by Gil Hogg
“Give me the book!”
Stuart bent over and wrenched at his parka. Then he straightened up and aimed a blow with one of his poles. Tom deflected the blow with his forearm. For a moment they were stilled, Stuart dazed by what he had done.
“You’re crazy, man. Get hold of yourself!” Tom shouted, struggling to his feet.
Stuart suddenly went limp and sobbed.
They slowly resumed their walk in silence and did not speak for the remaining distance. The silence was heightened by the snowfall which enclosed them, each man in a separate world. He remained a safe distance behind Stuart and gripped his poles, ready to defend himself, although he thought that Stuart’s breakdown had passed. They were in the truck before Stuart spoke.
“You know I’ll be ruined by this. Everything I’ve worked for is in sports journalism.”
“It’s not as bad as that,” he said, trying to make light of it, but thinking it couldn’t be worse.
“What are you going to do with the notebook?”
“I haven’t thought about it. I need to take time.”
“We’ve been friends just about all our lives…” Stuart began.
He’d talk to Alison about this. ‘He’s going to lean on our friendship for help. But what help can I give? What help should I give? After all, the aggrieved party here is my own long gone father. I’ve always felt with Stuart that the warmth of years of friendship and shared interests heavily concealed deeper feelings, conflicts which have never surfaced overtly. For me, what is down deep is a simple difference of position which nothing can change. Boss boy and farm boy; master and serf.’
Alison would say, ‘It’s your own sense of inferiority.’
‘No, It’s a sense of what is real. Stuart really is my master in his own mind and it’s always been like that. But I feel I’m as good a man as he is.’
Alison wouldn’t let this pass. ‘Tom, don’t close your eyes to yourself. You’ve ridden a long way in the Ashton Rolls- Royce. You never were merely a bright little urchin.’
‘I was Mr Robyn Ashton,’ he’d say.
‘You’ve used them, Tom. Recognise it!’
He responded to Stuart, “We’ve been adversaries, at times.”
“We need your help now.”
Tom said, “You, Stuart, and Robyn are two of the biggest pieces of furniture in my life, for your own separate selves. My feelings for you both are difficult to define, but they are warm and benevolent. And what about your feelings for me, the farm boy given a coat of varnish by a university?”
“I’ve never thought of you like that,” Stuart choked, as he began to throw the Land Rover carelessly around the bends in the gravel road.
He didn’t challenge Stuart, although he didn’t believe him. He clamped his jaw and looked at the road ahead. “Steady, man, steady.”
It was incredible to him that a notebook which had been abandoned in snow and ice could reappear and explode more than thirty years of history and a proud human conquest. Now, the notebook had opened a void which could be filled by a new, stark reality. He believed that there could be no conceivable reason why his father would fabricate the notes he scribbled in his last hours. The prop for Stuart’s reputation had gone. It could be shored up by Tom, but if not, a bad smell around Mt Vogel would haunt Stuart for as long as he chose to be a climber-journalist. ‘You know he’s the son of Ernest Ashton, don’t you?’ people would say when his name was mentioned.
Amongst mountaineers, there are many stories of cowardice and neglect of human duty on the slopes, but the truth about Mt Vogel, if it became known, would surpass them all as utterly vile, the theft of another man’s conquest. In the mist would hover questions about Ernest’s implication in Bill Stavely’s death, questions which, thankfully, that at this time didn’t trouble him.
As he was jolted around in the cab of the truck on their journey, he had a desire to interrogate Ernest, to plumb the depths of his perfidy, the lie of that heroic book The Fateful Snows. The impulse which guided him to the red couch with Robyn taunted him now. If the desire to strike squirmed in him like a live animal, at least age had tempered it with an understanding of the corrosive effects that hatred could have upon him. Stuart too was fuming about his father, and Tom feared that such was their history, words would not be a sufficient weapon.
9
Tia met the Land Rover as Stuart drove it to the back entrance of the house at dusk. “Stuart, there’s a call for you from The Mountaineer magazine.”
“I won’t take their calls.”
“They also want to speak to you, Tom,” Tia said.
“Tell them I’ll call them back.”
He really meant this as a polite code for ‘don’t bother me’, but Stuart was boiling. “What are you going to say to them? Whine about the great wrong done to your father?”
“First, Stu, we ought to talk about this and decide together on the best way to handle the press. After we’ve had a chance to shower and get a bit of rest.”
“What’s happened?” Tia asked.
There was a moment of silence and awkward stares.
“Nothing as far as the world’s concerned!” Stuart shouted, “just surmise and… lies!”
“I can’t believe this,” Tia said, “Ernest is…”
“Somebody?” Tom said.
“He may be an unpleasant man, Tom, but surely-” Tia began.
“Unpleasant? Understatement of his lifetime! Say nothing to The Mountaineer or the press. Nothing!” Stuart was adamant.
“Not necessarily, Stu. Maybe we can use them to throw a different light on things,” Tom said.
“Only if you’re prepared to deny the authenticity of the notebook, Tom.”
“We can’t fly in the face of facts, but we can - ”
“I’m going to get a party together to climb Mt Vogel!” Stuart burst out.
Tom looked at Tia.
“This isn’t the time,” Tia said. She clutched Stuart.
“I see the idea of vindicating yourself, Stu, but you can’t rush it. You know better than anybody that it takes planning and planning takes time.” Tom spoke in a level tone.
“Planning, normally, yes. But this is different!”
“In what way different?” Tom asked flatly.
“My fucking reputation and everything I’ve worked for is in jeopardy.”
“Listen to Tom, please Stuart,” Tia begged.
But Stuart didn’t appear to be listening to either of them.
“I could be ready in four weeks and I can count on a couple of climbers. Will you come, Tom? That would be the imprimatur that I need. ”
He couldn’t help thinking this was far-fetched, if not irrelevant. “No. I’ve told you the climb is beyond me now. And I have commitments at home in England.”
“Christ man, it’s my life, my reputation in issue here!” Stuart bellowed, the vein on his forehead standing out.
“You and I can talk about this. We can work something out. I’ll talk to Ernest.”
“Work something out? When my future is in the hands of a bloody reporter?” He dropped his parka and pack on the tiled floor of the porch and disappeared upstairs.
“I’ll go up to him,” Tia said. “Oh, Tom, what’s going to happen?”
“Try to get him to stay away from the old man. They’ll have to talk ultimately, but not at the moment. Stu will calm down. He’s tired. He hasn’t had an opportunity to think.”
Tom went up to his room, but paused long enough only to splash his face with cold water and remove the notebook from his pack. Then he went to Ernest’s bedroom. Ernest was awake and reading a magazine. This was the moment when Tom had the metaphorical dagger in his hand, and it was exhilarating. He didn’t have any wish to justify his father. It was as though Bill Stavely was an unlucky player in this, rather than his kin. His entire focus was on Ernest and himself. He would have cared if Stuart, who seemed crazed, had run upstairs and got to Ernest first; he wanted to get to Ernest first himself. He
wanted to prick the bladder of arrogance and see that toxic fuel leak away.
Ernest dropped his reading and removed his glasses when he saw Tom. “Ah, the fact-finder’s return. Well, you’ve got it all sorted now, have you, or have you been listening to fairytales?”
“Bill Stavely’s notebook isn’t a fairytale, Ernest.” He waved the notebook in his hand.
“Notebook? Let me see.” He lifted his claw of a hand. “Arrgh! Stavely could hardly read or write!”
Tom avoided his reach and read, “Summit! 1700hrs. Slow prog up soft snow west ridge. Clear. Sun above clouds. SW wind vicious. Planted flag. Photo. 2 mins!” He pushed the book under Ernest’s nose, and dodged his attempts to grasp it. “You can’t deny that!”
“It’s probably one of my notebooks. Where did you get it?”
“No, Ernest, no. You know it isn’t. It’s Bill Stavely’s notebook, rescued from the glacier by a mountain man. Your notebook in which you recorded your fraudulent conquest is in the Canterbury museum. Remember? You never recorded that priceless moment of arrival at the summit of Mt Vogel twice in different notebooks.”
“I didn’t steal anything from Bill Stavely, but supposing I had? Who did I hurt? It was an achievement running around like a chicken without a head. Stavely was dead.”
He wasn’t expecting this piece of Machiavellian pragmatism. “Is that what you told your conscience when the mountaineering world was patting you on the back, and saying what a great man you were?”
Ernest Ashton rested his head on the pillow and turned to face Tom. The tissue on his skull had tightened to reveal a tall, square structure as his face, like a closed door; still a touch of superiority in the design, and draped across it like a rag was a cynical smile. “I was a bloody fine mountaineer. World class. Everybody knows that. Everest, K2. And Bill Stavely was shit.”
This barb drew no blood from Tom. “That’s what you thought of your climbing buddy?”
“Climbing buddy nothing. Your father was my sherpa. Not even a sirdar. He carried the kitchen. He was dirt.”
“In your book, Bill Stavely is a brave companion.”
“Poetic licence,” the old man breathed. “He robbed me. Took money from the Downs’ accounts for gambling. He beat your mother. He was well capable of pencilling up a lying notebook.”
“If he was so bad, why did you take him as your companion?”
“Because he was available, fit, and had some experience - more than any other member of the party - and most important I needed a mule to carry my load. Do you get it? A mule, not a companion.”
“You despised him. And, if you both succeeded, you wanted somebody whom you could upstage as a servant.”
“I despised him. I shed no tears when he died.”
“Tell me how he died.”
“Read my book. He fell on the ascent and I went on alone.”
“I prefer Bill Stavely’s notebook.”
“What does he say?” The old man asked this question scornfully.
“That you parted after a fall on the way up. He went on, and you went down. He summited, and fell on the way down. We don’t know any more, but evidently you found him and plundered him like a pirate.”
“The man was a fantasist.” Ernest turned away dismissively.
“You know you’ve screwed up Stuart’s career. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t come upstairs and throttle you.”
The old man looked apprehensive, then oily. “I’ll be ready for him. I always have been.”
Tom was annoyed and couldn’t resist striking again. “I don’t think I ever told you, Ernest, that when I first screwed your daughter, on the red couch in the drawing room, it felt like I was sticking a pine cone up your bum. Being here now feels the same.”
The old man stared at him, calculating the enormity of this. “I’ve never thought much of you Tom. You’re a quitter.”
“Do you realise this, Ernest? The Mt Vogel story will be plastered around this country - and overseas. It’s the kind of story the newspapers and magazines love - callous, chillingly evil, and a bubble of reputation pricked, not to mention the shame of a high and mighty family. When it happens, and it’ll happen soon, it’ll be like the red couch feeling for me.”
“I’ll deny it. I’ll sue you. And my pockets are deeper than yours.”
“I’m not going to tell the story. The Mountaineer are already fishing for it. They’ll syndicate it to the newspapers here and abroad. Parliament will take your knighthood away if you live long enough. The Fateful Snows will be trashed by every library and bookshop in the world - or maybe collected as a tangible example of a monstrous lie.”
He wasn’t going to tell Ernest that he had just about decided, in Stuart’s interests, to keep quiet about the notebook.
“A scabby little hack tried to talk to me on the phone. I hung up.” Ernest rested his chin on his chest, seemingly beaten.
“It’s too late for you anyway. You’re nearly in the grave. If there are any mourners at your funeral, they’ll need pegs on their noses to stop the stink from your coffin.”
Ernest reared up, his eyelids fluttering, his voice phlegmy. “Bill Stavely, that drunken hobo as the conquerer of Mt Vogel? While I, with my mountaineering expertise and my conquests was on the lower slopes? Never. No, never that! That would be an arse-up world.”
“That’s it, isn’t it? It wasn’t just a simple matter of stealing a companion’s victory. The celebrated Ernest Ashton couldn’t be bested by his servant. You’d have died of shame if Bill Stavely climbed Mt Vogel and you failed! You had to step in. Your reputation demanded it!”
“You’re like your father, a turd. Smarter and more sober perhaps, but a turd.”
Tom couldn’t help deriding the man’s agitation. “Sir Ernest Ashton, renowned climber, author, landowner, and Prince of South Canterbury. What an illusion! I’m not a very good man, Ernest, but you are a villain! A man like you doesn’t commit just one villainy. What else have you done, Ernest, apart from attempting to destroy Stuart?”
“Are you going to sanctify Bill Stavely at the same time as you are ruining me?”
Ernest had suddenly headed in another direction. He now seemed to be looking at Tom’s assertions as facts which would be accepted.
“Why not? Just a little. He’ll have his name in the record books, after all. The drinking and wife beating and gambling and petty thievery will be forgotten.”
“I won’t forget.”
“You’ll be dead. But that’s beside the point. We’re talking here about you and my father in the eyes of the world. And we’re talking, much more importantly, about Stuart. The story will virtually ruin him.”
“Drivel! Stuart will have to find his own way. He’s never taken any advice from me, or given a damn for what I think.”
“The one thing he did give a damn for is your conquest of Mt Vogel and your book about it. He built his career on it. I don’t know why your lie hasn’t crushed you, as it’s about to tarnish him.”
Ernest spurted a short sound from his throat that was his laugh. “Not everybody has your infantile Sunday School morality.”
“The smell of you, the putrid smell, will be on Stuart’s skin for as long as he pens a word about mountaineering.”
Ernest dismissed him like an irritating courtier, with the flick of his waxy hand.
He left the bedroom, realising that a storm was rising. The wind was whipping the leaves threateningly. He went down to the study and poured himself a whisky. He gulped it and it burned. What had been said was there to be said; no shocks, and no sense of personal offence, other than the deep and old abrasion of the Ashtons’ imagined superiority. What was left, like two rocks on the sand after the tide of abuse had run out, was Ernest’s utter disdain, and Tom’s hatred of him - dislike was too feeble a word; he had to acknowledge it was hatred.
Alison’s parents lived in Geraldine where her father, a former architect, and her mother, were happily spending their retirement years. Visiting
them was partly duty, but also a pleasure because of their cheery relationship and equable lifestyle. If he could have chosen his parents, Geoffrey and Helen Fuller would be the people. He sat on a deck chair in the sun in their garden, drinking tea, and felt that he was accepted as ‘family’.
Helen Fuller said, “I can’t understand why Alison didn’t come with you, Tom. It would be wonderful to see her. And we really won’t be able to go to see her for… for a while, anyway. ”
“She doesn’t want to attend an Ashton celebration. She really couldn’t have come with me and avoided the wedding.”
“No, that would…” Geoffrey began.
“So it’s not true, Tom, that your boy isn’t well and she has to be at home?”
“Not really. Nick wasn’t well, but I don’t think she wanted to get into the Ashton thing, and she didn’t want to talk about why.”
“We understand the sensitivities, Tom,” Geoffrey said.
Helen nodded, and cupped her hand around a rose in the nearby bed in a preoccupied way. Her leathery smile could not hide the angst of being separated from her only child and two grandchildren by vast oceans. Geoffrey Fuller, a surveyor in local government in Bath, had wanted a better existence and found one in local government in Christchurch. Now retired, he and his wife had good health, a pleasant home, and an adequate pension; everything they wanted - except the company of their daughter and grandchildren. Alison, Tom knew, felt more distant about it. She was happy with telephone calls and occasional visits. Helen, like other grandmothers, would have liked to pop in on the grandchildren every week.
“You’ll bring her and the children back to see us soon, won’t you, Tom?” Helen said.
“Sure.”
“Is there any chance that you’ll come back permanently?” Geoffrey asked in a wistful tone.
Tom supposed that Geoffrey must have thrashed around the possibilities that might put them physically closer to Alison. The most obvious one was to go back to Blighty, but they couldn’t face that. Well, Geoffrey couldn’t. Yet he wanted to grant his wife her dearest wish. He wanted her to stop yearning. It grated like sandpaper on his nerves when he saw her sitting in the garden, staring at the flower in her hand without seeing it. He had never thought it conceivable that Alison might settle in England. Inconceivable. He and Helen came here for peace and security and found it, and Alison rejected it all! She liked it in England. Tom was Geoffrey’s only chance. The long strands of silver hair fell over his tanned forehead despondently.