Page 37 of The Sky Beneath Us
I parcelled up the other shoe and sent it back to Hetty for safekeeping in the last package of paintings and seeds I sent her. She’s doing a good job of finding purchasers for me in London and the money is transferred by wire to a bank in Kathmandu for me to pick up once a year. We’re getting by and, like my daughter, I’ve learned to stand on my own two feet.
Now is the best time for gathering seeds, as we enter the autumnal spell of clear, dry weather. I think I must have combed every inch of this valley by now, and know where the shyest flowers hide their faces. There’s a tiny blue poppy –Meconopsis horridula– that is a particular favourite of Themi’s, growing up beside the scree, where it clings to the thin soil in the most inhospitable of crevices. She’s turning into quite a knowledgeable botanist at the age of five!
There’s talk in the village of another expedition coming through, perhaps bringing opportunities for the menfolk to get work as porters or guides. They come more frequently these days, making reconnaissance trips into the high mountains. Nepal still refuses to allow mountaineers access from the south to the Everest range though, and so far the Mother Goddess, Chomolungma, remains unconquered. But Tibet has started allowing expeditions into the region from the north and the demand for Sherpa guides, with their unsurpassed knowledge of the mountains and their tremendous physical endurance, has greatly increased.
As I write this in the last rays of sunlight, sitting on the bench outside the southern wall of my little stone house, I wonder again – as I do every now and then – whether the time is coming for me to return to Scotland. But from what I hear, Europe is still a turbulent place to be, with economies still struggling and political unrest fermenting like a bucket ofchhaang. I feel no great urge to go back. It gives me far more satisfaction to sit here, looking out across the field of potatoes we planted back in the spring. The coverlet of dense green leaves holds the promise of a good harvest this year. In a couple of weeks’ time, Themiand I shall dig them up and store them in bamboo baskets ready for the winter. And so the wheel of the seasons turns again and the snows will soon cover the valley, before giving way to the promise of another spring. I think perhaps I’ll make plans to leave next year ... or then again, perhaps I won’t.
WEDNESDAY, 1STJANUARY, 1941
A new year, at least in the calendar I once used to use. We have to be patient and wait for the Nepali new year, which only comes around when spring arrives in April. The fields lie frozen beneath their blanket of snow and the sun only occasionally shows its face through the gaps between the mountains, its light a precious rarity at this time of year. My feet feel as heavy as my heart as I force myself to go through the motions of my daily chores, feeding the fire with disks of dried yak dung, boiling water for our tea.
The telegram I received from Helen sits on the table before me, the words it contains as unwelcome and unbelievable today as they were when it arrived three days ago. Numbly, I ponder the journey those words must have made, across oceans and mountains, carried by electric wires and passed from hand to hand to reach me. If it weren’t for the Red Cross, I’d still not know. I’d still think Hetty was alive. I’d still imagine there might be the possibility of being reunited with her one day. Killed in the Blitz, the telegram says. The house in London reduced to rubble. So many lives lost. And my sister – my lifeline – amongst them.
I’ve long since missed my chance to go back to Scotland. The war has slammed that door shut for now. When the news came that Britain had joined the fight, I felt concern for my family, of course, but I confess I felt such relief, too, that Themi and I were in this safe place. Stupidly, I thought the war couldn’t touch us here. But it has. It casts its pall over the whole world.
And so I must find my own ways to grieve for Hetty. Palden says he’ll speak to the monks and help me to arrange apujafor her. I will place a stone on themaniwall and wrap it in prayer flags. And I shall try to take consolation in the hugs Themi gives me. She climbs into my lap, wipes the tears from my face and begs me, ‘Don’t cry, Mummy. The flowers will come back again.’
The flowers will, but Hetty won’t. And how will I manage to find buyers for my seeds and paintings? How will we manage to survive?
I’ve felt lonely before. But only now do I realise what it means to be truly alone.
Daisy – April 2020
The call wakes me in the middle of the night. I sit up in bed, reaching groggily for my phone. Through a crack in the curtains, I see a crescent moon hanging in the midnight blue of the sky, its faint light making the snow on the summit of Khumbila gleam dimly. I press the phone to my ear, saying ‘Hello? Hello, Mum, are you there?’ into the silence. At first I think the call must have dropped, but then I hear a ragged breath and I realise my mother is struggling to speak at the other end, across the thousands of miles separating us.
She doesn’t have to get the words out for me to know it’s the worst of news. But then she manages, ‘Oh, Daisy, he’s gone.’
All I can say is ‘No’. As if denying it will make it untrue, will make everything okay again, will stop the virus from having killed Davy. And then I’m crying too, my sobs mingling with hers in the darkness.
She tells me she wasn’t allowed into the hospital to be with him when he died. One of the nurses had called her, holding her phone close to Davy so my mum could tell him she loved him – we all loved him – and that we just wanted him home. If he could only keep breathing, hold on, get through this, we were all waiting for him. She said he was surrounded by our love. We were holding him, we were with him.
She tells me that even though he was still unconscious, she saw his eyelids flutter at the sound of her voice. She thought she glimpsed a faint smile. And then he took his final breath, and the nurse was on the phone saying, ‘He’s gone, Lexie. He’s peaceful now. But he knew you were there.’
I let Mum talk, sensing her need to tell me. Then I say, ‘I’m going to come home. When will the funeral be? I need to be there, whatever the restrictions are.’
‘Oh Daisy,’ she sighed, sounding utterly defeated. ‘I don’t think there’ll be a funeral. They’re not allowed now. The bodies have to be disposed of carefully in case the virus can still be spread.’
I lean my forehead against the cold window, wishing I could be with her to hold her and comfort her – and have her comfort me in return. If we don’t have Davy’s funeral, will he be at rest? And will we? How will we ever be able to come to terms with losing him in this terrible way? I’m desperate to find the words to give her some peace of mind, to help her be strong in this moment of complete despair. And then Violet’s words come to me. ‘Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, Mum. Slowly, slowly. We will get through this.’ And I remember what Pema said and so I say those words too. ‘It’s the love in our hearts that makes us invincible.’
I hear her draw a deep breath. ‘Thank you, Daisy. I know you’re right. Davy filled our lives with so much love. That doesn’t make it easier to lose him, but we know we were so lucky to have him, don’t we?’
‘We do, Mum. And we’re so lucky to have each other. Who’s there with you right now?’ I can’t bear to think of her suffering alone. No one should ever have to.
‘Mara and Sorcha are here. They want to talk to you too. I’m putting you on speaker now, okay?’
I hear my daughters crying, calling for me through their sobs, and I try hard to make my voice reach out to them through the darkness, across the thousands of miles separating us. ‘He lovedyou so much too, you know. He was so proud of you both, always calling you his beautiful girls. I know he will have loved having you there these past few weeks.’
‘But Mum,’ Mara says, ‘what if it was us who gave him the virus? What if we brought it from London? What if it’s our fault?’
‘No,’ I hear my mother say firmly, before I can reply. ‘Don’t ever think it was your fault.’
Gratitude chokes me, hearing her take charge and reassure my girls. Then I hear Sorcha’s voice.
‘We’re worried about you, Mum, stranded there with nobody to support you. Are you going to be okay?’
I try to smile, so she will hear it in my words. ‘I’m fine, don’t worry. We have a great big sprawling family here. There are people I can talk to.’
But I realise how much I just really, really want to go home now, to be with them all there, giving and receiving comfort. ‘The minute I can, I’ll be on a plane back to Scotland, I promise. I’ll contact the embassy in Kathmandu again first thing in the morning and see if there’s any more news.’
