Fern Hill, The Oaks, Hunter's Lodge, The Parsonage, The Pines, Dumbarnie, Mackinnon's Hall and Windermere. These are the names of some of the old houses that still stand on the outskirts of one of the smaller Indian hill stations. Most of them have fallen into decay and ruin. They are very old, of course — built over a hundred years ago by Britishers who sought relief from the searing heat of the plains. Today's visitors to the hill stations prefer to live near the markets and cinemas and many of the old houses, set amidst oak and maple and deodar, are inhabited by wild cats, bandicoots, owls, goats, and the occasional charcoal-burner or mule-driver.
But amongst these neglected mansions stands a neat, whitewashed cottage called Mulberry Lodge. And in it, up to a short time ago, lived an elderly English spinster named Miss. Mackenzie.
In years Miss Mackenzie was more than 'elderly,' being well over eighty. But no one would have guessed it. She was clean, sprightly, and wore old-fashioned but well-preserved dresses. Once a week, she walked the two miles to town to buy butter and jam and soap and sometimes a small bottle of eau-de-Col'ogne.
She had lived in the hill station since she had been a girl in her teens, and that had been before the First World War. Though she had never married, she had experienced a few love affairs and was far from being the typical frustrated spinster of fiction. Her parents had been dead thirty years; her brother and sister were also dead. She had no relatives in India, and she lived on a small pension of forty rupees a month and the gift parcels that were sent out to her from New Zealand by a friend of her youth.
Like other lonely old people, she kept a pet, a large black cat with bright yellow eyes. In her small garden she grew dahlias, chrysanthemums, gladioli and a few rare orchids. She knew a great deal about plants, and about wild flowers, trees, birds and insects. She had never made a serious study of these things, but, having lived with them for so many years, had developed an intimacy with all that grew and flourished around her.
She had few visitors. Occasionally the padre from the local church called on her, and once a month the postman came with a letter from New Zealand or her pension papers. The milkman called every second day with a litre of milk for the lady and her cat. And sometimes she received a couple of eggs free, for the egg-seller remembered a time when Miss. Mackenzie, in her earlier prosperity, bought eggs from him in large quantities. He was a sentimental man. He remembered her when she was a ravishing beauty in her twenties and he had gazed at her in round-eyed, nine-year-old wonder and consternation.
Now it was September and the rains were nearly over and Miss. Mackenzie's chrysanthemums were coming into their own. She hoped the coming winter wouldn't be too severe because she found it increasingly difficult to bear the cold.
One day, as she was pottering about in her garden, she saw a schoolboy plucking wild flowers on the slope about the cottage.
'Who's that?' she called. 'What are you up to, young man?'
The boy was alarmed and tried to dash up the hillside, but he slipped on pine needles and came slithering down the slope into Miss. Mackenzie's nasturtium bed.
When he found there was no escape, he gave a bright disarming smile and said, 'Good morning, Miss.'
He belonged to the local English-medium school, and wore a bright red blazer and a red-and-black-striped tie. Like most polite Indian schoolboys, he called every woman 'Miss.'
'Good morning,' said Miss. Mackenzie severely. 'Would you mind moving out of my flower-bed?'
The boy stepped gingerly over the nasturtiums and looked up at Miss. Mackenzie with dimpled cheeks and appealing eyes. It was impossible to be angry with him.
'You're trespassing,' said Miss Mackenzie.
'Yes, Miss.'
'And you ought to be in school at this hour.'
'Yes, Miss.'
'Then what are you doing here?'
'Picking flowers, Miss.' And he held up a bunch of ferns and wild flowers.
'Oh,' Miss Mackenzie was disarmed. It was a long time since she had seen a boy taking an interest in flowers, and, what was more, playing truant from school in order to gather them.
'Do you like flowers?' she asked.
'Yes, Miss. I'm going to be a botan — a botantist?'
'You mean a botanist.'
'Yes, Miss.'
'Well, that's unusual. Most boys at your age want to be pilots or soldiers or perhaps engineers. But you want to be a botanist. Well, well. There's still hope for the world, I see. And do you know the names of these flowers?'
'This is a Bukhilo flower,' he said, showing her a small golden flower. 'That's a Pahari name. It means Puja, or prayer. The flower is offered during prayers. But I don't know what this is …'
He held out a pale pink flower with a soft, heart-shaped leaf.
'It's a wild begonia,' said Miss Mackenzie. 'And that purple stuff is salvia, but it isn't wild, it's a plant that escaped from my garden. Don't you have any books on flowers?'
'No, Miss.'
'All right, come in and I'll show you a book.'
She led the boy into a small front room, which was crowded with furniture and books and vases and jam-jars, and offered him a chair. He sat awkwardly on its edge. The black cat immediately leapt on to his knees, and settled down on them, purring loudly.
'What's your name?' asked Miss Mackenzie, as she rummaged among her books.
'Anil, Miss.'
'And where do you live?'
'When school closes, I go to Delhi. My father has a business.'
'Oh, and what's that?'
'Bulbs, Miss.'
'Flower bulbs?'
'No, electric bulbs.'
'Electric bulbs! You might send me a few, when you get home. Mine are always fusing, and they're so expensive, like everything else these days. Ah, here we are!' She pulled a heavy volume down from the shelf and laid it on the table. 'Flora Himaliensis, published in 1892, and probably the only copy in India. This is a very valuable book, Anil. No other naturalist has recorded so many wild Himalayan flowers. And let me tell you this, there are many flowers and plants which are still unknown to the fancy botanists who spend all their time at microscopes instead of in the mountains. But perhaps, you'll do something about that, one day.'
'Yes, Miss.'
They went through the book together, and Miss. Mackenzie pointed out many flowers that grew in and around the hill station, while the boy made notes of their names and seasons. She lit a stove, and put the kettle on for tea. And then the old English lady and the small Indian boy sat side by side over cups of hot sweet tea, absorbed in a book of wild flowers.
'May I come again?' asked Anil, when finally he rose to go.
'If you like,' said Miss Mackenzie. 'But not during school hours. You mustn't miss your classes.'
After that, Anil visited Miss. Mackenzie about once a week, and nearly always he brought a wildflower for her to identify. She found herself looking forward to the boy's visits — and sometimes, when more than a week passed and he didn't come, she was disappointed and lonely and would grumble at the black cat.
Anil reminded her of her brother, when the latter had been a boy. There was no physical resemblance. Andrew had been fair-haired and blue-eyed. But it was Anil's eagerness, his alert bright look and the way he stood — legs apart, hands on hips, a picture of confidence — that reminded her of the boy who had shared her own youth in these same hills.
And why did Anil come to see her so often?
Partly because she knew about wild flowers, and he really did want to become a botanist. And partly because she smelt of freshly baked bread, and that was a smell his own grandmother had possessed. And partly because she was lonely and sometimes a boy of twelve can sense loneliness better than an adult. And partly because he was a little different from other children.
By the middle of October, when there was only a fortnight left for the school to close, the first snow had fallen on the distant mountains. One peak stood high above the rest, a white pinnacle against the azure-blue sky. When the sun set, this peak turned from orange to gold to pink to red.
'How high is that mountain?' asked Anil.
'It must be over 12,000 feet,' said Miss. Mackenzie. 'About thirty miles from her, as the crow flies. I always wanted to go there, but there was no proper road. At that height, there'll be flowers that you don't get here — the blue gentian and the purple columbine, the anemone and the edelweiss.'
'I'll go there one day,' said Anil.
'I'm sure you will, if you really want to.'
The day before his school closed, Anil came to say goodbye to Miss. Mackenzie.
'I don't suppose you'll be able to find many wild flowers in Delhi,' she said. 'But have a good holiday.'
'Thank you, Miss.'
As he was about to leave, Miss Mackenzie, on an impulse, thrust the Flora Himaliensis into his hands.
'You keep it,' she said. 'It's a present for you.'
'But I'll be back next year, and I'll be able to look at it then. It's so valuable.'
'I know it's valuable and that's why I've given it to you. Otherwise it will only fall into the hands of the junk-dealers.'
'But, Miss …'
'Don't argue. Besides, I may not be here next year.'
'Are you going away?'
'I'm not sure. I may go to England.'
She had no intention of going to England; she had not seen the country since she was a child, and she knew she would not fit in with the life of post-war Britain. Her home was in these hills, among the oaks and maples and deodars. It was lonely, but at her age it would be lonely anywhere.
The boy tucked the book under his arm, straightened his tie, stood stiffly to attention, and said, 'Goodbye, Miss. Mackenzie.'
It was the first time he had spoken her name.
Winter set in early, and strong winds brought rain and sleet, and soon there were no flowers in the garden or on the hillside. The cat stayed indoor, curled up at the foot of Miss. Mackenzie's bed.
Miss. Mackenzie wrapped herself up in all her old shawls and mufflers, but still she felt the cold. Her fingers grew so stiff that she took almost an hour to open a can of baked beans. And then, it snowed, and for several days the milkman did not come. The postman arrived with her pension papers, but she felt too tired to take them up to town to the bank.
She spent most of the time in bed. It was the warmest place. She kept a hot water bottle at her back, and the cat kept her feet warm. She lay in bed, dreaming of the spring and summer months. In three months' time the Primroses would be out and with the coming of spring the boy would return.
One night the hot water bottle burst and the bedding was soaked through. As there was no sun for several days, the blanket remained damp. Miss. Mackenzie caught a chill and had to keep to her cold, uncomfortable bed. She knew she had a fever but there was no thermometer with which to take her temperature. She had difficulty in breathing.
A strong wind sprang up one night, and the window flew open and kept banging all night. Miss. Mackenzie was too weak to get up and close it, and the wind swept the rain and sleet into the room. The cat crept into the bed and snuggled close to its mistress's warm body. But towards morning that body had lost its warmth and the cat left the bed and started scratching about on the floor.
As a shaft of sunlight streamed through the open window, the milkman arrived. He poured some milk into the cat's saucer on the doorstep and the cat leapt down from the window-sill and made for the milk.
The milkman called a greeting to Miss. Mackenzie, but received no answer. Her window was open and he had always known her to be up before sunrise. So he put his head in at the window and called again. But Miss. Mackenzie did not answer. She had gone away to the mountain where the blue gentian and purple columbine grew.