Saving Sandy

Chapter 1 - Arriving and Meeting Her Idol

Well, I'm a huge fan of history, and I fell in love with the story of George Mallory and Sandy Irvine. Theirs is such a tragic story. This story that I wrote a year ago is fictional but has details from Sandy's life. I hope you enjoy it!

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"Did you see her hair? There is purple in it! How do you think she managed that?"

"And did you see what she is wearing?"

Those group of guys weren't making me feel any better. Somehow landing in 1920s England freaked me out, and the fact that I was the only girl on this men's college campus being talked about and pointed at because of my hair and clothes made me want to hide under a rock. I scanned my surroundings. Where could I hide?

I made it over to a pond and saw a shed of some sort, maybe for storing gardening tools or whatever for the ground's keepers. I headed in that direction, but a few boys, different than the ones who commented on my hair and clothing before, stepped in front of me, clad in 20's men's attire - tan suits with dark vests. They all matched. Were they school uniforms?

"Hello, there, miss," said one guy who looked around my age - twenty - and had slicked brown hair and halting blue eyes. I said nothing to his greeting in a thick British accent. "Cat got your tongue?"

The other two guys with him, two blondes, laughed. "Maybe she cannot talk and lets her purple hair and those tight pants and blouse do all the talking."

They all laughed again, and the first boy handled my shoulder-length curly hair with his fingers, the streak in it that was bright purple. "Tell me, miss, how did you manage to get your hair this color?"

He twerked it back into my face, and I felt the backs of my eyes sting. I again said nothing and walked on, but the main boy stepped up in front of me. "Oh, c'mon, where are you headed off to? Let us talk a bit more."

He reached around and caught my waist, but I immediately came out of his hold. "Don't touch me!"

"Hey, she can talk!" barked one of the blonde boys. "And she is American!"

A suggestive smirk caught the main boy's face, and he stepped up to me. "American, huh? That would make sense. Those Yanks are filth, and from the looks of you, you fit right in."

He pushed my shoulder, making me stagger back, and he snickered cynically, and those tears that stung my eyes dropped from my right eye. Chest tightening painfully in hurt and anger, I about shoved that boy into the murky pond, but a firm voice stopped me from even moving.

"Geoffrey Milling, is that any way to treat a lady?!"

I turned. My eyes widened and jaw dropped at who entered this scene by the pond. The main boy put out his arms like a bird and smiled. "Oh, c'mon, Sandy, we were just having some fun with this ghastly-looking Yank here."

The tall, blonde, broad-shouldered young man in the same attire as the other boys glanced at me, then back at the brunette. "It does not matter where a person is from, or how they are dressed, they should not be treated in such a manner, especially when the person is lady."

That British accent came out in annoyance, but I couldn't help but find it irresistibly attractive - a far cry to what I thought about the accent of the other guys, even though it was the same accent. I still stared at this taller and more muscular guy in shock, not believing he was standing there and I was looking at him.

"You call that a lady?" one of the blonde boys shouted, pointing at me. "Look at her."

Sandy - Sandy freakin' Irvine, the mountaineering legend and my historical idol in the flesh - didn't move. "I say you apologize to her and be on your way," he ordered sternly.