After Everest

by Paul Little

  There was never any doubt the greatest living New Zealander would have a state funeral, although Sarah says she for one did not expect it. The event might not have been a circus, but it was certainly a major production. Right from the start, it was unlike any funeral most people will ever experience.

  The Very Reverend Ross Bay, dean of the Anglican Holy Trinity Cathedral in Parnell, engaged the funeral director. Unusually, in the early stages all dealings concerning details of the funeral were between the funeral directors, the Department of Internal Affairs and the cathedral. June was brought into the picture late in the day and expressed a wish, more optimistic than likely, that the arrangements would be kept as normal as possible. She had a meeting with the funeral director two days later and three days after that there was another meeting involving June, the funeral director, the dean, the Bishop of Auckland, Internal Affairs and Helen Clark.

  So complicated were the arrangements—and so far were the distances that many elderly mourners would have to travel—that the funeral did not take place until a full eleven days after Ed’s death. The surviving 1953 Everest team members and wives—Alf Gregory, George Lowe, Michael Westmacott and George Band—plus Jan Morris were invited as special guests. The mountaineers were also invited to receptions hosted by the governor-general, and what George Band called a ‘mountaineers’ farewell organised by the New Zealand Alpine Club, at which a dozen of his friends recalled facets of Sir Edmund’s varied life’. Many other great figures from New Zealand mountaineering and adventuring attended, including Ed’s critic Norm Hardie, June’s ally Jim Wilson, and Ed’s protégé Graeme Dingle.

  Family divisions were clear to see as the bereaved made their way into the cathedral for the service. June, who, in a touching gesture patted Ed’s casket affectionately before she took her seat, was accompanied by Helen Clark. They were followed by Sarah, who sat on the other side of the prime minister from June. Peter and his family sat two rows back.

  People and relics from Ed’s career were poignantly deployed throughout. The start of the service was marked by ringing the bell from the Endeavour—the ship that carried Ed and his team to the South Pole on the Trans-Antarctic Expedition. Four grandchildren took part. Sarah’s son Arthur Boyer read an excerpt from Louise’s A Yak for Christmas. Sarah and Peter shared memories, with glancing mentions of June.

  Among the most moving tributes were those from Sherpas, who attended in large numbers. Ang Rita Tshering Sherpa said, ‘His loss for us is bigger and heavier than Mt Everest.’ Tenzing Norgay’s son, Norbu Tenzing Norgay, said, ‘When Sherpas heard the news of his death the grief spiralled into mourning only comparable to the loss of a parent. From every monastery in the Mt Everest region, to Sherpa homes and schoolchildren in the Khumbu, [people] gathered by the thousands to light butter lamps and pray for his soul and reincarnation.’

  For others who loved Ed, it was not necessarily the funeral they would have chosen. ‘Mostly it was too political,’ says Ed’s nephew John, ‘but there was a time when it was just the cousins—that was really good. The thing that I couldn’t believe seeing was when we were on the bus. There were all these people standing on the side of the road. It was overwhelming. I thought if Ed could see that—his own people. That went through my mind. He was a good guy.’

  As the cortege left the cathedral, people lined the streets on the way to the crematorium, many rushing forward to throw flowers on the hearse.

  Peter and Sarah’s feelings were mixed. They were more conscious than ever that their father in a very real sense did not belong to them. The evidence was on either side of the road. He was a public image, almost a creation of the national consciousness, rather than a man who could put his arms around them and shut out the world. He belonged to that world, not to them.

  ‘We didn’t get a funeral,’ says Peter, ‘because it was a media performance. It was a state funeral, it was a huge honour, but there was never a time for the family to mourn or come to terms with things.’ He notes that, whereas after most funerals the mourners are invited to the deceased’s or another relative’s house, ‘we had to go back to Government House. A few weeks later we were at [a special ceremony to farewell Ed at] Queen Elizabeth’s place at Windsor Castle. You know, it’s all fantastic and extraordinary; but there were 24 cameras in the cathedral. None of that is what you normally have in a situation like that.’

  Peter and Sarah grinned and bore it. This is how it had been all through their lives, sharing their father with the rest of the country and sometimes the whole world. ‘It was a really wonderful thing, but it wasn’t a lot about us,’ says Sarah. ‘We were greatly honoured by it—it was amazing, but it did build up a lot of stress. For most families, there is an opportunity for the private family, just being together, to deal with the whole thing. “Grieving” isn’t even the right word. When someone is 88 and you know there is going to be a death, that is reality.’

  The most that could be dragged up in the way of public controversy over the arrangements for Ed’s funeral was high dudgeon generated in some quarters over the failure of any member of the royal family—preferably the Queen, but not necessarily—to turn up. The normally sane Sunday Star-Times led the demented charge. ‘Buckingham Palace has, at a stroke, infuriated all of New Zealand and turned mild monarchists into red-hot anti-royalists,’ it tried to thunder.

  As PR botches go, it’s epoch-making and hilarious. But as an insult to this country and its deepest values, it is unforgivable . . . Edmund and Elizabeth’s twosome was for many monarchists a kind of symbol of the close bonds between their countries. The fact that she can’t be bothered even to send a minor princeling or pint-sized princess to farewell him should tell even them that these bonds are broken.

  This was a view based at least partly on a misunderstanding of the protocol that surrounds such an occasion. ‘The Queen never goes to funerals, except for close relatives and very close friends,’ says Ken Richardson. ‘It’s always been a rule that the monarch doesn’t go. I think she made one exception when it was Winston Churchill—he was her first prime minister and he was a hero. I went to see Ed lying in state and saw [journalist] Barry Soper in a tent waiting for a feed for Sky. “What do you think about this hoo-ha over the Queen?” he said. I said it was a load of nonsense. The Prince of Wales came to [Prime Minister Norman] Kirk’s funeral in 1974 and Prince William came over to see the Christchurch earthquake. But, I said, Ed is not in that category—he has no constitutional connection and, quite frankly, I thought it was a beat-up story.’

  And besides, the Queen, along with her daughter Princess Anne and Sophie Countess of Wessex, did farewell her Knight of the Garter in a special ceremony in St George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle, in April. This was attended by Hillary family members, as well as Helen Clark, and some 650 others, including many expatriate New Zealanders, who listened to the service relayed outside. The ceremony included the ‘laying up’ of Ed’s Knight of the Garter banner, which is returned to the family when a knight dies.

  Afterwards, according to Ken Richardson, ‘Elizabeth the Second pulled the stops out and had the whole family for lunch. The present New Zealand High Commissioner, Derek Leask, had just arrived to take over that post and—bingo!—the Hillarys are going to be there. The Brits must have listened to the criticism because they had the service of taking down the banner, which normally the Queen wouldn’t possibly attend. The add-on, which is not normal, was they were all invited to the castle up the hill for lunch with the Queen. That was a dedicated lunch for Ed Hillary.’

  Despite reports that Ed’s ashes would be scattered on top of Everest—or kept in a small shrine to one side—they were scattered on Auckland’s Waitemata Harbour in accordance with his wishes. Meanwhile grief postponed was grief denied for Peter and Sarah. ‘I felt when I finally had real time to myself it was with an old climbing buddy and we went in June to climb Mt McKinley in Alaska,’ says Peter. ‘Roddy McKenzie is an old friend so we could really talk about it, because his father had
died. That was in some ways the first time I really felt I had a bit of a chance to go through the grieving process.’

  ‘I nearly had a complete breakdown after the funeral,’ says Sarah, ‘We were meant to be doing something and Ed died, and my friend who I was [planning to go] travelling with came over. We had gone through the whole thing with the funeral. I had to cancel air tickets and I was really tired and then we had to prove we’d had a funeral. And I think I just burst into tears. I couldn’t cope.’ Sarah must have encountered the only airline employee in New Zealand who did not know Ed Hillary had died.

  Sarah and Peter both miss Ed for the same reasons any children miss a father. ‘I miss the fact he knows all that stuff,’ says Sarah. ‘He’s the only person you could talk to about certain things. You know how there is that person in your life.’

  ‘There’s things that no one else would understand,’ says Peter. ‘I spent a lot of wonderful times out on expeditions with him, up there building a little school or reroofing something or putting a wild bridge across a gorge—they were just astounding experiences. It was lovely to see the respect that so many people had for him in all walks of life. I remember when a couple of beekeepers came to see him and they just chatted and chatted, drank tea. And similarly, in a little village in the Himalayas, with the simple village farming folk, you can just tell he is enjoying being in their company.’

  John Hillary feels it’s hard to miss someone who had what Ed did. ‘He had a great life. He said that. He had two great wives. He had a fantastic time. I don’t think it is a case of missing people. He had a rich life, but then his time had come.’

  Even Mark Sainsbury, who co-anchored the funeral coverage of his friend’s funeral, found his grief was delayed by the turmoil of the days after Ed’s death. ‘And then I realised I couldn’t pop around to see him like I used to do all the time. It was probably a month before I cried thinking about Ed, because I was doing all this stuff.’

  Friends say June—having been through the most public of griefs, involving considerable embarrassments—only began to get over Ed’s death three years after the event and thanks to the passage of time.

  The first public embarrassment was Ed’s will, which appeared in the media before Sarah had seen it. ‘I was so upset,’ says Sarah. ‘It was awful.’

  The will was like Ed himself—business-like, direct, thoughtful and with half an eye on posterity. Unusually for a New Zealander, public figure or otherwise, he included a testament in the document, affecting for the plainness of its language and, predictably, drumming up support for his favourite charity.

  ‘I declare that I have had a full life with much happiness and a share of sadness. I have little cause for complaint. If, however, some people in New Zealand feel I have made some contribution to the prestige of my country then they could best demonstrate this by continuing modest support to the Himalayan people I have worked with for so many years.’

  The estate was not huge. Ed had never shown interest in acquiring much in the way of wealth, though a modest amount had come his way. Peter, Sarah and the grandchildren each received sums of money. June got the largest share.

  ‘Ed made sure June was comfortable,’ says Murray Jones, ‘and in law in New Zealand he could have left the whole lot to her, but he didn’t do that and June didn’t contest that.’

  No one was gauche enough to contest Ed’s will. ‘A lot of people,’ says Sarah, ‘have said to us: “We contested our parent’s will, but it’s not on the front page.” A lot of people have disagreements, especially after such a stressful funeral that we had.’

  ‘Well, we didn’t contest the will,’ says Peter.

  Peter was concerned early on to maintain control over the Ed Hillary intellectual property. ‘That’s something Ed would never have thought about,’ says Jones. However, Ed’s name is extremely potent, especially in areas with which he himself had commercial associations, such as outdoor pursuits. Anyone who put their mind to it could come up with numerous ways to exploit the intellectual property. The Hillary brand could make other people very wealthy if they had access to it, and could seriously damage Ed’s memory if it were misused.

  Peter and Sarah now own the rights to the Hillary name, being the two shareholders in Ed Hillary IP Ltd, established in 2011. Anyone wanting to use Ed Hillary intellectual property or naming rights must apply to the company. If the company had been in existence three years earlier, a pizza chain would almost certainly not have been able to produce an ad that appeared in 2008 showing an animated skeletal Ed dancing in a graveyard—a piece of promotional poor taste that appalled almost everyone.

  Peter has also looked into the possibility of reviving Hillary Honey and has applied to register a trademark.

  The public conversation over the will did not make it easy for anyone to get through their grief. ‘I was very upset,’ says Sarah. ‘But it was months and months after that I went through this rollercoaster of emotions, thinking about the past. Peter and I sorted through various material that we’d been left—and you look at your past. There are old things our parents had when we were very young, wedding presents, so it’s a very up and down experience.’

  ‘It’s very complicated,’ says Peter. ‘I think for me too—it sort of reintroduces Dad’s passing, then Mum comes back into your mind.’ Peter and Sarah’s mourning was also muddied by a dispute with Auckland Museum that began in the year of Ed’s death. Ed had a huge amount of archival material stored in his house—documents, private and public, dating back many decades and relating to every area of his life. His will gave ownership of ‘my personal papers, diaries, maps, colour slides, photographs and other written and illustrative material relating to my life and adventures’ to Auckland Museum ‘with the proviso that [Sarah and Peter] shall have ready access to and the right to publish such material if they think fit’. It included a caveat that ‘no other person nor any corporate body may publish any such material without the agreement of my children’.

  There was some ambiguity there—did ‘any corporate body’ mean ‘any other corporate body’ besides the museum, or did it mean ‘any corporate body’ including the museum? Peter and Sarah, aware that many precious early family items were included in the archive, were sure that the phrase was meant to include the museum.

  The museum was so sure of its rights to this material that it announced an exhibition, which Sarah only found out about when she saw it advertised. The blame for the debacle was laid squarely at the feet of the museum’s director, Vanda Vitali, who had been in the job for just a year.

  ‘She came from more of an exhibition background,’ says Sarah, who knows a thing or two about how cultural institutions work. ‘She didn’t seem to be aware about having good relationships with the family of a collection and how much you can gain from that.’

  Peter and Sarah were seen by some as behaving in a privileged and proprietorial way in this affair, but they weren’t the only ones to take offence at the Vitali way of doing things. ‘Don’t just focus on us,’ says Peter. There were also matters of concern raised by war veterans.

  There were good reasons to work closely with the children. ‘Peter knows so much about Ed’s life,’ says Sarah. ‘We know a lot of things about the materials and, if you cut us out, how are you going to find that out?’

  ‘I had half Ed’s climbing gear, because I used it,’ says Peter.

  ‘The material hadn’t even been finalised,’ says Sarah, ‘so we contacted them and said, “Why didn’t you even send us an email about this before you advertised?” and we got a legal letter effectively saying, “We are sorry you are upset but we can do whatever we like.” The reason we were so upset was because [the material] contained all our family photos, which hadn’t been separated out at that time. I think that was something that the general person could relate to—that no one would want that to happen.’

  Suddenly, two of the country’s most venerated institutions—Auckland Museum and the Hillary family—were at loggerheads. Pet
er and Sarah instituted legal proceedings. But before it got to court Prime Minister John Key, who had taken over from Helen Clark in the interim, stepped in.

  ‘The important thing is we have a solution based on trust and goodwill and it respects Sir Ed’s wishes and his enormous reputation,’ was Key’s view. Eventually the Hillarys and the museum were able to achieve a resolution by mediation. It took more than a year to resolve, but eventually was settled in a deed of agreement signed on 19 July 2009.

  Simply put, the agreement allowed Sarah and Peter the right to their father’s material and to allow others access to that material. The museum had been unwilling to grant them this previously. Peter and Sarah wanted access—among other reasons, because no one knew exactly what was in the archive. So the agreement included the appointment of an archivist to catalogue the material. This would provide a clear basis for deciding how it should be handled.

  ‘All that stuff is over now,’ says Peter, ‘and we just want a peaceful time. We have a great relationship with the museum now.’

  And what would Ed have said?

  ‘He would be furious,’ says Peter.

  ‘He would hate it,’ adds Sarah.

  ‘Frankly it is all unnecessary. The whole business. I can say for Sarah and I, it’s been a bloody nightmare.’

  Sarah believes he would have marched to the museum and taken all the things back. ‘He would’ve,’ agrees Peter. ‘He would’ve taken it all back. They might have said you have given it, but he wouldn’t have stood for it. And all of this stuff with June, he would have hated it. And, quite frankly, I have hated it. We have all hated it.’

  As if to complete the physical dismantling of Ed’s life—his ashes on the Waitemata, his papers in the museum—his house was bought and removed to Sir Edmund Hillary Collegiate, a school originally founded by Ed and located in southeastern Auckland at Otara. Ed’s will directed the house be sold—after giving June reasonable time to find another home—in part to fund bequests to his children and grandchildren.