“How very interesting, Mr. Mallory,” said the manager. “We haven’t had any other customers planning a holiday in that part of the world, so may I be so bold as to ask what sort of weather conditions you might be expecting?”
“Well, I’m not altogether certain,” admitted George. “But as far as I can make out, once we’ve reached 27,000 feet, we can expect gale-force winds, a temperature of forty degrees below zero and so little oxygen that it may be almost impossible to breathe.”
“Then you’ll certainly be needing a woolen scarf and some warm gloves, not to mention the appropriate headgear,” said Mr. Pink, coming out from behind the counter.
The manager’s first suggestion was a cashmere Burberry scarf, followed by a pair of fleece-lined black leather gloves. George followed Mr. Pink around the shop as he selected three pairs of thick gray woolen socks, two navy blue jumpers, a Shackleton windcheater, several silk shirts, and the latest pair of fur-lined camping boots.
“And may I inquire, sir, do you anticipate any snow during this trip?”
“Most of the time, I suspect,” said George.
“Then you’ll be needing an umbrella,” suggested Mr. Pink. “And what about headgear, sir?”
“I thought I’d take my brother’s leather flying helmet and goggles,” said George.
“I don’t think you’ll find that’s what fashionable gentlemen will be wearing climbing this year,” said Mr. Pink, handing him the latest deer-stalker.
“Which is why it won’t be a fashionable gentleman who’ll be the first to set foot on the summit of Everest.”
George smiled when he saw Finch approaching the counter, his arms laden with goods.
“We at Ede and Ravenscroft,” ventured Mr. Pink, “believe that it matters how a gentleman looks when he attains the summit of any mountain.”
“I can’t imagine why,” said Finch, as he placed his purchases on the counter. “There won’t be any girls up there waiting for us.”
“Will there be anything else, Mr. Finch?” asked the manager, trying not to show his disapproval.
“Not at these prices, there won’t,” George said after checking his bill.
Mr. Pink bowed politely and began to wrap up his customer’s purchases.
“I’m glad we bumped into each other, Finch,” said George. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve seen the light,” said Finch, “and are at last considering the use of oxygen.”
“Perhaps,” said George. “But I still need to be convinced.”
“Then I need at least a couple of hours of your time, as well as the proper equipment to hand, so I can demonstrate why oxygen will make all the difference.”
“Let’s discuss it while we’re on the boat to Bombay, when you’ll have more than enough time to convince me.”
“That’s assuming I’ll be on the boat.”
“But you’ve already been selected for the team.”
“Only thanks to your intervention,” said Finch, scowling. “And I’m grateful because I suspect the nearest that Hinks has been to a mountain is a Christmas card.”
“That will be thirty-three pounds and eleven shillings, Mr. Finch,” said Mr. Pink. “May I inquire how you intend to settle your bill on this occasion?”
“Just put it on my account,” said Finch, trying to imitate Mr. Pink’s “for customers” accent.
The manager hesitated for a moment before giving Finch a slight bow.
“See you on board then,” said Finch before picking up his brown paper bag and leaving the shop.
“Your bill comes to forty-one pounds, four shillings, and six pence, Mr. Mallory,” said Mr. Pink.
George wrote out a check for the full amount.
“Thank you, sir. And may I say on behalf of all of us here at Ede and Ravenscroft that we hope you will be the first man to reach the summit of Everest, and not…”
Mr. Pink did not finish the sentence. Both men looked out of the window and watched Finch as he strode off down the road.
BOOK FIVE
Walking Off the Map
1922
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THURSDAY, MARCH 2ND, 1922
GEORGE KNEW THE moment he stepped on board the SS Caledonia at Tilbury that he was embarking on a journey for which he had been preparing all his life.
The climbing team spent the five-week sea voyage to Bombay getting better acquainted, improving their fitness, and learning how to work together as a unit. Every morning for an hour before breakfast they would run circuits around the deck, with Finch always setting the pace. Occasionally George’s ankle would play up a little, but he didn’t admit it, even to himself. After breakfast he would lie out on the deck reading John Maynard Keynes’s The Economic Consequences of the Peace, but not until he’d written his daily letter to Ruth.
Finch gave a couple of lectures on the use of oxygen at high altitudes. The team dutifully disassembled and reassembled the thirty-two-pound oxygen sets, strapped them on each other’s backs, and adjusted the valves that regulated the amount of gas released. Few of them seemed enthusiastic. George watched intently. There wasn’t any doubt that Finch knew what he was talking about, although most of the team disapproved of the idea of using oxygen on principle. Norton said that the sheer weight of the cylinders would surely nullify any advantage their contents might have to offer.
“What proof do you have, Finch, that we’ll need these infernal contraptions to get to the summit?” he demanded.
“None,” admitted Finch. “But should you find yourself at 27,000 feet and unable to progress any further, perhaps you’ll end up being grateful for one of these infernal contraptions.”
“I’d rather turn back,” said Somervell.
“And fail to reach the summit?” queried Finch.
“If that’s the price, so be it,” said Odell adamantly.
Although George was also against the idea of using oxygen, he didn’t offer an opinion. After all, he wouldn’t be expected to make a decision if Finch was proved wrong. His thoughts were interrupted by an unmistakable bark of, “Time for PT, chaps.”
The team clambered to their feet and formed three orderly lines in front of General Bruce, who stood with his hands on his hips and his feet firmly on the ground, evidently having no intention of leading by example.
After an hour of furious exercise the General disappeared below deck for his morning snifter, leaving the rest of the team to their own devices. Norton and Somervell began a game of deck tennis, while Odell settled down to read E. F. Benson’s latest novel. George and Guy sat cross-legged on the deck, chatting about the possibility of a Cambridge man winning the hundred meters dash at the Paris Olympics.
“I’ve seen Abrahams run at Fenners,” said George. “He’s good, damned good, but Somervell tells me there’s a Scot called Liddell who’s never lost a race in his life, so it will be interesting to see what happens when they come up against each other.”
“We’ll be back well in time to find out which of them wins gold. In fact,” added Guy with a grin, “it will be a good excuse to return to—oh my God.” Guy was looking over George’s shoulder. “What’s he up to now?”
George swung around to see Finch standing with his arms folded, feet apart, staring up at the ship’s funnels, which were belching out clouds of black smoke.
“Surely he can’t be considering…”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” said George. “He’d do anything to be one up on the rest of the team.”
“I don’t think he gives a damn about the rest of the team.” said Guy. “It’s only you he wants to beat.”
“In which case,” replied George, “I’d better have a word with the captain.”
George told Ruth in one of his daily letters that he and Finch were like two children, always striving to outdo each other to gain teacher’s attention. In this case teacher was General Bruce, who, George confided, may well be an old buffer, but he’s no fool, and we’ve al
l happily accepted him as the expedition’s leader. He paused to look at Ruth’s photograph, which he had remembered to bring with him this time, even though he’d forgotten his razor and left home with only one pair of socks. He continued to write:
I still spend so much of my time wondering if I made the right decision to come on this trip. When you’ve found Guinevere, why go in search of the Holy Grail? I’ve begun to realize that every day without you is a wasted day. God knows I hope I will exorcise this demon once and for all, so I can return to The Holt and spend the rest of my life with you and the children. I know how difficult you find it to put your true feelings into words, but please let me know how you really feel.
Your loving husband,
George
Ruth read George’s letter a second time. She still wondered if she had done the right thing in not letting him know before he left that she was pregnant again. She rose from her chair by the window, walked across to her little bureau, and began to write, with every intention of answering his last question truthfully.
My darling,
I’ve never been able to properly express how I feel every time you leave home. This time it’s no different from your trips to the Western Front or the Alps, when I spent every hour of the day wondering if you were safe, and if I would ever see you again. It’s no different now. I sometimes envy other wives who were fortunate enough to see their husbands return in one piece from that misnamed Great War, and assumed that they would never have to face the same dread again in their lifetime.
Like you, I yearn for a successful outcome of this expedition, but only for the selfish reason that I have no desire to be put through such an ordeal again. You don’t begin to understand how much I miss you, your company, your gentle humor, your kindness, your guidance in all things, but most of all your love and affection, especially when we are alone. I spend every waking hour wondering if you will return, if our children will have to grow up without a father from whom they would have learned tolerance, compassion, and wisdom, and if I will grow old having lost the only man I could ever love.
Your devoted wife,
Ruth
Ruth returned to her chair and read through the letter before placing it in an envelope. She looked out of the window at the open gates at the end of the drive, wondering, just as she had during the war, if she would ever see her husband come striding down that path again.
Once the General had blown his whistle for the last time, most of the team remained flat on their backs as they tried to recover from the morning PT session. George sat up and glanced around the deck to be sure that none of his colleagues were showing any particular interest in him, then stood and sauntered off in the direction of his cabin.
He took the stairs down to the passenger deck, crossed the gangway, and looked back for a moment before opening a door marked Crew Only and going down the crew’s steps for another three levels, until he came to the engine room. He banged his fist on the heavy door, and a moment later the chief engineer stepped out to join him. The man nodded, but made no attempt to talk above the noise of the engines. He led George along a narrow corridor stopping only when they came to a heavy steel door marked Danger: No Entry.
He removed a large key from a pocket in his boiler suit, unlocked the door, and held it open.
“The captain gave me clear orders, Mr. Mallory,” he shouted. “You’ve got five minutes, and no longer.”
George nodded, and disappeared inside.
Guy Bullock started clapping the moment he saw George standing on top of the center funnel. Norton and Somervell stopped playing deck tennis to see what the fuss was about. Odell looked up, closed his book, and joined in the applause. Only Finch, hands in pockets, feet apart, didn’t respond.
“How did he manage that?” said Norton. “You only have to brush up against one of those funnels and you’ll get a blister the size of an apple.”
“And even if it weren’t for the heat,” added Somervell, equally bemused, “you’d need the suction of a limpet to climb that surface.”
Finch continued to stare up at Mallory. He noticed that for once there was no black smoke belching from the center funnel, and glanced across at Bullock, who couldn’t stop laughing. When Finch looked back up, Mallory had disappeared.
As George climbed back down the ladder on the inside of the funnel, he couldn’t decide if he should tell Finch that every Thursday morning one of the funnels was taken briefly out of commission so that the ship’s engineers could carry out a full inspection.
A few moments later, a plume of black smoke erupted from the center funnel, and once again the rest of the team burst into spontaneous applause. “I still can’t work it out,” said Norton.
“The only explanation I can come up with,” said Odell, “is that Mallory must have smuggled Mr. Houdini on board.”
The rest of the team laughed, while Finch remained silent.
“What’s more, he seems to have reached the top without the aid of oxygen,” Somervell added.
“I wonder how he managed that?” said Guy, a grin still fixed firmly on his face. “No doubt our resident scientist will have a theory.”
“No, I don’t have a theory,” said Finch. “But I can tell you one thing. Mallory won’t be able to climb up the inside of Everest.”
Ruth sat by the window holding her letter, beginning to wonder if her forthright honesty might prove to be a distraction for George. After a few minutes of contemplation, she tore the letter into small pieces and dropped them into the crackling flames. She returned to her desk and began to write a second letter.
My darling George,
Spring is upon us at The Holt, and the daffodils are in full bloom. In fact, the garden has never looked more beautiful. Everything is just as you would wish it to be. The children are doing well, and Clare has written a poem for you, which I enclose…
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
WHEN THE SS Caledonia docked in Bombay, the first person to disembark was General Bruce. He was dressed in the freshly ironed short-sleeve khaki shirt and neatly pressed khaki shorts that had become regulation kit for the British army serving in hot climates. He regularly reminded the team that it was Lord Baden-Powell who had followed his example when choosing the uniform of the Boy Scout movement, and not the other way around.
George followed closely in the General’s wake. The first thing that struck him as he made his way down the wobbly gangplank was the smell—what Kipling had described as spicy, pungent, oriental, and like no other smell on earth. The second thing that hit him, almost literally, was the intense heat and humidity. To a pale-faced loon from Cheshire, it felt like Dante’s fiery furnace. The third thing was the realization that the General had considerable clout in this far-off land.
Two groups of men were waiting at the foot of the gangplank to greet the expedition’s leader, and not only did they stand far apart from each other, but they could not have been in greater contrast. The first group of three embodied “the British abroad.” They made no attempt to blend in with the indigenous population, dressed as if they were attending a garden party in Tunbridge Wells and making no allowances for the inhospitable climate for fear it might suggest in some way that they and the natives were equals.
As the General stepped onto the dockside, he was greeted by one of them, a tall young man wearing a dark blue suit and a white shirt with a stiff collar, and sporting an Old Harrovian tie.
“My name is Russell,” he announced as he took a step forward.
“Good morning, Russell,” said the General, and they shook hands as if they had known each other for years, whereas in reality their only bond was the old school tie.
“Welcome back to India, General Bruce,” said Russell. “I’m the Governor-General’s private secretary. This is Captain Berkeley, the Governor-General’s ADC.” An even younger man in full dress uniform, who had been standing rigidly to attention since the General had stepped ashore, saluted. The General returned his salute. The third man, dre
ssed in a chauffeur’s uniform, stood by the side of a gleaming Rolls-Royce, and was not introduced. “The Governor-General hopes,” continued Russell, “that you and your party will join him for dinner this evening.”
“We shall be delighted to do so,” said Bruce. “At what time would Sir Peter like us on parade?”
“He will be hosting a reception in the residence at seven o’clock,” said Russell, “followed by dinner at eight.”
“And the dress code?” inquired the General.
“Formal, with medals, sir.”
Bruce nodded his approval.
“We have, as you requested,” continued Russell, “secured fourteen rooms at the Palace Hotel, and I’ve also put a number of vehicles at your disposal while you and your men are in Bombay.”
“Most hospitable,” said the General. “For the time being, perhaps you could arrange for my men to be transported to the hotel, billeted, and fed.”
“Of course, General,” said Russell. “And the Governor-General asked me to give you this.” He handed over a bulky brown envelope, which the General passed on to George as if he was his private secretary.
George smiled and tucked the envelope under his arm. He couldn’t help noticing that the rest of the team, including Finch, were observing the exchange in awed silence.
“Mallory,” said the General, “I want you to join me while the rest of the men are escorted to the hotel. Thank you, Russell,” he said to the Governor-General’s private secretary. “I look forward to seeing you at the reception this evening.”
Russell bowed and took a pace backward, as if the General were minor royalty.
The General then turned his attention to the second group, also three in number, which was about the only thing they had in common.
The three locals, dressed in long, cool white gowns and white slippers, had waited patiently while Mr. Russell carried out the formal welcome on behalf of the Governor-General. Now their leader stepped forward. “Namaste, General Sahib,” he said, bowing low.