Just Another Mountain Page 13

  After the shoplifting incident I hadn’t said anything to my grandparents about having to see a counsellor, but there were some things that could not be left unsaid. I hadn’t been feeling right since my walk on the beach. There was something more than grief going on inside me. With all the upset I hadn’t even noticed I’d missed a period, but at a doctor’s appointment it was confirmed I was pregnant. Dr Collier had been our family’s doctor for years. It was she who had been on duty at the hospital when Mum was dying; her warm hand that had held me back, and her voice that warned me that Mum might not recognise me. She had always been so kind, I trusted her and could tell her things I couldn’t speak to my grandparents about. When, years later, she told me she was retiring, I was devastated. ‘Who am I going to talk to now?’ was all I managed to say.

  Now, as she delivered the news of my impending motherhood, a range of emotions pulled me in every direction. What was I going to do? After losing my mum there was no way I wasn’t keeping my baby. But I was scared to tell my grandparents. Of the two it was Gran I chose to tell first. My boyfriend and I had already parted company with no chance of reconciliation, so I knew my grandfather was going to be even more disapproving, but to have Gran onside would cushion the anticipated blow of his reaction. Behind Grandad’s slim facade was a man to be reckoned with. Not that he ever ranted or raved – it was the disappointment visibly etched on his face combined with a quiet but disparaging remark, and an exit from your presence, that left you wanting to crawl away, tail between legs, feeling abysmal for having let him down. I was dreading it. ‘So . . . will you tell Grandad for me?’ I’d asked.

  ‘She’s pregnant,’ Gran said when Grandad entered the bedroom with her dinner; subtlety had never been her strong point. He thrust the tray of food onto her lap and left without casting so much as a glance in my direction. It had been expected, but it still hurt. Sitting on the dusky-pink tweed-covered armchair next to her bed, I looked at Gran.

  ‘I suppose he thinks like mother like daughter,’ I said, my voice cracking.

  ‘Don’t worry. He’ll come round. He did with your mum and he will with you.’ Gran’s friendship was invaluable to me. She talked about my grandad and the fun they used to have. A flicker of youth shone in her old eyes as she’d told me about an officers’ party, and how the men had to put their wives over their shoulders and race to the end of the hall. ‘But your grandad was so skinny that I picked him up and carried him instead,’ she said with a little chuckle. ‘I think that was the night he pushed me home in a shopping trolley.’ Gran was a marvel. She must still have been feeling grief-stricken too, but told me her stories – her way of letting me know I was loved by them both. That night I prayed to the God that my grandad had faith in, the God I wanted to believe in.

  ‘Help us through these times. Look after my gran and my grandad. Thank you for giving me my baby.’ As I lay in bed, in the darkness of my room, I knew that the new life growing inside would save me from myself.

  It took Ollie and me a further three hours to reach the first summit. With every step, I’d finally felt my black mood slowly slipping away, the soothing familiarity of the mountain scenery and the effort of the physical exertion gradually softening the turmoil of my raw emotions until all traces of my usual pain and anguish had been erased altogether.

  ‘You know why I love mountains, Ollie? ’Cause they make me feel great!’ I announced cheerfully when I caught up with him.

  The wind continued to blow hard, but we snatched glimpses of our surroundings from clearing views. It was a magnificent, time- and weather-worn landscape I saw as I looked south-west across to the unmistakable long, straight ridge of Sgurr na Sgine, presenting visibly beneath the cloud line. In thick clag we made our way along the ridge and congratulated each other when we arrived at the top of the second Munro. I shrieked our silly summit catchphrase, ‘Nippy tunnel!’, as we balled our fists, bumped knuckles with each other, beat our chests and punched the sky. It was only after performing another nippy tunnel, and when we came upon an impressively stacked third cairn, that we realised we were at the actual, genuine, bona-fide second summit. We laughed and blamed our mistakes on the weather.

  Thick, white mists enfolded us as we wandered away from the peak on a path that led out along an ever-narrowing rocky spine. It was a good forty minutes later and after losing some height that I began to notice the landscape did not look as it should. I showed Ollie the map and he agreed, ‘We’re on the wrong bloody ridge!’ Even though I knew what to do with a map and compass, in poor conditions I realised how easy it was to go wrong. Small mistakes could end in big disaster; the mountains were no place for complacency.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said, feeling bad again, but by half past five I was dancing on the third summit, overcome with happiness once more. The cloud had lifted and I was confident there would be no more mistakes. And even another sweat-inducing, calf-killing haul up over a couple of false tops to reach the day’s fourth and final Munro only served to enliven my spirit. Ollie was lagging behind, but with the incredible views of the ridge we’d just walked and the spectacular peaks of the Glen Affric mountains to the north, I was in my element.

  ‘I won’t lie, Sarah,’ Ollie said as he made it to the top, ‘I’m knackered!’

  ‘At least it’s all downhill from here,’ I grinned.

  A path from the summit petered out to give way to nature’s own carpet of grasses, moss and flowering mountain plants, butterwort and tiny purple orchids. In the distance, the bright-red roof of a small building down in the valley was where we set our sights; it didn’t seem that far. Well, we walked and we walked, but we didn’t seem to be drawing any nearer to it. The ground was becoming soggier. Shooting pain surging through my right knee made the descent feel unending, and it was always a downer to know that I was returning home to the same old worries.

  Life had been a journey of peaks and troughs, but that first year without Mum was hard. Frank and I wanted to keep her close so the urn containing her ashes remained in the flat. Two months after Mum died, on Christmas Eve, I’d spent the day with my grandparents and it was teatime before I went home. I wanted to talk to my mum but her ashes, which we’d put on the mantelpiece in the living room, weren’t there. Without having said a word or left a note, Frank had taken her away. My heart raced as I assumed the worst. We hadn’t been getting along and I thought that he had gone to scatter her ashes without me. Through choked tears I repeatedly tried to get hold of him by phone, but got no answer. I called Uncle David.

  ‘Have you seen Frank?’

  ‘No,’ he replied.

  I called Frank’s number again, and this time he picked up.

  ‘Where have you taken my mum?’ I asked, trying to suppress the anger and grief that raged inside.

  ‘I just took her for a walk. That’s all,’ he answered.

  It was years later when he finally told me that he’d taken the urn with her ashes to Beinn Eighe, that beautiful high loch in Wester Ross. He had meant no harm, but that Christmas Eve I hated him for making me panic like that. Too wrapped up in my own grief, I didn’t stop to consider his.

  After that, I saw the counsellor twice a month for six months and at first I tried to articulate my feelings, but it didn’t seem to be helping – I never really felt I could connect with the woman. So I told her the things she wanted to hear and took my own measures in the battle against the blackness. I made endless lists and set goals. But all the while I swung like a pendulum: from aching heights of gratitude and hope when I heard my unborn child’s heartbeat or felt his kick, to the miserable depths of tears and headaches; of brushing my face with a lock of Mum’s hair; or holding her nightshirt, the one she had worn during those last hours in hospital, to breathe in the faint smell of her life. All her other clothes had been boxed up and given to charity; I had never before been a worshipper of things, but the presence of her life was solidified in those strands of her hair and in her nightshirt.

  Cries for my mum
during labour pains in the hospital were heard only by the four walls, but when my son was born and I cradled him for the first time, I was possessed by overwhelming love.

  The immediate responsibility I felt for my son helped me understand better how my grandparents had managed their grief when they’d lost their daughter. They weren’t superhuman: they’d put on a brave face and were strong because they’d had to be for the rest of their family, for me. Through my tears I whispered into my baby’s ear, ‘Your grandma would love you!’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A Hatch and Despatch

  Bidein a’ Choire Sheasgaich and Lurg Mhor, October 2011

  I’d had a bad bout of flu, but despite my illness, and the constant downpours, winds and the cold, nothing had stopped me from knocking out twelve Munros over the course of an extended weekend. Incapable of slowing down and indifferent to the weather, I kept heading out on long mountain days, even though hours of daylight were shortening. And after another big outing, on the Mamores, I made plans for the following day to tackle two of the most isolated Munros in the country.

  After catching five hours’ sleep I was up and getting organised when there was a soft rap on the door. It was Marty. We had kept in contact after Kilimanjaro and he had offered to join me on my walk today.

  ‘Morning! Your bike’s in the jeep. I even pumped your tyres up; how were you gonna ride it wi’ flats, ya tube? You ready?’ He said.

  ‘Yup,’ I grinned.

  ‘How far is the walk anyway?’ he asked as we drove north.

  ‘Twenty-nine kilometres. I reckon it’ll take us ten hours tops,’ I answered confidently. ‘If we can set off at half-eight we should be down before it’s too dark.’

  ‘Well, sunset’s at quarter to six. You got your headtorch?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, course I do,’ I replied.

  ‘Good. ’Cause I forgot mine,’ he said. I shook my head and laughed.

  At quarter past eight we arrived at Craig, four kilometres east of Achnashellach in the north-west of Scotland. Rain fell steadily. Crossing the railway line, we continued by bike on a wide, stony track bordered by trees, but I soon dismounted and pushed while Marty bust his competitive guts, cycling the steep uphill, to the deer fence.

  Forty-five minutes later we had dumped our wheels and were following a trail towards a wooden rope bridge that I’d used once before to cross the river. To our dismay we found the rope lying in a curled mass by the piers, but luckily the water wasn’t in spate, and protruding boulders provided a way over. Tired from the previous days of walking, my legs were like lead as we hiked up the stalkers’ path, but we chattered non-stop, making the time it took to reach the col pass relatively quickly. Marty was being all profound, telling me how he thought he’d finally met the right girl.

  ‘In the past, when I’ve been in a relationship, I’ve always been looking for something better. Sometimes you have to stand back and take notice of what’s staring you in the face,’ he said. ‘You not met anyone yet?’

  ‘Na. There’s no way I’m getting involved with anyone anytime soon,’ I answered cheerfully. But inside I felt rueful. I’d never chosen well, always in a rush to find love and ending up in the wrong relationships, then staying involved for too long out of a misguided determination that I could make it work. After so many failures, I found it hard to believe I could ever really have a successful relationship.

  Bells had rung in a new year and a new millennium, and life somehow carried on without Mum. Although the undercurrent of sadness remained, Marcus, now a toddler, brought me lots of happiness, and a return to bar work also helped me to smile and joke again. And then I met Charlie. I’d gone down to the fruit and veg shop, and, spotting me struggling as carrier bags swung from each handlebar, Charlie offered to hold my bike so that Marcus could stay in the child seat while I got my goods and paid at the counter. I was immediately taken with him as I overheard him chatting away to my son, and I was flattered by the attention he paid me too. From there, things moved quickly and, desperate for love and companionship, I soon fell for him.

  One evening, as we were making love in the dark, he let out a yelp and gripped my arms. ‘Sarah! Stop moving!’ His distress alarmed me, and I wondered what the hell was wrong as I hovered above him. ‘Your earring! It’s caught up my nose!’ he cried. The silver hoop had unclasped, catching his nostril like a fish on a hook. Releasing him from its sharp grip, I ruptured into uncontrollable peals of laughter. It was the first real belly laugh I’d had since my mum died, something I had never thought could happen. When I finally wore myself out, a wave of disgust washed over me as I registered that my laughter had briefly obliterated my grief.

  Charlie and I started to see more of each other, but I kept it quiet from my grandparents at first. He was seven years younger than me, which I knew they wouldn’t approve of, and in any case I wasn’t sure if the relationship would amount to anything, so there didn’t seem any point in upsetting them for no reason. Besides, my grandfather’s mood had been low, and a combination of various ailments gave poor old Gran more than a few good reasons for her increasing despondency. I didn’t think it would be helpful to add to their stress by introducing a boyfriend I knew they would consider unsuitable.

  In the two years since Mum had died I’d seen my grandparents most days. I’d sit with my grandad in the kitchen then pop into Gran’s room. We’d chat or just watch one of her programmes on TV, but there had been an evident shift in her mood. She had, completely out of character, stopped eating and would only sip at drinks. She’d gone silent too, and I had the horrible feeling she was dying. Panic set in. Sitting on the chair next to her bed, desperate for any conversation, I showed Gran the funny picture on a birthday card I’d bought. ‘That’s a very painful operation, I’ve seen it on the telly,’ she said.

  ‘She was meant to have laughed,’ I said to my grandfather when I saw him later. He shared my concern.

  ‘She asked me how much the dog cost and when I asked her what she meant she replied, “Well, I thought you were taking the dog to the vets because she smells?”’ Then he added, ‘I think she’s going a bit ga-ga. And the multiplicity of pills pushed into her by the doctors do little to help. I’m afraid there isn’t anything much we can do for her, she doesn’t want any of her usual goodies, not even a small slice of my lemon cheesecake,’ he said.

  I grabbed Poppy’s lead and took her out. ‘If I’m ever on a life-support machine,’ Gran had once said, ‘don’t switch me off!’ Mum, Gran and I had all laughed together at her statement, but we knew she meant it. She was a woman who clung ferociously to life, which made it all the harder to bear witness to her decline. When I returned with the dog I was greeted at the door by the doctor, who was just leaving.

  ‘An ambulance is on its way,’ Grandad said. ‘Your gran is going to the local hospital.’ I knew exactly what that meant. Her body was giving up and she was too.

  Later that evening I called in to see her. Two-year-old Marcus and Poppy were with me.

  ‘Can you stay in the corridor please while we clean up your gran and give her an injection? It won’t take long,’ a nurse requested.

  Waiting at the door, I stared at the room opposite. Last time I was here I was in that room. Mum died in there. Poor Gran, she’ll remember that too; why’d they have to put her here? I thought sombrely. A smiling nurse left the door ajar, indicating that I could go in. And so there I stood at the end of her bed.

  ‘Has your grandad left?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered. He must have been here earlier.

  Pouring some Coke into a glass, I gave it to her to sip. Her fight was gone. She wasn’t interested in the words coming from my mouth. She just stared as though lost in her own deep thought.

  ‘I’ll be off now. Grandad will be in later, so I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I said as cheerfully as possible, but feeling great anguish.

  She looked straight at me then, with softness in her eyes as she opened them right up, like she
was taking in one last good look at me. A momentary flicker of a smile was directed at Marcus, who sat placidly in his backpack. I wanted to say, ‘I love you’, but to do that would have felt too much like confirmation that I might never see her again.

  At half past ten the next morning the phone rang. It was my aunty. ‘Mum died in the early hours.’

  ‘No!’ I cried, ‘I’ve got to go to her!’

  Leaving Marcus with my grandad, I went to the hospital. I made my way along the corridor to Gran’s room, where she lay as though sleeping. Why didn’t anyone tell me? I’d never have let you leave on your own. My heart shattered again, and my entire being trembled. Sitting in the chair by her bed, I took her hand in mine and stroked it. Her pale, paper-thin skin felt silky, but ice-cold – not warm like my mum’s had been. I reached my arm across her body and rested my head on her chest. Unexpectedly, Gran burped. Jumping out of my skin, I withdrew from the embrace. I looked at her . . . no . . . she is definitely still dead . . . and then I started laughing through my tears.

  For the second time I found myself in a black car being driven to the crematorium, as ‘Marble Halls’, the only tune I knew Gran liked, played over and over inside my head. In two years I had lost the two most significant women in my life. In a trance-like state I stared from the car’s window onto a grey and silent world. Black-headed gulls with motionless wings were being carried on the wind. I envied those gulls right then.

  It was only one month after Gran died when I found out I was expecting my second child.