The church bells struck midnight and Jack came into the kitchen carrying his bottle of Scotch. The sweet scent of baking pervaded the house, and disturbed him –the fragrance of Baumtorte was always tinged with sorrow.
Sadie surveyed her cake-in-progress, chewing her lip. Once assembled, it would be as high as the one she had baked last summer, but this time it needed one extra layer. Tiers of cakes were spread out across the kitchen table. She spooned the final coating of batter into one of the tins and put it under the grill. She was no longer tired; she was hot and her arms felt sore from lifting and beating the eggs, but she felt a surge of energy as she lifted out the last tier and set it down on the table to cool.
Jack gulped whisky from a rose-patterned teacup and watched his wife curiously. Surreptitiously he poured a drop into the bowl set aside for the icing. Elizabeth giggled and said nothing but started to sift the icing sugar and stir in the lemon flavouring with a wooden spoon.
‘No. No. I must do that. This is my Baumtorte,’ Sadie protested.
‘For goodness’ sake. Let me make the icing,’ said Elizabeth. Now that her mother was almost well, she was beginning to irritate her again.
Sadie conceded and allowed her to smooth it into a glossy paste. Then, together they piled the tiers on top of one another, using the icing to bind them, until finally the Baumtorte was ready.
‘You should have the first piece,’ said Elizabeth.
Sadie shook her head. ‘I made it for you.’
Standing on a chair, Sadie cut her a slice, as thin as her little finger but several feet deep. As Elizabeth bit into it she felt a wave of sadness. She considered how lonely her mother must be, to bake cakes in order to remember. It was both strange and sad, and a fat tear trickled down her cheek.
Seeing her daughter cry, Sadie believed Elizabeth finally understood, and was comforted.
Jack and Sadie went to bed in winter, the big wind buffeting the walls of the cottage, and woke to discover spring in the garden. Pinpricks of snowdrops grew in icy clusters beneath the apple trees, their heads nodding in the breeze like a trembling all-day frost. The branches remained bare, the sky empty and cold, and yet there was the possibility of green things: everywhere there were tight curled leaf buds, the newly uncovered grass seemed lurid in its brightness and shoots poked the brown earth aside. Jack and Sadie inspected the garden arm in arm, pointing out the sprouting stems to one another, each patch of plants a surprise treasure hoard. As the snowdrops began to fade to brown, the primroses crept into view and shone like tiny suns growing from the earth.
After the primroses came clouds of daffodils, golden with bright orange trumpets. Sadie picked armfuls and brought them inside until every room was filled with vases of happy daffodils. The ones she liked best were white ones with pink rimmed hearts. In Berlin they had been banned from the parks, so in their first English spring they circled round and round Regent’s Park, marvelling at all the flowers. Back then, she and Jack were still dazed and she was silent, unable to speak English. Not knowing it was forbidden, Sadie had picked one white daffodil, and it smelled of freedom. When Elizabeth was a child, Sadie bought bulbs for her to plant in the window boxes. The girl cut one open to look for the flower but it was empty and wet and white.
All England smelled of damp, fresh earth. As he went to his course each morning, Jack found himself walking with his mouth open taking great gulps of clean, moist air. He gathered the men on the field by the fifth hole; this was the one with the most splendid aspect, the land falling away beneath them and the tall grass glimmering in the morning light. They were not the only ones working – in the distance, on the edge of the village and only half concealed by a motley clump of trees, the bungalows were going up. Wilson’s Housing Corporation had been true to their word and pre-fabricated buildings sprouted up across the cleared meadows. There was the far-off clatter of picks and clashing metal as scaffolding was hoisted. Jack sighed and thought of Old England, that mythical place before the Great War. Why did mankind want to ruin everything with his damned improvements? The English cottage was a thing of nature – it sprang up from the earth with walls made from local stone or mud and roof of slate or straw as if it had grown there. When abandoned, it sunk back into the ground like the corpse of a tree or a rabbit. He longed for the days when whole villages were pretty clumps of white cob houses and the visitor did not need to close his eyes when driving through the concreted developments that scarred the peripheries. When the course was finished he would plant more trees, white ash and elm, to shield his land from their ugliness. He stood on a mound, drew himself up to his full height and cleared his throat, since he wanted very much to be inspiring.
‘Friends, we must press on, full puff ahead. I need nine holes finished before June. This will be the greatest golf course in the whole of England. We must work like hedge sparrows building their nests or the honeybee gathering nectar. We will triumph! And a bottle of Scotch to the man who moves the most molehills.’
He was determined that the course be finished on schedule; it was a matter of necessity as he was nearly out of cash. He must be brave, like the champion Bobby Jones himself, hold fast and not lose his nerve. If he allowed even a second of wavering hesitation, he was finished. From first light he worked so furiously that the others marvelled at his energy.
He did not rest but laboured by the light of the bright spring moon, digging, digging. Night was another world; the trees, grass and houses might be the same – made from the same leaves, water or bricks – but they were transformed. Flowers closed their petals; the green grass turned purple and the wind changed key as it hissed through the rustling trees, whilst the trickling stream tore through the fields in a rush of noise. Night hid the unsightly bungalows, masking the concrete in darkness so that one could almost believe that the modern world had not yet impinged on the village.
Jack worked steadily, breaking up clods of soil with his spade, the edge glinting sharply like a square sword. There was power in his small frame and he laboured relentlessly – raking, cutting, smoothing. Dropping his tools in exhaustion, he halted shortly before dawn and traipsed back to the house where Sadie had left him breakfast on the table. There was a tall glass of milk, a fat slice of apple strudel and cold slices of lamb, the fat thick and white. He ate methodically, drinking the milk down in a single gulp then chewing the lamb, savouring the marbled lines of grease. He saved the strudel till last, licking the buttery pastry off his fingers and, half in a dream, picked out all the currants, lining them end on end around his plate. Leaning back in his chair, he gazed at the neat row and thought of Emil. Hearing the kitchen door creak, Jack looked round to see Sadie standing behind him, her eyes bright. She leant over and rested her chin on the top of his bald head.
‘You remember too,’ she said. ‘I never knew.’
Before he climbed the stairs to bed, ready to sleep for a few hours next to the warm body of his wife, he retreated into his study to write to Bobby Jones. The sun was stealing over Bulbarrow Ridge, as he pulled out his sheet of paper and began.
Dear Mr Jones,
I really hoped to hear from you before Christmas so either your sproncy American postal service is slower in coming than the Jew’s messiah, or the aeroplane delivering my letters is tipping them out in the middle of the Atlantic.
Jack decided not to acknowledge the third, most likely possibility, that Bobby Jones discarded his correspondence with no intention of ever responding at all.
I’ve been tardy in writing (though not so much as you, Mr Jones, if you will forgive this gentle reproof) as the Michaelmas season was eventful. My wife was ill but I am pleased to say that she is now much better. I am working very hard on the golf course. To tell you the truth, if it is not finished soon I am in the shit, as they say.
I am holding a golfing tournament in honour of Her Majesty on the morning of the coronation and, on behalf of the Pursebury Ash Coronation Committee, I warmly and most cordially invite you to attend as our guest of
honour.
Your friend, humble servant, etc.
Jack Rose
He sealed up the envelope and placed it reverently on the stand in the hall, ready for Sadie to take to the post office. Worn out, his hands raw with blisters from shovelling, he went upstairs to bed.
March gave way to April and with it came the bluebells. Mr Betjeman described the bluebell as the quintessential English flower and the bluebell wood as a snippet of magic left behind as an oversight from the ancient world. Jack decided this was something that he ought to investigate, and so agreed to spend an afternoon with his wife in search of them. They drove to the top of Bulbarrow with the roof down for the first time that year, and Sadie, tilting her head right back, watched trails of cloud like wisps of smoke.
They had never seen anything like it: there were thousands upon thousands of bright blue flowers, as though the sky had fallen to earth beneath the trees. Sadie had thought she was too old for new things but the striking beauty of the place stirred her and she looked about greedily for the largest stretch of unbroken blue. They reached a patch of beech trees and spread beneath them was a cobalt cloud; the wood sloped gently down and the flowers covered the earth like a swirling waterfall, shaken by unseen currents. ‘Here. Stop here,’ she said excitedly.
She looked around her and stared; it was like being a little girl and seeing the sea for the first time. They picked their way through the trees but it was impossible not to crush the bluebells – the wood breathed with them – and Sadie wondered if her cheeks would turn blue with the scent. She picked one and tucked it behind her ear.
‘You mustn’t my darling,’ Jack chided her. ‘They’re dying out.’
They laid a blanket beneath the trees, unpacked a box of vanilla biscuits and poured sweet Madeira wine into china teacups. Jack was nicely warm and lay back on the rug. He did not like to think of the fate of the bluebell, disappearing in the onslaught of progress. It was the fault of those wretched bungalows. This was a disappearing world and he was glad to be old – he would not live to see it all ruined. Shafts of sunlight fell to earth and illuminated clumps of the flowers. In the sunshine they were bright blue while in the depths of the shade they turned to deep indigo or shades of wine. He watched Sadie while she dozed, noticing the fine lines around her eyes and a mottled mark on her cheek, which he traced with his finger. He treasured these markings of age – they were like rings on a tree. He gave a wide yawn and, in the pleasant warmth of the wood, overcome by the scent of flowers and sweet wine, he succumbed to drowsiness and slept.
As they dozed, curled side by side on the picnic rug, the afternoon crept on. The sun disappeared behind a bank of cloud, the air grew cold and the damp woodland floor gave off the scent of leaf mould and ferns. The sky turned black, birds paused their singing and forest creatures sought shelter in the thicket. There was a terrific crash of thunder and, a moment later, a powerful flash of lightning illuminated the heavens. Jack sat up with a start and adjusted his spectacles, as another roll boomed out in the sky above and the storm shook the branches. Leaf curls raced along the ground, picked up by the gathering winds.
‘Wake up. It’s going to rain,’ he said, shaking Sadie and scrambling to his feet.
Immediately the air vibrated as another bright crack of lightning danced through the sky. Sadie began to stuff the picnic things back in the basket, while Jack haphazardly folded the rug. Then the rain came: huge pellets of water hurled from the sky, battering the leaves and stinging their skin.
‘Dance with me, Jack?’
‘Are you a messhuggenah hund?’ called Jack, already racing back to the car and slipping on rotting foliage.
‘Are you a hen?’ shouted Sadie after him.
Jack stopped in his tracks and turned around. ‘You mean am I chicken-shit?’
‘Hen-shit, chicken-shit, alter kacker, it’s all the same to me. Dance with me old man,’ she added with a smile.
Jack dropped the rug and, grabbing her round the middle, whirled her about, crushing bluebells, which released their scent, thick as smoke. He tried to move to the rhythm of the pounding rain on the leaves, while Sadie’s hair stuck to her face like ivy strands, and Jack’s spectacles streamed with water and misted with steam.
‘You are a terrible dancer,’ complained Sadie as he crashed her into an oak tree.
He leant forward and kissed her on the nose. ‘And still you married me. Foolish old woman.’
The rain lasted for three solid days; they were marooned inside like Mr and Mrs Noah. Jack stared miserably out of the bedroom window – it having the best view of his course – and wondered how much harder he would have to work to make up the lost time. He thought of the wretched English understatement: ‘April Showers’ indeed – this was a biblical flood. Even Sadie baking ‘wet weather treats’ could not console him. He turned the bed into a model of Bulbarrow and, making the contours with eiderdowns and pillows, used knitting needles to mark the position of the holes.
Sadie came upstairs carrying a mug of hot tea to find him stretched out on the bed, peering over a large rumple and trying to visualise the eighth hole. It was still raining and the tin bath in the garden overflowed, while stagnant pools appeared on the lawn. The water meadows at the bottom of the hill had turned into lakes and the Stour was as wide as the Mekong. Sadie perched on the windowsill and stared out at the mist-covered golf course. A sigh came from Jack, who uncharacteristically ignored the biscuits she had placed on the saucer. She needed to cheer him up.
‘Show me the course.’
‘It’s too wet. We’ll drown.’
‘Use the model.’
Jack looked at her in surprise; she had shown no interest in his plans before. Pleased, he took her by the hand and led her over to a patch of emerald baize.
‘This is the first fairway. See. Down there is the dew pond.’
He pointed to an old hand mirror of Sadie’s that twinkled away, nestled in the eiderdown. She gave him a smile of encouragement and he gestured to a knitted turquoise scarf that meandered along on the edge of the quilt.
‘This is the stream. It will be marvellous.’
‘What’s that?’ She pointed to a round purple stain by the knitting-needle flag on the third fairway.
Jack frowned, ‘That, I think is a patch of strawberry jam.’
Sadie’s face lit up. ‘A strawberry patch. That would be nice. If you get peckish in the middle of a game, you could pick strawberries.’
Jack was uncertain whether this would be feasible in the middle of the fairway, but not wishing to quench her new-found enthusiasm pulled the cover a little and repositioned the flag so that the jam stain was at the edge of the rough.
‘We could put it here, I suppose.’
He came to kneel beside her and cupped his hand round his ear, straining to hear an imaginary sound.
‘Listen, can you hear the nightingales?’
A hairbrush forest and a white paper dove perched on a pillow and Sadie listened, for once captivated by Jack’s fervour. Instead of the rose-patterned teacup she saw the small pond and the flowers that she must plant for him around its banks. She began to understand the challenge of playing out of the rough and, as she stroked the coarse horsehair blanket, she appreciated the sweep from the fifth hole. The coverlet fell away and she could see all the way down the bedcloth valley into the Blackmore Vale, beyond the foot of the bed and out of the window.
While Jack continued to plot his model course, Sadie stitched him new flags. He gave her the old ones to copy but deciding that they were not properly made, she resolved on reworking them all. Jack tuned the wireless and they worked companionably, neither speaking, each absorbed in their task. Sadie sat on the windowsill where the light was good and meticulously double stitched the neat edges of the flags – she did not want them fraying or coming apart in the wind. She paused, the close work stinging her eyes, and watched the pounding rain battering the plants in the flowerbeds below; she hoped there would not be too much dama
ge, at least not to her favourite rose. She looked beyond the garden to the golf course, gratified to understand the brilliance of Jack’s scheme at last. It was much better to share it with him; if he was a madman then at least they were crazy together.
Yet, as she gazed at the field through the rain it looked as though the land was moving. Her eyes were tired – she rubbed them and blinked. No, it was still moving – the hillside was falling forwards and above the rain there was a rumble – the sound of earth moving.
‘Jack, Jack!’
They looked in horror at the ground above the fifth hole. It was slipping away and sliding down the hill. The avalanche of earth gathered pace and there was a colossal roar as it crashed onto the fairway below. It juddered to a stop, leaving a brown river of devastation – trees were snapped in two from the force of the landslide and more were carried forth on the giant clump of earth.
Clad in oilskins, they rushed down to the field to survey the damage. In the gale, Sadie clung to an umbrella, which continually leapt away from her like a frightened bird. She tried to keep it over Jack, but he stomped away from her, indifferent to the pouring rain. Panting to keep up, she followed him onto the course, and as they marched across the third fairway, she admired the smooth grass that had sprung up verdant from the wet. The fifth hole was another story. It was always Jack’s favourite, but now it lay smeared across the land below – an enormous pile of mud, rock and trees. Jack did not know what to do. Without a word he turned round and walked back to the house.
Sadie hurried after him. Water had found its way into her galoshes and they squelched and sucked as she followed. A trail of wet boots led from the back door into the study and she found Jack slumped in his chair, swigging whisky from the bottle.
‘Verflixt! It’s a catastrophe. I’ll never finish on time. I’d need hundreds of pounds for repairs and there’s no more money.’
He took another gulp and in his despair told his wife everything.
‘I took a loan out against the business. I can’t take out any more. I’ll never be an Englishman. Never.’
Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman Page 21