Far, Far The Mountain Peak Read online

  FAR, FAR THE MOUNTAIN PEAK

  JOHN MASTERS

  First published by Michael Joseph Ltd

  Copyright ©1957 By John Masters

  FOREWORD

  This book is entirely a work of fiction, and no reference is intended in it to any person living or dead, though a few historical characters are mentioned. Some of the ‘country’ is real, some imagined.

  From the beginning I have been encouraged, and advised on technical matters, by John Hedley, Dave Harrah, Hugh Ruttledge, and Tom Longstaff. This note expresses my thanks to them, and my hope that Far, Far the Mountain Peak lives up to their belief in it. There will, nevertheless, be mistakes and inaccuracies in the work and for these, as for the tone and structure of the whole, I alone am responsible.

  J. M.

  For MARTIN my son

  Chapter 1

  So this was being grown up: to sit straight-backed in this uncomfortable old chair in the lounge of the Appleby Hotel in Cambridge, her neck strangely cold because her hair was piled on top of her head instead of falling in pigtails down her back; to glance carelessly at her own image in the mirror behind Daddy, and know that the slender young woman there, the one with the auburn hair and the grey eyes and the cold, clear, sophisticated gaze, was herself; to look secretly at Peggy and try to suppress the laugh of excitement when Peggy caught her eye; to talk in a low, even voice about nothing, while they all waited in the lounge for the three young men.

  A small, dark room. A Victorian room, terribly cluttered and out of date for 1902. Daddy’s tails were out of date; he’d probably had them since he was at Cambridge. So was his beard. Mally--ah, she always looked wonderful. ‘She is the cat’s mother, Emily, not your own.’ Mally was her mother. Forty- one. As beautiful and graceful as a gladiolus.

  She thought: Why don’t I suggest a game of ring-a-ring-a- roses, or kiss-in-the-ring? They were sitting in such a perfect circle--her mother, her father, herself; Gerry and Peggy, who were brother and sister though no one would be able to guess that from looking at them; Joan Gordon, invited to the ball because her great-uncle had been Mally’s godfather, or something. All waiting for the three young men.

  Emily Fenton sat up a little straighter. They should have let her come to the ball last year. Surely they could have allowed her to put her hair up at sixteen instead of seventeen. Many parents did. But she and Peggy might have found it harder, perhaps impossible, to hold back their laughs (which her mother called ‘giggles’), and to keep their voices pitched in this melodious key and the subject of their conversation to the correct nothingness. The Gordon girl could do it all perfectly; but she was nineteen at least; nineteen and a half, Peggy thought.

  Emily peeked at the grandfather clock in the corner, and her mother said: ‘They are only five minutes late, Emily. Ten is polite. And, you know, the ball won’t start any earlier, however soon they get here.’

  Gerry laughed, and Emily wished Gerry’s friends would hurry up, all the same. Mr Walsh, Mr Khan, Mr Savage. She rehearsed their names and wondered what Mr Khan was Khan of. After they came there’d be fifteen minutes more of polite talk here; a glass of sherry for the young gentlemen, another glass of lemonade for herself, Peggy, and the Gordon girl. Then they’d go in to dinner. Then at last, at last, to the ball. But the ball wouldn’t begin until ten o’clock, and it was only--another careful peek--just after eight.

  The May Week Ball at King’s College, Cambridge, in the year 1902--June 1902, to be exact, but of course May Week was always held in June. Everybody knew that.

  Gerry said: ‘Mally, now that we know you’re not going to Zermatt, do you mind if I ask Peter--Peter Savage--to spend a week or two at Llyn Gared? I thought July would be best.’ Emily Fenton’s mother’s name was Mary, but ever since Gerry and Peggy Holcombe first began to spend so much time at Llyn Gared, the Fenton’s home in Wales--and that was when they were all very small--they had all compromised by calling her Mally. Gerry and Peggy’s mother, who had been Mally’s greatest friend, died young, and Mally had promised her to do all that she could for them. It had worked out well, the three children becoming a single family group, because Emily’s father had found a son in Gerry, and she a brother. She and Peggy were like sisters, too, and that had been important, but never quite so much, somehow.

  Now Mally said: ‘I think you’d better wait till I’ve had a chance to meet Mr Savage, Gerry. It isn’t often that we disapprove of your heroes--but it has happened.’

  Emily’s father said: ‘Ray. Raymond Con-something. Young whippersnapper. Wanted his behind kicked.’

  ‘Conderwell,’ Gerry said, grinning. ‘He wasn’t as bad as all that, Uncle G., though he did get sacked from Eton. It was only for making a book on the Derby. But you’ll like Peter.’

  ‘So you have told us, several times,’ Mally said, picking up her sherry. ‘But I’d rather wait. I’ll tell you later this evening.’

  ‘I think it would be nice,’ Peggy blurted out suddenly. The girl Joan raised her eyebrows. Peggy looked at the floor, shuffled her feet, and went scarlet.

  Mally said: ‘We’ll take that into account. What do you find so wonderful about this young man?’

  Peggy mumbled: ‘Oh, he’s all right. He’s a jolly good dancer.’

  ‘How nice!’ Mally said. ‘Even though there are no opportunities to dance during July in Llyn Gared.’

  ‘Oh, don’t tease her, Mally,’ Gerry said. ‘She likes Peter, the same as I do.’

  ‘Where does he usually go?’ Mally asked.

  Gerry said: ‘He spends most of his time with his grandfather, an old retired General with white side-whiskers. He’s a nice old bird, but Peter won’t want to spend the whole Long Vac with him.’

  Mally said: ‘Where are his parents?’

  Gerry said: ‘His mother’s dead and his father. . . Well, Peter doesn’t talk about it but I believe he disappeared years ago. It wasn’t anything disgraceful.’

  ‘Did he tell you that?’ Mally asked languidly, but the veiled violet eyes were suddenly sharp.

  ‘No,’ Gerry said, ‘but I’m sure.’

  ‘Of course, dear,’ Mally said gently, and Emily stirred comfortably. Oh, what a wonderful man Gerry was. She’d never heard him say anything unkind about anyone. She and Peggy would talk gossip and scandal occasionally, but when Gerry was there he’d be so obviously unhappy that they would stop--until he went away. But gossip was mean all the same, even if it was so much fun. Gerry was right. Gerry was always right when it came to knowing what was right and what was wrong. Perhaps this Peter Savage would be nice, after all. But Gerry wasn’t always quite so right about people--or was that only herself being mean?

  Her father said: ‘It’s a pity you aren’t going to spend July with your father on the Grand Tour. Why did he change his mind?’

  ‘I think the doctor said he’d better not,’ Gerry muttered, and now it was he who did not look up at them but spoke at the faded carpet under his shiny pumps.

  ‘He’s been promising you that trip for ages,’ Mally said warmly. ‘You must be terribly disappointed.’

  ‘Not really,’ Gerry said, ‘though I suppose I ought to see Florence and Venice and all those pictures some time--just so that I can talk intelligently about some of the stuff we’ve got at Wilcot. I’d much rather come to Llyn Gared.’

  Emily thought: The earl is a selfish old humbug. He just doesn’t want to disturb himself. When the countess died he had been delighted to shuffle off all responsibility for Gerry and Peggy on to the Fentons. He passed his days in his big London house, not caring for anyone or anything except his study of words and the long letters he wrote to professors and people who printed dictionaries. He never appeared in the Lords except about
once every five years when he thought the Lord Chancellor would let him make a speech about the state of the English language; and he left the management of the Wiltshire estates entirely to Mr Mervyn, the agent. He saw Gerry and Peggy only two or three times a year, on their short holiday visits, and even those bored him.

  ‘Savage is not a climber, is he?’ Emily’s father asked casually, while Mally turned to talk to the third girl.

  ‘ ‘Fraid not,’ Gerry said. ‘Cricket’s his line. He’ll get his Blue next year, sure as eggs, though he really wasn’t much good when he came up.’

  Her father said: ‘When you ask him, I suppose you’ll let him know that we like to spend a good deal of our time on the hills, eh? I mean, we don’t want him to be bored at being left behind, eh?’

  Gerry said: ‘He’ll come with us, I’m sure. But I thought I’d spend most of the time fishing with him--or sailing. Something he’d like.’

  Emily watched her father subside, pulling at his heavy, grey- flecked beard. She thought that he was not keen on having this strange young man come to Llyn Gared. He would prefer to have Gerry to himself, so that the two of them could scramble on Cader Brith, ride the ponies across the moor, take the boat out on the lake after trout. Often she and Peggy would go with them, but her father didn’t mind that. They didn’t count--they were girls.

  And her friend and almost-sister Peggy, Lady Margaret Cowley Holcombe, had a mash on this unknown Peter Savage--deceitful of her to have concealed it since Christmas; rather clever, too, much cleverer than Peggy usually was; perhaps it was an important mash. Gerald Cowley Holcombe, Viscount Manningford, also had a mash on Peter Savage, or whatever you called it when men became great friends and each thought the other was the most marvellous, wonderful person on earth; but Gerry hadn’t tried to hide what he felt; so he wasn’t deceitful, but he was modest, and untruthful, because if Gerry himself was the most wonderful man in the world, and of course he was, then how could Peter Savage be?

  Gerry said: ‘Here they are. Only one. It must be Walsh.’ He jumped to his feet and hurried to the doorway. Before he or the hotel porter got there it was pushed open from the outside, and a young man came in with a slow, firm step. He was short and broad of shoulder, narrow-hipped in the tight tail-coat. He had a square jaw, deeply cleft, and thick, tightly curled brown hair, and the sun had tanned his face so that small wrinkles already made tiny white lines round the deep-set, deep-blue eyes.

  Mr Harry Walsh, Emily said to herself. Another new friend of Gerry’s. Son of the managing director of Walsh and Drummond, stockbrokers. Went down from King’s last year, Gerry’s first at Cambridge; so he must be about twenty-four. Old. Very keen on climbing. It was strange that they hadn’t met in Switzerland--well, there were other climbing centres besides Zermatt, where their own party always went. A very nice- looking man--beautiful teeth; polite; not awkward. Honest--more honest-looking than anyone she knew, except Gerry. The introductions began.

  Now, past Joan Gordon, she could see two more blurred faces appear beyond the rough glass of the door. This time the porter got there in time, and ushered in two young men. They were in evening dress, with white silk scarves at the throat and white gloves in the hand.

  Gerry turned and hurried towards them. When he came back his hand was resting on the shoulder of one of the new arrivals, a tall man, but not as tall as Gerry; thin-faced, with rather a wide mouth, thin lips, and bright pale-blue eyes.

  Gerry said: ‘Mally, here he is.’ He was beaming, and his hand fell away from the other’s shoulder with a small, almost involuntary pressure. Emily suddenly felt very grown-up.

  Gerry said: ‘And here’s Adam Khan.’ This young man was slight, not very tall, and his face was the colour of wheat with the sun on it, and his eyes were deep, soft, and black.

  Mally said: ‘I think some more formal introductions would help, don’t you, Gerry?’

  Gerry said: ‘Oh, yes, of course. Well, Mally, may I present Mr Peter Savage--and Mr Adam Afzal Khan? ... Peter--Mrs Fenton. Adam--Mrs Fenton.... Uncle George, may I present Mr Peter Savage--and Mr Adam Afzal Khan? . . . Peter-- Mr George Fenton. . . .’

  Emily waited, immobile, mentally rehearsing the gracious smile, the small bow of the head; the hand ready in her lap to offer, swan-like and limp, if one of the young men was gauche enough to grab for it.

  She was introduced, and relaxed. Her mother said: ‘Lady Margaret tells me you are a very good dancer, Mr Savage.’ Emily glanced at Peggy. Peggy was blushing furiously again. Now why did Mally say that? It made it awkward for anyone if you praised them the first time you met. Mally knew that-- had told Emily, in fact; so Mally meant to make Mr Savage feel awkward, probably to see how he would get out of it.

  ‘Lady Margaret is wrong,’ Mr Savage said. ‘We dance well together, that is all.’

  Emily thought: Well, that’s a flat statement--rather rude, really. His voice was light and full, the tones hard-edged and clearly defined, like an operatic tenor’s.

  Mr Savage went on: ‘Adam Khan’s the best dancer among us three. I don’t know about Mr Walsh.’

  Mr Walsh smiled and said: ‘Count me out.’

  ‘Gerry’s very good.’

  In the short silence Emily realized with a small shock that it was herself who had spoken. The young man with the pale eyes was looking at her.

  ‘Adam’s better,’ he said.

  She wanted to say that she would wait and decide after the ball who was the best dancer. That would be the right, cool answer to Mr Savage’s cool assertion; but it would sound wrong, so she said nothing, and soon they went through to the small dining-room and sat down at the reserved table that was loaded with flowers and cut-glass and ornately folded double damask napkins.

  At dinner, while the bent old waiter sucked his teeth deferentially in her ear and Mally signalled that she could have two glasses of Chateau Yquem, no more, she found herself sitting between Mr Walsh and the Indian. Mr Khan spoke very good English, she was vaguely disappointed to find, although with a slight blurring of Bs, Vs, and Ws so that the three sounds, as he made them, were almost identical. His tailcoat was as impeccably cut as the others’, and his high collar looked as if it would choke him, just as theirs did. She was disappointed because she had expected some Oriental splendour, perhaps a huge ring on his hand, or on his head a turban with an egret plume and a glittering diamond; and that his conversation would be of elephants, slave girls, and tame peacocks.

  Instead, while on her left she heard snatches of mountaineering talk between Mally and Mr Walsh, Mr Khan gave her a lot of information about Cambridge’s town drainage. Mr Khan seemed to know a lot about drainage, or at least to be fascinated by it.

  This was surely not quite the sort of conversation to have at a dinner party before a May Week ball? Well, gentlemen talked about strange things, as Mally had told her, and it was her business to steer the talk into other channels if she didn’t approve. Drainage channels, perhaps?

  ‘Drainage is a serious problem in Rudwal,’ the young man said. ‘That is why I am interested.’

  ‘You live in--Rudwal?’ she asked. ‘In India?’

  ‘In the Punjab,’ he said. ‘Rudwal is our nearest town, though my father’s estate is a few miles outside. You see, if we could get proper town drainage in Rudwal, we could make the Maghra there into as beautiful a river as the Backs here--though it is somewhat bigger.’

  ‘As big as the Thames at Oxford?’ she asked.

  ‘About seven times as big as that,’ he said dryly. ‘You see, the Backs could not be used for anything until the drainage was completed, in nineteen hundred, I think, just before I came up. There was sewage in the stream, you see. That was why it was not pleasant.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she mumbled.

  Sewage! But Mr Khan was right. It wouldn’t have been nice to go on the Backs--she had seen them for the first time this afternoon--under those circumstances. Well, right or not, it was time to ease the conversation away.

  ‘Do yo
u go to Calcutta very often?’ she asked.

  Now it was the young Indian’s turn to stare at her, his lips suddenly tight. He said quite curtly: ‘Calcutta is about one thousand one hundred miles from Rudwal by rail, Miss Fenton. I have only been there once, when my father presented me to the Viceroy, Lord Elgin. I was eighteen.’

  Thank heaven, Peggy, on Mr Khan’s other side, said something then, so that he turned to her, and Emily could relax. Mr Walsh was looking at her with admiration. She turned away... How was she expected to know that Rudwal or the Punjab was so far from Calcutta? India didn’t seem very big on the map. Why had Mr Khan looked at her almost as though she had hurt or insulted him? Well, perhaps he thought everyone ought to know where Rudwal was. She remembered an old gentleman Daddy had brought to the playroom at Llyn Gared once, when she was about twelve, who’d been terribly cross because none of them knew where Hellion’s Bumpstead was. But perhaps Mr Khan was annoyed because India belonged to England, which meant to her, really, and still she didn’t know. Daddy had sacked a groom only last year because he didn’t know where the trap ponies were at that moment. But oh dear, there was such an awful lot of the Empire. She knew plenty about other things, and no one had called her stupid. Perhaps she’d better not raise any subject unless she knew it very well--just listen to Mr Khan, and agree, and try to pick up what she could. What had she learned now? Rudwal was in, or on, the Punjab. It was eleven hundred miles from Calcutta. They had a big river called the Maghra. When would she need any of that information again?

  Near the end of the meal Mally turned to Mr Savage, on her left, and said: ‘Mr Savage, Gerry would be very pleased if you could come and stay a week or two with us at Llyn Gared in

  July. We’ll all be there--and Mr Fenton and I will be delighted if you can come.’

  Emily sat up. So Mally had made up her mind that Mr Savage was acceptable. All she could have seen in this short time was that he knew how to use a knife and fork, and cleaned his fingernails.