I felt neither tough nor brave. I was angry and embittered. The past could not be altered. I would never again see either my grandparents or my mother, and I could not think of them in the past because the love I felt for them was with me in the present. I would not detach myself from the memories of how they cared for me as their granddaughter and daughter. It was impossible to reconcile life with death! Grief was so hideously, fucking lonely.
The only thing that kept me going was love for my sons. And that gave me the strength to limp on, albeit emotionally battered and bruised, into the future.
I searched the wintry skies for signs of the rescue helicopter. My ears strained against the occasional gusts of wind for the sound of its engine and blades. We’d been waiting an hour and twenty minutes, but it felt an eternity. And then I spotted a small, dark dot in my line of vision, but, with growing dismay, I watched as it circled distantly a few times then left. Paranoia set in. My children would finish their day at school soon and I wouldn’t be home in time for them. I needed to get hold of the school and Leon’s gran.
‘I just spoke to the police again. They’ve confirmed Mountain Rescue is on the way. Ten more minutes, Sarah. Hang on in there,’ Ollie comforted. I was cold in my awkward position, but heartened by the prospect of imminent rescue.
‘If this had happened somewhere that doesn’t have Mountain Rescue I’d be screwed. I’d have to try and drag myself back to the car on my elbows,’ I said.
‘I’d leave you. I wouldn’t be able to stand listening to you saying how raging you are at yourself!’ Ollie joked.
Suddenly the helicopter appeared over the mountain, its powerful blades whirring. It flew overhead, its pilot assessing the geography, while two figures at its open door, dressed in khaki clothing, gesticulated that the helicopter was going to fly around. Watching as it disappeared behind the curve of the mountain, I now felt a sense of urgency, I needed out of this remote place. Once more the helicopter rose into view then positioned its bulky metallic body directly above, rupturing the airflow and causing spindrift to thrust icy particles into our faces. I felt like I was going to slide again and tensed every muscle until my rescuer was winched down. Unclipping himself, he asked my name, age and what I’d hurt before strapping up my useless appendage and tying my good leg onto the splint too. ‘We’re ready to take you up. Keep your arms down and bend your knees like you’re in a sitting position.’ I closed my eyes as I was pulled high above the ground, but opened them when the downdraft from the helicopter’s blades caused me to spin on the cable. I was frightened my splinted leg was going to thwack off the opening into the cabin.
Once I’d been safely hauled into the far corner, I thought about Ollie. I felt bad that we’d driven all this way and didn’t even summit the mountains, that he’d had to hang around in the cold waiting for the rescue team and that now he had to do that long walk back to the car with my backpack as well as his own. In a way I hoped my ankle was broken so that my guilt was justified on account of both Ollie and the Mountain Rescue service – who had scrambled not only the aircrew, but also a team of sixteen who had been making their way to me by road. I’d put a lot of people out. An ambulance was waiting to transfer me to a hospital in Fort William, and as soon as I was there I asked to use a phone. My mind at rest that the boys would be fine, I was able to let the staff get on with their job. Medics crowded around.
‘I’m going to need to take your boot off,’ a nurse said apologetically.
‘Please give me drugs before you take it off . . . please!’ I begged her, with an eyeball-twisting wince.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shaking her head.
Turning my head, I closed my eyes and gripped the doctor’s arm and bedrail as the boot was pulled. An X-ray confirmed what had been obvious: my ankle was broken. Back at the cubicle the nurse stripped me of my damp clothing.
‘I didn’t expect that!’ she said, laughing.
‘Is that how you hillwalkers dress these days?’ asked the surprised doctor as he checked me out in my sparkly silver sequinned mini-dress.
‘My Munro tally would have been 150 today. This was my outfit for the summit photo,’ I explained.
‘I’ll take your photo for you now if you like?’ said the smiling nurse.
‘Can you wait till Ollie gets here with my afro wig? It’s in my backpack,’ I answered as a junior doctor fidgeted with a cannula, trying to insert it into my frozen, contracted vein. The staff were laughing. But I was now groaning as the anti-sickness fluid went in, ripping into my veins like a cat’s claw.
‘Don’t worry,’ the first doctor said, ‘you’re about to get the good stuff.’
‘Wooow!’ I purred in my silver dress as the morphine took effect, but despite the drug the doctor’s several attempts at manipulating my bones back into place were still painful. I was at the hospital for over two hours before Ollie arrived, and four hours before they discharged me, telling me that I’d need to go home and attend hospital in Inverness the following day. My ankle was going to need surgery.
Ollie drove me back to Nairn.
‘How are you going to get up four flights of stairs?’ he asked. ‘Do you want me to support you so you can hop?’
‘I think it’d be less traumatic for my ankle if I shuffle up the steps on my butt, but thanks for the offer. And you don’t need to hang about waiting for me to get to the top, I’ll be fine,’ I assured him: I’d wasted enough of his time.
‘Okay. Well, if you’re sure? I’ll get off. Take care,’ he said. And with that he left.
I hadn’t shed a single tear all day – I’d sworn a lot but hadn’t cried, until now. The exertion of getting up each dusty, dirty step of the communal stairwell was too much and I sobbed bitterly. A combination of the drugs and pain, frustration at how unnecessary the accident was and the question of how I was going to manage was overwhelming.
But although it all seemed so bleak, the accident was like the squeeze of a gun’s trigger, and I was about to embark on a journey out of the blackness.
PHASE THREE
STEPS IN THE SUNSHINE
‘Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter — and the Bird is on the Wing.’
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, VII
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
One Thing Leads to Something Else
The day after my accident, I asked my friend Paul to take me to hospital. I’d met him several years earlier when I was still with Sam. I’d needed to arrange some cosmetic repairs to the flat’s interior, damaged by the leaking roof, and Sam had noticed him carrying out some work on the property next door. Paul agreed to come to the flat early evening and work till nine o’clock most nights, weekends too. He put on new skirting boards and facings, and I would sand, stain and oil them. He replastered and taped walls and ceilings for me to paint. He worked hard and I liked to watch. I liked how he wasn’t full of typical male bravado; I liked the look on his face as he scribbled measurements and worked out sizes. He was competent, hardworking and honest, but best of all he spoke kindly and was nice to me. The worse things had become between Sam and me, the more I looked forward to times when I’d see Paul.
We’d stayed in touch over the years – whenever I needed a hand, whether with a bit of carpentry or tinkering with my car, it was him I turned to. And he always made himself available to me. So when I called him after my accident, he said he was happy to help.
For the first couple of weeks after surgery I was doped up on industrial-strength painkillers, and by mid February I felt toxic. All the while Paul had popped in and out to make sure I had what I needed, and that the boys were okay. One of my neighbours, who’d heard about my accident, also visited the flat, bringing us home-cooked meals; she even insisted on washing dishes and tidying up the kitchen more than once. I was bowled over by the kindness and generosity of this woman, who had been a tot
al stranger before this. I found her motherly presence comforting, and her help invaluable; I was so grateful for her visits.
Fed up with taking pills, I reduced my dose. Continuous fatigue eased off and I soon realised that the good thing about being laid up meant there was plenty of time for reflection.
I took stock of my life, of the things that were making me unhappy, and the things I had the power to change, and the most obvious one was my career. After years of trying, I had to admit that teaching just wasn’t for me. So I was going to forget it and return to my painting. I felt guilty for abandoning the path Mum would have picked for me; in some ways, even though she had been gone so long, I still sought her approval, but my time on the mountains had given me more confidence in myself and I was ready to cast aside idealised memories and choose a way that was going to make me, and therefore my children, happier.
Paul made me a huge easel and I was fired with enthusiasm. He’d also made other contraptions for keeping my leg raised at a comfortable angle on the sofa and the bed. I was coming to rely on him more and more, not just because he was helpful, but because he was patient and kind. It had only been a couple of years since I’d separated from Sam, but I began to muse what it might be like to be Paul’s girlfriend.
When the boys were at school I continued my reading. I re-read my art school ‘bible’, E. H. Gombrich’s The Story of Art. I read the biography of the Mexican artist Frida Kahlo, and then I flicked through 501 Great Artists and was drawn to the image Baby Giant. The artist, Leonora Carrington, based her artworks on Aztec myth and mysticism. Before my accident I’d done a painting influenced by my own travels through Peru. These women inspired me to learn more about Latin American mythology. The reading I’d done supported my gut instinct. I was going back to my art, a world where I knew I belonged.
At last I was beginning to accept myself for who I was and not who I thought I should be.
Pondering what I might like to paint, I came across The Origin of the Milky Way by the Venetian artist Tintoretto and decided to make a colourful reproduction, to scale. The painting reminded me of my interest in Greek mythology, the universe, the stars from which we all come and nature itself. I looked out a varied selection of reading material to digest during long hours of incapacitation on the sofa – from Granite and Grit by R. Turnbull and The Greek Myths by Robert Graves to the Children’s Encyclopaedia of World Religion. I find religion fascinating. Within its different branches there is such a rich diversity of practices and rites, yet commonalities also exist between different world religions and ancient myths. I felt excited by the possibility of working on a body of paintings, drawing from the theme of religious creation stories.
It was while I was carrying out more in-depth research on Hinduism that I had my next brainwave. I should go to the Himalayas! Excitement about an overseas trip grew; it would be ideal, combining a study trip with the enjoyment of mountains! And while it was not my initial reason for going, it did not escape my memory that this was where Gerry had died. I could visit his final resting place, and something about that felt like a fitting tribute to the man who had had such a profound impact on my life.
By early March I was able to get out on crutches. It was great to be more mobile again; I could sit properly and walk about the flat and I got to work on my new paintings. I even managed a couple of nights out when Paul drove me to and from Inverness to attend evening lectures by the climbers Stephen Venables and Simon Yates. Captivated by the former’s description of his Himalayan expedition, I bought his book A Slender Thread, which I positively devoured and which revived my lust for a return to the hills.
One afternoon, as I rested on the sofa, I gazed at a painting Gerry had sent to my mum from Kathmandu. I’d never been fond of it, but I’d kept it as it had been special to her and that made it special to me. I looked at the multi-peaked, icy mountain against a lime-green wash and powder-blue sky. I could appreciate the artist’s faithful rendition of the soaring bird of prey, and I pondered the painting’s two signatures, R. L. Fleming and H. Poudyal. Fleming was leader of the 1975 expedition and I was sure I remembered my mum telling me that it was a friend of Gerry’s who had painted the picture.
On top of the wardrobe in my bedroom was a small, sturdy black case that had belonged to my mum. Retrieving the dusty case from its time-honoured post, I unclicked its silver clasps. Immediately the nostalgic and familiar scent of old paper wafted up. Once upon a time all Mum’s secret stuff had been kept in here – private letters and photos. Before she died she had thrown out most of its contents but a few items survived: airmail letters from Gerry, a slightly out-of-focus Polaroid (the only picture of the pair together), photographs of him on expedition and, the item I was after, the bottle-green notebook detailing his Himalayan climbing exploits.
I read about climbs Gerry made to the Atlas Mountains, Morocco, to Tirich Mir in the Hindu Kush range of northwest Pakistan and to Indrasan in the Himachal Pradesh. But it was the 1970 Annapurna expedition in Nepal that made me feel most proud of his achievements. Annapurna is the tenth-highest mountain in the world; Gerry’s ascent of it was a first for a British expedition team, and only the second in the mountain’s history. (The first ascent of its north face – and in fact the first ascent of a mountain higher than 8,000 metres – had been made by the French mountaineers Maurice Herzog and Louis Lachenal twenty years earlier, in 1950.) But the success of Gerry’s climb to the 8,090m peak was overshadowed by the first ascent of the mountain’s steeper and more dangerous south face, just one week later, by two members of a team led by Chris Bonington.
Digging around inside the black case, I found the letters Gerry had sent to my mum, and also a Worcestershire and Sherwood Foresters Regimental Journal. Flicking through it, I stopped at a page that showed Gerry’s face smiling back at me in black and white. Sadness that I’d been robbed of him as a father seeped back in.
The article reported on the accident in the Nepalese Himalayas that killed him; about how it was thought that Gerry and his climbing partner were hit and swept off Nuptse’s south face by a heavy rockfall and that it was too dangerous for their bodies to be recovered by other expedition members. I learnt that he was the most distinguished mountaineer ever to have served in his regiment; the Colonel-in-Chief, Princess Anne, had conveyed sympathies to my mother, but it was a quoted tribute by General Sir Gerald Lathbury that I read through twice: ‘We first met in Gibraltar, where I was Governor, and he was serving with his regiment. I heard that among his many activities he was interested in birds, so I roped him in to help in the observations I was carrying out . . .’
A penny was dropping. My brain cells were sparking like the friction between flint and stone. Excitedly I returned to Gerry’s journal and scanned through the first and then second entry. His knowledge and understanding of birds – the feathered variety, as he had joked in one of his letters to Mum – was impressive, but more importantly his words, fluttering through the grey matter of my mind, had metamorphosed into understanding. It was as if I was stepping out into the glaring-bright light of day after spending almost fifteen years locked in darkness. I’d wanted to read about his mountain expeditions because I was interested in pursuing my own adventure, but his stories were the key to my liberation.
This was my eureka moment.
I’d often wondered where my mother’s interest in ornithology had come from. Now I knew! Gerry had died, but by keeping his letters, photographs and journal, by walking and by surrounding herself with all things birds – from the painting, cushion covers, to the tapestries she stitched, and even school projects – she was preserving his memory. And, of course, there was the bangle.
When Gerry died, Mum shut out the world; she talked to no one. Just like I did when she died. She pursued a career in teaching to keep her mind busy and block out the misery of loss – probably the reason why she’d advised me to choose a similar career. Gerry’s interest in ornithology became hers. And her interest in nature continues through me . .
. it all began to make sense.
The people we love are the blueprint for our lives. At long last it felt that not only was I beginning to know who my mother was, but who I was too.
I dug out old calendars from a drawer in the bureau. Mum had often written down notes or thoughts on them and I wondered if her words would take on new meaning, but as I flicked through each I noticed something else. Every 9 May – the date Gerry had died – was circled in pen. She had never spoken about missing him, at least not to me. And though she’d enjoyed a few years of happiness with Frank, I was moved by Mum’s enduring love for Gerry: I realised how little I really knew about this man who, despite his absence, had continued to have such an impact on our lives. I wanted to find out more about him. And suddenly I had an idea, a way of gaining closure and finally laying my mother’s memory to rest. After years of holding on to her ashes, uncertain what to do with them, I knew what I needed to do.
In life Mum had been denied a future with Gerry, but in death I could reunite them. I decided to take her remaining ashes to Nepal and the Himalayas.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Protecting Next of Kin
By the autumn of 2012, and my ankle having survived its test run, I’d got back on track working my way through the Munros. In the past two years I had shared long mountain days with my friend Mel. We were first introduced to each other when I’d come home from Cyprus, but although we’d been in and out of each other’s lives since then we hadn’t been particularly close. One day, however, we bumped into each other on the street and while we were chatting the subject of hills came up. Realising we both enjoyed walking, we made a plan to go together, and from that moment a more affectionate and meaningful bond grew between us. And eventually we discovered we had a lot more in common than just a mutual passion for hillwalking. At about the age I had lost my mum she had become estranged from her parents, so in a way she understood how it felt to be separated from family.
Just Another Mountain Page 15