Paths of Glory
“I think that’s the least of your problems.”
“You were ordered to get me out of there, weren’t you?” said Finch as George shoved him into a rickshaw.
“Something like that,” admitted George. “I have a feeling that will be the last time we’re invited to one of the Governor-General’s little soirées.”
“Speak for yourself, Mallory. If you and I get to stand on top of that mountain, you’ll definitely be dining with the Governor-General again.”
“That doesn’t mean you will be,” said George.
“No, I won’t. I’ll be upstairs in his lady’s chamber.”
George thought he heard a knock on the door, but then he could have been dreaming. It sounded a little louder the second time. “Come in,” he said, still half asleep. George opened one eye to see the General staring down at him, still dressed in his uniform.
“Do you always sleep on the floor with the windows wide open, Mallory?” he asked.
George opened his other eye. “It was either this or the veranda,” he said. “And I can assure you, General,” he added, pushing himself up, “this is luxury compared to what it’s going to be like at 27,000 feet, stuck in a tiny tent with only Finch for company.”
“That’s precisely what I wanted to speak to you about,” said the General. “I felt you ought to be the first to know that I’ve decided to put Finch on the next boat back home.”
George put on his silk dressing gown and sat down on the only comfortable chair in the room. He slowly filled his pipe with tobacco, and took his time lighting up.
“Finch’s behavior this evening was quite inexcusable,” the General continued. “I now realize I should never have agreed to him being included in the team.”
George puffed away on his pipe for a few moments before he responded. “General,” he said quietly, “you don’t have the authority to send any member of my team back to England without consulting me.”
“I am consulting you now, Mallory,” said the General, his voice rising with every word.
“No, you are not. You’ve barged into my room in the middle of the night to inform me that you’ve decided to send Finch back to England on the first availa
ble boat. That’s not my idea of consultation.”
“Mallory,” interrupted the General, “I don’t have to remind you that I am in overall charge of this expedition. I will be the one who makes the final decision as to what happens to any member of my team.”
“Then you’ll be making this one all on your own, General, because if you put Finch on that boat, then I and the rest of my team will be joining him. I’m sure the RGS will be fascinated to know why, unlike the Duke of York, you didn’t even manage to take us to the top of the hill, let alone bring us down again.”
“But, but—” spluttered the General. “Surely you agree that’s not the way to treat a lady, Mallory, especially the Governor-General’s wife.”
“No one knows better than I do,” said George, “that Finch can be tiresome, and I’m sure he won’t be teaching etiquette to any debs next season. But unless you’re willing to take his place, General, I suggest you go to bed now, and just be grateful that Finch won’t be attending any more cocktail parties for at least another three months. He’s also unlikely to bump into any more ladies on his way to the Himalaya.”
“I’ll have to think about it, Mallory,” said the General, turning to leave. “I’ll let you know my decision in the morning.”
“General, I’m not one of your coolies who’s desperate for the King’s shilling, so please let me know now if I am to wake up my men and tell them they’ll be returning to England on the first boat, or if I can allow them to rest before they set out on the most arduous journey of their lives.”
The General’s face became redder. “On your head be it, Mallory,” he said, before storming out of the room.
“Dear Lord,” said George as he took off his dressing gown and lay back down on the floor, “please tell me, what did I do to deserve Finch?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
April 15th, 1922
My dearest Ruth,
We have begun the 1,000-mile trek to the Tibetan border. We boarded the train to Siliguri at the base of the Himalaya, which the timetable promised would be a 6-hour journey, but it took almost 16. I’ve often wondered what happens to old trains when they’re pensioned off—well, now I know. They’re sent to India, where they’re reincarnated.
So, we all piled aboard an old Great Northern locomotive, Castle class, the Warwick Castle, to be precise. The seats in first class are now somewhat shoddy and worn, while third class still has wooden slats to sit on, and no loo, which meant we had to jump off when we stopped at a station and head for the bushes. The train also had cattle class, where Bruce put the mules and the porters. Both complained.
There is one big difference between traveling down from Birkenhead to London in comfort and going from Bombay to Siliguri: we used to keep the windows closed and turn the heating up on our way down from the north of England, but here, despite the fact that the rail company has dispensed with the glass windows, it feels as if you’re traveling in an oven on wheels.