North Face: A Novel Read online

  North Face

  A Novel

  Mary Renault

  Contents

  1 Approach from the North

  2 Weather Report

  3 Novice

  4 Guideless Ascent

  5 Moderate Rock-Climb

  6 Route Abandoned

  7 Running Belay

  8 “The expedition has aroused public interest …”

  9 Bivouac

  10 Party Overdue

  11 Difficult Crack

  12 Overhang

  13 Fixed Anchor

  14 Exposed Traverse

  15 Slip by the Leader

  16 Straight Pull Out

  17 Summit Ridge

  18 Rescue Party

  A Biography of Mary Renault

  1 Approach from the North

  THE LANE WAS DEEP—an outpost of Devon, which was within walking distance if one took walking seriously—and for a couple of hundred yards it ran straight between banks frilled with fern, higher than one’s head. Towards the end meeting trees made it a tunnel, from whose nearer end one could see at the other a round hole of twisted light. Until one emerged, the tower was wholly concealed; to a redundancy of dramatic effect was super-added the element of surprise. New visitors, if alone, would refocus their eyes in suspended belief; or, if not, would exclaim to companions with a certain personal pride. They were off the beaten track, discriminating individualists: their contempt for the promenade at Bridgehead, and even for the nearer cosiness of Barlock, knew no bounds.

  The tower reared, sensationally, above the trees. Very naif explorers took it for part of a ruined castle; the more sophisticated knew it at once for a Folly of the most extravagantly Gothic kind. Its grey battlements, patched with orange lichen, were flimsy; its ornate windows, with their decaying foliations of wrought iron, had never contemplated defence against anything but the drab realities of the Industrial Revolution. In its side was a door, from which a dizzy iron stair, like a fire-escape, went down to a lower ridge of battlements, whose teeth just showed above the trees. It was a thin tower; the upper room which it enclosed could not have been much more than twelve feet by ten, the rest would be filled by a staircase of whose decay the outer supplement said enough. Its pointed roof was topped by an ornate weathercock, knocked to a rakish angle like the feather in a desperado’s hat.

  The windows were dark, seeming to lay bony fingers on lipless jaws. One thought of walled-up brides; of mad old virgins fingering trousseaux from which the moths flew out; of heirs vainly guarded till the predestinate birthday from a Romany curse.

  Feasting on these visions, visitors would press forward with the excitement of conquistadores. This coming sharp bend in the lane must bring them in sight of the house itself.

  It did.

  The very air, hereabouts, seemed printed visibly with outraged anticlimax. Neil Langton merely nodded his head, wondering why he hadn’t anticipated it. It seemed to him almost mystically expressive and right.

  Consulting his watch, he found that he was a little early. He cached his rucksack, which was heavy, in some bracken behind a field gate, and went off for a walk.

  The house looked ready to approve of this nicety. It was two stories high, with a glossy slate roof over squat gables to which Tudor-type woodwork was externally applied. There were lace curtains and ferns in the bay windows; the front door was painted to simulate wood-graining with a varnish the colour of fresh manure. A precise board on the gatepost said “Wier View. Board Residence.” Like a genteel spinster sitting in a disproportionately high-backed chair, the house adhered in smug insignificance to the residual wall, quite ten feet higher than the chimneys, at one end of which was the tower. The iron stairs linked them as a will does two incongruous legatees.

  Neil, half turning as he went on down the lane, looked back at the stairs and came nearer to laughing than he had been in six months. Tonight he would be climbing them to bed. He felt as if a god with a mordant sense of humour had cocked a snook at him. Then the flat greyness came down over his mind again. He walked on.

  Mrs Kearsey, too, from the concealed doorway in the roof, had just been looking at the tower. She had been to put sheets on the bed, and, among blue air and treetops ringed with a receding haze of moors and sea, had felt her embarrassment almost too much to bear. For thirty years she had been trying to live down the Folly by ignoring its existence, and felt now that she was begging a favour of someone with whom she was not on speaking terms. All kinds of people must have seen her on the stairs. They would say she was a profiteer, or, alternatively, that she must be going bankrupt, putting a guest up there; and, as such things were never said to one’s face, she couldn’t explain how scrupulously she had warned the gentleman in advance that all she had free was “a small top room in a separate annexe,” or that he had replied that this would suit him very well.

  He had written from somewhere in the north of Scotland. It was said to be very bleak there, and the inhabitants very hardy; they had outside staircases, too, she had somewhere read. She had also a dim impression that they all went to universities, even the poorest, tramping for miles across the heather from remote crofts; so one could not tell, from a letter, what they might be accustomed to.

  Even at the best, life had treated her hardly, she felt, in forcing her to terms with the Folly. Till now, she had always firmly implied that it had nothing to do with her house; it was merely something that happened to be left standing after a fire. In fact her father, a jobbing builder who hated waste, had bought up the ruin forty years before, and made use of the one sound wall. Now, after his second stroke, he had clamped it finally round her neck. He would have known no difference, having only the needs of a blind baby, if he had gone to the Institution; but the disgrace was unthinkable, and the Home of Rest cost five guineas a week. Hence the tower. To her friends, she had explained that anything was better than turning people away, their first real holiday since the war and all the hotels full.

  It was mainly to recover a sense of social security that she went straight from the roof to the Lounge. Here everything was modern and in nice taste; nothing frowsty, nothing queer. She had had it done up in ‘38, out of her husband’s insurance-money, at the same time as she had the second bath put in.

  She found two of her guests there: Miss Searle, who had a cold, and Miss Fisher, who had sunbathed all morning on the beach and, as she now admitted, overdone it a bit. “It’s my colouring,” she explained. “I’m like it every year. No proper pigmentation.” Miss Fisher, a hospital sister, had an impressive vocabulary of words like this.

  Mrs Kearsey was pleased to see her, and, in another way, Miss Searle, who was a real lady. With her Mrs Kearsey aspired to no communion, but felt her presence to be an asset against the liability of the tower. A sudden and sinking anxiety possessed her lest this Mr Langton should be one of those who didn’t quite know where to stop in the way of fun. It was to Miss Searle that she said brightly, but with an undertone of propitiation, “Shall I expect you both in to tea? I was just thinking of putting in some scones.”

  “How very nice,” said Miss Searle, and added on enquiry that her cold was much better; Miss Fisher had most kindly given her something for it. They all discussed remedies. Mrs Kearsey’s pleasure in the Lounge was increased by their harmony; she had been afraid at first that they weren’t going to hit it off. The Winters were out so much that they seemed scarcely to count; besides, they were leaving in a day or two.

  “I’ll bring tea straight in, as soon as the scones are done. We won’t wait for Mr Langton. I can always make a fresh pot if he comes.”

  She hovered in the doorway, studying effects. She had been seven years in the business; and had observed that unattached women, if their stay fell in with
what she called “one of the all-female spells,” very infrequently booked another year. Financially, nowadays, this did not matter—she had refused three bookings only today—but she felt her prestige involved. Not, perhaps, that this would apply to Miss Searle, who though scarcely, if at all, past her thirties, had what Mrs Kearsey (quelled by the books she left about) vaguely called Other Interests. Sure enough Miss Searle made no comment at all, but fished her handkerchief out of the sleeve of her cardigan and unobtrusively blew her nose; it was a little pink today, spoiling the well-cut profile which was just too regular to be what one would call distinguished. Miss Fisher, however, could always be relied on to pick up a cue. She was about Miss Searle’s age, but dressed (not without some success) a good deal younger. She put up one hand to feel the screw of a floral plastic earring, smoothed a wave in her reddish-sandy hair, and said, “Got a fresh face for us today, then, Mrs K?”

  She had called Mrs Kearsey this since the second day of her stay, when she had come into the kitchen to see to the maid’s cut finger. Mrs Kearsey, who hoped she could tell a homely way from real commonness, rather liked it.

  “Yes,” she said, adding, “I do hope he’ll turn out nice,” in a tone to establish sympathy, and disclaim responsibility, if he did not. “A Scotch gentleman, I think. He wrote from Fort William; that’s right in the Highlands, isn’t it?” Because Miss Searle did not instantly reply, she was taken with sudden loss of faith in her geography, combined with a wish that, before coming in, she had changed her spotted rayon for her blue marocain. Miss Searle often had this effect on her.

  “Somebody leaving today?” asked Miss Fisher optimistically; speaking, if she had known it, for Miss Searle as well. Miss Lettice Winter, a natural platinum blonde, was far too evidently aware of her own cinematic charms.

  Mrs Kearsey had seen this coming. Attempting ease, and achieving a nervous trill, she explained about the Tower, recalling as she did so an earlier remark of Miss Searle’s that it was “a most interesting ruin.” With what she hoped was a light laugh, she added, “He seems to think he’ll quite like it. Aren’t men funny?”

  “Well, they’ve got their uses, and that’s about all you can say for them, eh, Mrs K?” Miss Fisher’s fresh square face, her just-perceptible cockney overtones, were soothing as a pair of old shoes. She counted twelve stitches rapidly on her pale-blue knitting and added, “Must be one of those with a head for heights.”

  “He must, mustn’t he?” said Mrs Kearsey brightly: but her good moment was over. A new and worse set of misgivings, their climax a coroner’s censure headlined in the Mirror, seized her. Murmuring something about the oven, she hurried out to worry undisturbed.

  Miss Searle had no kitchen in which to hide. She picked up her Trollope again; but Miss Fisher’s clicking needles distracted her, not so much by their noise as by their reminder of an aimless, vacant mind awaiting conversation. It was like trying to enjoy a meal with someone else’s dog begging beside the chair. She earnestly hoped that the new guest would be of a type sympathetic to Miss Fisher, that he would return her interest at sight, would have a car, and petrol, and would take her out every day. For the second time in an hour, Miss Searle reminded herself that she had come prepared for Miss Fisher, in general if not in particular. She had determined on a cheap holiday this year, in order to save for an unstinted one as soon as the Continent was open. It would, perhaps, have been more sensible to have stayed with Muriel; but after five land-locked years she had starved for the sea. She had not expected that this hunger would be so quickly appeased. She had bathed twice, and, shivering with the cold which had begun yesterday, felt indifferent if she never bathed again. She had seen the thatched white cottages, with the pink and blue hydrangeas, facing the little harbour whose smell of seaweed had ceased to excite. She had been to the top of the cliffs, where the bracken attracted flies, and impenetrable woods, clothing the faces down to sea-level almost everywhere, obstructed the view. She had seen a Norman porch and an Early English font. She had reached a stage in which she might even have visited a cinema: but Barlock was proudly unspoiled; she had chosen it for this.

  Miss Searle had always considered boredom an intellectual defeat. She prepared to fall back on her inner resources, and got out her Chaucer (Skeat’s edition, which she would be reading with the second-year students next term) and a new paper on Old French metrical forms. She had them with her now, and her Trollope, in case Miss Fisher should go out; a diminishing hope, which Mrs Kearsey’s promise of an early tea had finally destroyed.

  Failing to concentrate on Dr Thorne, she would have liked to look up; but Miss Fisher would treat it as an invitation, and might embark on another hospital anecdote. Nursing was a noble vocation, but, tragically, coarsening. In Miss Searle’s view, one made a sufficient contribution to realism by admitting that the Seamy Side existed. To dwell on it, if with feeling and intelligence, was morbid; if with humour, gross. Miss Fisher’s last story had been quite definitely tainted with grossness.

  She could have borne Miss Fisher (she often told students to whom other encouragement could not truthfully be given that the world needed Martha as well as Mary) if the whole house had not been like an extension of her. Choosing a moment when she was counting stitches, Miss Searle looked at the Lounge. She would have preferred to its mean little parodies of functional simplicity even the jungle of Victoriana which must have gone originally with the Tower. That would have had character, at least. (Miss Searle delighted in character, if it was safely uncontemporary; if not she called it eccentricity, obtrusive-ness, or lack of proportion.) As for the bedrooms, “done” with shiny rayon taffeta in orange, pink or electric blue—hers was pink—their hideousness made it impossible even to read there. She wondered, passingly, how Mr Langton would like his room in the tower. The thought of this Beckfordian eyrie, enclosing a perfect Tottenham Court Road interior, made her fine colourless lips move in a faint smile.

  Miss Fisher’s ball of wool rolled off her lap, and over to Miss Searle’s feet. She reached for it as Miss Searle stooped politely. For a moment their hands met on the ball: the hand of a scholar, meticulous, with fineness but no strength in the bone, taut veins blue under the thin skin at the back, the nails ribbed, brittle and flecked here and there with white; the other broad-palmed and short-fingered, with the aggressive smooth cleanliness that comes of much scrubbing with antiseptic followed by much compensating cream, the nails filed short and round, their holiday varnish spruce. Each woman was momentarily aware of the contrast.

  When thanks and apologies had been exchanged, and Miss Searle had picked up her book again, Miss Fisher stole a look at her under sandy lashes which could not, like hair, be deepened with a henna rinse, and on which mascara would have been too obvious. It was a look which Miss Searle had once or twice intercepted with indefinable unease. It was more transparent than Miss Fisher knew; a compound of patronage with envy and respect. If she had been a Frenchwoman, Miss Fisher would have expressed the patronage in the words “Miss Anglaise.” What Miss Searle felt to be mental and conversational decency, Miss Fisher saw as an iron curtain of spinsterly repression. With sincere conviction, she thought it more unpleasant than crudeness. Her own standards had been shaped by her work, in which from the age of eighteen she had learned to regard prudery as a social crime: young medical students must be helped over their first awkwardness, shy patients must find their confidences aseptically eased. She took all this so much for granted that she could not have found words for what she felt, which was that for a mature adult to force evasion on others was selfish, discourteous, and a mark of moral cowardice besides.

  “Inhibited,” said Miss Fisher to herself, looking with sad wistfulness at the plain, perfect handmade shoes, recalling the worn hide case with the foreign labels, trying unsuccessfully to recall elusive vocal cadences, the precision of vowels. In the presence of Miss Searle an old humiliation, like an irreparable bereavement, returned to haunt her: an occasion when walking back after a party a young resi
dent, tender and sentimental and only a little drunk, had tried to talk to her about Housman. She had thought he said “houseman,” and had replied humourously. He had turned it off with a hurt clumsy joke; the evening’s promise had frosted in bud. A Shropshire Lad, which she had read next day against a return of opportunity that never came, remained with her like a scent with sorrowful associations, having no independent life.

  Miss Fisher was not, in the ordinary social sense, a snob. During a spell of private nursing she had slid bedpans under a representative section of the British upper classes, encountering the usual averages of cheerful pluck and querulous selfishness. Their pre-occupations had often differed from those of her own circles only in scale; they had soon ceased to have any mystery for her. Bound to a routine of uncompromising realism, Miss Fisher craved for strangeness, for otherness, for all that eluded tables of measurement, more deeply than she knew. Hence the spell that intellectuals still worked for her; they had to be very disagreeable before she stopped making allowances for them. Ideally, she liked them unconventional and unpractical, but fairly clean in their persons and with a sense of humour; when she would describe them as Bohemian, her most distinguished term of praise. She had had initial hopes, soon dashed, of Miss Searle.

  Miss Searle put a marker in her Trollope and said, “I do hope your sunburn won’t give you a painful night.” It was impossible to read; she remembered Miss Fisher’s kindness about the cold-tablets; besides, tea would be here at any moment now.

  “It was more the headache, really, thanks. I took some A.P.C. and it’s nearly gone.” Here, Miss Fisher felt obscurely, was an inheritor of the invisible key who let it rust on a nail. She thought, If I’d had her advantages … The tea came in; there was a polite contest of withdrawals from pouring-out; Miss Searle, who hated strong tea, allowed herself to be persuaded. A third cup was on the tray; it stood, a bland blank question-mark, midway between them.