The Oaks, Holly Mount, The Parsonage, The Pines, Dumbarnie, Mackinnon’s Hall, and Windermere. These are names of some of the old houses that still stand on the outskirts of one of the larger Indian hill-stations. They were built over a hundred years ago by British settlers who sought relief from the searing heat of the plains. A few fell into decay and are now inhabited by wild cats, owls, goats, and the occasional mule-

driver. Others survive.

Among these old mansions stands a neat, white-washed cottage, Mulberry Lodge. And in it lived an elderly British spinster named Miss Mackenzie. She was sprightly and wore old-fashioned but well-preserved dresses. Once a week, she walked up to town and bought butter, jam, soap and sometimes a bottle of eau-de-cologne.

Miss Mackenzie had lived there since her teens, before World War I. Her parents, brother, and sister were all dead. She had no relatives in India, and lived on a small pension and gift parcels sent by a childhood friend. She had few visitors – the local padre, the postman, the milkman. Like other lonely old people, she kept a pet, a large black cat with bright, yellow eyes.

In a small garden, she grew dahlias, chrysanthemums, gladioli and a few rare orchids. She knew a great deal about wild flowers, trees, birds, and insects. She never seriously studied them, but had an intimacy with all that grew and flourished around her.

It was September, and the rains were nearly over. Miss Mackenzie’s African marigolds were blooming. 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 puttering about in her garden, she saw a schoolboy plucking wild flowers on the slope above the cottage. ‘What are you up to, young man?’ she called.

Alarmed, the boy tried to dash up the hillside, but slipped on pine needles and slid down the slope into Miss Mackenzie’s nasturtium bed. Finding no escape, he gave a bright smile and said, ‘Good morning, 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 at Miss Mackenzie with appealing eyes.

‘You ought to be in school,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘Picking flowers, Miss.’ He held up a bunch of ferns and wild flowers.

‘Oh,’ Miss Mackenzie was disarmed. It had been a long time since she had seen a

boy taking an interest in flowers.

‘Do you like flowers?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Miss. I’m going to be a botan…a botanitist.’

‘You mean a botanist?’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘That’s unusual. Do you know the names of these flowers?’

‘This is a buttercup,’ he said, showing her a small golden flower. ‘But I don’t know what this is,’ he said, holding out a pale, pink flower with a heart-shaped leaf.

‘It’s a wild begonia,’ said Miss Mackenzie. ‘And that purple stuff is salvia. Do you have any books on flowers?’

‘No, Miss.’

‘Come in and I’ll show you one.’

She led the boy into a small front room crowded with furniture, books, vases, and jam jars. He sat awkwardly on the edge of the chair. The cat jumped immediately on to his knees and settled down, purring softly.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Miss Mackenzie, as she rummaged through her books. ‘Anil, Miss.’

‘And where do you live?’

‘When school closes, I go to Delhi. My father has a business there.’

‘Oh, and what’s that?’

‘Bulbs, Miss.’

‘Flower bulbs?’

‘No, electric bulbs.’

‘Ah, here we are!’ she said taking a heavy tome from the shelf. ‘Flora Himaliensis, published in 1892, and probably the only copy in India. This is a valuable book, Anil. No other naturalist has recorded as many wild Himalayan flowers. But there are still many plants unknown to the botanists who spend all their time at microscopes instead of in the mountains. Perhaps you’ll do something about that one day.’

‘Yes, Miss.’

She lit the stove and put the kettle on for tea. And then the old English lady and the small Indian boy sat side by side, absorbed in the book. Miss Mackenzie pointed out many flowers that grew around the hill-station, while the boy made notes of their names and seasons.

‘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 brought a wild flower for her to identify. She looked forward to the boy’s visits. Sometimes when more than a week passed and he didn’t come, she would grumble at the cat.

By the middle of October, with only a fortnight left before school closed, snow fell on the distant mountains. One peak stood high above the others, a white pinnacle againt an azure sky. When the sun set, the peak turned from orange to pink to red.

‘How high is that mountain?’ asked Anil.

‘It must be over 15,000 feet,’ said Miss Mackenzie. ‘I always wanted to go there, but there is no proper road. On the lower slopes, there’ll be flowers that you don’t get here: blue gentian, purple columbine.’

The day before school closed, Anil came to say goodbye. As he was about to leave, Miss Mackenzie thrust the Flora Himaliensis into his hands. ‘It’s a gift,’ she said.

‘But I’ll be back next year, and I’ll be able to look at it then,’ he protested. ‘Besides, it’s so valuable!’

‘That’s why I’m giving it to you. Otherwise, it will fall into the hands of the junk dealers.’

‘But, Miss…’

‘Don’t argue.’

The boy tucked the book under his arm, stood at attention, and said, ‘Goodbye, Miss Mackenzie.’ It was the first time he had spoken her name.

Strong winds soon brought rain and sleet, killing the flowers in the garden. The cat stayed indoors, curled up at the foot of the bed. Miss Mackenzie wrapped herself in old shawls and mufflers, but still felt cold. Her fingers grew so stiff that it took almost an hour to open a can of baked beans. Then it snowed, and for several days the milkman did not come.

Tired, she spent most of her time in bed. It was the warmest place. She kept a hot-water bottle against her back, and the cat kept her feet warm. She dreamed of spring and summer. In three months, the primroses would be out, and Anil would return.

One night the hot-water bottle burst, soaking the bed. The sun didn’t shine for several days, and the blankets remained damp. Miss Mackenzie caught a chill and had to keep to her cold, uncomfortable bed.

A strong wind sprang up one night and blew the bedroom window open. Miss Mackenzie was too weak to get up and close it. The wind swept the rain and sleet into the room. The cat snuggled close to its mistress’s body. Towards morning, the body lost its warmth, and the cat left the bed and started scratching about on the floor.

As sunlight streamed through the window, the milkman arrived. He poured some milk into the saucer on the doorstep, and the cat jumped down from the window-sill.

The milkman called out a greeting to Miss Mackenzie. There was no answer. Knowing she was always up before sunrise, he poked his head in the open window and called again.

Miss Mackenzie did not answer. She had gone to the mountain, where the blue gentian and purple columbine grow.