Paths of Glory Read online

“How very interesting, Mr. Mallory,” said the manager. “We haven’t had any other customers planning a holiday in that part of the world, so may I be so bold as to ask what sort of weather conditions you might be expecting?”

  “Well, I’m not altogether certain,” admitted George. “But as far as I can make out, once we’ve reached 27,000 feet, we can expect gale-force winds, a temperature of forty degrees below zero and so little oxygen that it may be almost impossible to breathe.”

  “Then you’ll certainly be needing a woolen scarf and some warm gloves, not to mention the appropriate headgear,” said Mr. Pink, coming out from behind the counter.

  The manager’s first suggestion was a cashmere Burberry scarf, followed by a pair of fleece-lined black leather gloves. George followed Mr. Pink around the shop as he selected three pairs of thick gray woolen socks, two navy blue jumpers, a Shackleton windcheater, several silk shirts, and the latest pair of fur-lined camping boots.

  “And may I inquire, sir, do you anticipate any snow during this trip?”

  “Most of the time, I suspect,” said George.

  “Then you’ll be needing an umbrella,” suggested Mr. Pink. “And what about headgear, sir?”

  “I thought I’d take my brother’s leather flying helmet and goggles,” said George.

  “I don’t think you’ll find that’s what fashionable gentlemen will be wearing climbing this year,” said Mr. Pink, handing him the latest deer-stalker.

  “Which is why it won’t be a fashionable gentleman who’ll be the first to set foot on the summit of Everest.”

  George smiled when he saw Finch approaching the counter, his arms laden with goods.

  “We at Ede and Ravenscroft,” ventured Mr. Pink, “believe that it matters how a gentleman looks when he attains the summit of any mountain.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” said Finch, as he placed his purchases on the counter. “There won’t be any girls up there waiting for us.”

  “Will there be anything else, Mr. Finch?” asked the manager, trying not to show his disapproval.

  “Not at these prices, there won’t,” George said after checking his bill.

  Mr. Pink bowed politely and began to wrap up his customer’s purchases.

  “I’m glad we bumped into each other, Finch,” said George. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve seen the light,” said Finch, “and are at last considering the use of oxygen.”

  “Perhaps,” said George. “But I still need to be convinced.”

  “Then I need at least a couple of hours of your time, as well as the proper equipment to hand, so I can demonstrate why oxygen will make all the difference.”

  “Let’s discuss it while we’re on the boat to Bombay, when you’ll have more than enough time to convince me.”

  “That’s assuming I’ll be on the boat.”

  “But you’ve already been selected for the team.”

  “Only thanks to your intervention,” said Finch, scowling. “And I’m grateful because I suspect the nearest that Hinks has been to a mountain is a Christmas card.”

  “That will be thirty-three pounds and eleven shillings, Mr. Finch,” said Mr. Pink. “May I inquire how you intend to settle your bill on this occasion?”

  “Just put it on my account,” said Finch, trying to imitate Mr. Pink’s “for customers” accent.

  The manager hesitated for a moment before giving Finch a slight bow.

  “See you on board then,” said Finch before picking up his brown paper bag and leaving the shop.

  “Your bill comes to forty-one pounds, four shillings, and six pence, Mr. Mallory,” said Mr. Pink.

  George wrote out a check for the full amount.

  “Thank you, sir. And may I say on behalf of all of us here at Ede and Ravenscroft that we hope you will be the first man to reach the summit of Everest, and not…”

  Mr. Pink did not finish the sentence. Both men looked out of the window and watched Finch as he strode off down the road.

  BOOK FIVE

  Walking Off the Map

  1922

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  THURSDAY, MARCH 2ND, 1922

  GEORGE KNEW THE moment he stepped on board the SS Caledonia at Tilbury that he was embarking on a journey for which he had been preparing all his life.

  The climbing team spent the five-week sea voyage to Bombay getting better acquainted, improving their fitness, and learning how to work together as a unit. Every morning for an hour before breakfast they would run circuits around the deck, with Finch always setting the pace. Occasionally George’s ankle would play up a little, but he didn’t admit it, even to himself. After breakfast he would lie out on the deck reading John Maynard Keynes’s The Economic Consequences of the Peace, but not until he’d written his daily letter to Ruth.

  Finch gave a couple of lectures on the use of oxygen at high altitudes. The team dutifully disassembled and reassembled the thirty-two-pound oxygen sets, strapped them on each other’s backs, and adjusted the valves that regulated the amount of gas released. Few of them seemed enthusiastic. George watched intently. There wasn’t any doubt that Finch knew what he was talking about, although most of the team disapproved of the idea of using oxygen on principle. Norton said that the sheer weight of the cylinders would surely nullify any advantage their contents might have to offer.

  “What proof do you have, Finch, that we’ll need these infernal contraptions to get to the summit?” he demanded.

  “None,” admitted Finch. “But should you find yourself at 27,000 feet and unable to progress any further, perhaps you’ll end up being grateful for one of these infernal contraptions.”

  “I’d rather turn back,” said Somervell.

  “And fail to reach the summit?” queried Finch.

  “If that’s the price, so be it,” said Odell adamantly.

  Although George was also against the idea of using oxygen, he didn’t offer an opinion. After all, he wouldn’t be expected to make a decision if Finch was proved wrong. His thoughts were interrupted by an unmistakable bark of, “Time for PT, chaps.”

  The team clambered to their feet and formed three orderly lines in front of General Bruce, who stood with his hands on his hips and his feet firmly on the ground, evidently having no intention of leading by example.

  After an hour of furious exercise the General disappeared below deck for his morning snifter, leaving the rest of the team to their own devices. Norton and Somervell began a game of deck tennis, while Odell settled down to read E. F. Benson’s latest novel. George and Guy sat cross-legged on the deck, chatting about the possibility of a Cambridge man winning the hundred meters dash at the Paris Olympics.

  “I’ve seen Abrahams run at Fenners,” said George. “He’s good, damned good, but Somervell tells me there’s a Scot called Liddell who’s never lost a race in his life, so it will be interesting to see what happens when they come up against each other.”

  “We’ll be back well in time to find out which of them wins gold. In fact,” added Guy with a grin, “it will be a good excuse to return to—oh my God.” Guy was looking over George’s shoulder. “What’s he up to now?”

  George swung around to see Finch standing with his arms folded, feet apart, staring up at the ship’s funnels, which were belching out clouds of black smoke.

  “Surely he can’t be considering…”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him,” said George. “He’d do anything to be one up on the rest of the team.”

  “I don’t think he gives a damn about the rest of the team.” said Guy. “It’s only you he wants to beat.”

  “In which case,” replied George, “I’d better have a word with the captain.”

  George told Ruth in one of his daily letters that he and Finch were like two children, always striving to outdo each other to gain teacher’s attention. In this case teacher was General Bruce, who, George confided, may well be an old buffer, but he’s no fool, and we’ve al