Violet’s Journal

T HURSDAY , 5 TH S EPTEMBER , 1935

Themi and I have spent the past week up at the Valley of Flowers, staying in one of the yak herders’ huts there to save us the walk to and from the village each day. Themi is perfectly able to manage the distance, which is only a couple of miles, but it still takes us quite a time. Although she trots along at a good pace at my side on her sturdy little legs, she stops so frequently to wonder over a flower or a beetle that she’s spotted that our progress can be slow. Like mother, like daughter, I suppose! She’s completely outgrown the beautiful leather shoes Hetty sent, of course, and they’ve long since been exchanged for a pair of yak hide boots made for her by Palden. I remember, fondly, the days when she learned to walk by clinging to the hem of my striped apron to pull herself up. She was soon tottering around with the other children in the village, helping pick stones out of the fields and playing games in the dust. I’ve put one of the shoes in a niche in the wall behind the fireplace. It’s a memory of the bothy in the Scottish hills, another way of remembering Callum and keeping him with us. Whilst I don’t believe any evil spirits could harm my daughter in this place, I like to think of her daddy still watching over her.

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 of chhaang . 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, Themi and 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.

W EDNESDAY , 1 ST J ANUARY , 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 a puja for her. I will place a stone on the mani wall 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.