The Kashmir Shawl. Rosie Thomas
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It was the most beautiful place Nerys had ever seen.
FIVE
To get across the mountains from Leh to Srinagar, Mair’s options were to take the public bus, to find a group of people who were making the trip and needed another passenger to fill their vehicle, or to hire her own car and driver for the two-day journey. The buses ran every day, but they halted briefly overnight in Kargil and left again at one in the morning. Soldiers at the army checkpoints on either side of the Zoji La closed the road at five a.m. in order to leave the hairpin bends clear for army convoys, so official civilian traffic was supposed to be up and over the pass before then. She had seen notices pinned up in some of the Internet cafés offering spare seats for shared expenses in trucks or cars, but when she made her way to a phone office and called one of the numbers, she found herself talking (she was almost certain) to one of the Israeli boys who had been on the Changthang excursion. She made a hurried excuse and rang off. The option of her own car and driver had seemed by far the best until she went into the last travel agency that was still open for business and enquired about the price. She would just have to square up to the legendary discomforts and adrenalin shocks of the bus journey. She packed her bag, ready to leave Leh the next morning, and headed out for a last dinner at the best of the Lonely Planet Guide’s recommendations.
‘Hi there,’ a voice called, out of the frosty twilight, as she turned downhill towards the bazaar. ‘We were really hoping you were still in town.’
It was Karen Becker, zipped up against the cold in a duvet jacket, her hair bundled under a fleece cap.
‘How was the trek?’ Mair asked, as they fell into step.
Karen gurgled with dismay. ‘Full on, and then some. We went up high and there was snow up to my knees. Everything in the tent froze overnight. Bruno adored every second of it, naturally.’
‘And Lotus?’
‘She was good. But Lo’s always pretty good, and she likes the snow. Look, why don’t we meet tomorrow? I’d say come over tonight but Bruno’s got some work thing to sort out, endless phone calls to make, and that’s not easy around here, as you know.’
Mair did know. All foreign mobile phones were automatically blocked and the only way to make calls other than from a phone shop was by buying a Jammu and Kashmir mobile. She hadn’t done that, and she was feeling the lack of communication with home. The power supply was too variable to make email a reliable option either.
‘I’m leaving on the bus for Srinagar in the morning.’
‘Nooo,’ Karen wailed. ‘Don’t do that. You mustn’t. I’ve heard it’s a terrible ride.’
‘Well, it’ll be an adventure.’
Karen put her arm through Mair’s. ‘I’ve got a much better idea. Stay one more day, and come to Kashmir with us. We’ve booked a car. There’s room if you don’t mind sitting in the back with Lo and me.’
Mair hesitated. ‘What about Bruno?’
Karen twitched her elegant shoulders. ‘He’ll be fine with it. He likes meeting new people just as much as I do.’
Mair’s first impression of Bruno Becker had suggested otherwise, but she didn’t say as much. ‘Well … it’s tempting. I’m not so sure about the bus, if I’m honest.’
‘Hey, then it’s a deal. We’ll pick you up at your hotel, day after tomorrow. It’ll be early, I’m warning you. Bruno’s a complete fanatic about that sort of thing.’
It seemed that the arrangement was made.
Karen danced along the edge of the dirt road, waiting for a truck to grind by. ‘How was your week, by the way?’
Mair began, ‘It was interesting. I found out some history …’
But Karen was already crossing through the cloud of exhaust fumes. She waved back at Mair. ‘Great. See you tomorrow.’ An auto-rickshaw driver had spotted her and swerved to a halt. Karen leapt aboard without negotiating the fare. Mair continued in the opposite direction towards the twinkling lights of the bazaar.
With a day to spare, she went back to the Internet café. In an email to Hattie she described the discovery of the chapel and the ruined mission building, but only in the lightest way. Even to Hattie, she wasn’t willing to admit quite how intriguing the story of the shawl had become to her. She clicked send, while the power held.
Then she checked her inbox. The messages scrolled in, arriving at a pace slower than that of a limping man carrying a cleft stick. She saw one from Dylan and opened it with delight. Her brother wasn’t a regular correspondent, but his occasional emails gave her more pleasure than anyone else’s.
This time there was only one disappointingly short paragraph, but it promised that she would be interested in the attachment.
Dylan had taken away their father’s small collection of photographs, stored over the years in a couple of old shoeboxes in Huw’s chaotic study. He had said vaguely to his sisters that he would go through them when he had an hour to spare, and would scan the good ones into an iPhoto album for them both. It was the kind of assignment he excelled at. Eirlys had replied that she was grateful for the offer, because she’d never have time to do it herself. Dylan had smiled covertly at Mair, and she had been struck then by his increasing resemblance to their father. How unwittingly you stepped into your parent’s skin, she thought. Probably by now she was more like her mother than she would ever know.
Smiling, Mair set about opening Dylan’s jpeg attachment. At first the system refused to co-operate, but she kept trying until she succeeded.
She stared. The photograph was an old black-and-white snapshot, faded and creased. Three women were grouped against a background of water partially covered with lily-pads. The upper left-hand corner of the view was cut off by a diagonal of carved woodwork, so it looked as though the three had been caught on a balcony overlooking a lake. The woman in the middle was posing with her chin up, darting a look of frank amusement straight into the camera’s eye. Her wide mouth had full lips that looked black, but must actually have been painted with dark red lipstick. Her wavy dark hair was swept up at the sides and her striking appearance was emphasised by the wide lapels and exaggerated shoulders of her chic jacket. There was a deep shadow in the V of her neckline.
The woman on her left was much more girlish in appearance. She was in three-quarters profile, smiling with her eyes turned to her companions, and she had curled pale hair and a swanlike neck.
The third woman had been captured in a burst of delighted laughter. Her head was thrown back and she looked so alive and full of merriment that it was several seconds before Mair recognised her. It was her grandmother.
Gazing with increasing fascination into the joyful faces, Mair speculated on what Grandpa Evan could have said from behind the lens to make his wife beam with such clear happiness.
Or – perhaps the photographer hadn’t been Evan Watkins at all.
Whereabouts was that stretch of dappled water? It didn’t look like Leh, that was certain.
Then an idea came to her. There were lakes in Srinagar. Mair referred back to Dylan’s message. He had written,
This was loose inside an album of Grandpa’s India photographs, mostly very boring. Chapel people standing on steps, looking solemn, etc. So it caught my eye straight away. Who can Grandma’s happy friends be?
The longer she looked at it, the more enigmatic and intriguing the photograph became. The three young women seemed so absorbed in their friendship, as well as in the immediate comedy of the moment. Their faces shone with so much life, it was hard to believe that the picture had been taken almost seventy years ago.
Mair badly wanted to find out more about them. The possibility that the picture might have been taken in Srinagar only intensified her desire to get there.
The Chinese woman who ran the Internet