by Justin Go
It’s been agreed we shall pay nothing for the refitting, nor shall the winter’s expenses be split – Papa insists on paying it all. We may, however, find it best to pay now & be reimbursed later to ensure the work is completed on time.
I take a large atlas of Sweden from the reference shelf and flip to the overview map. Running my finger along the towns and villages I find Leksand, 150 miles northwest of Stockholm.
I turn to a detail map farther back in the atlas. A few miles from Leksand I recognize the name Ejen, printed in italics over a mass of pale blue water. Ejen is a lake. A small island is pictured in the center of the lake, but the island isn’t named. I make a photocopy of the map.
I call Prichard from a phone booth outside the library. His secretary tells me he isn’t available and I’m transferred to Khan, but when I describe the letter to Khan he tells me to hold. A few minutes later Prichard’s voice greets me cordially. I read the letter to him from my notebook.
—I’m afraid, Prichard replies, that I’m not sure what you’re getting at.
—Eleanor says ‘before we arrive,’ even though Charles wasn’t going with her to Sweden. He was in Palestine all of 1917. And she says her father was going to for pay for everything, the expenses wouldn’t be split.
—I don’t see—
—Imogen must have gone with her. That’s the only thing that would explain it all. Why go up north to winter in a remote house that’d never been used in winter?
—One moment, please.
I hear another voice speaking in the background. Prichard responds, muffling the receiver. The other voice disappears.
—My apologies, he says. As regards the letter, there could be other explanations. Someone else might have accompanied her.
—But it makes sense. Eleanor would tell everyone she was pregnant. That’d be expected, she’d been married for years. Then Eleanor would go to Sweden with Imogen, and after Imogen’s child was born, Eleanor could raise it as her own. Isn’t that what women did then, if they got pregnant before marriage? They went away and came back without the child—
—I suppose some of them did. But why go to all that trouble if Imogen wasn’t coming back to England?
—I don’t know. I haven’t figured that out yet.
—Did you read all that was there?
—Yeah. There were seven letters, and one of them was the one you showed me in your office. This was the only thing I found.
—Then by all means, keep looking. Your letter is certainly interesting, but you’ll need something more definitive. Unfortunately, I’ve a client meeting shortly. I shall let you research onward with my blessing. Do stay in touch.
I hang up the phone and walk onto the road in the rain, still holding the notebook.
19 August 1916
Queen’s Hall
Marylebone, Central London
The concert concluded, the musicians fit their instruments in velvet-lined cases. The audience stands. Some chat idly in the aisles; others file out toward the exit. The murmur of conversation grows steadily.
Ashley sits in the last row studying a Great Western Railway timetable. He has already seen Imogen. He is waiting for her to notice him on her way out. Ashley takes a fountain pen from his pocket and circles the 9:38 from Paddington to Didcot.
Imogen takes the seat beside him. Her eyes fixed on the stage, she leans toward him and whispers.
—So it is you.
Ashley puts the timetable back in his tunic pocket.
—One might imagine, he says, that you were following me.
—Did you enjoy the concert?
—Immensely.
—Then why sit at the back?
—I came in late.
—And why were you late?
Ashley smiles. He looks away down the aisle.
—I was outside, he admits. Wondering if I ought to come in.
—I’m glad you did.
An elderly woman with a cane tries to squeeze by them in the aisle. They rise to let her pass. Standing now, they do not sit back down.
—I cross on Thursday, Ashley stammers. I mean that—it’s a splendid day. What do you think of a stroll?
Imogen agrees. Ashley says they could go to Green Park or even Hyde Park, but Regent’s Park is closest.
—We’d as well go to Regent’s Park anyhow, Imogen says. It’s the loveliest, and there are French gardens, if we tire of the English. Though you are going to France. Then again—
Imogen lets the sentence hang. She bites her lip and gazes toward the exit. Ashley watches her expectantly.
—Pardon?
She shakes her head.
—I didn’t want to say it. I suppose you shan’t see gardens there.
They are in Regent’s Park, walking among the ordered fountains and linear hedges, the afternoon sunlight golden on their faces. Ashley looks at the empty stone planters and frowns.
—Not quite the same without the flowers.
—But one remembers what they looked like.
Imogen walks forward and touches a planter.
—Here were the crocuses. The oddest name for the loveliest flower. The purple hyacinths were here, surely. And the daffodils there, and behind them the geraniums and dahlias—
Ashley walks beside her, swagger cane clasped behind his back. A group of wounded soldiers in blue hospital uniforms walk by, followed by a pair of nurses. Ashley talks about his officer training and Imogen mentions that she is studying for the entrance examinations for Somerville College.
—You’ve my sympathy, Ashley remarks. I had an awful dread of my Cambridge little-go, made it that much easier to run off to the army. Are the Somerville exams difficult?
—Not exactly. But I’ll be taking the scholarship papers, so I’ll need a decent score. Of course, it’s easier because I’ve studied for them before.
—You have?
Imogen nods. —It’s a rather embarrassing tale. But you have to understand, Mr. Walsingham, there was so much confusion. No one would have raised an eyebrow if I wanted to study art or music like Mummy or Ellie. But I wanted to know things, to be a part of life and not simply imitate it. So I got it in my head that I must go to Somerville. There were endless rows with Papa, but in the end I went up for the Easter exams anyway. Naturally I hadn’t studied nearly enough. I could manage the English or Greek, but my Latin was weak, and maths was pure misery.
Imogen glances at Ashley, knitting her brow.
—You see, it just felt so wrong. Sneaking out to Oxford on my own when Mummy had practically bent over backwards to put Ellie in the Slade. And when I got there it was nothing like I’d imagined, the colleges practically empty save for cadets. The exam was four days, staying in the most frigid rooms at Oriel, for you know they’ve made Somerville a hospital. By the third morning it just seemed absurd, with the war on and rebellion in Ireland, that there I was quivering in bed at the thought of algebra—
—You didn’t finish them?
Imogen sighs, shaking her head. —But I’m going to take them again. I’ve had a few months to knock about London and think things over. That’s quite enough. Sooner or later one realizes it isn’t enough to be clever, to have even the finest ideas. One must do something, one must create some corner of goodness in the world, however small. For a few weeks I was convinced I should be a midwife with the Quaker relief in France, but as soon as I told Papa he said perhaps I ought to go to Somerville after all.
Ashley laughs. Imogen smiles, shaking her head in mock indignation.
—He was quite right, she protests. No doubt it’s easier on the nerves than war nursing, but I can hardly stand to see someone with a bloody nose. I only wanted to do something useful. The trouble is that I’m simply not trained for anything. So I’ll have to learn more first.
—Starting with algebra?
Imogen wrinkles her nose.
—Good Lord, let’s not speak of it. If I suddenly dash behind a tree, it’s because I’ve seen my tutor, Mr. Blagdon. He t
hinks I’m in bed with fever.
They walk out of the gardens onto broad green lawns. Ashley looks at Imogen.
—I’ve the impression your people are different from mine. Certainly your sister seems an interesting woman.
Imogen shrugs. —I don’t know. Ellie and Charles do go around with a certain set that share certain ideas. But their marriage is rather ordinary. My parents are the same. Papa’s very conventional, it’s only that he married a woman nothing like him.
—You say he’s a Swede. But you were born here?
Imogen shakes her head. —Ellie and I were born in France. At the time, Papa was posted to the embassy in Paris, that’s where he met Mummy. Apparently it was quite a romance, though you’d never guess it to see them now. Papa was young and very dashing. Mummy was studying sculpture at the Académie Julian.
They pass into the shade of a huge willow and Imogen sits down beside its trunk. Ashley hesitates, then takes a seat beside her, not very close. He grabs a fistful of grass and tosses it into the air idly. He looks at her.
—I’m confused, Ashley admits. So are you English or not?
—That’s the question, isn’t it? I spent my first years in France. We moved to Berlin when I was five, and we only came here when I was nine. After that Mummy refused to leave England again. When it comes to languages, my French is good, mainly because I’ve kept it up by reading. My German is decent, but my Swedish is rather disappointing, and Ellie isn’t much better. I can speak Swedish if I have to, but I can’t write it to save my life. With English—
—You haven’t a foreign accent, Ashley interrupts. But you don’t speak the same as an Englishwoman. It’s something in your phrase.
Imogen nods. —I’ve heard that before. Of course, on paper I’m Swedish. But I hardly know the country. I’ve scarcely seen Stockholm. And if I had to pick a city, I’d take Paris over London in a heartbeat. Oddly enough, I’m quite attached to Berlin, because it reminds me of my childhood. I don’t know what all this adds up to. I’m not French, I’m not a proper Swede at all, and I’m certainly no German.
—Then you’re English.
She smiles. —If it pleases you.
They talk in French awhile and Imogen tells Ashley that his accent is good. Playfully they exchange a few phrases in Greek, a few whispered rhymes in German.
—Not so loud, Ashley warns. They’ll think you’re a spy. Come to think of it—
Imogen winks at him. —Spies are everywhere. But I spy only for myself.
Ashley leads Imogen along the park’s narrow lake, drained for the war, and they pass the new postal hutments where the mail from France is sorted. They sit on a bench before a large field.
—Would you mind terribly, Imogen says, if I asked you why you joined the army?
—For the uniform. I thought I’d cut a fine figure. And I got tired of getting white feathers every time I rode the tram.
—You don’t like to be serious.
—Not always.
—Try to be. I want to know.
Ashley looks at her quizzically. —You may have heard this, but the country’s at war. There was hardly a fellow in my college that didn’t join.
—Do you always do what the other fellows are doing?
—No.
—I didn’t think so. Mr. Walsingham, I’m not trying to be difficult. I may have certain ideas about the war or the army, but I’m the first to admit they could be entirely wrong. One can’t listen only to people like Mr. Russell any more than one can read the Morning Post. So I want to know why you really—
—I was bored at Cambridge, Ashley says abruptly. I supposed there had to be more to life than endless Latin. And I was fool enough to worry I’d miss something if I kept out of the war.
—But you told Ellie you wish to do your duty.
—And I meant it. After all, one can’t live only for oneself. I’ve tried that, and it isn’t any good.
—Is going to war your idea of living for others?
—It could be.
—And killing people?
Ashley hesitates. Imogen shakes her head, touching his sleeve.
—I’m sorry, I don’t mean to put you in the dock. We scarcely know each other and already I feel I’m fouling everything up—
—It’s a fair question, Ashley says. I suppose the answer is that we ought to kill only in order to save others.
—It seems a poor trade, killing one person to save another. How would you know you were really saving anyone?
—I suppose one never knows.
Imogen looks at Ashley, narrowing her eyes.
—You’ll forgive me, but you don’t seem particularly bellicose for a solider. I always imagined soldiers being so certain about everything.
—No thinking man can be certain about anything. Least of all anything complicated. And the war is damned complicated.
—And climbing?
Ashley smiles. —No. That’s simple.
They fall silent. Ashley squints across the lake to the orange-red sun dipping into the water. Imogen looks at her hands.
—They say it’s very bad in France.
—I know.
—Do you think it’s as bad as they say?
—It must be worse.
—You know, Ashley. You don’t have to go—
—Of course I do.
She shakes her head and puts her hand over Ashley’s. Her palm is cool and the softness of her hand thrills him.
—You can do anything you like. That’s all I’ve been trying to say. I simply can’t see why anyone who loves to climb mountains ought to go to the war. Many of the Germans are great climbers, aren’t they?
—Naturally.
—And they’ve parks like this one in Berlin, and in one of those parks there must be two people like us, talking like this right now, and one of them is going. Don’t tell me it isn’t true, because it is. And what difference in the world would it make if you stayed and he stayed, and none of us had to say good-bye?
—It’s a lovely thought. But I don’t believe it could ever happen—
—Things happen, Imogen counters, because people believe in them. One can’t worry what the rest of the world does or thinks. All that matters is that you’re here and I’m here, and we can do anything we like.
Ashley nods. Across the field the sun has vanished and the sky is turning purple. Imogen takes her hand back, remarking that it is nearly seven and she is meant to be in Mayfair for dinner. Ashley grins.
—I believe you won’t make it to dinner.
Imogen turns her face away, trying to hide her smile.
—No, she says. I don’t think I will.
SIGNS AND WONDERS
After three days in London I still can’t sleep straight through the night. All day I feel dead tired and all night I lie awake in my hotel room, my eyes open to the darkness, listening to the hum of the air conditioner. The English climber leaving a fortune to a woman he knew for one week. The summer house near Leksand refitted in the winter of 1916. And the single connecting piece, my grandmother, a woman I saw maybe three times in my life and only when I was very young.
Images linger on the edge of my memory. A visit to the seaside—it must have been California, but it doesn’t feel like California. The old woman’s slow walk, her thick ankles sinking into the sand with each step, my mother holding her arm. The wind tossing our hair. My grandmother’s scent of musky perfume, her strange accent and stranger manner of speech. Some ancient sticky candies she put in my hand. A peculiar piece of advice she had given, now long forgotten; an embarrassment I’d suffered but never really understood.
The clock flashes 3:13 a.m. I throw back the sheets and get dressed. The doorman downstairs winks at me as he pulls open the door. He saw me around the same time last night.
—Still jet-lagged, sir?
The doorman wears a frock coat and necktie. A top hat is perched over his gray hair.
—I’ve got it pretty bad.
—Best to go
for a walk, get yourself nice and tired.
I walk up Albemarle Street, zigzagging my way up to Marble Arch. On the way back I sit on a bench at the edge of Grosvenor Square and take my notebook from my jacket pocket. In large caps I write down two columns of research, ASHLEY and IMOGEN. Under these I make a list of subjects: Great War. Everest Expedition. London. Sweden. I draw arrows and connect the subjects to libraries. Alpine Club. War Archive. Recheck British Library. Newspapers. Most of these subjects lead to Ashley. I circle Imogen’s name twice and connect it to Charlotte. Then I add Eleanor.
I put the notebook in my pocket and walk back to the hotel. Hopefully I can get some sleep now.
I start with Ashley in the morning. In the dim basement of the Alpine Club in Shoreditch the archivist lets me hold Hugh Price’s ice axe, brought back from Everest in 1924. It is heavier than it looks. A well-balanced tool of wood and steel, its handle bears the double notches that Price carved to mark it as his own. I lift the axe to the light of the barred window. The steel head is engraved with the manufacturer’s name: CHR SCHENK, GRINDELWALD.
—What about Walsingham’s axe?
The archivist shrugs. —They never found it.
But this is only the beginning. I spend four straight days in archives from morning until closing time, allowing myself an hour break for lunch. I visit the reading rooms of the Imperial War Museum in Southwark; I page through the typewritten catalogs of the Royal Geographical Society on Kensington Gore, filing requests to see every surviving scrap of paper from the 1924 expedition. The librarian warns me that some documents might take days or weeks to be brought up from storage facilities, but I request them anyway. In hushed chambers I study yellowed letters and battered diaries, collecting stacks of memoirs as I flip through accounts of wars and climbs and expeditions. I learn of trenches and parapets and fire steps, of couloirs and moraines, of cwms and bergschrunds.
On Saturday I ride the Northern Line to the British Library’s newspaper collection at Colindale. All morning I flip through tall red-bound volumes of musty newsprint, reviewing the press coverage of the expedition to make sure I haven’t missed anything. Then I wheel through the endless microfilm collection, scanning carefully through June 1924. The same material appears again and again: headlines about the expedition’s failure; vague accounts of Ashley’s death; grainy reproductions of a snapshot taken at Everest base camp; the impersonal eulogy from the king. Only one article interests me, a small column of print that appeared seven weeks after Ashley’s death.