sleeping bags had not been slept in, the jar of Bovril was unopened, and the bars of Kendal Mint Cake had not been unwrapped, while beside them stood a candle that had not been relit.
Odell put on his goggles and backed out of the tent. He pushed himself up off his knees and looked up toward the mountain peak, but could no longer see more than a few feet in front of him. He screamed, “George! Sandy!” at the top of his voice, but the lashing wind and drifting snow beat his words back. He kept on shouting until his voice was just a whimper and he could barely hear himself above the noise of the gale. He finally gave up, but not until he accepted that his own life was in danger. He crawled back toward the tent, and reluctantly pulled out one sleeping bag and placed it on the side of the mountain.
“Someone’s dragging out one of the sleeping bags,” announced Noel.
“What’s the message?” cried Norton.
“Not sure yet. Ah, he’s dragging the other one out now.”
Noel focused on the moving figure.
“Is it George?” shouted Norton, looking hopefully up the mountain, a hand shielding his eyes from the driving snow. Noel didn’t reply. He just bowed his head.
Somervell shuffled across the ridge as quickly as he could, and took Noel’s place behind the camera. He peered through the viewfinder.
The whole lens was filled with the sign of a cross.
EPILOGUE
If George Leigh Mallory had been surprised by the reception he received on returning to England following the 1922 expedition, what would he have made of the memorial service that was held in St. Paul’s Cathedral in his honor? No body, no casket, no grave, yet thousands of ordinary citizens had traveled the length and breadth of the land to line the streets and pay homage.
His Majesty the King, the Prince of Wales, the Duke of Connaught, and Prince Arthur were all represented, with the Prime Minister, Ramsay MacDonald, the former Foreign Secretary Lord Curzon, the Lord Mayor of London, and the Mayor of Birkenhead in attendance.
General Bruce stood at the east end of the cathedral and lined up Lieutenant Colonel Norton, Dr. Somervell, Professor Odell, Major Bullock, Major Morshead, Captain Noel, and Geoffrey Young to form the guard of honor. They carried silver ice axes under their right arms as they followed the Dean of St. Paul’s down the nave past the crowded pews, and took their places in the front row next to Sir Francis Younghusband, Mr. Hinks, Mr. Raeburn, and Commander Ashcroft, who were there to represent the Royal Geographical Society.
When the Bishop of Chester mounted the pulpit steps to address the packed congregation, he opened his eulogy by trying to articulate the people’s feelings of affection and admiration for the two lads from Birkenhead, who, on Ascension Day, had captured the imagination of the world.
“We will never know,” he went on to say, “if together they reached the summit of that great mountain. But who among us can doubt that if the prize was within his grasp, George Mallory would have battled on whatever the odds, and that young Sandy Irvine would have followed him to the ends of the earth?”
Ruth Mallory, who was seated in the front row on the other side of the aisle, was in no doubt that her husband wouldn’t have turned back if there was even the slightest possibility of achieving his wildest dream. Nor did the Reverend Herbert Leigh Mallory, who sat beside his daughter-in-law. Hugh Thackeray Turner, seated on the other side of his daughter, would go to his grave without offering an opinion.
After the Dean of St. Paul’s had given the blessing, and the captains and the kings had departed, Ruth stood alone by the north door, shaking hands with friends and well-wishers, many of whom told her how their lives had been enriched by this gallant and courageous gentleman.
She smiled when she saw George Finch, waiting in line to speak to her. He was dressed in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and black tie that looked as if they were being worn for the first time. He bowed as he shook her hand. Ruth leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “If it had been you who was climbing with George, he might still be alive today.”
Finch didn’t voice his long-held opinion that had he been invited to join the expedition, he and Mallory would surely have reached the summit together and, more important, returned home safely. Although Finch accepted that if they had been in any trouble, Mallory might have ignored his advice and carried on, leaving him to return alone.
At last Ruth’s father felt the time had come to take his daughter home, despite the fact that so many mourners still wished to pay their respects.
On the drive back to Godalming, hardly a word passed between them. But then, Ruth had lost the only man she had ever loved, and old gentlemen do not expect to attend the funerals of their sons-in-law. As they passed through the gates of The Holt, Ruth thanked her father for his kindness and understanding, but asked if she could be left alone to grieve. He reluctantly departed, and returned to Westbrook.
When Ruth opened the front door, the first thing she saw lying on the mat was an envelope, addressed to her in George’s unmistakable hand. She picked it up, painfully aware that it must be his last letter. She walked through to the drawing room and poured herself what George would have called “a stiff whiskey” before taking her seat in the winged chair by the window. She looked up at the driveway, somehow still expecting George to come striding through the gates and take her in his arms.
Ruth tore open the envelope, took out the letter, and began to read her husband’s last words.
