Violet’s Journal

S ATURDAY , 23 RD M ARCH , 1929

After four weeks in the field, I feel I’m getting into my stride at last. Once it had been agreed that I could accompany the expedition, Mrs Fairburn set about helping me procure everything I’d need. I’d confessed to her that I was almost entirely out of funds, but she told me not to give it another thought. ‘Now you are a working member, the expedition will provide,’ she declared. The Colonel has put me on the payroll and has given me the pay due to Callum, in order to tide me over. I confess, I wept with gratitude as I accepted it. It felt as though Callum was still watching over me, supporting and protecting his unborn child. As I push myself to climb the stony path ahead, I still see his smile and sense his arms around me, helping me along. Imagining him at my side gives me the courage to go on. And it feels good to be earning my own living for the first time in my life.

Mrs Fairburn has confessed to me that her husband has no great interest in plants. He’s a soldier and a diplomat, but above all an adventurer who loves exploring the remoter corners of the world. ‘The money to be made from finding new plants and sending them back to the botanic gardens in Edinburgh and Kew will provide us with a pension,’ she said. ‘That’s why he relies on the knowledge and expertise of the likes of you and Mr Andrews.’

I listened with interest, mindful of the fact that once my employment is at an end, I shall need to find ways to fund myself now my father will most certainly have carried out his threat to stop my allowance. Between selling my botanical illustrations and the possibility of sending new specimens back home, I wonder whether I may be able to find ways to support myself and my child in this remote corner of the world.

The Fairburns have been so very kind, moving the whole expedition team out of Kathmandu and into a small hotel in Godawari, set in the hills south-east of the city, to escape the danger of typhoid. In the fertile green gardens surrounding the hotel, they allowed me time and space to mourn the loss of Callum and to begin to come to terms with the turn my life has taken. I was grateful to be left alone for much of the time, and to take my meals in my room, not just to grieve all I have lost but also because I was beset with morning sickness. Perhaps it was all the travelling, or the trauma catching up with me, but I could scarcely keep down a thing. At first, I thought I might have succumbed to the typhoid that had taken Callum, and a part of me wanted it to be so. I longed to be with him again and the thought of going on was too much to bear at times. It would surely be easier to die than to face what lies ahead of me without him by my side. But bear it I must, for the sake of our child. However, I developed no other symptoms, so I quickly realised it was no more than my body’s natural response to pregnancy and the recent upheavals I had put it through. And so I forced myself to eat the rice that accompanied each dish, but I found I couldn’t tolerate the richer foods, nor even the pots of strong black tea that were brought with every meal.

The kindly waiter who delivered the trays to my room soon noticed my lack of appetite and took it upon himself to bring me an infusion made from mint leaves instead, which soothed my stomach. I have found it to be the perfect antidote to the nausea that besets me. He also brought me some delicious jam, made by his wife from golden raspberries that grow in their own garden. I devour quantities of it, spread on toasted bread.

Despite my attempts to nourish myself and my baby, I must have lost a little weight in the weeks following my arrival in Kathmandu as the gardening smocks I’ve brought with me – being the most functional items of apparel for practical work as well as for concealing my expanding waistline – hang on my frame even looser than ever. Apart from a scarcely discernible swelling of my belly, which is easily concealed beneath my loose smock, my stomach still remains flat. Coupled with the bulky overcoat that I shall wear in the mountains where it’s so much colder, my clothing will do a good job of concealing my condition for as long as possible and I don’t believe there are any other visible signs of my pregnancy yet. During our time at the hotel, my listlessness as a result of the sickness could be entirely ascribed to my grief.

I wanted to do nothing other than sleep. Grateful to lose myself in exhausted oblivion; grateful not to have to think or plan. When not in my room, I passed my waking hours sketching and painting in the hotel gardens, immersing myself in the colours of the exotic plants that bloom there. A series of waterspouts, like dragons’ mouths, fed a cistern from a hillside spring. Bougainvillea scrambled through the twisting branches of ancient fig trees, spilling waves of magenta and cerise through the dark leaves; sun-warmed jasmine breathed its sweet perfume into the air. There was also a curious shrub with the most heavenly scent, which bears flowers of pale blue, deepest purple and pure white all on the same branches. Mr Andrews – who would come and sit quietly alongside me sometimes to watch me at work – told me it is an import from South America and that its common name is the Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow bush because the successive flowers change colour so distinctively. It’s a shame it wouldn’t be hardy enough for the British climate.

Losing myself in my painting was a welcome distraction. Until now, I have had no inclination to write in my journal, nor to send a letter home to Hetty. She’ll be very busy with her wedding preparations and I want to let her imagine me happily reunited with Callum for the time being. There’ll be time enough to tell her all that has passed once her own nuptials have taken place. The Colonel has written to Callum’s parents to tell them the sad news of the death of their son. He asked me if I’d like to add a note to his letter, but I said no. I told Colonel Fairburn I would write separately, later. But the truth is I don’t wish to add to their anguish. Perhaps once the baby is born, I can let them know that they have a grandchild. I’m in two minds, though. I’m not at all sure how welcome that news would be to them.

So I was grateful for the time in Godawari whilst the final preparations were made for the expedition into the mountains. It helped me recover enough to face what lies ahead. Not just in terms of assuaging the nausea but allowing me to grieve and rest and restore a little more mental equanimity as well. Heaven knows, I shall need every ounce of my strength in the coming months.

The afternoon before we were due to leave, I was sitting, as usual, in the hotel garden with my sketchbook and my paints. Mrs Fairburn came to find me, to check that I was ready for the journey ahead of us. I reassured her that I was, having benefited greatly from three weeks of rest and recuperation since those terrible first days of my arrival in Kathmandu. She was full of optimism for the expedition ahead of us and described the preparations the Colonel has been making. ‘My husband complains I do not travel light, but you should just see the amount he’s accumulated to take with us. He’s got more than a dozen chop boxes filled with food alone – enough tea, coffee, pemmican, butter and tinned milk to feed an army. Old habits die hard!’ Perhaps she saw me blanch slightly at the thought of the tins of greasy meat paste, because she quickly added, ‘But don’t worry, I’ve made sure we have a few luxuries too, like chocolate and dates. I find I get such a craving for sweet things with all that hiking, don’t you?’ I forced myself to smile and nod, even as my stomach gave another silent heave.

In addition to the rations there are cases of medical supplies, plant-collecting equipment and our personal effects, as well as the canvas tents that will be our accommodation for the coming months. We formed quite the cavalcade as we set off the next morning, a string of porters urging their mules forwards, the cumbersome luggage strapped to the backs of both animals and men.

It felt good to make a start and I have discovered the relief there is to be had in walking. The simple act of putting one foot in front of the other focuses the mind, helping shut out the less welcome ruminations that run on a loop in my head. It gives me a purpose and seems to help quieten my nausea. Perhaps my baby enjoys the sensation of movement too, being gently rocked as I trudge along, up and down the hills.

We’ve skirted the city, passing through terraced rice fields, following paths uphill and down again, but slowly and surely gaining height with each day that passes. I’ve found I’m able to match the pace of the others with ease and feel my strength coming back. I’m thankful, now, for all those hours I spent at the gardening school pushing a plough or a wheelbarrow, and digging, mulching and turning the compost heaps. They’ve prepared me well for this.

As I walk, Callum is constantly in my mind. I talk to him – silently, of course – imagining him here with me, giving me the strength to keep going. Until this point, the climate has been largely subtropical. The hills to the north of the Kathmandu valley are a rich hunting ground and we’ve accumulated many interesting specimens. We forage in the mornings and then I usually return to camp to document our findings, preparing and annotating specimens to add to the collection that will eventually be sent home. I wonder who is working in the Herbarium back in Edinburgh these days and who will prise open the lids of the boxes and unpack my carefully pressed and wrapped folders. I hope they may spare a brief thought for the people who have walked so many miles and endured heat, rain and uncomfortable nights spent under canvas to seek out these new discoveries.

It’s been worth a bit of discomfort, though, as well as the challenges of finding a little privacy here and there to undertake one’s necessary bodily functions. The landscapes we’ve walked through have been so very beautiful – rolling green hills clad with verdant woodland in the main. But here and there we find valleys filled with the exuberance of colour one normally associates with the most highly cultivated gardens. This, surely, is how every plant would wish to live – unclipped, unpruned, growing free to realise its natural potential without being controlled and confined by man. Somehow, that thought reminds me of my father and my brother, and the life I’ve left behind. Perhaps, like the plants, I too shall thrive in the freedom of this environment.

Rhododendrons dominate, an unimaginable variety of subspecies bursting with clouds of red, pink and white blooms, growing to dimensions I have never seen back home. Cascades of wild roses tumble over rocky banks, scrambling into the branches of glossy-leaved camellias and towering magnolia trees. In one valley, the air was filled with the sweetest scent I’ve ever smelled. It turned out to be a variety of daphne, whose shy white flowers are the source of this heavenly perfume. We came upon a little hamlet where the inhabitants were engaged in making paper from it. They gather the fibres from the shrub’s bark and soak it well until it forms a pulp. This is then spread thinly on wooden frames and allowed to dry in the sunshine until a sheet of paper forms. The final product – called lokta paper – is a little rough, with flecks of plant material still visible in the finished sheets, but I think this only adds to its charms. I bartered a box of dates and a bar of chocolate for a supply of sheets, which I’ve folded and stitched together to make a new notebook. It will be useful when I’ve filled the pages of this one.

Yesterday we reached a small village that the local people call Lukla, meaning the place of goats and sheep. It’s obvious why – as we neared the village, we had to stop more and more frequently to allow the passage of bleating flocks. It’s no more than a few shacks clinging to the steep mountainside, but we’ve been able to find accommodation in a teahouse. We were served plates of the local food – a tasty combination of lentils, vegetables and rice. It’s simple fare, not overly spicy, and I must say it made a very welcome change from the slabs of Bovril pemmican we’ve been living on for the past month. I consumed about a gallon of mint tea as well and found it immediately eased the heartburn that has increasingly been plaguing me. I intend asking our guide, a cheerful Sherpa named Mingma, to bring a good supply of mint leaves with us on the next stage of the expedition.

It is such luxury to sleep under a real roof, albeit on a bedframe made of rough planks. The previous night our tents had frozen solid, jolting me awake as the canvas buckled and crackled with the weight of the ice. They had to be spread out on rocks in the morning sun before they thawed enough to be folded back into their packs. They never dry out properly in the humid forests at the lower levels and the canvas is spotted with black mildew, which smells unpleasantly musty. I’m glad we’ll be staying here for a few days so they can be properly aired. I’ve noticed how much dryer the air seems up here now. I can feel it rasping in my throat as I breathe deeply with the exertion of the climb. However, other than that I have so far still felt no effects of altitude sickness. It’s only now, though, as we are nearing ten thousand feet above sea level, that Mrs Fairburn warns we may begin to suffer a little more.

Blankets made of softest yak wool have been provided at the teahouse too. I slept the sleep of the dead last night, tucking one around me and folding another to fashion a comfortable pillow. I awoke to the strangest sensation. It was as if a butterfly were fluttering its wings deep in my belly. I put my hand there and felt the movement again. ‘Hello,’ I whispered, and my baby fluttered back its reply. ‘So you’re still there, are you, after everything I’ve put you through? I think you must be as sturdy as your parents.’

My underclothes are feeling a little tight in places now and I have to leave certain fasteners undone to allow myself space to breathe. Thank goodness my gardening smocks are still loose enough to conceal the bump of my stomach, and now we are reaching the cooler climes of the higher mountains, the folds of my overcoat will be a blessing as well.

From this point, Colonel Fairburn has decided to continue to follow the deep valley northwards. Then, when we reach the market town of Namche Bazaar, we will swing round to the west rather than making straight for the highest peaks that lie to the north-east of us. He’s hoping we’ll find richer pickings in the less well-mapped western valleys as we continue to search for more unusual spring flowers. The expedition will swing round towards the east later in the season to reach the glaciers marking the foot of the highest mountains of all, the home of Mount Everest and her sister peaks. Our guide, Mingma, who is a member of the Sherpa people, refers to the highest mountain in the world by the name of Chomolungma, the female deity they believe inhabits the summit. He would never climb it, he tells me. His people believe it would be disrespectful to stand on top of the head of the goddess. Those high valleys should be more accessible by the time our expedition’s circuitous route leads us into them. It’s intriguing to wonder what alpine plants – if any – might be found there. Tiny rosettes and cushions of leaves, perhaps, which have somehow adapted to life on the edges of survival and cling on in the most extreme of conditions.

Tomorrow we’ll send off a tea chest full of specimens on the first leg of its long journey back to Britain. I’ve scribbled a letter for Hetty too, to tell her of the horror and devastation of losing Callum. At least I can reassure her now that I’ve managed to find a way forward once again. She must be counting down the final days to her wedding so, by the time my letter reaches her, she will be Mrs Rufus Ogilvy. I made sure to write the strange name and address on the envelope.

It put a lump in my throat. We are such worlds apart now.