“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
s, and even joined in the frenzy whenever Oxford was mentioned. The president ended with the words, “There will be a special presentation to the club this year, by our colonial stroke Bob Kefford, which I’m sure we’re all going to appreciate.”
When Bob rose from his place the cheering became even more raucous, but he spoke so softly that the noise quickly died away. He told his fellow members how he had come to discover, and later retrieve, Dougie Mortimer’s right arm, leaving out only his exact location when he first learned of its whereabouts.
With a flourish, he unwrapped the parcel that had been secreted under his chair, and revealed the newly restored bronze cast. The assembled members rose to their feet and cheered. A smile of satisfaction came over Bob’s face as he looked around, only wishing his father could have been present to witness their reaction.
As his eyes swept the room, Bob couldn’t help noticing that the oldest blue present, Charles Forester, had remained seated, and was not even joining in the applause. Bob’s gaze then settled on Sidney Fisk, the only other person who had not risen to his feet. The old boatman’s lips remained fixed in a straight line, and his hands didn’t move from his knees.
Bob forgot about the two old men when the president, assisted by Tom Adams, hung the bronze arm on the wall, placing it between a blade that had been pulled by one of the Olympic crew of 1908, and a zephyr hat worn by the only blue ever to row in a Cambridge boat that had beaten Oxford four years in a row. Bob began to take photographs of the ceremony, so that he would have a record to show his father that he had carried out his wishes.
When the hanging was over, many of the members and old blues surrounded Bob to thank and congratulate him, leaving him in no doubt that all the trouble he had taken to track down the arm had been worthwhile.
Bob was among the last to leave that night, because so many members had wanted to wish him good luck for the future. He was strolling along the footpath back to his digs, humming as he went, when he suddenly remembered that he had left his camera on the table. He decided to collect it in the morning, as he was sure that the clubhouse would be locked and deserted by now, but when he turned round to check, he saw a single light coming from the ground floor.
He turned and began walking back toward the clubhouse, still humming. When he was a few paces away, he glanced through the window and saw that there were two figures standing in the committee room. He strode over to take a closer look, and was surprised to see the elderly blue, Charles Forester, and Sidney Fisk, the retired boatman, trying to shift a heavy table. He would have gone in to assist them if Fisk hadn’t suddenly pointed up toward Dougie Mortimer’s arm. Bob remained motionless as he watched the two old men drag the table inch by inch nearer to the wall, until it was directly below the plaque.
Fisk picked up a chair and placed it against the wall, and Forester used it as a step to climb onto the table. Forester then bent down and took the arm of the older man, to help him up.
Once they were both safely on the table, they held a short conversation before reaching up to the bronze cast, easing it off its hooks, and slowly lowering it until it rested between their feet. Forester, with the help of the chair, stepped back down onto the floor, then turned round to assist his companion again.
Bob still didn’t move, as the two old men carried Dougie Mortimer’s arm across the room and out of the boathouse. Having placed it on the ground outside the door, Forester returned to switch off the lights. When he stepped back outside into the cold night air, the boatman quickly padlocked the door.
Once again the two old men held a short conversation before lifting Bob’s trophy up and stumbling off with it along the towpath. They had to stop, lower the arm to the ground, rest, and start again several times. Bob followed silently in their wake, using the broad-trunked trees to conceal himself, until the elderly pair suddenly turned and made their way down the bank toward the river. They came to a halt at the water’s edge, and lowered their bounty into a small rowing boat.
The old blue untied the rope, and the two men pushed the boat slowly out into the river, until the water was lapping around the knees of their evening dress trousers. Neither seemed at all concerned about the fact that they were getting soaked. Forester managed to clamber up into the little boat quite quickly, but it took Fisk several minutes to join him. Once they were both aboard, Forester took his place at the oars, while the boatman remained in the bow, clutching Dougie Mortimer’s arm.
Forester began to row steadily toward the middle of the river. His progress was slow, but his easy rhythm revealed that he had rowed many times before. When the two men calculated that they had reached the center of the Cam, at its deepest point, Forester stopped rowing and joined his companion in the bow. They picked up the bronze arm and, without ceremony, cast it over the side and into the river. Bob heard the splash and saw the boat rock dangerously from side to side. Fisk then took his turn at the oars; his progress back to the riverbank was even slower than Forester’s. They eventually reached land, and both men stumbled out and shoved the boat up toward its mooring, the boatman finally securing the rope to a large ring.
Soaked and exhausted, their breath rising visibly in the clear night air, the two old men stood and faced each other. They shook hands like two business tycoons who had closed an important deal, before disappearing into the night.
Tom Adams called Bob the following morning to tell him something he already knew. In fact he had lain awake all night thinking of little else.
Bob listened to Adams’s account of the break-in. “What’s surprising is that they only took one thing.” He paused. “Your arm—or rather, Dougie’s arm. It’s very strange, especially since someone had left an expensive camera on the top table.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” asked Bob.
“No, I don’t think so, old boy,” said Adams. “The local police are making enquiries, but my bet is that whoever stole the arm will probably be halfway across the county by now.”
“I think you’re right,” said Bob. “While you’re on the line, Mr. Adams, I wonder if I could ask you a question about the history of the club.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Adams. “But you must remember that it’s only a hobby for me, old chap.”
“Do you by any chance know who is the oldest living Oxford rowing blue?” There was a long silence the other end of the line. “Are you still there?” Bob asked eventually.
“Yes. I was just trying to think if old Harold Deering is still alive. I can’t remember seeing his obituary in The Times.”
“Deering?” said Bob.
“Yes. Radley and Keble, 1909–10–11. He became a bishop, if I remember correctly, but I’m damned if I can recall where.”
“Thank you,” said Bob. “That’s most helpful.”
“I could be wrong,” Adams pointed out. “After all, I don’t read the obituary columns every day. And I’m a bit rusty when it comes to Oxford.”
Bob thanked him once again before hanging up.
After a college lunch he didn’t eat, Bob returned to his digs and rang the porter’s lodge at Keble. He was answered by a curmudgeonly voice.
“Do you have any record of a Harold Deering, a former member of the college?” Bob asked.
“Deering … Deering … ,” said the voice. “That’s a new one on me. Let me see if he’s in the college handbook.” Another long pause, during which Bob really did begin to think he’d been cut off, until the voice said, “Good heavens, no wonder. It was just a bit before my time. ‘Deering, Harold, 1909–11, BA 1911, MA 1916 (Theology). Became Bishop of Truro.’ Is that the one?”
“Yes, that’s the man,” said Bob. “Do you by any chance have an address for him?”
“I do,” said the voice. “The Right Reverend Harold Deering, the Stone House, Mill Road, Tewkesbury, Gloucestershire.”
“Thank you,” said Bob. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Bob spent the rest of the afternoon composing a letter to the former bishop, in
the hope that the old blue might agree to see him.
He was surprised to receive a call in his rooms three days later from a Mrs. Elliot, who turned out to be Mr. Deering’s daughter, with whom he was now living.
“The poor old chap can’t see much beyond his nose these days,” she explained, “so I had to read your letter aloud to him. But he’d be delighted to meet you, and wonders if you could call on him this Sunday at 11:30, after Matins—assuming that’s not inconvenient for you.”
“That’s fine,” said Bob. “Please tell your father to expect me around 11:30.”
“It has to be in the morning,” Mrs. Elliot went on to explain, “because, you see, he has a tendency to fall asleep after lunch. I’m sure you understand. By the way, I’ll send directions to your college.”
On the Sunday morning, Bob was up long before the sun rose, and started out on his journey to Tewkesbury in a car he had rented the previous day. He would have gone by train, but British Rail didn’t seem willing to rise quite early enough for him to reach his destination on time. As he journeyed across the Cotswolds, he tried to remember to keep the car on the left, and couldn’t help wondering how long it would be before the British started to build some highways with more than one lane.
He drove into Tewkesbury a few minutes after eleven, and thanks to Mrs. Elliot’s clear directions, quickly found the Stone House. He parked the car outside a little wicket gate.
A woman had opened the door of the house even before Bob was halfway up the scrub-covered path. “It must be Mr. Kefford,” she declared. “I’m Susan Elliot.” Bob smiled and shook her hand. “I should warn you,” Mrs. Elliot explained as she led him toward the front door, “that you’ll have to speak up. Father’s become rather deaf lately, and I’m afraid his memory isn’t what it used to be. He can recall everything that happened to him at your age, but not even the most simple things that I told him yesterday. I’ve had to remind him what time you would be coming this morning,” she said as they walked through the open door. “Three times.”
Collected Short Stories Page 32