Jeffrey Archer - Paths Of Glory

Mr. Deacon’s expression left the rest of the class in no doubt that he didn’t want to believe the boy. “As I’ve told you many times, Mallory, the descent is always more difficult than the climb, not least because of the amount of energy you will have expended to reach the top. That is something novices fail to appreciate,” said Mr. Deacon. After a dramatic pause he added, “Often to their cost.” George didn’t comment. “So be sure to stay with the group on the way down.”

Once the boys had devoured their packed lunches, Mr. Deacon lined them up before taking his place at the front. However, he didn’t set off until he’d seen George standing among the group chatting to his friend Bullock. He would have ordered him to join him at the front if he’d overheard his words, “See you back at camp, Guy.”

On one matter Mr. Deacon proved correct: The journey down the mountain was not only more demanding than the ascent, but more dangerous, and, as he had predicted, it took far longer.

Dusk was already setting in by the time Mr. Deacon tramped into camp, followed by his bedraggled and exhausted troop. They couldn’t believe what they saw: George Mallory was seated cross-legged on the ground, drinking ginger beer and reading a book.

Guy Bullock burst out laughing, but Mr. Deacon was not amused. He made George stand to attention while he delivered a stern lecture on the importance of mountain safety. Once he had finished his diatribe, he ordered George to pull his trousers down and bend over. Mr. Deacon did not have a cane to hand, so he pulled off the leather belt that held up his khaki shorts and administered six strokes to the boy’s bare flesh, but unlike the sheep, George didn’t bleat.

At first light the following morning, Mr. Deacon accompanied George to the nearest railway station. He bought him a ticket and handed him a letter, which he instructed the boy to hand to his father the moment he arrived at Mobberley.

“Why are you back so early?” George’s father inquired.

George handed over the letter, and remained silent while the Reverend Mallory tore open the envelope and read Mr. Deacon’s words. He pursed his lips, attempting to hide a smile, then looked down at his son and wagged a finger. “Do remember, my boy, to be more tactful in future, and try not to embarrass your elders and betters.”

T HE FAMILY WEREseated around the breakfast table when the maid entered the room with the morning post. She placed the letters in a small pile by the Reverend Mallory’s side, along with a silver letter opener-a ritual she carried out every morning.

George’s father studiously ignored the little ceremony while he buttered himself another piece of toast. He was well aware that his son had been waiting for his end-of-term report for some days. George pretended to be equally nonchalant as he chatted to his brother about the latest exploits of the Wright brothers in America.

“If you ask me,” interjected their mother, “it’s not natural. God made birds to fly, not humans. And take your elbows off the table, George.”

The girls did not offer an opinion, aware that whenever they disagreed with their mother she simply pronounced that children should be seen and not heard. This rule didn’t seem to apply to the boys.

George’s father did not join in the conversation as he sifted through the envelopes, trying to determine which were important and which could be placed to one side. Only one thing was certain, any envelopes that looked as if they contained requests for payment from local tradesmen would remain at the bottom of the pile, unopened for several days.

The Reverend Mallory concluded that two of the envelopes deserved his immediate attention: one postmarked Winchester, and a second with a coat of arms embossed on the back. He sipped his tea and smiled across at his eldest son, who was still pretending to take no interest in the charade taking place at the other end of the table.

Eventually he picked up the letter opener and slit open the thinner of the two envelopes, before unfolding a letter from the Bishop of Chester. His Grace confirmed that he would be delighted to preach at Mobberley Parish Church, assuming a suitable date could be arranged. George’s father passed the letter across to his wife. A smile flickered across her lips when she saw the Palace crest.

The Reverend Mallory took his time opening the other, thicker envelope, pretending not to notice that all conversation around the table had suddenly ceased. Once he had extracted a little booklet, he slowly began to turn its pages while he considered the contents. He gave the occasional smile, the odd frown, but despite a prolonged silence, he still didn’t offer any opinion. This state of affairs was far too rare for him not to enjoy the experience for a few more moments.

Finally he looked up at George and said, “‘Proxime accessit in history, with 86 percent.’” He glanced down at the booklet, “‘Has worked well this half, good exam results, and a commendable essay on Gibbon. I hope that he will consider reading this subject when he goes up to university.’” His father smiled before turning the next page. “‘Fifth place in English, 74 percent. A very promising essay on Boswell, but he needs to spend a little more time on Milton and Shakespeare and rather less on R. L. Stevenson.’” This time it was George’s turn to smile. “‘Seventh in Latin, 69 percent. Excellent translation of Ovid, safely above the mark Oxford and Cambridge demand from all applicants. Fourteenth in mathematics, 56 percent, just one percent above the pass mark.’” His father paused, frowned, and continued reading. “‘Twenty-ninth in chemistry.’” The Reverend Mallory looked up. “How many pupils are there in the class?” he inquired.

“Thirty,” George replied, well aware that his father already knew the answer.

“Your friend Guy Bullock, no doubt, kept you off the bottom.”

He returned to the report. “‘Twenty-six percent. Shows little interest in carrying out any experiments, would advise him to drop the subject if he is thinking of going to university.’”

George didn’t comment as his father unfolded a letter that had been attached to the report. This time he did not keep everyone in suspense. “Your housemaster, Mr. Irving,” he announced, “is of the opinion that you should be offered a place at Cambridge this Michaelmas.” He paused. “Cambridge seems to me a surprising choice,” added his father, “remembering that it’s among the flattest pieces of land in the country.”

“Which is why I was rather hoping, Papa, that you’ll allow me to visit France this summer, so that I might further my education.”

“Paris?” said the Reverend Mallory, raising an eyebrow. “What do you have in mind, dear boy? The Moulin Rouge?”

Mrs. Mallory glared at her husband, leaving him in no doubt that she disapproved of such a risqué remark in front of the girls.

“No, Papa, not ‘Rouge,’” replied George. “Blanc. Mont Blanc, to be precise.”

“But wouldn’t that be extremely dangerous?” said his mother anxiously.

“Not half as dangerous as the Moulin Rouge,” suggested his father.

“Don’t worry yourself, Mother, on either count,” said George, laughing. “My housemaster, Mr. Irving, will be accompanying me at all times, and not only is he a member of the Alpine Club, but he would also act as a chaperone were I fortunate enough to be introduced to the lady in question.”

George’s father remained silent for some time. He never discussed the cost of anything in front of the children, although he’d been relieved when George won a scholarship to Winchester, saving him £170 of the £200 annual fee. Money was not a subject to be raised at the breakfast table, though in truth it was rarely far from his mind.