by John Masters
Her father moved his shoulders uncomfortably. He had made his opinion plain, and this young man had no business to press his own against it. It was not done; it was bad manners.
But Peggy said: ‘Peter will be all right, Uncle G. It’s not a hard climb.’
And Gerry said: ‘I’ll turn back if there’s any need, Uncle G. Leave it to me--only, four’s too many on the rope. We’d have to make two parties.’
Emily said at once: ‘I’ll stay.’
Gerry said: ‘But Emily, it was you---‘
‘It doesn’t matter. Mr Savage will only be here for a few days.’
‘Well, in that case . . . That’ll be all right, Uncle G., won’t it?’
Her father hesitated a moment longer, then said gruffly: ‘Very well. You’re not children any more. We’ll watch from here. Peggy, you’d better give me that flask.’
Gerry sprang to his feet and picked up the rope. ‘Now, Peter,’ he said, ‘you’ve got to learn how to tie the rope.’ He uncoiled it carefully and, smiling happily, showed it to Peter. ‘The rope is to save other people in case of a slip--not you. When you are moving, you must imagine that the rope doesn’t exist. Now, the end-men tie themselves on to the rope with a double-knotted bowline, like this.’
‘Wait a moment,’ Peter said. ‘Let me practice that.’ He untied the knot and retied it; then again, twice more.
‘Jolly good,’ Gerry said enthusiastically. ‘Anyone not at the end uses a triple butterfly, or a double bowline--so.’ Again Peter practised, never making a mistake, the first knot tied slowly, the second a little faster, the third almost as fast as Gerry’s experienced hands had been able to make it.
‘There are other knots for special purposes,’ Gerry said, ‘but we don’t want to go into those now. The only other things you must know about now are the belay and the anchor. Did you see that when Uncle G. was coming up the crack after me I was pulling in the rope so that it came in under my left armpit and then over my shoulder before I let it coil?’ Peter nodded. ‘That was a body belay. But before it got to me at all it came round a knob of firm rock? That was a rock belay. The idea of all that was that if Uncle G. slipped, the strain wouldn’t come directly on me or on the end of the rope where the coils had run out. There would have been friction brakes, first round the rock and then round my body. Those belays were on the rope between me, a stationary man, and Uncle G., a man in movement. We call any piece of rope like that “live” rope. Then, did you see that I’d used the length of rope left behind my knot, the end piece, to loop round the same knob of rock? That was “dead” rope, because it didn’t lead to a man in movement. I’d anchored myself to the rock with it.’
Peter said: ‘A man not in motion should tie himself on to the mountain if necessary. But only with dead rope. That’s an anchor. A man at either end of a live rope should pay the rope out round his body, round rocks, et cetera, to the man climbing. That’s a belay.’
‘Jolly good,’ Gerry cried, beaming. ‘Now, suppose the leader’s climbing and there are three on the rope. Can Number Two use some of the rope between himself and Number Three to make an anchor?’
Peter said: ‘Yes. If the leader’s in movement, Two and Three should not be. So all the rope behind Two is dead.’
‘Dead for the time being,’ Gerry said. ‘Good. All ready? We won’t be long, Emily.’
They trudged off across the grass towards the foot of the Spire. Emily lay on her side to watch. She knew her father would have liked to say something about Peter Savage, but with Adam Khan there he could not. Instead he got out his pipe and began the ritual of lighting it. Adam Khan said thoughtfully: ‘Peter has really made up his mind to be a mountaineer.’
‘He has the determination, all right,’ her father said. ‘Climbing in thin socks, on that rock! He’ll never get to the top--but everyone has to learn their lesson some time. It comes harder to some than to others.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Adam Khan said softly, ‘but all the same, I think the mountains had better look out for themselves.’
Her father flung away his tenth match and said between puffs: ‘The mountains--have to be--loved, too.’
Three hours later they were all striding back down the rough path towards Llyn Gared, and the sun had long since left the valleys. There was, unfortunately, no doubt about one thing: Peter Savage was going to be good. At first, on the Spire route, he had seemed to be imitating Gerry’s movements, for he put his hands and feet exactly where Gerry did. Later his method changed, and for a time, as Emily stared up at them on the rock, she could not make out what was so distinctive about these new movements--a distinction which would have enabled her to pick him out from farther away than she could recognize his features. It was Adam Khan who put the words to it, saying: ‘Look at Peter now. He’s dancing.’
That was it: when his turn came to move, he now moved with a rhythm so pronounced and ceaseless that it was almost comical--never stopping, never checking, seldom taking long strides, the whole giving the impression of a professional dancer’s grace, a little exaggerated, flashy perhaps, but none the less powerful and real. Twice he slipped, though not in bad places, and after that she noticed that he did not use handholds at all. She said to herself reassuringly: ‘It is an easy climb.’
But it was not really easy, though it called for nerve more than for technique or physical strength. In one place the traverse along a narrow ledge, though amply wide enough for a man to stand on in comfort, had to be made while facing out over a sheer hundred-foot drop. In the middle of the traverse Peter Savage stopped. At once she heard Gerry’s voice, calling down to him, hollow and suddenly loud in the high cirque: ‘Keep moving, Peter! You’re doing fine. Look up, look up!’ Instead Peter leaned out (while Gerry’s voice echoed from the great face of Cader Brith behind, ‘Up--up!’), and slowly bent his head until he was looking straight down the drop. Then, as slowly, he straightened and danced on along the ledge.
The fool! He might have been overcome with giddiness; even the best were, sometimes. But it was obvious that he had not found fear there. She had thought for a moment that he was wearing tennis shoes with red rubber soles, and that was why he went so surely up the sloping rocks. Then she remembered that he had no shoes on, and what she saw were his bloodstained socks.
When they all came down he washed his feet carefully in the stream and Peggy said: ‘They must be awfully painful.’
He looked up at her, his wide mouth creasing his face in the sudden, brilliant smile. His feet were turning blue in the bitter water, and the purple stain thinned in the current as the cuts froze. He said: ‘They are. It was worth it, though.’ Peggy was very solicitous and proud. As soon as they reached the house she had hurried to fetch iodine for him, and reminded him to put it on at once.
Now it was after dinner, and Emily and her mother and Peggy were sitting with coffee in the drawing-room, waiting for the gentlemen to join them. The deep murmur of their voices filtered through the house from the dining-room where they were still gathered, half an hour after dinner, over their port and cigars.
Her mother suddenly said: ‘Peggy, if you want that young man to like you, don’t make calf’s eyes at him quite so obviously. I don’t think he has much use for doormats.’
Peggy sat up with a start, spilling her coffee into the saucer. ‘Who, Mally? I haven’t been making calf’s eyes at anyone.’ ‘You know who I mean,’ Emily’s mother said in a gentler tone, smiling. ‘There’s nothing wrong with liking him--but don’t be a doormat. A man standing on a doormat can only reach an inch or two higher than he can without it--and Peter’s a climber.’
‘He will be,’ Peggy said breathlessly. ‘He’s marvellous, Mally. The very first time on rock, and he’s nearly as good as Gerry already.’
‘I didn’t mean that kind of climber,’ her mother said. ‘I know it’s not fashionable to warn young ladies about their behaviour these days, but I’m not going to leave you to your own judgement without a word of advice. You’re in love.
You know, I know, because this is the first time. Emily’s had twenty mashes since she fell in love with Jones the post when she was twelve--but not you. Also, I’m afraid that you’ve got to remember that you have a “Lady” before your name, an earl for a father, and can expect a very large private income.’
‘What difference does that make?’ Peggy muttered unhappily, and Emily stared at her mother in astonishment. Mally had never spoken like this before. Peter Savage loomed suddenly as a brightly-coloured and fierce man-eating tiger, that he could have caused this outburst.
Her mother said: ‘It makes no difference to you, dear, because you are a sweet girl. But there are plenty of men in the world, gentlemen even, to whom it would make a great deal of difference. Peter has no private means. In fact, he’s penniless, and I really don’t know how his grandfather can afford to keep him at King’s.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Peggy asked feebly.
‘Because I took the trouble to find out, after what I saw at the May Week ball,’ Mally said, nodding her beautiful gladiolus head. ‘As you know, he has no parents. His father disappeared most mysteriously in India. I hope he was not mentally deranged. His mother died of cholera some years later.’
‘It’s awful for him,’ Peggy said. ‘He’s an orphan!’
Mally looked at Peggy with exasperation; then her expression softened and she reached out and caught the girl’s hand. ‘And you’re only seventeen, Peggy. It’s time we spent a season or two in London.’
‘I think Peter’s nice,’ Peggy said slowly, ‘but he won’t take any notice of me. I’m too young.’
‘I should think so. And he has a career to start on. And we will now talk about something else.’
‘We’re almost as old as Adam Khan was when he married,’ Emily said suddenly. ‘Probably two or three years older than his wife was.’
‘That nice young man, married!’ her mother exclaimed. ‘It’s not fair on mothers of daughters--Indian mothers, of course. But they’d know, wouldn’t they?’ She struck a hand-bell on the table beside her. Alice, the parlourmaid, hobbled in. She was thin and forty, always wore shoes too small for her, and believed herself to be the object of the unbridled lust which inhabited all men.
Mally said: ‘Alice, go and tell David to tell Mr Fenton that we’ve sat here long enough.’
Alice’s grim face relaxed into a gloomy satisfaction. ‘Yes, madam,’ she said, and hobbled out.
Soon afterwards the men trooped in, Emily’s father tugging at the lapels of his dinner-jacket, Gerry self-consciously straightening his tie, Adam Khan silently laughing, and Peter Savage smiling. ‘Sorry, my dear,’ her father growled. ‘Forgot the time. We were having a most interesting talk.’
‘Well, have it here,’ Mally said.
Emily’s father sank into his favourite chair, the one he disliked least among the Chippendales in the drawing-room. ‘We Were talking about next summer. Peter is really taken by the idea of climbing, and Gerry’s very keen for us to meet in Zermatt--Harry Walsh is going to be there--immediately after the boys come down from King’s. Or we might all go out together.’
‘Mr Khan too?’ she heard her mother say in a low voice.
‘No, he’ll be sailing for India.’
Emily watched her mother pondering, her eyes sweeping from Peggy to herself, then to Peter and Gerry talking comfortably in a far corner. Her father had succumbed to Peter somehow, too, or he would not have broached the subject in public, making it difficult for her mother to refuse.
Her mother spoke at last. ‘I think that might be a good plan, George.’
Emily turned to look at Gerry. She examined him closely as he talked to his friend, and wondered: Why do I not feel the same about him as Peggy does about Peter Savage? He is tall, handsome, brave, generous. I have never heard him say an unkind word or seen him do an unsportsmanlike thing. He can climb and ride and fish and shoot. His eyes are brown and gentle, and his face handsome and not weak.
Peter Savage’s eyes were flashing, and his hand lay light on Gerry’s sleeve. There was an eagerness in Gerry’s grin and a lift in his voice as he said: ‘Peter, Whymper’s the greatest climber who ever lived! I’ll introduce you to him in Zermatt.’ And Peggy’s face was alive with colour.
‘Books! I’ll read all of them.’ That was Peter’s clear, light tenor--and the others, laughing: ‘You can’t! There are hundreds.’
Adam Khan’s low voice beside her said: ‘You know, Miss Fenton, he likes Gerry just as much as Gerry likes him. David and Jonathan. Don’t forget that.’
She whispered: ‘Why do they laugh so? I didn’t see anything funny in what he said.’
He was looking down at her gravely. ‘To him everything is brighter, harder, clearer than it is to us. While you are with him, he can make you see it the same way.’
She got up quickly. It was true. Already she knew it: he had made the rocks of Cader Brith a luridly lit theatre and in this drawing-room every colour shone more brilliantly--unnaturally brilliant to her eyes. But somehow she must find the strength to fight him, because soon Gerry, her Gerry, the Gerry she hoped desperately that one day she would fall in love with, would be made into someone else. How soon? Peter and Gerry would have only another year together. To become the best climbers in the world? They would need far more, just for that alone, or Peter would have to admit failure--or give up the whole idea. He didn’t give up.... David and Jonathan. What happened to them?
Chapter 5
They spent so little time at 27 Minden Square that to Emily the little Georgian house behind Oxford Street always seemed to belong to some other family. But it was summer again, 1903, and there was a familiar smell in the unfamiliar rooms, and for the moment the place had become a kind of extension of home. The packing was done, but she could still smell new rope and old wax; the sweaty, greased leather of her father’s favourite climbing boots; the heavy sweetness of the linseed oil on the shafts of the ice axes. The clop of hoofs and the animal creak and grind of London traffic filled the house, roaring aloud at all the opened windows, to intensify her excitement with their pointless urgency.
‘George, it’s time we went,’ her mother said. ‘You’ve read The Times twice already. Do you suppose the old gentleman will give us curry?’
‘I don’t know. Why should he?’ her father grumbled, laying down his paper. ‘He’s a member of the Athenaeum. Harvey!’
‘Sir?’ Her father’s valet appeared at the door with packing straw twined in his thin hair.
‘You’ll have all the heavy baggage in the guard’s van, and you’ll meet us at the barrier, eh?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Harvey said mournfully.
‘The Chatham side at Victoria, and we’ll be there at three o’clock sharp. Can’t remember what platform.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Harvey intoned.
Her mother said: ‘Really, George! Harvey and Rhondda know perfectly well what to do. They’ve done it ten times if they’ve done it once. It wasn’t Harvey who went to Waterloo that year.’
‘The cabby misunderstood me,’ her father said heatedly. ‘I told him quite plainly, Victoria, and the damned fool---‘
‘George! Are you ready, Emily?’
‘Yes, Mummy!’
Her mother’s perfunctory, motherly glance became suddenly a sharp appraisal. She said: ‘You’re growing up fast, too fast. You look about twenty-five.’
‘Oh, Mally!’ She couldn’t help glowing with pleasure, while adding to herself: Twenty-five? It doesn’t exist; sixteen I know, and eighteen I know, because I alternate between them; but twenty-five, that perfection seven impossible years away--never.
In a moment they were in the cab and clattering through the park towards 243 Nashe Street in Kensington, on their way to have lunch with Major-General Rodney Savage, C.B., Indian Army, retired, the grandfather of Peter Savage, B. A. (Hons), now a senior member of Cambridge University. Yes, they’d all got through, Gerry and Adam Khan with good seconds, Peter with a brilliant first.
Emily thought: Yes, Harry Walsh is nice, and Mally hopes that Peggy will get a mash on him to take her mind off Peter Savage. What a hope!
Her father went on. ‘Walsh is nearly as attached to that mountain as I am. And much more securely.’ He chuckled delightedly and rubbed his hands together.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ her mother said. ‘How long has he been in Zermatt already--three weeks? Don’t people’s stocks and shares require any attention these days?’
‘The future owner of Walsh and Drummond needn’t sit over a desk like a clerk,’ her father said. ‘And even if it is business he’s thinking of--which he isn’t, he’s a gentleman--he’d do better to meet people in Zermatt, so that they get to know and trust him, rather than learn anything about stockbroking. Walsh and Drummond act for a good many members of the
Alpine Club, and we aren’t all paupers yet, though---‘
‘Number Two-forty-three?’ the cabby said. ‘Here you are, sir.’ It was not a big house by London standards, but Emily found herself thinking, as they waited after ringing the bell, that it must seem empty to an old man living by himself, however many servants he had. It would be lonelier still when Peter had sailed for India. A little of him could make quite a large house seem full--overfull.
After a moment the door was opened, and a man of medium height with thick grey-white hair and snapping blue eyes faced them from the doorway. He stood very erect, and his jaw was lean, though the flesh fell away below and at his collar his neck showed like an old cockerel’s. That was almost the only sign of age about him, but he was old, she knew--seventy-five, eighty perhaps. And poor. To open his own door to invited callers!
‘Mr Fenton?’ he said. He had a light voice, a little rasping, and the eyes were darker blue than his grandson’s, but with the same icy quality. Now other footsteps ran quickly, lightly down the stairs, and there were Peter and Adam Khan.