Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman

by Natasha Solomons

  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.

  ‘Now, that there is the Dorset flop. Nothing like the piddling Somerset wump. Much more effective. ’S why we beats them nillywallies every time at t’ Western Skittlin’ championship.’

  ‘Yer turn to try,’ growled Basset and thrust the ball once more into Jack’s damp palm.

  ‘Trick is to let go of the ball at last minute. Got to do it sharpish like. Skittles knocked over with yer noggin doesn’t count, mind,’ added Curtis tapping his head.

  The others grunted in agreement at this sound advice. Jack rubbed the ball against his trouser leg and prepared to bowl again. The rules were beyond him; he knew only that the general aim was to knock down as many as possible and that somehow, whenever it was his turn, the skittles remained resolutely upright on their wooden platform, whilst, when Curtis, Basset or one of the others bowled, the skittles clattered to the ground. Steeling his nerves, he took a deep breath, stepped back a few paces and began his run-up along the grass. Reaching the wood of the skittle shoot, he screwed his eyes shut and threw himself onto his belly, knocking all the wind out his lungs. He slid two yards along the ramp and stopped. Jack opened his eyes, and realised that everyone apart from Curtis was laughing.

  ‘Yer forgot to let go of the ball.’ the old man said sadly. ‘An ersey mistake.’

  ‘Loser ’as to drink,’ said Basset thrusting at Jack a brimming mug of a sweet, apple-scented alcoholic drink.

  As the afternoon wore on, Jack became dimly aware of jeers, of Basset and the other men discarding their jackets, of shirts being unbuttoned and raucous shouts of, ‘Drink, Mr Rose-in-Bloom, drink!’

  His head was really swimming now and the combination of home-brewed cider with hot June sunshine was making his vision cloud. He closed his eyes for a moment and heard a voice mutter, ‘’Ee’s a goner. Skittled. ’Ee’ll be seeing Dorset woolly-pigs soon.’

  There were more snickers and hissing mirth. Then another voice. ‘Dorset woolly-pigs. Them is idiots wot believe that.’

  There was a derisive cry from Curtis, ‘Don’t mock. Yer doesn’t josh about the Dorset woolly-pig. A noble beast of strength and savagery. If yer’d saw one yerself, yer wouldn’t say things.’

  Jack tried to open his eyes and failed.

  Curtis rumbled on in his deep burr, ‘I saw it. More ’an thirty yer ago. But I saw it.’

  Jack struggled and with supreme effort opened his eyes. The sight that greeted them made him think that he was indeed skittled. A tree was standing in front of him: a huge knot of branches covered with leaves and woven with drooping flowers swaying on a pair of stout legs. There seemed to be a man inside, but he was almost entirely hidden by the vast framework of twigs, and perched at an odd angle on top of his head was a misshapen crown of leaves studded with daisies. Unsure if he was in the midst of a dream, Jack closed his eyes again.

  ‘Git moving, you drunken bastard,’ yelled a voice.

  Concerned that he was being addressed, Jack opened one eye to see the tree-man lumber forward. He swayed and staggered across the field where he paused, and then slipped into a ditch. There were shouts, and a rush of children surged towards him, yanked him out and then, clutching the branches, pulled him onwards. A minute later the strange procession disappeared up the hill, the crowd resumed their business, and Jack drifted back into his stupor.

  When he woke up, he realised his legs wouldn’t work. He looked at them, told them to move but they stayed on the ground, splayed out in front of him, immobile. The field was quieter now, the crowd had thinned, and his wife sat on the ground by his feet. She did not look pleased.

  ‘Scold later,’ he murmured.

  She studied him for a moment and then heaved him upright but it was no use and, his legs as weak as a newborn lamb’s, he slid back down.

  ‘Just get me to the car. I can drive us back up the hill.’

  Sadie said nothing and, pursing her lips in profound annoyance, half dragged, half carried her husband to the front of the hall where only the stragglers remained. Together they staggered past Curtis snoring beneath a wooden bench, their feet crunching on snatches of twig and fallen blossoms that had been discarded by the tree-man as he lumbered up the lane. In the distance there were cries and shouts and Jack could smell bonfire smoke. Vicious gnats whined in his ears and tried to bite him as he slipped into crevices and potholes. It was still warm, making his damp shirt mould to his back and, as they reached the shade of the trees, he paused for a moment to rest.

  ‘You go on. I’m going to wait here for a minute,’ he panted and, with a self-sacrificing little wave, slumped to the ground. A moment later, he watched indignant, as Sadie stalked off up the winding lane without a backward look.

  ‘Fine. You just leave me.’

  He wiped his damp forehead with the back of his hand and stared at several cows chewing the cud by the side of the road. There was an unpleasant heavy sensation in his belly and a pulsating pain was building in his temples. Outside the hall lounged a few young men, smoking and idly rolling up the battered tents. A gunshot rang out and Jack winced in pain as the sound pierced his aching skull. Birds rose in a flurry out of the trees and an empty tin bounced along the ground. He frowned – someone had purchased the guns; he did not like men playing with such things – even air rifles and toy pistols disturbed him. A crew of youths reloaded the rifles and stared curiously at Jack as he ambled unsteadily past. He swaggered a little and wished, not for the first time, that he were five inches taller and wearing his Henry Poole suit – the next time he was in London he would purchase another. With relief, he saw that Sadie was waiting for him across the lane.

  ‘This where we parked the car?’

  He pointed to an iron gate and she nodded. Jack heaved at the gate; it was heavy and squealed like a trapped rat. The car’s dark paintwork shone in the afternoon sun and Jack shambled to it, fumbling in his pocket for the key, but sitting in the driver’s seat, eyes shut and chewing happily, was a large woolly sheep. The words burst out of him before he was aware of it. ‘GET OUT! HELP! FIRE! THIEF!’

  The sheep looked at him in surprise, scrambled to its feet and leapt out, clipping the top of the door with its hoof. Swaying slightly, Jack rubbed the door with a corner of his shirt.

  ‘It’s scratched. Mein Gott. Scheiße! Kaputt! It’s scratched.’

  He only lapsed into German at moments of extreme stress, as he prided himself on what he considered to be his great emotional self-control. The boys across the road paused to watch the peculiar little man shout at his car.

  Sadie caught a glimpse of them and gave a wave. ‘Stop being ridiculous. Your beloved car is fine. You’re making a scene.’

  Jack stopped running his hands frantically through his hair, opened the car door and sat down but, just as he was about to swing his legs inside, he realised that a long black face was gazing up at him. He prodded the second sheep.

  ‘You. Out.’

  Reluctantly, it got to its feet and climbed out the car.

  ‘They is not used to such luxury,’ said a voice.

  Jack looked round to see a stocky youth with a lopsided grin standing by the car, toying with an empty cartridge casing.

  ‘Yes, well, no harm done.’ Quickly he recovered his good temper. ‘Jack Rosenblum.’

  He shook the young man’s hand.

  ‘Max Coffin,’ said the boy.

  Jack thought for a moment through the apple haze in his head.

  ‘What do you do, Max?’

  ‘Work at farm.’

  ‘How would you like to earn some extra cash?’

  Max flexed his arms awkwardly. ‘Always want extra cash.’

  Jack liked this bit and felt his mind sharpen, and the sense of bleary sickness subside. He owned the biggest carpet factory in North London and there wasn’t a
house in the whole of Hampstead Garden Suburb that wasn’t fitted with a Rosenblum peach, peppermint or lavender plush pile carpet. He was good at striking a bargain – pay what you have to and then add a little bit extra so that the men really want to work that bit extra for you.

  ‘What do they pay you at the farm?’

  ‘Three pound a week.’

  Jack paused for effect; this was part of the process – the boy needed to feel that this was a real negotiation and he was being taken seriously.

  ‘I am creating the greatest golf course in the entire South of England and I’m going to offer you the opportunity to share in that triumph.’

  The lad stared at him blankly.

  ‘Come and work for me,’ Jack explained with an expansive smile. ‘I’ll pay you and your friends,’ he gestured to the young men folding away tables outside the village hall, ‘Three pound ten a week.’

  Max’s eyes widened for a second and then he scrutinised his fingernails, trying to appear indifferent. Tactfully, Jack pretended not to notice his surprise. ‘Go and discuss it with the lads.’

  Jack watched Max saunter back to the village hall. The lads huddled in animated discussion.

  ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ Sadie asked, concerned.

  ‘Of course.’

  Max returned, hands in his pockets, clearly relishing his sudden elevation to negotiator and spokesman.

  ‘Five of us wants to help.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Jack, ‘The course will be the jewel of England.’

  ‘But we wants three pounds twelve.’ Edgy and uncertain, he glanced back at the group of boys.

  Jack whistled and Max looked stricken, as though he knew he shouldn’t have pushed it. Jack thought for a moment, watching as the boys reloaded a rifle and lined up another row of bully-beef tins.

  ‘I tell you what. If you promise to throw those guns in the river, it’s a deal.’

  ‘A’right,’ said Max.

  Jack shook the young man’s hand and studied him for a moment before he returned to the others.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ Sadie’s voice brimmed with irritation. ‘Always interfering.’

  ‘And you’re always complaining. All is well, my darling. It has started. They will help us build our golf course.’

  ‘Your golf course.’

  ‘I am sure they can help on the house once the course is underway. These boys today are remarkable. Turn their hand to anything.’

  They climbed into the car and he started the engine. Sadie surreptitiously knocked a shiny, round sheep turd off her seat. Hearing the car fire up, Max leapt into action and swung open the gate.

  ‘Goodbye. I shall see you on Monday!’ Jack said with a wave.

  He drove the car at walking pace. The sky was a bold, unbroken blue and the buttercups in the hedgerows glowed yellow. The dandelion clocks sent seed parachutes flying on the breeze and into the car where they tickled his cheek. They passed a row of ancient dwellings with sagging roofs and untidy gardens filled with blue forget-me-nots and tall lupins in purple or yellow. Bumblebees filed in and out of nodding foxgloves. Jack briefly closed his eyes – this evening sunshine felt different from the close heat of London. In the city he felt the grime cling to his skin while this felt clean, as though the sunshine was warming him inside like a generous bowl of curried mutton stew.

  Sadie spent the next day scrubbing the house. The same light blue feathers littered every room and white bird excrement had sprayed the flagstone floors and spoilt the walls. She wondered about the people who lived here before. The house had been deserted for years, save for the birds and mice that she could hear scratching at beams in the attic. She did not know from whom they had bought the place but she liked not knowing. It made the house belong more to her; the only history that mattered now was theirs. ‘I don’t have space for other people’s memories,’ she murmured as she crouched in her petticoat and washed away the dirt and the recent past, the years of neglect.

  Jack sat in the sunshine listening to the birds. The sound came from every tree and bush, filling the air with a constant high-pitched chatter. He thumbed through a battered copy of the ‘1951 Golf Year Book’ scouring the advertisements for tools and brands of fertiliser. There were captions proclaiming the virtues of ‘Dorman Simplex Junior Pneumatic Sprayer’ and telling him to ‘Obtain The Finest Turf Of All From Sutton’s Grass Seeds – They Ensure Success!’ He wondered whether he ought to buy some for his greens – he didn’t want the grass to grow either too long or too coarse, it had to be just right.

  Lost in this pleasant reverie, he started when the gate clattered loudly and half a dozen men stomped along the driveway. He recognised them from skittles but now they were unsmiling and had changed into stout leather boots. They were all big men, broad shouldered and bull-like. He glimpsed a flash of steel studs on the bottom of the boots as they marched across the gravel. Trying not to be alarmed, Jack strolled through the garden to greet them, just as Basset began to hammer furiously on the ancient front door.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ Basset shouted, jabbing a finger accusingly at Jack who stood there whitely on the porch, dropping his golfing annual in shock.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘That’s right. You should beg my bloody pardon. The lads won’t work now. Not less I give ’em another fifteen bob a week which I ent got. So what am I going to do? Watch my harvest rot in them shittin’ fields?’

  Basset paused for breath. He flushed with anger and struggled to articulate the words through his rage.

  ‘This man ’as thieved my boys. For ’is feckin’ golfin’ course.’

  Flecks of spittle caught in the corners of his mouth.

  Jack shuddered; he was not used to this kind of unbridled rage. There was something feral about Basset’s fury and he made no attempt to disguise his contempt for the neat Mr Rosenblum and his pristine shirt. Jack surveyed the orgy of enraged faces and heard their muttered curses.

  Sadie watched from the kitchen, lurking out of sight – this was Jack’s mess. She wanted to disappear, to dissolve into nothingness or to fly away and leave behind only a pile of feathers. She gave a tiny laugh; perhaps that was what happened to the last residents of the house.

  For a brief moment, even Jack wanted to go back to London, and thought with a pang of his friend Edgar and their evenings together playing backgammon. In fifty years of friendship, Edgar had never once shouted at him and, God knew, he sometimes deserved it. At that moment, Jack decided this golf course was for Edgar and for everyone who had been banned from the other courses. Basset would not stop him from obtaining the last item on his list; he must be resolute. He stared at the man swollen with anger before him, and concentrated on the little wiry hairs sprouting from his nose and ears, the green eyes and the thinning blond hair. Basset exuded self-assurance; he was the leader of this tiny piece of England. From his muddy boots to his red-veined nose Jack Basset was an Englishman. And Jack Rosenblum wanted to be part of his village – he was going nowhere.

  Jack swore to Basset that he wouldn’t lure away the farm boys with promises of riches until after the harvest was in. The farmer grunted a grudging assent, and led his friends away. Retreating into his study, Jack poured himself a medicinal whisky, and breathed a heavy sigh. It was June and, according to the leather-bound copy of the Encyclopædia Britannica, the boys would be busy until late September. Jack was sorely disappointed; the coronation of the new Queen was set for the following June and he was resolved on having the finishing touches completed well before then. He would invite a selection of gentlemen – Mr Austen as well as Edgar Herzfeld – to partake in a small tournament dedicated to Her Majesty. He could already see the gleaming silver cup laid out on a long table covered with a white cloth and piled high with bottles of champagne, trays of sandwiches, pickles and poached salmon. If the men only began in October, they would barely have started the course before winter arrived, and he knew from reading Tom Morris that new grass had to b
e planted in mild weather, for when the ground froze they could do nothing at all. At present, the fields were full of meadow flowers and long grass and it would need a great deal of mowing to transform them into greens like those at St Andrews.

  Jack made a decision and, needing someone to announce it to, walked into the kitchen where Sadie was carefully flouring her hands. Throwing open the door with a bang, he cleared his throat.

  ‘I am going to build the course by myself.’

  Sadie looked at him in wonder, eyebrows knitting together in doubt but Jack met her pessimism with drama and held his arms aloft.

  ‘With these two hands I shall dig my way to victory!’

  Sadie shook her head in contempt and brushed her fingers through her hair leaving two white streaks of flour like badger stripes.

  ‘My mother warned me that craziness ran in your family. I should have listened but no, I was young and foolish and easily impressed by your red bicycle and your thick hair.’

  She gave a rueful cry and turned her back on her husband. He waited, disappointed by her unsatisfactory response and then retreated in silence.

  Over the next month, his study metamorphosed into a labyrinth of plans, maps, drawings and letters. He joined Stourcastle library and ordered every title on golf that he could find. They lay stacked in tottering piles across the floor, partly submerged by detailed drawings of various Scottish, English and American courses. He was captivated by Bobby Jones’s account of the transformation at Augusta. There were botanical sketches of the flowers he had used and detailed layouts of the planting and water features. Jack wondered if he could divert a river too – perhaps dam the Stour and make it flow over Bulbarrow and across his course; it looked so beautiful in the pictures and, according to Bobby Jones, it was not difficult.

  Jack decided that the course at Augusta was man’s perfection of nature. Jones was an omnipotent magician; at his command woods vanished, hills subsided and valleys rose. Even those who preferred the ancient links had to concede that Bobby Jones had transformed Augusta into an Arcadian paradise. A canvas of verdant green provided the background, like the painted backdrop of an Old Master, and into this was woven a thread of glittering streams filling large pools, which reflected the wide-open blue of the sky. Then there was the miraculous marriage of water and scented azaleas and dogwoods – reds, pinks and gold – sparkling in the mirror ponds so that Jack could smell the fragrance rising off the photographs. There was a vista from every rise – a glimpse of a trickling stream surrounded by blooming camellias, or the curve of a yellow bunker echoed in the angle of a lake. Such perfection was designed to give the spectator a sense of profound satisfaction; Capability Brown would have been proud to inspire such a pupil. Nothing was out of place; every blade of grass was considered, the shade and texture of the greens and the gradient of each hillock the result of meticulous planning and planting. This was living art; man creating beauty in flowers, water, earth and sky. No sculpture or drawing could be considered more daring. The gardens of Babylon or Bobli were no greater than these.