By Royal Command (3 page)

As they passed a pastry shop James felt the hairs in the back of his neck tingle and he glanced back. For a moment he caught sight of a man standing out from the crowd in an English coat and hat. But as James blinked a snowflake out of his eyes the man seemed to melt away.

James told himself he had imagined it. Hopefully he would see fewer phantoms after a hot meal and a good night’s sleep.

They entered an archway that ran right through a building at the end of the street and James followed the porter down the street on the other side to where a wrought-iron sign announced their arrival at the Hotel Franz Joseph. The porter took James’s luggage into the reception area, James tipped him and he scuttled off out into the darkening evening.

The reception was dominated by a large painting of the emperor Franz Joseph after whom the hotel was named. James was just admiring his great handlebar moustache and huge bushy sideburns when there was a shout and he turned to see his friend Andrew Carlton coming towards him, a broad smile on his face.

Andrew was a couple of years older than James, but they had made friends when James first arrived at Eton and had shared many adventures together in the secret club they both belonged to – The Danger Society.

‘You’re bang on time,’ said Andrew, clapping him on the shoulders. ‘I’ll say something for the locals: they know how to make their trains stick to their timetables, whatever the weather. Don’t bother with the paperwork; it’s all taken care of. Everyone else is having supper. Eat early, sleep well, up with the sparrows. Come on through. Someone will take your bags up.’

Before James could say anything he found himself being marched off by Andrew through the hotel. All the woodwork was elaborately painted or carved, and there was barely a square inch of wall that wasn’t covered by an alpine painting, or a mirror, or a stuffed deer’s head.

A cheer went up as James entered the restaurant, even though, when he looked round the faces of the twenty-five or so boys and masters assembled around the long wooden table, he recognised only a few faces: Mister Merriot, his classical tutor, sitting with the other masters at the far end; Freddie Meyer, a German boy James had somewhat lost touch with since his first half; two boys from his house, Tom Llewellyn and Teddy Mackereth, and a couple of others. They all smiled and waved and called out to him. There was a jolly, festive atmosphere. The boys were evidently enjoying their trip.

Andrew had saved a place for him, and he sat down next to another friend, Gordon Latimer. He quickly caught up with all the Eton gossip, and Andrew and Gordon told him what had happened in the run-up to his best friend, Perry Mandeville, being sent down for putting several sheep in the Head Master’s bedroom. Perry was the founder and captain of the Danger Society, and since he had left Eton the club had shut down.

It was a shame that Perry wasn’t there. James would have liked to see him, but he was glad of the other familiar faces. He had missed the last half at Eton and had only just got back from Mexico, which was why he was two days late in joining the others.

Now, though, he was back among friends.

He told them a little about his recent adventures, but left out most of what had happened. It was buried deep inside, along with many other secrets. All James wanted was to return to being an ordinary schoolboy. He was looking forward to three weeks of walking and climbing and, with any luck, learning how to ski.

‘You’re sharing a room with me and two others,’ Gordon explained. ‘One of them’s a decent enough sort, Grenville Warner; he’s about your age, I think. I’m afraid the other one, Miles Langton-Herring, is a bit of a bore, with a deep love of facts and figures. You know the sort, reckons he’s an expert on everything, and won’t let you forget it. He could blither for England at the next Olympics. That’s him down there, talking with his mouth full.’

James looked down the table towards where Gordon was pointing. He saw a large boy with wavy brown hair and a ruddy complexion. He had big horse-like teeth, but was good-looking in a somewhat burly, rugby-playing sort of way. He was talking loudly and quickly and laughing a lot – presumably at his own jokes as nobody else around him could get a word in.

James smiled. He had never expected to feel this way, but it was good to get back to his normal school life. The problems were all small and easily solved. Nothing could scare him. He understood now that school was a simple time when you could be yourself, enjoy yourself and not have to worry too much about the big world that was waiting for you outside like a hungry wolf.

He went up to bed that night with his belly full and his heart light. The hearty Austrian food – soup with noodles,
Wiener Schnitzel
and
Apfelstrudel
– had been just the ticket. He even felt strong enough to face the dreaded Miles Langton-Herring, who was sporting a pair of pyjamas monogrammed with his initials. Miles barely paused to take breath after introducing himself before launching into a long and dull history of skiing.

James fell asleep to the sound of his pompous, fruity voice droning on…

‘Of course skiing is by no means a new invention. There are cave paintings from thousands of years ago showing men with skis strapped to their feet. But for a long time skiing was simply a way of getting about on the snow. Nobody ever thought of climbing to the tops of mountains just to ski down them. The Norwegians developed the art of cross-country skiing, but when they brought their sport to the Alps they were faced with bigger mountains and steeper slopes and so new techniques had to be learnt. An Austrian called Zdarsky developed the Lilienfield technique at the end of the last century, but it was Hannes Schneider who developed most of the modern techniques of skiing…’

Outside, a man in an overcoat and trilby stood in the dark space between two big square houses smoking a cigarette, shielding its glowing tip between cupped hands. Apart from the small adjustments as he smoked, he barely moved at all and seemed unaffected by the cold.

One by one the lights in the hotel went out.

It was quiet now. Nobody moved in the streets. Nobody approached the entrance to the Franz Joseph.

At last the man dropped his cigarette to the ground where it joined a small pile of butts, and he ground it out carefully before slipping away into the shadows.

4

Austrian Waltzing Blood

James was first up. Before the alarm had even gone off he climbed out of bed, went over to the window and threw back the curtains. The valley was still in shadow, the sun had not yet cleared the top of the Hahnenkamm, but the sky was thrillingly clear and blue. He pushed the window open and drew in a breath of the deliciously cold air. It tasted different from any other air he had ever breathed, sharp and clean and somehow empty.

James’s room was at the front of the hotel, facing the Hahnenkamm. There were small patches of brown, dead-looking grass spotting its lower slopes, but higher up it was blanketed with snow. He could see the Hahnenkamm-Bahn, the cable-car that ran to the top, parting the pine trees in its path in a long straight line. At the summit the cable-car station was sitting in a halo of light.

The scene promised so much. He was impatient to get out there.

Miles Langton-Herring stirred as the cold air filled the room. He sat up and swore at James. James merely laughed.

‘What time is it?’ Miles grumbled.

‘About a quarter to seven,’ said James.

‘We’ve another fifteen minutes before we need to be up.’

‘Stay in bed, then,’ said James. ‘It’s all the same to me.’

‘At least shut that blasted window, can’t you?’

James closed the window and went down the corridor to the bathroom, where he washed quickly and combed his hair. He then dressed in silk long johns and a long-sleeved vest. Over this he wore a flannel shirt and woollen jumper, heavy cotton twill trousers and thick socks. Finally he put on his boots and picked up his leather gauntlets. They were joined by a string so that they wouldn’t get lost if they fell off in the snow, and he had to thread them through the sleeves of his waterproof red wind-cheater.

He was first down to breakfast and filled up on bread and pastries, eggs and ham and cheese, washed down with pure mountain spring water and a strong coffee. He couldn’t remember when he had last felt this carefree.

As he worked his way through his breakfast, the other boys slowly trickled in to join him. For the most part they looked tired and bleary-eyed. They shuffled about, speaking quietly, and obviously wished they were back in their warm and cosy beds.

Mr Merriot came over to sit at James’s table. He looked brighter and more alert than his fellow masters. In fact James had never seen him look anything other than comfortably at peace with the world.

‘I didn’t have the chance to welcome you back properly last night,’ he said, sitting down and taking out his pipe. ‘How have you been? Actually you need not answer that question. Us English, eh? Always asking each other how we are, and never expecting an honest reply. In your case I know perfectly well how you’ve been. Your aunt filled me in on everything.’ He glanced around the room, leant in closer and went on in a lower voice. ‘It seems we can’t keep you away from trouble, can we, James?’

‘It seems not,’ said James with a wry smile.

‘But somehow or other you keep bouncing back!’ said Merriot, a little louder. And he stuck his pipe between his lips. He made no attempt to light it, however, and merely sucked the stem thoughtfully as he busied himself with buttering a slice of toast.

‘I predict an interesting future for you, young Bond,’ he said, once he was satisfied with his work. ‘I think you will be either a great hero or a great villain.’

‘I don’t really want to be either,’ said James. ‘If it’s all the same to you, sir. I’ve had my fill of adventures. I sometimes feel I’ve been missing out on some of the ordinary things that other boys get up to in their lives.’

‘I think you’d be hard pressed to find any red-blooded boy in England who wouldn’t want to swap lives with you, James.’

‘Maybe,’ said James, ‘but I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s really rather better to hear about adventures than be part of them.’

‘I believe you may be right,’ said Mr Merriot quietly, looking off out of the windows at the glorious morning. ‘I suppose I had my fill of adventure in the Great War, and,
yes
, the reality was very different to what one reads about in books. You’d think war was just a big noisy game if you hadn’t actually been in one.’

‘Wasn’t it also something of an adventure running for England in the 1924 Olympics?’ said James.

‘It was certainly exciting,’ said Merriot. ‘But that is behind me now. All I do these days is teach others. Though, in its way, teaching can be equally as thrilling.’

James tried to suppress a smile.

‘Ah,’ said Merriot, who didn’t miss a thing. ‘He thinks I’m an old fool. Rambling on about the glories of teaching. But teaching another person to do something really well and seeing them succeed is as rewarding as doing it oneself. When you won the cross-country event in the Hellebore Cup my heart was beating like a drum. I had never felt such excitement and such pride.’

‘Well, sir,’ said James. ‘Despite what I might have said just now, I don’t think I could swap winning a race for merely teaching someone to win one.’

‘Aha,’ said Merriot. ‘But the glory soon passes. Standing on top of a mountain, the only way is down. There’s no getting around the fact that the moment when you are at your very best is the moment you begin to become worse and worse. Others will come along who can run faster, jump higher, hit harder, and you will be forgotten. Your winning moment will only be a memory. Your fame is already fated to die. It is much more satisfactory to be a good teacher and give your knowledge to others instead of thrilling the crowd for one brief moment. For you, James, I think the moment of glory is all. For men like me it is different. We are playing the long game. I am happy to be a teacher, though I shan’t be out there on the slopes teaching you to ski, you’ll be glad to hear. That honour goes to a local chap called Hannes Oberhauser, who is really first rate. Austrian instructors, especially those from the Arlberg school, where he learnt his skills, are the best in the world. You should see him in action, a picture of grace and elegance. It’s those few drops of Austrian waltzing blood in his veins, I think.’

After breakfast James was taken to a large wooden hut opposite the hotel where he selected a fine pair of hickory skis edged with steel. They were taller than he was and curved up steeply at the end. His parents had taken him skiing for a couple of weekends when he was younger but he remembered little about it. He had to be shown how to fasten his boots into the bindings that held the skis on, first strapping his toes into fixed metal plates and then pulling what looked like long springs around his heels to grip them in place. It was awkward and uncomfortable, but once done he felt secure on the skis. He then picked out some lightweight bamboo sticks that had small hoops at the ends loosely attached by a latticework of leather straps. He was looking forward to getting out on to the snow.

An hour later he was standing on the lower slopes of the Hahnenkamm with the other novices, feeling considerably less confident. It was hard enough just standing up on the long skis, let alone trying to move forward. The instructor from the Kitzbühel ski school, Hannes Oberhauser, was very patient and encouraging, but James felt as if he would never get the hang of it.

Hannes was a small, tanned man in his thirties, with a cheerful, open face and short fair hair. James had noticed that he walked with a distinct limp, but once he put his skis on he moved freely over the snow as if they were a part of him.

‘We have a new boy with us today,’ he said, when everyone was ready. ‘So I will need to spend a little time alone with him to get him started. The rest of you, practise your stems.’

The other boys moved clumsily off down the gentle slope, their knees bent and knocking into each other, their skis turned in at the tips.

‘I don’t think any of them will ever be world-class skiers,’ said Hannes with a smile. ‘But that is not the point. The point is to enjoy yourself. Yes? And to do that you must learn the basics.’ His English was good, with only a light accent. He explained to James that he had taken classes, as most of his pupils were from England.

‘I will teach you to ski with safety and with style,’ he went on. ‘I have seen young people like you take to skiing quickly and shoot off down the slopes with very little practice, but they are only pretending to ski. I call them
ski-savages
. They do not have control and go wherever their skis take them – people like that will never become really good skiers. You must learn to be master of your own skis, and ultimately master of the mountain. It may seem boring and slow at first but, like anything, if you do not do the groundwork, you will only ever progress so far.

‘The first thing you must master is the snowplough, the horror of every beginner. It is not only for slowing yourself down and gaining control, it is also the basis of every turn except for those at high speed. You have watched the other boys, now you try it. Make a V-shape with your skis, the tips almost touching, the back ends as wide apart as possible. Press the knees forward and keep your heels flat and the skis very slightly on their inner edges. Don’t dig them in too much, though, merely caress the snow with them.’

James did as he was told and gingerly moved off down the slope. He felt ridiculous and clumsy, trying to keep his legs in the right position to control the skis, which had a mind of their own, but he slowly got the hang of it. The trick was to use just the right mount of edging. Too much and each ski pulled in the direction they were pointing until they crossed over one another; too little and the skis tended to drift apart until he was doing a painful splits.

‘Very good!’ Hannes shouted, whizzing down to James where he had stopped at the bottom. The other boys were waiting there, chatting, and Hannes ordered them back to the top. James watched as they side-stepped up the hill with little chopping movements. He soon found that getting back up the slope was almost harder than coming down it.

‘Skiing is not so difficult a sport, really,’ Hannes said to James as they struggled up. ‘For sure, there are special techniques to learn, but mainly you will need courage, a sense of balance, a desire to practise and a great deal of patience. A sense of humour will come in useful as well, because to start with you will find yourself spending more time on the ground than on your skis.’

He was right. In the first ten minutes James fell over sixteen times. But he kept at it, and in the next ten minutes he fell over only half that number of times. After an hour he felt fairly confident and the gaps between falls were getting longer and longer.

Along the way he learnt that the most important law of skiing was that you must lean forward, so that your body was at least at a right angle to the slope. This was known as
vorlage
. There were many German terms to learn. Like
abstemmen
,
to brake, or its opposite,
schuss
,
to go straight down the slope. Something he was warned against trying just yet by Hannes.

‘Look at the slope,’ he explained. ‘It is not man-made; it is a natural thing, full of curves and bumps and holes and hazards. You must learn to choose the right line. The most direct route down a slope, the steepest line, is known as the
fall line
. Nine times out of ten you will not take the fall line, but you will curve gracefully from side to side and come down in a long series of sweeping S shapes.’

Another thing James learnt about was the
Hocke
. ‘The famous Arlberg crouch,’ as Hannes described it. ‘A most misunderstood term. You will need to bend the knees, but not so far that you are sitting on your skis as some people seem to think. The crouch must be combined with a forward leaning, the
vorlage
. Now you try. Cross the slope from one side to the other with your skis parallel. When you wish to stop simply pull them into the snowplough…’

James dug his sticks in and pushed off. This felt much more satisfying than the awkward snowplough. He cut through the powdery snow in a clean straight line, angling slightly downhill. Oberhauser stayed at his side, shouting out instructions.

‘Keep your weight on the lower ski and the upper ski advanced. Lean away from the slope with your upper shoulder forward. If you find yourself falling, don’t fight it, go with it, relax and fall smoothly.’

This was easier said than done, thought James, as he felt his skis slip out from under him and he was sent tumbling into an untidy heap, arms and legs going in all directions.

Hannes laughed and helped him up.

‘You will get there with practice. You must develop a feeling for the snow. But you are learning fast. After lunch you will join in with the others.’

Lunch was soup followed by spicy German sausage with bread and cheese, taken on benches outside a chalet restaurant that sat to one side of the slope. James realised just how tiring the morning had been. There were aches and strains all over his body, and his knees and ankles felt as if they had been kicked by a mule. His boots were caked with snow, and sat like heavy blocks of ice round his feet. He had to stamp some feeling back into his toes. But the food restored his energy and by the time they returned to the slope he was raring to go again.

His progress was slower in the afternoon, though, as he had lost his one-to-one tuition and was now simply part of the group. There was so much to take in and most of it went straight out of James’s head once he started skiing. What with the tension and the concentration and the noise of the skis sliding over the snow he was deaf to Oberhauser’s shouts. His muscles seemed to find the right shape, though. His upper body settled into a comfortably upright position, leaning forward with his back slightly bowed, his arms relaxed and held in front.