ll write with more news soon. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy picturing this letter chugging its way to you across the country on the mail train and then meandering in Colin McTavish’s post van from Achnasheen to Aultbea and Ardtuath.
Pass on best love to Ma and Pa for me, and I hope Charles’s headaches have abated a bit. And I’m sending lots more love to you, of course.
Your sister,
Violet.
Daisy – March 2020
I wake with a start, my mouth dry and sticky with the remnants of a troubled sleep, and reach for the bottle of water next to my bed. Violet’s letter lies beside it and I refold it and return it carefully to the plastic bag containing the rest of her letters and notebooks.
Outside my hotel window, an altercation breaks out in the street with a blaring of car horns and a storm of shouting. I open the curtains and squint in the glare of bright sunlight. Despite my body clock telling me it still feels like the middle of the night, it’s already late morning and Kathmandu is a hubbub of noise and commotion. I check my watch. Having tossed and turned for much of the night, I’ve now overslept and missed the hotel breakfast. Everything is different here, even time. It’s not just the hours and minutes that are strangely offset from the rest of the world. Nepal is a country with six seasons, not the four I’ve been so used to, and has its own calendar, the Nepalipatro, in which the number of days in the months vary annually. And simply by landing here, I’ve been catapulted forward almost fifty-seven years. Things I’d always assumed were certain and dependable have been turned upside down, calculated instead by reference to holy festivals, the location of a sacred mountaintop and the arrival and departure of monsoon rains. I suppose, now I think about it, these things are just aboutas arbitrary as lines of latitude and the phases of the moon, and probably a good deal more relevant to the people who live here.
I climb into the shower and let the blast of tepid water wash away some of the bleariness of my jetlag and the muddle of my thoughts, trying to bring myself back down to earth.
Once I’m dressed, I check my phone, hoping for a message from one or other of my twin daughters, Sorcha and Mara. Instead, there’s a reassuring text from Elspeth:Lexie’s doing okay. Don’t worry, and don’t change your plans. I’ll keep everything running here.
She’s my mum’s best friend and has been since childhood. She’s always helped run the music school and has been like a surrogate mother to me.
And there’s another message, a light-hearted one from Elspeth’s son, Jack. I guess she’s told him what’s happened. I’ve known Jack just about my whole life and he’s as much of a brother to me as Stu is. When we were kids, Jack was always the ringleader on our expeditions. He thought he could boss me around, being almost two years older, and some of the time I let him because he often came up with the best ideas for building rafts out of flotsam and jetsam or going down to the pier at Aultbea to catch crabs on our handlines.
After I left school our paths parted, although somehow we’ve always kept in touch, through all of life’s ups and downs. And there have certainly been a few downs, over the years, for both of us. Though my own preoccupations pale into insignificance against what Jack and Elspeth went through.
His dad ran a fishing boat out of Gairloch and the sea seemed to run in Jack’s veins. He was on his dad’s boat the day of the accident. I don’t think he’s ever stopped blaming himself, even though it wasn’t his fault his father’s foot got caught in the bight rope while they were shooting creels, dragging him overboard and pulling him under. And although Jack was quick to cut the engine, by the time he managed to pull his dad from the water, it was too late. Jackcouldn’t bring himself to work the creels after that, even though Davy tried to help him.
It was about that time that I began to see Jack in a new light. Instead of a sometimes annoying older brother figure, I suddenly saw him in his own right, as the devastated young man he’d become. He was so changed by his dad’s accident, and the grief that engulfed him and his mum.
He got roaring drunk at my wedding, and soon afterwards he left Aultbea for good. I think it broke Elspeth’s heart to see him go, but she said she couldn’t bear seeing him so sad and so lost and she’d rather he went away to find his happiness if it wasn’t to be found at home.
Jack took off to explore the oceans and picked up work along the way skippering fancy yachts in the Caribbean for millionaires. He still sends me texts and WhatsApp messages from time to time – photos of white sand beaches to make me jealous and jokes to make me smile.
This latest message, sent to cheer me up a bit I guess, looks as if it’s been taken in some exotic port. It’s a photo of a man with a quiff of suspiciously black hair and long sideburns, wearing a satin shirt undone almost to the navel.ELVIS LIVESis the caption. Followed byI intend communicating only in anagrams from now on. SAFE TRAVELS = FARTS, LEAVES.I text back a laughing face emoji, then set my phone aside and pick up the itinerary that Mum and I spent so many hours putting together, researching places to visit during our first three days in Nepal.
We’d planned to spend the time acclimatising in Kathmandu before catching the plane to Lukla to meet our guide and begin our trek into the mountains. Sightseeing on my own isn’t nearly such a tempting prospect though. I decide to head straight for the Garden of Dreams, where I hope to soothe my frayed nerves and find something to eat. When we read the name, Mum and I bothimmediately agreed we had to go and see it, even before we’d found out anything more about this magical-sounding place in the middle of the city. I put the first of Violet’s journals into my backpack to take with me. If I have to do this alone then at least I can take the spirit of my great-great-aunt along with me for moral support.
The garden isn’t far from my hotel, but it takes me more than half an hour to get there. There are several roads to cross and the ceaseless stream of tooting mopeds and taxis terrifies me. I watch for a while to see how the locals navigate their way across and realise it’s a case of taking your life in your hands, stepping out in front of the oncoming traffic with your heart in your mouth, praying that they’ll either stop or swerve just enough to avoid you. I wait for a small group to gather on the kerb before taking my lead from them. Miraculously, no one is run over and the veering, hooting scooters manage to avoid one another by a hair’s breadth.
I trot along the uneven pavements, picking my way between the potholes and rubble. More than once, as I struggle to read the map, I trip over paving stones and tree roots, staggering, almost losing my footing. I’m attempting to look confident and purposeful, as the guidebook tells me I should, in order to avoid attracting the unwanted attention of hawkers and hustlers, but I know I am easy prey. I carry on walking, doing my best to shake off the small procession of street vendors that trails in my wake. I’m thoroughly relieved when I turn in at the gate that marks the entrance to the garden. Barked at by the guard, the retinue melts away in search of other prey, and I pay for my ticket at the kiosk.
