by Gil Hogg
“This is it,” Stuart declared. “Look, there are a few signs. And I’ve camped here before.” His voice sank. He evidently didn’t want to remember.
Tom slipped out of his pack and walked to a pile of rusted tin cans and a gas cylinder. He kicked at the tins and turned them with the toe of his boot, trying to guess how old they were; all that was left to hint at the passion of a climb. On a rock shelf where a stove might have perched, there were black marks.
“These remains could be from passing trampers who only looked up at the slopes of Vogel,” he said.
“It’s where Ernest and Bill camped,” Stuart said flatly.
They pitched their tent. Tom cooked a curry of red beans and tinned beef, with dried apricots as a sweet. Stuart produced a bottle of scotch. They lay in their sleeping bags in the tent after the meal, drinking from plastic mugs with the bottle between them. Stuart was swallowing his slugs in a mouthful.
They talked, at Stuart’s inevitable wish, about the mountain. Tom had been able to think a little better of his father as a result of reading The Fateful Snows as a child. The practical problem about scaling Vogel was that after you had climbed its shoulders, the final toil was a sheer pinnacle of granite, three thousand feet high. The lower slopes called for ice experience, and the upper slopes required climbing skill of the highest technicality. A summit team would be endangered by ice and rock falls, wind, and changeable weather which could bring snow even in summer. The steep upper slope provided little shelter to bivouac.
Virtually impregnable, Vogel was the target of mountaineers from all over the world, although only just over twelve thousand two hundred feet high. While Ernest Ashton had been acclaimed for his conquest, a number had died on the mountain; many had been injured or simply been beaten. He had come to think of Vogel as encouraging a kind of madness.
Stuart was beginning to rant. “Do you realise that I’ve even got a book that’s been published recently which holds Ernest up as one of the mountaineering greats? I’ll tell you, I was damned economical with the praise when I was writing the section about him, but there is no denying the achievement. And I’ve written the foreword to the new edition of The Fateful Snows! How will I look if…”
He was disturbed by Stuart’s intense preoccupation with his father’s exploits and simultaneous loathing. The two things seemed incompatible, yet here they were married; tightly, inextricably married.
“That’s fine,” he said mildly. “Many have climbed Everest, but nobody will forget that Hillary and Tensing were the first.”
Stuart was getting drunk. The bottle was three quarters gone.
“The old man’s going to look like a rat if this is all a fucking lie. And he’ll take me down with him too, that’s…”
“You seem to have decided the rumour is true, Stu.”
“No. It could be. It could be because Ernest is like he is. Why? Why?”
“I don’t know… What I do know is that if I was the first to climb Vogel, I’d have a smile on my face for the rest of my life. Ernest has never been at peace with his achievement in all the years I’ve known him. Outwardly, to his fellow knights and the people who run this country, he seems to be a scholarly sportsman, and a powerful businessman, but that’s not the Ernest we know, Stu. He’s a tortured and violent and prejudiced man. He seems to hate himself…”
“And he hates me…”
“Yeah…” Tom had been hearing evidence of this from Stuart for years.
“You think that’s true, Tom? A father who hates his son? You’ve been closer to this than anybody. Closer than Robyn.”
“I’m sorry, but I do.”
“Remember the fight, when I was eighteen? Well I’ve told you most everything…”
“You have…” He was going to tell Tom again.
Stuart took another big shot of the whisky. He was on his own trip. “Shit, we had a fight, there in the yard down by the sheds. He ordered me to unload a truck full of stores as though I was a slave. As I walked past him, he struck a blow on my shoulder. We were face to face. I didn’t think. I punched him in the face and knocked him down. I was astonished at what I’d done and just stood there, gawking. He got to his feet, and said, ‘OK, son.’ Quiet and friendly. Then he hit me quickly, and I fell down. I got up and launched into him like a madman. I lost it. The truck driver had to drag me off. He never touched me again.”
“You don’t need to bring all that into the now…” He was tempted to say it was irrelevant, but that would have inflamed Stuart further. And in the sense that Mt Vogel had become part of a battle between father and son, an extrapolation of the abuse, it wasn’t irrelevant at all.
Stuart’s voice was low and grating. “There were a lot of beatings, but the scar of that one, particularly, has always been with me, and like a scar it’s rough, and sometimes inflamed and painful. It marked a stalemate.”
Tom thought it was a stalemate with poison swelling on both sides. “Was it so out of the question to get out of Ernest’s life after you finished school?”
“I did, I tried, but I’ve been drawn back. When I first started to do journalism about mountaineering, my father’s achievements were draped around my shoulders by others like a golden cloak. I didn’t ask for it. I couldn’t avoid it.”
“I can understand that, and it’s been useful to you, but…”
“I thought I was making something of myself, making myself independent of him, carving out my own niche if you like…”
He should have replied, ‘You didn’t try very hard for independence. You embraced your father’s achievements and struggled to better them. You cleaved to him, used him for your own purposes.’ But Stuart wouldn’t accept or even probably understand this, and to be fair, because the way everything had happened wasn’t reasoned, there had been no point where events paused and Stuart could reflect. Stuart probably couldn’t help being subverted by the canker inside him.
Instead, tired and a little drunk himself, he said, “You weren’t carving your own niche, Stu. That was a mistake…”
The weather became more harsh before dawn. A fierce wind began driving sleet and snow. In the morning, they were huddled in the tent with hot coffee, playing cards. But the weather was not easing, and they would have to face a wet and unpleasant trek. They loaded up and, after three hours, reached a point where they could see a reddish-brown hut clearly against the snow on the far side of a gully. Stuart waved an arm triumphantly.
Melted snow had already begun to find fissures in Tom’s borrowed waterproofs. The dampness and chill spread on his arms, chest and thighs. They splashed across a stream which was now running profusely. The hut was below a ridge, protected from the southerly buster which swept up the valley like a harvester.
When they reached the hut, the door swung open in the wind. Tom entered. Inside was a stove with a rusted chimney. The bunk frames had been broken up for firewood by passing trampers; there were old newspapers and plastic packets on the floor; the dust and grime of years coated the walls and windows.
Tom stepped outside the hut. “The mountain man was never here.”
Stuart sheltered against the wall of the hut. Agitated, he pulled out the map clumsily, his hand shaking. “We could head south…”
“We’re nearly out of stores, and beyond the time we gave Tia.”
“We can call her on the mobile. We can do this circuit.” He pointed to the map.
Tom looked and calculated. It was perhaps four miles over ridges, up and down valleys. “No, Stuart. It’ll take hours. I’m cold and I’m hungry.”
Stuart thrust his face close to Tom’s; it was gaunt and his eyes were unseeing chips of glass. “You don’t understand. You don’t fucking understand!”
He thought for a second that Stuart was going to strike him.
Tom drove the truck back to Tamaki Downs with a withdrawn Stuart. Stuart hated Tom - or anybody else - having the wheel, but he wasn’t fit to drive. He had looked like a person having a fit; his hands were quivering
and he was staring and speaking incoherently. Tom had bundled him into the passenger seat. It was past 1am when they reached Tamaki Downs. Stuart disappeared without a word, and Tom stowed their gear in the outhouse and went to bed.
The morning was sunny and calm. Robyn was away from the house, and after breakfast - Stuart didn’t appear - Tom noticed that the door of her bedroom was open; it had been hers as a child and was kept for her visits. Curious, he walked in.
The room still had something of the spoiled little girl about it; a faded counterpane on the bed with a fairy motif in pink and yellow which matched the curtains. A more mature sign was the framed coloured poster of The Importance of Being Ernest at the Theatre Royal in the Haymarket, London. He remembered buying the poster and taking Robyn to the performance. She couldn’t see enough of the West End productions; in this way, she sought to make light of their agonising visit to London, shortly after their Ruapehu ‘decision’.
The journey was made humiliatingly for him, mostly at Robyn’s expense. He had no money and no settled job. He could hardly remember anything about the night of the performance, or even the details of the drama. Their London days were ugly and blurred as they strived to carry out the plan their febrile imaginings had produced in New Zealand. Robyn was proud and impetuous; she wanted her way and was used to getting it. He was borne along uncritically, fully complicit with her wishes, which became his wishes. His efforts to enlist legitimate medical help were rejected pompously, and he had to grope around in the depths of the city, and by trial and error eventually came to Mrs Rueben.
Mrs Rueben’s house in Camden was a tiny end-of-terrace property on a busy road. A narrow path ran down the side of the house, where they had been directed to go; there were two doors along the windowless brick wall. The two doors were ill-fitting, one showing black gaps from the interior darkness; he knocked at the other; it was opened by a bald man of fifty who was preparing to wash, his shirt-sleeves rolled, his waistcoat undone and a towel in his hand. He surveyed them grimly, and then, without remark, led them to an inner room. With an almost inaudible grunt, he left them.
He and Robyn stood uneasily, the floor creaking under the thin carpet as they shuffled. An old black upright piano stood in one corner of the small space, with family photographs on top of it; under the window, were a lumpy chesterfield and chairs with worn moquette covers.
A woman whom he thought was Mrs Reuben, and who looked out of place, sauntered in with a lit cigarette in a long holder between her teeth. She glanced casually at them. Her face must have been smashed in an accident a long time before; a series of fine white scars on the forehead and cheeks suggested that it had been carefully reassembled. Yet she was a woman of sensual attraction, about thirty-five years old. She was dressed to go out - or she had just entered the house. Her thick, shoulder-length black hair was set in waves. Her nails were polished and painted red. A garish imitation leopard-skin coat was wrapped tightly around her body, accenting voluptuous lines.
“All for two hundred quid, kids,” she said in a low, throaty voice through a melting cloud of cigarette smoke.
He whiffed the smoke, and suddenly wanted to suck some into his lungs, although he seldom smoked. He gave her the money. She counted it carelessly and slipped the notes into her pocket; then she fixed her attention on Robyn, who looked away.
“It’s not so bad, dear.” Mrs Rueben smiled faintly, and spoke with an East End accent. “But you’ve left it very late. The information I was given was that it was over five months since your last period. Is that right? What have you been doing, making up your mind?”
Despite her languorous attitude, Mrs Rueben appeared to be summing them up. Tom’s hand, in the pocket where the money had been, was damp. He clenched his fist a number of times to confirm to himself what they had planned, and what they were now committed to.
“What do I have to do?” Robyn asked curtly.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about the details, Miss - what is your name again?”
Mrs Rueben lingered over the introductions, articulating their names as though she was sucking sugar-coated sweets.
“It’s all very hygienic,” she said, pointing to a large suitcase which she had placed by the door. She opened the case, revealing a collection of enamel basins, red rubber tubes, red rubber bottles or suctions, glass bottles, packs of cotton wool and pills. “You’ll have to go to the hospital. I start the miscarriage, and the hospital does the rest. They curette you, stop the bleeding, and clean you up. Get a cab over the road; they’re passing all the time. Ask for Camden Trust A&E. Got that?”
“Yes,” Tom said.
“Is it dangerous?” Robyn asked unemotionally.
“I’ve never had anyone die, love, if that’s what you mean.”
“But it’s risky?”
“It’s a matter of keeping infection out.”
“But there’s a risk of infection?” Robyn pressed commandingly.
“I’m no magician, but I’ll do my part.” Mrs Reuben gave her weak smile.
“Are you trying to put me off?” Robyn maintained her dominant tone.
“I’m trying to get you to face facts, dear. You can’t expect a miracle for nothing, can you?”
“I want an abortion, not a miracle,” Robyn said, her small face screwing up.
Tom said, “It will be a miracle when our troubles come to an end.”
“Sure, I’m a wizard. I wave my catheter and your troubles end,” Mrs Rueben said quietly.
“It’s no joke!” Robyn wailed.
“You and your big college boy have been sheltered. Let’s go ahead, pet.”
“She’s not scared,” he said, angrily.
“Isn’t she now?” Mrs Rueben took a folded sheet from the suitcase. “Come on, dear. We’ll go out the back. Your man can wait here. I don’t want him hanging around on the street.”
“No, I want you with me, Tom,” Robyn said. “If you don’t come, I’m not going to go with her.”
“You are hard on him,” Mrs Reuben scoffed.
“I don’t care. We’re in this together.”
“I’ll come with you.” Tom felt sick.
“He doesn’t really care about me,” Robyn said to Mrs Reuben.
“At least he’s here. That’s better than most.”
“Why do I have to risk my life?” Robyn asked feverishly.
“Come on, love.” Tom put his hand gently on Robyn’s arm.
“My life!” Robyn shook his hand off. “All the things I wanted to do. My dramatic work. Marriage. Children…”
“Having children, that’s a good one!” Mrs Rueben gave a spurt of laughter which ended in a fit of coughing.
“My career’s just starting. It’s all good, clean you understand? But this is bad, dirty. And dangerous!”
“I don’t care whether you go through with it or not.” Mrs Reuben’s patronising tone was almost bored. “You and your boyfriend made a mistake. It’s the most ordinary thing in the world. Why don’t you go home and tell your mother about it? She’ll understand. Women do. There may be a few tantrums, but eventually she’ll pat you on your shoulder and call you a poor thing. She may have sailed close to the weather herself, in her day. But you want this pregnancy never to have happened. Just innocent fun in the moonlight. No pregnancy, no miscarriage, no pain, no disgrace. Well, I can almost put the clock back for you, but part of the price is nerve.”
Robyn shuddered and shaped her mouth in distaste.
“You aren’t taking any notice of me, Miss Pretty. I know that. I can see you don’t want me.”
“Of course she does,” Tom said.
“Oh, do I then?” Robyn bridled, “What do you know!”
“You’ve decided not to go ahead.” Mrs Reuben’s voice was flat and dry.
“How stupid. I came here for the operation. Why else would I let Tom hand over all that money? I didn’t come here to have my palm read.”
“Try letting your mistake grow to life size, and see if it’
s any easier that way.”
“She’s right, Robyn.”
“You would agree. You don’t mind if I jeopardise my life in this grot-hole!”
“Sorry about the décor,” Mrs Reuben laughed.
“I offered to marry you, Robyn,” he floundered, grasping for some words of calm.
“Oh, God! The marriage thing again.”
“Then set him free.” Mrs Reuben lit another cigarette, enveloping them in a cloud of smoke which hung in the slant of the last sun coming through the grimy net curtains.
“He’s free. He can get out of my life any time he likes!”
“No. He’s only free if you’re not pregnant, dearie.”
“What garbage! I’m getting out of here.”
“Robyn, are you sure? And what about the money?” he asked plaintively.
“Get your money back, then,” Robyn said, stepping into the hall.
“Sure, get your money, big boy.” Mrs Reuben fluttered her red fingernails casually in the air.
“Surely you will…” He realised she had no intention of returning the money.
“You’ve both had two hundred quids’ worth of good advice.” Mrs Reuben went to the door and shouted down the hall, “Joe, these two want to go.”
They were impelled along the passage with Joe behind them, grunting. They hustled down the narrow track to the footpath as though they were being pursued. Outside it had become a chilly, orange-lit half-darkness. A few dark shapes of people moved. Lights were on in the newsagent’s across the road. The small and decrepit houses were cluttered around them. On the road, here, everything was normal, under a noise of traffic; boringly, dully normal.
Robyn turned on him. “Oh, you sap! You weak fool! College boy. You couldn’t even get our money back. Did you expect me to submit to that painted bitch while you were making eyes at her?”
“That’s as mad as… what we’ve just been through.”
So they paid two hundred pounds for good advice. And it was, he reflected long afterwards, good advice.
He walked along Seddon Street, letting the shopfronts prompt his memory. Jarvis’s Milk Bar had given way to Rocco’s Coffee, but the entrance and dark interior of The Lunch Rooms seemed the same. This was where he sometimes came with Gladys Botting, the friend of his mother’s with whom he lived after his mother died.
