Page 5 of The Sky Beneath Us
‘I am sorry,’ he says, his English fluent but heavily accented, the consonants soft. ‘My father and I are disturbing your meal with our argument.’
‘Not at all.’ I take another sip of tea, and then, emboldened by thesungditied round my wrist, I say, ‘I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but are you talking about the village of Phortse? A Sherpa village in the Khumbu?’
The older man turns to look at me. ‘You know Phortse?’ he asks, surprised.
‘I was supposed to be going there,’ I say. ‘But everything has changed and now I don’t have a guide.’
‘Why do you want to go there?’ the younger man asks. ‘Surely you’d rather go to Everest Base Camp, like all the other tourists? Even I don’t want to go to Phortse, and I live there! That’s what my father and I are speaking about. He wants me to come home with him and I want to stay in Kathmandu.’
His father turns to him, exasperated, and says in his broken English, for my benefit, ‘Stop to keep arguing, Sonam. Now is not good time to stay in the city. Can’t you see what’s happening in the world? There will be no work for us here. Everyone leaving. We must go home and help your mother. Is going to be hungry times ahead otherwise, for all.’
His son slumps in his chair and reaches for the bottle of water that sits between them, pouring more into his glass.
The older man looks across at me again. ‘But whydoyou want go to Phortse?’
‘I’m following in the footsteps of a long-lost relation. I had a great-great-aunt who lived there nearly a hundred years ago. I’ve always wanted to see where she went. My mother was supposed to be here with me, but the virus stopped that ... and now I’m here on my own and everything has changed and the guide I’d booked has cancelled ...’ I stop, aware that my explanation must sound increasingly garbled to them. I touch the red string bracelet again for courage and take a deep breath. ‘So if there’s any chance you’re going to Phortse, please can I come with you?’
He looks at me appraisingly. ‘What your name?’
‘I’m Daisy Laverock. Daisy – like a flower.’
‘And this relation you follow? They have name?’
‘It’s Violet Mackenzie-Grant. Also like a flower.’
He repeats it, almost as if it’s a surname: ‘Violet Like-A-Flower?’ The man’s expression doesn’t change but he nods, then stands and comes across to my table, placing the palms of his hands together in front of his heart in the traditional Buddhist greeting. ‘We are Sherpa. My name is Tashi, this my son, Sonam. Our work cancelled now because all the climbers and tourists are not coming, so we will take you to Phortse.’ He says something to his son in their own language and, with some reluctance, Sonam seems to give in, because he slowly gets to his feet too and comes to stand beside his father.
I scramble to my feet as well, excitement rising in my chest. ‘That would be wonderful! I’m so grateful. You have no idea what this means to me. How much would you charge?’
‘Is not an easy journey,’ Tashi warns, ignoring my question. ‘We will fly to Lukla and then it take four days trekking to reach Phortse. Do you know this?’
I nod. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve been preparing for months. And I already have a ticket booked for the flight to Lukla.’ I have it in the plastic folder in my bag. I pull it out to show him. It’s unlike the plane tickets we’re used to at home as it doesn’t actually specify a time and date, it’s just a note stating that we have paid for seats on a Yeti Airlines plane flying from Kathmandu to Lukla – a tiny airstrip on the side of a mountain, which has a reputation for being the world’s most dangerous airport. I scribble down my phone number and the name of my hotel on the back of the sheet of paper and hand it over.
He reads it carefully, then folds it and puts it in his pocket. ‘OK, Mrs Daisy. Then is agreed,’ he says. ‘We have few things tosort out here, but we will be at your hotel in two days’ time. No worry now, you travelling with Sherpas – number one best mountain guides in the world. I give you my word.’
‘Namaste,’ I say, placing my palms together in front of my heart as they have done. And then I watch them leave, wondering whether I’ll ever see them again and only realising, when it’s too late, that I don’t know how much it’s going to cost. I’ve also handed over my air tickets to a pair of complete strangers and I don’t have any way of contacting them. But I head back to the hotel with my spirits a little higher than they have been in days. Something in Tashi’s face makes me believe in his promise to guide me into the Khumbu. I’ll worry about the money later.
With a surge of excitement, I send an email to Mum, Davy, Stu and my girls to let them know the good news. I just may be able to follow all the way in Violet’s footsteps after all.
I lie down on my bed, twisting the thin red bracelet around my wrist. The fluttering of the prayer flags and the flickering flames of the butter lamps beside the stupa seem to enfold me still as I reach for Violet’s journal and begin to read, reminding myself again of the origins of her story and the path she eventually trod: the path of the warrior.
Violet’s Journal
FRIDAY, 9THSEPTEMBER, 1927
Miss Carmichael, our botany instructor, announced this morning that we would be studying at the Royal Botanic Garden at Inverleith today – our first official visit there as her class of gardening women. In her stentorian tones, she instructed us to bear in mind AT ALL TIMES that we were ambassadors for the school and would be judged accordingly by the gardeners and keepers we were about to encounter. ‘There will be no chattering,’ she said, fixing a couple of the more talkative girls with a particularly stern look. ‘You are there to learn, remember, and some of the staff still don’t take kindly to our presence. Miss Morison has used her influence to create a partnership of sorts with the Botanics and we are privileged to be allowed behind the scenes in the Glasshouses and the Library. Do not let her down.’
We obeyed as best we could, although as we walked through the tall iron gates there were a few excited outbursts, quickly silenced by another look from our teacher. We walked in silence, two by two, along the path. My visit to the Tropical Palm House at the weekend had been as a member of the public, but now my heart beat a little faster as we entered the main building as gardening women. I waseager to see behind the scenes, coming one step closer to the famous names of horticulture, plant hunters like Forrest and Sherriff whose specimens are housed here.
Following a welcome from the Regius Keeper himself – even the redoubtable Miss Carmichael seemed overawed by his presence – we were allowed into the Library. Never have I seen such a collection! We wandered in silence amongst the shelves of books and portfolios of botanical drawings. My fingers itched with a longing for my paintbox and pencils. And then we were shown the drawers of specimens. The collection seems to take up acres, and the librarian drew forth folder after folder containing pressed leaves, flowers and seeds, each one neatly labelled with its scientific name and the descriptions of where and when it had been found. We will have access to all of this in our future visits, so I shall have ample opportunities to bring my sketchbook along and make my own drawings. A blue poppy from the Himalaya caught my eye in particular. How I long to capture that extraordinary colour on paper and send it home for Ma and Pa to see.
We emerged at last into the open air of the gardens again. It was a glorious autumn day, far warmer than it had been last Sunday, although the wind still blustered through the trees, sending more flurries of leaves tumbling, so Miss Carmichael allowed us to take our packed lunches to a secluded corner of the arboretum she knew of, away from public view.
We turned the corner and disturbed a group of men who had already claimed the picnic spot. One of them got to his feet as we approached and greeted Miss Carmichael.
‘Good afternoon, George,’ she said. ‘This is my new class of gardening women, here on their first visit.’ She turned to us. ‘Ladies, these are some of the gardeners who work hard to keep the Botanics in such a good state all the year round.’
The man nodded, muttering a greeting to us.
