“The captain gave me clear orders, Mr. Mallory,” he shouted. “You’ve got five minutes, and no longer.”
George nodded, and disappeared inside.
Guy Bullock started clapping the moment he saw George standing on top of the center funnel. Norton and Somervell stopped playing deck tennis to see what the fuss was about. Odell looked up, closed his book, and joined in the applause. Only Finch, hands in pockets, feet apart, didn’t respond.
“How did he manage that?” said Norton. “You only have to brush up against one of those funnels and you’ll get a blister the size of an apple.”
“And even if it weren’t for the heat,” added Somervell, equally bemused, “you’d need the suction of a limpet to climb that surface.”
Finch continued to stare up at Mallory. He noticed that for once there was no black smoke belching from the center funnel, and glanced across at Bullock, who couldn’t stop laughing. When Finch looked back up, Mallory had disappeared.
As George climbed back down the ladder on the inside of the funnel, he couldn’t decide if he should tell Finch that every Thursday morning one of the funnels was taken briefly out of commission so that the ship’s engineers could carry out a full inspection.
A few moments later, a plume of black smoke erupted from the center funnel, and once again the rest of the team burst into spontaneous applause. “I still can’t work it out,” said Norton.
“The only explanation I can come up with,” said Odell, “is that Mallory must have smuggled Mr. Houdini on board.”
The rest of the team laughed, while Finch remained silent.
“What’s more, he seems to have reached the top without the aid of oxygen,” Somervell added.
“I wonder how he managed that?” said Guy, a grin still fixed firmly on his face. “No doubt our resident scientist will have a theory.”
“No, I don’t have a theory,” said Finch. “But I can tell you one thing. Mallory won’t be able to climb up the inside of Everest.”
Ruth sat by the window holding her letter, beginning to wonder if her forthright honesty might prove to be a distraction for George. After a few minutes of contemplation, she tore the letter into small pieces and dropped them into the crackling flames. She returned to her desk and began to write a second letter.
My darling George,
Spring is upon us at The Holt, and the daffodils are in full bloom. In fact, the garden has never looked more beautiful. Everything is just as you would wish it to be. The children are doing well, and Clare has written a poem for you, which I enclose…
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
WHEN THE SS Caledonia docked in Bombay, the first person to disembark was General Bruce. He was dressed in the freshly ironed short-sleeve khaki shirt and neatly pressed khaki shorts that had become regulation kit for the British army serving in hot climates. He regularly reminded the team that it was Lord Baden-Powell who had followed his example when choosing the uniform of the Boy Scout movement, and not the other way around.
George followed closely in the General’s wake. The first thing that struck him as he made his way down the wobbly gangplank was the smell—what Kipling had described as spicy, pungent, oriental, and like no other smell on earth. The second thing that hit him, almost literally, was the intense heat and humidity. To a pale-faced loon from Cheshire, it felt like Dante’s fiery furnace. The third thing was the realization that the General had considerable clout in this far-off land.
Two groups of men were waiting at the foot of the gangplank to greet the expedition’s leader, and not only did they stand far apart from each other, but they could not have been in greater contrast. The first group of three embodied “the British abroad.” They made no attempt to blend in with the indigenous population, dressed as if they were attending a garden party in Tunbridge Wells and making no allowances for the inhospitable climate for fear it might suggest in some way that they and the natives were equals.
As the General stepped onto the dockside, he was greeted by one of them, a tall young man wearing a dark blue suit and a white shirt with a stiff collar, and sporting an Old Harrovian tie.
“My name is Russell,” he announced as he took a step forward.
“Good morning, Russell,” said the General, and they shook hands as if they had known each other for years, whereas in reality their only bond was the old school tie.
“Welcome back to India, General Bruce,” said Russell. “I’m the Governor-General’s private secretary. This is Captain Berkeley, the Governor-General’s ADC.” An even younger man in full dress uniform, who had been standing rigidly to attention since the General had stepped ashore, saluted. The General returned his salute. The third man, dre
ssed in a chauffeur’s uniform, stood by the side of a gleaming Rolls-Royce, and was not introduced. “The Governor-General hopes,” continued Russell, “that you and your party will join him for dinner this evening.”
“We shall be delighted to do so,” said Bruce. “At what time would Sir Peter like us on parade?”
“He will be hosting a reception in the residence at seven o’clock,” said Russell, “followed by dinner at eight.”
“And the dress code?” inquired the General.
“Formal, with medals, sir.”
Bruce nodded his approval.