Page 22 of The Sky Beneath Us
The Colonel sat quietly, letting Andrews talk and allowing his wife to ask me how I’d come to be in Kathmandu. I didn’t mentionthe baby, of course. I just explained how Callum and I had met at the Edinburgh Botanics, that we’d worked together and become sweethearts, and that I’d wanted to be closer to him.
‘What a brave young woman you are,’ Mrs Fairburn said.
Then it was the Colonel’s turn to speak. ‘Don’t worry, young lady, we’ll make sure you get home safely. I’ll sort out a ticket for you. If Roberta were not going to come with us into the mountains, she could have accompanied you back. But perhaps we can find a suitable chaperone.’ He turned to his wife. ‘What do you think, my dear? Perhaps one of the ladies in Sikkim will be returning soon?’
I was touched by their kindness and their offers of help, but the thought of travelling back to Britain in the company of a colonial wife, with my condition steadily becoming more apparent, filled me with panic. This whole endeavour would have been a complete fiasco, and I would still inflict shame and inconvenience upon my family. I thought of Hetty, making her wedding plans. I pictured the outrage and disgust on the faces of my father and brother, my mother’s dismay, and knew I couldn’t return. I was overwhelmed by everything that had happened, but I forced myself to try to take a steady breath, struggling to think clearly.
‘Mrs Fairburn, if you are to be on the expedition, might it be possible for me to accompany you, do you think?’ It was a desperate idea, but it would buy me some time, let me find my feet in this strange new country and work out a proper plan for a future for me and my baby. I saw the doubt flicker in her face and she turned to appeal to her husband.
‘Colonel, I could be of use. I know how to prepare specimens for transporting them back to Britain. And I can make sketches and paintings of the plants you find. I can take Callum’s place.’
He raised his eyebrows, but I could see he was considering my proposition seriously. ‘Miss Mackenzie-Grant, I have no doubt you are an accomplished botanist, and we could certainly use your skills.But do you have any idea how challenging the expedition will be? We will be trekking for weeks on end, at high altitudes. Sleeping in tents, sometimes in extreme conditions. It will be tough.’
‘I believe I’m up to it, and if Mrs Fairburn can do it then surely I can too?’ I said.In spite of my condition, I thought but didn’t add. I was grasping at straws, trying to buy myself a bit more time to work out a plan. Accompanying the expedition would give me a few more months, at least, before my pregnancy became too evident and made it too challenging for me to continue. I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.
The Colonel smiled and the sternness of his features softened. ‘But, my dear, my wife makes a habit of climbing hills. Even in India. She’s been in Sikkim for months now and has acclimatised herself to the demands of this part of the world. You don’t have that experience.’
‘No, but I am young and in good health, and the hard manual labour at the gardening school has made me strong. I grew up climbing Scottish mountains.’
He turned to his wife again. ‘What do you think, Roberta? Would you like Miss Mackenzie-Grant’s company on our expedition? It would be nice for you to have a female companion, I imagine. And we certainly could use her expertise with the plants.’
So it has been agreed. After a bit more persuasion from my side, assurances of my readiness to undergo the privations of the trek ahead, and an offer from Mr Andrews to carry my drawing things in his pack to lighten my own, I am to join Colonel Fairburn’s expedition.
I feel numb with a strange mixture of exhaustion, relief and trepidation ... These emotions are so overwhelming that there’s scarcely room for my grief. That will come later, I imagine. For now, I close my eyes to shut out the images of the past twenty-four hours that ambush me whenever I stop writing. When I do, I cansee Callum’s smile, encouraging me. Even though his body is nothing but ashes scattered in a river, I know he’s still here with me. He will be with me forever.
I place my hand on my belly again.I’m doing it for you, I tell my baby.And for your father. He would be proud of us.
Daisy – March 2020
It’s the final day of our trek to reach the Sherpa village of Phortse. I know it’ll be another challenging one. We’re climbing again, another thousand feet or so. But today’s hike involves an uphill walk to Mongla – which is even higher than Phortse – and then a plunging descent into a deep river valley. I’ve learned by now that what goes up must come down, and vice versa. The final section of the path climbs steeply to where the village sits on an ancient terrace overlooking the valley. It would have been carved into the bedrock by a river, once upon a time. It’s a reminder of the might of the forces at play, the ground rising as the Indian tectonic plate collides with the immovable object that is the Tibetan plateau. What was once the valley floor now hangs there, high and dry, halfway up the mountainside.
I can sense the village waiting for us, watching as we wind our way slowly towards it. For Tashi and Sonam, it’s home. And in a way it feels like home to me too. At least, a temporary one. I’ve read about Phortse, imagined it, dreamed about it for so many years. And today, at last and against all the odds, I’ll be there. No matter how hard the going, I remind myself, Violet went through far more on her own journey. After her arrival in Kathmandu – so full of hope – and the trauma of Callum’s death, she had to walk in these mountains bearing her unborn baby as well as her burdensof grief and fear. My own preoccupations pale into insignificance alongside hers.
Just as we’re preparing to leave the lodge, I check my phone one last time. There’s a flicker of a signal and three messages flash up on the screen. One is a BBC newsflash: a lockdown has now officially been announced in the UK, to begin in a few days’ time. There’s a message from Mum:Feeling so much better. Energy returning slowly. Wish I was there with you. Good luck with the final push to Phortse – send photos!And the other is a one-liner from Jack, another one of his anagrams. He clearly has way too much time on his hands on his lonely voyage across thousands of miles of ocean.SILENT = LISTEN.
I smile as I shove my phone into my pocket and zip up my jacket. It’s an early start and the air is crisp and clear as we begin to climb the steps leading out of Namche Bazaar and on to the path. My headache has gone this morning, and the sight of the snow-capped peaks soaring high above us on all sides lifts my spirits. Apart from the sound of my breath, which comes in gasps, it is silent up here. So I follow the instruction in Jack’s message and listen, picking out the soft sounds the silence holds. There’s the muffled tread of our boots on the path and the faint sigh of the wind. Every now and then I hear a harmonious clanking of yak bells in the distance, like a child playing on a xylophone. It reminds me of the joke, often repeated in the music school back home, paraphrasing the words of the late great comedian Eric Morecambe.I wasn’t playing all the wrong notes. I was playing all the right notes, just not necessarily in the right order.Even though the sound of the bells is a little discordant here and there, it’s still heart-stoppingly beautiful, and suddenly a surge of gratitude courses through my veins. All the doubts and setbacks to get this far have been worth it, just for this moment.
What was it Violet wrote?Sometimes you just have to throw your heart into the river of life and dive in after it.I feel I’m getting nearerto her, closing in on the half of her story that has gone untold. And that thought spurs me on as I repeat my trekking mantra, putting one foot in front of the other, again and again, slowly, slowly, along the path.
Phortse appears tantalisingly close on its perch on the far side of the valley as we leave Mongla after a lunch of soup and crackers. The teahouse owner – evidently another cousin, judging by the warm welcome he gives Tashi and Sonam and then extends to me – apologises that it’s all they have. We are far from any town here and have left the main route leading to Everest Base Camp to take the path less travelled, leading up into the mountains. With the country rapidly shutting down, it’s harder than ever to get supplies, the owner explains. The porters, who usually carry rice, bread, lentils and eggs up from Lukla and Namche Bazaar, have mostly returned to their homes. He also lists a number of friends – and cousins, of course – who have returned to Mongla and Phortse. ‘Like the old days,’ Tashi grins, turning to me. ‘Usually, many people away from the villages at this time of year, for work as guides. But this year different.’
I insist on paying the teahouse owner for my bowl of soup. He tries hard to refuse, but it’s only a few hundred rupees – no more than a couple of pounds – and I’m starting to understand how difficult the coming months are going to be for them all if this season’s income from tourism is non-existent. As we embark on the final part of the trek, the sky overhead is heavy with ominous-looking dark clouds and a few icy droplets fall from above, stinging my cheeks. I can’t quite tell whether they’re sleet, snow or hail. I pull the hood of my jacket over my head and draw the zip up to my chin as we begin the long descent into the final valley before we climb back up to Phortse.
There’s a metal bridge across the river on the valley floor and I simultaneously offer up thanks that it’s firmly anchored to thesolid rock, and wish someone had put up another flimsy-looking suspension bridge far higher to allow us to cross the void and to save us the effort of this final climb. It’s begun to snow heavily now, and three yaks cluster alongside a vastmanistone, carved over and over with the Buddhist mantraom mani padme hum, trying to find shelter as the weather closes in. The wind swirls around us, shoving us off balance as it blusters against the steep walls of the valley, and even Tashi looks a little less serene as he glances upwards at the path leading to the village. ‘Storm coming. We need go quickly now, Mrs Daisy.’
Quickly is not a pace I can manage very easily. My headache returns with a vengeance as I force my legs to carry me uphill once more, plodding along one switchback after another. The wind drives snow between the tattered tangle of rhododendron and birch trees that clothe the mountainside, offering little protection from the fierceness of the oncoming storm. The ends of the rhododendron branches are covered in tight buds, but there are no flowers out yet and I estimate they must be at least a couple of weeks behind the ones we’ve seen blossoming along the path at lower altitudes. We climb relentlessly, not pausing to catch our breath or look at the view. When I do glance back, squinting into the scouring wind, I realise there’s no view left. Mongla and the path on the other side of the valley have been swallowed up. Even the bridge and the yaks have disappeared, obscured by the thick curtain of swirling snowflakes.
I think the climb will never end, as the altitude steals the breath from my lungs and the wind snatches at the hood of my jacket. I press a fist into the sharp stitch that grips my side, bending me double as it pulls tighter and tighter still. I think I’m going to have to give up. But there’s no other option than to keep going, to keep putting one foot in front of the other, again and again, whatever my mind is telling me.
And then, all of a sudden, we’re there, walking beneath the stooped trunk of an ancient birch tree guarding a brightly painted gateway. The tiled roof of the village gate shelters us for a few brief moments and I gasp in several deep breaths. Tashi reaches out his hand to turn the prayer wheels that line its walls, and I offer up my own silent prayer of thanks for having made it.
The climb isn’t quite over yet though. The shelf of land on which the village perches is by no means as flat as it looked from across the valley. My calf muscles burn as we pick our way beside a longmaniwall made of jumbled slabs of slate, each one carved with writing or images of the Buddha, left in memory of a departed soul. Tattered prayer flags flap wildly as the wind gathers force again, engulfing us in a swirling vortex of snow. I duck my head involuntarily as a flash of lightning and an ear-splitting crack of thunder simultaneously envelop us. Tashi and Sonam urge me on, turning into a smaller path that runs between a pair of rough stone walls. I stagger and stumble, completely exhausted now, blinded by the blizzard, and Sonam reaches to steady me, taking my pack from me and carrying it himself. I try to protest but the effort is too much and the wind snatches the half-gasped words from my lips.
The snowfall is so dense now that I don’t see the wall of the lodge until it’s right in front of us and Tashi pushes open the door.
I’m so numb with cold and tiredness and fear that I stand, stunned, my ears ringing in the sudden stillness. A cast-iron stove burns brightly in the centre of the room. A smiling woman, who is stoking the fire, gets to her feet. She picks up a silky white scarf from the counter and comes over to place it around my neck. Then she embraces me warmly.
‘Namaste, Mrs Daisy Like-A-Flower,’ she says, as if she’s known me forever. ‘Welcome to Phortse. I am your cousin Dipa.’
