Christmas Days: 12 Stories and 12 Feasts for 12 Days

  Then the war came.

  When the British returned to Mürren in any number the year was 1924. Arnold Lunn pitched up with his father, Sir ­Henry, a minister who had failed to convert the Indians in Calcutta to ­Methodism, and who had decided, instead, to evangelise the ­British to the glory of the Alps.

  It was young Arnold who fell in love with skiing and who established downhill skiing as a competitive sport – rather than just the fastest way to get to the bottom of the hill.

  Although it was the fastest way to get to the bottom of the hill. In 1928, Arnold and some friends climbed to the top of the ­Schilthorn, above Mürren, and skied the fourteen hair-raising, ­eyebrow-­stripping, gut-churning, knee-wrecking, leg-breaking, mind-numbing, heart-­soaring kilometres down to Lauterbrunnen. They enjoyed it so much they did it again. And again. They called the race the Inferno.

  And every year the world comes here to do it again too.

  My friends and I are not Inferno material. Rather we rag-bag along at the start of each New Year, putting aside our lives around the world and meeting to share old times. We’ve worked together, or been at college together, or been neighbours, until one or the other moved away. Wives and husbands are not allowed on the trip. This is a friendship club. It’s pleasingly old-fashioned in the age of Facebook. We don’t upload. We don’t really keep in touch that much over the year.

  But if we’re alive we’ll be here, in Mürren, every New Year.

  We stay at the Palace Hotel and organise the first dinner for ourselves on January 3rd.

  It was after a good dinner of trout and potatoes, sitting in front of a blazing log fire, drinking coffee or brandy or both, that one of our number proposed that we tell ghost stories, real ones – supernatural happenings that had happened to us.

  Mike was like that – a larger-than-life type with an appetite for anything new. Since last year, he said, he’d been researching the paranormal.

  When we asked him why, he claimed it had started here, in Mürren. So why hadn’t he told us about it before?

  ‘I wasn’t sure. And I thought you’d laugh at me.’

  We were laughing at him. Who believes in ghosts except kids and old ladies?

  Mike leaned forward, holding up his hand to stop the flow of quips and comments about ghostbusters and so many drinks he was seeing double.

  ‘I wasn’t drunk,’ said Mike. ‘It was daytime. You were all on the chairlifts for the slalom. I decided to go cross-country, clear my head – you know I was having difficulty with my marriage last year.’

  Suddenly he was serious. So we listened.

  Mike said, ‘I was alone, skiing pretty fast on the pass above us. I saw someone else, higher up, frighteningly high up, like he was skiing on a tightrope. I waved and hollered, but the figure went on. It was like he was airborne. I got myself going again, thinking I’d try and find this guy who skis in thin air, later, in the bar, and then about an hour afterwards I saw the same man. He seemed to be looking for something.

  ‘I skied across to help him out. I said, “You lost something, buddy?”’

  ‘He looked at me – I’ll never forget that look; eyes milk-blue like the blue of the sun on the snow in the morning. He asked me the time. I told him. He said he was missing his ice axe. I thought maybe he was a geologist, you know? He had a knapsack that looked specialist.

  ‘He was dressed real strange. Like he’d just gone out in his clothes with his skis on. Thick seaman sweater – no hi-vis microfibre. He wore boots – but they were old leather things with those long wrap-around laces they used to have. And his skis – I’m not kidding you, they were wooden; can you believe that?

  ‘But it wasn’t just those things. I had the sensation that I was looking through him. That he was made of glass or ice. I couldn’t actually see through him, but the feeling was real. He didn’t seem to want company so I skied off a little way and then I turned back. And there was no one there.’

  We had listened in silence. Then we all butted in at once. We all had our own explanations to offer: they do historic skiing demonstrations here sometimes – the old skis, the heavy clothes, that kind of thing. And Mike admitted he had been tired and more than a little strung-out. The air can do that to you.

  None of that equalled ghost. Mike shook his head. ‘I’m telling you, I saw something. I’ve been trying to understand it all year. There’s no explanation. A man comes out of nowhere and goes back into nowhere.’

  While we were arguing, one of the managers here, Fabrice, came over, offered us drinks on the house and asked if he could join us.

  ‘It’s ghost night, Fabrice,’ said Mike. ‘You ever heard anything like this here?’

  Mike started to repeat the whole thing. I got up and excused myself. I wanted a little air. When you first arrive here it takes time to adjust. The fire and the brandy were making me sleepy but I didn’t want to go to bed. So I went outside, intending to walk round the hotel.

  I like looking back into rooms filled with people. I like the ­silent-movie feel of it. I used to do it when I was a girl, watching my parents and sisters, knowing they couldn’t see me.

  Now, in the crisp, starry air, I looked in and saw my party, my friends, laughing, animated. I smiled to myself. Then, as I was watching, another guest came through the library. No one I recognised. You get to know the usual faces. This one was young and strong. He carried his body well.

  Judging from his clothes, he was British. He wore wool trousers, khaki shirt and short tie, fitted tweed jacket. The timeless look the Brits do well. He didn’t even glance at our group; took a book from one of the shelves and disappeared through a door set in the panelling. The library is modelled on a gentleman’s club of about a hundred years ago: leather, wood, warmth, books, animal paintings, old photos in frames, newspapers.

  I went back inside – the others were having a good time, but I still wasn’t in the mood. Tiredness, I think. On impulse I followed the man the way he had gone. The hotel had had some renovations recently. I thought I might have a look at what they had done.

  But when I went through the door I realised I was in the oldest part of the hotel. Probably the service side.

  I could see the man’s legs disappearing up a narrow staircase. Why did I go after him? I wasn’t trying to pick him up or anything. But I experience a freedom here – actually a recklessness. It’s the air. The air is radiant here; it’s like breathing light.

  I followed him.

  At the top of the stairs a low glow came from a room with a small door under the eaves. The room looked like it had been tucked in as an afterthought. I hesitated. Through the half-open door I could see the man with his back to me, turning over the pages of a book. I knocked at the door. He looked round. I pushed the door open.

  ‘Did you bring the hot water?’ he said.

  Then he realised his mistake.

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ I said. ‘I’m the one who’s disturbing you. I’m with that noisy group downstairs.’

  The young man looked puzzled. He was broad-shouldered, rangy, built like a rower or a climber. He had taken off his tweed jacket. His trousers were held up with braces. He stood in his shirt and tie, touchingly formal and vulnerable in that formal and vulnerable way that Englishmen can be.

  ‘I was going to settle down to read this book about Everest,’ he said. ‘I shall be going there later in the year. Come in. Please. Would you like to come in?’

  I went in. The room was not at all like a hotel room here. There was a low fire burning in the grate and a single divan pushed against one wall. There was a wash-jug and bowl on a nightstand. A heavy leather case lay half-unpacked in the middle of the room, a pair of striped pyjamas rumpled on the top. Two candles dripped on the mantelpiece. There was an oil lamp on a desk by the window. An upright chair matched the desk, and a pink velvet armchair was drawn close to the fire. There didn’t appe
ar to be any electricity.

  He followed my gaze. ‘I’m not rich. The other rooms are better. Well, I’m sure you know that. But this is cosy. Would you like to sit down? The armchair is quite comfortable. Please . . . Miss . . . ?

  ‘Hi, I’m Molly,’ I said, holding out my hand.

  ‘Sandy,’ he said. ‘You must be American.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You don’t sound American, but you seem very sure of yourself.’

  I laughed. ‘I knew I was intruding . . . I’ll go.’

  ‘No! I mean it, please . . . my terrible manners. Sit by the fire. Go on. Please.’

  He rummaged in a knapsack that seemed to be made of canvas and pockets, and came out with a hip flask. ‘Will you have a brandy?’

  He poured us two generous amounts in tooth tumblers.

  ‘I’ve never seen this part of the hotel. It’s so quaint. I guess they never restored it. Is it part of their historic?’

  Sandy looked puzzled again. ‘Historic what?’

  ‘You know, the demos they do – skiing the Arnold Lunn way, all of that.’

  ‘Do you know Arnold Lunn?’

  ‘I know of him – if you stay here, who doesn’t?’

  ‘Yes, he’s quite a character, isn’t he? Do you know the Sherlock Holmes connection?’

  I didn’t know it, and I could see he wanted to tell me. He was so eager and enthusiastic. He leaned forward, pushing up his sleeves. His skin was bone-white.

  ‘The old man, Sir Henry, Arnold’s father, loved those adventures, read them aloud round the fire at night – said they’re made to be read aloud, and I agree. At any rate, Conan Doyle was in the Bernese Oberland with Sir Henry, on one of his Alps tours, and Conan Doyle was mooching around in a pretty mournful state because he wanted to kill off Sherlock Holmes so that he could devote his life to paranormal research. Can you believe it? Paranormal research! And stop writing bloody detective stories.’

  Sandy was nodding, laughing at this. He took a big gulp of his brandy and poured us both an extra shot. His hands were big, strong, and the whitest hands I have ever seen on a man.

  ‘It’s pleasant to have company,’ he said. I smiled at him. He really was good-looking.

  ‘I didn’t know Arthur Conan Doyle believed in the supernatural.’

  ‘Oh, yes – he converted to Spiritualism. Absolutely believed in it. So Sir Henry, though he didn’t want to see the back of Sherlock Holmes, wanted to help his friend out, so he said, “Push Holmes over the Reichenbach Falls.” Conan Doyle had never heard of the Reichenbach Falls, had no idea where they were. Sir Henry, a great expert in the Alps, took Conan Doyle to the falls and Conan Doyle knew he had found his answer. And that’s how Holmes and Moriarty died. I so enjoyed that story: “The Final Problem”.’

  ‘If you have to go, you might as well do it sensationally,’ I said. ‘And you might even stage a comeback.’

  His face changed. Pain and fear. ‘Hold on to the rope.’

  ‘What? I don’t follow.’

  Sandy passed his hand across his head. ‘Sorry. I’m rambling. That is, I mean to say, the English prefer to live well rather than live long.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘There were so many chaps, just too young to fight in the war, who never forgave themselves for not making the ultimate sacrifice. Those chaps would take on anything, go anywhere, do anything.’

  ‘Why would anyone needlessly risk their own life?’

  ‘For something glorious? Why would you not risk your life?’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Certainly. It’s different for women.’

  ‘Because we have children?’

  ‘I suppose so. Though now you have the vote . . . ’

  ‘Exercising your democratic rights doesn’t interfere with childbirth.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  He looked into the fire. ‘Would you like to come skiing with me tomorrow? I know some interesting routes. You look strong enough.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Yes, why not? That would be a pleasure. When you talk about the war, Sandy, you mean . . . ’

  ‘The Great War.’

  I guessed he must be following the centenary coverage. I said, ‘I wouldn’t risk my life for anything. Death is too final.’

  He nodded slowly, his eyes on me like blue lasers. ‘Do you not believe in the Afterlife?’

  ‘Not at all. Do you?’

  He was silent. I liked his earnestness. He hadn’t checked his smartphone once. And he read books. Old ones. I could see the one he had borrowed, open on the little desk where he had put it down.

  ‘It’s not a question of belief,’ he said, finally. ‘It is what it is.’

  I didn’t want to get into another debate about what happens when we’re dead, so I changed the subject.

  ‘Did you say you are going to climb Everest?’

  ‘Yes. It’s an official British expedition. I’m in charge of the oxygen cylinders, nothing glamorous. I don’t expect I’ll get to the summit, but it’s an honour to be chosen. Everyone else is much more experienced than me. I’ve always been fascinated by mountains and wilderness. Cold mountains. Cold wilderness. When I was a boy I devoured all I could get my hands on about Captain Scott and the Antarctic – and that cheater Amundsen.’

  ‘Amundsen used dogs not ponies. That wasn’t cheating.’

  ‘He should never have run against Scott to start with. Ours was a scientific expedition. He was just going for glory.’

  ‘Welcome to the modern world.’

  ‘Cheap. I don’t want to be cheap.’

  ‘Why do you want to climb Everest?’

  ‘Mallory said it better than I can: “Because it’s there.” ’

  He was white and monumental like marble. Perhaps it was the fire dying down, or that my face was flushed with brandy, or perhaps it was the moon shining in through the bare, bright window. He might have been carved from moonrock, this boy.

  ‘How old are you, Sandy?’

  ‘Twenty-two. I can’t ask you the same question because it’s not done to ask a lady her age.’

  ‘I’m forty.’

  Sandy shook his head. ‘You’re far too handsome to be forty. I hope you don’t mind me calling you handsome. Rather than beautiful.’

  I didn’t mind at all.

  ‘I’m leaving for the Himalayas in April. By way of Darjeeling. Then to a monastery right at the foot of the mountain. Rongbuk. We’ll stay there. The monks believe that the mountain – Everest – sings. That the music is too high-pitched for us to hear, but certain of the Buddhist masters can hear it.’

  ‘That’s a bit too mystical for me.’

  ‘Is it? When you’re here at Mürren, don’t you feel light-headed?’

  ‘Well, yes, I do, but that’s because of the thinness of the air. It’s physiological. It’s—’

  Sandy interrupted me. ‘People feel light-headed on mountains because the solid world dematerialises. We are not the dimensional objects we believe ourselves to be.’

  ‘Are you a Buddhist?’

  Sandy shook his head impatiently. I was failing him, I could tell. He tried again, looking directly at me. Those eyes . . .

  ‘When I am climbing I understand that gravity exists to protect us from our lightness of being, in the same way that time is what shields us from eternity.’

  When he spoke I felt a chill. Something cold entered me like sitting in a room where the temperature is dropping. Then I saw that there was ice on the inside of the windowpane.

  Sandy was looking past me now. As though he had forgotten I was there. And I noticed something odd about those eyes. He doesn’t blink, I thought.

  When he spoke again it was with a wild despair in his voice. ‘I never sought to avoid the overwhelming fire of existence. It’s not
death that’s to be feared. It’s eternity. Do you understand?’

  ‘I don’t think I do, Sandy.’

  ‘Death – it’s a way out, isn’t it? No matter how deeply we fear it, isn’t there relief that there will be a way out?’

  ‘I’ve never thought about dying.’

  He got up and went to the window. ‘What if I told you that dying isn’t a way out?’

  ‘I’m not religious.’

  ‘You’ll find out. When it comes to it, you’ll find out for ­yourself.’

  I stood up. There was no clock in the room. I checked my watch. The glass had broken.

  ‘Broken, is it?’ said Sandy. His voice was far-off, as if he was talking to someone else. ‘You should put it in your pocket.’

  ‘I must have banged it.’

  ‘This bloody shale. The mountain is rotten.’

  ‘What mountain? The Eiger?’

  ‘Not the Eiger – Everest. I always thought that name was a joke – that pitiless, relentless rock, no pause, no sleep, wind speeds of a hundred and fifty miles an hour if you’re unlucky, and you are always unlucky – and the British called it Ever Rest. Do you suppose he was thinking of the dead?’

  ‘Who, Sandy, who was thinking of the dead?’

  ‘Sir George Everest. You don’t think a mountain in the ­Himalayas was named Everest by the Tibetans or the Nepalese, do you? Royal Geographical Society 1865 – named after the Surveyor General of India, Sir George Everest. To his credit he objected – said it couldn’t be written or pronounced in Hindi. To them Everest will always be the Holy Mother.’

  ‘Strange kind of a mother who kills so many of her children,’ I said.

  ‘There are sacred places,’ said Sandy. ‘Places we should not go. I didn’t know that until we stayed at the monastery in Rongbuk.’

  ‘You’ve already been there? I thought you were going.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. What time is it? The sun has gone down.’ He seemed confused. I decided to carry on the British way, as though nothing had happened.