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

by Natasha Solomons

  Suddenly, he swayed on his feet, his eyes closed and he fell fast asleep. A little snore rumbled forth from his throat and he snapped awake in surprise. ‘Here. The hole will go here.’ He plunged a stout stick into a random spot declaring, ‘I shall decide by instinct.’

  Instantly the stick hit a rock, so he shifted it a little to the left where it sank into the wet earth with ease. ‘Clearly, this is the right spot.’

  He slid the hole cutter into the ground and hammered it in with a piece of wood. Heaving and puffing, he hauled it out to leave behind a neat, round hole, a foot deep and perfect.

  ‘Now for the cup.’

  He fished an old soup tin out of his pocket, parcelled in newspaper and preserved especially for this purpose. He unwrapped it and rinsed it out in the stream, the last flecks of beef consommé trickling away. Gingerly, avoiding the jagged edges of the tin, he slid it into the hole. Finally, it was ready – this was the part he had been waiting months for. As he picked up the black-painted pole with its neat blue and white chequered flag and slotted it into the hole, he felt a twinge of regret that Sadie was not here to watch his first triumph. There was a time when they were friends. He would have liked this moment better if his Sadie and Elizabeth were here.

  The bright squares on the flag glowed whitely in the darkness and fluttered in a tiny breeze. Jack stood back and admired his handiwork. Eventually, after all his effort, the first hole was finished. He had felt a similar sense of achievement when his factory produced its first roll of carpet, but this he had done with his own hands. No man would help him and so he had laboured like Samson night and day (and golf courses were much more useful than temples). ‘One hole made – only seventeen to go.’

  He felt slightly dizzy at this thought and craved sleep. In the morning, he would drink ginger beer for breakfast to celebrate and then he would play his very first hole. He’d had a case sent down from Fortnum’s, and he wondered how he could persuade Sadie to join him. To have his wife toast his success with a ginger beer, and then walk round the course with him (shaded by a white parasol and marvelling at his every shot) would be very pleasant. In London he could sometimes buy her goodwill with a box of glazed honey cakes from one of the bakeries in Golders Green or a print scarf from Liberty’s, but while he sensed that she was different here, he had no notion of how to curry favour.

  He hoped Sadie would be impressed by the brilliance of his swing. After all this time and painful hard work, he still had not played any golf – he was determined to wait until the first hole was ready and to try his swing on a proper course. He’d tee off tomorrow morning. He glanced at his watch and hesitated; tomorrow was already here – it was two o’clock in the morning. Should he take out his clubs and try a shot in the dark? No, he decided. He’d waited this long. He would play a hole properly, like a gentleman – after breakfast.

  He staggered back up the ridge to the house, so tired that he felt as if both legs had turned to lumps of clay. He paused on the edge of the garden and gazed down to the opening hole, where the flag waved as though in acknowledgement. Reaching the house, he climbed the stairs and, only removing his mud-caked shoes, slumped into bed next to his sleeping wife. He tucked himself in beside her and stroked her rigid back. ‘I know you are not pleased now, but you will be,’ he whispered. ‘This is for both of us. Wait until the course is full with people and then you’ll feel better. You’ll see.’

  He kissed the nape of her neck, something he would never dare to do when she was awake. As he went to sleep, he saw himself teeing off and hitting a ball high up into the far reaches of the sky, where it became a shooting star and disappeared into the black night.

  Jack woke late to the sound of bells; it was nearly twelve o’clock. The room was empty and he could hear Sadie in the kitchen. He waited until it was silent, signalling she was in the garden, and then traipsed into the bathroom to wash. He helped himself to one of the new fluffy towels sent from London and, hesitating before using Sadie’s Parisian soap, he strolled naked onto the landing.

  ‘Can I use your good soap?’

  There was no response, which he took for ascent and liberally doused himself in lily of the valley. He cleaned himself carefully, washing the last crusts of dirt from his ears and hair and took a brush to his fingernails. He had been somewhat careless of his appearance the last few weeks but this morning, for his hole of golf, he needed to be pristine. He whipped up a lather and shaved meticulously, then took the scissors and comb from the bathroom cabinet and trimmed the hair protruding from his nostrils. He dabbed cologne behind his ears and on the top of his head, and scrupulously scrubbed his teeth with peppermint powder.

  Clean and sweetly scented, he padded along the landing to the bedroom. Hanging in the wardrobe, wrapped in tissue paper, was his new suit. It was a green and yellow golfing tweed with plus fours, a matching cap and canary coloured socks. He pulled it on, humming cheerfully to himself, and scrutinised his reflection in the long mirror. He looked just right, a proper golfer. Once it was a little more lived in it would be perfect. He laced up his brown leather studs and clattered down to the kitchen leaving small holes in the wooden tread of every stair. The case of ginger beer was set out in readiness and Sadie had left some bread and fruit on the table. He cracked open a bottle and took a gulp; it was fiery and made him hiccup.

  ‘Well, is today the day?’ demanded Sadie coming into the kitchen.

  Unable to speak, Jack nodded.

  ‘Do you know what to do?’

  Jack scrambled to his feet in excitement at her interest, wiping sticky ginger beer from his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘I’ve been reading all about the perfect golf swing. First there is the grip, the Vardon grip.’

  He grabbed a saucepan from the countertop and clasped it in both hands to demonstrate.

  ‘It’s all about power. You need to place your hands in a neutral position so as to deliver the force flush to the back of the ball and send it whooshing down the fairway!’

  He swung the saucepan through the air and knocked a chair flying. Sadie frowned unimpressed, but Jack’s torrent of enthusiasm now unleashed, could not be stopped.

  ‘Do you remember – we saw a reel of Bobby Jones at the Masters?’

  Sadie wrinkled her forehead. ‘Yes, I think so. It was at the front of a Veronica Lake picture.’

  Jack barely recalled the film – some tedious weepy that Sadie had wanted to see – but the newsreel footage of Bobby Jones was something else. He had gone five times just to watch that swing: the elegant poise, feet shoulder width apart, elbows tightly in, head still, left arm straight, wrists cocked and then the sheer force; hips pivoting, as the club sweeps down in a perfect symphony of coordination with muscles, joints and mind all working together.

  ‘Bobby Jones’s swing – that’s as close as a man can get to magic.’ He shook his head, awed by the thought of his hero. ‘I mean, I realise that mine won’t be like that, not at first. I’ll need to practise.’

  Sadie considered him curiously but he did not notice, already lost in reverie.

  ‘I have a course of my own, well, a hole, to learn upon. Maybe in a year or two, I can enter the British Open as a gentleman amateur, like Bobby Jones.’

  Sadie stared at him, and wondered if she should knock sense into him or pity him.

  Jack, unable to read the thoughts of his wife, was once again overwhelmed with the unfamiliar sensation of desiring her company. At that moment, there was nothing he wanted more than Sadie to share in his triumph. He felt almost shy, a bashful suitor once again.

  ‘Will you walk round with me? Watch my first shot, mein Spatz?’

  She did not turn round, merely dismissed him with a tiny shake of her head.

  Jack retreated to the barn to collect his clubs. He would have liked her to accompany him but, he reasoned, perhaps it was for the best, just in case he wasn’t a natural – he didn’t want her to be disappointed in him. His clubs were propped in a corner, carefully wr
apped in two old blankets to protect them from cold and draughts. With the tenderness of a new father, he peeled off the layers and hoisted them gently over his shoulder. All the exercise had made him stronger; he had lost the hint of fat around his middle and had small muscles on his arms and legs, but still the bag of clubs felt heavy. Smiling broadly in the morning sunshine, he walked down to the field. Everything was leading up to this moment; the orange lilies in the flowerbeds had burst into bloom that morning especially for him. Tiny white butterflies floated before him like a guard of honour. How many Englishmen could say that they had played their first hole on their very own golf course?

  He paused on the rise leading down to the first tee, closing his eyes in the warm sunshine, and felt tingles of happiness. In a few days Elizabeth would come to visit and he would stand on this spot and show her the golf course. He was proud of his daughter, and he wanted her to be proud of something he had achieved. The dirty factory with its noisy machinery was a place she avoided, but this was different. She would look at the hole he had dug and the land he had heaved, and she would realise that her father was a man with vision. Finally, with his golf course, he really would be somebody; the kind of man a daughter could admire. He would drive her to Cambridge and they would talk about the magnificence of his achievement.

  With a grunt he picked up his clubs and, as a shaft of sunlight illuminated the tee, he jiggled from foot to foot in cheerful anticipation. The next moment he stopped dead. ‘No. No. It can’t be true.’

  He blinked and rubbed his eyes, certain that he was not seeing right but, as he looked, he realised with a tightening of his stomach that it was true. His beautiful new grass had been torn up in great chunks; deep gouges ripped up the fragile green and the turf was yanked back. Massive holes were furrowed across the rough and the fairway, some several feet across. The molehills had been wrenched up and scattered, and a vast pile of twenty or more lay mouldering in a heap on the middle of the green. For a whole minute he stood paralysed with horror, staring at the waste of all his toils, as the dismal Romans once surveyed the wreckage of their sacked city. Then, dropping his clubs he ran up to the ruins, tripped and fell. He heard something crack underneath him and for a horrible moment was sure it was a bone in his leg but feeling no pain he eased himself up. On the ground lay his flagpole snapped in two, its chequered flag torn and spattered with mud. A shout of rage snarled from him like the war cry of some wild beast.

  ‘Bastards! Jew haters!’

  His brand new trousers and dapper jacket were smeared in filth and stained with grass. He was heartbroken. How could they do this to him? What had he done to so offend them? In that moment, his vision of standing on the ridge with Elizabeth faded away; he was destined to remain a nobody.

  Despair rolled over him in dark waves. It would take months to repair the damage, if it were even possible. The course would never be finished before the coronation. And what next? He could repair the spoilt hole, nurture the greens, smooth the land, water the grasses, only to have them destroy it all again? But who? In his mind there was no doubt: Jack Basset. He fixed all his fury and hatred upon him. So English, so self-assured, he would surely take pleasure in the misery of a foreign Yid. He would find him and show him the misery he had inflicted. The only question was where to find the … the … Here Jack faltered, trying to think of a word strong enough to convey his wrath. English failed him, ‘Jack Basset ist ein Schweinehund! Pig-dog bastard!’

  He wondered what day it was – he had lost all track of time during the past weeks. Sadie had ceased to scold him for working on Shabbas, which after they had left the city had been his only method of counting time. At first, every Saturday morning as he rose early to fetch his spade and start digging, Sadie would plead with him not to work. Then, the supplicating tone gave way to reproach and finally to silence. Now, there was no marker to inform him which day was which and consequently the weeks seeped seamlessly into one another.

  He stood motionless and listened: the air was still. He climbed upon the mound of molehills in the centre of his green; all was quiet save for the chattering of the skylarks and the wind in the leaves. He peered into the distance – there was no one in sight. From the hill above came the peal of bells. Sunday? It must be Sunday and that meant Basset would be in the pub. They all went there after church – Jack had seen them on previous Sundays walking down the lane in their best clothes, talking and laughing.

  His cheeks flushing with anger, he made his way across the fields towards The Crown. It was only as he crossed the stream that fury gave way to worry. All he wanted was to be one of them and, failing that, to be ignored. He did not want trouble – that was dangerous. If only he’d got to play a hole and try out his swing, then perhaps he could have forgiven them. All that work and not a single shot – it was too much to stomach.

  He gave a sigh, rage subsiding into unhappiness. Above him the humped back of Bulbarrow Ridge lay like a sleeping giant beneath the sky. In the distance was the ringed hill fort of Hambledon; the Iron Age earth walls made deep cuts into the side of the hill, its outline jagged and roughly hewn like a badly thrown pot. The woodlands were a series of dark green shadows on the hillsides and he stared at them, wondering what forgotten beasts lay hidden in their depths.

  When he reached The Crown it was teeming with people. He recognised several of the faces by the bar. A man with whiskers and wearing a patched blue suit with too short trousers gave him a wave and raised his glass. Jack felt himself redden as all the heads turned to stare, before returning to their conversations and their pints. He watched the wall of men slouching on bar stools or leaning against the counter, their backs to a vast inglenook fireplace decorated with brass bits, stirrups and a massive yoke.

  He wondered what he should do next; he had the feeling that they were expecting him and he did not have a plan. Now he was here, the urge to shout at Jack Basset and threaten worldly violence upon his household did not seem the best way forward. He found Basset in the gloom of the pub. He was a large, tall man and, despite the protruding belly, there was the hint of power in those shoulders. For a second Jack found himself wondering whether Basset would have a fine golfer’s swing.

  Jack had good bar presence; he was neither tall nor aggressive but with a forced smile he was the next to be served and put a crown down on the bar. ‘I’d like to buy all these gentlemen a drink.’

  The elderly barman grunted – he wasn’t used to this. ‘Please yerself.’

  ‘They won’t want a drink?’

  There was a shout of objection from Basset. ‘What you sayin’, Stan Burns? When ’ave we ever turned down free booze?’

  There were snorts of laughter and poor Stan began topping up pint glasses along the bar. Basset clapped his arm around Jack and pulled him into a corner where a group of men were huddled. ‘Move y’re arse, Curtis,’ growled the farmer to the tiny, unsteady man of indeterminable old age, swaying dangerously on his bar stool.

  ‘No, please. I prefer to stand,’ objected Jack.

  The men were the same bunch who had trounced him at skittles. He half wondered whether he ought to buy a skittle set and make an alley in his barn, so that he could practise and then thrash them all.

  Basset slapped Jack on the back, making him stagger forward. ‘A toassst. A toast to our new friend Meester Jack Rose-in-bloom.’

  The men raised their mugs and drank to the bottom. Jack tilted his and took a small sip, all the while watching the others.

  ‘We seen what happened to your land and offers our condo-lin-ses,’ Basset slurred through his pint of bitter.

  Jack felt the hair on his neck prickle and tried to edge away from him. ‘So you admit it then? You ruined it all? All this spite from such a big man. I thought only women and girls did such things.’ Angry again, he spluttered carelessly.

  ‘Now, now, easy. Some might git offence at that,’ warned Basset.

  ‘We ent guilty. Twasn’t us,’ confided the man in the patched suit.

 
; Jack snorted derisively.

  ‘It was the—’ started the man.

  ‘Hush, Ed.’ Basset took a step closer and placed a thick arm around Jack, who with a wince wondered how he could extricate himself.

  ‘I think it is time to tell our new friend our secret,’ Basset said in a stage whisper.

  The men gathered closer as though they didn’t want to be overheard and Curtis gave a loud hiccup and slid off his bar stool. Standing, he barely reached Jack’s shoulder. Jabbing a finger at Basset he hissed, ‘Don’t ee start that. Leave the man alone. What’s ee done to yoos?’

  He was instantly hushed by the others and Basset leant in so close that Jack could smell the beer on his breath and see the yellowish whites of his eyes. ‘I is about to tell you that which ’as never been shared with no stranger. The …’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘Legend. Of. The. Dorset. Woolly. Pig.’

  Jack took another sip of beer and suppressed a shudder. He detested beer, especially bitter – much preferred whisky – but it was important to blend in. He should have stayed at home, had a good rest and started to rebuild in the morning. Eventually they would grow tired of destroying his course. A man on his left, in a pair of dirty overalls, added sagely, ‘Aye. Tis a big honour. Yer hearin’ this legend. It’s only Dorset folk what have seen it.’

  ‘Yes, tis Alf. This tis a first,’ said Basset.

  Jack thought he had better go along with the game. ‘What is a Dorset woolly-pig?’

  Basset gave an elusive smile. ‘The Dorset woolly-pig is a beast only found in the heart of the Blackmore Vale. Only true-hearted Dorset men ’ave ever seen ’im and then only rarely. ’Ee is a majestic beast of unusual savagery. Could eat a small child if he wanted. ’Ee ’as the snout of a pig, tusks of a great wild boar an’ the fleece of a ram an’ can only be killed with an arrow of pure gold.’