The Wheel of Fortune (32 page)

“But I can see those mountains so clearly in my mind’s eye. Oh Christ, how I loved those mountains. … When one’s climbing one exists in a very simple world from which all the trivialities and irrelevancies have been cauterized. It’s all so beautiful, so exciting—and best of all there’s the unique comradeship with one’s fellow climbers and the satisfaction of being a man among men—”

I could keep silent no longer. “And what consolation was that to you,” I said, “when your three friends were killed?”

“You don’t understand. Well, you’re a woman, I suppose you can’t. It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters and it’s possible—just possible—that I’m capable of understanding this peculiarity better than you yourself do. You seem to be describing some sort of compulsion to escape from the realities of life. I believe it’s very common among young people growing up—they can’t face adult life so they retreat into a fairy-tale world of their own creation—”

“What nonsense! Mountaineering
was
my reality!”

“Then tell me more about it so that I can understand. Tell me exactly what happened on this last climb of yours.”

“You’ll never understand.”

“Why not? Think of me as an asinine juror who has to be conquered!”

This challenge proved too tempting for him to resist. Pouring himself some more brandy he said, “Very well, try and imagine a January day in Scotland—we’d reached the stage, you see, when we found winter climbing more exciting. It had snowed but the snow was crisp and conditions were good. We set off from Fort William, my friends and I, and I was so happy, I remember how happy I was—I suppose when all’s said and done I prefer the company of men, and if it wasn’t for sex I wouldn’t bother with women at all—apart from you. My dearest Ginette! Putting the bedroom aside for a moment, I can honestly say that you’re the only woman I’ve ever met who can be good company just like a man.

“Well, there we were, heading for Ben Nevis, and both women and bedrooms were far away, thank God, so we were able to concentrate on our … is ‘calling’ too strong a word? The term ‘obsession’ describes nothing here. It omits the spirituality. That morning I felt at one with God—in whom I didn’t believe—and at one with the universe; I felt as if I were playing an allotted part in the scheme of things; I felt intensely happy and completely fulfilled—and
this
for me was real life. Everything else was makeshift and make-believe.”

“Yes, but … No, I’m sorry. Go on.”

“We decided on an easy climb up the Tower Ridge. The main difficulties lie in the first three hundred feet, but we overcame those easily enough and we then decided for fun to take the last stretch as a diagonal climb to make the expedition more of a challenge.” He paused as if he expected me to make some disparaging remark, but when I said nothing he continued: “There was a very high wind, and this had two results which were crucial. The first was that it meant a large amount of new snow had accumulated, and the second was that we didn’t notice when the temperature suddenly began to rise. We were all roped together. I was the last man. We were skirting an overhanging rock as we moved around the corner of the mountainside. The other three had completed the stretch successfully and were out of sight when my rope snagged and I had to stop. The only thing to do was to untie the rope from my waist so that I could unhook myself, and I was just flicking the rope free when the end came.

“There was a tremendous roar. It was like the end of the world. I flung myself under the overhang and saw the loose rope whipped from my fingers. Then at last the silence fell. I can’t begin to describe my emotions. Eventually when I managed to get around the corner for a look, I saw that the whole face of the mountain had moved—a huge block of snow had broken free and slid a thousand feet or more towards the valley. There was no sign of my friends.

“I tried to go back but it was impossible without a rope and
then
I was frightened because I knew that if I had to spend a night on that mountain I could die of exposure. So I willed myself to keep warm. All through that night I fought to live but I knew Death wanted me, I could feel him there, and when the dawn came I saw him coming to claim me as he walked across the snow.

“He wore red—yes, red, not black—and he had a white face with no features.

“Of course I was hallucinating. The dawn light was playing tricks with the snow. But to me at that moment he was intensely real. ‘Stay away from me!’ I shouted, and I was so terrified because I thought he was going to win. But he didn’t. He receded and vanished as the sun came up. The rescue party reached me soon afterwards. The doctor at Fort William was surprised not only that I was alive but that I wasn’t suffering from frostbite. ‘You’ll survive unmarked!’ he said, but he was wrong. There are some marks no doctors can see.

“I was marked by the guilt that I was alive while my three friends were dead. I was marked by my need to atone for my guilt by fighting death in revenge. And worst of all I was marked by my fear of death, because I had now seen so clearly that to die is to fail once and for all.

“As I’ve already said, I couldn’t face that knowledge. I found I couldn’t go back to the mountains because I was too afraid that next time I confronted death I’d lose—and yet … I was wrong, wasn’t I? Death’s everywhere, that’s the truth of it. You can’t hide from him, he’ll come and get you when he wants you no matter where you are. So in that case the way to outwit him, in the limited time available, isn’t to retreat into a way of life which is alien to you; the way to outwit him is to live the life you were put on this earth to lead. It’s wrong to waste yourself in work that means nothing to you. It’s not only a waste of talent. It’s a prostitution of the soul.

“I’ve begun to think I’m wasting my life but I can’t bear to think of that so I don’t, and when I’m working like a demon I don’t have to think of anything but the case in hand. But I want to go back to the mountains, and if I inherited a suitable fortune I’d abandon my London life without a backward glance and … I’m sorry, you obviously think I’m talking like a maniac so I must stop. Perhaps I was a fool to have said so much.”

“Don’t be absurd! It’s vital that you should be absolutely frank with me—how else am I to understand your dilemma? But darling, I still think this huge pessimism of yours is largely due to the fact that you’re worn out. Come back to bed and let’s discuss it further later.”

“I’ve horrified you, haven’t I?”

“No, of course not, darling; don’t be so silly. I’m just deeply concerned about your health.”

“My God, if you start wishing you’d never married me—”

“Now you really are talking like a maniac!” I said, laughing, and at last I succeeded in coaxing him back to bed.

He’s right. I’m horrified. Who would ever have thought Robert could be so convoluted and disordered? I mean, I’m the one who’s supposed to be perpetually in a mess. One of the most important reasons why I married him was because I thought he could sort out my problems but now I find I have to sort out his. Well, I wouldn’t mind doing that, but they’re so bizarre and I’m not sure I can. Can Robert be on the brink of losing his mind altogether as the result of this case? But it seems he’s been secretly like this for years.
Why did I never guess? Why did I never know?
I feel so shattered by the entire episode that I can hardly nerve myself to dwell on it, but I suppose I must try.

Robert is in love with mountaineering. Well, we all have our little peculiarities, but why can’t he see this “calling” of his (honestly, what romantic exaggeration!) as just an undergraduate hobby which went disastrously wrong? And why does he have to talk like a demented disciple of muscular Christianity—all that rubbish about being a man among men (and to think men say women have the monopoly on sentimentality!) and all that rot about how women and sex pale in comparison with platonic masculine comradeship. Laying aside all sexual prejudice the rock-bottom truth of life is that women and sex mean the perpetuation of the human race and that platonic masculine comradeship is, as the Americans say, a dead-end street. Well, I mean, sex
is
life, isn’t it? So how can Robert possibly argue that his obsession with mountaineering is in some way superior? And let’s be honest: Robert likes sex as much as anyone, and he’s absolutely normal there, thank God, and he’d be the first to object if he were condemned to perpetual chastity on a mountain with a bunch of male chums. I admit he’s temporarily lost interest in sex but that’s just the strain of this appalling case.

As for him saying he’d give up the law and London tomorrow if he had the means, that’s just laughable. Robert would be
miserable
without his glamour and his fame, and he’d die of boredom if he were deprived of his life here for more than a month! He’s a brilliant man and he enjoys worldly success. That’s natural. To turn his back on it would be most unnatural and he’d soon be racked with regret.

Yes, I understand him better than he himself does. Poor Robert, what a state he was in; I did feel so sorry for him … But how simple Conor seems in retrospect! He knew what he wanted from life well enough, no muddled agonizing for him. “I want to have one hell of a good time!” I can hear him say it now—I can even hear him laughing. No obsession with death ever clouded his mind. All he cared about was life and that was all I cared about too.

Oh, I keep thinking the grief will fade, but it doesn’t; it’s still there and I miss him, I miss him dreadfully, I miss him and want him to come back. …

I nearly scratched out the above maudlin paragraph because I’m so ashamed of it, but I’ll let it stand as a monument to the shock I felt at the time. I don’t miss Conor as much as that; I only think I do when I’m feeling depressed. I’m so happy with Robert, and anyway he’s better now because the case is over.

He lost. I was most apprehensive when I heard the news but Robert took his defeat better than I’d dared hope, although he was very quiet as he went off to see his client for the last time. However that’s understandable. What on earth does one say to someone whose next appointment is with the gallows? Presumably Robert has a formula but nevertheless it must be a harrowing experience. However afterwards he went for a ride in the park and came back saying
‘Mens sana in corpore sano,’
so presumably he now believes himself to be on the road to recovery. Even I know what that Latin tag means. It means Robert’s no longer sound asleep while I’m lying awake frustrated in the dark. It means I’m no longer seized by the urge to ransack Harrods to take my mind off my troubles. It means Robert is dining tonight with his friend Raymond Asquith, the Prime Minister’s son, in an attempt to explore the future with someone who can give him sound advice.

Robert has a special respect for Raymond because Raymond’s about the only person in London who’s cleverer than he is; Raymond, with his numerous Oxford prizes and multiple academic honors, leaves even Robert, with his double first, outclassed. A gap of four years separates them in age but because of their Balliol background they have all manner of interests and acquaintances in common so I can well imagine them chatting away happily to each other, both thrilled to dine with someone of their own intellectual caliber for a change. Robert told me once that one of the worst things about being brilliant is that one finds most people dreadfully dull. Well, at least that’ll never be one of my problems. I find people endlessly fascinating, and I like Raymond who, not content with being an intellectual phenomenon, is good-looking and charming, just like Robert, and normal enough to have a wife and two children as well as a successful career at the bar. If Raymond can apparently manage his life so happily and adroitly, then surely Robert can too.

But someone mentioned to me the other day that Raymond’s problem was that he was without ambition. Perhaps Raymond too is convoluted and disordered beneath the shining surface of his life. How little we know even of those who are closest to us. How can we hope to know those with whom we’re barely acquainted?

I’m becoming pessimistic again, so I must stop. But I can’t help it, I’m still very worried indeed …

All’s well. Thank God. Robert’s decided to give up criminal law, since it undoubtedly feeds his obsession with death, and move to chancery chambers specializing in trusts. However that will take time to achieve, and while this rearrangement is taking place he’ll start pursuing a political career in earnest. He’s dining again this week with Raymond, and with them will be two successful Liberals of their own age, “Bluey” Baker and Edwin Montagu. At least Robert has first-class political connections, and I’m sure it won’t be long before he’s adopted as the prospective Liberal candidate for some promising constituency.

I couldn’t be more pleased by this evidence that Robert’s recovered his equilibrium. Really, I can’t think why I let myself get so upset! I might have known that brilliant rational Robert would be able to sort out his problems efficiently in the end …

Robert’s just told me he wants to give everything up—the law, London, any hope of a political career—and live cheaply in the country so that he can afford to return to mountaineering.

I realize at once that this is some form of delayed nervous breakdown so I don’t have hysterics. I keep very calm and ask him what we’re going to do about money, because even the smallest gentleman’s residence in the country can hardly be run on a shoestring.

He tells me there’s only one solution. We must live at Oxmoon—not in the main house, he hastens to add (no doubt I looked as if I were about to faint), but on the estate. He can ask his father for a portion in advance of his inheritance, and if Bobby cedes him one of the major farms, then the farmhouse itself can be improved and extended into a residence suitable for a gentleman; Bobby would probably even offer to pay the cost of the alterations because he would be so pleased to have Robert back in Gower. Then we could rent the house in Ebury Street to boost our income, and it would certainly need boosting even though Robert thinks he might be able to earn the odd sum here and there by writing, first about his famous trials and later about his mountaineering. However he has a little capital, I have the income from my trust fund and we would both have the small income from our future farm, so, as Robert himself points out, we wouldn’t starve; he would be able to return to the mountains, and whenever he came home I would be waiting for him at Oxmoon, just as I’d been waiting in the old days, and then the Oxmoon of our childhood would finally be recaptured and we would live happily ever after encased in a glowing aura of romantic nostalgia.