The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [138]
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