The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [86]
After the father had delivered the twelfth stroke he ordered his son to go to his room. The boy left without a word and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. His mother followed. As she passed the kitchen, she stepped in and took some olive oil and ointments from a drawer.
She carried the little jars up to the boy’s room, where she found him already in bed. She went over to his side, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled the sheet back. She told him to turn onto his chest while she prepared the oils. Then she gently removed his night tunic, for fear of adding to his pain. She stared down at his naked body in disbelief.
The boy’s skin was unmasked.
She ran her fingers gently over her son’s unblemished body, and found it as smooth as if he had just bathed. She turned him over. There was no mark on him anywhere. Quickly she slipped his tunic back on and covered him with the sheet.
“Say nothing of this to your father,” she said, “and remove the memory of it from your mind forever.”
“Yes, Mater.”
The mother leaned over and blew out the candle by the side of his bed, gathered up the unused oils, and tiptoed to the door. At the threshold, she turned in the dim light to look back at her son and said: “Now I know you were telling the truth, Pontius.”
THE LOOPHOLE
“That isn’t the version I heard,” said Philip.
One of the club members seated at the bar glanced around at the sound of raised voices, but when he saw who was involved only smiled and continued his conversation.
The Haslemere Golf Club was fairly crowded that Saturday morning. And just before lunch it was often difficult to find a seat in the spacious clubhouse.
Two of the members had already ordered their second round and settled themselves in the alcove overlooking the first hole long before the room began to fill up. Philip Masters and Michael Gilmour had finished their Saturday-morning game earlier than usual and now seemed engrossed in conversation.
“And what did you hear?” asked Michael Gilmour quietly, but in a voice that carried.
“That you weren’t altogether blameless in the matter.”
“I most certainly was,” said Michael. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Philip. “But don’t forget, you can’t fool me. I employed you myself once, and I’ve known you for far too long to accept everything you say at face value.”
“I wasn’t trying to fool anyone,” said Michael. “It’s common knowledge that I lost my job. I’ve never suggested otherwise.”
“Agreed. But what isn’t common knowledge is how you lost your job and why you haven’t been able to find a new one.”
“I haven’t been able to find a new one for the simple reason that jobs aren’t that easy to come by at the moment. And by the way, it’s not my fault you’re a success story and a bloody millionaire.”
“And it’s not my fault that you’re penniless and always out of work. The truth is that jobs are easy enough to come by for someone who can supply references from his last employer.”
“Just what are you hinting at?” said Michael.
“I’m not hinting at anything.”
Several members had stopped taking part in the conversation in front of them as they tried to listen to the one going on behind them.
“What I am saying,” Philip continued, “is that no one will employ you for the simple reason that you can’t find anyone who will supply you with a reference—and everybody knows it.”
Everybody didn’t know it, which explained why most people in the room were now trying to find out.
“I was let go,” insisted Michael.
“In your case ‘let go’ was just a euphemism for ‘fired.’ No one pretended otherwise at the time.”
“I was made redundant,” repeated Michael, “for the simple reason that the company profits turned out to be a little disappointing this year.”
“A little disappointing? That’s rich. They were nonexistent.”
“Simply because we lost one or two of our major accounts to rivals.”
“Rivals who, I’m informed, were only too happy