The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [109]
I wanted to look back to make sure it was Christina who had called those words; it would be another quarter of a mile before I would pass her again. By the time I did so I had moved up into third place, and I could hear her clearly: “Come on, Benjamin, you can do it!”
I immediately took the lead because all I wanted to do was get back to her. I charged on without thought of who was behind me, and by the time I passed her the third time I was several yards ahead of the field. “You’re going to win!” she shouted as I ran on to reach the bell in three minutes eight seconds, eleven seconds faster than I had ever done before. I remember thinking that they ought to put something in those training manuals about love being worth two to three seconds a lap.
I watched her all the way down the back stretch, and when I came into the final bend for the last time the crowd rose to their feet. I turned to search for her. She was jumping up and down shouting, “Look out! Look out!” which I didn’t understand until I was overtaken on the inside by the Vancouver number one string, who the coach had warned me was renowned for his strong finish. I staggered over the line a few yards behind him in second place but went on running until I was safely inside the dressing room. I sat alone by my locker. Four minutes seventeen, someone told me: six seconds faster than I had ever run before. It didn’t help. I stood in the shower for a long time, trying to work out what could possibly have changed her attitude.
When I walked back onto the track only the ground staff were still around. I took one last look at the finish line before I strolled over to the Forsyth Library. I felt unable to face the usual team get-together, so I tried to settle down to write an essay on the property rights of married women.
The library was almost empty that Saturday evening, and I was well into my third page when I heard a voice say, “I hope I’m not interrupting you, but you didn’t come to Joe’s.” I looked up to see Christina standing on the other side of the table. Father, I didn’t know what to say. I just stared up at the beautiful creature in her fashionable blue miniskirt and tight-fitting sweater that emphasized the most perfect breasts, and said nothing.
“I was the one who shouted ‘Jew boy’ when you were still at high school. I’ve felt ashamed about it ever since. I wanted to apologize to you on the night of the prom but couldn’t summon up the courage with Greg standing there.” I nodded my understanding—I couldn’t think of any words that seemed appropriate. “I never spoke to him again,” she said. “But I don’t suppose you even remember Greg.”
I just smiled. “Care for coffee?” I asked, trying to sound as if I wouldn’t mind if she replied, “I’m sorry, I must get back to Bob.”
“I’d like that very much,” she said.
I took her to the library coffee shop, which was about all I could afford at the time. She never bothered to explain what had happened to Bob Richards, and I never asked.
Christina seemed to know so much about me that I felt embarrassed. She asked me to forgive her for what she had shouted on the track that day two years before. She made no excuses, placed the blame on no one else, just asked to be forgiven.
Christina told me she was hoping to join me at McGill in September, to major in German. “Bit of nerve,” she admitted, “since it is my native tongue.”
We spent the rest of that summer in each other’s company. We saw Saint Joan again, and even lined up for a film called Doctor No that was all the craze at the time.
We worked together, we ate together, we played together, but we slept alone.