to trade with the Tibetans stay here while they are bartering their goods in the bazaar. She is famous for her cooking and is usually full.” He pointed towards a small door at the far end of the room. “Later we will go through as we will be sleeping there too.”
Philip looked up as one of the brothers wives came up to refill his empty mug. He smiled and nodded his thanks. He looked at Mingma.
“Have they heard any news of the expedition?” he asked. “I’m sure the Sherpa’s who work for it must pass through occasionally.”
Mingma nodded. “One of them is here now, a cousin of mine. He was allowed back for the night as his wife has just had a baby. The preparations are going well. Everybody is safely at Thangboche and some of the climbers have gone up to the ice flow to get fit and look for possible routes.”
“I don’t suppose he’s seen any western journalists wandering around has he?” Philip asked hopefully.
Mingma shook his head and drained his drink. “No one. He said nobody has visited the expedition other than James.”
They fell quiet as Mingma’s mother served them bowls of small boiled potatoes, tossed in some kind of wilted green leaves, chilli flakes and butter. His mug was topped up yet again with fresh chang, and as he ate he watched as one of the younger women carefully poured more boiling water and millet into a large wooden churn and started making the next batch.
Mingma took his mug and downed it in one, smacking his lips when he’d finished and holding it out to be refilled. “Nobody makes Chang like my sister-in-law,” he pronounced, smiling happily at her.
They ate in silence, Philip only realising how hungry he was as he chewed his first mouthful. Within minutes his bowl was empty and he was gratefully accepting more. After some dried fruit the meal was over.
“I’ll take you through to where we will sleep,” Mingma offered, hauling himself to his feet. “We have an early start tomorrow.
Philip thanked Mingma’s mother and followed the young Sherpa through the roughly made door. They entered a large room that looked as though it occupied the rest of the building. At the far end there were bunks, rough wooden platforms three tiers high that comprised the sleeping accommodation. Already it looked full. The porters who carried the enormous loads into the mountains would need to be up before first light to tout for a load to bring down to the lowlands.
Elsewhere a few latecomers sat in the dark gloom eating their evening meals. The food was included with the accommodation, but the millet beer or fiery spirit made from potato peelings was extra. Glancing around Phillip realised with an inward groan that there were going to be a few drunken snorers later that night.
Mingma initially insisted on sitting with him by a small low fire in the corner of the room but eventually Philip managed to get him to go and spend time with his family. It had, he’d finally got him to admit, been nearly a year since his last trip home. He was content sitting in silence, letting his mind gently wander as his body warmed up and relaxed.
He jerked up and realised that he’d been starting to doze. He’d dreamt he’d heard his name. He was just settling down again when it came again.
“Lieutenant Armitage?”
It was strange, he was sure he was awake but he couldn’t be. Nobody had called him that for years. He glanced round and saw a face, indistinct in the gloom. It seemed familiar so he turned to face it and leant forward, trying to make it out more of its features. The face moved towards him and became clearer as it moved into the light of the fire.
Philip froze. He must still be asleep. Memories flooded his head that had been locked away years before. It was impossible, he felt his body trembling, his headache starting to pound again. This man was dead.
The man spoke again, this time with certainty in its voice, mixed with incredulity. “Lieutenant, sahib! It is you. I thought it was when you
Philip looked up as one of the brothers wives came up to refill his empty mug. He smiled and nodded his thanks. He looked at Mingma.
“Have they heard any news of the expedition?” he asked. “I’m sure the Sherpa’s who work for it must pass through occasionally.”
Mingma nodded. “One of them is here now, a cousin of mine. He was allowed back for the night as his wife has just had a baby. The preparations are going well. Everybody is safely at Thangboche and some of the climbers have gone up to the ice flow to get fit and look for possible routes.”
“I don’t suppose he’s seen any western journalists wandering around has he?” Philip asked hopefully.
Mingma shook his head and drained his drink. “No one. He said nobody has visited the expedition other than James.”
They fell quiet as Mingma’s mother served them bowls of small boiled potatoes, tossed in some kind of wilted green leaves, chilli flakes and butter. His mug was topped up yet again with fresh chang, and as he ate he watched as one of the younger women carefully poured more boiling water and millet into a large wooden churn and started making the next batch.
Mingma took his mug and downed it in one, smacking his lips when he’d finished and holding it out to be refilled. “Nobody makes Chang like my sister-in-law,” he pronounced, smiling happily at her.
They ate in silence, Philip only realising how hungry he was as he chewed his first mouthful. Within minutes his bowl was empty and he was gratefully accepting more. After some dried fruit the meal was over.
“I’ll take you through to where we will sleep,” Mingma offered, hauling himself to his feet. “We have an early start tomorrow.
Philip thanked Mingma’s mother and followed the young Sherpa through the roughly made door. They entered a large room that looked as though it occupied the rest of the building. At the far end there were bunks, rough wooden platforms three tiers high that comprised the sleeping accommodation. Already it looked full. The porters who carried the enormous loads into the mountains would need to be up before first light to tout for a load to bring down to the lowlands.
Elsewhere a few latecomers sat in the dark gloom eating their evening meals. The food was included with the accommodation, but the millet beer or fiery spirit made from potato peelings was extra. Glancing around Phillip realised with an inward groan that there were going to be a few drunken snorers later that night.
Mingma initially insisted on sitting with him by a small low fire in the corner of the room but eventually Philip managed to get him to go and spend time with his family. It had, he’d finally got him to admit, been nearly a year since his last trip home. He was content sitting in silence, letting his mind gently wander as his body warmed up and relaxed.
He jerked up and realised that he’d been starting to doze. He’d dreamt he’d heard his name. He was just settling down again when it came again.
“Lieutenant Armitage?”
It was strange, he was sure he was awake but he couldn’t be. Nobody had called him that for years. He glanced round and saw a face, indistinct in the gloom. It seemed familiar so he turned to face it and leant forward, trying to make it out more of its features. The face moved towards him and became clearer as it moved into the light of the fire.
Philip froze. He must still be asleep. Memories flooded his head that had been locked away years before. It was impossible, he felt his body trembling, his headache starting to pound again. This man was dead.
The man spoke again, this time with certainty in its voice, mixed with incredulity. “Lieutenant, sahib! It is you. I thought it was when you
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