I am just old enough to remember something of the coronation of 1953. We watched a film of it, in colour. A few months later we saw another film, The Conquest of Everest, by George Lowe and Tom Stobart. It had a commentary by Louis MacNeice. In my childish understanding, the coronation and the ascent of Everest became one and the same thing.
Mick Conefrey's moving book confirms that the coronation and the conquest of Everest were indeed knowingly yoked together. Jan Morris, then a young journalist for the Times, helped get hastily coded dispatches, confirming that Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay had reached the summit, to London just in time for the coronation. It was immediately understood to be a huge boost to British prestige and a tonic after the war and rationing. In some ways it reminds me of the recent Olympics and the jubilee, with reality stretched to encompass some uniquely British qualities. The Indians and the Nepalese joined in vigorously, both claiming Tenzing a hero and a native son. In fact, Tenzing was born in Tibet. Conefrey describes this frenetic scramble for ownership of the mountain brilliantly.
But how could a mountain which straddled the border between Tibet and Nepal be considered British? And why did it have the name of a British man, Sir George Everest, who had been surveyor-general of India from 1830 to 1843? The truth was that the British climbers regarded themselves as the aristocracy of the sport, and through the Indian connection Everest was thought to be more or less within the sphere of British interest.
The climb was some years in the planning. Operating from the Royal Geographical Society, the Himalayan committee wanted to see a British conquest after many failures and many deaths, as far back as George Mallory's and Andrew Irvine's mysterious disappearance in 1924, a subject of Wade Davis's brilliant book of last year, Into the Silence.
To carry out their "great cause", the committee appointed Mr Everest, Eric Shipton, as leader. In 1952 a group of hand-picked climbers, including the New Zealander Edmund Hillary, went to Cho Oyu in the Himalayas to prepare and test equipment for the following year. But the legendary Shipton proved to have little organisational know-how and no interest in the notion of "the great cause"; the expedition was a shambles and he was sacked rather ineptly. John Hunt, a colonel in the army, was recruited as leader. He proved to be just the man for the job, meticulous in his planning and a relentlessly hard worker, as well as a good climber. He very soon endeared himself to the others.
In the meantime, the pressure was on: the Swiss were mounting an expedition that included Tenzing Norgay. They got within 600 metres of the summit before giving up, but they were planning to come back in 1954 if the British failed.
The first British attempt, on 26 May 1953, was to be made by Tom Bourdillon and Charles Evans. Despite the meticulous preparation, it was fraught with difficulty; the weather was appalling and the climb from the South Col was terribly difficult. In the end a defective oxygen canister meant that they had to turn back only a few hundred metres from the top. For the rest of his life Bourdillon regretted that he hadn't gone on alone. But he had heeded Evans's warning that if he did he would never see his wife again. He was killed climbing in the Alps some years later.
Hillary and Tenzing were the next up. They set off confidently towards the South Col, where they just managed to get a tent up in a gale and temperatures of -20C. They didn't sleep. In the morning they had a problem with the oxygen, and finally left their tent at 7am. Hillary's diaries show that they were determined to make it, no matter what the risks. At the final 40ft rock wall, Hillary forced himself through a narrow crack in the rocks and ice, overhung by a huge and unstable cornice. Tenzing followed. Hillary now believed they were going to make it. But after an hour he started wondering if he could go on. Then the going suddenly improved and he saw that the snow ahead was sloping away from him towards Tibet. They had made it. Hillary's famous pictures show Tenzing holding his axe, flying the small flags he had brought with him. The two of them stayed 18 minutes on the summit. Typically, Hillary did not ask Tenzing to take a picture of him.
What had happened on the last few hundred yards became the subject of controversy. Did Tenzing drag Hillary up, or was it the other way round? The Indians and the Nepalese boldly and falsely claimed that Tenzing was first up, 40 metres of rope between them. In fact Tenzing was suffering badly, and Hillary had to help him, something which Tenzing admitted much later. But Hillary and Tenzing and all the others knew that climbing was a team effort: on the way down, Tenzing had to pull Hillary from a deep crevasse. After three months on the mountain, Hunt was overcome with relief and happiness as he greeted his men.
Hillary was knighted, as was John Hunt, while Tenzing got the George Medal; there was talk of colonial attitudes. All three were worldwide celebrities. They met everybody who was anybody, including the newly crowned Queen and Prince Philip. Tenzing was deified in Nepal and India. It does not appear to have brought him happiness: although he was given a large house and a prestigious job as head of a mountaineering academy, he died in Darjeeling in 1986, depressed and with a drink problem. John Hunt went on to run the Duke of Edinburgh's Award and the parole service. Some years later he was made a life peer. Hillary became New Zealand's high commissioner to India.
As I read the book, I often found myself deeply moved. It is a tale of great courage, and poignantly of a world that has passed.
Justin Cartwright's most recent novel is Other People's Money (Bloomsbury)
