Paths of Glory

“But won’t you find it a terrible bore having to pull up roots and move to Cambridge?”

“Good heavens, no,” said Ruth. “I can’t think of a better place to bring up the children, and you still have so many friends here. Let’s be grateful they don’t need you until next September, which will give me more than enough time to look for a new house and plan the move while you’re away.”

“While I’m away?” said George, looking puzzled.

“Yes, because if the job doesn’t start until next year, I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t go off and climb your mountain.”

George stared at her as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you telling me, my darling,” he eventually managed, “that you wouldn’t object if I were to sign up for the return expedition?”

“On the contrary, I’d welcome it,” said Ruth. “The idea of you hanging around the house for months like a bear with a sore head isn’t worth thinking about, and I certainly wouldn’t want to be around if Finch ends up standing on top of your mountain and all you can do about it is send him a telegram of congratulations. Of course,” she continued, “it’s possible that they may not be willing to offer you a place on the climbing team.”

“And why not?” demanded George.

“Well, you may still look like an undergraduate, my darling, and at times even behave like one, but if they were to check your curriculum vitae more carefully, they’d soon see that you’re no spring chicken. So you’d better let them know you’re available pretty quickly, because this will undoubtedly be your last chance.”

“You cheeky little minx,” said George. “I don’t know whether to kiss you or spank you. I think I’ll settle for a kiss.”

When he finally released her, all Ruth had to say was, “I’ve had to speak to you before, Mr. Mallory, about kissing me in public.” She couldn’t remember when she’d last seen him looking so exhilarated.

“Thank you, my darling,” he said. “It’s such a relief to know how you really feel about me having one last crack at Everest.”

Ruth was glad that George took her back in his arms, for fear he would look into her eyes and discover what she really felt.

No one was surprised that George was late for his brother’s birthday party, but his sister Mary did tick him off when she discovered that he’d left Trafford’s present back at The Holt.

“What did you get him?” asked Mary. “Or can’t you remember that either?”

“A watch,” said George. “I picked it up when I was last in Switzerland.”

“That’s a surprising choice, considering it’s an instrument you’ve shown scant interest in for the past thirty-seven years,” she said as Trafford came across to join them.

“I can always pick it up at Christmas,” said Trafford. “Just as I did last year,” he added with a smile. “But more important, I need to settle an argument between Cottie and Mother about the highest point George reached on Everest.”

George looked across the room to see Cottie chatting to a man he didn’t recognize. He hadn’t seen her since they had visited the Monet exhibition at the Royal Academy a year or two ago. She gave him that familiar smile he remembered from their climbing days, and he felt even more guilty that he hadn’t been in touch since her father had gone bankrupt. Not that he could have offered any financial help, but…

“Twenty-seven thousand five hundred and fifty feet,” said Mary, “as every schoolboy knows.”

“Then it’s higher than any pilot has ever managed,” said Trafford, “otherwise I’d try and land on top of the damn mountain.”

“That would save us all a lot of trouble,” said George turning back. “Until then, someone will still have to go up the hard way.” Trafford laughed.

“How’s Cottie?” George asked. “Is she still having to work for a living?”

“Yes,” replied Mary. “But thankfully she’s no longer serving behind the counter at Woolworth’s.”

“Why?” asked Trafford. “Have they made her the manager?”

“No,” said Mary, laughing. “She’s just had her first book published, and the reviews have been most favorable.”

George felt even more guilty. “I’ll have to take a copy with me on my next trip,” he said without thinking.

“Your next trip?” said Trafford. “I thought you’d decided not to be part of the next Everest expedition.”

“Can Cottie make a living from writing?” asked George, not wanting to respond to his brother’s question. “I only earned a miserable thirty-two pounds in royalties from my book on Boswell.”

“Cottie’s written a romantic novel, not a stuffy biography,” said Mary. “What’s more, the publishers have offered her a three-book contract, so someone must believe in her.”

“More than one person, it would seem,” said Trafford, looking more closely at the man Cottie was talking to.