Paths of Glory

BOOK ONE

NO ORDINARY CHILD

1892

1

St Bees, Cumbria, Tuesday, July 19th, 1892

If you had asked George why he’d begun walking towards the rock, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. The fact that he had to wade into the sea to reach his goal didn’t appear to concern him, even though he couldn’t swim.

Only one person on the beach that morning showed the slightest interest in the six-year-old boy’s progress. The Reverend Leigh Mallory folded his copy of The Times and placed it on the sand at his feet. He didn’t alert his wife, who was lying on the deckchair beside him, eyes closed, enjoying the occasional rays of sunshine, oblivious to any danger their eldest son might be facing. He knew that Annie would only panic, the way she had when the boy had climbed onto the roof of the village hall during a meeting of the Mothers’ Union.

The Reverend Mallory quickly checked on his other three children, who were playing contentedly by the water’s edge, unconcerned with their brother’s fate. Avie and Mary were happily collecting seashells that had been swept in on the morning tide, while their younger brother Trafford was concentrating on filling a small tin bucket with sand. Mallory’s attention returned to his son and heir, who was still heading resolutely towards the rock. He was not yet worried, surely the boy would eventually realize he had to turn back. But he rose from his deckchair once the waves began to cover the boy’s knee breeches.

Although George was now almost out of his depth, the moment he reached the jagged outcrop he deftly pulled himself out of the sea and leapt from rock to rock, quickly reaching the top. There he settled himself, and stared out towards the horizon. Although his favourite subject at school was history, clearly no one had told him about King Canute.

His father was now watching with some trepidation as the waves surged carelessly around the rocks. He waited patiently for the boy to become aware of the danger he was in, when he would surely turn and ask for help. He didn’t. When the first spray of foam touched the boy’s toes, the Reverend Mallory walked slowly down to the water’s edge. ‘Very good, my boy,’ he murmured as he passed his youngest, who was now intently building a sandcastle. But his eyes never left his eldest son, who still hadn’t looked back, even though the waves were now lapping around his ankles. The Reverend Mallory plunged into the sea and started to swim towards the rock, but with each slow lunge of his military breaststroke he became more aware that it was much further away than he had realized.

He finally reached his goal, and pulled himself on to the rock. As he clambered awkwardly to the top he cut his legs in several places, showing none of the sure-footedness his son had earlier displayed. Once he’d joined the boy, he tried not to reveal that he was out of breath and in some considerable discomfort.

That’s when he heard her scream. He turned to observe his wife, standing at the water’s edge, shouting desperately, ‘George! George!’

‘Perhaps we should be making our way back, my boy,’ suggested the Reverend Mallory, trying not to sound at all concerned. ‘We don’t want to worry your mother, do we?’

‘Just a few more moments, Papa,’ begged George, who continued to stare resolutely out to sea. But his father decided they couldn’t wait any longer, and pulled his son gently off the rock.

It took the two of them considerably longer to reach the safety of the beach, as the Reverend Mallory, cradling his son in his arms, had to swim on his back, only able to use his legs to assist him. It was the first time George became aware that return journeys can take far longer.

When George’s father finally collapsed on the beach, George’s mother rushed across to join them. She fell on her knees and smothered the child in her bosom, crying, ‘Thank God, thank God,’ while showing scant interest in her exhausted husband. George’s two sisters stood several paces back from the advancing tide, quietly sobbing, while his younger brother continued to build his fortress, far too young for any thoughts of death to have crossed his mind.

The Reverend Mallory eventually sat up and stared at his eldest son, who was once again looking out to sea although the rock was no longer in sight. He accepted for the first time that the boy appeared to have no concept of fear, no sense of risk.

1896

2

Doctors, philosophers and even historians have debated the significance of heredity when trying to understand the success or failure of succeeding generations. Had a historian studied George Mallory’s parents, he would have been hard pressed to explain their son’s rare gift, not to mention his natural good looks and presence.

George’s father and mother considered themselves to be upper middle class, even if they lacked the resources to maintain such pretensions. The Reverend Mallory’s parishioners at Mobberley in Cheshire considered him to be High Church, hide-bound and narrow-minded, and were unanimously of the opinion that his wife was a snob. George, they concluded, must have inherited his gifts from some distant relative. His father was well aware that his elder son was no ordinary child, and was quite willing to make the necessary sacrifices to ensure that George could begin his education at Glengorse, a fashionable prep school in the south of England.

George often heard his father say, ‘We’ll just have to tighten our belts, especially if Trafford is to follow in your footsteps.’ After considering these words for some time, he enquired of his mother if there were any prep schools in England that his sisters might attend.

‘Good heavens no,’ she replied disdainfully. ‘That would simply be a waste of money. In any case, what would be the point?’

‘For a start, it would mean Avie and Mary had the same opportunities as Trafford and me,’ suggested George.

His mother scoffed. ‘Why put the girls through such an ordeal, when it would not advance their chances of securing a suitable husband by one jot?’

‘Isn’t it possible,’ suggested George, ‘that a husband might benefit from being married to a well-educated woman?’

‘That’s the last thing a man wants,’ his mother responded. ‘You’ll find out soon enough that most husbands simply require their wife to provide them with an heir and a spare, and to organize the servants.’

George was unconvinced, and decided he would wait for an appropriate opportunity to raise the subject with his father.

The Mallorys’ summer holiday of 1896 was not spent at St Bees, bathing, but in the Malvern Hills, hiking. While the rest of the family quickly discovered that none of them could keep up with George, his father at least made a valiant attempt to accompany him to the higher slopes, while the other Mallorys were happy to wander in the valleys below.

With his father puffing away several yards behind, George reopened the vexed question of his sisters’ education. ‘Why aren’t girls given the same opportunities as boys?’

‘It’s not the natural order of things, my boy,’ panted his father.

‘And who decides the natural order of things?’

‘God,’ responded the Reverend Mallory, feeling he was on safer ground. ‘It was He who decreed that man should labour to gain sustenance and shelter for his family, while his spouse remained at home and tended to their offspring.’

‘But He must have noticed that women are often blessed with more common sense than men. I’m sure He’s aware that Avie is far brighter than either Trafford or me.’

The Reverend Mallory fell back, as he required a little time to consider his son’s argument, and even longer to decide how he should answer it. ‘Men are naturally superior to women,’ he eventually suggested, not sounding altogether convinced, before lamely adding, ‘and we should not attempt to meddle with nature.’

‘If that is true, Papa, how has Queen Victoria managed to reign so successfully for more than sixty years?’

‘Simply because there wasn’t a male heir to inherit the throne,’ replied his father, feeling he was entering uncharted waters.

‘How lucky for England that no man was available when Queen Elizabeth ascended the throne either,’ suggested George. ‘Perhaps the time has come to allow girls the same opportunity as boys to make their way in the world.’

‘That would never do,’ spluttered his father. ‘Such a course of action would overturn the natural order of society. If you had your way, George, how would your mother ever be able to find a cook or a scullery maid?’

‘By getting a man to do the job,’ George suggested guilelessly.

‘Good heavens, George, I do believe you’re turning into a free-thinker. Have you been listening to the rantings of that Bernard Shaw fellow?’

‘No, Papa, but I have been reading his pamphlets.’

It is not unusual for parents to suspect that their progeny just might be brighter than they are, but the Reverend Mallory was not willing to admit as much when George had only recently celebrated his tenth birthday. George was ready to fire his next question, only to find that his father was falling further and further behind. But then, when it came to climbing, even the Reverend Mallory had long ago accepted that his son was in a different class.

3

George didn’t cry when his parents sent him away to prep school. Not because he didn’t want to, but because another boy, dressed in the same red blazer and short grey trousers, was bawling his head off on the other side of the carriage.

Guy Bullock came from a different world. He wasn’t able to tell George exactly what his father did for a living, but whatever it was, the word industry kept cropping up – something George felt confident his mother wouldn’t approve of. Another thing also became abundantly clear after Guy had told him about his family holiday in the Pyrenees. This was a child who had never come across the expression We’ll have to tighten our belts. Still, by the time they arrived at Eastbourne station later that afternoon they were best friends.

The two boys slept in adjoining beds while in junior dormitory, sat next to each other in the classroom and, when they entered their final year at Glengorse, no one was surprised that they ended up sharing the same study. Although George was better than him at almost everything they tackled, Guy never seemed to resent it. In fact, he appeared to revel in his friend’s success, even when George was appointed captain of football and went on to win a scholarship to Winchester. Guy told his father that he wouldn’t have been offered a place at Winchester if he hadn’t shared a study with George, who never stopped pushing him to try harder.

While Guy was checking the results of the entrance exam posted on the school notice board, George appeared more interested in an announcement that had been pinned below. Mr Deacon, the chemistry beak, was inviting leavers to join him on a climbing holiday in Scotland. Guy had little interest in climbing, but once George had added his name to the list, he scribbled his below it.

George had never been one of Mr Deacon’s favourite pupils, possibly because chemistry was not a subject he excelled in, but as his passion for climbing far outweighed his indifference towards the Bunsen burner or litmus paper, George decided that he would just have to rub along with Mr Deacon. After all, George confided to Guy, if the damn man went to the trouble of organizing an annual climbing holiday, he couldn’t be all bad.

From the moment they set foot in the barren highlands of Scotland, George was transported into a different world. By day he would stroll through the bracken and heather-covered hills, while at night, with the aid of a candle, he would sit in his tent reading The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde before reluctantly falling asleep.

Whenever Mr Deacon approached a new hill, George would loiter at the back of the group and think about the route he had selected. On one or two occasions he went as far as to suggest that they might perhaps consider an alternative route, but Mr Deacon ignored his proposals, pointing out that he had been taking climbing parties to Scotland for the past eighteen years, and perhaps Mallory might ponder on the value of experience. George fell back in line, and continued to follow his master up the well-trodden paths.

Over supper each evening, when George sampled ginger beer and salmon for the first time, Mr Deacon would spend some considerable time outlining his plans for the following day.

‘Tomorrow,’ he declared, ‘we face our most demanding test, but after ten days of climbing in the Highlands I’m confident that you’re more than ready for the challenge.’ A dozen expectant young faces stared up at Mr Deacon before he continued, ‘We will attempt to climb the highest mountain in Scotland.’

‘Ben Nevis,’ said George. ‘Four thousand four hundred and nine feet,’ he added, although he had never seen the mountain.

‘Mallory is correct,’ said Mr Deacon, clearly irritated by the interruption. ‘Once we reach the top – what we climbers call the summit, or peak – we will have lunch while you enjoy one of the finest vistas in the British Isles. As we have to be back at camp before the sun sets, and as the descent is always the most difficult part of any climb, everyone will report for breakfast by seven o’clock, so that we can set out at eight on the dot.’

Guy promised to wake George at six the following morning, as his friend often overslept and then missed breakfast, which didn’t deter Mr Deacon from keeping to a timetable that resembled a military operation. However, George was so excited by the thought of climbing the highest mountain in Scotland that it was he who woke Guy the next morning. He was among the first to join Mr Deacon for breakfast, and was waiting impatiently outside his tent long before the party was due to set off.

Mr Deacon checked his watch. At one minute to eight he set off at a brisk pace down the path that would take them to the base of the mountain.

‘Whistle drill!’ he shouted after they had covered about a mile. All the boys, except one, took out their whistles and heartily blew the signal that would indicate they were in danger and required assistance. Mr Deacon was unable to hide a thin-lipped smile when he observed which of his charges had failed to carry out his order. ‘Am I to presume, Mallory, that you have left your whistle behind?’

‘Yes, sir,’ George replied, annoyed that Mr Deacon had got the better of him.

‘Then you will have to return to camp immediately, retrieve it, and try to catch us up before we begin the ascent.’

George wasted no time protesting. He took off in the opposite direction, and once he was back at camp, fell on his hands and knees and crawled into his tent, where he spotted the whistle on top of his sleeping bag. He cursed, grabbed it and began running back, hoping to catch up with his chums before they started the climb. But by the time he’d reached the foot of the mountain the little crocodile of climbers had already begun their ascent. Guy Bullock, who was acting as ‘tail-end Charlie’, continually looked back, hoping to see his friend. He was relieved when he spotted George running towards them, and waved frantically. George waved back as the group continued their slow progress up the mountain.

‘Keep to the path,’ were the last words he heard Mr Deacon say as they disappeared around the first bend.

Once they were out of sight, George came to a halt. He stared up at the mountain, which was bathed in a warm haze of misty sunshine. The brightly lit rocks and shaded gullies suggested a hundred different ways to approach the summit, all but one of which were ignored by Mr Deacon and his faithful troop as they resolutely kept to the guidebook’s recommended path.

George’s eyes settled on a thin zigzag stretching up the mountain, the dried-up bed of a stream that must have flowed lazily down the mountain for nine months of the year – but not today. He stepped off the path, ignoring the arrows and signposts, and headed towards the base of the mountain. Without a second thought, he leapt up onto the first ridge like a gymnast mounting a high bar and agilely began making his way from foothold to ledge to jutting outcrop, never once hesitating, never once looking down. He only paused for a moment when he came to a large, jagged rock a thousand feet above the base of the mountain. He studied the terrain for a few moments before he identified a fresh route and set off once again, his foot sometimes settling in a well-trodden hollow, while at other times he pursued a virgin path. He didn’t stop again until he was almost halfway up the mountain. He looked at his watch – 9.07. He wondered which signpost Mr Deacon and the rest of the group had reached.

Ahead of him, George could make out a faint path that looked as if it had only ever been climbed by seasoned mountaineers or animals. He followed it until he came to a halt at a large granite slab, a closed door that would prevent anyone without a key from reaching the summit. He spent a few moments considering his options: he could retrace his steps, or take the long route around the slab, which would no doubt lead him back to the safety of the public footpath – both of which would add a considerable amount of time to the climb. But then he smiled when a sheep perched on a ledge above him let out a plaintive bleat, clearly not used to being disturbed by humans, before bounding away and unwittingly revealing the route the intruder should take.

George looked for the slightest indentation in which he could place a hand, followed by a foot, and begin his ascent. He didn’t look down as he progressed slowly up the vertical rock face, searching for a finger-hold or a hint of a ledge to grip on to. Once he’d found one and pushed himself up, he would use it as his next foothold. Although the rock couldn’t have been more than fifty feet high, it was twenty minutes before George was able to yank himself onto the top and gaze at the peak of Ben Nevis for the first time. His reward for taking the more demanding route was immediate, because he now faced only a gentle slope all the way to the summit.

He began to jog up the rarely trodden path, and by the time he’d reached the summit it felt as if he was standing on top of the world. He wasn’t surprised to find that Mr Deacon and the rest of the party hadn’t got to the peak yet. He sat alone on top of the mountain, surveying the countryside that stretched for miles below him. It was another hour before Mr Deacon appeared leading his trusty band. The schoolmaster could not hide his annoyance when the other boys began cheering and clapping the lone figure sitting on the peak.

Mr Deacon marched up to him and demanded, ‘How did you manage to overtake us, Mallory?’

‘I didn’t overtake you, sir,’ George replied. ‘I simply found an alternative route.’

Mr Deacon’s expression left the rest of the class in no doubt that he didn’t want to believe the boy. ‘As I’ve told you many times, Mallory, the descent is always more difficult than the climb, not least because of the amount of energy you will have expended to reach the top. That is something novices fail to appreciate,’ said Mr Deacon. After a dramatic pause he added, ‘Often to their cost.’ George didn’t comment. ‘So be sure to stay with the group on the way down.’

Once the boys had devoured their packed lunches, Mr Deacon lined them up before taking his place at the front. However, he didn’t set off until he’d seen George standing among the group chatting to his friend Bullock. He would have ordered him to join him at the front if he’d overheard his words, ‘See you back at camp, Guy.’

On one matter Mr Deacon proved correct: the journey down the mountain was not only more demanding than the ascent, but more dangerous, and, as he had predicted, it took far longer.

Dusk was already setting in by the time Mr Deacon tramped into camp, followed by his bedraggled and exhausted troop. They couldn’t believe what they saw: George Mallory was seated cross-legged on the ground, drinking ginger beer and reading a book.

Guy Bullock burst out laughing, but Mr Deacon was not amused. He made George stand to attention while he delivered a stern lecture on the importance of mountain safety. Once he had finished his diatribe, he ordered George to pull his trousers down and bend over. Mr Deacon did not have a cane to hand, so he pulled off the leather belt that held up his khaki shorts and administered six strokes to the boy’s bare flesh, but unlike the sheep, George didn’t bleat.

At first light the following morning, Mr Deacon accompanied George to the nearest railway station. He bought him a ticket and handed him a letter which he instructed the boy to hand to his father the moment he arrived at Mobberley.

‘Why are you back so early?’ George’s father enquired.

George handed over the letter, and remained silent while the Reverend Mallory tore open the envelope and read Mr Deacon’s words. He pursed his lips, attempting to hide a smile, then looked down at his son and wagged a finger. ‘Do remember, my boy, to be more tactful in future, and try not to embarrass your elders and betters.’

1905

4

Monday, April 3rd, 1905

The family were seated around the breakfast table when the maid entered the room with the morning post. She placed the letters in a small pile by the Reverend Mallory’s side, along with a silver letter opener – a ritual she carried out every morning.

George’s father studiously ignored the little ceremony while he buttered himself another piece of toast. He was well aware that his son had been waiting for his end-of-term report for some days. George pretended to be equally nonchalant as he chatted to his brother about the latest exploits of the Wright brothers in America.

‘If you ask me,’ interjected their mother, ‘it’s not natural. God made birds to fly, not humans. And take your elbows off the table, George.’

The girls did not offer an opinion, aware that whenever they disagreed with their mother she simply pronounced that children should be seen and not heard. This rule didn’t seem to apply to the boys.

George’s father did not join in the conversation as he sifted through the envelopes, trying to determine which were important and which could be placed to one side. Only one thing was certain, any envelopes that looked as if they contained requests for payment from local tradesmen would remain at the bottom of the pile, unopened for several days.

The Reverend Mallory concluded that two of the envelopes deserved his immediate attention: one postmarked Winchester, and a second with a coat of arms embossed on the back. He sipped his tea and smiled across at his eldest son, who was still pretending to take no interest in the charade taking place at the other end of the table.

Eventually he picked up the letter opener and slit open the thinner of the two envelopes, before unfolding a letter from the Bishop of Chester. His Grace confirmed that he would be delighted to preach at Mobberley Parish Church, assuming a suitable date could be arranged. George’s father passed the letter across to his wife. A smile flickered across her lips when she saw the Palace crest.

The Reverend Mallory took his time opening the other, thicker envelope, pretending not to notice that all conversation around the table had suddenly ceased. Once he had extracted a little booklet, he slowly began to turn its pages while he considered the contents. He gave the occasional smile, the odd frown, but despite a prolonged silence, he still didn’t offer any opinion. This state of affairs was far too rare for him not to enjoy the experience for a few more moments.

Finally he looked up at George and said, ‘Proxime accessit in history, with 86 per cent.’ He glanced down at the booklet, ‘Has worked well this half, good exam results and a commendable essay on Gibbon. I hope that he will consider reading this subject when he goes up to university.’ His father smiled before turning the next page. ‘Fifth place in English, 74 per cent. A very promising essay on Boswell, but he needs to spend a little more time on Milton and Shakespeare and rather less on RL Stevenson.’ This time it was George’s turn to smile. ‘Seventh in Latin, 69 per cent. Excellent translation of Ovid, safely above the mark Oxford and Cambridge demand from all applicants. Fourteenth in mathematics, 56 per cent, just one per cent above the pass mark.’ His father paused, frowned and continued reading. ‘Twenty-ninth in chemistry.’ The Reverend Mallory looked up. ‘How many pupils are there in the class?’ he enquired.

‘Thirty,’ George replied, well aware that his father already knew the answer.

‘Your friend Guy Bullock, no doubt, kept you off the bottom.’

He returned to the report. ‘26 per cent. Shows little interest in carrying out any experiments, would advise him to drop the subject if he is thinking of going to university.’

George didn’t comment as his father unfolded a letter that had been attached to the report. This time he did not keep everyone in suspense. ‘Your housemaster, Mr Irving,’ he announced, ‘is of the opinion that you should be offered a place at Cambridge this Michaelmas.’ He paused. ‘Cambridge seems to me a surprising choice,’ added his father, ‘remembering that it’s among the flattest pieces of land in the country.’

‘Which is why I was rather hoping, Papa, that you’ll allow me to visit France this summer, so that I might further my education.’

‘Paris?’ said the Reverend Mallory, raising an eyebrow. ‘What do you have in mind, dear boy? The Moulin Rouge?’

Mrs Mallory glared at her husband, leaving him in no doubt that she disapproved of such a risqué remark in front of the girls.

‘No, Papa, not rouge,’ replied George. ‘Blanc. Mont Blanc, to be precise.’

‘But wouldn’t that be extremely dangerous?’ said his mother anxiously.

‘Not half as dangerous as the Moulin Rouge,’ suggested his father.

‘Don’t worry yourself, Mother, on either count,’ said George, laughing. ‘My housemaster, Mr Irving, will be accompanying me at all times, and not only is he a member of the Alpine Club, but he would also act as a chaperon were I fortunate enough to be introduced to the lady in question.’

George’s father remained silent for some time. He never discussed the cost of anything in front of the children, although he’d been relieved when George won a scholarship to Winchester, saving him £170 of the £200 annual fee. Money was not a subject to be raised at the breakfast table, though in truth it was rarely far from his mind.

‘When is your interview for Cambridge?’ he eventually asked.

‘A week on Thursday, Father.’

‘Then I’ll let you know my decision a week on Friday.’

5

Thursday, April 13th, 1905

Although Guy woke his friend on time, George still managed to be late for breakfast. He blamed having to shave, a skill he hadn’t yet mastered.

‘Aren’t you meant to be attending an interview at Cambridge today?’ enquired his housemaster after George had helped himself to a second portion of porridge.

‘Yes, sir,’ said George.

‘And if I recall correctly,’ added Mr Irving, glancing at his watch, ‘your train for London is due to leave in less than half an hour. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the other candidates were already waiting on the platform.’

‘Under-nourished and having missed your words of wisdom,’ said George with a grin.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Mr Irving. ‘I addressed them during early breakfast, as I felt it was essential they weren’t late for their interviews. If you think I’m a stickler for punctuality, Mallory, just wait until you meet Mr Benson.’

George pushed his bowl of porridge across to Guy, stood slowly and ambled out of the dining room as if he didn’t have a care in the world, then bolted across the quad and into college house as if he were trying to win an Olympic dash. He took the stairs three at a time to the top floor. That’s when he remembered he hadn’t packed an overnight case. But when he burst into his study he was delighted to find his little leather suitcase already strapped up and placed by the door. Guy must have anticipated that he would once again leave everything to the last minute.

‘Thank you, Guy,’ said George out loud, hoping that his friend was enjoying a well-earned second bowl of porridge. He grabbed the suitcase, bounded down the steps two at a time and ran back across the quad, only stopping when he reached the porter’s lodge. ‘Where’s the college hansom, Simkins?’ he asked desperately.

‘Left about fifteen minutes ago, sir.’

‘Damn,’ muttered George, before dashing out into the street and heading in the direction of the station, confident he could still make his train.

He raced down the street with an uneasy feeling he’d left something behind, but whatever it was, he certainly didn’t have time to go back and retrieve it. As he rounded the corner onto Station Hill, he saw a thick line of grey smoke belching into the air. Was the train coming in, or pulling out? He picked up the pace, charging past a startled ticket collector and onto the platform, only to see the guard waving his green flag, climbing the steps into the rear carriage and slamming the door behind him.

George sprinted after the train as it began to move off, and they both reached the end of the platform at the same time. The guard gave him a sympathetic smile as the train gathered speed before disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

‘Damn,’ George repeated as he turned to find the ticket collector bearing down on him. Once the man had caught his breath, he demanded, ‘May I see your ticket, sir?’

That was when George remembered what he’d forgotten.

He dumped his suitcase on the platform, opened it and made a show of rummaging among his clothes as if he was looking for his ticket, which he knew was on the table by the side of his bed.

‘What time’s the next train to London?’ he asked casually.

‘On the hour, every hour,’ came back the immediate reply. ‘But you’ll still need a ticket.’

‘Damn,’ said George for a third time, aware that he couldn’t afford to miss the next train. ‘I must have left my ticket back at college,’ he added helplessly.

‘Then you’ll have to purchase another one,’ said the ticket collector.

George felt desperation setting in. Did he have any money with him? He began searching the pockets of his suit, and was relieved to find the half crown his mother had given him at Christmas. He’d wondered where it had got to. He followed the ticket collector meekly back to the booking office, where he purchased a third-class return ticket from Winchester to Cambridge, at a cost of one shilling and sixpence. He had often wondered why trains didn’t have a second class, but felt this was not the time to ask. Once the collector had punched his ticket, George returned to the platform and bought a copy of The Times from the newspaper seller, parting with another penny. He settled down on an uncomfortable slatted wooden bench and opened it to find out what was happening in the world.

The Prime Minister, Arthur Balfour, was hailing the new entente cordiale recently signed by Britain and France. In the future, relations with France could only improve, he promised the British people. George turned the page and began to read an article about Theodore Roosevelt, recently inaugurated for a second term as President of the United States. By the time the nine o’clock train for London came steaming in, George was studying the classified advertisements on the front page, which offered everything from hair lotion to top hats.

He was relieved the train was on time, and even more so when it pulled into Waterloo a few minutes early. He jumped out of his carriage, ran down the platform and onto the road. For the first time in his life he hailed a hansom cab, rather than wait around for the next tram to King’s Cross – an extravagance his father would have disapproved of, but Papa’s anger would have been far more acute had George missed his interview with Mr Benson and therefore failed to be offered a place at Cambridge.

‘King’s Cross,’ said George as he climbed into the hansom. The driver flicked his whip and the tired old grey began a slow plod across London. George checked his watch every few minutes, but still felt confident that he would be on time for his three o’clock appointment with the senior tutor of Magdalene College.

After he was dropped off at King’s Cross, George discovered that the next train to Cambridge was due to leave in fifteen minutes. He relaxed for the first time that day. However, what he hadn’t anticipated was that it would stop at every station from Finsbury Park to Stevenage, so by the time the train finally puffed into Cambridge, the station clock showed 2.37pm.

George was first off the train, and once his ticket had been punched he went off in search of another hansom cab, but there was none to be found. He began to run up the road, following the signs to the city centre, but without the slightest idea in which direction he should be going. He stopped to ask several passers-by if they could direct him to Magdalene College, with no success until he came across a young man wearing a short black gown and a mortar board, who was able to give him clear directions. After thanking him, George set off again, now searching for a bridge over the river Cam. He was running flat out across the bridge as a clock in the distance chimed three times. He smiled with relief. He wasn’t going to be more than a couple of minutes late.

At the far side of the bridge he came to a halt outside a massive black oak double door. He turned the handle and pushed, but it didn’t budge. He rapped the knocker twice, and waited for some time, but no one answered his call. He checked his watch: 3.04pm. He banged on the door again, but still no one responded. Surely they would not deny him entry when he was only a couple of minutes late?

He hammered on the door a third time, and didn’t stop until he heard a key turning in the lock. The door creaked open to reveal a short, stooping man in a long black coat, wearing a bowler hat. ‘The college is closed, sir,’ was all he said.

‘But I have an interview with Mr AC Benson at three o’clock,’ pleaded George.

‘The senior tutor gave me clear instructions that I was to lock the gate at three o’clock, and that after that no one was to be allowed to enter the college.’

‘But I—’ began George, but his words fell on deaf ears as the door was slammed in his face and once again he heard the key turning in the lock.

He began thumping on the door with his bare fist, although he knew no one would come to his rescue. He cursed his stupidity. What would he say when people asked him how the interview had gone? What would he tell Mr Irving when he arrived back at college later that night? How could he face Guy, who was certain to be on time for his interview next week? He knew what his father’s reaction would be: the first Mallory for four generations not to be educated at Cambridge. And as for his mother, would he ever be able to go home again?

He frowned at the heavy oak door that forbade him entry and thought about one last knock, but knew it would be pointless. He began to wonder if there might be some other way of entering the college, but as the Cam ran along its north side, acting as a moat, there was no other entrance to consider. Unless . . . George stared up at the high brick wall that surrounded the college, and began to walk up and down the pavement as if he was studying a rock face. He spotted several nooks and crannies that had been created by 450 years of ice, snow, wind, rain and a thawing sun, before he identified a possible route.

There was a heavy stone archway above the door, the rim of which was only an arm’s length away from a windowsill that would make a perfect foothold. Above that was another smaller window and another sill, from which he would be within touching distance of the sloping tiled roof, which he suspected was duplicated on the other side of the building.

He dumped his case on the pavement – never carry any unnecessary weight when attempting a climb – placed his right foot in a small hole some eight inches above the pavement, and propelled himself off the ground with his left foot, grabbing at a jutting ledge which allowed him to pull himself further up towards the stone archway. Several passers-by stopped to watch his progress, and when he finally pulled himself up onto the roof, they rewarded him with a muted round of applause.

George spent a few moments studying the other side of the wall. As always, the descent was going to be more difficult than the ascent. He swung his left leg over and lowered himself slowly down, clinging onto the gutter with both hands while he searched for a foothold. Once he felt the windowsill with a toe, he removed one hand. That was when his shoe came off, and the grip of the one hand that had been clinging to the guttering slipped. He’d broken the golden rule of maintaining three points of contact. George knew he was going to fall, something he regularly practised when dismounting the high bar in the college gym, but the bar had never been this high. He let go, and had his first piece of luck that day when he landed in a damp flower bed and rolled over.

He stood up to find an elderly gentleman staring at him. Did the poor fellow imagine he was confronting a shoeless burglar, George wondered.

‘Can I help you, young man?’ he asked.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said George. ‘I have an appointment with Mr Benson.’

‘You should find Mr Benson in his study at this time of day.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know where that is,’ said George.

‘Through the Fellows’ archway,’ he said, pointing across the lawn. ‘Second corridor on the left. You’ll see his name printed on the door.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said George, bending down to tie up his shoe lace.

‘Not at all,’ said the elderly gentleman as he headed off down the path towards the masters lodgings.

George ran across the Fellows’ lawn and through the archway into a magnificent Elizabethan courtyard. When he reached the second corridor he stopped to check the names on the board: AC Benson, Senior Tutor, third floor. He bolted up the steps, and when he reached the third floor he stopped outside Mr Benson’s room to catch his breath. He knocked gently on the door.

‘Come,’ responded a voice. George opened the door and entered the senior tutor’s domain. A rotund, ruddy-faced man with a bushy moustache looked up at him. He was wearing a light checked suit and a yellow-spotted bow tie under his gown, and seated behind a large desk covered in leather-bound books and students’ essays. ‘And how may I help you?’ he enquired, tugging at the lapels of his gown.

‘My name is George Mallory, sir. I have an appointment to see you.’

‘Had an appointment would be more accurate, Mallory. You were expected at three o’clock, and as I gave express orders that no candidate should be allowed to enter the college after that hour, I am bound to enquire how you managed to get in.’

‘I climbed over the wall, sir.’

‘You did what?’ asked Mr Benson rising slowly from behind his desk, a look of incredulity on his face. ‘Follow me, Mallory.’

George didn’t speak as Mr Benson led him back down the steps, across the courtyard and into the lodge. The porter leapt up the moment he saw the senior tutor.

‘Harry,’ said Mr Benson, ‘did you allow this candidate to enter the college after three o’clock?’

‘No, sir, I most certainly did not,’ said the porter, staring at George in disbelief.

Mr Benson turned to face George. ‘Show me exactly how you got into the college, Mallory,’ he demanded.

George led the two men back to the Fellows’ garden, and pointed to his footprints in the flower bed. The senior tutor still didn’t look convinced. The porter offered no opinion.

‘If, as you claim, Mallory, you climbed in, then you can surely climb back out.’ Mr Benson took a pace back, and folded his arms.

George walked slowly up and down the path, studying the wall carefully before he settled on the route he would take. The senior tutor and the college porter watched in astonishment as the young man climbed deftly back up the wall, not pausing until he had placed one leg over the top of the building and sat astride the roof.

‘Can I come back down, sir?’ George asked plaintively.

‘You most certainly can, young man,’ said Mr Benson without hesitation. ‘It’s clear to me that nothing is going to stop you from entering this college.’

6

Saturday, July 1st, 1905

When George told his father he had no intention of visiting the Moulin Rouge, it was the truth. Indeed, the Reverend Mallory had already received a letter from Mr Irving with a detailed itinerary for their visit to the Alps, which did not include stopping off in Paris. But that was before George had saved Mr Irving’s life, been arrested for disturbing the peace and spent a night in jail.

George’s mother was never able to hide her anxiety whenever her son went off on one of his climbing trips, but she always slipped a five-pound note into his jacket pocket, with a whispered plea not to tell his father.

George joined Guy and Mr Irving at Southampton, where they boarded the ferry for Le Havre. When they disembarked at the French port four hours later, a train was waiting to transport them to Martigny. During the long journey, George spent most of his time staring out of the window.

He was reminded of Mr Irving’s passion for punctuality when they stepped off the train to find a horse-drawn charabanc awaiting them. With a crack of the coachman’s whip, the little party set off at a brisk pace up into the mountains, allowing George to study even more closely some of the great challenges that lay ahead of him.

It was dark by the time the three of them had booked into the Hôtel Lion d’Or in Bourg St Pierre, at the foot of the Alps. Over dinner Mr Irving spread a map across the table and went over his plans for the next fortnight, indicating the mountains they would attempt to climb: the Great St Bernard (8,101 feet), Mont Vélan (12,353 feet) and the Grand Combin (14,153 feet). If they succeeded in conquering all three, they would move on to Monte Rosa (15,217 feet).

George studied the map intently, already impatient for the sun to rise the next morning. Guy remained silent. Although it was well known that Mr Irving selected only the most promising climbers among his pupils to accompany him on his annual visit to the Alps, Guy was already having second thoughts about whether he should have signed up.

George, on the other hand, had no such misgivings. But even Mr Irving was taken by surprise the following day when they reached the top of the Great St Bernard Pass in record time. Over dinner that evening George asked him if he could take over as climbing leader when they tackled Mont Vélan.

For some time Mr Irving had realized that George was the most accomplished schoolboy mountaineer he had ever come across, and was more naturally gifted than his seasoned teacher. However, it was the first time a pupil had asked to lead him – and on only the second day of their expedition.

‘I will allow you to lead us to the lower slopes of Mont Vélan,’ conceded Mr Irving. ‘But once we’ve reached 5,000 feet, I’ll take over.’

Mr Irving never took over, because the next day George led the little party with all the assurance and skill of a seasoned alpinist, even introducing Mr Irving to new routes he’d never considered in the past. And when, two days later, they climbed the Grand Combin in a shorter time than Mr Irving had achieved before, the master became the pupil.

All George now seemed to be interested in was when he would be allowed to tackle Mont Blanc.

‘Not for some time yet,’ said Mr Irving. ‘Even I wouldn’t attempt it without a professional guide. But when you go up to Cambridge in the autumn, I’ll give you a letter of introduction to Geoffrey Young, the most experienced climber in the land, and he can decide when you’re ready to approach that particular lady.’

Mr Irving was confident, however, that they were ready to take on Monte Rosa, and George led them to the summit of the mountain without the slightest mishap, even if Guy had at times found it difficult to keep up. It was on the way down that the accident occurred. Perhaps Mr Irving had become a little too complacent – a climber’s worst enemy – believing that nothing would go wrong after the triumphant ascent.

George had begun the descent with his usual confidence, but when they reached a particularly sheer couloir he decided to slow down, remembering that Guy had not found that part of the route easy to negotiate during the ascent. George had almost traversed the couloir when he heard the scream. His immediate reaction undoubtedly saved the lives of all three of them. He thrust his axe into the deep snow and quickly looped the rope around the shaft, securing it firmly against his boot while holding onto the rope with his other hand. He could only watch as Guy careered past him. He assumed that Mr Irving would have carried out the same safety procedure as he had, and that between them they would halt the momentum of Guy’s fall, but his housemaster had failed to react quite as quickly, and although he had dug his axe firmly into the snow, he hadn’t had time to loop the rope around its shaft. A moment later he too came flying past George. George didn’t look down, but kept his boot wedged firmly against the axe head and tried desperately to maintain his balance. There was nothing between him and the valley some six hundred feet below.

He held firm as both of them came to a halt and began swinging in mid-air. George wasn’t confident that the rope wouldn’t snap under the strain, leaving his companions to fall to their deaths. He didn’t have time to pray, and as a second later he was still clinging to the rope his question seemed to have been answered, if only temporarily. The danger hadn’t passed because he still had to somehow get both men safely back onto the mountain.

George looked down to see them clinging on to the rope in desperation, their faces as white as the snow. Using a skill he’d developed while endlessly practising on a rope in the school gymnasium, he began to swing his two companions slowly to and fro, until Mr Irving was able to establish a foothold on the side of the mountain. Then, while George held his position, Irving carried out the same process, swinging Guy back and forth until he too was finally secure.

It was some time before any of them felt able to continue the descent, and George did not release his axe until he was convinced that Mr Irving and Guy had fully recovered. Inch by inch, foot by foot, he led the two badly shaken climbers to the safety of a wide ledge, thirty feet below. The three of them rested for nearly an hour before Mr Irving took over and guided them towards safer slopes.

Hardly a word passed between them over dinner that evening, but all three of them knew that if they didn’t return to the mountain the following morning, Guy would never climb again. The next day, Mr Irving led his two charges back up Monte Rosa, taking a longer and far less demanding route. By the time George and Guy had returned to the hotel that evening, they were no longer children.

On the previous day, it had only taken a few minutes before all three climbers were safe, but each of those minutes could have been measured in sixty parts, and then not forgotten for a lifetime.

7

It was clear from the moment they entered Paris that Mr Irving was no stranger to the city, and George and Guy were only too happy to allow their housemaster to take the lead, having already agreed to his suggestion that they should spend the final day of their trip in the French capital celebrating their good fortune.

Mr Irving booked them into a small family hotel, located in a picturesque courtyard in the 7th arrondissement. After a light lunch he introduced them to the day life of Paris: the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Arc de Triomphe. But it was the Eiffel Tower, built for the Universal Exhibition of 1889 in celebration of the centenary of the French Revolution, that captured George’s imagination.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Mr Irving when he caught his charge looking up at the highest point of the steel edifice, some 1,062 feet above them.

Having purchased three tickets for six francs, Mr Irving herded Guy and George into an elevator which transported them on a slow journey to the top of the tower.

‘We wouldn’t even have reached the foothills of Mont Blanc,’ George commented as he looked out over Paris.

Mr Irving smiled, wondering if even conquering Mont Blanc would prove enough for George Mallory.

After they had changed for dinner, Mr Irving took the boys to a little restaurant on the Left Bank where they enjoyed foie gras accompanied by small glasses of chilled Sauternes. This was followed by boeuf bourguignon, better than any beef stew either of them had ever experienced, which then gave way to a ripe brie; quite a change from school food. Both courses were washed down with a rather fine burgundy, and George felt it had already been one of the most exciting days of his life. But it was far from over. After introducing his two charges to the joys of cognac, Mr Irving accompanied them back to the hotel. Just after midnight he bade them goodnight before retiring to his own room.

Guy sat on the end of his bed while George started to undress. ‘We’ll just hang around for a few more minutes before we slip back out.’

‘Slip back out?’ mumbled George.

‘Yes,’ said Guy, happily taking the lead for a change. ‘What’s the point of coming to Paris if we don’t visit the Moulin Rouge?’

George continued to unbutton his shirt. ‘I promised my mother . . .’

‘I’m sure you did,’ mocked Guy. ‘And you’re now asking me to believe that the man who plans to conquer the heights of Mont Blanc isn’t willing to plumb the depths of Parisian nightlife?’

George reluctantly rebuttoned his shirt as Guy switched off the light, opened the bedroom door and peeked out. Satisfied that Mr Irving was safely tucked up in bed with his copy of Three Men in a Boat, he stepped out into the corridor. George reluctantly followed, closing the door quietly behind him.

Once they had reached the lobby, Guy slipped out onto the street. He’d hailed a hansom cab before George had time for second thoughts.

‘The Moulin Rouge,’ Guy said with a confidence he hadn’t shown on the slopes of any mountain. The driver set off at a brisk pace. ‘If only Mr Irving could see us now,’ said Guy as he opened a silver cigarette case George had never seen before.

Their journey took them across the Seine to Montmartre, a mountain that hadn’t been part of Mr Irving’s itinerary. When they came to a halt outside the Moulin Rouge, George wondered if they would even be allowed into the glamorous nightclub when he saw how smartly dressed most of the revellers were – some even wearing dinner jackets. Once again Guy took the lead. After paying the driver, he extracted a ten-franc note from his wallet and handed it to the doorman, who gave the two young men a doubtful look but still pocketed the money and allowed them to enter.

Once they were inside, the maître d’ treated the two young men with a similar lack of enthusiasm, despite Guy producing another ten-franc note. A young waiter led them to a tiny table at the back of the room before offering them a menu. While George couldn’t take his eyes off the cigarette girl’s legs, Guy, aware of his dwindling finances, selected the second cheapest bottle on the wine list. The waiter returned moments later, and poured each of them a glass of Sémillon just as the lights went down.

George sat bolt upright as a dozen girls dressed in flamboyant red costumes revealing layers of white petticoats performed what was described in the programme as the Cancan. Whenever they kicked their black-stockinged legs in the air they were greeted by raucous cheers and cries of ‘Magnifique!’ from the mainly male audience. Although George had been brought up with two sisters, he had never seen that much bare flesh before, even when they were bathing at St Bees. Guy called for a second bottle of wine, and George began to suspect that this was not his close friend’s first experience of a nightclub; but then, Guy had been raised in Chelsea, not Cheshire.

The moment the curtain fell and the lights came up, the waiter reappeared and presented them with a bill that bore no resemblance to the prices on the wine list. Guy emptied his wallet, but it wasn’t enough, so George ended up parting with his emergency five-pound note. The waiter frowned when he saw the alien currency, but still pocketed the large white banknote without any suggestion of change – so much for Mr Balfour’s entente cordiale.

‘Oh my God,’ said Guy.

‘I agree,’ said George. ‘I had no idea that a couple of bottles of wine could cost that much.’

‘No, no,’ said Guy, not looking at his friend. ‘I wasn’t referring to the bill.’ He pointed to a table by the stage.

George was just as astonished when he spotted their housemaster sitting next to a scantily dressed woman, an arm draped round her shoulder.

‘I think the time has come for us to beat a tactical retreat,’ said Guy.

‘Agreed,’ said George. They rose from their places and walked towards the door, not looking back until they were out in the street.

As they stepped onto the pavement, a woman wearing an even shorter skirt than the waitresses selling cigarettes in the Moulin Rouge strolled across to join them.

‘Messieurs?’ she whispered. ‘Besoin de compagnie?’

‘Non, merci, madame,’ said George.

‘Ah, Anglais,’ she said. ‘Juste prix pour tous les deux?’

‘In normal circumstances I would be happy to oblige,’ chipped in Guy, ‘but unfortunately we’ve already been fleeced by your countrymen.’

The woman gave him a quizzical look, until George translated his friend’s words. She shrugged her shoulders before moving away to offer her wares to other men who were spilling out of the nightclub.

‘I hope you know your way back to the hotel,’ said Guy, appearing a little unsteady on his feet. ‘Because I’ve no money left for a hansom.’

‘Haven’t a clue,’ said George, ‘but when in doubt, identify a landmark you know, and it will act as a pointer to your destination.’ He set off at a brisk pace.

‘Yes, of course it will,’ said Guy as he hurried after him.

George began to sober up as they made their way back across the river, his eyes rarely leaving his chosen point of reference. Guy followed in his wake, and didn’t speak until forty minutes later when they came to a halt at the base of a monument many Parisians claimed to detest, and wished to see dismantled bolt by bolt, girder by girder, as soon as its twenty-year permit had expired.

‘I think our hotel’s somewhere over there,’ said Guy, pointing towards a narrow side street. He turned back to see George staring up at the Eiffel Tower, a look of sheer adoration in his eyes.

‘So much more of a challenge by night,’ George said, not diverting his gaze.

‘You can’t be serious,’ said Guy, as his friend headed off in the direction of one of the four triangular feet at the base of the tower.

Guy ran after him, protesting, but by the time he’d caught up, George had already leapt onto the frame and begun climbing. Although Guy continued to shout at the top of his voice, he could do no more than stand and watch as his friend moved deftly from girder to girder. George never once looked down, but had he done so he would have seen that a small group of night owls had gathered below, eagerly following his every move.

George must have been about halfway up when Guy heard the whistles. He swung round to see a police vehicle drive onto the concourse, coming to a halt at the base of the tower. Half a dozen uniformed officers leapt out and ran towards an official Guy hadn’t noticed until then, but who was clearly waiting for them. The official led them quickly to the elevator door and pulled open the iron gates. The crowd watched as the elevator made its slow journey upwards.

Guy looked up to check on George’s progress. He was only a couple of hundred feet from the top, and seemed entirely unaware of his pursuers. Moments later the elevator came to a stuttering halt by his side. The gates were pulled open and one of the policemen took a tentative step out onto the nearest girder. After a second step, he thought better of it and quickly leapt back inside. The senior officer began pleading with the miscreant, who pretended not to understand his words.

George was still determined to reach the top, but after ignoring some reasoned words, followed by some harsh expletives that could have been understood in any language, he reluctantly joined the officers in the elevator. Once the police had returned to the ground with their quarry, the watching crowd formed a gangway to the waiting vehicle, applauding the young man all the way.

‘Chapeau, jeune homme.’

‘Dommage.’

‘Bravo!’

‘Magnifique!’

It was the second time that night that George had heard a crowd crying, ‘Magnifique!’

He spotted Guy just as the police were about to bundle him into the van and drive off to heaven knows where. ‘Find Mr Irving,’ he shouted. ‘He’ll know what to do.’

Guy ran all the way back to the hotel and took the lift to the third floor, but when he banged on Mr Irving’s door there was no response. Reluctantly he returned to the ground floor and sat on the steps, awaiting the arrival of his housemaster. He even considered making his way back to the Moulin Rouge, but on balance decided that that might cause even more trouble.

The hotel clock had struck six before a carriage bearing Mr Irving pulled up outside the front door. There was no sign of the scantily dressed lady. He was surprised to find Guy sitting on the steps, and even more surprised when he discovered why.

The hotel manager only needed to make a couple of phone calls before he located which police station George had spent the night in. It took all of Mr Irving’s diplomatic skills, not to mention emptying his wallet, before the duty officer agreed to release the irresponsible young man, and only then after Mr Irving had assured the inspector that they would leave the country immédiatement.

On the ferry back to Southampton, Mr Irving told the two young men that he hadn’t yet made up his mind whether to report the incident to their parents.

‘And I still haven’t made up my mind,’ responded Guy, ‘whether to tell my father the name of that club you took us to last night.’

8

Monday, October 9th, 1905

George was relieved to find that the front door of Magdalene College was open when he arrived for the first day of term.

He strolled into the porter’s lodge, placed his suitcase on the floor and said to the familiar figure seated behind the counter, ‘My name’s—’

‘Mr Mallory,’ said the porter, raising his bowler hat. ‘As if I’m likely to forget,’ he added with a warm smile. He looked down at his clipboard. ‘You’ve been allocated a room on staircase seven, sir, the Pepys Building. I normally escort freshmen on their first day of term, but you seem to be a gentleman who can find his own way.’ George laughed. ‘Across First Court and through the archway.’

‘Thank you,’ said George, picking up his suitcase and heading towards the door.

‘And sir.’ George turned back as the porter rose from his chair. ‘I believe this is yours.’ He handed George another leather suitcase with the letters ‘GLM’ printed in black on its side. ‘And do try to be on time for your six o’clock appointment, sir.’

‘My six o’clock appointment?’

‘Yes, sir, you are bidden to join the Master for drinks in the lodgings. He likes to acquaint himself with the new undergraduates on the first day of term.’

‘Thank you for reminding me,’ said George. ‘By the way, has my friend Guy Bullock turned up?’

‘He has indeed, sir.’ Once again the porter looked down at his list. ‘Mr Bullock arrived over two hours ago. You’ll find him on the landing above you.’

‘That will be a first,’ said George without explanation.

As George walked towards First Court, he was careful not to step on the grass, which looked as if it had been cut with a pair of scissors. He passed several undergraduates, some dressed in long gowns to show that they were scholars, others in short gowns to indicate that, like himself, they were exhibitioners, while the rest didn’t wear gowns, just mortar boards which they occasionally raised to each other.

No one gave George a second look, and certainly no one raised their mortar board to him as he walked by, which brought back memories of his first day at Winchester. He couldn’t suppress a smile when he passed Mr AC Benson’s staircase. The senior tutor had telegrammed the day after their meeting, offering George a history exhibition. In a later letter he informed him that he would be tutoring him himself.

George continued on through the archway into Second Court, which housed the Pepys Building, until he came to a narrow corridor marked with a bold ‘7’. He dragged his cases up the wooden steps to the second floor, where he saw a door with the name ‘GL Mallory’ painted on it in silver letters. How many names had appeared on that door over the past century, he wondered.

He entered a room not much larger than his study at Winchester, but at least he would not be expected to share the tiny space with Guy. He was still unpacking when there was a knock on the door, and Guy strolled in without waiting for an invitation. The two young men shook hands as if they had never met before, laughed, and then threw their arms around each other.

‘I’m on the floor above you,’ said Guy.

‘I’ve already made my views clear on that ridiculous notion,’ responded George.

Guy smiled when he saw the familiar chart that George had already pinned to the wall above his desk.

‘The Eiffel Tower is only 1,062 feet,’ replied George. ‘And you seem to have forgotten that I didn’t reach the top.’

Guy glanced at his watch. ‘We’d better get going if we’re not to be late for the Master.’

‘Agreed,’ said George, and quickly slipped on his gown.

As the two young undergraduates strolled across Second Court towards the Master’s lodgings, George asked Guy if he knew anything about their head of house.

‘Only what Mr Irving told me. Apparently he was our man in Berlin before he retired from the Foreign Office. He had a reputation for being pretty blunt with the Germans. According to Irving, even the Kaiser was wary of him.’

George straightened his tie as they joined a stream of young men who were walking through the Master’s garden in the direction of a Victorian Gothic house that dominated one side of the courtyard. They were greeted at the door by a college servant dressed in a white jacket and black trousers, carrying a clipboard.

‘I’m Bullock, and this is Mallory,’ said Guy.

The man ticked off their names, but not before he’d taken a closer look at George. ‘You’ll find the Master in the drawing room on the first floor,’ he told them.

George ran up the stairs – he always ran up stairs – and entered a large, elegantly furnished room full of undergraduates and dons, with oil paintings of more ancient versions of the latter decorating the walls. Another servant offered them a glass of sherry, and George spotted someone he recognized. He strolled across to join him.

‘Good evening, sir,’ he said.

‘Mallory. I’m delighted you were able to make it,’ said the senior tutor, without any suggestion of teasing. ‘I was just reminding two of your fellow freshmen that my first tutorial will be at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. As you’ve now taken up residence in the college, you won’t have to climb over the wall to be on time, will you, Mallory?’

‘No, sir,’ said George, sipping his sherry.

‘Though I wouldn’t count on it,’ said Guy.

‘This is my friend, Guy Bullock,’ said George. ‘You don’t have to worry about him, he’s always on time.’

The only person in the room not wearing a gown, apart from the college servants, came across to join them.

‘Ah, Sir David,’ said the senior tutor. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Mr Bullock, but I know that you are well acquainted with Mr Mallory, who dropped into your garden earlier in the year.’

George turned to face the head of college. ‘Oh Lord,’ he said.

Sir David smiled at the new undergraduate. ‘No, no, Mr Mallory, “Master” will suffice.’

Guy made sure that George was on time for his first tutorial with Mr Benson the following morning, but even so, George still managed to turn up only moments before the appointed hour. The senior tutor opened his remarks by making it clear that weekly essays were to be delivered every Thursday by five o’clock, and if anyone was late for a tutorial, they should not be surprised to find the door locked. George was grateful that his room was a mere hundred yards away from Mr Benson’s, and that his mother had supplied him with an alarm clock.

Once the preliminary strictures had been administered, the tutorial went far better than George had dared to hope. His spirits were raised further when he discovered over a sherry that evening that the senior tutor shared his love of Boswell, as well as Byron and Wordsworth, and had been a personal friend of Browning.

However, Mr Benson left George in no doubt what would be expected of an exhibitioner in his first year, reminding him that although the university term was only eight weeks in length, he would be required to work just as hard during the vacation. As he was leaving, Benson added, ‘And do be sure, Mr Mallory, to attend the Freshers’ Fair on Sunday, otherwise you will never discover just how many activities this university has to offer. For example,’ he said, smiling, ‘you might consider joining the dramatic society.’

9

Guy knocked on George’s door, but there was no reply. He checked his watch: five past ten. George couldn’t be in hall having breakfast, because they finished serving at nine on a Sunday, and he surely wouldn’t have gone to the Freshers’ Fair without him. He must be either fast asleep or having a bath. Guy knocked again, but still there was no reply. He opened the door and peeked inside. The bed was unmade – nothing unusual about that – an open book lay on the pillow and some papers were strewn across the desk, but there was no sign of George. He must be having a bath.

Guy sat down on the end of the bed and waited. He had long ago stopped complaining about his friend’s inability to understand the purpose of a watch. However, it still annoyed many of George’s acquaintances, who regularly reminded him of Winchester’s motto, Manners Maketh Man. Guy was well aware of his friend’s shortcomings, but he also recognized that George had exceptional gifts. The accident of fate that had placed them in the same carriage on their way to prep school had changed his whole life. While others sometimes found George tactless, even arrogant, if he allowed them into his confidence they also discovered kindness, generosity and humour in equal measure.

Guy picked up the book from George’s pillow. It was a novel by EM Forster, a writer he’d never come across before. He had only managed a few pages of it before George strolled in, a towel around his waist, his hair dripping.

‘Is it ten o’clock already?’ he asked, taking off his towel and using it to rub his hair.

‘Ten past,’ said Guy.

‘Benson suggested I sign up for the dramatic society. It might give us the chance to meet a few girls.’

‘I don’t think it’s girls that Benson is interested in.’

George swung round. ‘You’re not suggesting . . .’

‘Just in case you haven’t noticed,’ said Guy to his friend, who was standing naked in front of him, ‘it isn’t only girls who give you a second look.’

‘And which do you prefer?’ asked George, giving him a flick of the towel.

‘You’re quite safe with me,’ Guy assured him. ‘Now, could you get a move on? Otherwise everyone will have packed up and gone before we even arrive.’

As they crossed the courtyard George set his usual pace, which Guy always found hard to keep up with.

‘What clubs are you going to join?’ Guy asked, almost running by his side.

‘The ones that won’t admit you,’ said George with a grin. ‘Which ought to leave me a wide enough choice.’

Their pace slowed as they joined a teeming horde of undergraduates who were also making their way to the Freshers’ Fair. Long before they reached Parker’s Piece they could hear bands playing, choirs singing and a thousand exuberant voices all striving to outdo each other.

A large area of the green was occupied by stalls manned by noisy students, all of whom seemed to be hollering like street traders. George and Guy strolled down the first gangway, soaking up the atmosphere. Guy began to show some interest when a man dressed in cricket whites and carrying a bat and ball, which looked somewhat incongruous in autumn, demanded, ‘Do either of you play cricket by any chance?’

‘I opened the batting for Winchester,’ said Guy.

‘Then you’ve come to the right place,’ said the man with the bat. ‘My name’s Dick Young.’

Guy, recognizing the name of a man who had played both cricket and football for England, gave a slight bow.

‘What about your friend?’ Dick asked.

‘You needn’t waste your time on him,’ said Guy. ‘He has his sights on higher things, although he happens to be looking for a man who’s also called Young. I’ll catch up with you later, George,’ said Guy.

George nodded and strolled off through the crowd, ignoring a cry of, ‘Do you sing? We’re looking for a tenor.’

‘But a fiver will do,’ quipped another voice.

‘Do you play chess? We must beat Oxford this year.’

‘Do you play a musical instrument?’ asked a desperate voice. ‘Even the cymbals?’

George stopped in his tracks when he saw an awning above a stall at the end of the aisle which announced The Fabian Society, founded 1884. He walked quickly towards a man who was waving a pamphlet and shouting, ‘Equality for all!’

As George came up to him, the man enquired, ‘Would you care to join our little band? Or are you one of those hide-bound Tory fellows?’

‘Certainly not,’ said George. ‘I have long believed in the doctrines of Quintus Fabius Maximus. “If you can win a battle without having to fire a shot in anger, you are the true victor.”’

‘Good fellow,’ said the young man, pushing a form across the table. ‘Sign up here, and then you can come to our meeting next week, which will be addressed by Mr George Bernard Shaw. By the way, my name’s Rupert Brooke,’ he added, thrusting out his hand. ‘I’m the club’s secretary.’

George shook Brooke warmly by the hand before filling in the form and handing it back. Brooke glanced at the signature. ‘I say, old chap,’ he said, ‘are the rumours true?’

‘What rumours?’ said George.

‘That you entered this university by climbing over your college’s wall.’

George was about to reply when a voice behind him said, ‘And then he was made to climb back out. That’s always the most difficult part.’

‘And why is that?’ enquired Brooke innocently.

‘Simple, really,’ said Guy, before George had a chance to speak. ‘When you’re climbing up a rock face, your hands are not more than a few inches from your eyes, but when you’re coming down, your feet are never less than five feet below you, which means that when you look down you’ve far more chance of losing your balance. Got the idea?’

George laughed. ‘Ignore my friend,’ he said. ‘And not just because he’s a hide-bound Tory, but he’s also a lackey of the capitalist system.’

‘True enough,’ said Guy without shame.

‘So what clubs have you signed up for?’ asked Brooke, turning his attention to Guy.

‘Apart from cricket, the Union, the Disraeli Society and the Officers’ Training Corps,’ replied Guy.

‘Good heavens,’ said Brooke. ‘Is there no hope for the man?’

‘None whatsoever,’ admitted Guy. Turning to George, he added, ‘But at least I’ve found what you’ve been looking for, so the time has come for you to follow me.’

George raised his mortar board to Brooke, who returned the compliment. Guy led the way to the next row of stalls, where he pointed triumphantly at a white awning that read CUMC, founded 1904.

George slapped his friend on the back. He began to study a display of photographs showing past and present undergraduates standing on the Great St Bernard Pass, and on the summits of Mont Vélan and Monte Rosa. Another board on the far side of the table displayed a large photograph of Mont Blanc, on which was written the words Join us in Italy next year if you want to do it the hard way.

‘How do I join?’ George asked a short, stocky fellow standing next to a taller man who was holding an ice axe.

‘You can’t join the Mountaineering Club, old chap,’ he replied. ‘You have to be elected.’

‘Then how do I get elected?’

‘It’s quite simple. You sign up for one of our Club meets to Pen-y-Pass, and then we’ll decide if you’re a mountaineer or just a weekend rambler.’

‘I would have you know,’ interrupted Guy, ‘that my friend—’

‘—would be happy to sign up,’ said George before Guy could complete the sentence.

Both George and Guy signed up for a weekend trip to Wales, and handed back their application forms to the taller of the two men standing behind the table.

‘I’m Somervell,’ he said, ‘and this is Odell. He’s a geologist, so he’s more interested in studying rocks than climbing them. The chap at the back,’ added Somervell, pointing to an older man, ‘is Geoffrey Winthrop Young of the Alpine Club. He’s our honorary chairman.’

‘The most accomplished climber in the land,’ said George.

Young smiled as he studied George’s application form. ‘Graham Irving has a tendency to exaggerate,’ he said. ‘However, he’s already written to tell me about your recent trip to the Alps. When we’re at Pen-y-Pass you’ll be given the chance to show if you’re as good as he says you are.’

‘He’s better,’ said Guy. ‘Irving won’t have mentioned our visit to Paris, when . . . ahhh!’ he shouted as George’s heel collided with his shin.

‘Will I be given a chance to join your party for Mont Blanc next summer?’ George asked.

‘That may not be possible,’ said Young. ‘There are one or two other fellows already hoping to be selected for that jaunt.’

Somervell and Odell were now taking a far greater interest in the freshman from Magdalene. The two young men couldn’t have been more dissimilar. Odell was just a shade over five feet five, with sandy hair, a ruddy complexion and watery blue eyes. He looked too young to be an undergraduate, but the moment he spoke he sounded older than his years. Somervell, in contrast, was over six foot, with dark, unruly hair that looked as if it had rarely been acquainted with a comb. He had the black eyes of a pirate, but when asked a question he bowed his head and spoke softly, not because he was aloof, but simply because he was shy. George knew instinctively that these two disparate men were going to be friends for the rest of his life.

Saturday, June 23rd, 1906

If George had been asked what he had achieved in his first year at Cambridge – and his father did – he would have said that it had been far more than the third class he’d been awarded following his end-of-term exams.

‘Is it possible that you have become involved in too many outside activities,’ his father remonstrated, ‘none of which is likely to assist you when the time comes to consider a profession?’ This was something George hadn’t given a great deal of thought to. ‘Because I don’t have to remind you, my boy,’ his father added – but he did – ‘that I do not have sufficient funds to allow you to spend the rest of your life as a gentleman of leisure’ – a sentiment the Reverend Mallory had made all too clear since George’s first day at prep school.

George felt confident that this was not a conversation Guy would be having with his father, despite the fact that he had also only managed to scrape a third. He concluded that it was not the moment to tell Papa that if he was lucky enough to be among those selected to join Geoffrey Young’s climbing party in the Alps, he would be making an excursion to Italy that summer.

Unlike Guy, George had been mortified to be awarded a third. However, Mr Benson had assured him that he had been a borderline case for a second, and added that if he were to work a little harder during the next two years, that would be the class he should attain when he sat his finals – and if he was willing to make sacrifices, he might even secure a first.

George began to consider what sacrifices Mr Benson might have in mind. He had, after all, been elected to the committee of the Fabian Society, where he had dined with George Bernard Shaw and Ramsay MacDonald. He regularly spent evenings with Rupert Brooke, Lytton Strachey, Geoffrey and John Maynard Keynes and Ka Cox, all of whom Mr Benson thoroughly approved of. He’d even played the Pope in Brooke’s production of Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus – although George would have been the first to admit that the reviews had not been all that flattering. He had also begun a thesis on Boswell, which he hoped might in time be published. But all of this had been secondary to his efforts to be elected to the Alpine Club. Did Mr Benson expect him to sacrifice everything in order to gain the coveted first?

10

George Mallory had never climbed with anyone he considered his equal. That was until he met George Finch.

During the Michaelmas vacation, George had travelled to Wales to join Geoffrey Young for one of the Cambridge Mountaineering Club meets at Pen-y-Pass. Each day, Young would select the teams for the morning climb, and George quickly came to respect Odell and Somervell, who were not only excellent company, but were able to keep pace with him when they tackled the more demanding climbs.

On the Thursday morning, George was paired with Finch for the ridge climb over Crib Goch, Crib-y-Ddysgl, Snowdon and Lliwedd. As the two men clambered up and down Snowdon, often having to scramble on their hands and knees, George became painfully aware that the young Australian wouldn’t rest until everyone else had been left in his wake.

‘It’s not a competition,’ said George, once the rest of the climbers had all fallen behind.

‘Oh yes it is,’ said Finch, not slackening his pace. ‘Haven’t you noticed that Young has only invited two people to this meet who aren’t at Oxford or Cambridge?’ He paused to draw breath before spitting out, ‘And the other one is a woman.’

‘I hadn’t noticed,’ admitted George.

‘If I’m to have any hope of being invited to join Young in the Alps this summer,’ snapped Finch, ‘I’ll have to leave him in no doubt who’s the best climber of all the would-be applicants.’

‘Is that right?’ said George as he quickened his pace and overtook his first rival.

By the time they swung round the Snowdon Horseshoe, Finch was back by his side. Both men were breathing heavily as they almost jogged down the hill. George slackened his pace, allowing Finch to overtake him just as the Pen-y-Pass hotel came into sight.

‘You’re good, Mallory, but are you good enough?’ said Finch after George had ordered two pints of bitter. They were on their second pint before Odell and Somervell joined them.

In Cornwall a few months later the two rivals honed their rock-climbing skills, and whenever Young was asked to choose who he thought was the better climber, he was unwilling to respond. However, George accepted that once they stepped onto the slopes of the Italian Alps in the summer, Young would have to decide which of them would accompany him in the Courmayeur Valley for the challenging assault on Mont Blanc.

Among the other climbers who regularly attended those trips to Wales and Cornwall was one George wanted to spend more time with. Her name was Cottie Sanders. The daughter of a wealthy industrialist, she could have undoubtedly taken her place at Cambridge had her mother considered it a proper activity for a young lady. George, Guy and Cottie regularly made up a three for the morning climb, but once they’d had lunch together on the lower slopes, Young would insist that George leave them and join Finch, Somervell and Odell for the more demanding afternoon climbs.

Cottie could not have been described as beautiful in the conventional sense, but George had rarely enjoyed a woman’s company more. She was just an inch over five feet, and if she possessed a pleasing figure, she disguised it determinedly beneath layers of jumpers and jodhpurs. Her freckled face and curly brown hair gave the impression of a tomboy. But that wasn’t what had attracted George to her.

George’s father often referred to ‘inner beauty’ in his morning sermons, and George had just as often silently scoffed at the idea from his place in the front pew. But that was before he met Cottie. He failed, however, to notice that her eyes always lit up when she was with him. And when Guy asked her if she was in love with George, she simply said, ‘Isn’t everybody?’

Whenever Guy raised the subject with his friend, George always replied that he did not think of Cottie as anything more than a friend.

‘What’s your opinion of George Finch?’ asked Cottie one day when they sat down for lunch on top of a rock.

‘Why do you ask?’ said George, removing a sandwich from its greaseproof paper wrapping.

‘My father once told me that only politicians are expected to answer a question with a question.’

George smiled. ‘I admit Finch is a damned fine climber, but he can be a bit much if you have to spend all day with him.’

‘Ten minutes was quite enough for me,’ said Cottie.

‘What do you mean?’ asked George as he lit his pipe.

‘Once we were out of sight of everybody, he tried to kiss me.’

‘Perhaps he’s fallen in love with you,’ said George, trying to make light of it.

‘I don’t think so, George,’ she said. ‘I’m not exactly his type.’

‘But he must find you attractive if he wanted to kiss you?’

‘Only because I was the one girl within fifty miles.’

‘Thirty, my dear,’ said George, laughing, as he tapped his pipe on the rock. ‘I see our esteemed leader is on his way,’ he added as he helped Cottie back on her feet.

George was disappointed when Young chose not to take the party down a rather interesting-looking descent of Lliwedd by way of a sheer rock buttress. When they reached the lower slopes he was irritated to discover that he had left his pipe behind, and would have to return to the summit to retrieve it. Cottie agreed to accompany him, but when they reached the base of the rock George asked her to wait, as he couldn’t be bothered to take the long route around the giant obstacle.

She watched in amazement as he began to climb straight up the sheer rock face, showing no sign of fear. Once he had reached the top he grabbed his pipe, put it in his pocket and came straight back down by the same route.

Over dinner that evening, Cottie told the rest of the party what she had witnessed that afternoon. From the looks of incredulity on their faces, it was clear that no one believed her. George Finch even burst out laughing, and whispered to Geoffrey Young, ‘She thinks he’s Sir Galahad.’

Young didn’t laugh. He was beginning to wonder if George Mallory might be the ideal person to accompany him on a climb even the Royal Geographical Society considered impossible.

A month later, Young wrote to seven climbers inviting them to join his party for the Italian Alps during the summer vacation. He made it clear that he wouldn’t select the pair who would make the assault on Mont Blanc from the Courmayeur Valley until he had seen which of them acclimatized best to the hazardous conditions.

Guy Bullock and Cottie Sanders did not receive invitations, as Young believed that their presence would be a distraction.

‘Distractions,’ he pronounced when the team gathered in Southampton, ‘are all very well when you’re spending a weekend in Wales, but not when you’re in Courmayeur attempting to climb some of the most treacherous slopes in Europe.’

11

Saturday, July 14th, 1906

Like burglars in the night, the two of them slipped out of the hotel unnoticed, carrying the swag under their arms. Silently, they crossed an unlit road and disappeared into the forest, aware that it would be some time before they were missed by their colleagues, who were probably dressing for dinner.

The first few days had gone well. They had pitched up at Courmayeur on the Friday to find that the weather was perfect for climbing. A week later, with the Aiguille du Chardonnet, the Grépon and Mont Maudit ‘under their belts’, to use one of Geoffrey Young’s favourite expressions, they were all prepared for the final challenge – assuming the weather held.

When seven o’clock struck on the hotel’s grandfather clock, the honorary chairman of the CUMC tapped the side of his glass with a spoon. The rest of the committee fell silent.

‘Item number one,’ said Geoffrey Young, glancing down at his agenda, ‘the election of a new member. Mr George Leigh Mallory has been proposed by Mr Somervell and seconded by Mr Odell.’ He looked up. ‘Those in favour?’ Five hands were raised. ‘Carried unanimously,’ said Young, and a ripple of applause followed – something he had never experienced before. ‘I therefore declare George Leigh Mallory elected as a member of the CUMC’

‘Perhaps someone should go and look for him,’ said Odell, ‘and tell him the good news?’

‘If you’re hoping to find Mallory, you’d better put on your climbing boots,’ said Young without explanation.

‘I know he isn’t a Cambridge man,’ said Somervell, ‘but I propose that we invite George Finch to be an honorary member of the club. After all, he’s a fine climber.’

No one seemed willing to second the proposal.

George struck a match and lit the little Primus stove. The two men in the tent sat cross-legged, facing each other. They warmed their hands while they waited for the water to boil, a slow process when you’re halfway up a mountain. George placed two mugs on the ground while Finch ripped the wrapping off a bar of Kendal Mint Cake, broke it in half and passed a chunk across to his climbing partner.

The previous day, the two of them had stood together on the summit of Mont Maudit and stared up at Mont Blanc, a mere 2,000 feet above them, wondering if they would be looking down from its peak tomorrow.

George checked his watch: 7.35pm. By now Geoffrey Young would be taking the rest of the team through tomorrow’s programme, having informed them who would be joining him on the final ascent. The water boiled.

‘This has been quite a remarkable week for climbing,’ continued Young. ‘In fact, I would go so far as to say that it has been among the most memorable of my career, which only makes my selection of who will join me for the attack on the summit tomorrow all the more difficult. I am painfully aware that some of you have waited years for this opportunity, but more than one of you has to be disappointed. As you are all well aware, reaching the summit of Mont Blanc is not technically difficult for an experienced climber – unless, of course, he attempts it from the Courmayeur side.’ He paused.

‘The climbing party will consist of five men: myself, Somervell, Odell, Mallory and Finch. We will set out at four o’clock tomorrow morning, and press on to 15,400 feet, where we will rest for two hours. If that capricious mistress, the weather, allows us, the final team of three will make an attempt on the summit.

‘Odell and Somervell will descend to the Grand Mulets hut at 13,400 feet, where Somervell will await the return of the final party.’

‘Triumphant return,’ said Somervell magnanimously, although he and Odell could barely conceal their frustration at not having been chosen for the assault on the summit.

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Young. ‘I know how disappointed some of you must feel not to be selected for the climbing party, but never forget that without a back-up team it wouldn’t be possible to conquer any mountain, and every member of the team will have played his part. Should tomorrow’s attempt fail for any reason, I shall be inviting Odell and Somervell to join me later in the week when we will make a second attempt on the summit.’ The two men smiled slightly ruefully, as if they’d won a silver medal at the Olympic Games. ‘There is nothing more for me to say, other than to tell you who I have chosen to join me for the final ascent.’

George removed a glove, unscrewed the jar of Bovril and dropped a spoonful of the thick brown substance into the mugs. Finch added the hot water and stirred until he was sure there was nothing left on the bottom before he handed George his drink. George broke a second bar of Kendal Mint Cake and passed the larger portion across to Finch. Neither spoke while they savoured their gourmet meal.

It was George who eventually broke the silence. ‘I wonder who Young will pick.’

You’re certain to be selected,’ said Finch, warming his hands around his mug. ‘But I don’t know who else he’ll choose out of Odell, Somervell and me. If he picks the best climber, then the final place is mine.’

‘Why wouldn’t he pick the best climber?’

‘I’m not an Oxford or Cambridge man, old boy,’ said Finch, mimicking his companion’s accent.

‘Young’s no snob,’ said George. ‘He won’t let that influence his decision.’

‘We could of course pre-empt that decision,’ suggested Finch with a grin.

George looked puzzled. ‘What do you have in mind?’

We could set out for the summit first thing in the morning, and then sit around waiting to see which of them joins us.’

‘It would be a pyrrhic victory,’ George suggested as he drained his drink.

‘A victory’s a victory,’ said Finch. ‘Ask any Epirote how he feels about the word pyrrhic’

George made no comment as he crawled into his sleeping bag. Finch undid his fly buttons before slipping out of the tent. He looked up at the peak of Mont Blanc glistening in the moonlight, and even wondered if he could manage to climb it alone. When he crawled back into the tent, George was already fast asleep.

‘I can’t find either of them,’ said Odell as he joined the rest of his colleagues for dinner. ‘I’ve looked everywhere.’

‘They’ve got an important day tomorrow, so they’ll be trying to rest,’ said Young, as a bowl of hot consomme was placed in front of him. ‘But it’s never easy to sleep at minus twenty degrees. I will have to make a slight adjustment to tomorrow’s plan.’ Everyone around the table stopped eating and turned towards him. ‘Odell, Somervell and I will be joined by Herford.’

‘But what about Mallory and Finch?’ asked Odell.

‘I have a feeling that the two of them will already be sitting at Grand Mulets, waiting for us to join them.’

12

Mallory and Finch had already finished lunch by the time Young and his party joined them at the Grand Mulets refuge. Neither of them spoke as they waited to see how the expedition’s leader would react to their impudence.

‘Have you already tried for the top?’ asked Young.

‘I wanted to,’ said Finch as he followed Young into the hut, ‘but Mallory advised against it.’

‘Shrewd fellow, Mallory,’ said Young, before unfolding an old parchment map and laying it out on the table. George and Finch listened intently as he took them all through his proposed route for the last 2,200 feet.

‘This will be my seventh attempt from the Courmayeur side,’ he said, ‘and if we make it, it will only be the third time, so the odds are worse than fifty-fifty.’ Young folded the map up and stowed it in his rucksack. He shook hands with Somervell, Herford and Odell. ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We’ll make every effort to be back with you by five. Half past at the latest. See that you have a cup of Earl Grey on the boil,’ he added with a smile. ‘We can’t risk being any later,’ he said as he looked up at the forbidding peak before turning to face his chosen companions. ‘Time to rope up. I can assure you, gentlemen, this is one lady you don’t want to be out with after dark.’

For the next hour, the three of them worked their way steadily along a narrow ridge that would take them to within a thousand feet of the summit. George was beginning to wonder what all the fuss was about, but that was before they reached the Barn Door, a vast pinnacle of ice with sheer rock on both sides acting as bookends. There was a simpler, longer route to the summit, but as Young told them, that was for women and children.

Young sat at the foot of the Barn Door and checked his map once again. ‘Now you’ll begin to understand why we spent all those weekends honing our rock-climbing skills.’

George couldn’t take his eyes off the Barn Door, looking for any cracks in the surface, or indentations where other climbers had gone before them. He placed a foot tentatively in a small fissure.

‘No,’ said Young firmly, as he walked across to take the lead. ‘Next year, possibly.’

Young began to slowly traverse the giant overhanging pinnacle, often disappearing from view only to reappear a few moments later. Each of them realized that, roped together as if by an umbilical cord, if one of them made a single mistake they would all come tumbling down.

Finch looked up. Young was out of sight, and all he could see of George were the heels of two hobnail boots disappearing over a ridge. Inch by inch, foot by foot, Mallory and Finch followed slowly behind Young, aware that if they made the slightest error of judgement, the Barn Door would be slammed in their faces and seconds later they would be buried in an unmarked grave.

Inch by inch . . .

At Grand Mulets, Odell stood over a wood fire toasting a piece of bread, while Herford boiled a pot of water to make tea.

‘I wonder how far they’ve got,’ said Odell.

‘Trying to find the key to the Barn Door would be my bet,’ said Somervell.

‘I ought to be getting back,’ said Odell, ‘so I can follow their progress through the hotel’s telescope. The moment I see that they’ve joined you, I’ll put in our orders for dinner.’

‘Along with a bottle of champagne,’ suggested Somervell.

Young heaved himself up onto the ledge above the Barn Door. He didn’t have to wait long before the two Georges joined him. No one spoke for some time, and even Finch didn’t pretend he wasn’t exhausted. A mere 800 feet above them loomed the summit of Mont Blanc.

‘Don’t think of it as being 800 feet away,’ Young said. ‘It’s more like a couple of miles, and every foot you take will be into thinner and thinner air.’ He checked his watch. ‘So don’t let’s keep the lady waiting.’

Although the stony terrain appeared less demanding than the Barn Door, the climb was still treacherous; crevices, icy stones and uneven rocks covered in only a thin film of snow lay in wait for them should they make the slightest mistake. The summit looked tantalizingly close, but the lady turned out to be a tease. It was another two hours before Young finally placed a foot on the summit.

When Mallory first saw the view from the highest peak in the Alps he was lost for words.

‘Magnifique,’ he finally managed, as he looked down on Madame Blanc’s precocious offspring, which stretched as far as the eye could see.

‘It’s one of the ironies of mountaineering,’ said Young, ‘that grown men are happy to spend months preparing for a climb, weeks rehearsing and honing their skills, and at least a day attempting to reach the summit. And then, having achieved their goal, they spend just a few moments enjoying the experience, along with one or two equally certifiable companions who have little in common other than wanting to do it all again, but a little higher.’

George nodded, while Finch said nothing.

‘There’s one act I have to carry out, gentlemen,’ said Young, ‘before we begin our descent.’ He took a sovereign from his jacket pocket, bent down and placed it in the snow at his feet. Mallory and Finch watched the little ritual with fascination, but said nothing.

‘The King of England sends his compliments, ma’am,’ said Young, ‘and hopes that you will grant his humble subjects safe passage back to their homeland.’

When Odell arrived back at the hotel a few minutes after four, the first thing he did was order a large flask of hot fruit punch before walking out onto the veranda to take up his post. He peered through the large telescope, and once he’d focused on a rabbit scurrying into the forest, he turned his attention to the mountain. He swung the telescope further up the peak but, although it was a clear day, he knew that the climbing party would be no larger than ants, so searching for them would be pointless.

Odell swung the telescope lower down, and focused on the wooden hut at the Grand Mulets refuge. He thought he could see two figures standing outside it, but he couldn’t make out which was Somervell and which was Herford. A waiter in a white jacket appeared by his side and poured him a cup of hot punch. Odell leant back and enjoyed the sensation as the warm liquid slipped down his parched throat. He allowed himself to imagine for a moment what it must feel like to be standing on the peak of Mont Blanc, having unlocked the Barn Door.

He returned to the telescope, although he didn’t expect to see much activity at the Grand Mulets before five o’clock. Young was a reliable sort of cove, so he expected him to be on time. Once the climbing team reappeared, he would have that bottle of champagne put on ice to share with those who would be returning in triumph. The grandfather clock in the hall struck once, to indicate that it was 4.30pm. He focused the telescope on the Grand Mulets refuge in case the climbing party was ahead of schedule, but there was still no sign of any activity. He moved the telescope slowly up the mountain, hoping to see three specks appear in the lens.

‘Dear God, no,’ he exclaimed as the waiter poured him a second glass of punch.

‘Una problema, signore?’ enquired the waiter.

‘An avalanche,’ replied Odell.

13

George heard the unmistakeable roar behind him, but didn’t have time to turn round.

The snow hit him like a giant wave, sweeping all before it. He tried desperately to remain the right way up, making firm breaststrokes with his arms in the hope of keeping a pocket of air in front of his face so that he could buy some time, just as the safety manual recommended. But when the second wave hit him, he knew he was going to die. The third and final wave tossed him like a loose pebble, down and down and down.

His last thoughts were of his mother, who had always dreaded this moment, then of his father who never spoke of it, and finally of his brother and sisters, who would all outlive him. Was this hell? And then he came to a sudden halt. He lay still for a moment, trying to convince himself that he was still alive, and to take in his immediate surroundings. He had landed at the bottom of a crevasse, cast into an Aladdin’s cave of ice, the beauty of which he might have appreciated in any other circumstances. What did the manual recommend? Quickly work out which way is up and which is down so that you can at least start heading in the right direction. He spotted a shaft of murky grey light thirty, perhaps forty feet above him.

He recalled the manual’s next instruction: find out if anything is broken. He wiggled the fingers and thumb of his right hand; he’d still got five. His left hand was very cold, but at least there was some movement there too. He stretched his right leg, and tentatively raised it off the ground. He had one leg. He raised his left leg – two. He placed his hands by his side and pushed himself up slowly, very slowly. His fingers were beginning to freeze. He looked for his gloves; they were nowhere to be seen. He must have lost them during his fall.

The cave was lined with ridges of ice protruding from every side, making several natural ladders to the roof; but were they safe? He crawled across the soft snow to the far side of his prison, and kicked at the ice with the toe of his hobnailed boot. It made no impression. The ice had taken a hundred years, perhaps even longer, to grow to that thickness, and wasn’t going to be budged easily. George became a little more confident, but kept reminding himself to abide by the rules, not to hurry, and not to take any unnecessary risks. He spent some time trying to work out which rungs of the ladder he should mount. It looked as if the best route was on the far side of the cave, so he crawled back on his hands and knees and grabbed at the bottom rung. He prayed. When you’re in danger, you need to believe there is a God.

He placed a foot tentatively on a ridge of ice a few inches above the ground, then gripped another above it with his bare fingers, now numb with cold, and pulled himself slowly up. He risked placing his full weight on the lower ridge, because if it broke off, he would only have a short fall into the soft snow. It didn’t, which gave him the confidence to climb onto the next rung of his Jacob’s ladder, and find out if he was about to join the angels or his fellow humans.

He was about halfway up, feeling more confident with each move, when a piece of ice broke off in his hand. His feet immediately slithered off the ice below, leaving him dangling by one hand, some thirty feet above the floor. George began to sweat in a crevasse that must have been minus forty degrees. He swung slowly backwards and forwards, certain that the Gods above him had simply decided to extend his life by a few minutes, and at any moment the ice he was clinging to would shear off. Then one foot found a toehold, followed by the other. He held his breath, the fingers of his right hand almost glued to the ice above him. His strength was beginning to ebb away. He took some time before selecting the next rung of the ladder. Just three more, and he would be able to push himself through the chink of light. He picked the next rung carefully, and then the next, and at last he was able to punch a fist through the little crack above him. He would have cheered, but he couldn’t waste the time, as the last rays of sunlight were fast disappearing behind the highest peak.

George pushed his head through the hole, and looked tentatively to his left and right. He didn’t need a manual to tell him it made sense to clear the snow around him if he was to have any chance of finding a rock or a hard place.

He swept away with his bare hands until he uncovered a slab of rock that had recently been covered by the avalanche. Gathering all the strength he possessed, he hauled himself out of the hole and clung on to the edge of the rock. He didn’t hang around but, like a crab, scurried across its surface, fearful that he might slide back down the icy rock and return to the bottom of the crevasse.

That was when he heard a voice singing ‘Waltzing Matilda’. No prizes for guessing who the soloist was. George continued his painful advance across the snow until the source of the voice took shape. Finch was sitting bolt upright repeating the chorus again and again. He clearly didn’t know the second verse.

‘Is that you, George?’ Finch cried out as he peered through the falling snow.

It was the first time Finch had ever called him by his Christian name. ‘Yes, it is,’ George shouted as he crawled up to his side. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m just fine,’ said Finch. ‘Apart from a broken leg, and the fact that the toes of my left foot are beginning to freeze up. I must have lost a boot somewhere along the way. What about you?’

‘Never better, old chap,’ said George.

‘Bloody English,’ said Finch. ‘If we’re to have any chance of getting out of here, you’ll need to find my torch.’

‘Where do I start looking?’

‘The last time I saw it, it was some way up the mountain.’

George set off, like a toddler on his hands and knees. He was beginning to despair until he spotted a black object resting in the snow a few yards ahead of him. He cheered. He cursed. It was only Finch’s missing boot. He struggled on until he was able to cheer again when he saw the handle of the torch sticking out of the snow. He grabbed at it, and prayed once more before flicking the switch. A beam of light glowed in the dusk. Thank God,’ he murmured, and returned down the mountain to where Finch was lying.

No sooner had George reached him, than they both heard the moan. That must be Young,’ said Finch. ‘Better go and see if you can help. But for God’s sake turn off that torch until the sun’s completely disappeared. If Odell spotted the avalanche from the hotel, a rescue party should be on their way by now, but they won’t reach us for hours.’

George switched off the torch and began to crawl in the direction of the moan, but it was some time before he came across a body lying motionless in the snow, the right leg buckled under the left thigh.

‘Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda, who’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda . . .’

George quickly cleared the snow around Young’s mouth, but made no attempt to move him.

‘Hold on, old friend,’ he whispered in his ear. ‘Somervell and Herford should be on their way by now. They’re certain to be with us soon.’ He only wished he believed his own words. He took Young’s hand and began to rub, trying to get some circulation back, all the time having to brush away the falling snow.

Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, who’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda . . .’

Odell ran out of the front door of the hotel and onto the driveway. He immediately began to turn the wheel of the ancient klaxon which produced a deafening screeching sound that would alert Somervell and Herford to the danger.

When the sun finally disappeared behind the highest peak, George placed the torch firmly in the snow, facing down the mountain. He switched it on and a beam of light flickered, but how long would it last?

‘Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, who’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me? And he sang as he . . .’

There was nothing in the safety manual about what to do about an Australian singing out of tune, thought George as he rested his head in the snow and began to drift off to sleep. Not a bad way to die.

‘You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me . . .’

When George woke he couldn’t be sure where he was, how he’d got there, or how long he’d been there. Then he saw a nurse. He slept.

When he woke again, Somervell was standing by the side of his bed. He gave George a warm smile. ‘Welcome back,’ he said.

‘How long have I been away?’

‘Two or three days, give or take. But the doctors are confident they’ll have you back on your feet within a week.’

‘And Finch?’

‘He’s got one leg in plaster, but he’s eating a hearty breakfast and still singing ‘Waltzing Matilda’ to any nurse who cares to listen.’

‘What about Young?’ George asked, fearing the worst.

‘He’s still unconscious, suffering from hypothermia and a broken arm. The medical chaps are doing everything they can to patch him up, and if they do manage to save his life, he’ll have you to thank.’

‘Me?’ said George.

‘If it hadn’t been for your torch, we would never have found you.’

‘It wasn’t my torch,’ said George. ‘It was Finch’s.’

George slept.

14

Tuesday, July 9th, 1907

‘Once you’ve stared death in the face, nothing is ever the same again,’ said Young. ‘It places you apart from other men.’

George poured his guest a cup of tea.

‘I wanted to see you, Mallory, to make sure it wasn’t that dreadful experience that has caused you to stop climbing.’

‘Of course it wasn’t,’ said George. ‘There’s a far better reason. My tutor has warned me that I won’t be considered for a doctorate unless I get a first.’

‘And what are your chances of that, old fellow?’

‘It seems I’m a borderline case. I can’t allow myself not to succeed simply because I didn’t work hard enough.’

‘Understandable,’ said Young. ‘But all work and no play . . .’

‘I’d rather be a dull success than a bright failure,’ retorted George.

‘But once your exams are over, Mallory, will you consider joining me in the Alps next summer?’

‘I certainly will,’ said George, smiling. ‘If there’s one thing I fear even more than failing to get a first, it’s the thought of Finch standing on the peaks of higher and higher mountains singing “Waltzing Matilda”.’

‘He’s just had his degree results,’ said Young.

‘And . . . ?’

Guy was astonished by the amount of work George put in as his finals approached. He didn’t take even a day off during the spring vacation to visit Pen-y-Pass or Cornwall, let alone the Alps. His only companions were kings, dictators and potentates, and his only excursions were to battlefields in far-off lands as he studied night and day right up until the morning of the exams.

After five days of continual writing, and eleven different papers, George still couldn’t be sure how well he’d done. Only the very clever and the very stupid ever are. Once he’d handed in his final paper, he emerged from the examination room and stepped out into the sunlight to find Guy sitting on the steps of Schools waiting to greet him, a bottle of champagne in one hand, two glasses in the other. George sat down beside him and smiled.

‘Don’t ask,’ he said, as Guy began to remove the wire from around the cork.

For the next ten days a period of limbo followed as the examinees waited for the examiners to tell them the class of degree they had been awarded, and with it, what future had been determined for them.

However much Mr Benson tried to reassure his pupil that it had been a close-run thing, the fact was that George Leigh Mallory had been awarded a second-class honours degree, and therefore would not be returning to Magdalene College in the Michaelmas term to work on a doctorate. And it didn’t help when the senior tutor added, ‘When you know you’re beaten, give in gracefully.’

Despite an invitation from Geoffrey Young to spend a month with him in the Alps that summer, George packed his bags and took the next train back to Birkenhead. If you had asked him, he would have described the next four weeks as a period of reflection, although the word his father continually used was denial, while his mother, in the privacy of the bedroom, described her son’s uncharacteristic behaviour as sulking.

‘He’s not a child any more,’ she said. ‘He must make up his mind what he’s going to do with the rest of his life.’

Despite his wife’s remonstrations, it was another week before the Reverend Mallory got round to tackling head-on the subject of his son’s future.

‘I’m weighing up my options,’ George told him, ‘though I’d like to be an author. In fact, I’ve already begun work on a book on Boswell.’

‘Possibly illuminating, but unlikely to be remunerative,’ replied his father. ‘I assume you have no desire to live in a garret and survive on bread and water.’ George was unable to disagree. ‘Have you thought about applying for a commission in the army? You’d make a damn fine soldier.’

‘I’ve never been very good at obeying authority,’ George replied.

‘Have you considered taking up Holy Orders?’

‘No, because I fear there’s an insurmountable obstacle.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘I don’t believe in God,’ said George simply.

‘That hasn’t prevented some of my most distinguished colleagues from taking the cloth,’ said his father.

George laughed. ‘You’re such an old cynic, Papa.’

The Reverend Mallory ignored his son’s comment. ‘Perhaps you should consider politics, my boy. I’m sure you could find a constituency that would be delighted to have you as its MP.’

‘It might help if I knew which party I supported,’ said George. ‘And in any case, while MPs remain unpaid politics is nothing more than a rich man’s hobby.’

‘Not unlike mountaineering,’ suggested his father, raising an eyebrow.

‘True,’ admitted George. ‘So I’ll have to find a profession which will provide me with sufficient income to allow me to pursue my hobby.’

‘Then it’s settled,’ said the Reverend Mallory. ‘You’ll have to be a schoolmaster.’

Although George hadn’t offered any opinion on his father’s last suggestion, the moment he returned to his room he sat down and wrote to his former housemaster enquiring if there were any openings at Winchester for a history beak. Mr Irving replied within the week. The college, he informed George, was still considering applications for a classics master, but had recently filled the position of junior history tutor. George was already regretting his month of reflection. However, Mr Irving continued, I hear on the grapevine that Charterhouse are looking for a history master, and should you think of applying for the post, I would be only too happy to act as a referee.

Ten days later George travelled down to Surrey for an interview with the headmaster of Charterhouse, the Reverend Gerald Rendall. Mr Irving had warned George that almost anything would seem an anticlimax after Winchester and Cambridge, but George was pleasantly surprised by how much he enjoyed his visit. He was both delighted and relieved when the headmaster invited him to join the staff ahead of three other applicants.

What George could not have foretold, when he wrote back to the Reverend Rendall accepting the appointment, was that it would not be the school but one of the governors who would alter the course of his life.

1910

15

‘I would need two first-class climbers to join me for the final assault,’ Geoffrey Young replied.

‘Do you have anyone in mind?’ asked the secretary of the Royal Geographical Society.

‘Yes,’ said Young firmly, not wishing to divulge their names.

‘Then perhaps you’d better have a word with both of them,’ said Hinks. ‘And in the strictest confidence, because unless the Dalai Lama gives his blessing, we won’t even be allowed to cross the border into Tibet.’

‘I’ll write to both of them this evening,’ said Young.

‘Nothing in writing would be my advice,’ said the secretary. Young nodded. ‘And I also need you to do me a small favour. When Captain Scott. . .’

One of the problems George faced during his first few weeks at Charterhouse was that if he wasn’t wearing his mortar board and gown, he was often mistaken for one of the boys.

He enjoyed his first year at the school far more than he’d expected, even if the lower fifth was populated by a group of monsters determined to disrupt his lessons. However, when those same boys returned for their final year in the sixth form, to George’s surprise several of them were entirely reformed characters, all their energies directed towards securing a place at the university of their choice. George was happy to spend countless hours helping them to achieve that objective.

However, when his father enquired during the summer vacation what had given him the most satisfaction, he mentioned coaching the Colts football eleven in the winter and the under-fourteen hockey team during the spring, but, most of all, taking a group of boys hill walking in the summer.

‘And just occasionally,’ he said, ‘one comes across an exceptional boy, who displays real talent and curiosity, and is certain to make his name in the world.’

‘And have you met such a paragon?’ his father enquired.

‘Yes,’ replied George, without further elucidation.

On a warm summer evening, George travelled to London by train and made his way on foot to No.23 Savile Row in Mayfair to join Geoffrey Young for dinner. A porter accompanied him to the members’ bar, where George found his host chatting to a group of elderly climbers who were repeating tall stories about even taller mountains. When Young spotted his guest entering the room, he broke away and guided George towards the dining room with the words, ‘I fear a bar stool is the highest thing that lot can climb nowadays.’

While they enjoyed a meal of brown Windsor soup and steak and kidney pie followed by vanilla ice cream, Young took George through the programme he had planned for their forthcoming trip to the Alps. But George had a feeling that his host had something more important on his mind, as he had already written to him setting out in great detail which new climbs they would be attempting that summer. It wasn’t until they retired to the library for coffee and brandy that George discovered the real purpose behind Young’s invitation.

‘Mallory,’ said Young once they had settled in the far corner of the room, ‘I wondered if you’d care to join me as my guest at the RGS next Thursday evening, when Captain Scott will be addressing the Society on his forthcoming expedition to the South Pole.’

George nearly spilt his coffee, he was so excited by the prospect of hearing the intrepid explorer talk about his Voyage of Discovery, not least because he’d recently read in The Times that every ticket had been taken up within hours of the Society announcing the speaker for its annual memorial lecture.

‘How did you manage to—’ began George.

‘As a committee member of the Alpine Club, I was able to wangle a couple of extra tickets out of the secretary of the RGS. However, he did request a small favour in return.’

George wanted to ask two questions at once, but it quickly became clear that Young had already anticipated them.

‘Of course, you’ll be interested to know who my other guest is,’ said Young. George nodded. ‘Well, it won’t come as much of a surprise, because I’ve invited the only other climber in your class.’ Young paused. ‘But I must confess that the favour the RGS secretary requested did come as a surprise.’

George put down his coffee cup on a side table, folded his arms and waited.

‘It’s quite simple really,’ said Young. ‘Once Captain Scott has finished his lecture and calls for questions, the secretary wants you to raise your hand.’

16

It was one of those rare occasions when George was on time. He had rehearsed his question during the train journey up from Godalming and, although he felt confident that he knew the answer, he was still puzzled why the RGS secretary wanted him to ask it.

George had been disappointed when he’d read in The Times earlier that year that it was an American, Robert Peary, not an Englishman who had been the first to reach the North Pole. But as the subject of Captain Scott’s lecture was ‘The South Pole yet unconquered’, he assumed that, just as Geoffrey Young had suggested, the great explorer was about to make a second attempt to make amends.

George jumped off the train at Waterloo as it came to a halt, ran along the platform and handed in his ticket before going off in search of a hansom cab. Young had warned him that such was Scott’s popularity most of the seats would be taken at least an hour before the lecture was due to begin.

There was already a small queue forming at the entrance to the RGS by the time George presented his invitation card. He joined the chattering crowd as they made their way to the lecture theatre on the ground floor.

When George entered the recently built theatre, he was surprised by how grand it was. The oak-panelled walls were covered with oil paintings of past presidents of the RGS, while the dark parquet floor was covered by what must have been five hundred plush red chairs, perhaps even more. The raised stage at the front of the hall was dominated by a full-length portrait of King George V.

George scanned the rows, searching for Geoffrey Young. He finally spotted him on the far side of the room, seated next to Finch. George quickly made his way across the hall and took the seat next to Young.

‘I couldn’t have held on to it for much longer,’ said Young with a grin.

‘Sorry,’ said George, as he leant across to shake hands with Finch. He looked around the theatre to see if he knew anyone. Somervell, Herford and Odell were seated near the back. The thing that struck George most was that there were no women in the body of the hall. He knew they could not be elected as fellows of the RGS, but why couldn’t they attend as guests? He could only wonder what would have happened if Cottie Sanders had been one of Geoffrey Young’s guests. Would they have put her in the front row perhaps, which remained unoccupied? He glanced towards the upper gallery, where several smartly dressed ladies in long gowns and shawls were taking their seats. He frowned before turning his attention back to the stage, where two men were erecting a large silver screen. In the central aisle another man was checking slides in a magic lantern, flicking the shutter backwards and forwards.

The lecture theatre was filling up quickly, and long before the clock below the gallery chimed eight times, a number of members and their guests found themselves having to stand in the aisles and at the back of the room. On the eighth chime, the committee, crocodile-like, entered the room and took their places in the front row, while a short, elegantly dressed gentleman wearing a white tie and tails strode up onto the stage, to be greeted with loud applause. He raised the palms of his hands as if warming himself by a fire, and immediately the applause died down.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘My name is Sir Francis Younghusband. I have the honour of being your chairman this evening, and I believe that tonight’s lecture promises to be one of the most exciting in the Society’s long history. The RGS prides itself on being a world leader in two different, but not unrelated fields: first, the surveying and drawing up of maps of previously uncharted territories; and second, exploring those distant and dangerous lands where no white man has ever trodden before. One of the Society’s statutes allows us to support and encourage those single-minded individuals who are willing to travel the length and breadth of the globe, risking their lives in the service of the British Empire.

‘One such man is our lecturer tonight, and I have no doubt,’ continued Sir Francis as he glanced up at the portrait of the King, ‘that we are about to learn of his plans to make a second attempt to be the first of His Majesty’s subjects to reach the South Pole. It is a well-worn phrase to suggest that a speaker needs no introduction, but I suspect there isn’t a man, woman or child in our land who does not know the name Captain Robert Falcon Scott RN.’

The audience rose as one as a clean-shaven, stockily built man with fierce blue eyes and in a naval uniform marched out from the wings. He took his place at the centre of the stage, his legs thrust apart, giving the impression that he did not intend to be moved for some time. He smiled down at his audience and, unlike Sir Francis, made no attempt to quell their enthusiasm, ensuring that it was some time before he was able to speak.

George was captivated from Scott’s first sentence. He spoke for over an hour, never once referring to notes, while dozens of slides projected on the screen behind him brought dramatically to life his previous expedition to the Antarctic in his ship the Discovery. His words were regularly interrupted by spontaneous bursts of applause.

The audience learnt how Captain Scott went about selecting his team, and the qualities he demanded: loyalty, courage and unquestioning discipline were, it seemed to him, prerequisites. He then went on to explain the deprivation and hardship his men would have to take for granted if they hoped to survive for four months in the Antarctic trekking 400 miles across a frozen wasteland on an uncharted journey to the South Pole.

George stared in disbelief at images of men who had been on his previous expedition, some of whom had lost not only fingers and toes to severe frostbite, but ears and in one case even a nose. One of the slides caused a woman in the gallery to faint. Scott paused for a moment before adding, ‘Each of the men who accompanies me on this enterprise must be prepared to undergo such suffering if he still hopes to be standing when we eventually reach the South Pole. And never forget, my most important responsibility is to ensure that all my men return home safely.’

George only wished that he could be among those who would be invited to join Scott, but he knew that an inexperienced schoolmaster whose greatest achievement to date was conquering Mont Blanc was an unlikely candidate for Scott’s team.

Scott ended his lecture by thanking the RGS, its committee and fellows for their continued support, aware that without their backing he couldn’t even consider raising anchor at Tilbury, let alone docking in McMurdo Sound fully equipped and ready to carry out such an ambitious enterprise. When the lights came up, Scott gave a slight bow and the audience rose as one to acknowledge a very British hero. George could only wonder what it must feel like to be standing on that stage receiving such plaudits and, more importantly, what would be expected of him to prove worthy of such adulation.

When the applause eventually died down and the audience resumed their places, Scott thanked them once again before inviting questions from the floor.

A gentleman rose in the front row.

‘That’s Arthur Hinks,’ whispered Geoffrey Young. ‘He’s just been appointed secretary of the RGS.’

‘Sir,’ Hinks began, ‘rumours abound that the Norwegians, led by Amundsen, are also planning an assault on the South Pole. Does this concern you?’

‘No, it does not, Mr Hinks,’ replied Scott. ‘Let me assure you and the Society’s fellows that it will be an Englishman, not a Viking, who will be the first to reach the South Pole.’ Once again these sentiments were greeted with loud applause.

From the dozen hands that shot up, Scott next selected a man seated in the third row. The left breast of his dinner jacket was adorned with rows of campaign medals.

‘I read in The Times this morning, sir, that the Norwegians are willing to use motorized sledges as well as dogs, to make sure they reach the Pole ahead of you.’

Several cries of ‘Shame!’ emanated from the body of the hall. ‘May I ask what your response is to this blatant disregard of the amateur code?’ Finch looked at the questioner in disbelief.

‘I shall simply ignore them, General,’ Scott replied. ‘My enterprise remains a challenge of man’s superiority over the elements, and I am in no doubt that I have assembled a group of gentlemen who are more than ready to face this challenge.’

Cries of ‘Hear, hear!’ came from every quarter of the packed hall, although Finch did not join in.

‘And allow me to add,’ continued Scott, ‘that I intend to be the first human to reach the South Pole, not the first dog.’ He paused. ‘Unless, of course, it’s a bulldog.’

Laughter followed, before several more hands shot up, George’s among them. However, Captain Scott answered three more questions before he pointed in George’s direction.

‘A young gentleman on the end of the fifth row is showing the sort of determination I look for when selecting my team, so let’s hear what he has to say.’

George rose slowly from his place, his legs shaking. He felt five hundred pairs of eyes staring at him.

‘Sir,’ he said, his voice quivering, ‘once you have reached the South Pole, what will there be left for an Englishman to conquer?’ He collapsed back onto his chair as some of the audience burst out laughing, while others applauded. A puzzled expression appeared on Finch’s face. Why would Mallory ask a question he already knew the answer to?

‘The next great challenge for any Englishman,’ said Scott without hesitation, ‘will undoubtedly be the scaling of the highest mountain on earth, Mount Everest in the Himalaya. It stands at over 29,000 feet above sea level – that’s almost five and a half miles high, my boy – and we have no idea how the human body will react to such altitude, as no man has yet been above 22,000 feet. And that’s before you consider temperatures that can fall below minus forty degrees Fahrenheit, and winds that will cut your skin to shreds. But of one thing I am certain: dogs and motorized sledges will be of little use up there.’ He paused and, looking directly at George, added, ‘But whoever succeeds in that magnificent endeavour will be the first man to stand on the roof of the world. I envy him. Let us hope that he will be an Englishman. However,’ Scott concluded, turning his attention to a lady seated in the front row of the gallery, ‘I have already promised my wife that I will leave that particular challenge to a younger man.’ Scott looked back down at George as the audience burst once again into spontaneous applause.

Finch’s hand immediately shot up, and Scott nodded in response. ‘Do you consider yourself to be an amateur or a professional, sir?’

An audible gasp could be heard around the hall as Finch stared defiantly at the speaker.

Scott took his time before replying, never once taking his eyes off Finch. ‘I am an amateur,’ he eventually replied, ‘but an amateur who surrounds himself with professionals. My doctors, engineers, drivers and even my cooks are all fully qualified, and would be insulted were you to describe them as amateurs. But they would be even more insulted if you were to suggest that their presence on this expedition was motivated by a desire for financial gain.’

This reply was greeted by the loudest applause of the evening, and prevented anyone other than Young and Mallory from hearing Finch say, ‘If he really believes that, he has no hope of coming back alive.’

After two or three more questions, Scott once again thanked the RGS for sponsoring the lecture and for their wholehearted backing of his latest enterprise. This was followed by a vote of thanks from Mr Hinks on behalf of the Society, after which the audience stood to attention and lustily sang the National Anthem.

While Young and Finch joined those leaving the theatre, George remained in his place, unable to take his eyes off the stage Scott had occupied; a stage from which one day he intended to address the RGS. Finch grinned when he looked back and saw the immovable Mallory. Turning to Young, he said, ‘He’ll still be sitting there, listening just as intently, when it’s my turn to deliver the annual lecture.’

Young smiled at the presumptuous pup. ‘And what, dare I ask, will be the subject of your talk?’

‘Everest conquered,’ Finch replied. ‘Because this lot –’ gesturing with a sweeping arm – ‘won’t let me stand on that stage unless I’m the man who gets there first.’

BOOK TWO

THE OTHER WOMAN

1914

17

Monday, February 9th, 1914

‘When Elizabeth ascended the English throne in 1558, neither the court nor the common people welcomed her as their monarch. However, when she died in 1603, forty-five years later, the Virgin Queen was as popular as her father King Henry the Eighth had ever been.’

‘Sir, sir,’ said a boy in the front row, his hand held high.

‘Yes, Carter minor,’ said George.

‘What’s a virgin, sir?’

George ignored the sniggers that followed, and carried on as if he had been asked a serious question. ‘A virgin is a female who is virgo intacta, Carter minor. I hope your Latin is up to it. Should it not be, you can always look up Luke 1: 27, To a virgin espoused to a man whose name was Joseph . . . and the virgin’s name was Mary. But back to Elizabeth. This was the golden era of Shakespeare and Marlowe, of Drake and Raleigh, a time when the English not only defeated the Spanish Armada, but also put down a civil insurrection led by the Earl of Essex, who some historians have suggested was the Queen’s lover.’

Several inevitable hands shot up.

‘Wainwright,’ said George wearily, only too aware what his question was going to be.

‘What’s a lover, sir?’

George smiled. ‘A lover is a man who lives with a woman, but not in the state of holy matrimony.’

‘Then there’s no chance of a lover being virgo intacta, is there, sir?’ said Wainwright with a smirk.

‘You are quite right, Wainwright, although I suspect that Elizabeth never took a lover, as it would have called her authority as monarch into question.’

Another hand shot up. ‘But wouldn’t the court and the common people have preferred to have a man, like the Earl of Essex, on the throne rather than a woman?’

George smiled again. Graves, one of those rare boys who preferred the classroom to the games field, was not one to ask frivolous questions. ‘By that time, Graves, even Elizabeth’s original detractors would have preferred her to the Earl of Essex. Indeed, over three hundred years later this woman surely ranks as the equal of any man in the pantheon of English monarchs,’ he concluded as the chapel bell sounded in the distance.

George looked around to see if there were any more questions. There were none. He sighed. ‘That will be all then,’ he said. ‘But gentlemen,’ he added, his voice rising, ‘please be sure that your essays on the religious and political significance of Henry the Eighth’s marriage to Anne Boleyn are on my desk by midday on Thursday.’

An audible groan went up as the lower fifth gathered their text books and made their way out of the classroom.

George picked up the blackboard duster and began to rub out the names and dates of Henry’s six queens. He turned round to see that Graves was still sitting in his place.

‘Can you name all six of them, Robert, and the years in which they became Queen?’ he asked.

‘Catherine of Aragon, 1509, Anne Boleyn, 1533, Jane Seymour, 1536, Anne of Cleves, 1540, Catherine Howard, 1540, and Catherine Parr, 1543.’

‘And next week I’ll teach you a simple way of recalling their fates.’

‘Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived. You told us last week, sir.’

‘Did I indeed?’ said George as he placed the duster back on his desk, seemingly unaware of just how much chalk had ended up on his gown.

George followed Graves out of the classroom and made his way across the quad to the masters’ common room to join his colleagues for the mid-morning break. Although he had proved to be a popular master with the majority of staff as well as the boys, he was well aware that not all of his colleagues approved of what they described in hushed tones as his laissez-faire attitude, and one or two of them openly voiced the opinion that the lack of discipline in his classes was undermining their own authority, especially when they had to teach the lower fifth on the same day.

When Dr Rendall decided the time had come to take Mallory to one side and have a word with him on the subject, George simply informed him that he believed in self-expression, otherwise how could any boy realize his full potential? As the headmaster had no idea what ‘self-expression’ meant, he decided not to press the matter. After all, he was due to retire at the end of the school year, when it would become someone else’s responsibility.

George had made only one real friend among his colleagues. Andrew O’Sullivan had been a contemporary of his at Cambridge, although they had never met. He had read Geography and won a boxing blue while he was at Fitzwilliam, but despite the fact that he showed no interest in mountaineering, and even less in the beliefs of Quintus Fabius Maximus, he and George had immediately found that they enjoyed each other’s company.

When George entered the common room he spotted Andrew slumped in a comfortable leather chair by the window, reading a newspaper. George poured himself a cup of tea and strolled across to join his friend.

‘Have you seen The Times this morning?’ Andrew asked.

‘No,’ said George, placing his cup and saucer on the table between them. ‘I usually catch up with the news after evensong.’

‘The paper’s correspondent in Delhi,’ said Andrew, ‘is reporting that Lord Curzon has brokered a deal with the Dalai Lama to allow a select group of climbers to enter—’

George leant forward a little too quickly and knocked over his colleague’s tea cup. ‘Sorry, Andrew,’ he said as he grabbed the newspaper.

Andrew looked faintly amused by his friend’s rare lapse of good manners, but said nothing until George had handed the paper back. ‘The RGS is inviting interested parties to apply,’ continued Andrew. ‘Are you by any chance, my dear Mallory, an interested party?’

George didn’t want to answer until he’d given the question a little more thought, and was relieved when the bell alerting masters that break would end in five minutes came to his rescue.

‘Well,’ said Andrew as he rose from his chair, ‘if you feel unable to answer that particular question, allow me put a less demanding one to you. Are you doing anything other than reading The Times on Thursday evening?’

‘Marking the lower fifth’s essays on the Armada,’ said George. ‘I do believe that lot find a sadistic pleasure in rewriting history. Wainwright even appears to think that the Spanish won the battle, and Drake ended up in the Tower.’

Andrew laughed. ‘It’s just that one of the school governors, a Mr Thackeray Turner, has invited me to join him for dinner that night, and asked if I’d like to bring a friend.’

‘It’s kind of you to think of me, Andrew,’ George said as they walked out of the common room and into the quad, ‘but I expect Mr Turner meant a lady friend.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Andrew. ‘At least not while he’s still got three unmarried daughters.’

18

Thursday, February 12th, 1914

George chalked his cue. He liked Thackeray Turner the moment he met him: blunt, open and straightforward, if somewhat old-fashioned, and forever testing your mettle.

Andrew had told George on the journey to Turner’s home that he was an architect by profession. When George was driven through a fine pair of wrought-iron gates and down a long avenue of lime trees to see Westbrook for the first time, nestling in the Surrey hills, surrounded by the most magnificent flower beds, lawns and a sunken water garden, he didn’t need to be told why Turner had made such a success of his career.

Before they had reached the top step, a butler had opened the front door for them. He guided them silently down a long corridor, where they found Turner waiting in the billiard room. As his dinner jacket was hanging over the back of a nearby chair, George assumed that he was prepared for battle.

‘Time for a game before the ladies come down for dinner,’ were Turner’s first words to his guests. George admired a full-length portrait of his host by Lavery above the fireplace, and other nineteenth-century watercolours that adorned the walls – including one by his host’s namesake – before he removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

Once the three balls had been placed in position on the green baize, George was quickly introduced to another side of his host’s character. Mr Turner liked winning, and even expected to win. What he hadn’t anticipated was that George didn’t like losing. George wasn’t sure if Andrew was simply happy to humour the old man, or just wasn’t that good a player. Either way, George wasn’t quite so willing to fall in with his host’s expectations.

‘Your turn, old fellow,’ said Turner, after he had posted a break of eleven.

George took some time considering his shot, and when he handed his cue to Andrew he’d amassed a break of fourteen. It soon became clear that Turner had met his match, so he decided to try a different tactic.

‘O’Sullivan tells me that you’re a bit of a radical, Mallory.’

George smiled. He wasn’t going to let Turner get the better of him, on or off the table. ‘If you are alluding to my support for universal suffrage, you would be correct, sir.’

Andrew frowned. ‘Only three points,’ he said before adding that sum to his meagre total.

Turner returned to the table, and didn’t speak again until he had posted another twelve to his name, but just as George bent down to line up his next shot, Turner asked, ‘So you would give women the vote?’

George stood back up and chalked his cue. ‘I most certainly would, sir,’ he replied before lining up the balls once again.

‘But they haven’t been sufficiently educated to take on such a responsibility,’ said Turner. ‘And in any case, how can one ever expect a woman to make a rational judgement?’

George bent over the table again, and this time he had scored another twenty-one points before he handed over his cue to Andrew, who failed to score.

‘There’s a simple way to remedy that,’ said George.

‘And what might that be?’ asked Turner as he surveyed the table and considered his options.

‘Allow women to be properly educated in the first place, so that they can go to university and study for the same degrees as men.’

‘Presumably this would not apply to Oxford and Cambridge?’

‘On the contrary,’ said George. ‘Oxford and Cambridge must lead the way, because then the rest will surely follow.’

‘Women with degrees,’ snorted Turner. ‘It’s unthinkable.’ He bent down to take his next shot, but miscued, and the white ball careered into the nearest pocket. George had to make a supreme effort not to burst out laughing. ‘Let me be sure I understand exactly what you are proposing, Mallory,’ said Turner as he handed the cue to his guest. ‘You are of the opinion that clever women, the ones with degrees from Oxford and Cambridge, should be given the vote?’

‘No, sir, that is not what I was proposing,’ said George. ‘I believe that the same rule should apply to women as it does to men. The stupid ones should get a vote as well.’

A smile appeared on Turner’s lips for the first time since the game had begun. ‘I can’t see Parliament agreeing to that. After all, turkeys don’t usually vote for Christmas.’

‘Until one of the turkeys works out that it might just win them the next election,’ George suggested as he successfully executed a cannon and pocketed the red. He stood up and smiled. ‘My game, I believe, sir.’

Turner nodded reluctantly. As he was putting his jacket on, there was a gentle tap on the door. The butler entered. ‘Dinner is served, sir.’

‘Thank you, Atkins,’ said their host. Once he’d left the room, Turner whispered, ‘I’d wager a year’s income that Atkins wouldn’t give women the vote.’

‘And I’d wager a year’s income that you’ve never asked him,’ said George, regretting his words the moment he uttered them. Andrew looked embarrassed, but said nothing.

‘I do apologize, sir,’ said George. ‘That remark was unforgivable, and—’

‘Not at all, dear boy,’ said Turner. ‘I fear that since my wife died I have become something of – what’s the modern expression? – an old fuddy-duddy. Perhaps we should join the ladies for dinner.’ As they crossed the hall he added, ‘Well played, Mallory. I look forward to a return match, when no doubt you’ll enlighten us with your views on workers’ rights.’

The butler held open the door to allow Turner and his guests to enter the dining room. A large oak table that looked more Elizabethan than Victorian dominated the centre of the oak-panelled room. Six places had been laid, with the finest cutlery, linen and china.

As George walked in, he caught his breath, which he rarely did even when he stood on the top of a mountain. Although all three of Mr Turner’s daughters, Marjorie, Ruth and Mildred, were waiting to be introduced, George’s gaze remained fixed on Ruth, causing her to blush and look away.

‘Don’t just stand there, Mallory,’ said Turner, noticing that George was still hovering in the doorway. ‘They won’t bite you. In fact, you’re far more likely to find them in sympathy with your views than mine.’

George stepped forward and shook hands with the three young women, and tried not to show his disappointment when his host placed him between Marjorie and Mildred. Two maids served the first course, a plate of cold salmon and dill, while the butler poured half a glass of Sancerre for Turner to taste. George ignored the most appetizing dish he’d seen in weeks as he tried to steal the occasional glance at Ruth, who was seated at the other end of the table. She seemed quite unaware of her own beauty. Botticellian, he whispered to himself as he contemplated her fair skin, china blue eyes and luxuriant reddish brown hair. Botticellian, he repeated, as he picked up his knife and fork.

‘Is is true, Mr Mallory,’ asked Marjorie, the eldest of the three sisters, interrupting his thoughts, ‘that you have met Mr George Bernard Shaw?’

‘Yes, Miss Turner, I had the honour of dining with the great man after he addressed the Fabian Society at Cambridge.’

‘Great man be damned,’ said Turner. ‘He’s just another socialist who delights in telling us all how we should conduct our lives. The fellow isn’t even an Englishman.’

Marjorie smiled benignly at her father. ‘The theatre critic of The Times,’ she continued, still addressing George, ‘felt that Pygmalion was both witty and thought-provoking.’

‘He’s probably a socialist as well,’ said Turner between mouthfuls.

‘Have you seen the play, Miss Turner?’ asked George, turning to Ruth.

‘No, Mr Mallory, I haven’t,’ Ruth replied. ‘The last theatre production we attended was Charley’s Aunt in the village hall, and that was only after the vicar had banned a reading of The Importance of Being Earnest.’

‘Written by another Irishman,’ said Turner, ‘whose name should not be mentioned in respectable society. Don’t you agree with me, Mallory?’ he asked as the first course was removed. George’s untouched salmon looked as if it was still capable of swimming.

‘If respectable society is unable to discuss the two most gifted playwrights of their generation, then yes, sir, I agree with you.’

Mildred, who had not spoken until that moment, leant across and whispered, ‘I do so agree with you, Mr Mallory.’

‘What about you, O’Sullivan,’ asked Turner. ‘Are you of the same opinion as Mallory?’

‘I rarely agree with anything George says,’ replied Andrew, ‘which is why we remain on such good terms.’ Everyone burst out laughing as the butler placed a baron of beef on the sideboard and, having presented it to his master for approval, began to carve.

George took advantage of the distraction to glance once again towards the other end of the table, only to find that Ruth was smiling at Andrew.

‘I must confess,’ Andrew said, ‘that I have never attended a play by either gentleman.’

‘I can assure you, O’Sullivan,’ said Turner after sampling a glass of red wine, ‘that neither of them is a gentleman.’

George was about to respond when Mildred jumped in. ‘Ignore him, Mr Mallory. It’s the one thing our father can’t abide.’

George smiled, and indulged himself in a more genteel conversation with Marjorie about basket weaving until the plates had been cleared away, although he did steal a glance towards the other end of the table from time to time. Ruth didn’t appear to notice.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Mr Turner as he folded his napkin, ‘let us hope that you’ve learnt one lesson from this evening.’

‘And what might that be, sir?’ asked Andrew.

‘To make sure that you don’t end up with three daughters. Not least because Mallory won’t rest until they’ve all gone to university and been awarded degrees.’

‘A capital suggestion, Mr Mallory,’ said Mildred. ‘Had I been given the opportunity to follow my father’s example and become an architect, I would have happily done so.’

For the first time that evening, Mr Turner was struck dumb. It was some time before he recovered sufficiently to suggest, ‘Perhaps we should all go through to the drawing room for coffee?’

This time it was the girls who were unable to hide their surprise at Papa’s break with traditional routine. Usually he enjoyed a brandy and cigar with his male guests before he even considered joining the ladies.

‘A memorable victory, Mr Mallory,’ whispered Marjorie as George held back her chair. George waited until all three sisters had left the dining room before he made his move. He was pleased to see that Andrew was deep in conversation with the old man.

Once Ruth had taken her place on the sofa in the drawing room, George casually strolled across and sat down beside her. Ruth said nothing, and appeared to be looking across at Andrew, who had joined Marjorie on the chaise-longue. Having achieved his objective, George was suddenly lost for words. It was some time before Ruth came to his rescue.

‘Did you defeat my father at billiards, by any chance, Mr Mallory?’ she eventually offered.

‘Yes, I did, Miss Turner,’ said George as Atkins placed a cup of coffee by her side.

‘That would explain why he was so argumentative during dinner.’ She took a sip of her coffee before adding, ‘Should he invite you again, Mr Mallory, perhaps it might be more diplomatic to let him win.’

‘I’m afraid I could never agree to that, Miss Turner.’

‘But why not, Mr Mallory?’

‘Because it would reveal a weakness in my character that she might find out about.’

‘She?’ repeated Ruth, genuinely puzzled.

‘Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of the Earth.’

‘But my father told me that it was Everest that you were hoping to conquer.’

‘“Everest” is the name the English have labelled her with, but it’s not the one she answers to.’

‘Your coffee will be getting cold, Mr Mallory,’ said Ruth as she glanced across the room.

‘Thank you, Miss Turner,’ he said, taking a sip.

‘And are you hoping to become better acquainted with this goddess?’ she enquired.

‘In time, perhaps, Miss Turner. But not before one or two other ladies have fallen under my spell.’

She looked at him more quizzically. ‘Anyone in particular?’

‘Madame Matterhorn,’ he replied. ‘It’s my intention to leave a calling card during the Easter vacation.’ He took another sip of his cold coffee before asking, ‘And where will you be spending Easter, Miss Turner?’

‘Father is taking us to Venice in April. A city that I suspect would not meet with your approval, Mr Mallory, as it languishes only a few feet above sea level.’

‘It’s not only elevation that matters, Miss Turner. “Underneath day’s azure eyes, ocean’s nursling, Venice lies, a peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite’s destined halls.” ’

‘So you admire Shelley,’ said Ruth as she placed her empty cup back on a side table.

George was about to reply when the clock on the mantelpiece struck once to indicate that it was half past the hour. Andrew rose from his place and, turning to his host, said, ‘It’s been a delightful evening, sir, but perhaps the time has come for us to take our leave.’

George glanced at his watch: 10.30. The last thing he wanted to do was take his leave, but Turner was already on his feet, and Marjorie was heading towards him. She gave him a warm smile. ‘I do hope that you’ll come and see us again soon, Mr Mallory.’

‘I hope so too,’ said George, still looking in Ruth’s direction.

Mr Turner smiled. He might not have defeated Mallory, but one of his daughters certainly had the measure of him.

19

Friday, February 13th, 1914

George didn’t want Andrew to discover what he was up to.

He couldn’t get Ruth out of his mind. He had never come across such serene beauty, such delightful company, and all he had managed to do, when left alone with her, was stare into those blue eyes and make a complete fool of himself. And the more she smiled at Andrew, the more desperate he had become, quite unable to come up with a witty comment, or even to manage polite conversation.

How much he had wanted to hold her hand, but Mildred had kept distracting him, allowing Andrew to retain Ruth’s attention. Did she have any interest in him at all, or had Andrew already spoken to her father? During dinner he had watched the two of them deep in conversation. He had to find out what they had talked about. He had never felt so pathetic in his life.

George had observed smitten men in the past, and had simply dismissed them as deluded fools. But now he had joined their number and, even worse, his goddess appeared to favour another creature. Andrew isn’t worthy of her, George said out loud before he fell asleep. But then he realized that neither was he.

When he woke the following morning – if he had ever slept – he tried to dismiss her from his thoughts and prepare for the day’s lessons. He dreaded the thought of forty minutes with the lower fifth, having to listen to their opinions of Walter Raleigh and the significance of his importing tobacco from Virginia. If only Guy wasn’t serving as a diplomat on the other side of the world, he could ask his advice about what to do next.

To George, the first lesson that morning felt like the longest forty minutes in history. Wainwright almost made him lose his temper, and for the first time Carter minor got the better of him, but then thankfully the bell tolled. But for whom, he wondered? Not that any of them would have heard of Donne – except perhaps Robert Graves.

As George made his way slowly across the quad to the common room, he rehearsed the lines he’d gone over again and again during the night. He must stick to the script until every one of his questions had been answered, otherwise Andrew would work out what he was up to, and mock him. A hundred years ago George would have challenged him to a duel. Then he remembered which one of them had a boxing blue.

George strode into the main block trying to look confident and relaxed, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. As he opened the common room door, he could hear his heart thumping. But what if Andrew wasn’t there? He didn’t think he could go through another lesson with the lower fifth until at least some of his questions had been answered.

Andrew was sitting in his usual place by the window, reading the morning paper. He smiled when he saw George, who poured himself a cup of tea and strolled across to join him. He was annoyed to find that a colleague had just taken the chair next to Andrew, and was busily discussing the iniquities of the school timetable.

George perched himself on the radiator between them. He tried to remember his first question. Ah, yes . . .

‘Good show last night,’ said Andrew as he folded his newspaper and turned his attention to George.

‘Yes, good show,’ George repeated lamely, even though it wasn’t in his script.

‘You seemed to be enjoying yourself.’

‘Had a splendid time,’ said George. ‘Turner’s quite a character.’

‘He obviously took a shine to you.’

‘Oh, do you think so?’

‘Certain of it. I’ve never seen him so animated.’

‘Then you’ve known him for some time?’ ventured George.

‘No, I’ve only been to Westbrook a couple of times, and he hardly opened his mouth.’

‘Oh, really?’ said George, his first question answered.

‘So what did you think of the girls?’ asked Andrew.

‘The girls?’ repeated George, annoyed that Andrew seemed to be asking him all his own questions.

‘Yes. Did you take a fancy to any of them? Marjorie clearly couldn’t take her eyes off you.’

‘I didn’t notice,’ said George. ‘What about you?’

‘Well, it all came as a bit of a surprise, to be frank with you, old chap,’ admitted Andrew.

‘A bit of a surprise?’ said George, hoping he didn’t sound desperate.

‘Yes. You see, I didn’t think she had the slightest interest in me.’

‘She?’

‘Ruth.’

‘Ruth?’

‘Yes. On my two previous visits, she didn’t give me a second look, but last night she never stopped chatting. I think I might be in with a chance.’

‘In with a chance?’ George bobbed up.

‘Are you all right, Mallory?’

‘Of course I am. Why do you ask?’

‘Well, it’s just that you keep repeating everything I say.’

‘Everything you say? Do I?’ said George, sitting back down on the radiator. ‘Then you’ll be hoping to see Ruth again, will you?’ he ventured, at last getting in one of his questions.

‘Well, that’s the funny thing,’ said Andrew. ‘Just after dinner, the old man took me to one side and invited me to join the family in Venice over Easter.’

‘And did you accept?’ asked George, horrified by the very idea.

‘Well, I’d like to, but there’s a slight complication.’

‘A slight complication?’

‘You’re at it again,’ said Andrew.

‘Sorry,’ replied George. ‘What’s the complication?’

‘I’ve already committed myself to a hockey tour of the West Country at Easter, and as I’m the only goalkeeper available, I don’t feel I can let the team down.’

‘Certainly not,’ said George, having to jump up again. ‘That would be damn bad form.’

‘Quite,’ said Andrew. ‘But I think I may have come up with a compromise.’

‘A compromise?’

‘Yes. If I were to miss the last match, I could take the boat train from Southampton on the Friday evening and be in Venice by Sunday morning, which would mean I could still spend a whole week with the Turners.’

‘A whole week?’ said George.

‘I put the idea to the old man, and he seemed quite agreeable, so I’ll be joining them during the last week of March.’

That was all George needed to know. He jumped off the radiator, the seat of his trousers scorched.

‘Are you sure you’re all right, Mallory? You seem quite distracted this morning.’

‘Blame it on Wainwright,’ said George, glad of the chance to change the subject.

‘Wainwright?’ said Andrew.

‘I nearly lost my temper with him this morning when he suggested that it was the Earl of Essex who defeated the Spanish Armada, and Drake wasn’t even there.’

‘Playing bowls on Plymouth Hoe, no doubt.’

‘No, Wainwright has a theory that Drake was at Hampton Court at the time, having a protracted affair with Elizabeth, and that he’d sent Essex off to Devon to keep him out of the way.’

‘I thought it was meant to be the other way round,’ said Andrew.

‘Let’s hope so,’ said George.

20

Tuesday, March 24th, 1914

The first couple of days’ climbing had gone well, even if Finch seemed a little preoccupied and not his usual forthright self. It wasn’t until the third day, when they were both stuck on a ledge halfway up the Zmutt Ridge, that George found out why.

‘Do you begin to understand women?’ asked Finch, as if this was something they discussed every day.

‘Can’t say I have a great deal of experience in that particular field,’ admitted George, his thoughts turning to Ruth.

‘Join the club,’ responded Finch.

‘But I always thought you were considered to be a bit of an authority on the subject?’

‘Women don’t allow any man to be an authority on the subject,’ said Finch bitterly.

‘Fallen in love with someone, have you?’ asked George, wondering if Finch was suffering from the same problem as he was.

‘Out of love,’ said Finch. ‘Which is far more complicated.’

‘I feel sure it won’t be too long before you find a replacement.’

‘It’s not a replacement I’m worried about,’ said Finch. ‘I’ve just found out that she’s pregnant.’

‘Then you’ll have to marry her,’ said George matter-of-factly.

‘That’s the problem,’ Finch said. ‘We’re already married.’

That was the nearest George had come to falling off a mountain since the avalanche on Mont Blanc.

A head appeared over the ledge. ‘Let’s keep moving,’ said Young. ‘Or can’t you two see a way out of the problem?’

As neither of them replied, Young simply said, ‘Follow me.’

For the next hour, all three men struggled gamely up the last thousand feet, and it wasn’t until George had joined Young and Finch at the top of the mountain that Finch spoke again.

‘Is there any news about the one mountain we all want to stand on top of?’ he asked Young.

Although George didn’t approve of Finch’s blunt approach, he hoped that Young would answer the question, as one thing was certain: no one was going to overhear them at 14,686 feet on the summit of the Matterhorn.

Young looked out across the valley, wondering how much information he should divulge. ‘Anything I have to say on this subject must remain between the three of us,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m not expecting an official announcement from the Foreign Office for at least another couple of months.’ He didn’t speak again for a few moments, and for once even Finch remained silent. ‘However, I can tell you,’ he continued at last, ‘that the Alpine Club has come to a provisional agreement with the Royal Geographical Society to set up a joint body which will be known as the Everest Committee.’

‘And who will be sitting on that committee?’ asked Finch.

Once again Young took his time before responding. ‘Sir Francis Younghusband will be chairman, I will be deputy chairman, and Mr Hinks will be secretary.’

‘No one can object to Younghusband as chairman,’ said George, choosing his words carefully. ‘After all, he was instrumental in getting an Everest expedition off the ground.’

‘But that doesn’t apply to Hinks,’ responded Finch, not choosing his words carefully. ‘There’s a man who’s managed to turn snobbery into an art form.’

‘Isn’t that a little rough, old boy?’ suggested George, who had thought he could no longer be shocked by anything Finch came out with.

‘Perhaps you failed to notice that at Scott’s RGS lecture the women, including Hinks’s and Scott’s wives, were relegated to the gallery like cattle on a goods train.’

‘Traditions die hard in such institutions,’ suggested Young calmly.

‘Don’t let’s excuse snobbery by passing it off as tradition,’ said Finch. ‘Mind you, George,’ he added, ‘Hinks will be delighted if you’re chosen as one of the climbing party. After all, you went to Winchester and Cambridge.’

‘That was uncalled for,’ said Young sharply.

‘We’ll find out if I’m right soon enough,’ said Finch, standing his ground.

‘You need have no fear on that front,’ said Young. ‘I can assure you that it will be the Alpine Club that selects the climbing team, not Hinks.’

‘That may be,’ said Finch, unwilling to let go of his bone, ‘but what really matters is who sits on that committee.’

‘It will have seven members,’ said Young. ‘Three of them will be from the Alpine Club. Before you ask, I shall be inviting Somervell and Herford to join me.’

‘Couldn’t say fairer than that,’ said George.

‘Possibly,’ said Finch. ‘But who are the RGS’s candidates?’

‘Hinks, a fellow called Raeburn, and a General Bruce, so our numbers will be equal.’

‘That leaves Younghusband with the casting vote.’

‘I have no problem with that,’ said Young. ‘Younghusband’s been an excellent president of the RGS, and his integrity has never been in question.’

‘How very British of you,’ remarked Finch.

Young pursed his lips before adding, ‘Perhaps I should point out that the RGS will only be selecting those members of the party who will be responsible for drawing up detailed maps of the outlying district and collecting geological specimens, as well as flora and fauna that are unique to the Himalaya. It will be up to the Alpine Club to choose the climbing party, and it will also be our task to identify a route to the summit of Everest.’

‘And who’s likely to lead the expedition?’ asked Finch, still not giving an inch.

‘I expect it will be General Bruce. He’s served in India for years, and is one of the few Englishmen who is familiar with the Himalaya as well as being a personal friend of the Dalai Lama’s. He would be the ideal choice to take us across the border into Tibet. Once we reach the foothills of Everest and have established base camp, I will take over as climbing leader, with the sole responsibility of ensuring that it’s an Englishman who is the first man to stand on the roof of the world.’

‘I’m an Australian,’ Finch reminded him.

‘How appropriate that another member of the Commonwealth will be standing by my side,’ said Young with a smile, before adding, ‘Perhaps it might be wise for us to begin our descent, gentlemen. Unless you were planning to spend the night on top of this mountain?’

George put his goggles back on, excited by Young’s news, although he suspected that Finch had provoked him to reveal far more than he had originally intended.

Young placed a sovereign on the highest point of the Matter-horn, bowed and said, ‘His Majesty pays his compliments, ma’am, and hopes you will allow his subjects a safe journey home.’

‘One more question,’ said Finch.

‘And only one,’ said Young.

‘Do you have any idea when this expedition plans to leave for Tibet?’

‘Yes,’ replied Young. ‘It can’t leave any later than February next year. We’ll have to establish base camp by May if we’re to have time to reach the summit before the monsoon season sets in.’

Finch seemed satisfied with this reply, but George could only wonder how Mr Fletcher, the newly appointed headmaster of Charterhouse, would react to one of his staff requesting a six-month leave of absence.

Young led them slowly back down the mountain, not wasting any words on small talk until they were on safer ground. When their hotel came into sight, he uttered his last words on the subject. ‘I would be obliged, gentlemen, if this matter was not referred to again, even between ourselves, until the Foreign Office has made an official announcement.’

Both men nodded. ‘However,’ Young added, ‘I hope you don’t have anything else planned for 1915.’

Finch was on his way down to dinner, dressed in an open-necked shirt, flannel trousers and a sports jacket, when he spotted Mallory at the reception desk writing out a cheque.

‘Off on another little adventure, are we?’ enquired Finch, looking down at the suitcase by Mallory’s feet.

Mallory smiled. ‘Yes. I have to admit that you’re not the only man I’m trying to stay a yard ahead of.’

Finch glanced at the label attached to the suitcase. ‘As there are no mountains that I’m aware of in Venice, I can only assume that another woman must be involved.’

George didn’t reply as he handed his cheque to the clerk standing behind the counter.

‘Just as I thought,’ said Finch. ‘And as you’ve already implied that I’m something of an expert when it comes to the fairer sex, allow me to warn you that trying to juggle two women at once, even if they do live on different continents, is never easy.’

George grinned as he folded his receipt and placed it in an inside pocket. ‘My dear Finch,’ he said, ‘allow me to point out that there has to be a first woman before there can be a second.’ Without another word he picked up his suitcase, gave Finch a thin smile and headed towards the front door.

‘I wouldn’t repeat that when you come face to face with Chomolungma for the first time,’ said Finch quietly. ‘I have a feeling that particular lady might well turn out to be an unforgiving mistress.’

George didn’t look back.

21

Thursday, March 26th, 1914

Ever since he had set eyes on her at Westbrook, George hadn’t been able to get Ruth out of his mind, even when he was climbing. Was that the reason Finch had reached the top of the Matterhorn before him, and Young had chosen Somervell and Herford to join him on the Everest Committee? Was Finch right when he had suggested that at some time George would have to decide between them? No choice was necessary at the moment, thought George, as both the ladies in question were studiously ignoring him.

George had slipped away from Zermatt on the Tuesday night, leaving his colleagues to settle their differences with one or two of the lesser peaks. He boarded the train for Lausanne, changing at Visp, where he spent most of his time planning how they might casually bump into each other – that was, assuming he managed to find her.

As the train rattled along, George couldn’t help thinking that although mountains were not to be depended on, at least they remained in one place. Wouldn’t it be all too obvious that he’d travelled from Switzerland to Italy specially to see her? He knew one person who would work it out immediately.

When George disembarked at Lausanne, he purchased a third-class ticket on the Cisalpino to Verona, from where he would join the express for Venice. There was no need to waste money on a more expensive ticket when all he intended to do was sleep. And he would have slept if he hadn’t been seated next to a Frenchman who clearly felt that every dish he ate should be liberally laced with garlic, and whose snoring rivalled the engine for noise.

George was able to grab only a few moments’ sleep before the train reached its destination. He had never visited Venice before, but Baedeker’s guide had been his constant companion for the past month, so by the time he stepped out onto the platform at Santa Lucia, he knew the exact location of every five-star hotel in the city. He even knew that the Firenze was the first hotel in Europe to offer what they described as an en-suite bathroom.

Once the waterbus had dropped him off at the Piazza San Marco, George went in search of the one hotel he could afford that wasn’t miles from the city centre. He checked into the smallest room on the top floor, a proper place for a mountaineer, and settled down, desperate for a good night’s sleep. He would, like all well-prepared climbers, have to rise before the sun if he hoped to carry out his little subterfuge. He was confident that the Turners wouldn’t be setting foot outside whichever hotel they were staying at much before ten o’clock.

George spent another sleepless night, and this time he couldn’t blame garlic or a rattling train, but rather a mattress with no springs and a pillow that had never been introduced to more than a handful of feathers; even his young charges at Charterhouse would have complained.

He rose before six, and was crossing the Rialto Bridge half an hour later, accompanied by late revellers and a few early morning workers. He took a list of hotels from the inside pocket of his jacket, and set about his quest methodically.

The first establishment he entered was the Hotel Bauer, where he asked at the reception desk if the Turner family – one elderly gentleman and his three daughters – were guests. The night porter ran a finger down a long list before shaking his head. At the nearby Hotel Europa e Regina, George received the same response. The Hotel Baglione had a Thompson and a Taylor, but no Turner, while the night manager of the Gritti Palace waited for a tip before he even considered answering George’s question, but then gave him the same response. The next hotel refused to divulge the names of its guests, even after George claimed to be a close friend of the family.

He was beginning to wonder if the Turners had changed their holiday plans until the head porter of the San Clemente, an Englishman, gave a smile of recognition when he heard the name, although he didn’t smile again until George had passed over a large-denomination note. The Turners’ party, he told him, were not staying at the San Clemente, but they occasionally dined there, and he had once been asked to book a vaporetto to take them back to . . . He didn’t finish the sentence until a second note of the same denomination had joined the first . . . back to their hotel. A third note secured the hotel’s name, the Cipriani, as well as the dock where its private water taxi always dropped off its guests.

George placed a thinner wallet back in his jacket pocket and made his way quickly to Piazza San Marco, from where he could see the island of Giudecca, on which the Cipriani hotel proudly stood. Every twenty minutes a water taxi docked with the name Cipriani on its bow. He stepped into the shadows of a large archway from where he could observe every boat as it disgorged its customers, confident that an elderly gentleman accompanied by three young ladies would be easy enough to identify, especially when the vision of one of those ladies had rarely left his mind for the past six weeks.

For the next two hours George checked every customer coming by water taxi from Giudecca. After another hour he began to wonder if the Turners had moved to a different hotel; perhaps the one that had refused to divulge its guest list. He watched as the cafés all around him began to fill up. The pervading aroma of freshly baked panini, crostini and piping hot coffee reminded him he hadn’t had any breakfast. But he dared not desert his post, for fear that if he did so, that would be the moment the Turner family set foot on the shore. George decided that if they hadn’t appeared by midday, he might have to risk taking the taxi across to the island, and even entering their hotel. But if he were to bump into them, how would he explain what he was doing there? Mr Turner would have known that a night at the Cipriani would barely have been covered by George’s monthly salary, however small the room was.

And then George saw her. His first thought was that she was even more beautiful than he’d remembered. She was wearing a long, empire-line yellow silk dress with a wide red ribbon tied just below the bust. Her wavy auburn hair fell to her shoulders, and she shaded herself from the morning sun with a white parasol. If you’d asked him what Marjorie and Mildred were wearing, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you.

Mr Turner was the first to step onto the quay. He was dressed in a smart cream suit, white shirt and striped tie. He raised an arm to assist his daughters as they stepped off the boat. George was relieved to see no sign of Andrew, who he hoped was defending a goal in Taunton.

The Turners strolled off in the direction of Piazza San Marco with an air of knowing exactly where they were heading, as indeed they clearly did, because when they walked into a crowded café, the head waiter immediately guided them to the only unoccupied table. Once they had ordered, Turner settled down to read the previous day’s Times while Ruth leafed through a book that must have been a guide to Venice, because she kept sharing the contents with her sisters while occasionally pointing out landmarks.

At one point Ruth looked in his direction, and for a moment George wondered if she had seen him, although you rarely notice someone you’re not looking for, especially if they’re obscured by shadows. He waited patiently until Mr Turner called for the bill, realizing that the next part of his plan could not be put off for much longer.

The moment the Turners left the café, George stepped out of the shadows and headed towards the centre of the square. His eyes never left Ruth, the guidebook still open in her hand. She was now reading passages out from it while the rest of the family listened intently. George began to wish he was back on top of a mountain, even if it had meant that Finch was his only companion. Surely the moment they saw him they would twig. There was only one way he was going to find out.

He emerged from behind a group of ambling tourists, and when he was just a few paces away, came to a halt in front of Mr Turner.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said George, raising his boater and trying to look astonished. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’

‘Well, it’s certainly a surprise for me, Mr Mallory,’ said Turner.

‘And a most pleasing one,’ said Marjorie.

‘Good morning, Miss Turner,’ said George, once again raising his hat. Although Mildred rewarded him with a shy smile, Ruth continued to read her guidebook, as if George’s unexpected appearance was nothing more than an irritating distraction.

‘Before the five arched portals of the Basilica,’ she declared, her voice rising, ‘rests the Piazza San Marco, a vast, paved, arcaded square once described by Napoleon as the drawing room of Europe.’

George continued to smile at her, feeling like Malvolio because like Olivia, she didn’t return the compliment. He was beginning to feel that he had embarked on a wasted journey, and should never have allowed himself to imagine, even for a moment . . . He would slip away, and they would soon forget he’d ever been there.

‘The bell tower,’ continued Ruth, looking up, ‘rises to a height of three hundred and twenty-five feet, and visitors can reach the parapet by ascending its four hundred and twenty-one steps.’

George raised his hat to Mr Turner, and turned to leave.

‘Do you think you could manage that, Mr Mallory?’ asked Ruth.

George hesitated. ‘Possibly,’ he said, turning back. ‘But the weather conditions would have to be taken into consideration. A high wind might make it difficult.’

‘I can’t imagine why a high wind would make it difficult if you were safely inside, Mr Mallory.’

‘And then one must always remember, Miss Turner,’ continued George, ‘that the most important decision when considering any climb is the route you select. You rarely end up going in a straight line, and if you make the wrong choice, you might have to turn back unrewarded.’

‘How interesting, Mr Mallory,’ said Ruth.

‘But if a more direct route does present itself, you should always be prepared to consider it.’

‘I can find nothing in Baedeker to suggest that there might be a more direct route,’ said Ruth.

That was the moment George decided that if he was going to leave them, he might as well do it in style.

‘Then perhaps the time has come to write a new chapter for your guidebook, Miss Turner.’ Without another word, George took off his hat and jacket, and handed them to Ruth. He took one more look at the tower, then walked towards the public entrance, where he joined the line of tourists waiting to go inside.

When he got to the front of the queue, he leapt onto the turnstile and reached up to grasp the archway above the entrance. He pulled himself up and stood on the ledge. Moments later, with a line of startled onlookers following his progress, he was hanging from the first parapet. He paused for a moment to consider his next move. It was to place his right foot on the statue of a saint – Saint Thomas, Mildred noted – who looked doubtful.

Mr Turner turned his attention away from George for a moment, as he progressed from ledge to ledge, buttress to buttress, to observe his daughters. Mildred appeared fascinated by George’s skill, while Marjorie had a look of awe on her face, but it was Ruth’s reaction that took him most by surprise. Her face had gone deathly pale, and her whole body seemed to be trembling. When George appeared to lose his footing only a few feet from the top, Mr Turner thought his favourite daughter was going to faint.

George looked down into the crowded square, no longer able to identify Ruth among the patchwork quilt of speckled colours below. He placed both hands firmly on the wide balustrade, pulled himself up onto the top parapet, and joined the visitors who had made the ascent by a more orthodox route.

A small group of mesmerized tourists took a step back, hardly able to believe what they were witnessing. One or two of them had taken photographs so they could prove to the folks back home that they hadn’t made it up. George leant over the balustrade and began to consider his route back down – that was until he spotted two members of the Carabinieri running into the square.

George could not risk returning by the same route if there was a possibility of adding an Italian prison to his French experience. He bolted towards the main exit at the top of the stairs and joined the sightseers who were beginning to make their slow progress down the winding stone staircase back to the square. He brushed past several of them, finally slowing his pace to join a party of Americans who had clearly not witnessed his efforts. Their only topic of conversation was where they would be having lunch.

As they spilled out of the tower and back into the square, George linked arms with an elderly American matron from Illinois, who didn’t protest. She smiled up at him. ‘Have I ever told you I had a relative who was on the Titanic?’

‘No,’ said George. ‘How fascinating,’ he added, as the group passed two Carabinieri who were searching for an unaccompanied man.

‘Yes, it was my sister’s child, Roderick. You know, he wasn’t even meant . . .’ but George had already disappeared.

Once he had escaped from the crowded square, he made his way swiftly back to his hotel, but never once broke into a run for fear of attracting attention. It only took him fifteen minutes to pack, settle the bill – a surcharge was added for checking out after midday – and leave.

He walked briskly in the direction of the Rialto Bridge, where he knew there would be a vaporetto to take him to the railway station. As the motor launch glided slowly past Piazza San Marco, he spotted an officer questioning a young man who must have been about his own age.

When he was dropped off at Santa Lucia station he headed straight for the booking office and asked the clerk what time was the next train to London Victoria.

‘Three o’clock, sir,’ he replied, ‘but I’m afraid I have no more first-class tickets available.’

‘Then I’ll have to settle for third class,’ said George, emptying his wallet.

George nipped into the shadows whenever he spotted a policeman, and it seemed an eternity before the platform bell was rung and a guard, at the top of his voice, invited all first-class passengers to board the express. George joined the select group as they strolled towards the train, suspecting that they were the last people the police would be taking any interest in. He even thought about climbing onto the roof of the train, but decided that it would leave him even more exposed.

Once George was on board he hung around in a corridor, keeping a wary eye out for any ticket collectors. He was just wondering whether he should lock himself in a lavatory and wait there until the train had moved off, when a voice behind him said, ‘Il vostro biglietto, signore, per favore.’

George swung round to see a man dressed in a long blue jacket with thick gold piping on the lapels and holding a leather book. He looked out of the window, and spotted a policeman walking down the platform and peering in the carriage windows. He began to make a pretence of searching for his ticket, when the policeman boarded the carriage.

‘I must have mislaid it,’ said George. ‘I’ll just go back to the booking office, and—’

‘No need to do that, sir,’ said the ticket collector, switching languages effortlessly. ‘All I require is your name.’

‘Mallory,’ George said with resignation, as the policeman headed towards him.

‘Ah, yes,’ said the ticket collector. ‘You’re in carriage B, stateroom eleven. Your wife has already arrived, sir. Would you care to follow me?’

‘My wife?’ said George, before following the ticket collector through the dining car and into the next carriage, trying to think up some plausible excuse before the ticket collector realized his mistake. When they reached cabin number 11, the concierge pulled open a door marked Riservato. George peered inside to see his jacket and boater on the seat opposite her.

‘Ah, there you are, darling,’ said Ruth. ‘I was beginning to wonder if you’d make it in time.’

‘I thought you weren’t going back to England for another week,’ George spluttered, taking the seat by her side.

‘So did I,’ replied Ruth. ‘But someone once told me that if a more direct route presents itself, you should be prepared to consider it, unless of course there’s a high wind.’

George laughed, and wanted to leap in the air with joy, until he remembered an encumbrance every bit as terrifying as the Italian police. ‘Does your father know you’re here?’

‘I managed to convince him that, on balance, it wouldn’t be a good thing for the school’s reputation to have one of its masters languishing in an Italian jail just before the new term begins.’

‘What about Andrew? Weren’t you meant—’

Ruth threw her arms around him.

George heard the door of the compartment sliding open. He didn’t dare look round.

‘Of course the answer’s yes, my darling,’ said Ruth before kissing him.

‘Scusi.’ The policeman saluted before adding, ‘Mille congratulazioni, signore!’

22

Friday, May 1st, 1914

‘Your shot, I believe,’ said Turner.

George lined up the tip of his cue on the white. He could feel his legs shaking as he made the shot. He miscued and the ball careered wildly up and down the table, bouncing off a side cushion before coming to rest several inches from the red.

‘Foul,’ said Turner. ‘And four more points for me.’ ‘Agreed,’ sighed George, as his host returned to the table.

Turner didn’t speak again until he had amassed another sixteen points.

The past month had been the happiest of George’s life. In fact, he had had no idea that such happiness could exist. As each day went by, he fell more and more in love with Ruth. She was so bright, so gay, such fun to be with.

The journey back to England had been idyllic. They had spent every minute getting to know each other, although George did have a flash of anxiety when the train stopped at the Italian border and a customs official took a close look at his passport. When they finally crossed the border into France, George relaxed for the first time, and even spent a moment thinking about Young and Finch climbing in Zermatt. But only a moment.

He told Ruth over dinner why he’d ordered all five courses on the menu, explaining that he hadn’t eaten for three days. She laughed when he described the last person he’d spent a night with on a train, a man who belched garlic when he was awake and snored fumes while he was asleep.

‘So you haven’t slept for the past three nights,’ she said.

‘And it doesn’t look as if I will tonight either, my darling,’ said George.

‘I can’t pretend that this was how I expected to spend my first night with the man I love,’ said Ruth. ‘But why don’t we . . .’ she leant across the table and whispered in George’s ear. He thought about her proposal for a moment, and then happily agreed.

A few minutes later, Ruth left the table. In their compartment she found that the seats had been converted into single beds. She undressed, hung up her clothes, washed her face in the little hand basin, climbed into bed and switched off the light. George remained in the dining car, drinking black coffee. Only after the last remaining customer had departed did he return to the compartment.

He slid the door open quietly and slipped inside, then stood still for a moment, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark. He could see the outline of Ruth’s slim body under the sheet, and wanted to touch her. He took off his jacket, tie, trousers, shirt and socks, and left them on the floor before climbing into bed. He wondered if Ruth was still awake.

‘Good night, Mr Mallory,’ she said.

‘Good night, Mrs Mallory,’ he replied. George slept soundly for the first time in three nights.

As George bent down to take his next shot, Turner said, ‘You wrote earlier in the week, Mallory, to say there was something of importance you wished to discuss with me.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said George, as his cue ball disappeared into the nearest pocket.

Another foul,’ said Turner. He returned to the table and took his time piling up even more points, which only made George feel more and more inadequate.

‘Yes, sir,’ he finally managed, and then paused before adding, ‘I’m sure you must have noticed that I’ve been spending a lot of time with your daughter.’

‘Which one?’ asked Turner as George missed another shot. ‘Another foul. Are you hoping to score anything this evening, young man?’

‘It was just, sir, just that

‘You would like my blessing before you ask Ruth for her hand in marriage.’

‘I’ve already asked her,’ admitted George.

‘I would hope so, Mallory. After all, you have already spent a night with her.’

When George had woken after that night it was pitch dark. He leant forward and pushed the blind to one side to observe the first rays of sunlight creeping over the horizon: a joyful sight for any mountaineer.

He slipped quietly out of bed, felt around on the floor for his pants and slipped them on. Next he located the rest of his clothes. Not too difficult an exercise when you’re used to sleeping in a small tent with only a candle to see by. George quietly slid open the compartment door and stepped outside. He looked up and down the corridor, thankful that no one was in sight. He quickly did up his shirt, pulled on his trousers and socks, tied his tie and slipped on his jacket. When he strolled into the dining car, the attendants laying the tables for breakfast were surprised to see a first-class passenger so early in the morning.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said a waiter who was staring at Mallory’s trousers, looking slightly embarrassed.

‘Good morning,’ said George, and two paces later realized his fly buttons were undone. He laughed, did them up and hurried through the dining car in search of a morning paper.

It wasn’t until he reached carriage K that he came across the newspaper kiosk. The sign in the window read Chiuso, but George could see a young man standing behind the counter undoing the thick string from around a pile of newspapers. He stared at the front page in disbelief. He could only just recognize himself in the blurred photograph, but even with his limited command of Italian he could translate the headline: Police seek mystery climber of St Mark’s Basilica.

He pointed to the pile of newspapers, and the assistant reluctantly unlocked the door.

‘How many copies of that paper do you have?’

‘Twenty, sir,’ he replied.

‘I’ll take all of them,’ said George.

The assistant looked uncertain, but when George handed over the cash, he shrugged his shoulders and deposited the money in the till.

George was admiring a piece of jewellery in the display cabinet when the assistant handed back his change. ‘How much is that?’ he asked, pointing to one of the velvet stands.

‘Which currency, sir?’

‘Pounds,’ replied George, taking out his cheque book.

The young man ran his finger down a line of figures on a card attached to the back wall. ‘Thirty-two pounds, sir.’

George wrote out a cheque for next month’s salary, while the assistant wrapped the tiny gift.

George made his way back to the dining car with the papers under one arm, having put the gift in his jacket pocket. As he entered the next carriage, he glanced up and down the corridor again. Still no one around. He slipped into the nearest lavatory and spent the next few minutes tearing off the front page of every paper, except one, and considerably longer flushing them down the lavatory. The moment he’d seen the last headline disappear, he unlocked the door and stepped back into the corridor. As George continued on towards the dining car, he dropped a copy of the morning paper on the floor outside each stateroom.

‘But, sir, I can explain how that happened,’ protested George as the object ball bounced off the table and ran along the floor.

‘Another foul,’ said Turner, picking up the ball and placing it back on the baize. ‘I don’t require an explanation, Mallory, but what are your prospects?’

‘As you know, sir, I’m on the teaching staff at Charterhouse, where my current salary is three hundred and seventy-five pounds a year.’

‘That’s certainly not enough to keep one of my daughters in the style they’ve grown accustomed to,’ said Turner. ‘Do you by any chance have a private income?’

‘No, sir, I do not. My father is a parish priest who had four children to bring up.’

‘Then I shall settle seven hundred and fifty pounds a year on Ruth, and give her a house as a wedding present. Should there be any offspring, I shall pay for their education.’

‘I could never marry a girl who had a private income,’ said George haughtily.

‘You couldn’t marry Ruth if she didn’t have one,’ said Turner as he cannoned successfully off the red.

George sat alone and sipped his coffee while he waited for Ruth to join him. Was there really a beautiful woman asleep in compartment B11, or was he about to wake from his dream and find himself locked up in an Italian jail, with no Mr Irving to rescue him?

Several other passengers had appeared and were enjoying their breakfast, although the waiters were unable to explain why their morning papers didn’t have a front page. When Ruth walked into the dining car, George had only one thought: I’m going to have breakfast with this woman every morning for the rest of my life.

‘Good morning, Mrs Mallory,’ he said as he rose from his side of the table and took her in his arms. ‘Do you begin to know how much I love you?’ he added before kissing her.

Ruth blushed at the disapproving stares from a few of the older passengers.

‘Perhaps we shouldn’t kiss in public, George.’

‘You were happy enough to kiss me yesterday in front of a policeman,’ George reminded her as he sat back down.

‘But only because I was trying to stop you being arrested.’

The waiter joined them and smiled ingratiatingly. After all, they were used to honeymoon couples on the Orient Express.

After the two of them had given their breakfast orders, George slid the front page of the morning paper across the table.

‘Nice photograph, Mr Mallory,’ Ruth whispered once she’d read the headline. ‘And if it isn’t bad enough for a girl to be compromised on her first date, I now seem to be harbouring a fugitive. So the first thing my father will want to know is whether your intentions are honourable, or can I only hope to be a criminal’s moll?’

‘I’m surprised you need to ask, Mrs Mallory.’

‘It’s just that my father told me that you already have a mistress who resides in very high places.’

‘Your father is correct, and I explained to him that I have been promised to the lady in question since my coming of age, and several people have already borne witness to the engagement. It’s what they call in Tibet an arranged marriage – where neither party sees the other before the wedding day.’

‘Then you must visit this little hussy as soon as possible,’ said Ruth, ‘and tell her in no uncertain terms that you are spoken for.’

‘I fear she’s not that little,’ said George with a grin. ‘But once the diplomatic niceties have been sorted out, I hope to pay her a visit early in the new year, when I will explain why it’s no longer possible for us to go on seeing each other.’

‘No woman ever wants to be told that,’ said Ruth, sounding serious for the first time. ‘You can tell her that I’ll agree to a compromise.’

George smiled. ‘A compromise?’

‘It’s possible,’ said Ruth, ‘that this goddess may not agree to see you when you make your first approach, because like any woman, she will want to confirm that you are constant and will return to woo her again. All I ask, George, is that once you have seduced your goddess, you will return to me, and never court her again.’

‘Why so serious, my darling?’ asked George, taking her hand.

‘Because when I saw you climb St Mark’s you convinced me of your love, but I also saw the risks you’re willing to take if you believe in something passionately enough – whatever dangers are placed in your path. I want you to promise me that once you’ve stood on the summit of that infernal mountain, it will be for the first and last time.’

‘I agree, and shall now prove it,’ said George, letting go of her hand. He took the little package out of his pocket, removed the wrapping and placed the small leather box in front of her. Ruth opened the lid to reveal a slim gold ring set with a single diamond.

‘Will you marry me, my darling?’

Ruth smiled. ‘I thought we’d agreed on that yesterday,’ she said as she slipped on the ring, leant across the table and gave her fiance a kiss.

‘But I thought we also agreed that. . .’

George considered Mr Turner’s offer for a moment before he said, ‘Thank you, sir.’ After managing to score three points, his first of the evening, he added, ‘That’s most generous of you.’

‘It’s no more, and certainly no less, than I decided when you came to see Ruth in Venice.’ George laughed for the first time that evening. ‘Despite the fact,’ added Turner, ‘that you only escaped being thrown in jail by a matter of minutes.’

‘By a matter of minutes?’

‘Yes,’ Turner replied after he’d potted another red. ‘I had a visit from the Italian police later that afternoon. They wanted to know if I’d come across an Englishman called Mallory who had at some time in the past been arrested in Paris for climbing the Eiffel Tower.’

‘That wasn’t me, sir,’ said George.

‘The description of this vagabond bore a striking resemblance to you, Mallory.’

‘It’s still not true, sir. I had at least a hundred feet to go when they arrested me.’

Turner burst out laughing. ‘All I can say, Mallory, is that you’d better not plan to spend your honeymoon in France or Italy, unless you wish to spend your first night of married life in a prison cell. Mind you, when I looked into your criminal activities in Venice, it seems that you only broke a by-law.’

‘A by-law?’

‘Failure to pay an entrance fee when entering a public monument.’ Turner paused, ‘Maximum fine one thousand lira.’ He smiled at his future son-in-law. ‘On a more serious matter, dear boy – my game, I think.’

23

Tuesday, June 2nd, 1914

‘Do you think we’ll have to go to war, sir?’ asked Wainwright on the first day of term.

‘Let’s hope not, Wainwright,’ George replied.

‘Why not, sir, if it’s a just cause? After all, we should stand up for what we believe in; the English always have in the past.’

‘But if it were possible to negotiate an honourable agreement with the Germans,’ said George, ‘wouldn’t that be a better solution?’

‘You can’t negotiate an honourable agreement with the Hun, sir. They never keep to their side of the bargain.’

‘Perhaps history will prove you wrong on this occasion,’ said George.

‘You’ve always taught us, sir, to study the past carefully if you want to predict the most likely outcome in the future, and the Hun—’

‘The Germans, Wainwright.’

‘The Germans, sir, have throughout history proved to be a warlike nation.’

‘Some might say the same of the English, whenever it’s been in our interests.’

‘Not true, sir,’ said Wainwright. ‘England only goes to war when there’s a just cause.’

‘As seen by the English,’ suggested George, which silenced Wainwright for a moment.

‘But if we did have to go to war,’ jumped in Carter minor, ‘would you enlist?’

Before George could reply, Wainwright interjected, ‘Mr Asquith has said that should we go to war, schoolmasters would be exempt from serving in the armed forces.’

‘You seem unusually well informed on this subject, Wainwright,’ said George.

‘My father’s a general, sir.’

‘Views overheard in the nursery are always harder to dislodge than those taught in the classroom,’ replied George.

‘Who said that?’ asked Graves.

‘Bertrand Russell,’ George replied.

‘And everyone knows he’s a conchie,’ chipped in Wainwright.

‘What’s a conchie?’ asked Carter minor.

‘A conscientious objector. Someone who will use any excuse not to fight for his country,’ said Wainwright.

‘Everyone should be allowed to follow their own conscience, Wainwright, when it comes to facing a moral dilemma.’

‘Bertrand Russell, no doubt,’ said Wainwright.

‘Jesus Christ, actually,’ said George.

Wainwright fell silent, but Carter minor came back, ‘If we were to go to war, sir, wouldn’t that rather scupper your chances of climbing Everest?’

Out of the mouths of babes . . . Ruth had put the same question to him over breakfast, as well as the more important one of whether he would feel it was his duty to enlist or, as her father had crudely put it, would hide behind the shield of a schoolmaster’s gown.

‘My personal belief—’ began George just as the bell sounded. The class, in their eagerness not to miss morning break, didn’t seem all that interested in his personal beliefs.

As George walked across to the common room, he dismissed any thoughts of war in the hope of coming to a peaceful settlement with Andrew, whom he hadn’t seen since he’d returned from Venice. When he opened the common room door he spotted his chum sitting in his usual seat reading The Times. He didn’t look up. George poured himself a cup of tea and walked slowly across to join him, quite ready for a bout of mental fisticuffs.

‘Good morning, George,’ Andrew said, still not looking up.

‘Good morning, Andrew,’ George replied, slipping into the seat beside him.

‘I hope you had decent hols,’ Andrew added as he abandoned his newspaper.

‘Pleasant enough,’ replied George cautiously.

‘Can’t say I did, old boy.’

George sat back and waited for the onslaught.

‘I suppose you’ve heard about Ruth and me,’ said Andrew.

‘Of course I have,’ said George.

‘So what would you advise me to do about it, old boy?’

‘Be magnanimous?’ suggested George hopefully.

‘Easy enough for you to say, old boy, but what about Ruth? I can’t see her being magnanimous.’

‘Why not?’ asked George.

‘Would you be if I let you down at the last moment?’

George couldn’t think of a suitable reply.

‘I really did mean to go to Venice, don’t you know,’ continued Andrew, ‘but that was before we reached the semi-final of the Taunton Cup.’

‘Congratulations,’ said George, beginning to understand.

‘And the lads prevailed on me, said I couldn’t let the side down, especially as they didn’t have another goalkeeper.’

‘So you never went to Venice?’

‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, old boy. And worse, we didn’t even win the cup, so I lost out both ways.’

‘Bad luck, old chap,’ said George, trying to hide a smirk.

‘Do you think she’ll ever speak to me again?’ asked Andrew.

‘Well, you’ll be able to find out soon enough,’ said George.

Andrew raised an eyebrow. ‘How come, old chap?’

‘We’ve just sent you an invitation to our wedding.’

24

Wednesday, July 29th, 1914

‘Have you met this paragon of virtue?’ asked Odell as he folded his copy of the Manchester Guardian and placed it on the seat beside him.

‘No,’ said Finch, ‘but I should have guessed something was up when Mallory left us early and disappeared off to Venice.’

‘I think it’s what female novelists describe as a whirlwind romance,’ said Young. ‘They’ve only known each other a few months.’

‘That would have been quite long enough for me,’ chipped in Guy Bullock, who had returned to England. ‘I can tell you chaps, she’s ravishing, and anyone who might have been envious of George in the past will turn into a green-eyed monster the moment they set eyes on her.’

‘I can’t wait to meet the girl George fell for,’ said Somervell with a grin.

‘It’s time to call this meeting to order,’ said Young when the guard shouted, ‘Next stop, Godalming.’

‘To start with,’ continued Young, ‘I hope you all remembered to bring your ice axes . . .’

‘Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?’

George never took his eyes off Ruth while his father was addressing him. ‘I will,’ he responded firmly.

The Reverend Mallory turned his attention to the bride, and smiled. ‘Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour and keep him in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?’

‘I will,’ said Ruth, although few beyond the front pew would have heard her response.

‘Who giveth this Woman to be married to this Man?’ asked the Reverend Mallory.

Mr Thackeray Turner stepped forward.

Geoffrey Young, who was George’s best man, handed the Reverend Mallory a simple gold ring. George slipped it onto the fourth finger of Ruth’s left hand and said, ‘With this Ring, I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.’

Mr Turner smiled to himself.

The Reverend Mallory once more joined the couple’s right hands, and addressed the congregation joyfully. ‘I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.’

As the first strains of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March sounded, George kissed his wife for the first time.

Mr and Mrs Mallory walked slowly down the aisle together, and George was delighted to see how many of his friends had taken the trouble to make the journey to Godalming. He spotted Rupert Brooke and Lytton Strachey, both Maynard and Geoffrey Keynes, as well as Ka Cox, who was sitting next to Cottie Sanders, who gave him a sad smile. But the real surprise came when they walked out of the church and into the warm sunshine, because waiting to greet them was a guard of honour made up of Young, Bullock, Herford, Somervell, Odell and of course George Finch, their shining ice axes held aloft to form an archway under which the bride and groom walked, confetti appearing like falling snow.

After a reception at which George and Ruth managed to speak to every one of their guests, the newlyweds left in Mr Turner’s brand new bull-nose Morris, for a ten-day walking holiday in the Quantocks.

‘So what did you make of the chaperons who will accompany me when I leave you to pay homage to the other woman in my life?’ George asked as he drove down an empty, winding road.

‘I can see why you’re so willing to follow Geoffrey Young,’ Ruth replied, studying the map resting in her lap. ‘Especially after his thoughtful speech on behalf of the bridesmaids. Odell and Somervell looked as if, like Horatius, they’d stand by your side on the bridge, while I suspect Herford will match you step for step if he’s chosen for the final climb.’

‘And Finch?’ said George, glancing at his bride.

Ruth hesitated. The tone of her voice changed. ‘He’ll do anything, George, and I mean anything, to reach the top of that mountain ahead of you.’

‘What makes you feel so sure of that, my darling?’ asked George, sounding surprised.

‘When I came out of the church on your arm, he looked at me as if I was still a single woman.’

‘As many of the bachelors in the congregation might have done,’ suggested George. ‘Including Andrew O’Sullivan.’

‘No. Andrew looked at me as if he wished I was still a single woman. There’s a world of difference.’

‘You may be right about Finch,’ admitted George, ‘but there’s no climber I’d rather have by my side when it comes to tackling the last thousand feet of any mountain.’

‘Including Everest?’

‘Especially Chomolungma.’

The Mallorys pulled up outside their small hotel in Crewkerne just after seven o’clock that evening. The manager was standing at the entrance waiting to greet them, and once they had completed the guest register – signing as ‘Mr and Mrs Mallory’ for only the second time – he accompanied them to the bridal suite.

They unpacked their suitcases, thinking about, but not mentioning, the one subject that was on their minds. When they had completed this simple task, George took his wife by the hand and accompanied her down to the dining room. A waiter handed them a large menu, which they studied in silence before ordering.

‘George, I was wondering,’ began Ruth, ‘if you had—’

‘Yes, my darling?’

Ruth would have completed the sentence if the waiter hadn’t returned carrying two bowls of piping hot tomato soup which he placed in front of them. She waited until he was out of earshot before she tried again.

‘Do you have any idea just how nervous I am, my darling?’

‘Not half as nervous as me,’ admitted George, not lifting his spoon.

Ruth bowed her head. ‘George, I think you ought to know—’

‘Yes, my darling?’ said George, taking her hand.

‘I’ve never seen a naked man, let alone—’

‘Have I ever told you about my visit to the Moulin Rouge?’ asked George, trying to ease the tension.

‘Many times,’ said Ruth with a smile. ‘And the only woman you showed any interest in on that occasion was Madame Eiffel, and even she spurned you.’

George laughed, and without another word rose from his place and took his wife by the hand. Ruth smiled as they left the dining room, just hoping that no one would ask why they hadn’t even tasted their soup.

They walked quickly up the three flights of stairs without another word. When they arrived outside their bedroom, George fumbled with the key and finally managed to open the door. As soon as they were inside, he took his wife in his arms. Eventually he released her, took a step back and smiled. He slowly took off his jacket and tie, his eyes never leaving her. Ruth returned his smile, and unbuttoned her dress, allowing it to fall to the floor, revealing a long silk petticoat that fell just below the knees. She pulled it slowly over her head, and once it had joined the dress on the floor, George took her in his arms and kissed her. While she tried to pull off his trousers, he fumbled with the strap of her bra. Once they were both naked, they just stood and stared at each other for a moment before they fell onto the bed. George stroked her long auburn hair while Ruth kissed him gently as they began to explore each other’s bodies. They quickly became aware that there wasn’t anything to be nervous about.

After they had made love, Ruth fell back on the pillow and said, ‘Now tell me, Mr Mallory, who you’d rather spend the night with, Chomolungma or me?’

George laughed so loud that Ruth had to place a hand over his mouth for fear they might be heard in the next room. He held her in his arms until she finally fell into a deep sleep.

George was the first to wake the next morning, and began to kiss Ruth’s breasts until her eyes blinked open. She smiled up at him as he took her in his arms, his hands moving freely over her body. George could only wonder what had happened to the shy girl who couldn’t take a single spoonful of soup the previous evening. After they had made love a second time, they padded furtively down the corridor to the bathroom where Ruth joined George in the largest bath they’d ever seen. Afterwards he sat on the end of the bed, a towel wrapped around his waist, and watched his beautiful wife as she dressed.

Ruth blushed. ‘You’d better hurry up, George, or we’ll miss breakfast as well.’

‘Suits me,’ said George.

Ruth smiled, and slowly unbuttoned her dress.

For the next ten days George and Ruth roamed around the Quantocks, often returning to their hotel long after the sun had set. Each day, Ruth continued to quiz George about her rival, trying to understand why Chomolungma had such a hold over him. He was still planning to leave for Tibet early in the new year, which would mean they’d be apart for at least six months.

‘How many days and nights do you think it will take you to reach the summit?’ she asked as they stood on the top of Lydeard Hill.

‘We have no way of knowing,’ George admitted. ‘But Finch is convinced that we’ll have to sleep in smaller and smaller tents as our altitude increases. We might even have to spend the last night at 27,000 feet before we attempt the final assault.’

‘But how can you begin to prepare for such an ordeal?’ asked Ruth as she looked down from 2,700 feet.

‘I have no idea,’ said George as they began to stroll back down the hill, hand in hand. ‘No one knows how the human body will react to altitudes above 22,000 feet, let alone 29,000, where the temperature can be minus forty, and if the wind’s in your face, you have to take ten steps just to advance a few feet. Finch and I once spent three days in a small tent at 15,000 feet, and at one point it became so cold that we ended up in the same sleeping bag, having to cling to each other all night.’

‘I’d like to cling to you all night,’ Ruth said with a grin, ‘so that when you leave me, I’ll have a better understanding of what you’re going through.’

‘I don’t think you’re quite ready for 29,000 feet, my darling. Even a couple of nights in a small tent on a beach could prove quite a baptism.’

‘Are you sure you’re up to it, Mr Mallory?’

‘The last time you asked me that, Mrs Mallory, I nearly ended up in jail.’

In the nearest town they found a shop that sold camping supplies, and George bought a small canvas tent and a single sleeping bag. After a hearty dinner back at their hotel, they slipped out into the night and drove to the nearest beach. George selected an isolated spot facing the ocean which offered them little protection from the fierce wind. They began to hammer enough pegs into the sand to be sure that their first home wouldn’t be blown away.

Once they’d secured the tent, anchoring the pegs with stones, Ruth crawled inside while George remained on the beach. Once he’d taken his clothes off, he joined Ruth in the tent and climbed into the sleeping bag, wrapping his arms around his shivering wife. After they’d made love, Ruth didn’t let go of her husband.

‘You’d leave home to sleep like this, night after night?’ she asked in disbelief.

‘At minus forty degrees, with air so thin that you may hardly be able to breathe.’

‘While hugging another man, Mr Mallory. You’ve still got a few months to change your mind,’ she added wistfully.

Neither of them could remember when they fell asleep, but they would never forget when they woke. George blinked as a flashlight beamed in his eyes. He sat up to find Ruth, her skin now covered in midge bites, still clinging to him.

‘If you’d be kind enough to step outside, sir,’ said an authoritative voice.

George had to decide whether to be gallant, or leave his wife freezing in the nude. He decided on Sir Galahad, and slowly, so as not to wake Ruth, crawled out of the tent to find two officers from the local constabulary shining their torches directly at his naked body.

‘May I ask exactly what you’re up to, sir?’ asked the first officer.

George thought about telling them that his wife wanted to know what it would be like to spend a night on Mount Everest, but he settled for, ‘We’re on our honeymoon, sergeant, and just wanted to spend a night on the beach.’

‘I think you’d better both come down to the station, sir,’ said a voice from behind the other torch. ‘But perhaps you and your wife ought to get dressed first.’

George crawled back into the tent to find Ruth laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’ he demanded as he slipped his trousers on.

‘I did warn you that you’d get arrested.’

A chief inspector who had been woken in the middle of the night and asked to come down to the station to interview the two suspects, soon found himself apologizing.

‘What made you think we were spies?’ George asked him.

‘You pitched your tent less than a hundred yards from a top secret naval depot,’ said the chief inspector. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, sir, that the Prime Minister has asked everyone to be vigilant while we prepare for war.’

25

October 1914

The received wisdom had been that the war would be all over by Christmas.

George and Ruth had returned to Godalming after their honeymoon to settle in the house Mr Turner had given his daughter as a wedding present. The Holt was more than either of them could have asked for, and certainly more than George had expected. Set in ten acres of land, it was a magnificent house with a garden in which Ruth knew she would be spending many happy hours pottering about.

No one could have been in any doubt how much George loved his wife, and Ruth had the glow of a woman who knows she’s cherished. They wanted for nothing, and anyone who saw them together must have considered them a charmed couple, living an idyllic existence. But it was a façade, because George had a conscience.

During the next few months George could only stand by as many of his friends and contemporaries from Cambridge, and even some of the young men he’d taught at Charterhouse, left for the Western Front, never to return, while the only sacrifice he’d made was to put off his proposed trip to Tibet until after the hostilities had ceased. It didn’t help that the friends who visited him at The Holt always seemed to be in uniform. Brooke, Young, Somervell, Odell, Herford and even Finch dropped in to spend the night before travelling on to France. George often wondered if any of them thought he’d found an easy way out. But even though they never once raised the subject, indeed went out of their way to stress the importance of the work he was doing, he could never be sure. And whenever the headmaster, Mr Fletcher, read out the names of those Old Carthusians who had sacrificed their lives in the service of their country, it only made him feel more guilty.

George decided to discuss his misgivings with his oldest friend, Guy Bullock, who had returned to London to take up a post at the War Office. Guy tried to reassure him that there could be no greater calling than to teach the next generation of children, who would have to take the place of those who had fallen.

George next sought the counsel of Geoffrey Young, who reminded him that if he did decide to join up, someone else would have to take his place. He also mulled over the never-ending debate with Andrew O’Sullivan, who wasn’t in any doubt that they were doing the right thing by remaining at their posts. Mr Fletcher was even more adamant, saying that he couldn’t afford to lose someone with George’s experience.

Whenever he raised the subject with Ruth, she left him in no doubt about how she felt. It finally caused their first argument since they’d been married.

George was finding it more and more difficult to sleep at night as he wrestled with his conscience, and Ruth often lay awake too, aware of the dilemma he was going through.

‘Are you still awake, my darling?’ she whispered one night.

He leant over and kissed her gently on the lips, before placing an arm around her as she rested her head on his shoulder.

‘I’ve been thinking about our future,’ George said.

‘Bored with me already are you, Mr Mallory?’ she teased. ‘And to think we’ve only been married for a few months.’

‘Terrified of losing you would be nearer the truth,’ George said quietly. He felt her body stiffen. ‘No one knows better than you, my darling, just how guilty I feel about not joining my friends in France.’

‘Have any of those friends said anything to make you feel guilty?’ she asked.

‘No, not one of them,’ admitted George. ‘Which only makes it more telling.’

‘But they know you’re serving your country in a different way.’

‘No one, my darling, can exempt themselves from their conscience.’

‘If you were killed, what would that achieve?’

‘Nothing, other than that you’d know I’d done the honourable thing.’

‘And I’d be a widow.’

‘Along with so many other women married to honourable men.’

‘Have any of the staff at Charterhouse joined up?’

‘I can’t speak for my colleagues,’ replied George, ‘but I can speak for Brooke, Young, Bullock, Herford, Somervell and Finch, who are among the finest men of my generation, and who haven’t hesitated to serve their country.’

‘They’ve also made it clear that they understand your position.’

‘Perhaps, but they haven’t taken the easy way out.’

‘The man who climbed St Mark’s Basilica could never be accused of taking the easy way out,’ protested Ruth.

‘But what if that same man failed to join his comrades at the Front when his country was at war?’ George took his wife in his arms. ‘I understand how you feel, my darling, but perhaps—’

‘Perhaps it would make a difference, George,’ she interrupted, ‘if I told you I was pregnant?’

This joyful piece of news did delay George from making a decision, but soon after the birth of his daughter, Clare, the feelings of guilt resurfaced. Having a child of his own made him feel an even greater responsibility to the next generation.

George continued to teach as the war dragged on, but it didn’t help that every day he had to pass a recruitment poster on his walk to school, showing a young girl seated on her father’s lap, asking, Daddy, what did YOU do in the Great War?

What would he tell Clare?

With each friend George lost, the nightmare revisited him. He had read that even the bravest of men could snap when going over the top and facing gunfire for the first time. George was sitting peacefully in his usual pew in the school chapel when he snapped.

The headmaster rose from his place to lead the morning service. ‘Let us pray,’ he began, ‘for those Old Carthusians who have made the ultimate sacrifice by laying down their lives for the greater cause. Sadly,’ he continued, ‘I must add two new names to that growing list. Lieutenant Peter Wainwright of the Royal Fusiliers, who died at Loos while leading an attack on an enemy post. Let us remember him.’

‘Let us remember him,’ repeated the congregation.

George buried his head in his hands and wept silently before the headmaster added the second name.

‘Second Lieutenant Simon Carter, who many of us will fondly remember as Carter minor, was killed while serving his country in Mesopotamia. Let us remember him.’

While the rest of the congregation lowered their heads and repeated, ‘Let us remember him,’ George rose from his place, bowed before the altar and marched out of the chapel. He didn’t stop walking until he’d reached Godalming High Street, where he joined a queue of young men standing in line outside the local recruitment office.

‘Name?’ said the recruiting sergeant when George reached the front of the queue.

‘Mallory.’

The sergeant looked him up and down. ‘You do realize, sir, that under the terms of the new Conscription Act, schoolmasters are exempt from military service?’

George took off his long black gown and mortar board, and threw them in the nearest wastepaper basket.