The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [136]
It wasn’t unusual for an American to win a rowing blue in the early 1970s, but to have stroked a victorious Cambridge eight for three years in a row was acknowledged as a first.
Bob’s father, Robert Henry Kefford II, known to his friends as Robert, had traveled over to England to watch his son take part in all three races from Putney to Mortlake. After Bob had stroked Cambridge to victory for the third time, his father told him that he must not return to his native Illinois without having presented a memento to the University Boat Club that they would remember him by.
“And don’t forget, my boy,” declared Robert Henry Kefford II, “the gift must not be ostentatious. Better to show that you have made an effort to present them with an object of historic value than give them something that obviously cost a great deal of money. The British appreciate that sort of thing.”
Bob spent many hours pondering his father’s words, but completely failed to come up with any worthwhile ideas. After all, the Cambridge University Boat Club had more silver cups and trophies than they could possibly display.
It was on a Sunday morning that Helen first mentioned the name of Dougie Mortimer. She and Bob were lying in each other’s arms, when she started poking his biceps.
“Is this some form of ancient British foreplay that I ought to know about?” Bob asked, placing his free arm around Helen’s shoulder.
“Certainly not,” Helen replied. “I was simply trying to discover if your biceps are as big as Dougie Mortimer’s.”
Since Bob had never known a girl who talked about another man while he was in bed with her, he was unable to think of an immediate response.
“And are they?” he eventually inquired, flexing his muscles.
“Hard to tell,” Helen replied. “I’ve never actually touched Dougie’s arm, only seen it at a distance.”
“And where did you come across this magnificent specimen of manhood?”
“It hangs over the bar at my dad’s local, in Hull.”
“Doesn’t Dougie Mortimer find that a little painful?” asked Bob, laughing.
“Doubt if he cares that much,” said Helen. “After all, he’s been dead for over sixty years.”
“And his arm still hangs above a bar?” asked Bob in disbelief. “Hasn’t it begun to smell a bit by now?”
This time it was Helen’s turn to laugh. “No, you Yankee fool. It’s a bronze cast of his arm. In those days, if you were in the university crew for three years in a row, they made a cast of your arm to hang in the clubhouse. Not to mention a card with your picture on it in every pack of Player’s cigarettes. I’ve never seen your picture in a cigarette pack, come to think of it,” said Helen as she pulled the sheet over his head.
“Did he row for Oxford or Cambridge?” asked Bob.
“No idea.”
“So what’s the name of this pub in Hull?”
“The King William,” Helen replied, as Bob took his arm from around her shoulder.
“Is this American foreplay?” she asked after a few moments.
Later that morning, after Helen had left for Newnham, Bob began searching his shelves for a book with a blue cover. He dug out his much-thumbed History of the Boat Race and flicked through the index, to discover that there were seven Mortimers listed. Five had rowed for Oxford, two for Cambridge. He began to pray as he checked their initials. Mortimer, A. J. (Westminster and Wadham, Oxon.), Mortimer, C. K. (Uppingham and Oriel, Oxon.), Mortimer, D. J. T (Harrow and St. Catharine’s, Cantab.), Mortimer, E. L.
(Oundle and Magdalen, Oxon.). Bob turned his attention to Mortimer, D. J. T., biography page 129, and flicked the pages backward until he reached the entry he sought. “Douglas John Townsend Mortimer (St. Catharine’s), Cambridge 1907, –08, –09, stroke.” He then read the short summary of Mortimer’s rowing career.
Dougie Mortimer stroked the Cambridge boat to victory in 1907, a feat which he repeated in 1908. But in 1909, when the experts considered Cambridge to have one of the finest crews for years, the light blues lost