14

Return of the Summit Party

WE RESTED FIRST, having our sleep out. Then, with returning energy, we became active again, each in his own way. Wish collated his many readings and announced with pride that they were proving of the greatest importance. Jungle was profitably employed in surveying the area. Unfortunately, he lost himself every day and had to be rescued at great inconvenience to the rest of us. This became so irksome that we appointed a porter to be his guardian, giving him strict instructions to bring Jungle back to camp at dusk. One evening they had not returned by nightfall and Shute sent up a number of flares – brought for photographic purposes – to guide them. One of the flares fell on Wish’s tent and burnt it to the ground, together with his records. Wish was distracted. All his work had gone up in flames. Having boiled all the mercury out of his thermometers he could take no more readings, and the remainder of his equipment was on the summit of Rum Doodle. He had been unable to find any living creature on the mountain; this line of research also had come to nothing. There was only one hope of justifying his presence: he must concentrate all his energies on the search for warples. Since Shute had no work of his own – all his film being spoiled and his lenses cracked – Wish conscripted him for the search. Burley was also enlisted. He was now fully acclimatized and as fit and active as a schoolboy, and fairly wore out both Wish and Shute on the daily warple-hunt.

Constant, insatiable as ever in his desire to improve his knowledge of the language, spent much time with the porters. At other times he was to be found wandering about the glacier practising grunts, gurgles and other phenomena which are the backbone of spoken Yogistani. It was the general opinion, he said, that Yogistani was unpronounceable to the Western stomach, and it was his great ambition to prove that this was a fallacy. He was, he told me, within hearing of success. He had developed unmistakable symptoms of the permanent gastritis which is hypodermic amongst the Yogistani due to their speaking from the stomach. Burley was unkind enough to suggest that if Constant had developed his stomach-ache at the right time Prone would not now be marooned on the summit of Rum Doodle. I reminded him that but for this accident we would have failed in our purpose, and I congratulated Constant on his gastritis. It was, by the way, interesting to notice that as this complaint increased in severity Constant became more and more immune to the effects of Pong’s cooking, and began even to enjoy it. He put forward the theory that the Yogistani method of cooking provides a counter-irritant to the indigenous indigestion pains. However that might be, it seemed to work in his case. It was unfortunate that on returning to civilization he found himself quite unable to stomach Western cooking. For weeks he lived on a starvation diet while he experimented with every conceivable mixture of ill-assorted foodstuffs and every possible method of rendering them indigestible. Finally, when on the verge of committing suicide by eating pre-digested invalid food, he conceived the happy idea of employing a Yogistani cook. He at once sent off cables in all directions, one of which, by great good fortune, reached Pong. Owing to the difficulty of transmitting grunts, gurgles and so on by cable, as well as to objections by Pong’s trade union, the negotiations were prolonged, and Constant nearly succumbed to indigestion complicated by excitement. But matters were arranged at last. Pong is now installed in Constant’s Hampstead flat. Almost any time of day they may be found grunting and gurgling together in the kitchen as they gloat over some malevolent mess which is burning on the bottom of a disgusting saucepan, or huddled in ecstasy over bowls of the same atrocity. When I last saw him Constant was smoking a pipe of stunk, which, he found, served the same purpose of counter-irritant as Pong’s cooking.

But I anticipate. During this anxious time at Base Camp, when the fate of poor Prone was as yet unknown to us, I was once more heartened and inspired by the devoted way in which my companions went about their tasks, allowing no personal grief to interfere with duty. I forced myself to take my part in all activities, social and otherwise, and found that in helping to lighten the burden of others I had also eased my own.

I had for sometime been eager to learn something about Shute’s fiancée; but now that opportunity presented itself I was at a loss how to broach the subject, not knowing what tender susceptibilities might be involved. One afternoon I was sitting alone in the mess tent, composing a letter of condolence for Prone’s father, when Shute rolled in. He was, he said, at a loose end. Did I mind if he showed me some snaps? I said I should be delighted. He produced several photographs of a nice-looking young lady whom he said was his fiancée. They were to be married soon after his return. I congratulated him and wished him every happiness. He thanked me. I said that his fiancée looked a very nice young lady. He said she was the nicest and dearest person in the world. He told me quite a lot about her and it all sounded very happy and very normal. He asked me if he was boring me. I said no, but was there not some drawback to his happiness? He said no, why should there be? I said it often happened; perhaps he had had unhappy experiences before meeting his fiancée. He said no; they had been childhood sweethearts; there had never been anyone else; why did I ask? I said that somehow I had expected something different. He looked at me rather suspiciously, I thought, and said he was sorry to disappoint me. I at once assured him that he had mistaken my meaning and asked him to tell me more, which he did, and more than satisfied my curiosity. His fiancée was evidently as normal and contented a person as he was himself; I could see that they would have a very happy life together. I asked him what they did on Saturday afternoons. He told me that they visited his fiancée’s elderly aunt, who was bed-ridden.

I noticed that the daily belch with which Pong and So Lo greeted me on the mountain had spread to the other porters. I asked Constant if he knew what it meant. He said that since Yogistani was spoken from the stomach the belch – the stomach’s sign of ultimate contentment – was used as an expression of respect; it indicated the great pleasure which the belcher found at being in the illustrious presence of the belchee.

This pleased me greatly, not only because I appreciated the honour, but because it confirmed my faith in Pong and in human nature. I wished that time and my duties would allow me to make friends with each of the porters. What a wealth of affection must, I thought, be hidden by their unresponsive manner. I spent much time with Pong, who told me many interesting things about his life. Poor fellow, he seemed to have developed a great affection for me. He told Constant that I was the only person who had ever been kind to him without expecting something in return. This touched me deeply. He also developed a habit of bringing me little offerings of food at all hours of the day. This touched me deeply too.

*

After some days of careful thought I sent off the following despatch: ‘Expedition more than successful, having climbed both Doodles. All in good health and spirits. The spirit of the team is excellent and the porters are beyond praise.’

I inadvertently signed this message ‘Binder’ instead of with my proper name. This caused some perplexity at home, and the despatch was at first considered to be a hoax. Then the rumour went round that we had been forestalled on the mountain by an unknown party under the leadership of one, Binder. Enquiries were made in mountaineering circles, but no clue could be found. The affair caused considerable excitement, the national press making the most of it, and was not cleared up until our arrival at Chaikhosi, where we were inundated with telegrams from all parts of the world and had to employ three secretaries to deal with them. One of the secretaries turned out to be a practical joker named Pluke, who made the most of an unparalleled opportunity and had the world’s press at its wits’ end by issuing foolish and contradictory statements. We had to employ six extra secretaries to clear up the confusion he caused.

But again I anticipate. As the days passed and no sign was seen of Prone I became more and more worried. Heaven alone knew what torments the poor fellow was enduring – if, indeed, he was still alive. At last I could stand it no longer. I called the others to the mess tent and said that something must be done. Someone must go up the mountain. The question was: who? All looked at each other, but no one spoke.

This made me feel very humble. ‘My dear chaps,’ I said, ‘I know you all want to go; but someone must stay behind. I feel it my responsibility. I hope you won’t consider it selfish if I go.’

There was silence. Then Burley looked at me keenly and said, in his deep voice: ‘By heavens, Binder, I believe you would!’

I looked at him in surprise. He seemed, for some reason, to be overcome by emotion.

‘If you go,’ he said at last, ‘I go!’

At that moment the tent door was flung open, and in walked Prone.

*

A new Prone.

An erect Prone.

A thin but healthy-looking Prone.

A Prone with a broad smile and a swagger.

Prone, the hero of Rum Doodle; the man who had been higher than anyone else; for, as Wish pointed out, Prone stood head and shoulders higher than any of the porters.

What a reunion that was! What laughter! What back-slapping! What wrestling and practical jokes!

When we were all exhausted Prone said: ‘As medical officer to this expedition I prescribe champagne. Where’s the medical equipment?’

At this a silence fell upon us. The others looked sheepish and nudged each other to speak. At last, Burley said:

‘The fact is, old boy, there is no champagne.’

‘No champagne!’ Prone was horrified.

‘No. You see, we . . . er . . . didn’t bring it back from Camp 1.’

But nothing could dampen our spirits that day. In the absence of a more stimulating beverage cocoa was made. We were soon laughing again, telling and retelling our adventures. Everybody wanted to talk, none to listen.

‘Do you remember,’ said Shute, smiling, ‘how Binder got stuck to the glacier by his tears?’

‘And had Pong all to himself for a week,’ said Wish, chuckling.

‘And couldn’t find Camp 1,’ laughed Jungle.

‘And had to have number eights sent up,’ added Constant, holding his sides.

We all roared.

All of a sudden, Burley jumped up.

‘Stop it!’ he cried.

He banged on the table.

The laughter stopped at once. The mood changed instantaneously. We waited in tense silence for Burley to speak. Wish giggled nervously, then coughed and turned red.

Burley was frowning. His fist thumped the table. He seemed to be struggling with words.

‘There’s something that needs saying,’ he said at last. Then he fell silent again, and again we waited.

‘A lot of things,’ he continued, ‘have happened on this expedition – and before it started – which seemed very appropriate at the time.’

He stopped again. He was evidently choosing his words carefully. He banged on the table. ‘I wish now they had never happened.’

What on earth, I wondered, was the dear fellow talking about?

‘I myself,’ he was saying, ‘have been as guilty as anyone else – probably more so.’

I noticed that the others were exchanging glances and looking sheepish again. What was it all about?

‘Just now,’ Burley went on, ‘old Binder here was about to go to Prone’s rescue. Let’s not forget that. Let’s not forget also that Binder had already done ten times as much work as the rest of us put together and carried the whole responsibility for the climb. He had already been to 35,000 feet while we were wallowing at Camp 1. Yet he was the chap who was going to climb Rum Doodle to bring Prone back.’

This was embarrassing. We had all done our best. I had perhaps been more fortunate than the others; but the luck might easily have been different. I tried to interrupt Burley, but he put his hand on my shoulder.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Let me finish.’

He looked at the others, each in turn.

‘I will now, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘propose the health of our leader: the most conscientious, the most modest, the most unselfish man I have ever climbed with.

‘And,’ he added, ‘he has more guts than any of us.’

And those absurd fellows drank my health in cocoa.

The next moment they were all trying to shake my hand at the same time, while Prone was patting my back and saying: ‘Well done, little man!’

It was quite ridiculous. To this day I am not sure whether it was another of Burley’s feeble jokes.