Above All Things

by Tanis Rideout

  They pressed up against the wind, trading the lead, stopping only to peer up the ridge, hoping to see the coolies coming down. Not that he expected they would. Not in this. They’d be near frozen already, without food or fuel for nine hours.

  “It’s all suffering,” he remembered telling Ruth in a weaker moment. “That’s all there is to climbing mountains. Suffering. You only need to be better at it than everyone else.”

  “You think you’d be the best by now,” she said. She might have been joking. He chose to take it that way.

  “I am.” He pulled her to him then. “I suffer for you every day.” He thought of her hands on him, how they were always cold. The wind cut through his ill-named windproofs.

  When he’d heard his new gear had arrived from London, he couldn’t wait to get home and open the packages. It was like Christmas morning. The windproofs, the silk puttees, the new boots: he wanted to pull them all out of their packaging, turn them in his hands, though he knew they’d have to be packed right back up and sent off to the shipyards. When he’d walked in and seen the empty boxes he was furious. He knew it was juvenile, but they were his – and his to unpack. He was about to walk out of the house when Ruth called to him from up the stairs.

  “George, darling?” she teased, in a tone he loved but wasn’t in the mood for. He stood at the bottom of the stairs like a pouting child.

  “What is it?” He heard a loud clomp, like a heavy footstep.

  “Come upstairs, please, darling.”

  He knew he should humour her, he owed her that. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to climb the stairs.

  He didn’t want to climb.

  He stopped on the ridge. Ahead of him, Teddy tugged on the rope. He stepped up again.

  “Please?” Her voice again. A question, doubting. He climbed the steps. She was at the top of them, peeking around the door of their room. “Come here.” Then she backed away, sounding heavy, fumbling.

  He stepped into their room, dull and grey in the damp of fall. She was dressed head to toe in his expedition gear. Her tiny hands invisible in his gloves, her eyes hidden behind his goggles, below his hat. His windproofs sagged over too-big boots.

  “What do you think?” Her voice was muffled through the wool of his scarf. She turned, laughing, her feet shuffling on the wood floor. His anger, his petulance evaporated. She was perfect, playing the fool in his clothes.

  “I’ll pack you in my trunk,” he said. “You could almost pass for one of the Sherpas.”

  “I thought I’d keep them. Wear them to market. It gets cold enough here.”

  “I need them.”

  “Then you’ll have to come get them.”

  They climbed above the storm, George in the lead, the snow tossing below them like foaming surf. They couldn’t be far from where it had happened. The avalanche. Instinctively George stopped, stomped down on the new snow. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He watched Teddy, below him, surface out of the storm and then turned to see the camp a short way above them. It looked deserted.

  He dropped to the snow, leaned back against the angle of the mountain. They couldn’t be dead. They couldn’t be. If they were dead it would be all over. And this time the papers would be right when they printed his name beside the names of the dead. This would be unforgivable.

  “Almost there, Teddy.”

  “They’ll be fine, George.” Teddy paused a moment beside him. “They’re sitting there waiting for us. We’ll get them down. And then we’ll see about the mountain. Still plenty of time to be bloody heroes.”

  Teddy patted his shoulder roughly, then plodded past him towards the tent. He stood slowly and followed.

  They found them cowering in the back of the tent. Virgil sat up as George climbed in. “Sahib Mallory.”

  “Virgil,” he said, pulling the cold tea from under his jumper before he even had his gloves off. “How are you?” Coughing, he collapsed into the tent. God, he was tired. If only they could rest here, just for one night. But the camp couldn’t support them. And Somes was right, they’d been up here at these altitudes too long.

  “Me, good. Lopsang, not good. He not make it down yesterday.” Virgil’s voice was creaky, dry.

  “Neither did you.”

  “I come back with Lopsang.”

  “We need to get down. Now. You’re both dehydrated. When did you last eat? Drink?” He gestured at the canteen.

  “Yesterday. Maybe before.”

  Teddy was examining Lopsang. “We need to get him down.” The coolie was muttering, his head lolling back as Teddy tried to haul him to a sitting position. When Teddy let go, Lopsang slumped back into the sleeping bag. They’d have to drag him down.

  “We need to hydrate them first.”

  “Lopsang,” Virgil was saying, ripping a piece of pemmican with his teeth, “not go down. You must make him to go down.”

  He wished it was that easy. This might be a rescue, but the Sherpas would still have to get themselves down the mountain. He and Teddy were little more than moral support. Bullies.

  “We’ll have to short-rope him,” Teddy said, forcing Lopsang to drink.

  Outside the tent Lopsang was able to stand, but he wavered on his feet. The weather below them had blown clear, the route lay crisp before them. George tied a rope from himself to Lopsang and from Lopsang to Teddy. A short line, only ten feet between each of them.

  “I’ll go first,” he said and moved off, feeling resistance, then a grudging movement. Behind him Teddy stood still until his own rope to Lopsang was taut between them, then he followed them down, holding the coolie up.

  They worked their way back to Camp IV in this way, inching down the mountain, forcing Lopsang down from the front. It was laborious. Lopsang stumbled, fell in the snow, and George would pull on the rope like a pack animal while Teddy arrested his fall from behind. Ahead of him George kept an eye on Virgil, who plodded down mechanically. At least they would get the coolies back down. He tried to feel the success of that.

  “SHOULDN’T WE GO look?” Sandy asked Somervell. He’d already spent most of the day staring up the ridge, blinking away spots in his eyes that he thought might be the others returning.

  Dusk was creeping up the mountain. They’d seen no sign of torches, no light from the higher camp. At least the sky and mountain were bright with the moon. But the temperature had already dropped, and now it was too cold to stand still, keeping watch for them. But unlike him, they were moving. They had to be, Sandy thought. That might be enough to keep them warm.

  “No,” Somes said. “There are too many people already in danger. You heard what Teddy said. He isn’t putting anyone else at risk. And we don’t know if they’re even on their way back down. No. We stay here. At least until morning. If they’re not back by then, we’ll go look for them.”

  Sandy didn’t want to wait. What if they were injured, or sick from the altitude? Lapkha’s bulging eyes rose again in his mind and an anger with it. “Maybe you should have gone,” he said to Somes.

  “Teddy made the call.”

  “But you’re the doctor. You’re the one who’s supposed to make sure we’re all all right. If you’d been here, maybe Lapkha wouldn’t have died.”

  Somervell inhaled deeply. “I can’t be everywhere, Sandy.” His voice was calm. “I can’t be climbing and waiting behind. Right now, all we can do is wait. Hope for the best. Pray, maybe.”

  Sandy wasn’t much for praying. When he was a child, he would lie in bed when his parents had gone out to the pub. He’d wait for them to come home, convinced something nefarious had happened to them. That was the word he’d thought. He’d read it somewhere. Some Boy’s Own or the like. He didn’t know exactly what it meant then, but he knew it was bad. It meant someone had tried to hurt them. He would make promises in his head to try to keep them safe. If he could keep his eyes closed until he counted to 100, 500, 1000, they would be home by the time he finished. He usually fell asleep before he reached the end, but if they stil
l weren’t home, he picked a larger number and started again.

  He closed his eyes now, murmured under his breath. He knew it was foolish. Still, he continued counting in his head.

  “Hallo?” The sound of someone out there, far away. He waited and heard it again. Somes heard it too. “Come on,” he said and climbed from the tent, handing Sandy a canteen. “Come on.”

  The dark was pressing in on them now and Sandy lit a lamp so George and Norton would be able to see it, follow the smudge of light.

  The air outside felt as though it might snap. Sharp and fragile, edged like crystal. When he inhaled, it cut into his nostrils, his lungs. The moonlight was cold on the mountain, iced blue. Sandy slogged through the snow after Somervell, the snow filtering into his mislaced boots, melting against his skin and cooling fast. His feet would freeze in his boots. The cold in his brain hurt. He pressed forward.

  Then he saw them. “There,” he said, squinting, and pointed past Somervell. The group was a huddled mass, stumbling slowly towards them.

  George’s face was pale and white, frostbite beginning to settle in. Sandy brushed at his own face. The scabbed skin hurt. The pain reassured him. Behind George, Lopsang hung on the rope between him and Norton, kept up only by the tension on the rope.

  “What happened?” Somes asked.

  George didn’t speak, just waved over his shoulder at Lopsang, and fumbled at the rope at his waist. Sandy stopped him, handed him the canteen and leaned in to untie the short rope. As he did, George collapsed to the snow.

  Somervell cut the rope between Norton and Lopsang and took the weight of the porter on his shoulder. Sandy tried not to look too closely at Lopsang as Somervell urged him past him. He couldn’t be as bad as Lapkha, he was still on his feet.

  “Sandy, get them to the tent,” Somes said.

  He nodded and moved to support Norton before he collapsed too. If they both dropped to the ground he’d never get them moving again. Norton leaned on him and Sandy almost fell as he bent to pull on George’s coat. “Come on, George. Just a little way.”

  Virgil trudged past them, not looking at him or at George, still on the ground. As he passed by, George heaved himself up and stumbled after him, ahead of Sandy, who was dragging Norton’s weight.

  They were back. And safe. Though only just barely. He wondered if the expedition was over, if Teddy would send them all home. They would know more when they got lower down, had a chance to regroup. For the first time, Sandy considered just what the chances were of his getting home safe.

  MARKET

  2 O’CLOCK

  These medieval alleyways curve and wander every which way, and I follow this one past Trinity College with its sunlit rectangle of green out front, past All Saints Passage and its tiny shaded square of gardens and dirty paths around the squat trees. On my right are the windows of shops, people moving behind the displays of oxford-cloth shirts or books or sweets. To my left are the fortressed walls of Trinity and St. John’s, each with its own chapel, the stained glass catching the sunlight. The market is behind me, but I need a few minutes. I want to sit, quiet and alone. I had thought, on leaving Will’s, to go to St. Mary’s, but there I might run into people I know, at the very least Reverend Winterson, who would insist on being a source of comfort. Instead my feet lead me back towards Bridge Street, to the Round Church.

  I’ve adored it since the first day George and I came across it as we walked about the town. It sits squat on its corner, where it has been for eight hundred years. Eight hundred. So long for something to stand steadfast as it has. The stone, brown-grey like the feathers of a dusty sparrow, describes a curve perfect for open arms.

  Inside, the rotunda is dark and cool, and the arches sweep upwards in a gesture so expansive it makes the space beneath them seem larger than the curved walls could contain. The four columns that hold up the ceiling could hold up the whole world. The carved faces glaring down from the top of the columns are like demons, judging and cold. I find a spot to sit where I don’t have to see them. Where instead I can watch sunlight dapple through the stained glass.

  What if Will had kissed me? I might have wanted him to. To abandon myself to him, the way that I have been abandoned. It would be easy to love Will. To love someone who was always there for me, someone I wouldn’t have to wait for. Perhaps, though, beginnings are always easier.

  Once upon a time, I think, the world must have been flat. It was our minds that made it round, our desire to circumnavigate it. Our desire to leave home, certainly, but just as strongly, our desire to return. But in making it round we crumpled it up, pulling it apart in places, crushing it together in others, thrusting them up into the atmosphere. Bullying the deserts, the tundra, the plains into George’s beloved mountains, peaks that stretch up from the rest of the world.

  I prefer the cracks and crevasses, the gaps and holes, the bottomless depths of oceans and valleys, where you can see below the surface. Or small spaces that hold me secure and safe. I prefer what is hidden away.

  Everything is about to change. Is changing. The slow smoulder of desire is reshaping our landscapes. Maybe the oceans continue to plunge and Everest to grow higher, piercing into the heavens. Even if George were to reach the top of it, Everest will keep growing higher. Someone else will reach that height first. It won’t be you.

  Around me there is the hum of prayers from scattered supplicants, the smell of candles being lit and blown out, wax and incense. I think about lighting a prayer candle in George’s name, but I don’t want to tempt fate. I’ve lit candles for him before. In hope. In desperation. In good faith. First in Venice, to keep him safe, now that I knew he existed, on the sides of mountains. And then at each of his departures. I think the one I lit recently at St. Mary’s must have been burned down for weeks now. When I attend service tomorrow, I’ll light another one.

  In the hollow silence of the church I catalogue George’s departures. So many memories of goodbyes and leave-takings. I name each train station, the names of enough ships to raise a flotilla. It is my own rosary, each name a prayer.

  I find comfort in ritual, in controlling what I can, in developing routines. Tea served at the exact same time, with one biscuit, set into the saucer. Saying prayers with the children and then tucking them in, in order, foreheads kissed, one, two, three. Letters scooped from the floor and sorted into stacks – each to be dealt with in its turn. With the arrival of each letter from George, there are steps to go through. First, I sit, carefully, in the window of our bedroom, the door closed firmly so I won’t be disturbed. Then I hold the pages to my face, taking in the smells of where it has been. A deep inhale to steady my nerves and to push the hopes and fears aside so I can read what is there, and not what I want to be there. One sentence at a time. One paragraph. And then back to the start. Then read on to the next one. I draw it out, knowing it will be a long time before another letter arrives.

  When I finish reading the letter, I fold it back into its envelope, slip it into my pocket, but I won’t read it again until I go to bed. Try to remember it all day, test myself about what I remember he has written, how he has written it.

  Once, I used to keep all his letters in order, neat and tidy in a box, but that’s a pastime of youth. I no longer hold fast to that. There have been so many. There have been letters from George since the very start.

  The morning after he arrived in Venice there was a note slipped under my door – Would you do me the honour of walking out with me to Asolo tomorrow? I hear the hills above Browning’s villa are a thing to see. Just the two of us. Don’t tell your sisters. The writing was messy and careless. The ink splotched on his name.

  It was a beginning. An opening up.

  At my feet the stone is cast in jewelled light from the stained glass placed high under the eaves. I wonder if I could catch that dance of colour in paint – the sharpness of it, the sparkle, so that it is the colour of the glass and the dark stone all at once. How it changes as the sun moves across the sky, as clouds move acros
s its face. I could paint it from moment to moment, just this square of floor, just get this right. Just this.

  What would George think I had come to, if I were to write, I’m painting floors – no! Not painting them like a house painter, like a real painter. Like Will or your friend Duncan Grant. Trying to capture the light. Some things just don’t suit letters.

  Like proposals. I wonder if maybe we should be married.

  The letter came from the Alps, a scant three months after we’d met. We barely knew each other and it was thrilling and disappointing all at once.

  Without question I knew I wanted to spend my life with him. There had been other offers before – there could have been any number of other lives I might have lived. But all I could think of was the luxury of reaching for him whenever I wanted, to claim possession of some small part of him for myself. Reaching across a bed that had never seemed empty before and feeling his skin.

  Yes, I started to write back. Immediately.

  But this was already a kind of ending. If this was the proposal there’d be no grand romantic gesture. No getting down on one knee. I didn’t know if I was ready to be a wife when I’d barely become a sweetheart.

  The letter continued – forgive me. But I am better on paper. I will ask you in person, if you think you’d agree, but my heart stops just thinking that you might refuse.

  I couldn’t refuse. But I didn’t tell anyone. I wrote back, lightly: I wonder a great many things too and would love to talk them over in person. I am worse on paper. I cannot spell, which you often point out. And I prattle on about nothing of consequence. Let us save important words for when we can be together.

  George came back from the continent tanned and healthy and had lunch with my father and me. When my father retired after the meal for a nap, we sat in the walled garden. The lilacs were already spoiling, the air was pungent.