wouldn’t have been able to tell you. The fact that he had to wade into the sea to reach his goal didn’t appear to concern him, even though he couldn’t swim.
Only one person on the beach that morning showed the slightest interest in the six-year-old boy’s progress. The Reverend Leigh Mallory folded his copy of
The Reverend Mallory quickly checked on his other three children, who were playing contentedly by the water’s edge, unconcerned with their brother’s fate. Avie and Mary were happily collecting seashells that had been swept in on the morning tide, while their younger brother Trafford was concentrating on filling a small tin bucket with sand. Mallory’s attention returned to his son and heir, who was still heading resolutely toward the rock. He was not yet worried, surely the boy would eventually realize he had to turn back. But he rose from his deckchair once the waves began to cover the boy’s knee breeches.
Although George was now almost out of his depth, the moment he reached the jagged outcrop he deftly pulled himself out of the sea and leaped from rock to rock, quickly reaching the top. There he settled himself, and stared out toward the horizon. Although his favorite subject at school was history, clearly no one had told him about King Canute.
His father was now watching with some trepidation as the waves surged carelessly around the rocks. He waited patiently for the boy to become aware of the danger he was in, when he would surely turn and ask for help. He didn’t. When the first spray of foam touched the boy’s toes, the Reverend Mallory walked slowly down to the water’s edge. “Very good, my boy,” he murmured as he passed his youngest, who was now intently building a sandcastle. But his eyes never left his eldest son, who still hadn’t looked back, even though the waves were now lapping around his ankles. The Reverend Mallory plunged into the sea and started to swim toward the rock, but with each slow lunge of his military breast-stroke he became more aware that it was much further away than he had realized.
He finally reached his goal, and pulled himself onto the rock. As he clambered awkwardly to the top he cut his legs in several places, showing none of the sure-footedness his son had earlier displayed. Once he’d joined the boy, he tried not to reveal that he was out of breath and in some considerable discomfort.
That’s when he heard her scream. He turned to observe his wife, standing at the water’s edge, shouting desperately, “George! George!”
“Perhaps we should be making our way back, my boy,” suggested the Reverend Mallory, trying not to sound at all concerned. “We don’t want to worry your mother, do we?”
“Just a few more moments, Papa,” begged George, who continued to stare resolutely out to sea. But his father decided they couldn’t wait any longer, and pulled his son gently off the rock.
It took the two of them considerably longer to reach the safety of the beach, as the Reverend Mallory, cradling his son in his arms, had to swim on his back, only able to use his legs to assist him. It was the first time George became aware that return journeys can take far longer.
When George’s father finally collapsed on the beach, George’s mother rushed across to join them. She fell on her knees and smothered the child in her bosom, crying, “Thank God, thank God,” while showing scant interest in her exhausted husband. George’s two sisters stood several paces back from the advancing tide, quietly sobbing, while his younger brother continued to build his fortress, far too young for any thoughts of death to have crossed his mind.
The Reverend Mallory eventually sat up and stared at his eldest son, who was once again looking out to sea although the rock was no longer in sight. He accepted for the first time that the boy appeared to have no concept of fear, no sense of risk.
1896
CHAPTER TWO
DOCTORS, PHILOSOPHERS, AND even historians have debated the significance of heredity when trying to understand the success or failure of succeeding generations. Had a historian studied George Mallory’s parents, he would have been hard pressed to explain their son’s rare gift, not to mention his natural good looks and presence.
George’s father and mother considered themselves to be upper middle class, even if they lacked the resources to maintain such pretensions. The Reverend Mallory’s parishioners at Mobberley in Cheshire considered him to be High Church, hide-bound and narrow-minded, and were unanimously of the opinion that his wife was a snob. George, they concluded, must have inherited his gifts from some distant relative. His father was well aware that his elder son was no ordinary child, and was quite willing to make the necessary sacrifices to ensure that George could begin his education at Glengorse, a fashionable prep school in the south of England.
George often heard his father say, “We’ll just have to tighten our belts, especially if Trafford is to follow in your footsteps.” After considering these words for some time, he inquired of his mother if there were any prep schools in England that his sisters might attend.
“Good heavens no,” she replied disdainfully. “That would simply be a waste of money. In any case, what would be the point?”
“For a start, it would mean Avie and Mary had the same opportunities as Trafford and me,” suggested George.
His mother scoffed. “Why put the girls through such an ordeal, when it would not advance their chances of securing a suitable husband by one jot?”
“Isn’t it possible,” suggested George, “that a husband might benefit from being married to a well-educated woman?”
“That’s the last thing a man wants,” his mother responded. “You’ll find out soon enough that most husbands simply require their wife to provide them with an heir and a spare, and to organize the servants.”
George was unconvinced, and decided he would wait for an appropriate opportunity to raise the subject with his father.
The Mallorys’ summer holiday of 1896 was not spent at St. Bees, bathing, but in the Malvern Hills, hiking. While the rest of the family quickly discovered that none of them could keep up with George, his father at least made a valiant attempt to accompany him to the higher slopes, while the other Mallorys were happy to wander in the valleys below.
With his father puffing away several yards behind, George re-opened the vexed question of his sisters’ education. “Why aren’t girls given the same opportunities as boys?”
“It’s not the natural order of things, my boy,” panted his father.
“And who decides the natural order of things?”
“God,” responded the Reverend Mallory, feeling he was on safer ground. “It was He who decreed that man should labor to gain sustenance and shelter for his family, while his spouse remained at home and tended to their offspring.”
“But He must have noticed that women are often blessed with more common sense than men. I’m sure He’s aware that Avie is far brighter than either Trafford or me.”
The Reverend Mallory fell back, as he required a little time to consider his son’s argument, and even longer to decide how he should answer it. “Men are naturally superior to women,” he eventually suggested, not sounding altogether convinced, before lamely adding, “and we should not attempt to meddle with nature.”
“If that is true, Papa, how has Queen Victoria managed to reign so successfully for more than sixty years?”
“Simply because there wasn’t a male heir to inherit the throne,” replied his father, feeling he was entering uncharted waters.
“How lucky for England that no man was available when Queen Elizabeth ascended the throne either,”
