Kelly was not sure what kind of a festival; but it was to have taken place in the middle of September.
‘They were getting worked up for it when we left – prayer wheels going like the clappers and everything getting a scrub- out. Ah, a wonderful place entirely,’ Kelly said.
And indeed it sounded wonderful as he described it. The village of Yamdring lay at the bottom of a valley. The monastery was built into the hillside, terraced on seven rising levels. They had seen it first from a hill half a mile above, and the sun had glinted on its seven golden roofs. An oval lake, emerald green, lay below it with an island in the middle. On the island was a small shrine with a green roof; a bridge of skin boats connected the island with the mainland. They had looked down on it in the late afternoon, and a procession had been passing over the bridge.
‘Always having processions,’ Kelly said. ‘Lovely people. Childish really.’
It had been after nine when they left, too late to go anywhere, too early to make their separate ways. Houston took the girl home.
‘Come in and have a drink.’
‘All right,’ Houston said, and went up with her.
It was a bright, modern little flat, unlike his own somewhat rambling apartment; and more cluttered.
‘Don’t mind the mixture of styles,’ she told him, removing his coat. ‘There are three of us here, each with our bits of junk.’
‘Friends or relations?’
‘Oh, friends. Bachelor girls, as they say. Gin and something?’
‘And tonic.’
‘Sit down and brood. You’ve been brooding on your feet all evening.’
Houston sat down and brooded.
‘Your drink’s on the arm of the sofa,’ the girl said presently.
‘Thanks.’
‘All right now?’
‘Fine.’ He felt very far from fine. He had begun to tremble inexplicably in every limb. But he realized from the girl’s question and earlier quiet hints that he might be demonstrating rather more concern than the situation called for, so he smiled wryly and said, ‘You’ve got to look after young brothers.’
‘You two are fairly close, aren’t you?’
‘Fairly.’
‘Well, everything seems all right. He should be home quite soon, shouldn’t he?’
‘Oh, sure. Sure.’
‘Are you cold in here? You’re shivering a bit.’
‘I must have taken a chill,’ Houston said. He didn’t know what had come over him, but he knew it was not a chill. He had an urge to get out and walk about in the street; he felt restless and suffocated in the flat.
‘Any warmer now?’ she asked some time later.
‘Yes,’ Houston said, and he was, for the young woman was lying in his arms. ‘When are your co-bachelors coming back?’
‘Oh, later.’
Something in her voice made him deduce that they would not be coming back at all that night. He had a suspicion also that he was meant to deduce this. He didn’t think he wanted to do anything about it at the moment. He left quite early.
The girl went with him to the door, somewhat nonplussed.
‘I think you’d better take care of that cold.’
‘I will.’
‘Bed’s the place for you,’ she said, tentatively.
Houston smiled. ‘I’m going right to it,’ he said.
But he didn’t. He went for a long walk instead. It amused him that he had got along without women for quite a long time and now suddenly found himself with two. It had been like this for him on some occasions during the war. He wondered if he was the sort of man who turned to women at moments of crisis; and he wondered what the crisis was now. Hugh was coming back. He was coming back at the end of the month. All he had to do was get through the month.
4
When he looked back on it later, Houston remembered October chiefly as the month when he tried to get rid of Glynis. It was not a successful attempt. There were tears and recriminations, and also threats, for the girl said she couldn’t live without him. Houston, like many artists far from being a romantic, thought that she very easily could if she put her mind to it; but when he saw the pain in her eyes could not bring himself to take the final step.
He had told Lesley Sellers that he was now uncomplicated; for, as she said, she was a girl who didn’t like competition; and accordingly found his life more complicated than ever. His encounters with the Head grew no less acrimonious; he was permanently behind with a series of art appreciation classes that he had to prepare for an evening school; and ideas had run out on him permanently for his freelance work. He seemed to be scrambling about on an increasingly slippery slope. Everything about his life had become suddenly insecure and uncertain. He couldn’t understand how it had happened.
He found himself beginning to lean heavily on Oliphant, the classics master, a bachelor like himself, whose astringency of manner he found refreshing.
‘Do you find yourself able to make any plans these days, Oliphant?’
‘I never make plans.’
‘Something curious seems to be happening to me. I don’t know where the hell I am lately.’
‘Maybe you’re in love.’
‘Maybe I am. I wish I could think of something I particularly wanted to do.’
‘I should like to move to a bigger flat and to spend Christmas in Rome.’
And suddenly everybody was talking about Christmas.
‘Where are you jingling your bells this year, wonder boy?’
‘I’ve not really got round to that.’
‘I rather see myself in Paris. Any interest?’
‘It sounds very attractive.’
‘Let me know soon. I need to fix my family early.’
And only hours later, it seemed. ‘Charles, I’ve been thinking. Roy wants to go to Bournemouth for Christmas. We go to the same hotel every year. Do you think you could turn up there accidentally, too?’
‘I don’t know, Glynis. It depends on Hugh a bit. I’d have to see what he wanted.’
‘Well, naturally. I see that. Do you think he might like to come, too?’
‘He might,’ Houston said, doubting it very strongly.
‘When do you think you would know about him?’
‘I’m not really sure. I’ve not heard much lately.’
He had not heard anything. It was now the third week of October and there had been no news whatever. Lesley said that Lister-Lawrence was not expecting any special news. There was no question now of a missing party. The group would merely arrive on Indian territory. They would probably arrive between the 25th and the 30th when a trade caravan was expected.
The 25th came without news; and the 30th went, without news. Lesley said that Lister-Lawrence was away investigating a riot. In all probability the group was now on the way to Calcutta. They would very likely hear from them before they heard from Lister-Lawrence.
This, however, did not prove to be the case. On the 2nd November a cable arrived from Lister-Lawrence. He said the expected caravan had arrived on the 29th. No British subjects had arrived with it. He was making inquiries.
Houston entered upon the nightmarish month of November 1949.
It was during this month, he realized later, that the abbot and the Duke of Ganzing and the Governor of Hodzo, had found themselves in their most delicate situation. The governor had felt earlier that he could handle the matter locally and had not thought fit to communicate with the central government. In this he had shown an error of judgement, and he was not anxious to have it revealed. He had therefore concurred with the abbot’s plan, which was merely to say nothing until requests for information came from Lhasa; and then to announce that the party was missing.
By the middle of November he was wishing most earnestly that he had not concurred. The governor was an elderly man, and he had the clearest possible recollection of the British who had come with Colonel Younghusband forty-five years before. They were inquisitive men, who never stopped asking questions. They bel
ieved there was a reason for everything, and they were restless until they had found it. That four people were missing for some weeks on an ice-bound mountain would not seem to such men an adequate reason for giving up either the search or the inquiry into the party’s disappearance.
Above all, as the governor well knew, it was essential that foreigners should be discouraged from taking an interest in his country in this ominous year. So long as there was a possibility of any of the group being alive, interest would be taken. He had therefore, towards the middle of the month, come to a worrying decision.
The news went to Lhasa on 19 November and was radioed to Kalimpong on the 24th. Lister-Lawrence had it in Calcutta on the 25th, and passed it on to Stahl in London the same day.
But of all this at the time, of course, Houston knew nothing.
All he did know as November wore on was that his days were filled with activities which were becoming increasingly meaningless. He found himself going through the weeks like an automaton. He taught and corrected and lectured; and in the evenings did the same. Sometimes he made love. He had started making love with Lesley Sellers, but once in the course of twenty-four hours found himself doing the same with Glynis also. He regarded this performance with a somewhat weary hilarity.
He didn’t know what was the matter with him. He couldn’t bear to be by himself. His limbs seemed always to be tense, and he caught himself holding his breath. He couldn’t sit and he couldn’t lie. He couldn’t read and he couldn’t eat. Above all, he couldn’t sleep.
He knew that Stahl was in constant touch with Calcutta; and that Lister-Lawrence was in touch with Kalimpong; and that the Tibetan representative there was in touch with his government. Everybody was in touch with everybody else, but nobody knew what had happened to the missing party.
He went to see Stahl again. He asked whether it wasn’t time now for inquiries to be handled officially by the Foreign Office. Stahl said inquiries were being handled officially; Lister-Lawrence was an official. But the Foreign Office couldn’t be involved because the film party had no right to be in Tibet at all. They had gone in – certainly through no fault of their own – without authorization and hence at their own peril. The situation was difficult and obscure. It was causing him a great deal of worry, but he had no doubt they would have news soon.
This interview had taken place on 18 November; and the news had come one week later to the day: 25 November 1949, a Friday. Houston went out and got drunk. He remained drunk all the week-end.
He thought Glynis came in at some time on the Saturday; the flat was certainly tidy when he awoke on Sunday morning. She came again later, and he found her cleaning him up, and was aware presently that Lesley Sellers was there, too. He was in something of a stupor at the time, but he remembered thinking that it was very improper for the two young women to be there together. He realized he should have asked Glynis for the return of her key weeks ago; and that something must have gone sadly wrong with his planning. He heard snatches of their conversation.
‘I guessed it must have been that. When did it happen?’
‘Two or three weeks ago, apparently, but we only heard on Friday. The avalanche buried them all.’
‘They found the – they found them, did they?’
‘Oh, yes. They were all dead.’
‘Poor Charles. They were so terribly close.’
‘Yes.’
He had no recollection of the next week at all. He thought he went to school. Perhaps he attended his evening classes, too. He seemed to be out a good deal. He vaguely remembered having a fight with a man in a public house in Tottenham Court Road, and waking up one night in the tube terminus at Morden. He had confused impressions of both girls wanting him to go away somewhere.
And then it was December, and half a year had gone since he had seen his brother last; and everyone was telling him to pull himself together; and at length had had done this. He had gone in to see the Head and told her he would not be returning next term. And he had written to the L.C.C. Further Education authorities, telling them the same.
Then Lesley was asking finally and once and for all if he wouldn’t come to Paris because it would take him out of himself; and Glynis was asking in the same terms if he wouldn’t come to Bournemouth. And he thanked them both for their charity and forbearance and said that he wouldn’t; he meant to spend Christmas by himself.
And this was just as well; for on the afternoon before Christmas Eve, another Friday, when he was only mildly drunk, he had received a visitor. Stahl had telephoned first, at about a quarter to four; and at a quarter past his black chauffeur-driven Bentley had pulled up outside in the rain.
He had refused a drink, his restless eyes jerking spasmodically over Houston’s dishevelled figure, but had accepted a cigarette, and sat down looking round the room.
‘What I’ve got to say,’ he said flatly, ‘might not strike you as being particularly seasonal. I thought you might like to ponder it over the holiday.’
Houston said nothing. He wanted another drink, but he had caught the disapproving look in the roving eyes and thought he had better wait.
‘We’ve run into a rather curious financial problem. I don’t know if your brother ever mentioned it, but we take out an insurance policy for our unit members. Of course we now have four claims pending. For ten thousand pounds each. It’s a lot of money.’
‘It is,’ Houston said. Hugh hadn’t mentioned it.
‘The snag is, I’ve now heard there’s going to be some difficulty in collecting. The terms of the policy are that the company must pay out for death anywhere in the world from any cause except act of war. The only qualification is that a death certificate has to be produced. This is something we don’t have.’
‘I see,’ Houston said dully, in the pause that developed. He didn’t think that he wanted now to discuss the question of indemnity for his brother’s death.
‘It seems the certificate can only be issued by a British consul or some other accredited official. And he can only issue it if he has evidence – a doctor’s certificate or a signed report. Lister-Lawrence can’t get this. Apparently no local functionary can sign anything at all in Tibet without the authority of the central government. And the central government doesn’t seem to be very interested.’
Stahl took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘I don’t think there’s anything malicious in it,’ he said after a moment. ‘Lister-Lawrence takes the view that they’re merely nervous of any kind of foreign interest. He thinks they may be frightened of having to pay indemnity or of having to get into negotiations. Whatever it is, they’re not answering any inquiries, and the way it looks now no death certificate will be forthcoming.’
‘Of course,’ he went on, replacing his glasses and allowing his eyes to get busily back into orbit, ‘this doesn’t mean that the insurance company won’t eventually pay up. After a period, death will have to be presumed. But this might be a matter of years, and meanwhile there could be many difficulties for the dependants. Wister’s wife has two young children. Meiklejohn and Miss Wolferston both leave widowed mothers. There are complications about pensions, a whole lot of things. Naturally, we have a responsibility in this. We are trying to ease the burden. But I’ve been wondering the past few days if there mightn’t be another way that is worth trying.’
He was silent for a few moments, watching Houston.
‘I was wondering,’ he said, ‘if it wouldn’t be an idea for someone to go over there and see Lister-Lawrence. He’s a very busy man and he’s not been able to give this much of his time. If someone could have a talk with him, examine all the documents, perhaps get in touch with the Tibetan representative out there, it might be possible to build up a dossier that could, at the least, hasten the presumption of death. I was wondering,’ he said slowly, ‘if you’d like to do it.’
Houston looked quickly down at his burning cigarette.
‘You’d be acting as a kind of plenipotentiary or agent for all of the dependant
s,’ Stahl said. ‘Naturally, they’d contribute to your expenses. I don’t know that they’d have anything very much to contribute at the moment –’
‘I don’t know that I have myself,’ Houston said. ‘I’d better say right away, Mr Stahl, I’m not very – interested in indemnity for my brother’s death.’
‘Why,’ Stahl said mildly, ‘I was thinking more of the other claimants than of you. Pardon me. I appreciate your feelings, of course. I merely thought you were in the best position – a healthy young fellow with no ties. But it was just an idea.’
Houston gazed at him and his mouth dropped open. He had not thought of this aspect of it.
‘And as to money, I don’t think you need worry there. Your brother had salary coming from June. We’d be prepared to extend that to the end of March next, and to contribute to your expenses. Think it over, anyway.’
‘I will,’ Houston said, taken aback by this new view of the situation.
He thought it over for the next three days. He had made the decision by the time the office workers were streaming back after the holiday, and had telephoned Stahl to tell him so.
‘Of course,’ Stahl said. ‘I knew you would. When do you want to go?’
‘As soon as possible. I’ve got nothing to keep me here.’
Which was how, that winter, after many unsettling months, Houston came to embark upon his adventure. He had not visited any swamis. He knew nothing of Tibetan prophecies. He was a very ordinary young man who at the time, certainly, claimed no pre-knowledge of the extraordinary thing that was going to happen to him.
He said good-bye to the two young women who had served to distract him during the restless months and promised each of them that he would mend his ways with regard to the other. He offered the use of his flat to Oliphant for he knew the older man was uncomfortable in his own. And as the beneficiary of an eventual ten thousand pounds, he made a will.
The Rose of Tibet Page 4