“I’ll help George. George will help me.”
He hauled himself to sitting and began to pull back on the rope, waiting for resistance. Lapkha’s bulging eyes followed his movements. When there was tension on the rope again, he’d tug on it to let George know he was there, that he was coming. He reeled it in, using the crook of his arm and his good hand.
The end of the rope slipped through his numb hand in the darkness and he pulled in empty air, the rope piled beside him. The end was broken, the fray of it already beginning to show, the rope unwinding from itself.
He stared at it.
“Just be calm. Use your head,” his father said. “Be calm. Think. You’re a smart lad. You’ll figure it out.”
The rope had broken and George had fallen, was below him somewhere. His breath came in choked gasps. He was going to die. They both were. He didn’t know how to find George. Didn’t know how to find the camp. Panic rose in him like a wave.
A stumbling slide downwards, scrape of scree and gravel under his feet, ripping up his legs. He tried to grasp at the mountain, to slow his descent. He had to find George. Get down. A new rhythm in his head. With each sliding step he thought he might plunge into the empty void around him. The thought stopped him for long moments and he sat, too terrified to move until the cold made him get up again, call for George. His voice was a whisper. The mountain creaking with cold. Settling.
He would rest. Just a minute.
If he rested he could catch his breath. Could make a decision. Find George. Get down. Find the tent. Odell might be there, waiting. Watching for them. Maybe Odell was on his way up to them. No. They hadn’t had a light. Odell wouldn’t have seen anything. He couldn’t see anything. The stars crept out above him, the clouds peeling them back.
There were tears on his face. Freezing. He wiped at them with his bare hands. Where were his gloves? He couldn’t feel his fingers on his cheeks. The tips of them were white, mushroom swollen. He touched his fingers against each other – they knocked solidly.
He drew up his knees, hid his hands down between his legs. He dropped his head and breathed into the small space between his chest and his knees. He could see his breath. The condensation of it sparkled slightly, but there wasn’t enough of it. Claustrophobia washed over him and he thrust his head up, back into the cold night air, gasping, shouting with what little air he could press from his lungs. His voice sounded wounded, dead.
He had to get up.
If he didn’t get up he would die, and he didn’t want to die. Not alone. Not without anyone knowing. He didn’t want to pay that price. He had to get down. If he told everyone what George had done, then it might be worth it.
Another minute. It was warmer now. So warm, comfortable. Like his old bed at home. He tore at his muffler. Why was he wearing that here? Pulled off his fur hat, tucked it under his head.
“I don’t want to die here.”
“You won’t.” His mum tucked the blanket in around him. It was too tight. He couldn’t move. “Do you see that flame?” She pointed. But there were so many. So many flickering fires all around him. In hearths, candles in windows. Far away. They winked at him.
“Which one?” he asked.
“That one …”
He nodded, could barely move his head. Didn’t want to move at all.
“I’ll keep that one lit for you.”
He focused on the twinkling fire his mother indicated. It burned brighter. It was close by. He could see his mother’s candle in the window. He dragged himself towards it and tapped at the glass. He reached for the door, but couldn’t find it. His hands tore at the stone wall, at the iced glass of the window.
He slumped against the house. She wouldn’t let him in.
The cold bubbled in his veins. He was freezing solid. His hands holding his legs were blocks of ice.
“We made it,” he tried to tell his mum.
There was no answer.
Sandy’s mind floated away from his body, calm and light, the air easy in his lungs. He was dying. A flush of warmth raced through him, soothing him. Where was the pain? He wanted it back.
The blowing snow gathered around him, small drifts around his knees and chest. It no longer melted where it touched him, just brushed his face, like the back of his mum’s fingers. His eyebrows were frosted, the edges of his blond hair, his hands ghost white, the blood pulled from them, the flesh frozen.
He couldn’t open his eyes, iced over by the mountain.
A FALSE STEP – and the mountain slipped out from underneath him.
He was falling, his body cartwheeling in space. “If you fall” – Geoffrey’s voice in his head – “you still have three seconds to live.” He’d been falling longer than that. He’d been falling forever. It didn’t hurt, this eternal free fall.
Then the pain – a crushing of his ribs, his lungs, and a wrenching up where the rope caught. The air was choked out of him. He couldn’t breathe. There was only pain. In his ribs. In his lungs. He wanted to scream, but it came out as a small whimper. A breath of sound. There was a moaning in his ear. Then a tearing, a release. Another moan.
The mountain rushed up to meet him.
His right foot slammed against the granite face and he heard his leg snap, audible in spite of the wind and the moaning in his head. Then the sharp burning stab of it and the white gleam of bone through flesh.
He clawed at the crumbling stone as he scraped down against the slope. His fingers and hands were shredded by the knife edges of rock that tore him apart, flaying the flesh on his chest and stomach to ribbons as his clothing was ripped away from him. The pain came in waves of heat.
Somewhere too close there was screaming that died off at the end of a breath. Then the struggle to inhale and another scream. It was him. He was choking.
His head snapped forward, ricocheting off stone, off ice and grit. There was blood in his eyes, the warmth of it blinding him.
The mountain clung to him, refused to let him go. He slowed and stopped, his hands still tearing at the scree, scrambling for some kind of hold. His fingers were bloodied pulp. He bled onto the frozen rock.
He crossed his good leg over the broken one and tried to lift his head. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. His body was burning. He was grateful for the warmth.
His hands still gripped the mountain. He tried to call for Sandy. His swollen lips could barely shape the sound. And not enough air in his lungs to push the name out.
Sandy’s name was a soft moan on the mountain. Sandy. He was sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. He had to get up and go to Sandy. He had to get him home.
He tried to lift himself up, but the mountain held him close.
“Ruth?” He needed her here. “Ruth?” Where was she?
Sandy would tell her what happened. Unless Sandy fell too. No. He’d get home. He’d see Ruth. I’m sorry. Please, forgive me. Please. Ruth?
He looked for her, but couldn’t see through the blood congealing, freezing in his eyes. His split fingers pulled at the mountain. He tried to push with his broken leg. Pain shot through him. He collapsed against the mountain’s face. She held him there.
He just wanted to stay still. Wanted it to end.
The mountain clung to him, claimed him. The cold seeped into his body from the stone, the air. She was lying beside him. Her breath on his cheek. Her hand on his brow. The cold numbed him, the cuts and bruises, the break of bone shining where it pierced the flesh above his boot.
She catalogued the injuries. Caressing them, soothing them.
He existed only in the quarter-inch of flesh below the skin that no longer felt the burn of cold. His heart slowed, the blood at his temple ebbed and sparkled with the forming of tiny ice crystals.
His breath faltered, the ache in his ribs eased. The wind fingered the edges of his clothes, peeked under them, slid in against his skin. He couldn’t feel her caress any more.
His mind slowed.
He was lying on the blank snowfield of their be
d, waiting. He would wait for her now. He would wait and she would come.
He was still. His heart. His breath.
His body froze around him.
He listened for the sound of her footsteps.
VISITATIONS
The morning light in the room has that curious end-of-summer hue – yellowish, as though a storm is gathering itself on the horizon. Like a fading bruise. There are no shadows, so everything appears flat, as if cast in a medieval painting – objects sized by their importance, rather than perspective. The largest object in the room is the desk, with its pile of unacknowledged correspondence. But the painting of the canals on the near-empty bookshelves seems to have expanded in size, from that of a large book to something unwieldy. With effort, I take it down from where it leans, place it in the box in the centre of the room. The box, too, seems very large as his belongings disappear into it. I am the only thing that is small.
In the kitchen Edith moves gingerly. She is trying to be quiet, but in the way of people tiptoeing about, her noises are all the more noticeable for it. The single clang of the kettle on the burner is more startling than the persistent small clatter she usually makes. The smell of scones wafts in the air – lemon maybe? Or lavender. And the hint of cinnamon. It is her way of doing what she can. Her way of paying tribute. The ache that I have been holding down wells up now into my lungs. I inhale and hold my breath against it. Try to get hold of myself.
The post rattles through the front door and I force myself to step into the hallway. The envelopes are scattered on the floor. So many of them. I scoop them up and pile them onto the side table without a glance. Edith is at my elbow. “Sorry, mum. I was just on my way to get that.” She takes up the post and carries it away. She has done this since that first night. As if she could intercept worse news.
It was June and the children had already had their tea. I’d had a cold supper and stood reading Cottie’s invitation to join her in the country. Her and Owen and the children. I know you said you’d think about it when I saw you at dinner, but I want you to know the invitation is sincere. We would love to be with you. Maybe we would go after all. It would be good, a change of routine, a distraction. The mail could be forwarded, Hinks given the address to find me with any immediate news.
I remember every one of those thoughts, the words in Cottie’s letter.
The doorbell sounding was a surprise. Then Edith’s voice. Vi was upstairs with the children. The deeper tenor of a man speaking. Hushed, low. The both of them. Cold crawled across my skin in the warm room.
In bed the previous two nights, I’d lain half awake, half dreaming. I imagined George was in bed beside me, his body long on the white of the sheet, arms stretched above his head, his face turned away.
Beside me George was heavy, motionless. So heavy my body rolled towards his, and I wanted to hold myself against him, feel him against the length of me. But he was so cold, I held back, only touched him with my hand. The cold seeped into my skin, up my arm, discolouring it. When I pulled back, there was the snap of cracking ice.
In the hallway the door closed and I exhaled, though I hadn’t known I was holding my breath. Then footsteps came towards me, quick and shuffling. Quicker than if Edith was returning to the dishes. In my head I urged her past the parlour, back to the kitchen. Go past. Go past.
She was standing in the doorway, looking everywhere but at me, her lips pressed tight.
“What is it?” I was sitting. Hadn’t I been standing by the window? Hadn’t I been thinking about joining Cottie in the country? Her note was still in my hand.
Edith motioned to the door.
“What is it?”
She waved her hand again. “The door, mum.”
There was a man, just inside the door. A small man, young, in an old suit, the black of it faded at the elbow, the cloth rubbed bare. The collar was worn. He turned his hat in his hands. Flipped it. Flip. Flip. Flip. I didn’t know him.
“Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Mallory? Mrs. George Mallory?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Vincent Hamilton. From the Times?” It was a question, as though he was unsure of his name, or perhaps he expected I would recognize him.
The dream swam in my head again and I shook it away. He just wanted to know something, I told myself, some detail about George. Something silly he hoped to make a story from – what George ate for breakfast before a climb. Did he have a lucky hat? I had nothing to say to him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hamilton,” I said, surprised at how calm my voice sounded as I reached past him to the door to usher him out. I could smell cigarettes on him. Stale. “I’m sorry you’ve come all this way, and Edith should have told you I don’t wish to speak to reporters. You’ve wasted your time, I’m afraid.”
He stopped flipping his hat, stared at his feet. His hair was thinning on top, unfortunate in someone so young. When he glanced back up, his face was pale and he backed towards the door.
“Oh. Ah … I see.”
He was reaching for the handle, preparing to leave, but I could tell there was something. I held the door shut and drew closer to him. Below the smell of cigarettes there was coffee. Alcohol, maybe. And something else. Sweat and fear. Mine or his? He was still stuttering.
“You haven’t, um, haven’t heard. I’m sorry. They assured me. At the paper. Said the Committee had told you. I didn’t want to come anyway. We would never … I wouldn’t have come … But it will be in the paper tomorrow. They said we could print it. And I was only sent here to ask about it. But you were supposed to know. We only … I mean the paper only wanted to know if you had something to say.” He wasn’t making sense.
“About what?” My voice sounded as far away as I wanted to be. Wherever George was.
“About your husband? About Mr. Mallory?”
“I already told you, I have nothing to say.”
“But he’s dead.” The word exploded out of him.
And everything stopped. Just for a beat. The world was a tiny pinpoint of light and a cold wind in my mind, like a scraping away, a scraping clean. My lungs hurt, my ribs pressed against them. I couldn’t breathe. There was a strange huffing sound. Uneven. It was me.
Staring at the door now, two months later, at the sunlight coming through squares of coloured glass, I feel it wash over me again.
He calmed then, in the face of my panic. “We received this today. This afternoon.” He held out a piece of paper. A telegram. The onion-skin paper of it in my hands. Words typed in black letters. MALLORY IRVINE NOVE REMAINDER ALCEDO. Above it something written in pencil. The word killed.
Killed.
“They died, ma’am. George Mallory and Andrew Irvine. Did you know him too, ma’am? I’m sorry. They were making an attempt. I’m sorry.”
He kept saying he was sorry. As if it were his fault. As if it would help.
He asked, was I all right? Was there someone he could fetch for me? Then he remembered himself – was there anything I’d like to say? for the papers? for the people?
The clock chimes. I count. Ten. Eleven.
Eleven already. Colonel Norton and Mr. Odell will be arriving soon. In the sitting room a small round table has been set for three, near the window. Edith has put out the good lace tablecloth George sent me from Belgium during the war. The good china. The silver polished so brightly it gleams in the shafts of sunlight. Edith has been baking. She has made sandwiches on fresh bread. Everything we can offer. I have set aside a bottle of wine. There is ice, should they want something stronger than tea. Whisky. They may need it. I might.
Upstairs, I check myself in the mirror, make sure I appear put together. Calm. I don’t want them to think I’m a woman who is about to break down, though that’s how I feel. As though I might break apart, might shatter. I pinch my cheeks, push back my hair. My face looks pale against the black collar. Then I sit on the edge of the bed and wait for the sound of the bell.
I will have to pack up this room soon. Send the clothes, t
he photographs, to my father’s and set them up there. He’s offered to buy new furniture, and for the children I have agreed. For me, I want to take this bed.
We talked about this happening. George and I. Right here.
It was after the fights had ended. He was packing but I’d refused to help him, only half teasing that I wouldn’t make it easier for him to leave.
“What happens if …” I couldn’t say it. I took a pair of his wool socks and hid them under my pillow.
“If what?”
“If something happens? If you don’t come back?”
I’d never said it before. We’d never talked about it, all through the war, or the first trips to Everest. I tried not to even think about it. Why did I say it then? Did my saying it make it happen?
“George?” He stopped then and focused on me. I didn’t want to cry. “I mean it. I want to know. What if you don’t come back? How do I go on?”
“You’ll take care of the children. You’ll be sad. And then less so. Maybe you’ll remarry. You’ll carry on. But don’t worry, Mouse. Everything will be fine.”
“Will it?”
“Yes.”
It rises up like this. Not the grief; the grief is always there. As I described it to Geoffrey, I feel numbed and quite unable to realize, there is only just pain. It has only just happened and one has to go through with it. No, the pain doesn’t scare me.
It is the other things. I can’t remember when I last told him I loved him. I should have said it on the gangplank. I must have. I would have. But what if I didn’t?
I try to conjure him now.
“George?”
But there’s no answer.
Two months later I am still piecing the story together. From letters and telegrams. From the eulogizing newspapers. In every way that I dreaded.
At 7:45, a half-hour after the reporter from the Times had left, the telegram from Hinks arrived. Edith was sitting with me in the front room and jolted when the doorbell rang again. We’d been silent for so long. She had made tea, sat with me, tried to stifle her own cries. “Do you want me to fetch the children?” she’d asked.
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