The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [139]
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 undergraduates, 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