We arrived at Perko's house in the morning sunshine. His winter home was on a low hill overlooking the grassland, just above where the tribe had been in the summer. He had amazing views east and west up the valley, and I could see the clay cliffs of the Yellow river and the water's surface, shining as it twisted round the bend. Tsedup's cousin, Sonnam Sebay, had gone to collect Sirmo from her in-laws that morning: they had given their permission for her to leave them for a few days. After more than a month without her, I was dying to see how she was and nearly fell off the bike in my haste to dismount. She emerged from Perko's house, resplendent. Chuchong's family had obviously spoilt her and she wore a brand-new, elaborately embroidered tsarer, new shoes and a big silver and coral ring I hadn't seen before. As I looked at her I was filled with pride. She was a beautiful woman now, a wife, and she had truly blossomed. Her cheeks shone with new-found radiance and her hair was sleekly plaited. But she didn't meet my gaze. Instead, she stood with her head bowed in shame. I wanted to run and hug her, but that would have been a very English thing to do and I restrained myself. Tsedup turned off the bike engine irritably and we all went inside.

Perko and his wife, Annay Dobe, had done their best to make things easy for everyone, but the atmosphere was tense. We ate momos politely and Tsedup directed all conversation to his uncle, with whom he fell into a discussion about the tribe. Not once did he address Sirmo. I sat by the window with her and we held hands.

'Are you happy?' I whispered.

'Yes, I am,' she said, with a tiny smile.

And I felt that she was. Inside she radiated warmth and I realised that this was the hardest ordeal for her: dealing with the aftermath of her actions and the hurt that she had inflicted on her family. She was obviously in love and did not regret running away.

'Do you miss your husband?' I asked her, grinning.

She giggled quietly and blushed. ‘I missed you, Shermo,' she murmured. 'Did you miss me?'

'I missed you very much,' I replied.

She kept her eyes firmly on her sewing for the next few hours. It was strange to see her so restrained and filled with propriety. She had always been so natural and spontaneous before. Later, she left the room and retired to the back parlour with Annay. They sat studiously picking the nits from each other's hair and talking at great length. I decided not to interrupt. There was a lot to cover and they didn't need any distraction from me. Annay was clearly thrilled to see her daughter and I imagined that she was grilling Sirmo for information about her new life. She would need to know that she was content and that her mother-in-law was good to her. All too often, a new bride was treated like a slave. But Annay seemed content with Sirmo's answers and cooed her approval.

Before we left, I went outside with Sirmo and her cousin, Malo. We squatted downwind from the dogs and I teased her. 'You're a namma now,' I said, chuckling. For a moment the mask slipped: as we girls were alone, Sirmo threw back her head and laughed. It was a joyful sound. I felt happy for her. We walked back to the house arm in arm and stood for photographs. Then I took a picture of her and Tsedup as he stood stiffly beside her, frowning. He mounted the bike and spoke to his sister for the first time. 'Shimo, girl,' he bellowed, 'you have upset your father.' She stared at her feet and he seemed to give his blessing, for he modified his tone. 'I won't see you for a long time. You've made your choice, so try your best.' She began to cry softly and I put my arm around her. Tsedup's mode of address had shocked me. He had sounded patronising and stern. I had never heard him speak like this before. I knew he loved his sister and I didn't understand why he had to behave like this now, when he was leaving. Then, I saw him in context and with enormous clarity: he was an Amdo man. According to his culture, his behaviour was appropriate, but I didn't understand it. It seemed cruel.

I sighed in disapproval and turned to Sirmo. 'Goodbye,' I said. 'When I see you again, you'll have a child.' She was a newly-wed; what could have been more likely in this fertile land? She tried to smile, but couldn't look up. I wiped her eyes and kissed her head. For once I didn't care about nomad etiquette. She squeezed my hand as I mounted the bike. Then I left her, speeding down the hill to the track. I waved for a long time, clinging to Tsedup with one hand, staring until she was nothing more than a dot.

Sixteen. The Parting

On Christmas Eve, in the late afternoon, the streets of the town were bathed in a pale violet light. The mountains to the north had lost their brilliance. Black crows flocked across the sun as it added crimson and tangerine ripples to the feathered cloud. We had come to collect the children from school. Dawa and Yeshe, Dombie's children, had left their lessons early so that we could arrive at the winter house by dusk. Gondo's son, Dorlo, had been truanting again. Tsedup had found him in a video hall watching Kung Fu films and had threatened to leave him behind if he didn't behave. Dorlo swore he would.

Before hitting the road, we took the children to a restaurant. They were delirious with excitement, having been told they were getting presents, and nearly choked on the noodles in their haste to depart. Dorlo was having particular problems controlling himself. Unable to avoid the question threatening to implode his brain, he was forced to blurt out through spluttering lips, 'Is mine a gun? Is mine a gun?'

Tsedup laughed at him. 'No, it's a doll,' he teased.

'I know it's a big gun,' beamed Dorlo.

'You'll find out tomorrow,' I said. Thank God we had bought him a gun.

Yeshe, his junior, remained polite and restrained, kicking his legs under the table and blowing bubbles from his nose. For such a small boy he had a peculiar sense of propriety. He drove the food leisurely round his plate with one chopstick, as he surveyed us all curiously. His sister, Dawa, chattered and giggled and sniffed; snapping open and shut the pink, plastic purse that hung round her neck. The children were all dressed in their tsarers for the journey to the grassland. We would all have to go by tolla, as their parents weren't coming on the bikes until tomorrow.

Tsedup hailed one of the three-wheeled tractors on the street, as I waited with the children in Annay Latuck's momo shop. We warmed our hands on her stove. Dusk was falling and it was freezing outside. Annay Latuck ran the shop like an eccentric brigadier, shouting orders to the girls behind the curtain in the back kitchen. She was a no-nonsense woman, but her beady eyes twinkled and her wry smile betrayed a kindly nature. She was the mother of our friend Tamding Gyalpo, who now lived in Switzerland. She hadn't seen him for eight years and missed him terribly. We would often sit and talk as she held my hand and I assured her he would come home soon. He was waiting for his Swiss passport to enable him to travel. The scenario was all too familiar and I felt for her as I had for Tsedup's mother. Now, she placed a pile of shabala, meat fritters, in front of us and commanded me to eat. 'Sou, Namma Kate! Sou!' I wasn't hungry, but I knew that there would be no escape if I didn't attempt her offer of sustenance. She always looked after me. Yet, half-way through our greasy snack, we were summoned to the road.

The tolla ride was predictably uncomfortable. The track resembled an ice-rink in places and we skidded precariously for most of the way, juddering in the back as the engine thundered in our ears. At one point we stalled after crossing a frozen stream and Dorlo decided to jump off. He ran away from us wielding a gun-shaped stick and mock-firing at us, crying, 'Dddddrrrr, dddddrrrrr!' like a machine-gun. Then the Chinese driver pumped the gas and the engine burst into its own rapid fire. Without waiting, he continued driving up the hill, as Dorlo, shocked at being abandoned, shouted obscenities in his high-pitched voice and chased behind until he got a grip on the tailgate and we pulled him in. That boy was a liability.