A box of papers rested on the floor. He removed the lid, rifled through the pages and in a moment found what he was looking for.
A Guide to the Old Course at St Andrews, Scotland,
By Mr Tom Morris.
1884
Printed for T.R. Johnson in St Paul’s Churchyard.
It was a yellowed and dog-eared pamphlet, which he had discovered in a second-hand bookstore off Piccadilly sandwiched between a guide to the Lake District and a volume on lesser-spotted quails. He had read it at least fifty times and was almost word perfect. He stroked the battered pages with affection. It was like the commandments given to Moses on the Mount – the blueprint for his destiny. With the wisdom of Tom Morris he would build the greatest golf course since the end of the war: an Old Course in the West Country. He didn’t have the sea, that was the only slight hitch and it probably couldn’t officially be a links course with only a duck pond, but other than the lack of ocean, the differences in topography, soil, wind direction and grass, it would be a perfect copy of St Andrews.
Jack’s cheeks flushed with excitement – his entire life had been building to this great event. They had barred him from the London clubs, but this would be the best course in the south of England and he would select the members. He envisioned himself sitting in state at the kitchen table, reading a vast pile of correspondence from lords of the realm and club secretaries beseeching him for admittance, in letters dripping with adjectives.
He went out into the garden, the wet grass making dark patches on his leather slippers, and listened to a cuckoo calling from a distant copse. He unfolded the central pages of the pamphlet to display a map of the Old Course, which he held up to the prospect before him. He wondered how long it would take until it was all finished – five months, maybe six? It was all about positioning the holes and he had Tom Morris to help with that. The holes themselves couldn’t take too long to dig – it was the greens that would be more tricky. They needed regular watering and he would have to find out where the springs on his land lay.
‘The springs on my land.’
The words caught in his throat like a piece of bread. He stared at the ground before him, awed that this patch of green and this slice of steep hill belonged to him and Sadie – it scarcely seemed possible that he could be allowed to have so much. He would be the perfect country gentleman and take good care of these fields. What he needed first was a tweed cap and a walking stick with a bone handle – that was the wardrobe of a country gentleman with sixty acres, and Jack knew the importance of being properly attired (rule number five: always adhere to English conventions of dress). He returned to the house shouting, ‘Sadie, I’m off to buy a hat.’
Sadie was already up; she had managed to fall into a fitful sleep but had risen at dawn to begin the immense task of cleaning the house. There was only one tap, a spluttering stream in the back kitchen that had been just sufficient to wash the floors – there was, of course, no hot water and the large tin bath in the kitchen also provided a dismal hint that there was no bathroom. Yet the bare, grimy house with its lack of electric light and strange nocturnal sounds reminded Sadie of her childhood. As a girl there had been long holidays in Bavaria with her family, in an ancient house on the edge of a wood. It was a memory that, like a favourite novel, had been hidden by shelves brimming with more recent matter, only to emerge that morning when she was woken by the cooing of wood pigeons in the chimney. The childhood holiday cabin was full of privations: a well in the garden, candles for light and no maids. Back then it had seemed like an adventure. She was older now, had a twinge in her knee, her back ached at night and she liked ease but somehow this house reminded her of before. Filled as it was with misplaced memories of a distant, underwater childhood, she thought she could lose herself here. Perhaps, she would fall through the cracks in the kitchen wall and re-emerge in Bavaria forty years before.
She did not share these feelings with Jack – he would not understand, nor would he wish to. She resolved to accompany him, and since she knew he did not want her to come, this gave her a kernel of pleasure. From the landing she called down to him, ‘Broitgeber you must wash before we leave.’
Jack frowned – he had taken a notion to buy a hat, and once fixed upon something there was no time for distractions. He followed the voice of his wife upstairs. She had disposed of the dead bird and was tidying the bedroom, making up the bed with starched white sheets so that it looked almost inviting. A trail of silver feathers led to the cupboard in a corner of the room; the door was ajar and the inside was coated in a layer of yellowing excrement.
‘Jack, you must get a man in to fix the ceiling. It’s an aviary up there. And the birds fly down into the cupboard.’
Jack kicked a feather with his toe, uninterested. ‘I’m going. You stay here and worry about the birds.’
Sadie studied her husband. He was still wearing the clothes from yesterday; he had grass stuck to his back, a feather on his cheek and a growth of stubble across his chin. She gave him a sly look. ‘You wish to make the correct impression, hmm? They’ll think we’re slovenly foreigners unless you wash.’
Jack knew that she was right – it was rule thirty-seven on the list (Englishmen of all classes take great pride in excellent personal hygiene). He couldn’t possibly risk the condemnation.
She watched his face contort at the prospect and pointed to a small wooden washstand in the corner. Set into it was a chipped jug and a round porcelain bowl painted with blue nymphs. Underneath lurked a sinister pink and white flowered pot. Jack it pulled out.
‘Is this for pissing?’
He dangled it upside-down.
‘There is a toilet outside. Do not use that unless you intend to empty it yourself.’
Jack considered this, then looked out the open window – there was not a house or person in sight. He knelt down and unbuttoned his fly. An arc of urine sprayed onto the tangled flowerbeds below.
‘That,’ said Sadie, ‘is neither English nor hygienic.’
He pretended not to hear.
‘There is a small room down the hall that will be perfect for Elizabeth.’
Jack fastened his fly and jumped up, alert with interest, ‘Will she be able to see my course from her window?’
‘Come and look.’
He followed Sadie along the corridor, his elbow brushing the peeling wallpaper, the bare floorboards creaking underfoot, into a room beneath the eaves. A thatched dormer window had a splendid view across the valley below but he surveyed the room critically – it needed to be just right for his Elizabeth.
Sunday afternoons, that was his only regret on leaving London. He used to take Elizabeth to the Lyon’s Corner House on the high street. Every week the ritual was the same: he held the café door open for his daughter, listening happily to the tinkle of the bell. The waitress glanced up as they came in, ‘Your regular table, sir?’
Jack saw in his mind he and Elizabeth being led to their booth by the window with an excellent view of the street. The waitress passed him the menu but he did not open it, instead handing it straight to his daughter. On those Sunday afternoons Jack was silent. He knew that his accent betrayed him, after fifteen years in London he still spoke with the measured tones of a foreigner, so he let Elizabeth talk in her flawless English voice, and answered her in little whispers that could not be overheard. For that hour, they would sit in the window booth, sipping warm, sweetened orange juice and nibbling stale jam roll, and Jack was happy. He would listen with a tear in his eye as Elizabeth chattered about books and of how she dreamt of travelling to America, all the while marvelling that he, a man born in a shabby Berlin suburb, had produced such a creature. The waiters and waitresses, the diners at nearby tables, only heard the voice of the pretty girl and so, Jack believed, he appeared to all of them a genuine Englishman.
Now, standing in the neat bedroom, he tried to work out how many more weeks it was before he could expect Elizabeth’s visit. He gave a tiny sigh – part of him wished that the w
orld had not changed, and that fathers could still keep their daughters with them and forbid holidays in Scotland.
Later that morning, as the Rosenblums drove down the lane towards the village hall, it occurred to Jack that he was slightly unprepared for their expedition to the country. In addition to preparations for the golf course, he might need to install indoor plumbing for his house – this was a nuisance, since he had intended to leave the house entirely to Sadie and devote all his energy to the more important matter of the course. Yet, this inconvenience was not a thought that worried him unduly – he merely acknowledged it and then let it float away. He wished he were alone; while in London he succeeded in passing most days without spending more than fifteen minutes in the company of his wife, today he seemed unable to be rid of her. He knew a good husband would be more sympathetic to her unhappiness, but to his mind a person should want to live, if only out of curiosity. He realised she missed Emil – so did he. There was an Emil-shaped hole in the universe. And Elizabeth would have liked an uncle. With a start Jack realised his daughter was the same age Emil had been when he died. Quickly, he thought of other things.
As he slowed to take the corner by the village hall, a burly man in a stiff wool suit stepped into the road and waved at them, forcing Jack to brake sharply. The man stood in front of the car, looking them up and down with steady interest but saying nothing. He seemed to be waiting for something, and then, clearly losing patience he snapped, ‘Well, Mr Rose-in-Bloom, are yer comin?’
Jack experienced the same confusion as his wife had the day before. It must be the done thing here to know everyone’s name – clearly a local custom. So, not knowing the man before him, Jack felt rather awkward and searched for the suitable English phrase ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Mr …’
‘Jack Basset. But I is jist called Basset. None of yer misters.’
‘Glad to make your acquaintance, erm, Basset.’
Jack offered his hand, which Basset shook slowly before scratching at a tiny shaving nick in his muscular neck. He made no move to get out of the way of the car. Peering round him, Jack noticed a motley crowd gathering in the shade of the hall; the women dressed in floral frocks and wide-brimmed hats and the men sweating uncomfortably in hot, special occasion suits.
Basset waited for a moment and then cleared his throat. ‘Well? Are yer?’
‘Of course.’
Jack had no idea to what Basset referred but did not want to cause further upset so enquired with the utmost politeness, ‘May I ask where the car park is?’
‘Car park? He wants to know where the car park is?’
Basset started to cough with laughter, a button popped off his shirt and a fleshy triangle of hairy stomach poked through. Embarrassed, he straightened and pointed to a field across the road.
‘That there is the car park. Put him in corner. I’ll get gate.’
Jack steered his beloved Jaguar through a flock of nonchalant sheep and parked under a tree, eyeing the animals suspiciously. The Rosenblums allowed Basset to lead them onto the village green, where a battered white marquee was erected in the centre of the grass. Peering inside, Jack glimpsed plump girls selling fat hunks of red meat. Mounds of dark hearts, piles of kidneys and blue-tinged ox tongues lay on steel trays. Beside them rested baskets filled with misshapen vegetables and trays of grey fungus. He saw a table covered in the limp bodies of pheasant, duck and hare; they were skinned and raw, and the pretty girl presiding over them had a tiny smear of blood on her smooth cheek. Leaning up against a bench was a pile of rifles, and he wondered where they had come from – the trade in de-commissioned arms was strictly illegal. A heap of ammunition lay baking in the sun. ‘This is England,’ thought Jack, ‘you can sell anything here, and some poor bugger will buy it.’
Basset ushered them inside the tent, where it reeked of cider and warm bodies. While the women argued over filched rabbits and game, the men drank and, judging by the stench, they had been here a while.
‘This is Mr and Mrs Rose-in-Bloom,’ announced Basset guiding them into the midst of the crowd.
Jack stood quite still and let them all stare, while Sadie took a small step closer to him. A ragged woman viewed them suspiciously, eating the biggest peach he had ever seen; it took him a moment to realise what the round yellow-fleshed fruit was – it had been so many years since he had seen one.
‘Rose-in-Bloom’s a funny name,’ said the woman, ‘sounds English but yoos foreign, ent you?’ There were little pieces of peach flesh smeared round her mouth and caught in her brown teeth.
‘We are British now. We love England. We feel very English,’ Jack declared.
The woman wasn’t to be deterred. ‘Yoos British now. What was you before, then?’
Jack hated this part, the declaration of his otherness.
‘We were born in Berlin. We came to England before the war.’
‘Berlin – that’s in Germany.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’
The ragged woman was not impressed. ‘So, you is a Kraut,’ she corrected herself, ‘you was Kraut. You sounds Kraut.’
‘No. I am a British Citizen.’
‘Why ’ave you come to Pursebury?’
‘To build a golf course.’
This was unexpected.
‘A what?’
‘A golf course.’
Jack was standing in the centre of a growing crowd, where he was proving to be the most popular attraction at the fair – this did not please him, as he was trying his best to be inconspicuous. He never understood how, when he always obeyed the list to the letter, dressing in the uniform of the English gentleman, he was instantly identified as a rank outsider.
‘I shall build the greatest golf course in the South-West.’
The faces in the crowd stared at him dubiously.
‘Everyone in the village shall have membership,’ he announced proudly with a magnanimous wave.
No one seemed especially excited at this prospect and continued to stare.
‘This ent golfing country. It’s skittling country,’ said Basset. ‘Ever played skittles?’ he asked with a note of challenge.
‘No, I haven’t.’ Jack was intrigued – an English game he hadn’t heard about. He was filled with instant enthusiasm.
Seeing this, Basset smirked. ‘I’ll learn you,’ he said and led him away with a glint in his eye.
Choosing not to witness Jack’s latest escapade, Sadie wandered from the tent into the village hall. It was an unusual building; the pitched roof and walls were all made of sage-coloured corrugated iron while inside it was wood-panelled and decked with multicoloured flags. Framed photographs of the Royal family adorned every wall; the pictures of King George all draped in black crepe. A small army of women stood at the back of the hall guarding the tea table. Sadie was used to London where good food was scarce; it wasn’t like anyone went hungry – there was enough to eat – it was just plain. Food had lost its colour; there were drab potatoes, grey meat and tinned vegetables. Spices were a rare luxury and it took all of her skill to make her cooking taste of anything much at all. In contrast, the table in the church hall was a monument to excess and could have been the tableau of ‘gluttony’ in a painting of the Deadly Sins, heaving as it did with sandwiches of rare beef – blood turning the bread red – and baskets of brown speckled eggs, bowls of cream and trays of bright strawberries. She recalled the delicate pastries of the chefs in Berlin – the light folded palmiers and vanilla sugar biscuits – those were fragile pieces of artistry but this English feast was something different. She couldn’t remember food being such lurid colours – the dripping beef and scarlet strawberries looked obscene next to the faded floral patterns on the women’s dresses. She became conscious of someone staring at her, and turned to see a thin woman, hair swept into a severe schoolmistress bun, standing very close.
‘I’m Mrs Lavender Basset. Secretary of the Parish Council fourteen years runnin’ and chairwoman of the Coronation Committee. Will you
be wantin’ some tea?’
Sadie swallowed, shyness making her perspire, and her blouse cling underneath her arms.
‘Thank you. That is very kind. I’m Mrs Sadie—’
Lavender cut her off with a snort, ‘Oh. I knows who you are Mrs Rose-in-Bloom.’
She led Sadie to the front of the hall and filled a plate for her with a fat slice of Victoria sponge oozing with cream, made pinkish by the jam. Sadie didn’t want to eat. The food was too much, and she worried that once she started she’d cram the sponge into her mouth, unable to stop. She always felt self-conscious eating in front of strangers, but Lavender was scrutinising her through owlish spectacles. Glancing around the hall Sadie realised that all the women were waiting, teacups poised on saucers, watching. Feeling a little sick, she took a bite and forced a smile.
In the field beside the hall, Jack was not faring well at skittles. He shook his head in total bemusement. Curtis, a tiny old man, gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder.
‘Nope. Like this, Mister-Rose-in-Bloom.’
Curtis clasped the rock-hard ball, took a run up and then, falling to his knees, slid along the wooden alley on his belly. The ball rolled from his hand and collided with the skittles, knocking them flying in a perfect strike.
Mr Rosenblum's List Page 5