Jeffrey Archer - Paths Of Glory

“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.

D OCTORS, PHILOSOPHERS, ANDeven 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,” suggested George. “Perhaps the time has come to allow girls the same opportunity as boys to make their way in the world.”

“That would never do,” spluttered his father. “Such a course of action would overturn the natural order of society. If you had your way, George, how would your mother ever be able to find a cook or a scullery maid?”

“By getting a man to do the job,” George suggested guilelessly.

“Good heavens, George, I do believe you’re turning into a free-thinker. Have you been listening to the rantings of that Bernard Shaw fellow?”

“No, Papa, but I have been reading his pamphlets.”

It is not unusual for parents to suspect that their progeny just might be brighter than they are, but the Reverend Mallory was not willing to admit as much when George had only recently celebrated his tenth birthday. George was ready to fire his next question, only to find that his father was falling further and further behind. But then, when it came to climbing, even the Reverend Mallory had long ago accepted that his son was in a different class.

G EORGE DIDN’T CRYwhen his parents sent him away to prep school. Not because he didn’t want to, but because another boy, dressed in the same red blazer and short gray trousers, was bawling his head off on the other side of the carriage.

Guy Bullock came from a different world. He wasn’t able to tell George exactly what his father did for a living, but whatever it was, the word industry kept cropping up-something George felt confident his mother wouldn’t approve of. Another thing also became abundantly clear after Guy had told him about his family holiday in the Pyrenees. This was a child who had never come across the expression We’ll have to tighten our belts . Still, by the time they arrived at Eastbourne station later that afternoon they were best friends.

The two boys slept in adjoining beds while in junior dormitory, sat next to each other in the classroom, and, when they entered their final year at Glengorse, no one was surprised that they ended up sharing the same study. Although George was better than him at almost everything they tackled, Guy never seemed to resent it. In fact, he appeared to revel in his friend’s success, even when George was appointed captain of football and went on to win a scholarship to Winchester. Guy told his father that he wouldn’t have been offered a place at Winchester if he hadn’t shared a study with George, who never stopped pushing him to try harder.

While Guy was checking the results of the entrance exam posted on the school notice board, George appeared more interested in an announcement that had been pinned below. Mr. Deacon, the chemistry beak, was inviting leavers to join him on a climbing holiday in Scotland. Guy had little interest in climbing, but once George had added his name to the list, Guy scribbled his below it.