Paths of Glory (10 page)

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 honors 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 behavior 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 inquiring 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 is 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 traveled 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

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“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 favor. 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 toward 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 inquired 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 inquired.

“Yes,” replied George, without further elucidation.

On a warm summer evening, George traveled 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 toward 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 program 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 spilled 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 favor 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 favor 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,” Young said. “Once Captain Scott has finished his lecture and calls for questions, the secretary wants you to raise your hand.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I
T 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 theater on the ground floor.

When George entered the recently built theater, he was surprised by how grand it was. The oak-paneled 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 leaned across to shake hands with Finch. He looked around the theater 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 toward 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 backward and forward.

The lecture theater 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 honor 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.