The Harder They Fall Page 6

  Soon they were back on the road again, which was busier than before their rest stop, when they had only passed two other vehicles. It was also much narrower now, and manoeuvring around the other cars was a real and dangerous art. Bhagwan knew the route well and stopped in advance of particularly narrow passages, giving way to oncoming traffic, whilst feeling compelled to repeatedly point out that he wouldn’t usually be this cautious. Andy still kept up the pretence of laughing at this justification, even though it was starting to grate on him. Dan napped on and off, drifting into a light sleep for a few minutes, then awakening if they swerved or hit a rock.

  Further up the pass, a wagon was engaged in clearing a landslide, an operation that appeared to consist of scooping up a couple of tons of rocks and mud and throwing it over the side of the mountain. Bhagwan explained that the road was being improved by the Chinese authorities, whereas the wagon clearing the landslide was Nepali and ‘unofficial’. Further on still, they came across a herdsman moving his very small herd of buffalo to new pasture. Bhagwan stopped the truck right in the middle of the road and waited until the lumbering beasts had passed before setting off again. After that there were a few other motorists, including two English motorcyclists, who had stopped to fix a puncture and were having a problem getting one of the bikes started again. While Bhagwan worked on the bike, Andy chatted with the men about where they’d been, sharing his own stories of locations they had in common. Dan stayed in the truck, rubbing his side, where there was a dull ache that coincided with the position of the handle on the inside of the door. He was feeling worse than ever and was desperate to get to the village. Fortunately, Bhagwan, who was a whizz with all things mechanical, had the bike up and running in fifteen minutes, and with less than an hour of travelling ahead of them.

  Dan’s head had slumped onto his chest and he had slid sideways so that he was leaning on his brother, the heat radiating through his jacket. He’d evidently been underplaying how unwell he felt, and it made Andy angry. They were now at an altitude of around two thousand metres, which was easy to cope with for most people of a good fitness level, but not a westerner used to living at sea level, and with a fever to boot. He knew that whatever he suggested, Dan would refuse to go along with his advice, and the sensible thing would be to return to Kathmandu as soon as possible. They had planned to stay in the village until morning, to ensure that everything was correctly installed and in working order, before a final night at the hotel and then the flight back to Turkey. Whether Bhagwan would be up to driving a further six hours (at the very least) before tomorrow, was yet to be seen, but a glance at his companion gave him some indication. He was squinting through the mud-smeared windscreen and stifled his yawn when he realised he was being watched.

  “Not far now,” he smiled.

  “Dan’s sick,” Andy told him. “He’s got a fever.”

  “Not far now,” Bhagwan repeated, nodding towards the road in front of them. Andy joined him in squinting and saw that the village was just up ahead. It disappeared from view as they rounded a bend, then reappeared again, the vibrantly painted houses standing out against the misty black of the mountains. Andy gently righted his brother, an action that awoke and startled him. He stretched and groaned and Andy pointed to the village.

  “Thank God for that,” he mumbled.

  “Why didn’t you say you were so sick?”

  “I’m fine!”

  “No. You’re not bloody well fine at all. You’ve got a raging temperature and you’re clearly in pain. Do you realise how dangerous it is for you to be in the mountains in your state?”

  “Yes, Andy, I do. Or it would be if I was as sick as you think I am, which I’m not. I’ve got a touch of food poisoning or something, but apart from that I feel OK, so stop going on, will you?”

  Andy could feel his temper rising and was trying to keep it contained, as they were now slowing down outside a little stone building with disproportionately large blue gates.

  “Welcome to Syabru Bensi,” a voice called from the other side of the gates, as a young, dark-haired woman came into view. Her face broke into a broad smile when she saw the oven on the back of the truck. “This is fantastic!” she said, and called back inside the building to her partner, who emerged a moment later to greet them.

  “Hello, hello,” he called cheerily, as Dan climbed out of the cab. “I am Michal and this is Zuza,” he introduced in perfect English. “You are Andy and Dan, yes?”

  “I’m Dan,” Dan replied, shaking Michal’s hand.

  “And I’m Andy.” He closed the door and walked round to greet the two people who had set up the bakery project. “It’s great to meet you after all this time,” he said, shaking first Zuza’s, then Michal’s hand. They had been communicating via email for many months now, so it was a bit strange to be meeting for the first time, when he felt like he already knew them.

  “And also to meet you,” Zuza smiled, wandering around the back of the pickup and inspecting the packing material, all of it impressively still intact. “The people here are so excited about this, but you must be tired and hungry. We should go inside.” She said this, although it was apparent that all she wanted right at that moment was to tear off the plastic and cardboard and get at the oven. However, it was going to take several people to lift it from the back of the truck and take it to the building that was to be the bakery, producing the sort of bread and cakes that western tourists craved, hence destined to provide a significant income to this small, poor community. The Jeffries brothers didn’t know much more than this about the project, other than that they’d had some problems transporting the equipment from overseas and up into the mountains. Andy had offered to take on the authorities, and with a few strings tugged in the right places, weeks of coordinating transport, three days of travelling through thunderstorms and monsoon rain, here they were. He was overwhelmed: such an incredible sense of achievement, and yet he knew it was nothing compared to how the young Polish couple who made all of this possible were feeling.

  They followed Zuza and Michal inside the small guesthouse, with Bhagwan heading off across the village to pay a brief visit to another ‘cousin’. Dan was glad to be inside of something that wasn’t moving; it was colder up in the mountains than it had been in Kathmandu, and he was struggling because of this, combined with the thinner air. Andy pretended not to notice his brother’s shivering, so as not to detract attention from their hosts, although he was going to have to say something soon. It was getting worse and, in spite of the spread laid out before them, Dan didn’t touch a single thing, choosing instead to sip at the milky tea, occasionally showing some engagement with the conversation, but he was a bit out of it. When the opportunity presented itself, Andy pulled Michal to one side and asked him if he knew where he could find a doctor, hoping the answer wouldn’t be in Dunche, or it would be as well to wait to get back to Kathmandu. Michal told him that there was a group of German tourists travelling through, one of whom was a doctor, and gave him the name of the family who were putting him up. Andy thanked him and returned to the table, where everyone, other than Dan, was eager to finish the meal so that they could unload the oven, and as soon as she felt sufficient rest time had passed, Zuza started dropping hints, asking how heavy it was, how many people they would need to move it, and so on. Michal was a little more tactful, and played along by ticking her off for her impatience. It made Andy laugh, but he could see how cruel it would be to stay and eat any longer, however delicious the food was, even if it was a bit on the spicy side. He signalled to Zuza that it was time, then held back a moment to get Dan on his own.

  “I think there’s a doctor staying in the village. I’ll sort out for us to go and see him once the oven is off the truck.”

  He expected further protest, but all he got was a shaky sigh and a nod. Dan levered himself up from the stool with the aid of the table.

  “No,” Andy ordered. “You stay there. Let’s be honest, you’re not going to be much use in that state.” Dan sat ba
ck down again and Andy patted his arm. “Just take it easy, all right? I’ll be done as quickly as I can.”

  Outside, the Polish couple, along with several villagers, had already untied the oven and were doing an excellent job of coordinating their efforts, thanks to Bhagwan’s bilingual instruction. Inside, Dan folded his arms and rested his head on top of them, slipping forward on account of his fever sweat, until his forehead came to rest against the table. He was in a deep, dreamlike state, but not quite asleep, and could hear the shouting outside, his brother’s voice calling. So much for being able to cope without him. He lifted his head and grimaced, the throbbing in his temples like tiny pneumatic drills, the effort of moving his arms more than he could take, and he yelled out as pain raced up his torso and across his shoulders, tearing through every muscle. OK, admit it, he thought, you’ve got mountain sickness. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Even the fittest people find they can’t cope with altitude. It doesn’t mean you’re weak.

  Andy was calling again, but Dan could do nothing about it. He let his head slip forward once more and stopped fighting.

  CHAPTER EIGHT:

  UNEXPECTED

  One of those unexpected September heatwaves, inasmuch as the weatherman on breakfast TV had been quite convincing when he declared “light rain across most of the country and unusually cool for the time of year”. Jess hated the way weather presenters used language, missing key phrases with that strange, almost telegraphic speech they have developed over the years, and ultimately getting it totally wrong. So now she was sitting in her office, the windows as wide open as they would go, trying to tune out the car alarm across the road that had been intermittently disturbing the peace for the best part of the morning. She actually called the police this time, out of concern for her own sanity rather than the security of the car in question. Needless to say, they’d yet to materialise. She shrieked in frustration, shoved her too hot feet back into her shoes and stormed downstairs to her infuriatingly cool and composed receptionist, who was fully able to appreciate the through-draught from the wedged-open external door, unperturbed and oblivious in her earphone heaven.

  “I’m gonna go out there and slash his damned tyres in a minute,” Jess said to no-one at all, because Lois couldn’t hear her and Eleanor had finished for the day. Lois did, however, pick up on the fact that she had said something and paused the playback on the voice recording she was transcribing.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked in perfect RP.

  “That alarm’s been going off since half past nine. It’s driving me nuts!”

  Lois smiled. “On the plus side, the battery will be flat soon.”

  “It won’t just be the battery that’s flat if I find out who owns the blasted thing,” Jess growled. Lois giggled and stuffed the loose earphone back in her ear, the sun reflecting off the silver chain dangling from her ear-lobe. Jess moved closer to get a better look at the tiny, sparkly gemstones, suspended like droplets of rain from the end of the chain.

  “Sorry. Was there something else?” Lois removed the earphone again.

  “Lovely ear-rings.”

  “Thanks. They were a twenty-first birthday present. Aquamarine is my birthstone—oh, that reminds me. I meant to give you this earlier.” She lifted a stack of files and retrieved a small, white envelope from underneath, handing it across. Jess read the names on the front and frowned.

  “Andrew and Jessica Jeffries?”

  “It’s from…”

  “Your Uncle Rob. I know! It’s a very old and not very funny joke. He’s getting married again, is he?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Oh.” Jess had been convinced it was a wedding invitation. “I guess I’d better open it and see what’s inside, then.”

  Eleanor stopped off at the supermarket on the way home, for some nappies, washing-up liquid, sterilising fluid, cotton buds and several other items that had her questioning whether her days of shopping trolleys loaded with grown-up impulse buys were gone for good. As she queued at the one checkout that was open, she passed the time examining the contents of other shoppers’ trolleys and baskets, amused by how easy it was to determine a person’s lifestyle and living situation from their selected purchases. The man right in front of her, for instance, was clearly a student, with his instant noodles, cans of beans, strawberry laces and five-pack of doughnuts, whereas in front of him was a single career woman with bags of prepared salad and vegetables, pre-cooked chicken and a lone loose apple. Currently taking up the entire length of the conveyor belt was the weekly shop of a poor young mum with her two children, one in the trolley seat biting the handle and making a ‘mam-mam-mam’ sound as she did so. She was quite cute, with her rosy cheeks and blonde spiky hair, a small bunch of it partly secured in a little pink clip on top of her head. Not so cute was her older sister, who was harassing her exhausted mother almost to death with a teary, repeated request of “Please, Mummy?”. Eleanor had all of this ahead of her and the prospect wasn’t looking so grand from her current vantage point, particularly as by the time she’d made it through the checkout, there was a queue of six more people behind her and still no sign of any assistance for the poor bloke on the till. She took her change and bags and thanked him, giving him a sympathetic smile as she departed.

  James had gone to Birmingham to collect Oliver, as per their haphazard, ‘however it suited the previous Mrs. Brown best’ custody arrangement: the summer holidays had been spent with his mother; now, with due disregard of newborn baby brothers, impending nuptials and honeymoons, Oliver was to stay with his father, to be returned a fortnight before he was due to start school, which coincided with their return from Wales. For all of this (not to mention working from home during the daytime sleeps, even though he was officially on paternity leave, and thus utterly exhausted), James was delighted. So, all things considered, it was fortunate Eleanor had decided to take the week before the wedding off work: the locum was coming in tomorrow to have a look through the patients’ files, although it was the same doctor as had covered for her when the baby was born and nothing much had changed since then.

  She arrived home to find an empty house, other than the white envelope addressed to ‘Ms. Eleanor Davenport’ propped against the coffee jar. She frowned and set down the shopping bags, too curious to leave it until everything was put away.

  “Oh, good Lord,” she said, as she pulled the card from the envelope and realised what it was.

  Adele was vacuuming the hall when the post arrived and didn’t notice until the pitch of the vacuum cleaner changed. She tugged the envelope away from the nozzle and squinted at the writing on the front.

  “Mr. Daniel Jeffries and Miss Adele Reeves. Hmm.” She placed it on the telephone table (she had always wanted one, even though the phone was in the lounge) and continued on her way, little Shaunna tottering along behind her with her own mini pink version of an upright Hoover, complete with the ‘H’ logo on the front, but with the batteries removed so it didn’t play that dreadful music all the time.

  Kris pushed the envelope across the table to Shaunna and raised an eyebrow.

  “What’s this?” she asked, reading the front. It was addressed to the pair of them.

  “You’ll never guess,” was all he said. She eyed him suspiciously.

  “It best not be money from Andy again.”

  “Can’t be, with both our names on it,” he pointed out.

  Shaunna shrugged and put it down on the table, picking up her cup of tea instead. Kris tutted and continued folding the washing. Their sharing a house was still so entwined with having lived together as a couple that he saw nothing wrong with laundering Shaunna’s underwear. However, she was starting to find it a little disconcerting, because some of it was new and he did insist on passing comment.

  “This is lovely,” he said, holding the silky camisole up against his chest and running his hand across the smooth surface.

  “Thanks,” Shaunna replied, bending her face towards her mug of
tea so that she was peering at him through her hair.

  “I don’t remember seeing this before. I bet it’s really comfortable to wear. It’d look fantastic with your red skirt. And those black pumps. Are you going to take it to Wales with you?”

  “Why?” she asked dryly. “Did you want to borrow it or something?” He stuck out his tongue at her. The teasing was a way of covering up her discomfort and he quickly added the camisole to the top of her pile of clothes. He didn’t do it on purpose.

  “I’m a bit worried about the sleeping arrangements for this holiday,” he said in a casual tone that he didn’t quite carry off convincingly.

  “Honeymoon,” Shaunna corrected.

  “How can it be a honeymoon when you’re taking all of your friends with you? I can’t even begin to imagine what James must think.”

  “I know what you mean, but we’ll be fine, even if we do have to share a bed. It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”

  “True.” Kris finished folding the last item and added it to his own pile. At some point they were going to have to brave telling everyone that their marriage was over. In an ideal world they would have said something months ago, when it first happened. Now he was desperate to avoid an inadvertent revelation, which would be inevitable if he asked for a change in sleeping arrangements. He knew he was making a big deal out of nothing; it was only for a week, after all.