Blushing in the city’s darkness, he wondered who “everyone” was. “There isn’t anywhere to climb here.”
“Maybe we’ll find something later.”
She took him to a speakeasy where a jazz band played, dark and smoky in the corner. She danced and bought him a record in brown paper from the saxophone player, introduced him as a hero, a great explorer. With the pressed shellac under his arm, he walked away from the conversation.
Outside the club he thought of Ruth and tried not to. He thought of rules and roles and wondered why he bothered. He thought of who it was they all thought he should be and leaned down to kiss Stella.
She shook her head, her lips brushing past his. “No.”
It surprised him; he’d thought that was the game. He stepped back but said nothing, wondering how he had so badly misread the situation.
She spoke first, stepping into him, her body so close he could feel the heat off her. Her hair was thick with the smell of smoke from the club. “What are the walls of the Waldorf like?”
“Is this a dare?”
He had sobered up a little, spread talcum powder on his palms. They were dry and smooth in the winter air. Stella stood in his overcoat on his balcony at the Waldorf Astoria. She sipped
at her tumbler of rum, her scarlet lipstick smearing its rim. All of New York lay below him. He knew it was an optical illusion, but the sheer walls of the building dropping away to the avenue below made it seem as though he was higher than he had ever been on any mountain.
“Yes!” she said, cradling her glass in the crook of her arm and clapping her hands together. The sound snapped in the crisp air. Her accent had thickened through the night, with alcohol and comfort. “A dare!”
He stood on the balustrade where it met the wall, and the world fell off to his left. His fingers found the holds in the brickwork the way they always did. He pulled himself up, made his way above the door frame and traversed the width of the balcony. He forgot about his audience, the woman watching him, and felt more at ease than he had since he’d arrived in New York.
The stone felt strong under his fingers. His patent leather shoes scraped against its surface, transferring black to grey stone, leaving traces of him on the building. On the rock.
He descended to the balustrade on the other side of the balcony and thought briefly of the dark emptiness below him. What if he just let go? Why didn’t he?
When he came down, Stella’s arms were immediately around him. Sometime in the evening, she’d told him she knew him. She was a friend of a friend, knew his mother’s sister’s daughter at school. She insisted they had met before when they were young, but he didn’t remember her. He wished he did. He descended and kissed her.
She tasted of tea and whisky. Of America and jazz.
“Is there a Victrola?” he asked. He wanted to dance with her.
He found his way through the billowing gauze of curtains into the room. It was opulent, the blue carpet lush and yielding
under his feet, the sinking depths of wingback chairs, the soft expanse of the enormous bed. He would have to leave it the next day. The expedition couldn’t afford for him to stay there another night. They could barely afford one, but appearances had to be kept up. Tomorrow he would move downtown, before leaving the city in two days from Penn Station.
There was a Victrola. He played his new record and air-planed his arms in time to the music.
Stella laughed. “George Mallory, this isn’t you.”
“It is.”
He walked towards her.
“Well, then, I think I like him.”
She was a woman of angles, sharp like ridges. The narrow bones of her hips, the declivity of her collarbone, so different from Ruth’s rounder softness.
They danced to jazz and he wished there was more to drink.
In the morning he would read his name in the newspaper and order room service. That night he led Stella to bed. She was long and thin like the girls he had watched in the speakeasy.
When he kissed her again he thought of other kisses, thought of Ruth and his absences, thought about how she would probably understand this. There was no guilt. That was the story he told himself.
He was almost certain Ruth knew nothing of Stella. He’d written her only once, from the Alpine Club. He still hadn’t opened her letters.
It was early afternoon when they finally arrived at what would be their campsite.
“Camp Two. Just as we left it.”
Well, not exactly. The remains of the old camp – the metal skeleton of the tent, the canvas shredded by wind, by ice, and by rocks that had been hurled at it for the past two years – sat in
a drift. There wasn’t much to salvage beyond a forgotten tin of beans and some tent poles. The site had been utterly destroyed. They’d erect a new camp in its place, occasionally tossing aside old bits of equipment, frozen rubbish.
It took them hours to raise the tents. Later, they would build small walls from stones he’d ask the coolies to drag from the edge of the Icefall, which they’d drape with canvas to provide a small measure of protection from the mountain. But for now they’d make do. Odell tasked the coolies with making tea, that interminable chore he avoided at all costs. Everyone moved in slow motion, despite the effort. In the thin air they were all half-drunk.
“It’s cool enough now,” he said, a few hours later, giving Shebbeare directions for leading down most of the coolies. “It’ll be stable. Just stick to the ropes and you’ll find your way back easily enough. It should take you only a fraction of the time going back down.” Shebbeare nodded, a little nervously. “Tell Norton and Somervell to start bringing the oxygen up tomorrow. And give this to Somes.” He handed Shebbeare the notes he’d made on how everyone had fared on the push through the Icefall.
“Yessir.”
George turned back to camp. The rest of them would stay – Sandy, Odell, Noel, a handful of coolies. They’d settle Camp II and finalize the plans for the next camp. By the time Shebbeare returned with Teddy and Somes tomorrow, he’d be on his way up to establish Camp III. Four more camps and then the summit. They had three weeks, maybe a month before the monsoon made landfall on the subcontinent.
George sat on a small box of supplies and watched Odell hover over the coolies as they melted snow for tea and prepared food. Odell would take the first serving, no doubt. He always did.
“Odell,” he called. “Could you check those packs? Make sure everything survived the trek.” When Odell nodded, he looked away. “We all have to do our part,” he added to himself.
Near one of the tents Sandy paced, moving back and forth between crates and tents, stacking and restacking the boxes and packs, digging them into the snow so they wouldn’t slip. He hit at chunks of ice with the head of his ice axe. Sandy burned with nervous energy, and the sight of so much activity churned George’s stomach. He dropped his head so Sandy was out of his sightline. He needed to focus. They would start to move up to Camp III tomorrow, the day after at the latest. He had to sort out what to take, who would carry it.
Moments later Sandy stood over him, looking down.
“What? You should relax, Sandy. Tea will be ready soon. Don’t believe this burst of energy. It’ll disappear soon enough.”
“Come on,” Sandy said. In one hand Sandy held a small palm-sized stone he’d plucked from the edge of the glacier, worn smooth by the ice. In the other, his ice axe. He held them both up, gestured his head back towards the Icefall.
He shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Come on, George. You said exercise was good for the lungs, the head, didn’t you? Besides, it’ll be fun. Odell,” Sandy called, raising his voice, “bring your axe.”
He followed Sandy back onto the ice, to a smooth, flat pond a quarter of a mile deep. In the heat of the afternoon it had been an oven. Now it was cool and blue. Perfect.
Sandy dropped the flat stone to the ice and grabbed the shaft of his axe. He slapped the puck with the blade, sliding it towards George, who stopped it with his foot and then smiled. With his own axe George slid the rock forward, slipping his feet along the ice, skating.
“One of the fellows back at my college,” Sandy called, “travelled to Toronto one winter with his father. He saw these blokes
playing this on the harbour there and thought it was a gas. So he tried to teach us. We tried to freeze the courtyard at school with buckets of water. It didn’t work. This seemed the place to give it another go.”
George had been to Toronto, just once. After New York. The place had been unbearably cold. Ruth had laughed at him. “Cold? After Everest?” Yes, he’d told her. Cold. Even after Everest. And grey and dark. The cold there pinned you down. He’d never had any desire to go back, but if he did, maybe he’d have a look at Sandy’s game.
Virgil had grabbed George’s spare axe, and another of the coolies was gripping a broken piece of crate that Sandy had handed him. The ice cooled and snapped around them as they played. Here the sky remained bright long after they could no longer see the sun. George made a false rush at Odell’s goal but was blocked by Noel, who slammed him hard from the left. He lifted his elbow to block the ricochet. The sound of his axe on the rock and ice, Sandy’s short burst of laughter, echoed off the ice walls. Virgil held his net for him, moving slowly, steadily between the rocks they’d placed as goal posts. George moved around behind him, nudged the goal markers in a bit. He felt fit in his body. Odell slapped a shot towards him. He blocked the shot, felt the ache of the hit in his cold-numbed leg, then raised his elbow to check Noel, smiling. This was just playing. Noel smiled back. They were having fun. He didn’t remember having any fun in ’22.
George kept score in his head until they were panting and sweating, too tired to play anymore. It was his win. He wouldn’t tell them that, but he knew it. The game had probably lasted only a few minutes, but it felt as if they had played forever. The air was too thin to support Sandy’s enthusiasm.
“Come on!” Sandy yelled. “One more point? Winner takes all?”
“What’s at stake?”
“The loser melts snow in the morning. Makes the tea.”
They seemed to think about it even as they lay spread-eagled on the ice, their chests heaving.
“Maybe a rematch,” George said. “On the way down.”
His head pounded now. Foolish, this burst of activity. The water they’d have to drink to make up for the dehydration. But everyone was smiling. Even the coolies.
Maybe it was worth it.
“Speaking of tea, we’d better get it on,” Odell said. He turned to lead them back to camp.
“Come on.” Sandy put his arm over George’s shoulders. It was comforting, welcome. “Wasn’t such a bad idea, hey?”
“No,” George said. “It wasn’t. You should keep them coming.”
Sandy was flushed. He smiled and his sunburned lip cracked. George wiped at the small spot of blood.
MAGDALENE
11 O’CLOCK
C
ottie opens the door with her arms spread out to sweep around Clare and Berry before she realizes I am with them today instead of Vi. She cocks her head at me and then says loudly, brightly, “
Bonjour, mes petites!
”
The entry way is a sunny yellow. Everything in Cottie’s home is vivid and boldly coloured – paintings and photographs on every conceivable wall space, flowers rotting in the vases, giving off a sickly overripe scent. Against this backdrop she is a dusty lark, always in tan trousers, a man’s white shirt. “Come in, come in!
Entrez!
” She ushers us in, scooping John from my arms. Everything about her is welcoming. “I didn’t expect to see you until this evening,” she is saying, while she swings John from side to side and he giggles. “Can I do anything for you?”
“Could you keep him for me for a few hours?” I bob my head at John in her arms. “If you don’t mind.”
“Of course. Some time for yourself. That I understand.” She says it as if we’re conspiring and then turns to Clare and Berry. “What do you say, girls? We’ll teach John the colours
en français
.” A few hours on my own – away from the house, from Vi and Edith. From everything. The luxury of it washes over me.
The two of them nod. “Then we’ll need some paints and papers.” Cottie’s arms sweep out in a wild gesture, the wood bangles at her wrist knock against each other. “You know where they are. Go find them.” They scamper out of the room, towards the kitchen. John toddles after them. Doors bang.
We listen a long moment, waiting for a crash, a wail. When there’s no emergency, I carry on, apologizing. “No, it isn’t that. It’s just Edith and Vi are busy with the dinner party and there are things to take care of before everyone arrives. It’s easier without –”
Cottie cuts me off. “Ruth, there’s nothing wrong with needing an hour or two – or two months! – to yourself. But you’ll have tea first? It won’t take a minute.”
I walk to the mantelpiece. The clock is ticking close to eleven.
“No, please don’t bother. I won’t stay long.” Cottie’s hands are at her short, frizzy hair, trying to smooth it down. If the Reverend Mallory thinks me strange, what must he think of Cottie, whose husband and children are away in London so she can live her “bachelor’s life” here, as she calls it, writing and thinking.
“But I haven’t seen you in an age. You look well.”
“Thank you, but there are the errands to run and it feels like forever since I’ve been out in the world. I’ve been staying close to home. It’s easier.” The words pour out of me like water. “It’s just, if word comes, I want to be there. And so many people ask about him. But I can’t take it today, sitting there waiting for the post.” I collapse to the sofa, laugh a little. “I sound ridiculous.”
“Of course not. It must feel as if everyone is after you. After him. Impossible to talk about anything normal.”
“Precisely! Look at us, even now, talking about George and his being away. Sometimes I just don’t want to hear his name anymore.” There is a long beat as we both try to find something else to fill the conversation. “I knew I was in love with George
when I wanted to say his name over and over again. It gave me a thrill in my stomach just to hear it, to taste it.”