It was the first time Finch had ever called him by his Christian name. “Yes, it is!” George shouted as he crawled up to his side. “Are you all right?”
“I’m just fine,” said Finch. “Apart from a broken leg, and the fact that the toes of my left foot are beginning to freeze up. I must have lost a boot somewhere along the way. What about you?”
“Never better, old chap,” said George.
“Bloody English,” said Finch. “If we’re to have any chance of getting out of here, you’ll need to find my torch.”
“Where do I start looking?”
“The last time I saw it, it was some way up the mountain.”
George set off, like a toddler, on his hands and knees. He was beginning to despair until he spotted a black object resting in the snow a few yards ahead of him. He cheered. He cursed. It was only Finch’s missing boot. He struggled on until he was able to cheer again when he saw the handle of the torch sticking out of the snow. He grabbed at it, and prayed once more before flicking the switch. A beam of light glowed in the dusk. “Thank God,” he murmured, and returned down the mountain to where Finch was lying.
No sooner had George reached him than they both heard the moan. “That must be Young,” said Finch. “Better go and see if you can help. But for God’s sake turn off that torch until the sun’s completely disappeared. If Odell spotted the avalanche from the hotel, a rescue party should be on their way by now, but they won’t reach us for hours.”
George switched off the torch and began to crawl in the direction of the moan, but it was some time before he came across a body lying motionless in the snow, the right leg buckled under the left thigh.
“Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda, who’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda …”
George quickly cleared the snow around Young’s mouth, but made no attempt to move him.
“Hold on, old friend,” he whispered in his ear. “Somervell and Herford should be on their way by now. They’re certain to be with us soon.” He only wished he believed his own words. He took Young’s hand and began to rub, trying to get some circulation back, all the time having to brush away the falling snow.
“Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda, who’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda …”
Odell ran out of the front door of the hotel and onto the driveway. He immediately began to turn the wheel of the ancient klaxon which produced a deafening screeching sound that would alert Somervell and Herford to the danger.
When the sun finally disappeared behind the highest peak, George placed the torch firmly in the snow, facing down the mountain. He switched it on and a beam of light flickered, but how long would it last?
“Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda, who’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda with me? And he sang as he…”
There was nothing in the safety manual about what to do about an Australian singing out of tune, thought George as he rested his head in the snow and began to drift off to sleep. Not a bad way to die.
“You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me …”
When George woke he couldn’t be sure where he was, how he’d got there, or how long he’d been there. Then he saw a nurse. He slept.
When he woke again, Somervell was standing by the side of his bed. He gave George a warm smile. “Welcome back,” he said.
“How long have I been away?”
“Two or three days, give or take. But the doctors are confident they’ll have you back on your feet within a week.”
“And Finch?”
“He’s got one leg in plaster, but he’s eating a hearty breakfast and still singing “Waltzing Matilda” to any nurse who cares to listen.”
“What about Young?” George asked, fearing the worst.
“He’s still unconscious, suffering from hypothermia and a broken arm. The medical chaps are doing everything they can to patch him up, and if they do manage to save his life, he’ll have you to thank.”
“Me?” said George.
“If it hadn’t been for your torch, we would never have found you.”
“It wasn’t my torch,” said George. “It was Finch’s.”
George slept.