Papa Georgio (2 page)

‘There’ll be six of us,’ Dad said. ‘Steve and me and the team. We’re going to climb a very big mountain called Kanchenjunga.’

‘Kan-chen-junga…?’ There was a thick vein of ice in the name, as well as something harsh and stinging. It was a karate chop of a word.

Dad laughed and his eyes held the blue light of glaciers.

‘Kan Chen Junga?’ he asked. ‘
Can
she? Can Janey Junga too?’

He tickled me to make me laugh. I hated it when he went away.

‘Cuddle?’ He wheedled.

‘All right.’

In his arms I could smell the thick wool of his blue jumper and feel his beard prickling against the side of my head.

‘Is Chen the name of the God?’

Dad always said that there’s a God in every mountain.

‘Maybe it is – although most people call her ‘Kanche.’

‘So she’s a lady god?’

My cheek was against Dad’s chest and when he spoke, I felt his Yorkshire flavoured words rumble up as if they were coming out of a cave.

‘I think she must be. Kanchenjunga means “five treasure houses in the snow.” There are five peaks and the Tibetans tell stories about them, as five store houses for the goddess’s treasures. One peak glows in’t morning sun and they say that’s the one that stores the gold. Another casts deep grey shadows: that one stores the silver. And the other three hold copper, and corn and sacred books. So yes, a mountain goddess.’ He looked down at me. ‘Lovely in’t it?’

I nodded. But it wasn’t always lovely. I heard those times when Mum cried and got angry with him, and it was always about a climb.

‘One day you’ll go off and you won’t come back…. Don’t you realize how selfish it is?… You shouldn’t be going off on big expeditions like this now you’ve got a family…’

People died in the mountains. Dad’s friend Mick died in the Alps, at Chamonix.

When they had argued, his voice would go quiet and he’d say, ‘I have to do it, Liz. You know that. It makes me who I am.’

I looked into his eyes, not laughing now and my voice went squeaky.

‘You will come back, won’t you Dad?’

He gave a sad, twisty smile and hugged me tight.

‘Course I’m coming back Janey-kins. I always want to come home to you.’

They set off in April and we went to the railway station to say goodbye. We’d said proper goodbyes at home and there was a crowd at Belper station. There were a lot of climbers living near us. They scrambled all over the hills then sat in a café called the Lovers Leap in a fug of steaming rain gear, drinking gallons of tea while they told each other all the amazing, brave things they’ve done. Believe me, it was
dull
. But they did buy me cakes, and there was especially nice chocolate shortbread. Then Dad bought me my own boots and started taking me rock scrambling sometimes at weekends. I learned to dare a little bit, and I liked the café more after that. And the Lover’s Leap crowd were all agog about a big Himalayan expedition.

Mum was wearing her bright blue anorak, her hair tucked in at the back and it made her look young. People sometimes said we looked like sisters from behind, with our long fair hair. Dad kissed her again and she looked up at him, loving and worried and sort of angry all at the same time and I didn’t hear what they said. There was a lump in my throat as if I’d got a gigantic rubber stuck down there so I was staring at my feet and trying to swallow.

Dad suddenly reached down and swung me up by the waist. He hadn’t done that for years.

‘Hey there, little lady!’

I wrapped my legs round him and giggled. ‘I thought I was too big for this!’

‘Well, this is a special occasion.’

He was all excited, alive, the way only climbing seemed to make him feel. And he was so big, like a mountain himself. He hugged me tight.

‘Take care of your mother. I love you, lass.’

‘Climb well,’ I said, which felt really lame but I could hardly speak and I didn’t want to start blubbing in front of Dad’s beardy climber friends who all thought doing really dangerous stuff was normal.

They all cheered as the train left. Mum held my hand and squeezed it as we waved Dad past and they disappeared towards Derby.

‘It’s funny,’ she said, staring after them. ‘It feels so ordinary – just getting on a train when you’re going to the very top of the world…’

She sounded small and lost.

III.

‘You can’t go without me! Where am I going to go?’

I was beside myself. I‘d just got home from school where we had a
vicious
Maths test, then needlework – another word for hell - and it was mince for dinner which is the worst food in the world. And Charlotte was hardly speaking to me because she didn’t know what to say. Dad had been missing for two weeks (because as far as I was concerned he was
missing
.) And now this.

‘Come here love.’ Mum led me to the sofa, held my left hand in both of hers and looked at me with sad, worried eyes.

‘You mustn’t worry. I’m not going climbing, not like Dad. I’ve just got to go, because unless I do…’ She was struggling hard not to cry but it wasn’t working and her voice was breaking up. She could cry, but I couldn’t. ‘I just can’t take in that he’s gone….’

‘He hasn’t gone!’ I raged at her. ‘He’s out there somewhere - with Kanche!’

She didn’t know about Kanche. Talking very carefully, as if one of us might snap in half if she raised her voice, she went on, ‘I’ve got to see his resting place, even if it’s not the exact spot. If he’d died at home we’d have a grave to visit, but we’ll have to make a special place for him. And I’ll take photographs…’

But I wasn’t listening. I snatched my hand away, tore up to my room and flung myself on my rumpled up quilt, curled up tight and squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to think about anything. I just wanted the darkness behind my eyelids blanking everything out and my bed and soft quilt where it felt safe. I didn’t want Mum making plans for me.

‘Janey…’ She sounded calm now, and steely. I wouldn’t be able to argue because everything was already decided. I felt the side of the bed sink down as she sat on it, then her warm, strong hand stroking my back.

‘You’re going to do something very exciting. And brave. Dad’d be so proud of you.’

Did she expect me to look up and be all interested? I just lay there with my eyes closed. Then I felt something fluffy against my ear, my soft, noseless bear, Grimley (he lost his black plastic nose in a nasty accident involving the back wheel of the car, so there’s just a creamy ring of fur in the middle of his brown face). She was stroking me with his paw – as if that was going to make everything OK, as if I was some kind of
baby
. I clenched my fists and curled up tighter, but then it did tickle and I couldn’t help a smile creeping over my face. In the end I opened my eyes. Mum was smiling back. Grimley was looking as wise as anyone can without a nose.

‘You’re going away too.’ She used a story time voice and I realized I did need her to treat me like a baby. Just for a few minutes, anyway. ‘I phoned Grandpa George and Auntie Brenda and asked if you could come and stay while I’m away. And Grandpa said, well, yes, of course she can, but I’m Going on a Journey.’ (She said it the way Grandpa speaks sometimes, like announcements with Capital Letters at the Beginnings of Words). ‘He and Brenda had planned to go away, so if you’re staying with them, you’ll be able to go too.’

‘But…’ I protested, sinking inside. I hardly knew Grandpa George, let alone his new wife Brenda. My Granny Jean, Mum’s mother, died when I was six and Grandpa married again just two years ago. Brenda was a very prim lady with black bat-wing glasses. ‘I don’t want to go with them! Why can’t I come with you?’

‘I can’t take you, love. It’d be too much for you – it’s a tough place. And you know, Pete – your Dad – ‘ Her face crumpled for a moment at his name. ‘He and I have been very bad about keeping up with family. We were always too far away and too busy, and then when Mum died I lost contact even more. It’ll mean you get to know your Grandpa better. It’s important.’

‘I don’t want to know him better!’ I burst out. Grandpa sold antiques and all I remembered about his house was that it was crammed full of dark old stuff, wooden chests like coffins and stuffed birds and spinning wheels. ‘He’s creepy and his house is creepy and Brenda’s bossy and his dog’s smelly and I’m
not going
! Why can’t I go to Lorna’s, or stay here on my own?’

But there was no arguing with her.

‘I know Grandpa’s a bit odd, but he’s not creepy – you know that’s not fair, don’t you?’

I had to nod.

‘He’s more like a big kid himself really. And it won’t be for long. I just need to see the place, and as soon as I’ve finished, I’ll come and join you, wherever you all are. I promise.’

I couldn’t seem to get my voice above a whisper. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To Italy,’ she said.

‘In a caravan?’ Charlotte wrinkled her nose. ‘Isn’t that a bit weird?’

We were in her room where she had a sofa which opened out into a bed, with silky cushions on. Her Mum and Dad had let her paint two of the walls purple. Dad said her parents were ‘academics,’ so they had off-beat ideas.

‘I s’pose,’ I said.

I didn’t want Charlotte to think it was weird; I wanted her to be envious, even though I thought it was pretty weird too. But mostly I was just glad she was talking to me and not treating me as if I might smash like a vase and going off with Katy Harris because they did ballet together and she didn’t know what to say to me because I’d got hair like a scarecrow’s and they thought my dad had died. But then, I conceded, would I have known what to say if it was her? I decided I’d better try a bit harder.

‘It means missing school, at least.’

Charlotte grinned suddenly. She had a lovely friendly grin which wrinkled up her freckly nose. ‘Lucky thing. Here – want some?’

She’d got a big packet of wine gums. Charlotte loved jelly sweets. I took four: red, green, black, orange and grinned back at her.

‘Pig,’ she said.

‘Pig yourself! So what if I am?’

Things were starting to feel right again and inside I was whirling with happiness. Charlotte’d been my best friend since she came to the school when we were six. I couldn’t stand it if that went as well.

‘Yummy. Thanks.’

‘So let’s get this straight – your Mum’s going to India and you’re going to Italy?’

‘Ummm,’ I nodded, mouth squishily full of wine gum. Just for a second I was enjoying this. It made my life sound interesting and exotic, even if I what I ached for was to switch everything back to three months ago when Dad was still here and everything was all right.

‘India and then up to the mountain – it’s on the edge of Nepal and Sikkim.’

Wide-eyed Charlotte asked, ‘So when’re you coming back?’

I shrugged. ‘Dunno. July, August?’

‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Epic.’ Her family were going to a house in Brittany like they did every year.

But I was still wobbly about everything. There was something I badly needed to know.

‘If I write will you write back?’

Charlotte shook back her mop of chaotic brown hair, gathering it in a bunch behind her head.

‘Course. But how’m I going to do that?’

‘Mum says there are places you can write to called Poste Restante, where they keep letters for you. We give you the address – you write and I’ll pick it up.’

‘Golly. OK then.’

She didn’t sound too sure.

‘Promise?’ I didn’t want her to know how desperate I felt but I must have sounded it.

She shook her hair loose again and it rippled gorgeously over her shoulders. ‘Course. We’re best friends aren’t we?’

‘Yeah.’ My grin grew and spread. ‘Course we are. Always.’

IV.

‘Hello my Little Dears!’

Grandpa came out to meet us as the Two CV scrunched to a standstill on the gravel drive. He was wearing a natty suit in blinding red and green checks on a coffee coloured background, a red bow tie and a straw hat. Running beside him on short, muscley legs came his dog Mungo the Bassett Hound, brown and white, long and sausagey, with saggy eyes and the longest of ears. Mungo gave a deep ‘WOOF’ several times in an interested sort of way.

‘Hello Dad!’

Mum sounded shy as she climbed out of the car and I saw her enfolded in Grandpa’s arms. Kissing her cheek knocked his hat off and it skittered across the gravel like a frisbee. He looked over at it with astonishment.

‘My word – I‘d forgotten I’d got that on!’

Grandpa’s face was very suntanned and almost as saggy as Mungo’s, with a big nose and sticky out ears and a shock of white, unruly hair. Even though he was old as the hills he somehow looked like a little boy and his eyes, as he gazed at Mum, were watery blue. ‘’My poor little girl – what a time of it you’re having.’

That set Mum off crying, saying she was so sorry she hadn’t been down more and something about her Mum dying and how she’d been thoughtless…. While all this was going on I squatted down to talk to Mungo, who gave my pumps a thorough sniff and pushed his wet brown nose into my hand, wagging his tail and looking at me with big, mournful eyes.

‘Eh Mungo, are you bothering Janey? Come here, m’dear!’

I went to him, feeling awkward, but then I was in Grandpa’s arms. It felt nice, with his tweed jacket rough against my face and his smells in my nostrils of sweet tobacco and dog and Imperial Leather soap. I felt safe and cosy as he cuddled me, and sorry that I’d said to Mum that Grandpa was creepy. I didn’t really mean it.

‘There, my Little Dear,’ he said. ‘Now don’t you worry. Let’s go in and have a Nice Cup of Tea.’

That was when I really looked at the house which I hadn’t seen for
ages
. It had taken us hours, driving south until we reached this village in Berkshire with its narrow lanes and cottages with thatched roofs like Grandpa’s and flowers bursting out of gardens and pots on windowsills. Grandpa’s cottage was set back from the road and at the entrance to the drive, a white sign dangled from a post with
ANTIQUES
painted on in old-fashioned letters. The house was crumpled and rickety looking like Grandpa, with beams and wonky windows like eyes, thatch for hair and the front door like a long mouth saying ‘OH!’. Along the front grew masses of flowers in beds and wavy red and white hollyhocks bigger than me and pink clematis climbing the walls like a flowery beard.