Kingdoms Of Experience. Andrew Greig

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СКАЧАТЬ last pieces fell into place. Kurt and Julie concluded a contract to make a film for ‘Pebble Mill At One’ in addition to the ITN reports. The Scottish Daily Record printed that we were taking vast quantities of wine and whisky, and when we told them this was unfortunately no longer the case, they compensated in the best possible way – by arranging to have us given six crates of MacKinlay’s blended whisky. Liz used her contacts to arrange for a precious crate of The Macallan malt. These were of limited medicinal use, but added greatly to morale and Base Camp relaxation.

      On 2nd March I typed ‘The End’ to Summit Fever and went up to the attic to collect together all the gear accumulated there; I selected a few positive and high-spirited tapes and books, bought a lot of rolling tobacco and pencils and notebooks and a few personal treats like Drambuie and chicken breasts in jelly. Then the camera system, the Walkman, special fast-and slow-speed film, all the etceteras of contemporary expedition life. Across the country, 18 others were doing the same. Any anxiety was now replaced by a feverish impatience to be gone.

      Then the final farewell drinks and meals, a party, all enjoyed and appreciated but in one’s heart one has already left. The sudden poignancy of the last walk to the end of the harbour, gazing down into the water and wondering what lies ahead. The last handshake with a friend. The last night with a lover. Wake at dawn, clean the last dishes, close the doors, stroke the cats, lock the front door and walk away.

      Isobel drives me to Turnhouse airport. It’s a perfect Scottish morning of sun and dew, anticipating spring. There’s little left for us to say as I sit and stare out the window at everything I’m leaving. We unload the car. Her silk shirt is cool on my palms, her red hair flares in the low, brilliant sunshine. It’s a moment that will recur involuntarily over the next three months as I lie trying to sleep at altitude, or push myself one more time up the fixed ropes on the Ridge.

      We look at each other.

      ‘Bye.’

      ‘Bye.’

      A brief embrace and she walks away, drives to her office to do a day’s work.

      ‘Are you going to make it this time?’ the check-in man asks cheerfully.

      ‘It’s uncertain enough to make it worthwhile,’ I reply, glancing back to see her car turn on to the main road, ‘I hope so.’

      That afternoon we congregated at the London hotel Pilkington’s had booked for our farewell Reception. Some of the faces are becoming familiar, hi Nick, hello Sarah, this is Bob Barton. I shake hands with the burly, bespectacled Yorkshireman, liking his warm and concerned air. Chris Watts handed out our remaining gear, and we packed it all in our individual blue barrels. Much bustle, commotion, everyone a little tense as we sorted out the final details. ‘I’ve never felt so twitchy about any project as I do about this one,’ Dave confessed. The ballroom was now crowded with media, family, friends, climbers, everyone who’d been involved with our Expedition. It was moving to feel all this support and we began to realize how many hopes were pinned on us.

      A Pilkington director, Sol Kay, made a short speech; Mal replied, at once casual and formal, growing into the role as time went on. We were presented with a stained-glass picture to give to the Chinese Mountaineering Association – only Mal noticed that the Union Jack was upside down and wondered if that’s a sign of bad luck. We decided to have it re-done and brought out by Terry Dailey five weeks later when his leave from Saatchi’s began.

      The media departed and it was time for some ‘serious jollification’ in Sandy’s phrase. Allen Fyffe found himself in distinguished company with Lord Hunt and Sir Alastair and Lady Pilkington, but with a suitable amount of alcohol the situation was enjoyable, and he and Hunt discussed Everest at some length. Then we slipped away from the jollification for the Business Meeting.

      It was the first time we’d all met together. Our doctor, Urs Wiget, was introduced, a small, broad, smiling, bearded man immediately dubbed ‘the gnome’. We’d just started going over the contracts and finances when a tall lad with over-sized hands and feet stumbled in and slumped down. Eventually someone asked, ‘Well, who are you?’ Julie explained he was Danny Lewis, coming along as their film porter to help hump gear on the hill. ‘How high have you been then, mate?’ Jon enquired. Danny looked embarrassed, and I felt for him among this group of complete strangers. ‘Twelve thousand’ he replied awkwardly.

      Eyebrows went up in silent incredulity. Kurt and Julie had picked a 19-year-old rock climber (climbing a very respectable 6b) with virtually no snow/ice experience and none whatsoever of altitude, to do heavy-duty carrying on an extreme route. We wondered if this was a very bright idea. ‘Nothing against you personally, we don’t even know you.’ It was too late to do anything about it, and it wasn’t his fault, so we just had to hope he wouldn’t prove a liability to himself or anyone else. He sat quietly through the rest of the meeting, wide-eyed and attentive.

      Our accountant set out our financial situation. Inevitably we’d considerably overspent our budget, but counting the newspaper, book, BBC and ITN money, we had a small surplus. Personal differences used to be the great unmentionable in climbing books, now it is often finance. One thing we learned from this trip was the importance of having financial details and contracts out in the open, to be candidly discussed and with luck agreed on. Jon made my position easier by asking outright if I got any of the Sunday Express money, and I was able to say no, that all went straight to the Expedition, as did the first part of the book advance.

      And Nick was thinking to himself, Why are all these buggers making money out of us and we’re not? The truth was, as Mal pointed out, these buggers (Kurt and Julie, myself, the PR firm, our accountant, lawyer, everyone down to the caterers) were being paid for doing a job, and that job was raising the publicity and money that gave us a three-month Everest expedition with a lot of valuable gear to keep, for the princely sum of £200 each. Without the climbers there’d be no film, no book, but without the media contracts there’d be no Expedition.

      ‘So, can we sign the contracts, please?’ We all signed, wrote out our nominal cheques, formally enlisting ourselves to the common venture. Then Dave Bricknell made a welcome and unexpected statement: Pilkington’s were aware that we might feel a certain pressure to succeed because of all the money put behind us. They didn’t want that. ‘What we want to see,’ Dave continued, ‘is a successful expedition, and by that we mean going out and doing your best, which you will anyway, and coming back all in one piece and as a cohesive team.’ Silent, appreciative nods. The ideal sponsor’s ideal parting words.

      Business over, we broke up the meeting and returned to pleasure. Though there was the usual laughter, drinking and carry-on, Jon noticed there was slightly less excitement and high spirits than customary before an expedition. It may have been the size of the team, and us not knowing each other well. There was also less of the death-and-destruction humour, precisely because this was a death route. There was a lurking seriousness behind the smiles. We were also very tired by the weeks and months of activity it had taken to get us to this point.

      These factors, together with the prospect of a 5.0 am start next morning, kept most of us under control. We slipped away quietly upstairs with our partners by midnight, leaving only Jon and Sandy in full cry pursuit of a good time …

      At 6.0 am on 6th March we stumble through our last Press conference in a basement room at Heathrow. We try to look suitably keen, fit and enthusiastic, but in reality we were grey and hungover. Allen Fyffe in particular is grim as Dundee in November. ‘Can’t you guys smile? Please!’ We assume hideous rictus snarls.

      In an alley on the way back to the departure lounge a ladder is propped against the wall. Bob Barton and Sandy hesitate then walk deliberately round it. Already we’re becoming superstitious.

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