BOOK SIX
Back to Earth
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 4TH, 1922
GEORGE LEANED OVER the railing of the SS Caledonia and, along with the rest of the team, stared down at the dockside in disbelief. None of them could believe what they were witnessing. As far as the eye could see, the dockside was crowded with people clapping, cheering, and waving Union Jacks.
“Who are they cheering for?” asked George, wondering if perhaps some American film star was on board.
“I think you’ll find, George, that they’re welcoming you home,” said Somervell. “They must be suffering from the delusion that you reached the summit.”
George continued to stare down at the clamoring crowd, but there was only one person he was looking for. It wasn’t until they had tied up to the dock that he finally caught a fleeting glimpse of her: a lone figure who kept appearing and disappearing among the vast mêlée of raised hats, waving hands, and Union Jacks.
George would have been the first down the gangplank if Finch hadn’t beaten him to it. The moment he placed a foot on the dockside he was engulfed by a mass of out-thrust arms, which brought back vivid memories of Bombay—except that this time they were trying to slap him on the back rather than begging or proffering secondhand goods.
“Do you still hope to be the first man to conquer Everest, Mr. Mallory?” shouted a journalist with his notepad open, his pencil poised.
George made no attempt to reply, but
fought his way through the crowd toward the spot where he’d last seen her.
“I’ll certainly be going back!” shouted Finch, as the press surrounded him. “After all, I only have just over 1,000 feet left to climb.” The man with the poised pencil wrote down his every word.
“Do you think you’ll make it to the top next time, Mr. Mallory?” a pursuing journalist persisted.
“There isn’t going to be a next time,” mumbled George under his breath. And then he saw her, just a few yards in front of him.
“Ruth! Ruth!” he called, but she clearly couldn’t hear him above the clamor of the crowd. At last their eyes met, and he saw that smile she reserved only for those she truly cared for. He stretched out a hand, and several strangers tried to shake it. He finally lunged forward and took her in his arms.
“How are we ever going to escape from this lot?” he shouted in her ear.
“The car’s just over there,” she said, clinging to his hand and pulling him away from the crowd, but his newfound friends were unwilling to let him escape quite that easily.
“Have you accepted the position as climbing leader for next year’s trip?” shouted another journalist.
“Next year’s trip?” asked George, taken by surprise. But by then Ruth had reached the car, opened the door, and pushed him into the passenger seat. George couldn’t hide his astonishment when she climbed behind the wheel.
“When?” he asked.
“A girl has to find something to occupy her time when her husband is off visiting another woman,” Ruth said with a smile.
He took her in his arms again, and kissed her gently on the lips.
“I’ve spoken to you before about kissing strange women in public, George,” she said, not letting go of him.
“I remember,” George replied, kissing her again.
“Let’s get moving,” said Ruth reluctantly, “before this becomes the closing scene of a Lillian Gish picture.”
She switched on the ignition and cranked the gear lever into first, then tried to inch her way through the crowd, but it was another twenty minutes before she was able to change into second gear and leave the baying pack behind her, and even then one last admirer banged the bonnet with his hand and shouted, “Well done, sir!”
“What was all that about?” asked George, looking out of the rear window as some of the mob continued to pursue them.
“You had no way of knowing, but the press has been covering your progress since the day you left, and over the past six months they’ve turned you into something of a national figure.”
“But I failed,” said George. “Didn’t anyone take that into account?”