Paths of Glory (4 page)

“Thank you, Guy,” said George out loud, hoping that his friend was enjoying a well-earned second bowl of porridge. He grabbed the suitcase, bounded down the steps two at a time, and ran back across the quad, only stopping when he reached the porter’s lodge. “Where’s the college hansom, Simkins?” he asked desperately.

“Left about fifteen minutes ago, sir.”

“Damn,” muttered George, before dashing out into the street and heading in the direction of the station, confident he could still make his train.

He raced down the street with an uneasy feeling he’d left something behind, but whatever it was, he certainly didn’t have time to go back and retrieve it. As he rounded the corner onto Station Hill, he saw a thick line of gray smoke belching into the air. Was the train coming in, or pulling out? He picked up the pace, charging past a startled ticket collector and onto the platform, only to see the guard waving his green flag, climbing the steps into the rear carriage, and slamming the door behind him.

George sprinted after the train as it began to move off, and they both reached the end of the platform at the same time. The guard gave him a sympathetic smile as the train gathered speed before disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

“Damn,” George repeated as he turned to find the ticket collector bearing down on him. Once the man had caught his breath, he demanded, “May I see your ticket, sir?”

That was when George remembered what he’d forgotten.

He dumped his suitcase on the platform, opened it, and made a show of rummaging among his clothes as if he was looking for his ticket, which he knew was on the table by the side of his bed.

“What time’s the next train to London?” he asked casually.

“On the hour, every hour,” came back the immediate reply. “But you’ll still need a ticket.”

“Damn,” said George for a third time, aware that he couldn’t afford to miss the next train. “I must have left my ticket back at college,” he added helplessly.

“Then you’ll have to purchase another one,” said the ticket collector helpfully.

George felt desperation setting in. Did he have any money with him? He began searching the pockets of his suit, and was relieved to find the half crown his mother had given him at Christmas. He’d wondered where it had got to. He followed the ticket collector meekly back to the booking office, where he purchased a third-class return ticket from Winchester to Cambridge, at a cost of one shilling and sixpence. He had often wondered why trains didn’t have a second class, but felt this was not the time to ask. Once the collector had punched his ticket, George returned to the platform and bought a copy of
The Times
from the newspaper seller, parting with another penny. He settled down on an uncomfortable slatted wooden bench and opened it to find out what was happening in the world.

The Prime Minister, Arthur Balfour, was hailing the new
entente cordiale
recently signed by Britain and France. In the future, relations with France could only improve, he promised the British people. George turned the page and began to read an article about Theodore Roosevelt, recently inaugurated for a second term as President of the United States. By the time the nine o’clock train for London came steaming in, George was studying the classified advertisements on the front page, which offered everything from hair lotion to top hats.

He was relieved the train was on time, and even more so when it pulled into Waterloo a few minutes early. He jumped out of his carriage, ran down the platform, and onto the road. For the first time in his life he hailed a hansom cab, rather than wait around for the next tram to King’s Cross—an extravagance his father would have disapproved of, but Papa’s anger would have been far more acute had George missed his interview with Mr. Benson and therefore failed to be offered a place at Cambridge.

“King’s Cross,” said George as he climbed into the hansom. The driver flicked his whip and the tired old gray began a slow plod across London. George checked his watch every few minutes, but still felt confident that he would be on time for his three o’clock appointment with the senior tutor of Magdalene College.

After he was dropped off at King’s Cross, George discovered that the next train to Cambridge was due to leave in fifteen minutes. He relaxed for the first time that day. However, what he hadn’t anticipated was that it would stop at every station from Finsbury Park to Stevenage, so by the time the train finally puffed into Cambridge, the station clock showed 2:37
P.M
.

George was first off the train, and once his ticket had been punched he went off in search of another hansom cab, but there was none to be found. He began to run up the road, following the signs to the city center, but without the slightest idea in which direction he should be going. He stopped to ask several passers-by if they could direct him to Magdalene College, with no success until he came across a young man wearing a short black gown and a mortar board, who was able to give him clear directions. After thanking him, George set off again, now searching for a bridge over the river Cam. He was running flat out across the bridge as a clock in the distance chimed three times. He smiled with relief. He wasn’t going to be more than a couple of minutes late.

At the far side of the bridge he came to a halt outside a massive black oak double door. He turned the handle and pushed, but it didn’t budge. He rapped the knocker twice, and waited for some time, but no one answered his call. He checked his watch: 3:04
P.M
. He banged on the door again, but still no one responded. Surely they would not deny him entry when he was only a couple of minutes late?

He hammered on the door a third time, and didn’t stop until he heard a key turning in the lock. The door creaked open to reveal a short, stooping man in a long black coat, wearing a bowler hat. “The college is closed, sir,” was all he said.

“But I have an interview with Mr. A. C. Benson at three o’clock,” pleaded George.

“The senior tutor gave me clear instructions that I was to lock the gate at three o’clock, and that after that no one was to be allowed to enter the college.”

“But I—” began George, but his words fell on deaf ears as the door was slammed in his face and once again he heard the key turning in the lock.

He began thumping on the door with his bare fist, although he knew no one would come to his rescue. He cursed his stupidity. What would he say when people asked him how the interview had gone? What would he tell Mr. Irving when he arrived back at college later that night? How could he face Guy, who was certain to be on time for his interview next week? He knew what his father’s reaction would be: the first Mallory for four generations not to be educated at Cambridge. And as for his mother, would he ever be able to go home again?

He frowned at the heavy oak door that forbade him entry and thought about one last knock, but knew it would be pointless. He began to wonder if there might be some other way of entering the college, but as the Cam ran along its north side, acting as a moat, there was no other entrance to consider. Unless…George stared up at the high brick wall that surrounded the college, and began to walk up and down the pavement as if he was studying a rock face. He spotted several nooks and crannies that had been created by 450 years of ice, snow, wind, rain, and a thawing sun, before he identified a possible route.

There was a heavy stone archway above the door, the rim of which was only an arm’s length away from a windowsill that would make a perfect foothold. Above that was another smaller window and another sill, from which he would be within touching distance of the sloping tiled roof, which he suspected was duplicated on the other side of the building.

He dumped his case on the pavement—never carry any unnecessary weight when attempting a climb—placed his right foot in a small hole some eight inches above the pavement, and propelled himself off the ground with his left foot, grabbing at a jutting ledge, which allowed him to pull himself further up toward the stone archway. Several passers-by stopped to watch his progress, and when he finally pulled himself up onto the roof, they rewarded him with a muted round of applause.

George spent a few moments studying the other side of the wall. As always, the descent was going to be more difficult than the ascent. He swung his left leg over and lowered himself slowly down, clinging on to the gutter with both hands while he searched for a foothold. Once he felt the windowsill with a toe, he removed one hand. That was when his shoe came off, and the grip of the one hand that had been clinging to the guttering slipped. He’d broken the golden rule of maintaining three points of contact. George knew he was going to fall, something he regularly practiced when dismounting the high bar in the college gym, but the bar had never been this high. He let go, and had his first piece of luck that day when he landed in a damp flower bed and rolled over.

He stood up to find an elderly gentleman staring at him. Did the poor fellow imagine he was confronting a shoeless burglar, George wondered.

“Can I help you, young man?” he asked.

“Thank you, sir,” said George. “I have an appointment with Mr. Benson.”

“You should find Mr. Benson in his study at this time of day.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know where that is,” said George.

“Through the Fellows’ archway,” he said, pointing across the lawn. “Second corridor on the left. You’ll see his name printed on the door.”

“Thank you, sir,” said George, bending down to tie up his shoelace.

“Not at all,” said the elderly gentleman as he headed off down the path toward the masters’ lodgings.

George ran across the Fellows’ lawn and through the archway into a magnificent Elizabethan courtyard. When he reached the second corridor he stopped to check the names on the board: A. C. Benson, Senior Tutor, third floor. He bolted up the steps, and when he reached the third floor he stopped outside Mr. Benson’s room to catch his breath. He knocked gently on the door.

“Come,” responded a voice. George opened the door and entered the senior tutor’s domain. A rotund, ruddy-faced man with a bushy mustache looked up at him. He was wearing a light checked suit and a yellow-spotted bow tie under his gown, and seated behind a large desk covered in leather-bound books and students’ essays. “And how may I help you?” he inquired, tugging at the lapels of his gown.

“My name is George Mallory, sir. I have an appointment to see you.”

“
Had
an appointment would be more accurate, Mallory. You were expected at three o’clock, and as I gave express orders that no candidate should be allowed to enter the college after that hour, I am bound to inquire how you managed to get in.”

“I climbed over the wall, sir.”

“You did
what
?” asked Mr. Benson, rising slowly from behind his desk, a look of incredulity on his face. “Follow me, Mallory.”

George didn’t speak as Mr. Benson led him back down the steps, across the courtyard and into the lodge. The porter leaped up the moment he saw the senior tutor.

“Harry,” said Mr. Benson, “did you allow this candidate to enter the college after three o’clock?”

“No, sir, I most certainly did not,” said the porter, staring at George in disbelief.

Mr. Benson turned to face George. “Show me exactly how you got into the college, Mallory,” he demanded.

George led the two men back to the Fellows’ garden, and pointed to his footprints in the flower bed. The senior tutor still didn’t look convinced. The porter offered no opinion.

“If, as you claim, Mallory, you climbed in, then you can surely climb back out.” Mr. Benson took a pace back, and folded his arms.

George walked slowly up and down the path, studying the wall carefully before he settled on the route he would take. The senior tutor and the college porter watched in astonishment as the young man climbed deftly back up the wall, not pausing until he had placed one leg over the top of the building and sat astride the roof.

“Can I come back down, sir?” George asked plaintively.

“You most certainly can, young man,” said Mr. Benson without hesitation. “It’s clear to me that nothing is going to stop you from entering this college.”

CHAPTER SIX

S
ATURDAY
, J
ULY
1
ST
, 1905

W
HEN
G
EORGE TOLD
his father he had no intention of visiting the Moulin Rouge, it was the truth. Indeed, the Reverend Mallory had already received a letter from Mr. Irving with a detailed itinerary for their visit to the Alps, which did not include stopping off in Paris. But that was before George had saved Mr. Irving’s life, been arrested for disturbing the peace, and spent a night in jail.

George’s mother was never able to hide her anxiety whenever her son went off on one of his climbing trips, but she always slipped a five-pound note into his jacket pocket, with a whispered plea not to tell his father.

George joined Guy and Mr. Irving at Southampton, where they boarded the ferry for Le Havre. When they disembarked at the French port four hours later, a train was waiting to transport them to Martigny. During the long journey, George spent most of his time staring out of the window.

He was reminded of Mr. Irving’s passion for punctuality when they stepped off the train to find a horse-drawn charabanc awaiting them. With a crack of the coachman’s whip, the little party set off at a brisk pace up into the mountains, allowing George to study even more closely some of the great challenges that lay ahead of him.

It was dark by the time the three of them had booked into the Hôtel Lion d’Or in Bourg St. Pierre, at the foot of the Alps. Over dinner Mr. Irving spread a map across the table and went over his plans for the next fortnight, indicating the mountains they would attempt to climb: the Great St. Bernard (8,101 feet), Mont Vélan (12,353 feet), and the Grand Combin (14,153 feet). If they succeeded in conquering all three, they would move on to Monte Rosa (15,217 feet).

George studied the map intently, already impatient for the sun to rise the next morning. Guy remained silent. Although it was well known that Mr. Irving selected only the most promising climbers among his pupils to accompany him on his annual visit to the Alps, Guy was already having second thoughts about whether he should have signed up.