The Kashmir Shawl

by Rosie Thomas

  Later she tiptoed inside and began to prepare some food, but when she turned to look at him she realised that his eyes were open and resting on her.

  ‘Tell me I’m not dreaming,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not, unless I’m dreaming the same thing.’

  He reached out his good arm. ‘Come here.’

  Carefully, so as not to jostle him, she lay down in the narrow space. He put his lips against her forehead. ‘That’s better.’

  Her heart was thumping so hard, she wondered if he could feel it against his scarred ribs.

  At last, he began. ‘I got myself out of a military clearing hospital. I’m only a civilian, and one with dubious national status at that, so they didn’t try too hard to hang on to me. I managed to get on a flight to Delhi, and I’d left the truck with a friend of mine there so I was able to pick it up and drive straight here.’

  She could see what this effort had cost him.

  ‘All the time I was lying there I was thinking that I’d promised to take Caroline and you to Baramulla. If I could have got word to you, I would have done.’

  She smiled at him. ‘I knew that. I admit that I was worried when you didn’t come, but the anticipation was much worse than the reality. Babies are born all the time in Kanihama, you know.’

  ‘I am sure you were magnificent. As always.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Nerys laughed. ‘The village midwife was the heroine. That was her special healing potion you were drinking.’

  ‘I hope it will work,’ he said, with a touch of grimness.

  She waited.

  ‘So, I did my conjuring trick. That’s all it was, just an illusion on a grand scale. The British were reluctant to give me what I needed at first, because it was a top-secret mission and I had no security clearance. As far as the brass are concerned, I’m German-sounding enough to be an enemy agent. But they had to let me work it in the end, because there was no one else with the skill to do what they needed.’

  It was good, Nerys thought, to hear the old Rainer talking.

  ‘As you know, I had to move the airstrip so the Japs would bomb the wrong place. Against a dense jungle backdrop it’s very difficult to judge scale from the air, especially at night, so on a similar site two miles up the coast we cleared an area one third the size of the actual landing area and constructed a scaled-down version of the real thing. I was given a team of British sappers. We built and painted balsa-wood planes, huts, storage dumps, dummy fuel stores, everything. I flew over it in a reconnaissance plane, just a few hundred feet up, and it was superb. The real site was invisible under camouflage netting, the other looked identical. Of course, part of the mission was to convince the Japs that they’d taken out the fuel dumps as well as the planes. Fuel’s crucial in any battle. If the enemy thinks you’ve got none when you have plenty, that’s a tactical advantage.’

  There was a small silence while Nerys considered this. The trick would have involved staging a huge blaze, she thought.

  ‘We had explosives, enough to create a big bang. We constructed a pyre that would burn well and doused it with fuel. There was a system of detonators that I was controlling, so as soon as there was a direct hit on the dump I could make the whole works explode in flame, just like a cache of aviation fuel going up.’

  Rainer paused, searching for words.

  ‘This took a certain amount of trial and error. Difficult to do, without smoke plumes giving our position away to enemy spotter planes. So we built a kind of tunnel within a tunnel, in which to test the detonator systems. I had two of the sappers inside, setting up the lines.’

  He put a hand over his eyes. Then he said in a level voice, ‘Something went wrong. A dropped light, a stray spark. I don’t know. The tunnels caught fire. Within a second, they were ablaze. I went in, but I couldn’t reach the men.’

  Nerys imagined the thick, smothering humidity of the remote jungle, the black smoke in an enclosed place, the stench of burning.

  ‘That happened the day before the operation. I wasn’t there to see it, but when the time came the fake airstrip was lit up in place of the real one and sure enough the Japs came over. I understand that the explosion and burning of the false fuel dumps was most effective.’

  He paused, shifting to ease the pain from his burns. ‘I’m glad of that, for the sake of those two men.’

  ‘Yes,’ was all she could say.

  Rainer wiped his mouth with the back of his good hand. ‘You were kind enough to offer to change these dressings? There is a box in the truck.’

  She went out again into the sunshine, and saw Farida patiently standing near the door with Zahra swathed in a shawl on her back. Nerys held out a hand and led her into the house.

  ‘Look, here’s Farida,’ she told Rainer. ‘And this is Zahra.’

  He propped himself up. Nerys and Farida turned back the shawl to reveal the baby’s wide dark eyes, olive skin and crest of jet-black hair. Hesitantly, he put a scarred finger to the tiny cheek. ‘Hello,’ he said. Then he looked up and met Nerys’s eyes. ‘I’m glad to see that there are beginnings as well as endings,’ he said.

  As she walked to the Ford, Nerys looked up at the mountain-tops. The snow was melting fast, filling the stream that dashed past the dyers’ sheds in an icy flood. Very soon, the high passes would open and the road from Kargil would be clear again.

  TWELVE

  A startling crash in the undergrowth, then a long rattle of stones rolling downhill made Mair jump. She swung round and glimpsed a goat’s scrawny hindquarters as it dashed away. A second later its stink swept over her and she was instantly transported back to Changthang, where all the weeks of exploration had begun. And here, in the abandoned village, was where her unravelling of the shawl’s history finally ended.

  Mehraan’s father’s and grandfather’s families and the other kani craftsmen had lived and worked in this huddle of cottages, now little more than broken walls surrendered to the weeds and thorn bushes. In the middle of the rough square stood a gaunt tree trunk, the scorched and splintered wood indicating that it had been struck by lightning. She picked her way past it and stood in the doorway of the biggest house. Looking upwards through the bare rafters she could see a lammergeier riding on the upward draughts of air.

  There were a few scraps of abandoned furniture on the earth floor of the house, an old aluminium pot among the mud-brick rubble, the chimney pipe of a cooking stove tilted in one corner. It was like the old mission house in Leh. The people who had lived here were gone, and they were never coming back. The links were broken.

  Shivering a little, Mair went outside again and wandered away to the edge of the village where the river rushed down through a rocky ravine. There were more derelict buildings here, roofs of rusted corrugated iron hanging at dangerous angles, a corner of one sheet creaking in the wind as a counterpoint to the splash of water. Downhill, across a bend in the river, Mair could pick out a red dot. It was the Coca-Cola baseball cap worn by the driver from the Srinagar travel agency, who had brought her up here on a half-day excursion in the inevitable white Toyota.

  She sat down on a flat rock and looked over at the remains of Kanihama.

  Mehraan’s grandfather, the weaver who had signed his work with a double BB, was dead, his son too, and the villagers had moved elsewhere. Fine shawls were still made in Kashmir, and were bought for weddings and stored as precious currency, or else they went to Delhi and from there to the expensive shops of the West, but they were not woven in this village. This place belonged to the shepherds and their animals.

  Abruptly Mair jumped up again. The scent of the wind, the smell of animal dung, even the patches of hardy turf between grey rocks reminded her of home and the old house in Wales. As longing for the valley swept over her, she heard her father’s voice. ‘Had enough of your travels? Come on, come back to us.’

  She blinked. He was gone, but what he had said was right. It was time to go home. She wanted to see Hattie and her other friends, her brother and sister.


  There was one more visit to make in Srinagar, and after that she was ready to leave. Mair put her hands in the pockets of her coat and began to skip downhill.

  ‘Here you are again. How jolly,’ Caroline called out, as soon as Aruna showed her into the room.

  There was sitar music quietly playing but Aruna switched it off and ostentatiously tidied the handful of CD cases. Caroline’s bandaged leg was still propped up and there was a smell of antiseptic. She began talking as if no time at all had elapsed since Mair’s first visit.

  ‘I’m so glad you dropped in. Seeing the shawl again brought it all back, you know, such marvellous memories. They were dear, loyal chums to me, Myrtle and Nerys were. I remember it all perfectly. The Garden of Eden. How we used to laugh about that.’

  ‘Srinagar was like the Garden of Eden?’

  Caroline gave a long peal of laughter. ‘No, I mean the houseboat. Myrtle’s – on the lake.’

  ‘Oh, I see. The names. The one I’m staying in is called Solomon and Sheba.’

  ‘What fun. It’s terribly good of you to take time to visit an old crock like me. There must be masses of things you’d rather be doing on your holiday.’

  ‘No,’ Mair said. ‘Really, there aren’t.’

  ‘Do have some gin. I’m not supposed to drink, the doctor now tells me. But I can give you some – don’t suppose that will do me any harm, eh? Aruna, where are you?’

  Remembering the last time, Mair insisted that she would much prefer tea. Aruna was despatched to make it. ‘I’ve brought a photograph to show you,’ she said, as soon as they were alone together.

  Caroline’s white head turned. ‘Have you, dear?’

  Mair knelt by her chair and held up the picture. ‘If I turn this light on, and hold it towards the window as well, do you think you could see it?’

  Slowly, stiffly, Caroline took it and drew it so close that it touched her nose. She screwed up her eyes so that they were almost swallowed in loose skin crosshatched with wrinkles. Her other hand patted the folds of her clothing and retrieved a pair of glasses on a cord. By setting these in place and angling her neck to one side, she seemed able to bring it into focus.

  She studied it for a long time.

  ‘Yes, that was the Garden of Eden.’ She pointed with a knobbly finger. ‘That’s Myrtle McMinn, with your grandmother, Nerys, the dear creature. Look at us. We were girls, weren’t we? Hardly more than children ourselves.’

  She let the picture drop on to her chest. Without warning, tears ran down her cheeks. She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and dried her eyes.

  Mair whispered, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘Not at all. I’m just being silly. So long ago, you know. So long I can hardly believe I was once that girl.’

  ‘Can you remember who took the picture? Was it your husband? Or Mr McMinn? Or maybe my grandfather?’

  ‘Evan Watkins? Such a stern, sweet man he was. No, it wasn’t him.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  Caroline shook her head. She smiled through her tears, a very old person’s wily, secretive smile. ‘It was the magician. My goodness, he was the pin-up. Whatever was his name? I can’t have forgotten.’ Her face clouded, then cleared again. ‘I remember. His name was Rainer,’ she said.

  Mair actually heard a click, like a key fitting a lock.

  At Lamayuru, the night before the terrible day, Bruno Becker had told her that his mountain-guide grandfather had worked for Rainer Stamm, the mountaineer. The two of them had almost died in an attempt to climb the north face of the Eiger. She could precisely recall the cadences of Bruno’s voice, and she could almost taste the cognac on her tongue. ‘Rainer Stamm?’

  Caroline nodded in surprise. ‘Why, yes. That’s right. Do you know him?’

  ‘I don’t. His name was mentioned to me by someone else, when we were on our way from Leh to Srinagar.’

  ‘Who would that be?’

  ‘Bruno Becker. He’s Swiss, and he’s married to an American woman called Karen.’ She thought that the names just might mean something to Mrs Bowen. She added, ‘They had a beautiful little daughter called Lotus.’

  ‘They had?’

  The forensic sharpness of the question took Mair aback. She said quickly, regretting her lack of foresight, ‘It’s a very sad story. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to bring you bad news.’

  Aruna carried in the tea tray. There was a homely patchwork tea cosy, china cups and a battered silver bowl containing sugar cubes with a pair of clawed tongs. It all looked much more appealing than warm gin.

  ‘I don’t know these people,’ Caroline said. ‘Do you take milk and sugar? Please go on.’

  Mair hesitated. ‘I met the Beckers by chance in Leh and we set out from there together. We were cut off on the way by a heavy snowstorm, and at the place where we were staying the little girl was bitten by a rabid dog. I heard a few days ago from her father. I’m afraid she didn’t survive.’

  Caroline put down the milk jug. Her hand shook and china clinked on the tray. ‘I am so very sorry to hear that. How painful for her family. The death of a child is a great tragedy.’

  Aruna took the filled teacup from her and passed it to Mair. ‘Don’t be tired,’ she warned the old woman. Over Caroline’s head she glowered at Mair.

  ‘I am so pleased you brought me the photograph,’ Caroline murmured, and sweetly smiled. She’s slipping into forgetfulness, Mair thought. The old lady didn’t really have any idea who her visitor was. The photograph represented a tiny piece in the mosaic of her memories, the pattern still bright and sharp in places but rubbed into a featureless monochrome in others.

  Caroline seemed to be talking to herself now more than to Mair. She nodded. ‘Yes, it must have been precious to Nerys. The picture, and the shawl too.’

  Mair took it out of her bag one last time and shook it out so it floated on the air between them. ‘When I showed it to you the other day, you said something like, “This was Zahra’s.”’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘So … I wondered if you would like to have it? To give back to Zahra, perhaps?’

  It was a stab in the dark, no more than that. But the reaction was startling. Caroline threw up her hands. ‘Oh, no, no, thank you. Poor little Zahra. It was a way of paying for her, you see. Yes, that was what it was. Oh dear. Now I am going to cry.’

  Appalled, Mair saw how Mrs Bowen crumpled like a winter leaf. She was completely at sea now.

  Aruna marched forward and put her hand under Mair’s arm, propelling her to her feet. ‘Mrs Bowen must not be upset so much. I ask you to leave her in peace, not to come with these old things.’

  ‘I’m s-sorry, so sorry,’ Mair stammered.

  Aruna almost frogmarched her to the door. Caroline’s face was hidden in her hands.

  ‘Please forgive me for upsetting you,’ Mair called to her.

  Outside the room Aruna rounded on her. ‘Why do you come here to talk of these hurts? She lose her own little girl. You know so much but not this? Long time ago, but she spend many, many years in England in asylum. She come back here to Srinagar and life is quiet for her. Please respect.’

  ‘Of course. Of course I will. I didn’t know.’

  Caroline called loudly, ‘The letters, Aruna. From Nerys. They are in a box. I want the young woman to have the letters. She is my friend Nerys Watkins’s granddaughter, you know …’ Her cracked old voice shook with urgency, but Aruna almost bundled Mair into the street. The door closed firmly on her. Mair waited for a moment or two and knocked again, but she knew there would be no answer.

  The blue mountains were doubled in the flat lake water, and a twinned reflection turned every passing shikara into a strange insect suspended in glassy air. In the shallows beside the Garden of Eden, lotus flowers turned their creamy petals into the sunshine. Sighing with satisfaction at the view and the day’s springtime perfection, Myrtle drained her glass and held it up to let Majid know she needed a refill.

  She had cur
led her hair, applied her favourite dark red lipstick, and there was a determined gaiety in her manner. Nerys noticed how many drinks she had had, but she well knew that this was how Myrtle dealt with a low mood. The latest news of Archie was that he had been posted nearer to the front line but Myrtle would never express anxiety, even to Nerys and Caroline. She sparkled today as she always did, although there was a metallic glint in her brilliance.

  ‘Do you realise what we have here?’ she cried. ‘Three mothers and one daughter. That’s rather lovely, don’t you think?’

  Nerys had brought Zahra down from Kanihama. The baby lay in her red and green woven wicker basket under the shade of an awning. She was a tranquil little creature, accepting her bottle from whoever was on hand to give it and gravely eyeing the world from Nerys’s arms or from her sling on Farida’s back. Sometimes Caroline could be encouraged to hold her, but the tense lines of her shoulders and her shadowed smile betrayed her uncertainty. The other two women didn’t try to force the issue. Ever since she had given birth, Caroline had been in a delicate mental state. Some days, Myrtle reported, she lacked the will even to get out of her bed in the houseboat. Myrtle didn’t think she was fit to go back to her bungalow in the compound, but Caroline had numbly insisted that this was what she must do.

  ‘Otherwise what will people think?’ she said. ‘I’ve completely recovered from my so-called fever. I told Mrs Dunkeley so. You have both been so kind to me. If only I knew what was going to happen to Zahra …’

  Her eyes filled with tears all over again. Caroline cried too often these days, at a dead bird glimpsed by the roadside, a crippled child begging in the bazaar. Nerys and Myrtle hurried to reassure her. ‘Zahra is well and happy. As far as the world is concerned, she will be a mission orphan, just like Farida and her brothers. There’s nothing to link her to you or to Ravi Singh,’ Nerys said, for the hundredth time.