But all I think about is walking with George in the hills at Asolo, the day after he slipped the note under my door in Venice. Before all of this was even a thought. We took a bottle of wine with us and sat overlooking Browning’s villa, the views of the terraced gardens, the vineyards and the town stretched out below. Everything clinging precariously to the hills. On the steeper portions I reached for your hand, held it tight in mine.
“You must have questions,” Norton says, pulling me back. “We’d like to be able to tell you anything we can.”
I want to ask if they believe it was worth it. If they will go back. “Just tell me what happened.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t really know.”
“You must have a thought. Some idea?”
“It’s likely –” Odell speaks up. Until now Norton has done all the talking, in the calm, measured tone that I remember from our previous meetings. Odell, though, seems more nervous than I recall him. He sweats a little across his forehead, wipes at it, rushes through his words as though he’s rehearsed them but might forget what he means to say, and say what he means instead. “It’s likely that they were benighted. Probably on their way down. They couldn’t have survived a night out there.”
They have agreed to this, on this order of events, on this story. There will be no discussion of accidents or falls. There will be no blood.
Dear Mrs. Mallory, your husband died quickly and without any pain
.
“There was no sign of them? Did you look? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to accuse …”
“No. Of course. I did,” Odell nods. “I went up after them, Mrs. Mallory.”
The name slices through me. “Ruth,” I say.
“Ruth. I did. I was running support for the attempt. Saw them off the day before. I was one camp below them. I was to follow them up to the high camp, make sure there was food, water, fuel. I would have waited there for them then, but there’s only one tent up there. Not much of a place to stay. Desolate.”
“Typical of Everest,” Norton cuts in. He doesn’t want me to picture it, but it’s too late. I see one wind-whipped tent, snow tossed in the gale, feel the freezing air.
How often have they told this story? It has been relayed down the mountain, across valleys and then the sea to here. They will have told it over and over again, trying to change the way it ends. And yet it doesn’t.
“Of course they had a perfect day for it,” Odell goes on. He picks up his glass, holds it in his hand, but doesn’t drink. “A perfect day. I was on my own on the mountain, feeling good. Well, as good as one can up there.” Norton clears his throat. A warning. He has told Odell to be careful with me. Nothing discomforting. “There had been some cloud up high on the mountain and then it cleared. The clouds stripped away for a moment and the whole ridge was there. Early afternoon. Ten to one.”
He is precise with the time. As if to confirm it, the clock on the mantel strikes a sharp eleven-thirty.
“I’d just found the first ever fossil on Everest. I’d made a note of it and the time. I was excited. Then I turned towards the peak. And I saw them. One tiny black spot on a crest. At the time I was sure it was the Second Step.” He glances now at Norton, who isn’t looking at him but gazing over my shoulder. “But it might have been the First,” Odell continues. I want to tell him it doesn’t matter. “It moved up and then another one followed. I yelled. I knew they couldn’t hear me. But they were moving well. And as I say, I was excited. They were moving so well. It had to be them. Your husband. And Sandy.” His voice catches a little on the boy’s name and he glances towards the window, his eyes wet. As he blinks against the tears, I remember George saying Odell had travelled with the boy before. Had recommended him. “They were going to make it. They would have had to move fast to get back before nightfall, but they looked strong. They looked strong.”
He pauses a moment and then drinks. His hands shake a little. “And then the clouds closed in. I didn’t see them again. When I got to their tent, it was a mess. Hardly surprising. And a note from George that they’d knocked the cooker down the slope in their hurry, so they’d come down to Camp Five that night. Maybe even to Four. I should be ready to head down when they arrived.”
“Do you have the note?” I want to have it. The last thing he wrote. His last words.
“I’m sorry,” Norton says when Odell looks at him. “It was given to the Committee for the archives.”
“No. Of course. It would be, wouldn’t it?” It feels as if George is slipping away. Becoming something others can claim. Less mine. “Please, carry on.”
“I left them what I had in my pack. Some pemmican. A little chocolate. I hadn’t thought to bring a stove. I wrapped my canteen in their sleeping bags, hoping it wouldn’t freeze before
they got back. George had left his compass at Camp Five. I brought it for him. Placed it carefully where he would see it. Then I closed up the tent.”
Odell tells me how he lay awake most of the night, listening, crawling out of his tent to squint up at the dark slopes, hoping for a light, anything. There was no sign of them. No hint that anything was alive up there.
“We watched too,” Norton says. “From down below. Trying to guess what was going on up there.”
“You were watching? I understood you were snowblind.”
“Of course. Howard Somervell was, though. He was my eyes for those couple of days.”
“I was out of my tent at first light,” Odell goes on. He is testifying, as though the only witness in front of a court of law, and I am the judge. “The weather was even better than it had been the day before. Clear all the way to the summit, not too cold. But I was tired. I’d been several days at that height. Still, I kept moving, because I expected to see them, truly, at any moment. But I got to Camp Six and didn’t see any sign of them.
“And the tent was just as I left it. Closed up. Quiet. I called for them before I got there, but nothing. Still, I hoped. They might just be exhausted. I’d rouse them, get them down. When I opened the tent, there was George’s compass just as I’d left it. Everything just as I left it.
“I went out and climbed up the way they would have gone. Called for them. Looked for some sign. But there was nothing. I called for Sandy. I thought I could hear him if the wind would stop.” His voice is fracturing now. He gulps down the rest of his whisky. “You can’t know what it is like up there. Impossible to do anything, to move quickly. I’d been up there for days. I was tired.”
Norton glances over at him, a reprimand. The kind of look Clare often gives to Berry. Odell inhales deeply and calms
somewhat. The wind has picked up and is tossing the leaves on the oak tree outside so that the light ripples. We are underwater. All of us.
“There was no trace of them. Not even footprints in the snow. Nothing.” Odell picks up his glass, sets it back down without drinking. “I’m so sorry.”
I see him standing there. The hope ebbing out as the cold settled on him. What it must have been like to accept that no matter how long he waited they weren’t coming back. I wonder if he realized that at that moment he was the highest living thing on Earth.
“I went back to the tent to gather their belongings. To send down the message.”
“There was a code,” Norton explains. “So we would know what happened. So we would know what we had to do. If we should send someone up.”
Of course there had been a plan for this. A plan for disaster. George would have helped determine what that would be. They all would have known.
Nothing on the table has been touched. “You should eat something,” I say. “Edith worked so hard. Baked everything fresh herself. George loves these scones. Please.”
Neither of them moves. Norton shakes his head slightly. “I shouldn’t have let him go. I’m sorry. I said it to Somes. I even thought about calling them back down. But George seemed to need it. Still, I could have ordered him not to go. I did ask him not to, but I should have ordered it.”
“There’s a crate coming from the station,” Odell tells me. “George’s belongings. I packed up everything, didn’t look through it. But there’s this.” He hands me the compass George had forgotten, and an envelope. “When I pulled out the sleeping bags I found it under one of them. Your name was on it. I wanted to be sure you got it.”
“Thank you.” I take the envelope. I don’t ask if they think he made the summit.
All day I’ve kept the envelope with me. The weight of the compass in my pocket a small comfort. I am frightened by what the envelope might contain. What the contents might say. What they might not.
This day, like all of them since you left, has ticked by, filled with the endless work of moving on. After tea there were more boxes to be packed, letters to reply to, the children to be fed. I am still waiting. I cannot help but feel, somewhere, deep in my stomach, that you are on your way home. So I wait.
There are so many things left unsaid between us. I sit at your desk and make a list of them. The things I should have said. All the things I’ve been collecting to tell you. The house is settling in for the night, almost quiet. Most everything is in its place – ready to go. The day after tomorrow we will leave for my father’s. We will live at Westbrook, at least for a while. I’ll teach John to swim in the pond there, to ride a bicycle, just as my sisters and I did. Will has promised to visit as often as he can.
I leave the sheet of paper in the middle of the desk. When I turn off the light, it seems to glow in the dark before I close the door.
Up the stairs the children are sleeping soundly. When we go to my father’s, Clare will have her own room. Berry and John will share one for a while longer. From the veranda outside my father’s dining room I will be able to see the Holt. I’ll point it out to them. “That’s where we used to live.”
“With Daddy,” they’ll say.
They seem to be doing well. John has developed a limp that the doctors think is psychosomatic. “A physical manifestation of his pain,” they say. They tell me to ignore it. But how
can I, when it is a reminder every day of what he has lost? What I have lost.
I bend and kiss each of them. Only Clare stirs, rolls over, and settles again. Then I descend the stairs to our room.
The sheets are cool, and I curl my feet under my nightdress. I put the compass on your pillow, hold the envelope to my face.
It smells of paper. That’s all. I open it and pull out a yellowed piece of paper, torn at the edge, words and letters missing. The last page. The end of the story.
The words you have written in the margin are shaky and uneven and blur through my tears. The last thing you will ever write. This was meant just for me. I won’t share this part with anyone.
As the clock chimes downstairs, I curl on my side with this last page, and the white expanse of the pillow, the snowfield sheet beyond, stretches out in front of me.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Above All Things
is a work of fiction inspired by historical events. When I first encountered the stories of the early Everest expeditions, I didn’t even have the facts; all I had was the myth.
I was first introduced to the story of George Mallory while working at a local outfitter, selling climbing and camping gear. There was a television set on the shop floor that played gear videos, mountain movies, and adventure documentaries. My favourite documentary was one that showed black-and-white footage of the earliest attempts to climb Mt. Everest. That was how I first saw George Mallory: in pith helmet and knee socks, crossing the Himalaya. From the very start, that image and the story of his disappearance had me hooked.
The mythology surrounding Mallory is unmistakably grand. He was one of the last of the classic English gentlemen explorers – an athlete, a scholar, and a writer with ties to the Bloomsbury Group. He was outrageously attractive: “six foot high, with the body of an athlete by Praxiteles, and a face – oh incredible – the mystery of Botticelli, the refinement and delicacy of a Chinese print, the youth and piquancy of an imaginable English boy,” as Lytton Strachey described him. He was a romantic
figure nicknamed “Galahad” by his friends, and, when he was asked why he wanted to climb Mt. Everest, he gave what is perhaps one of the most enigmatic quotes of the last century: “Because it’s there.”
But myths are only ever a beginning, so even before I knew I would spend years writing about Mallory, I started reading everything I could about Everest in general and, in particular, about Mallory and the British expeditions of the 1920s. I was fascinated by the sheer ambition of the first attempts – by the degree of optimism and obsession that the summit bids must have necessitated, and by the men who willingly endured the discomfort and pain of freezing temperatures and the many dangers of extreme altitudes dressed in little more than Burberry tweeds.
But early on, too, I couldn’t help wondering what it would mean to be married to a man like George Mallory. What would it be like to be left behind for months at a time with nothing but long-delayed letters, delivered by steamer, to soothe your worries? How would you fill your days? How would you cope with the possibility that your husband might not come home?
Before long, I found myself writing a novel.
Thanks to a grant from the Canada Council, I was able to travel to England, where I visited the Royal Geographic Society, the Alpine Club, and the Samuel Pepys Library at Magdalene College, Cambridge. As it was Mallory’s old stomping grounds, Cambridge was my first stop; this was where he went to college and climbed its towers, where he had his early love affairs, and where, ultimately, he left behind his wife and his three children when he joined his third expedition to Everest. It was at Magdalene that I had the opportunity to read the letters Mallory and his wife, Ruth, had exchanged over their entire relationship – from his first love poem to her to the very last letter he sent from Everest.
With its dusty tomes and shafts of light filtering through leaded windows, the library at Magdalene College looked like a movie set for an old English college library, and Dr. Luckett, the Samuel Pepys Librarian, with his cane and mane of grey hair, could have been straight from central casting.