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

by Natasha Solomons

  Next she picked out a white linen towel, stiff with starch and with an embroidered rose in the right-hand corner. It was neatly ironed into folds and wrapped in tissue paper. Mutti had given it to her when she left for England, insistent that a lady always needed a clean towel. Sadie must be able to wash, be clean and nicely groomed; it showed one’s respect for the adoptive country. English people were always clean and tidy and she needed to be the same (it was one of the few items on Jack’s list that she agreed with). Sadie never could bring herself to use the towel and it remained pristine in the neat folds of her mother’s ironing, still smelling of lavender soap and starch.

  Sadie sighed and wondered whether she ought go back to bed but knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Murmurs were coming from Jack in the study – he was so tired from digging, from trying to become one of them. She went to the window and gazed out across the night-time garden; it was growing bare now – the late summer flowers were dying and the ground cover crept back to expose the cold brown soil. Soon it would be winter and she would tuck up the plants in armfuls of straw and wait for spring. The flora would return, undamaged by death and a sojourn underneath the earth. She inhaled deeply, and breathed in the cinnamon perfume of her favourite rose.

  Playing in the woods surrounding the Bavarian cabin, Sadie and Emil had discovered a baby vole underneath a dog rose. The vole was tiny, smaller than her pinkie, and almost hairless. She scooped it up in her pinafore, and laid it in a cardboard box, which they lined with handfuls of dry grass. They fed it with boiled cow’s milk through a pipette borrowed from Emil’s chemistry set. Sadie picked a flower from the dog rose, to place in its bed so the vole wouldn’t be homesick, and Emil laid the box beside the stove. It died anyway. They held a little ceremony, Emil wearing Papa’s tallis and Yarmulke and reciting from Grandpa Landau’s prayer book, while Sadie read the dormouse passage from Alice in Wonderland (they didn’t know any stories about voles and hoped the vole-ghost would understand). Finally they wrapped the tiny corpse in a napkin and buried it beneath the dog rose.

  In her Dorset garden, Sadie thought of Emil and Mutti and Papa and school holidays, while she breathed the scent of the flowers and let the weeds flourish. She removed the last item from the box: Mutti’s cookery book. She had not touched it since the day she glimpsed Mutti in the pond. Opening the worn pages, she noticed cooking spatters from long ago and imagined Mutti bustling in her Berlin kitchen, pans bubbling. Once, Sadie tried writing down her memories, attempting to preserve them in a nice book to pass on to her daughter but it did not work. The meaning kept disappearing in the spaces between the words, and her story as written was never quite how she remembered it. Now Sadie wondered whether it would be better for her to cook her way home to them. Perhaps she would find them in the smell of slowly simmering cholent or cinnamon rugula.

  Sadie’s mother was a great cook and had ordered her life entirely round meals, keeping time via the contents of her larder. Mutti knew it was tomorrow when the big loaf of bread she baked yesterday was going hard. It was summer when Sadie brought her the first plate of rose petals ready to be iced in order to bejewel her lemon rose cake and autumn was gooseberry fool, or a big round summer pudding, oozing with blackberries, strawberries and the last of the blackcurrants. For Mutti there were no hours of the day, only meals: breakfast, lunch, tea and supper. Things were either before breakfast, after lunch or between tea and supper. A time like three o’clock meant nothing – it was instead that space shortly before apple strudel and freshly boiled peppermint tea. Then there were the recipes themselves that fitted into neat categories: the conventional ones like ‘dishes so that you can tell it is summer’, ‘meals for times that are cold and wintry’, but there were others like ‘biscuits for when one is sad’, or ‘buns for heartbreak’.

  Sadie stroked the battered volume. The spine was coming away and the cloth cover loose, and she glanced through the index, neatly inscribed in her mother’s curling hand and smudged with mixtures from a hundred mealtimes, until she found the one she wanted: ‘Baumtorte’ – part of a category called ‘cakes to help you remember’. Unlike Jack, Sadie preferred German to English because she liked the literal meanings of the words; they were put together like tidy building blocks and felt good in her mouth as she said them. ‘Baumtorte’ was a good word, meaning tree (Baum) cake (Torte), since it is made of layers like the rings of a tree. Sadie, like her mother and grandmother before her, had baked a Baumtorte whenever she needed to remember. She’d baked a cake after Jack kissed her for the first time that December night, another when he proposed (in a noisy train carriage on the way back from Frankfurt, so that she couldn’t hear him and he had to repeat himself), another when they were stripped of German citizenship and one more after Elizabeth was born. She made the last one with Mutti on the day they received their exit visas. They’d asked for six (Jack, Sadie, Elizabeth, Mutti, Papa and Emil) but there were only three. They hadn’t cried – they’d baked a Baumtorte.

  Sadie read out the recipe, ‘Whip together a batter made of eggs, the right amount of sugar, sufficient flour and the perfect quantity of vanilla’.

  The quantities were never more precise than that – she had to know the correct amount in her heart before she began. ‘Oil a tin and heat up the grill, spread a thin layer over the bottom of the pan and grill until it is done.’

  More and more layers would be ladled on and then grilled until the side of the cake looked like the rings of a tree. Sadie first baked the cake as a young girl. It had been thin as there were not so many memories to record in the layers. She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall – nearly one o’clock – time to bake another Baumtorte. She would bake a layer for everyone she needed to remember.

  She went into her larder and counted out three-dozen eggs from a large metal basket dangling on an iron nail. She had started to keep chickens as their shit was good for her beloved plants; they were as good layers as they were shitters and, having no friends to give the eggs to, she stored them in the cool of her larder.

  ‘A vanilla pod.’

  She had just one and it had travelled with her all the way from London. She bought it in the days before the war and kept it all those years and, upon giving it a sniff, happily discovered that it had not lost its scent. A mountain of butter given to her by Curtis rested under a tea cloth; she did not ask whose cows it had come from. There was a sack of flour from the mill and a large enamel flask filled with milk, which would be useful if she needed to loosen the batter – all she wanted now was a basin big enough to mix the ingredients. None of the kitchen pots was sufficiently large and then she remembered the tin bath that was in the house when they first arrived; she would give that a good wash.

  Still clad in her pink floral dressing gown, she began to whip up the batter. She did not weigh any of the ingredients, trusting her instincts. She mixed them in the echoing bath; at first she used a wooden spoon but finding it too small, she carefully washed her feet with soap, dried them on a clean towel, hitched up her dressing gown and climbed into the bath to stir the batter with her feet. She found the widest cake tins in the cupboard and put layer after layer of the oozing mixture under the grill, and when each tin was completely full, carefully removed the cake inside and smothered it in a layer of sharp lemon icing. Each cake was placed on top of another and then another until, when dawn came, there was a cake towering many feet high with a thousand layers of rings; every layer holding a memory.

  Sadie fell asleep on the kitchen floor, still holding her spatula. When Jack rose half an hour later, he did not see her lying hidden in the shadow of the kitchen range; helping himself to a glass of milk, he disappeared into the field to carry on digging. While Sadie slept, the smell from her baking drifted out into the lane where several women from the village were walking. Jack was not the only person in the village counting down the days until the coronation; the women had formed a Coronation Committee and were busy pinning posters to trees along the lane, when the scent of bak
ing overwhelmed them. It had a strange smell, not merely dough or sugar but the fragrance of unbearable sadness.

  ‘We should ask Mrs Rose-in-bloom to join us,’ murmured Lavender. She had not thought of the plump women with the German accent since the day of the fair, but knew somehow that the baking was hers. ‘We always need good bakers.’

  The women followed the smell along the driveway leading to Chantry Orchard, like several middle-aged Gretels searching for the gingerbread house in the wood. The kitchen door was open, and they saw Sadie stretched out on the floor, still fast asleep. On the table above her stood the Baumtorte. It was as tall as Curtis, and the women stared, uncertain.

  ‘Should we wake her?’ asked Myrtle Hinton, a portly woman with greying hair, tied back with a scrap of yellow ribbon.

  ‘Well, we can’t be leaving her sleeping ’ere. Poor soul will catch cold,’ tutted Lavender. She wondered what could make a middle-aged woman bake through the night and sleep on a stone floor. Mrs Hinton napped on the barn floor when her sow was a piggin’ – but that was different.

  Mrs Hinton gently shook Sadie awake, ‘Mrs Rose-in-bloom?’

  Sadie opened her eyes, alarmed to find her kitchen full of women.

  ‘We are the Coronation Committee. Would you join us for a meetin’ in the village hall?’ asked Lavender primly.

  Bleary eyed, Sadie nodded. ‘I must dress.’

  ‘No, dear. It’s only us. Put on a housecoat.’

  Sadie shrugged and buttoned up her dressing gown. She glanced at the Baumtorte – it was a thing of magnificence; she had used the juice of three precious lemons for the icing. If it were a tree, it would be hundreds of years old – a cake like this should be shared.

  ‘Help me carry the Baumtorte,’ she said.

  As though part of a stately parade, the women filed to the village hall. Several others were already waiting for them, busily setting out chairs and handing round sheets of paper, but they all paused to watch the procession of the Baumtorte. They placed it on a table at the front of the hall while they discussed the day’s business. Lavender chaired the meeting with unquestioned authority. Sadie tried to feign polite interest – it was all very pleasant but she wondered what these things had to do with her. Lavender cleared her throat and opened an envelope.

  ‘Now, I’ve been requestin’ suggestions from all residents. I have only had a few suggestions, and only one that I am able to read in polite company. It is from Mr Jack Rose-in-Bloom. He wishes to propose a game of golf to be played at ’is new course in honour of Her Majesty.’

  Sadie looked up in astonishment; Jack had not confided his plans to her. Lavender appealed to her but Sadie shook her head, embarrassed.

  ‘I know nothing at all. My husband tells me nothing.’

  Lavender smiled – Mr Basset never told her anything either. It seemed men were all the same – English or foreign. ‘Well, if there are no objections, perhaps Mrs Rose-in-Bloom would be good enough to tell Mr Rose-in-Bloom that the Coronation Committee approves the match.’

  It was time for tea and Sadie went to her Baumtorte, which rested on a makeshift table, bowing under its weight. She cut slices for each of them with a huge knife – the thinnest that she could manage. The women ate, and it was the most remarkable cake that they had ever tasted. It was sweet and perfectly moist with a hint of lemon but, as her mouth filled with deliciousness, each woman was overwhelmed with sadness. Each tasted Sadie’s memories, her loss and unhappiness and whilst they ate, Sadie was, for once, not alone in her sorrow.

  Jack was too preoccupied with his golf course to notice the unusual behaviour of his wife. Parading towering cakes through the village on a Wednesday afternoon while wearing rose-patterned slippers was not blending in, but Jack was driven by his obsession and was therefore spared the bother of being embarrassed.

  Jack and Curtis restored the opening hole on the golf course; it was more battered than before and the grass still needed time to recover, but the damage had been repaired. Jack checked the post each day for a letter from Bobby Jones, eager to hear from his hero. There was none, just an ever-growing pile of anxious letters from Fielding at the factory.

  Dear Mr Rosenblum,

  I have nothing good to report. I’m very concerned about the looms. The machines are getting old and finicky (much like my missus, if I’m allowed my little joke). Soon one is going to break down beyond repair. The emergency funds are almost empty – please wire more cash.

  When are you coming back?

  Yours truly,

  George Fielding

  Jack did not reply. He was reluctant to wire money to the factory – he needed every farthing for the course. Surely the looms would be fine for another season or two? They could sausage through. He felt a pang of guilt at his neglect of business, but he had room for nothing in his mind except the golf course, and the possibility of a letter from Bobby Jones.

  He knew it was too soon to expect a reply from America but still he hoped. That afternoon he confided his disappointment to Curtis.

  ‘He might be a busy man, but I am in serious want of advice.’

  Curtis paused for a long moment leaning on his spade and looked up at the sky. A dragonfly hummed as it skimmed the pond. He liked being asked for advice; when it was requested one was duty bound to give an opinion, whether or not one knew anything on the subject. He swallowed, rubbed his nose and folded his arms behind his back.

  ‘Tis my ’pinon that tis time to write him another letter. Tis always the danger that Mister Jones were not in receipt of yer first epistle. Besides ’ee might like gitting letters.’

  Jack stopped digging and gazed at his friend – this was something he had not considered. He always told his employees that persistence and determination were the most important rules in business and yet here he was, hesitating, when he ought to be tenacious.

  ‘You’re quite right, my friend. Very right, indeed. I’ll write to Mr Jones tonight and then, I think, I’ll write each week to tell him of our progress.’

  Curtis smiled, revealing a set of surprisingly strong white teeth. ‘Tis an excellent idea. Only good will come of it.’

  That evening the friends tripped into Jack’s study to cross off the day’s work and settle down to write to Bobby Jones. There was no sign of Sadie, but she had left out an apple strudel, which Curtis munched as he helped Jack compose the letter.

  Dear Mr Jones,

  I am not sure if you received my last letter, so I thought I had better write you another one, just in case. I am building a golf course in Dorsetshire with the assistance of my good friend Mr

  Here Jack paused, realising he only knew Curtis’s first name. ‘Mr Curtis? Is that correct?’

  ‘Aye, well, Curtis Butterworth,’ the old man replied, through a mouthful of apple and pastry.

  Mr Curtis Butterworth. We have completed the first hole, using Old Tom Morris’s map of St Andrews as a model. We do not have the sea to make this a true links course but we do have the advantage of an excellent dew pond. I had hoped to have the benefit of your advice before proceeding much further, but my course must be finished in time for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth’s Coronation on 2 June next year, so I am trusting that you have not taken offence that I was compelled

  He stopped again, ‘compelled or forced?’

  ‘Forced,’ said Curtis, ‘’s more forceful.’

  ‘Yes. Good.’

  I was forced to commence without the benefit of your inspirational wisdom. Here is a drawing of our first hole. It is a little hilly, but I hope that will merely add to the challenge. We are proceeding at a pace

  ‘Tell ’im ’bout the trouble with the woolly-pig,’ interrupted Curtis excitedly.

  ‘Are you sure? I want to seem professional.’

  ‘’Tis an unusual difficulty, but twould be a lie not ta even mention it,’ said Curtis directing a hard stare at his friend.

  Jack sighed. He could not risk the old man discovering he did not believe in the woolly-pig – let B
obby Jones think him a little crazy, it could not be helped.

  and despite tremendous difficulties with a vicious woolly-pig that wreaked havoc and destruction, we are now doing well. Please write back very soon with your recommendations, even though you are a very busy man.

  With regards,

  Your humble servant,

  Jack M. Rosenblum

  Jack folded up the letter and put it into its envelope, already addressed and waiting. He poured a whisky and settled back into his chair. The two men sat for a moment sharing a contented silence. ‘If only we had more men to help. We are three times as fast with the two of us,’ remarked Jack.

  ‘Aye. Tis a right shame.’

  The next day Jack went down to the field at daybreak. The air was cool and the first of the blackberries were covered in thick dew. A noisy wood pigeon called to him from the orchard as he staggered under the weight of his tools. He glanced about for Curtis but unable to see him, decided to start alone. As he reached for his spade, he heard a voice.

  ‘Mister Rose-in-Bloom, come, come!’

  Curtis stood on top of a rise pointing towards the road. Jack scrambled up beside him and squinted into the distance. Coming up the lane through the early morning mist was a giant combine harvester. It was bright red, with glinting teeth like a colossal mechanical dragon. Jack had never seen such an immense piece of machinery in the British countryside, and amongst the hedged lanes and hedgerows it appeared to be a creature of the apocalypse.

  ‘That’s ’im. ’Eard ‘ee was comin,’ said Curtis sagely, ‘’Ee’s from America.’

  Jack frowned. ‘It won’t fit through the gate. Too narrow.’

  ‘Nope. They will rip out all them ’edges. All of ’em, so ’ee can plough the whole side of Bulbarrow.’

  Jack shuddered; it sounded barbaric.

  ‘You isn’t thinking. Use yer noggin,’ said Curtis, tapping his head with a grubby forefinger. ‘’Alf the tennants in Pursebury will be put out to grass.’