Jeffrey Archer - A Twist in the Tale

I climbed out of the water but didn’t waste any time looking round for him. I knew Greg would be a long way off by then. I walked home through the back streets, avoiding taking the bus in case someone saw me and told you what a state I was in. As soon as I got home I crept past your study and on upstairs to my room, changing before you had the chance to discover what had taken place.

Old Isaac Cohen gave me a disapproving look when I turned up at the synagogue an hour later wearing a blazer and jeans.

I took the suit to the cleaners the next morning. It cost me three weeks’ pocket money to be sure that you were never aware of what had happened at the swimming pool that day.

The rabbi picked up the picture of his seventeen-year-old son in that synagogue suit. He well remembered Benjamin turning up to his service in a blazer and jeans and Isaac Cohen’s outspoken reprimand. The rabbi was thankful that Mr. Atkins, the swimming instructor, had phoned to warn him of what had taken place that afternoon so at least he didn’t add to Mr. Cohen’s harsh words. He continued gazing at the photograph for a long time before he returned to the letter.

The next occasion I saw her was at the end-of-term dance held in the school gymnasium. I thought I looked pretty cool in my neatly pressed suit until I saw Greg standing by her side in a smart new dinner jacket. I remember wondering at the time if I would ever be able to afford a dinner jacket. Greg had been offered a place at McGill University and was announcing the fact to everyone who cared to listen, which made me all the more determined to win a scholarship to McGill the following year.

I stared at Christina. She was wearing a long red dress that completely covered those beautiful legs. A thin gold belt emphasized her tiny waist, and the only jewelry she wore was a simple gold necklace. I knew if I waited a moment longer I wouldn’t have the courage to go through with it. I clenched my fists, walked over to where they were sitting, and as you had always taught me, Father, bowed slightly before I asked, ‘May I have the pleasure of this dance?’

She stared into my eyes. I swear if she had told me to go out and kill a thousand men before I dared ask her again I would have done it.

She didn’t even speak, but Greg leaned over her shoulder and said, ‘Why don’t you go and find yourself a nice Jewish girl?’ I thought I saw her scowl at his remark. But I only blushed like someone who’s been caught with their bands in the cookie jar. I didn’t dance with anyone that night. I walked straight out of the gymnasium and ran home.

I was convinced then that I hated her.

That last week of term I broke the school record for the mile. You were there to watch me but, thank heavens, she wasn’t. That was the holiday we drove over to Ottawa to spend our summer vacation with Aunt Rebecca. I was told by a school friend that Christina had spent hers in Vancouver with a German family. At least Greg had not gone with her, the friend assured me.

You went on reminding me of the importance of a good education, but you didn’t need to, because every time I saw Greg it made me more determined to win that scholarship.

I worked even harder in the summer of ’65 when you explained that, for a Canadian, a place at McGill was like going to Harvard or Oxford and would clear a path for the rest of my life.

For the first time in my life running took second place.

Although I didn’t see much of Christina that term she was often in my mind. A classmate told me that she and Greg were no longer seeing each other, but they could give me no reason for this sudden change of heart. At the time I had a so-called girlfriend who always sat on the other side of the synagogue — Naomi Goldblatz, you remember her — but it was she who dated me.

As my exams drew nearer, I was grateful that you always found time to go over my essays and tests after I had finished them. What you couldn’t know was that I inevitably returned to my own room to do them a third time. Often I would fall asleep at my desk. When I woke I would turn over the page and read on.

Even you, Father, who have not an ounce of vanity in you, found it hard to disguise from your congregation the pride you took in my eight straight ‘A’s’ and the award of a top scholarship to McGill. I wondered if Christina was aware of it. She must have been. My name was painted up on the Honors Board in fresh gold leaf the following week, so someone would have told her.

It must have been three months later when I was in my first term at McGill that I saw her next. Do you remember taking me to St. Joan at the Centaur Theater? There she was, seated a few rows in front of us with her parents and a sophomore called Bob Richards. The admiral and his wife looked straitlaced and very stern but not unsympathetic. In the interval I watched her laughing and joking with them: she had obviously enjoyed herself. I hardly saw St. Joan , and although I couldn’t take my eyes off Christina she never once noticed me. I just wanted to be on the stage playing the Dauphin so she would have to look up at me.

When the curtain came down she and Bob Richards left her parents and beaded for the exit. I followed the two of them out of the foyer and into the car park, and watched them get into a Thunderbird. A Thunderbird. I remember thinking one day I might be able to afford a dinner jacket, but never a Thunderbird.

From that moment she was in my thoughts whenever I trained, wherever I worked and even when I slept. I found out everything I could about Bob Richards and discovered that he was liked by all who knew him.

For the first time in my life I hated being a Jew.

When I next saw Christina I dreaded what might happen. It was the start of the mile against the University of Vancouver and as a freshman I had been lucky to be selected for McGill. When I came out onto the track to warm up I saw her sitting in the third row of the stand alongside Bob Richards. They were holding hands.

I was last off when the starter’s gun fired but as we went into the back straight moved up into fifth position. It was the largest crowd I had ever run in front of, and when I reached the home straight I waited for the chant ‘Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!’ but nothing happened. I wondered if she had failed to notice that I was in the race. But she had noticed because as I came round the bend I could hear her voice clearly. ‘Come on, Benjamin, you’ve got to win!’ she shouted.

I wanted to look back to make sure it was Christina who had called those words, it would be another quarter of a mile before I could pass her again. By the time I did so I had moved up into third place, and I could hear her clearly: ‘Come on, Benjamin, you can do it!’

I immediately took the lead because all I wanted to do was get back to her. I charged on without thought of who was behind me, and by the time I passed her the third time I was several yards ahead of the field. ‘You’re going to win!’ she shouted as I ran on to reach the bell in three minutes eight seconds, eleven seconds faster than I had ever done before. I remember thinking that they ought to put something in those training manuals about love being worth two to three seconds a lap.

I watched her all the way down the back straight and when I came into the final bend for the last time the crowd rose to their feet. I turned to search for her. She was jumping up and down shouting, ‘Look out! Look out!’ which I didn’t understand until I was overtaken on the inside by the Vancouver Number One string who the coach had warned me was renowned for his strong finish. I staggered over the line a few yards behind him in second place but went on running until I was safely inside the changing room. I sat alone by my locker. Four minutes seventeen, someone told me: six seconds faster than I had ever run before. It didn’t help. I stood in the shower for a long time, trying to work out what could possibly have changed her attitude.