George couldn’t sleep on his first night in New York, and the time difference wasn’t to blame, because the five-day Atlantic crossing had taken care of that. It was just that he’d never spent a night in a city before where the traffic never came to a halt and police and ambulance sirens screamed incessantly. It reminded him of being back on the Western Front.
He finally gave up, climbed out of bed, and sat at a large desk by the window overlooking Central Park. He went over his lecture once again, then checked all the large glass slides. He was delighted to find that none of them had been broken during the voyage from England.
George was becoming more and more apprehensive about what Keedick kept referring to as “opening night.” He tried not to think of the consequences of it being a flop, another of Keedick’s words, even though the agent kept assuring him that there were only a few seats left unsold, and all that mattered now was what the New York Times thought of the lecture. On balance, George decided he preferred mountains. They didn’t give a damn what the New York Times thought of them.
He crept back into bed a couple of hours later, and eventually fell asleep at around four o’clock.
Ruth sat in her chair by the window enjoying George’s first letter from America. She laughed when she read about the Caddie and the Presidential Suite with its central heating, aware that George would have been quite content to pitch a tent on the roof, but she doubted if that was an option at the Waldorf. When she turned the page, she frowned for the first time. It worried her that George felt that so much rested on the opening night. He ended his letter by promising to write and let her know how the lecture had been received just as soon as he returned to the hotel later that evening. How Ruth wished she could have read the review in The New York Times before George saw it.
There was a knock on the door, and George answered it to find a smiling Lee Keedick standing in the corridor. He was dressed in his usual open-necked shirt, but this time it was green, while his suit was a shade of light blue that would have been more appropriate if worn by a blade in Cambridge. The chain around his neck had turned from silver to gold, and the shoes from crocodile to white patent leather. George smiled. Lee Keedick would have made George Finch look elegant.
“How are you feelin’, old buddy?” asked Keedick as he stepped into the room.
“Apprehensive,” admitted George.
“No need to,” said Lee. “They’re gonna love you.”
An interesting observation, George thought, considering Keedick had only known him for a few hours and had never heard him speak in public. But then he was beginning to realize that Lee Keedick had a set of stock phrases whoever his client was.
Outside the hotel, Harry was standing by the car. He opened the back door, and George jumped in, feeling far more nervous than he ever did before a demanding climb. He didn’t speak on the journey to the theater, and was grateful that Keedick remained silent, even if he did fill the car with cigar smoke.
As they drew up outside the Broadhurst Theater, George saw the poster advertising his lecture. He burst out laughing.
BOOK NOW!
GEORGE MALLORY
The man who conquered Everest single-handed
Next week: Jack Benny
He smiled at the photograph of a young man playing a violin, pleased that he would be followed by a musician.
George stepped out onto the sidewalk, his legs trembling and his heart beating as if he was a few feet from the summit. Keedick led his client down a side alley to the stage door, where a waiting assistant accompanied them up a stone staircase to a door with a silver star on it. Keedick told George before he left that he’d see him before he went on stage. George sat alone in the cold, slightly musty dressing room lit by several naked light bulbs surrounding a large mirror. He went over his speech one last time. For the first time in his life, he wanted to turn back before he’d reached the top.
There was a tap on the door. “Fifteen minutes, Mr. Mallory,” said a voice.
George took a deep breath, and a few moments later Keedick walked in. “Let’s get this show on the road, pal,” he said. He led George back down the stone steps, along a brick corridor, and into the wings at the side of the stage, leaving him with the words, “Good luck, buddy. I’ll be in the front row, cheering you on.”
George paced up and down, becoming more nervous by the minute. Although he could hear loud chattering coming from the other side of the curtain, he had no idea how many people were in the audience. Had Keedick exaggerated when he said there were only a few unsold tickets?
At five minutes to eight, a man dressed in a white tuxedo appeared at George’s side and said, “Hi, I’m Vince, the compère. I’ll be introducing you. Is there some special way of pronouncing Mallory?”
This was a question George had never been asked before. “No,” he replied.
George looked around for someone, anyone, to talk to while he waited nervously for the curtain to rise. He would even have been happy to see Keedick. He realized for the first time how Raleigh must have felt just before he had his head chopped off. And then suddenly, without any warning, the curtain rose and the compère marched out onto the stage, tapped the microphone, and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my pleasure to present to you for your entertainment this evening George Mallory, the man who conquered Everest.”
At least he didn’t add “single-handed,” thought George as he walked onto the stage feeling desperately in need of oxygen. But he quickly recovered when he was greeted by warm applause.
George began his lecture hesitantly, partly because he couldn’t see the audience, who must have been out there somewhere, but while several spotlights were trained on him it was impossible to see beyond the front row. However, it took only a few minutes for him to become accustomed to the strange experience of being treated like an actor rather than a lecturer. He was encouraged by intermittent bursts of applause, and even the occasional roar of laughter. After a bumpy start, he battled on for nearly an hour. It wasn’t until he called for questions, and the lights went up, that he saw just how many people he had been addressing.
The stalls were almost full, even if the dress circle remained in darkness. George was relieved by how many people seemed keen to ask questions, and it quickly became clear that there were some seasoned alpinists and genuine enthusiasts among the audience, who offered observations that were both thoughtful and relevant. However, George was nearly stumped—not that the questioner would have known the derivation of the word—when a slim blonde seated in the third row asked, “Mr. Mallory, could you tell us how much it costs to mount such an expedition?”
It was some time before George replied, and not just because he didn’t know the answer. “I’ve no idea, madam,” he finally managed. “The financial details are always handled by the RGS. However, I do know that the Society will be launching an appeal in the near future to raise funds for a second expedition that will set out for the Himalaya early next year with the sole purpose of putting an”—he stopped himself just in time from saying “an Englishman”—“a member of that team on the summit.”
“Can those of us who might consider donating to that fund,” the young lady inquired, “assume that you will be a member of the team, in fact its climbing leader?”
George didn’t hesitate. “No, madam. I have already assured my wife that the Society will have to look for someone else to lead the team next time.” He was surprised when several groans of disappointment emanated from the audience, even one or two muffled cries of “Shame!”
After a couple more questions, George recovered, and was even a little disappointed when Lee stage-whispered from the wings, “Time to wrap it up, George.”
George immediately bowed and quickly left the stage. The audience began to applaud.
“Not so fast,” said Keedick, pushing him back onto the stage to laughter and even louder applause. In fact, he had to send him back three times before the curtain finally came down.
“
That was great,” said Lee as they climbed into the back of the limousine. “You were fantastic.”
“Did you really think so?” asked George.
“Couldn’t have gone better,” said Lee. “Now all we have to pray for is that the critics love you as much as the public does. By the way, have you ever come across Estelle Harrington before?”
“Estelle Harrington?” repeated George.
“The dame who asked if you were going to lead the next expedition.”
“No, I’ve never seen her before in my life,” said George. “Why do you ask?”
“She’s known as the cardboard-box widow,” said Lee. “Her late husband, Jake Harrington, the inventor of the cardboard box, left her so much money she can’t even count it.” Lee inhaled deeply and puffed out a plume of smoke. “I’ve read a ton of stuff about her in the gossip columns over the years, but I never knew she took any interest in climbing. If she was willing to sponsor the tour, we wouldn’t have to worry about The New York Times.”
“Is it that important?” asked George.
“More important than all the other papers put together.”
“So when will it deliver its verdict?”
“In a few hours’ time,” replied Lee, blowing out another cloud of smoke.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
“THE WORKERS’ EDUCATIONAL Association,” said Geoffrey Young as they strolled around the garden.
“I’ve never heard of them,” said Ruth.
“It was founded in the early days of the Labor movement, and its aim is to assist people who weren’t given the chance of a decent education in their youth, but would benefit from it in later life.”
“That sounds very much in line with George’s Fabian principles.”
“In my opinion,” said Geoffrey, “the job was made for him. It would allow George to combine his teaching experience with his views on politics and education.”
“But would it also mean us having to move to Cambridge?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. But I can think of worse places to live,” responded Geoffrey. “And don’t forget that George still has a lot of old friends there.”
“I think I should warn you, Geoffrey, that George is becoming quite anxious about what he describes as his financial predicament. In his latest letter he hinted that the tour wasn’t going quite as well as he’d hoped.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Young. “However, I do know that the basic salary for the job is three hundred and fifty pounds a year, with the opportunity to earn a further hundred and fifty through extra tuition fees, which would make it up to around five hundred pounds.”
“In that case,” said Ruth, “I think George will jump at the opportunity. When would they want him to start?” she asked.
“Not until next September,” said Young. “Which would mean, dare I mention it, that George could even reconsider—”
“Not now, Geoffrey,” Ruth said, as they walked back toward the house. “Let’s discuss that particular matter over dinner. For now, why don’t you go and unpack, and then join me in the drawing room around seven.”
“We don’t have to talk about it, Ruth.”
“Oh yes we do,” she replied as they strolled back into the house.
“Taxi!” shouted Keedick, and when it screeched to a halt he opened the back door to allow his client to climb in. Harry and his Caddie were nowhere to be seen.
“So, how bad is it?” asked George as he slumped down in the back seat.
“Not good,” admitted Lee. “Even though The New York Times gave you a favorable review, the out-of-town bookings have still been”—he looked out of the window—“let’s say, disappointing, although you seem to have attracted at least one huge fan.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Come on, George, you must have noticed that Estelle Harrington’s turned up to every one of your lectures. I’d be willing to bet good money she’ll be there again tonight.”
“Well, at least tonight’s lecture is sold out,” said George, not wanting to dwell on the ever-present Mrs. Harrington.
“‘Sold’ would be the wrong word,” said Lee. “They refused to sign the contract unless we agreed to let students in gratis—not a word I’m comfortable with.”
“What about Baltimore and Philadelphia?” asked George, as the taxi swung off the main road and drove onto a campus George had always wanted to visit, but had never imagined he would be invited to lecture at.
“Sorry, old buddy,” said Lee between puffs, “but I had to cancel both, otherwise we might have lost what little dough we’ve made so far.”
“That bad?” said George.
“Worse. I’m afraid we’re gonna have to cut the tour short. In fact I’ve booked you onto the Saxonia, which sails outta New York on Monday.”
“But that means—”
“This’ll be your last lecture, George, so be sure to make it a good one.”
“So how much profit have we made?” asked George quietly.
“I can’t give you an exact figure at the moment,” said Lee as the taxi drew up outside the private residence of the President of Harvard. “There are one or two out-of-pocket expenses I still have to calculate.”
George thought about the letter that had arrived at The Holt the day before he sailed. Once Hinks learned that the tour had failed to make the anticipated profit, would George’s invitation to deliver the Society’s annual memorial lecture be withdrawn? Perhaps the best solution would be for George to decline the invitation, and save the Society unnecessary embarrassment.
“You’ve been avoiding the subject all evening,” said Ruth as she led Young through to the drawing room.
“But it was such a magnificent meal,” said Geoffrey, sitting down on the sofa. “And you’re such a wonderful hostess.”
“And you’re such an old flatterer, Geoffrey,” said Ruth as she passed him a cup of coffee. She sat down in the chair opposite him. “So, were you hoping to try to persuade me that George should reconsider leading the next expedition to the Himalaya? Because I’m not altogether convinced that’s what he really wants.”
“Are we telling each other the truth?” asked Geoffrey.
“Yes, of course,” said Ruth, looking a little surprised.
“When George wrote to me just before he sailed, he made it clear that, to quote him, he still wanted one more crack at his wildest dream.”
“But—” began Ruth.
“He also said that he wouldn’t consider leaving you again unless he had your complete support.”
“But he’s already told me that he wouldn’t go back again under any circumstances.”
“He also begged me not to let you know how he really felt. By telling you, I’ve betrayed his confidence.”
“Did he give you one good reason why he would want to put himself through all that again?” asked Ruth.
“Apart from the obvious one? If he were to succeed, just think about the extra income that would generate.”
“You know as well as I do, Geoffrey, that he didn’t do it for money.”
“It was you who reminded me that he’s anxious about his current financial predicament.”
Ruth didn’t speak for some time. “If I were to agree to lie to George about how I really feel,” she eventually said “—and it would be a lie, Geoffrey—you must promise me that this will be the last time.”
“It would have to be,” said Geoffrey. “If George were to take the job as director of the WEA, the board won’t want him to be disappearing for six months at a time. And frankly, my dear, he’ll be too old by the time the RGS considers mounting another expedition.”
“I just wish there was someone I could turn to for advice.”
“Why don’t you seek a second opinion from the one person who will understand exactly what you’re going through?”
“Who do you have in mind?” asked Ruth.
When Young told her, Ruth simply said, “Do you think she’d agree to see me?”
“Oh yes. She’ll see the wife of Mallory of Everest.”
George immediately recognized the attractive woman who was chatting to Keedick on the far side of the room. She was not someone he was likely to forget.
“Congratulations, Mr. Mallory, most stimulating,” said the president of Harvard. “Most stimulating. May I also say that I hope you pull it off next time?”
“That’s kind of you, Mr. Lowell,” said George, not bothering to repeat once again that he wouldn’t be going on the next expedition. “And allow me to thank you for organizing this reception.”
“My pleasure,” said the president. “I’m only sorry that Prohibition prevents me from offering you anything other than orange juice or a Coca-Cola.”
“An orange juice will be just fine, thank you.”
“I know that many of the students are keen to ask you questions, Mr. Mallory,” said the president, “so I won’t monopolize you.” He walked off to join the woman speaking to Keedick.
Within moments, George was surrounded by eager young faces that brought back memories of his days at Cambridge.
“Have you still got all your toes, sir?” asked a young man who was peering down at George’s feet.
“They were all there when I checked in the bath this morning,” said George, laughing. “But my friend Morshead lost two fingers and a toe, and poor Captain Norton had half his right ear trimmed off after he’d set a new altitude record.”
A voice from behind him asked, “Are there any mountains in America, sir, that you might consider a worthy challenge?”
“Most certainly,” said George. “I can assure you that Mount McKinley presents as great a challenge as any to be found in the Himalaya, and there are several peaks in the Yosemite Valley that would test the skills of the most experienced climber. If it’s rock climbing that interests you, you need look no further than Utah or Colorado, if you hope to prove your worth.”
“Something has always puzzled me, Mr. Mallory,” said an intense-looking young man. “Why do you bother?”