The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [105]
“No, they were just assessing the value of the carpets.”
“Any extra charge?” Kendall-Hume asked apprehensively.
“No, your two thousand pounds covered everything,” said Christopher, handing over the receipt.
“Then we got away with it, old fellow. Well done. One hell of a bargain to add to my collection.” Kendall-Hume turned to bundle the large package into the trunk of his Mercedes before locking it and taking his place behind the steering wheel. “Well done,” he repeated through the open window as the car drove off. “I won’t forget the school appeal.”
The Robertses stood and watched as the silver-gray car joined a line of traffic leaving the airport.
“Why didn’t you tell Mr. Kendall-Hume the real value of his carpet?” asked Margaret once they were seated in the bus.
“I did give it some considerable thought, but I came to the conclusion that the truth was the last thing Kendall-Hume wanted to be told.”
“But don’t you feel any guilt? After all, we’ve stolen—”
“Not at all, my dear. We haven’t stolen anything. But we did get one hell of a ‘steal.’”
CHRISTINA ROSENTHAL
The rabbi knew he couldn’t hope to begin on his sermon until he’d read the letter. He had been sitting at his desk in front of a blank sheet of paper for more than an hour and still couldn’t come up with a first sentence. Lately he had been unable to concentrate on a task he had carried out every Friday evening for the last thirty years. They must have realized by now that he was no longer up to it. He took the letter out of the envelope and slowly unfolded the pages. Then he pushed his half-moon glasses up the bridge of his nose and started to read.
My dear Father,
“Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!” were the first words I ever heard her say as I ran past her on the first lap of the race. She was standing behind the railing at the beginning of the home stretch, hands cupped around her lips to be sure I couldn’t miss the chant. She must have come from another school because I didn’t recognize her, but it only took a fleeting glance to see that it was Greg Reynolds who was standing by her side.
After five years of having to tolerate his snide comments and bullying at school all I wanted to retaliate with was, “Nazi, Nazi, Nazi,” but you had always taught me to rise above such provocation.
I tried to put them both out of my mind as I moved into the second lap. I had dreamed for years of winning the mile in the West Mount High School championships, and I was determined not to let them do anything to stop me.
As I came into the back stretch a second time, I took a more careful look at her. She was standing amid a cluster of friends who were wearing the scarves of Marianapolis Convent. She must have been about sixteen, and as slim as a willow. I wonder if you would have chastised me had I only shouted, “No breasts, no breasts, no breasts,” in the hope it might at least provoke the boy standing next to her into a fight. Then I would have been able to tell you truthfully that he had thrown the first punch, but the moment you learned that it was Greg Reynolds, you would have realized how little provocation I needed.
As I reached the back stretch I once again prepared myself for the chants. Chanting at track meetings had become fashionable in the late 1950s, when “Zat-o-pek, Zat-o-pek, Zat-o-pek” had been roared in adulation across running stadiums around the world for the great Czech champion. Not for me was there to be the shout of “Ros-en-thal, Ros-en-thal, Ros-en-thal” as I came into earshot.
“Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!” she said, sounding like a a stuck record. Her friend Greg, who would nowadays be described as a preppie, began laughing. I knew he had put her up to it, and how I would like to have removed that smug grin from his face. I reached the half-mile mark in two minutes seventeen seconds, comfortably inside the pace necessary to break the school record, and I felt that was the best way to put the taunting girl and that fascist Reynolds in their place. I couldn’t help thinking at the time how unfair it all was. I was