“But in Mortimer’s case one particular shopkeeper, who had absolutely no interest in rowing, and even less in undergraduates, threatened to bankrupt him the week before the 1909 boat race. A few days after the race had been lost, Mortimer seemed, without explanation, to have cleared all his obligations, and nothing more was heard of the matter.”
Once again the old man paused as if in deep thought. Bob remained silent, still not wishing to distract him.
“The only other thing I can recall is that the bookies made a killing,” Deering said without warning. “I know that to my personal cost, because my tutor lost a five-pound wager, and never let me forget that I had told him we didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. Mind you, I was always able to offer that as my excuse for not getting a First.” He looked up and smiled at his visitor.
Bob sat on the edge of his seat, mesmerized by the old man’s recollections.
“I’m grateful for your candor, sir,” he said. “And you can be assured of my discretion.”
“Thank you, Kefford,” said the old man, now almost whispering. “I’m only too delighted to have been able to assist you. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, thank you, sir,” said Bob. “I think you’ve covered everything I needed to know.”
Bob rose from his chair, and as he turned to thank Mrs. Elliot, he noticed for the first time a bronze cast of an arm hanging on the far wall. Below it was printed in gold:
H. R. R. DEERING
1909–10–11
(KEBLE, Bow)
“You must have been a fine oarsman, sir.”
“No, not really,” said the old blue. “But I was lucky enough to be in the winning boat three years in a row, which wouldn’t please a Cambridge man like yourself.”
Bob laughed. “Perhaps one last question before I leave, sir.”
“Of course, Kefford.”
“Did they ever make a bronze of Dougie Mortimer’s arm?”
“They most certainly did,” replied the priest. “But it mysteriously disappeared from your boathouse in 1912. A few weeks later the boatman was sacked without explanation—caused quite a stir at the time.”
“Was it known why he was sacked?” asked Bob.
“Partridge claimed that when the old boatman got drunk one night, he confessed to having dumped Mortimer’s arm in the middle of the Cam.” The old man paused, smiled, and added, “Best place for it, wouldn’t you say, Kefford?”
Bob thought about the question for some time, wondering how his father would have reacted. He then replied simply, “Yes, sir. Best place for it.”
DO NOT PASS GO
May 1986
Hamid Zebari smiled at the thought of his wife Shereen driving him to the airport. Neither of them would have believed it possible five years before, when they had first arrived in America as political refugees. But since he had begun a new life in the States, Hamid was beginning to think anything might be possible.
“When will you be coming home, Papa?” asked Nadim, who was strapped safely in the back seat next to his sister May. She was too young to understand why Papa was going away.
“Just a fortnight, I promise. No more,” their father replied. “And when I get back, we’ll all go on holiday.”
“How long is a fortnight?” his son demanded.
“Fourteen days,” Hamid told him with a laugh.
“And fourteen nights,” said his wife as she drew into the curb below the sign for Turkish Airways. She touched a button on the dashboard and the trunk flicked up. Hamid jumped out of the car, grabbed his luggage from the trunk, and put it on the pavement before climbing into the back of the car. He hugged his daughter first, and then his son. May was crying—not because he was going away, but because she always cried when the car came to a sudden halt. He allowed her to stroke his bushy mustache, which usually stopped the flow of tears.
“Fourteen days,” repeated his son. Hamid hugged his wife and felt the small swelling of a third child between them.
“We’ll be here waiting to pick you up,” Shereen called out as her husband tipped the skycap on the curb.