four

When Khenpo Nima rejoined Jamie at his house, both men were subdued. Karjen cranked the generator; they listened to commands from Lhasa concerning trade passes to Assam. There was nothing relating to China. Jamie shouted at Karjen to stop the generator, and the yard fell silent.

The house had improved little since Jamie’s arrival. He was no home maker. Paints and brushes, radio valves in tatty cardboard boxes, clothes, harness and books still littered the corners. The upturned packing case still did for a table. On this Karjen placed wooden bowls of dark tea with globes of butterfat rotating on the surface.

‘What is this one?’ asked Khenpo Nima, picking up a flat tin and tugging at the tight-fitting lid.

‘Moffat toffee. My mother sends it from Scotland. Go ahead.’

Nima placed a toffee in his mouth and sucked thoughtfully. Jamie puffed across the surface of his cup, blowing the greenish globules aside so that he could avoid them.

‘What was all that with the girl?’ he asked.

‘You see these men?’ Nima sighed. ‘They tell her to leave. The landlord is a rich man: he says he cannot risk having her there. He says his animals abort, that he gets no milk, this is wrong, that is wrong, and it is all the woman’s fault.’

‘How come?’

‘She is bad luck. You see that she cannot walk so well? Now his property has her bad luck and he wants her out.’

‘Where can she go?’

‘Nowhere. No one in this village wants her. Tomorrow I shall go and speak with that man again. He will do as I say. He will leave her alone.’ He paused, frowning, then fished in his long robes. ‘Now, more important, Jemmy.’

He brought out a flat, grubby packet of oiled cloth: a government envelope. Jamie regarded it without enthusiasm.

‘Jemmy, Lhasa must know if you are staying. You must give an answer.’

‘How long?’

‘Five years.’

‘No chance!’

‘This can be your home.’

‘Who says I want a home? Maybe I’ve other plans.’

‘You are courting? Bring that person to Jyeko.’

‘Nima, there’s no one. I’m not ready for all that.’

Khenpo Nima surveyed Jamie’s shambles, the kit and clothing cast anyhow, the poor comfort. ‘Your house is not so nice, Jemmy. This Karjen is hopeless, I shall find someone better.’

‘Karjen’s fine. Look, Nima, a year. Maybe I’ll stay another year.’

A pause came between them. Through the window Jamie could see the dour Karjen grooming the pony, retying a string of red beads in her mane. The villain had his charms. Jamie said: ‘Anyway, Nima, the Chinese might do something.’

‘China is no concern of ours.’

‘Oh, Nima, really!’

Khenpo Nima peered at Jamie and tacked about. ‘You know, your Ying-gi-li sugar piece is good.’

‘That’s Moffat toffee.’

‘We can make things sweet for you, Jemmy. We can look after everything for you in Jyeko, and no worries.’

But shortly after this, the monk took the contract back to the monastery, still unsigned.

*

Two days later, three Chinese soldiers came to market to buy barleymeal. Spotting a mule, they demanded a loan of it to carry the heavy sack over the bridge. The animal’s owner asked for payment. The Chinese laughed at him, called him a grasping barbarian and loaded the sack on to the mule anyway, saying that he’d have it back soon enough. The Khampa insisted on two rupees. The Chinese sergeant barked, ‘Stand aside!’ and began to drag the reluctant beast across the market. A murmurous crowd blocked their exit. The Khampa merchant grabbed at the sack and pulled so that it fell and thudded into a black puddle of crushed ice. In an instant there was jostling, Tibetans cursing, soldiers bringing rifles off their shoulders, until they were separated by Khenpo Nima and other monks.

Enraged, the sergeant spat on the ground in front of Khenpo Nima.

‘Who the hell do these scum think they are? China gives orders, Tibet jumps. Understood?’ The soldiers looked nervous; their sergeant had pushed his luck. Voices to the rear flung lurid Khampa insults.

‘All right, that’s enough,’ said Nima. ‘I see that the real problem is that this old-fashioned mule won’t move without instructions in Tibetan. Now, if you gentlemen would grant a small sum for its master’s services, you may leave the barley in his safekeeping, return to quarters at your leisure and I will personally ensure that the grain is delivered when the market closes this afternoon. How’s that?’

The sergeant stared at Khenpo Nima in disbelief, looked round at the growing mob, hesitated a second, then snapped, ‘That’ll do fine.’ He tossed a rupee at the merchant. Khenpo Nima gave the man a threatening scowl and he picked up the coin in silence. The soldiers pushed out through the crowd and marched off.

Nima sighed. He had other problems. He was on his way to speak with Jamyang Sangay, Puton’s landlord and a notorious old cuss.

*

That afternoon, a little procession moved through the back lanes towards Jamie’s house. A first pony, led by the tall figure of Khenpo Nima, was laden with household goods, bags and small boxes. Among these was wedged a little girl. Next came two mules, each carrying sacks of grain and trade bricks of tea bound in rawhide. Last in line walked another pony on which Puton rode side-saddle, her stick resting across the wooden pommel and her twisted leg draped awkwardly. The animals moved lethargically through the streets. Khenpo Nima heaved on the leading rope, not in good humour.

As Puton rode quietly at the rear, absorbed in her thoughts, a small stone landed on the ground just in front of her pony. A little puff of dust flew up and the pony stopped dead, staring and pricking its ears. Immediately a pebble struck Puton on the shoulder.

A knot of four or five children skulked behind the corner of a compound wall. Their faces bobbed in and out, leering, until the bravest reached for another stone and flung it. The missile struck the dirt behind Puton; her pony shifted nervously. For a moment, the young woman felt a surge of fear, until she saw that not one of the children was more than six or seven years old. Her eyes pricked with sadness.

One child, older perhaps, bolder and more cruel, stepped swaggering into the open. He began hopping and dragging one leg in the dirt, pulling a grotesque face and uttering strangled groans. His companions shrilled with mockery. The boy began again, dragging his leg behind him, groaning loudly until he fell on the dirt, shrieking with mirth. Puton turned her face away. She slapped the pony’s rump and tried to catch Khenpo Nima seventy yards ahead.

Jamie was building a stone plinth for the generator when the caravan came through his gate. He heard Hector snarl, and looked out. Puton sat motionless on her pony. Khenpo Nima stepped forward. ‘I have found you a housekeeper, Jamie.’

Jamie scowled. ‘I’m really not needing … ’

‘Yes, her name is Puton and now she has no home, and there is her little girl, Dechen. Please, Jemmy? You know, soon it is New Year – a new friend for good luck.’

Jamie looked at Karjen, who glared at the newcomers and spat, ‘Don’t I cook? Don’t I clean? Why does Mr Jemmy need a bad-luck cripple woman in the house?’

‘Old criminal, you are not beautiful, so mind your tongue,’ said Nima curtly. ‘Jemmy, you saw what happens at her house. You felt pity, I think.’

‘Well, that’s not like taking her in.’

‘She can work, you see. She does not move so fast, but she can work.’

Without risking a reply, Khenpo Nima went quickly to the ponies. He lifted Dechen down and set her on her feet. Small and forlorn, she gazed without expectation at the Ying-gi-li. Nima’s making me responsible, thought Jamie, I don’t want this. Khenpo Nima lifted Puton from her saddle. As she came down hard onto the ground, Jamie saw that she winced. For a moment, she stood quite still, white-faced, holding her breath. Nima stood close, with a friendly hand on her arm. He looked round at Jamie, his face pleading.

‘Oh, God, they can have the back room over there,’ said Jamie, defeated. ‘I think it’s empty.’

Nima beamed at him. ‘This is very wise, Jemmy. And little Dechen; they will be a family for you.’

‘Nima!’

‘Yes, Jemmy, I know, it is just for now.’

The monk left them, leading the ponies away. The woman stood helpless by her sacks and bundles. Jamie regarded her, until he remembered himself, and called: ‘Karjen? Give her a hand, won’t you?’ He turned to go inside.

*

Karjen gave Puton a broom; he made no move to sweep the earth floor of the storeroom himself. He dragged the packs to the door, left them there and went away.

Some minutes later, Puton stood leaning on her stick as the dust clouds she had created swirled and resettled. She contemplated her change: from a huge and gloomy house that she hated, to a single cold room in a house where they appeared to hate her.

She made up a nest for her little girl with blankets and a heavy sheepskin coat. Dechen went and sat there in silence. There was no furniture. Puton arrayed her own belongings as best she could on her boxes. She had a few fine items from Lhasa still. The best of these, a chased silver charm case tasselled with yellow and purple silk, she placed on the pack-saddle under the small shuttered window. It did for a shrine.

She lowered herself heavily down to the sheepskins on the floor, Dechen moving in under her arm. For several minutes she sat staring at the silver casket, waiting for whatever came next. Until Dechen touched her arm, looking up behind her.

Jamie stood in the door, awkward and embarrassed. ‘There’s nothing here. I didn’t realise,’ he blurted out. ‘I mean, we can find you things. Heavens, I’m sorry.’

Puton regarded him with her direct eyes.

‘I just wasn’t expecting … ‘ mumbled Jamie. He looked round the bleak chamber.

‘It’s cold. There’s no fire. We’ll get you a fire. Karjen!’ Jamie bellowed with mortified anger. ‘Karjen will bring you a brazier and some fuel. We have plenty, use all you need.’

She bowed her head a little.

‘My name’s Jamie,’ he said, ‘Jamie Wilson. I’m sure you knew that. That’s what you must call me: Jamie, or Wilson, Mr Wilson, whatever you like. And you are Puton, so Khenpo Nima says, anyway. He doesn’t get much wrong, does he?’

She stirred, reaching for her stick. With an ungainly scrape she pushed herself upright. Jamie made an involuntary move to help, as he would have done at home. But he stopped himself.

She stood before him, half crippled, homeless and hated, and she was still proud. One moment she had seemed a sad heap on the floor, needing his protection. Now he found that she was tall for a Tibetan woman, and was standing upright as best she could. Her eyes were quite black and dramatically sculpted. He saw that her brows came together darkly over the bridge of her nose. He realised that she was perhaps a year or two older than himself, and he remembered that she had seen her husband killed. He saw that she was nervous, struggling for the remnants of her dignity.

She said, ‘I give you my heart’s thanks. I will work for you.’

‘Really, you don’t need to worry about that. It’s no trouble having you here.’

‘But when it becomes a trouble you could send me from this house,’ she said. He was silenced. She continued, ‘I will earn my keep.’

The next morning, Jamie stood half clothed by the heated sleeping platform in his bedroom. He was letting the warm radiance from the stone soak into him for a last minute before dressing. He held a pair of green fatigue trousers and was examining the grime on them morosely.

As he stood in his long winter underpants, trying to be interested in the problem, the door of the room clattered open. If Puton felt any hesitation, she did not let Jamie see it. She marched across the room, her stick thudding into the thick rug. Without ceremony she put out a hand and took the filthy clothes from him. Then she turned and departed, leaving Jamie to search his boxes for more trousers.