The Collected Short Stories Read online

  “A half a pint of your best bitter,” Bob said, trying to sound like one of his English friends when they ordered a drink from the college buttery.

  The landlord eyed Bob suspiciously as he took his half-pint glass over to a small round table in the corner and sat down quietly on a stool. He was pleased when two other men entered the pub, so that the landlord’s attention was distracted.

  Bob took a sip of the dark liquid and nearly choked. When he had recovered, he allowed his eyes to glance above the bar. He tried to hide his excitement when he saw the bronze cast of a massive arm embedded in a large piece of varnished wood. He thought the object both dreadful and inspiring at the same time. His eyes moved down to the bold lettering printed in gold beneath it:

  D. J. T. MORTIMER

  1907-08-09

  (ST. CATHARINE’S, STROKE)

  Bob kept his eye on the landlord as the pub began to fill up, but he soon became aware that it was his wife—everyone called her Nora—who was not only in charge, but who did most of the serving.

  When he had finished his drink, he made his way over to her end of the bar.

  “What can I do for you, young man?” Nora asked.

  “I’ll have another, thank you,” said Bob.

  “An American,” she said, as she pulled the pump and began to refill his glass. “We don’t get many of you lot up ’ere, at least not since the bases closed.” She placed his half pint on the counter in front of him. “So, what brings you to ’ull?”

  “You do,” Bob replied, ignoring his drink.

  Nora looked suspiciously at the stranger, who was young enough to be her son.

  Bob smiled, “Or, to be more accurate, Dougie Mortimer does.”

  “Now I’ve figured you out,” said Nora. “You phoned this morning, didn’t you? My Christie told me. I should ’ave guessed.”

  Bob nodded. “How did the arm end up in Hull?” he asked.

  “Now, that’s a long story,” said Nora. “It was my grandfather’s, wasn’t it. Born in Ely ’e was, and ’e used to spend his holidays fishin’ the Cam. Said it was the only catch he managed that year, which I suppose is one better than sayin’ it fell off the back of a lorry. Still, when ’e died a few years back, my father wanted to throw the bloody thing out with the rest of the rubbish, but I wouldn’t ’ear of it, told ’im ’e should ’ang it in the pub, didn’t I? I cleaned and polished it, it came up real nice, and then I ’ung it above the bar. Still, it’s a long way for you to travel just to ’ave a look at that load of old cobblers.”

  Bob looked up and admired the arm once again. He held his breath. “I didn’t come just to look.”

  “Then why did you come?” she asked.

  “I came to buy.”

  “Get a move on, Nora,” said the landlord. “Can’t you see there are customers waitin’ to be served?”

  Nora swung around and said, “Just ‘old your tongue, Cyril Barnsworth. This young man’s come all the way up to ’ull just to see Dougie Mortimer’s arm, and what’s more, ’e wants to buy it.” This caused a ripple of laughter from the regulars standing nearest to the bar, but when Nora didn’t join in they quickly fell silent.

  “Then it’s been a wasted journey, ’asn’t it?” said the landlord. “Because it’s not for sale.”

  “It’s not yours to sell,” said Nora, placing her hands on her hips. “Mind you, lad, ’e’s right,” she said, turning back to face Bob. “I wouldn’t part with it for a ’undred quid,” said Nora. Several others in the room were beginning to show an interest in the proceedings.

  “How about two hundred?” said Bob quietly. This time Nora burst out laughing, but Bob didn’t even smile.

  When Nora had stopped laughing, she stared directly at the strange young man. “My God, ’e means it,” she said.

  “I certainly do,” said Bob. “I would like to see the arm returned to its rightful home in Cambridge, and I’m willing to pay two hundred pounds for the privilege.”

  The landlord looked across at his wife, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “We could buy that little secondhand car I’ve had my eye on,” he said.

  “Not to mention a summer ’oliday and a new overcoat for next winter,” Nora added, staring at Bob as if she still needed to be convinced that he wasn’t from another planet. Suddenly she thrust her hand over the counter and said, “You’ve got yourself a deal, young man.”

  Bob ended up having to supply several rounds of drinks for those customers who claimed to have been close personal friends of Nora’s grandfather, even if some of them looked rather obviously too young. He also had to stay overnight in a local hotel, because Nora wouldn’t part with her grandfather’s “heirloom,” as she now kept referring to it, until her bank manager had phoned Cambridge to check that Robert Henry Kefford III was good for two hundred pounds.

  Bob clung to his treasure all the way back to Cambridge that Monday morning, and then lugged the heavy object from the station to his digs in the Grange Road, where he hid it under the bed. The following day he handed it over to a local furniture restorer, who promised to return the arm to its former glory in time for the night of the Blues’ Dinner.

  When, three weeks later, Bob was allowed to see the results of the restorer’s efforts, he immediately felt confident that he now possessed a prize not only worthy of the CUBC but that also complied with his father’s wishes. He resolved not to share his secret with anyone—not even Helen—until the night of the Blues’ Dinner, although he did warn the puzzled president that he was going to make a presentation, and that he required two hooks, eighteen inches apart and eight feet from the floor, to be screwed into the wall beforehand.

  The University Blues’ Dinner is an annual event held in the Boat House overlooking the Cam. Any former or current rowing blue is eligible to attend, and Bob was delighted to find when he arrived that night that it was a near-record turnout. He placed the carefully wrapped brown paper parcel under his chair, and put his camera on the table in front of him.

  Because it was his last Blues’ Dinner before returning to the United States, Bob had been seated at the top table, between the honorary secretary and the current president of doats. Tom Adams, the honorary secretary, had gained his blue some twenty years before, and was recognized as the club’s walking encyclopedia, because he could name not only everyone in the room but all the great oarsmen of the past.

  Tom pointed out to Bob three Olympic medalists dotted around the room. “The oldest is sitting on the left of the president,” he said. “Charles Forester. He rowed at number three for the club in 1908–9, so he must be over eighty.”

  “Can it be possible?” said Bob, recalling Forester’s youthful picture on the clubhouse wall.

  “Certainly can,” said the secretary. “And what’s more, young man,” he added, laughing, “you’ll look like that one day too.”

  “What about the man at the far end of the table?” asked Bob. “He looks even older.”

  “He is,” said the secretary. “That’s Sidney Fisk. He was boatman from 1912 to 1945, with only a break for the First World War. Took over from his uncle at short notice, if I remember correctly.”

  “So he would have known Dougie Mortimer,” said Bob wistfully.

  “Now, there’s a great name from the past,” said Adams. “Mortimer, D. J. T., 1907–8–9, St. Catharine’s, stroke. Oh, yes, Fisk would certainly have known Mortimer, that’s for sure. Come to think of it, Charles Forester must have been in the same boat as Mortimer when he was stroke.”

  During the meal Bob continued to quiz Adams about Dougie Mortimer, but he was unable to add a great deal to the entry in Bob’s History of the Boat Race, other than to confirm that Cambridge’s defeat in 1909 still remained a mystery, as the light blues demonstrably had the superior crew.

  When the last course had been cleared away, the president rose to welcome his guests and to make a short speech. Bob enjoyed the parts he was able to hear above the noise made by the rowdy undergraduate