Mr Brown recoiled from Jack in revulsion. He put his hands stiffly by his sides and took a step back towards his car. Slowly, he shook his head and his lips curled in contempt.
‘Bloody Jews. You think you can buy us all. You disgust me.’
He hissed the words at Jack, his eyes narrow with hate. Jack stared in surprise. If it was not money they wanted, then why were they tormenting him? He’d believed Sadie was right and it was the same everywhere – they stopped Jews from doing business but when you paid your bribe, they let you go back to work.
‘If you don’t want my money why do you refuse me planning permission?’ Jack asked, bewildered.
The other man got into his car, started the engine and began to drive off but then, clearly having a change of heart, wound down his window.
‘You, sir, were in violation of at least seventeen planning codes under section A, subsection fifty-nine, paragraphs twenty-six to ninety-one. Seventeen violations!’
‘But … I didn’t know there were planning codes for golf courses.’
‘A poor excuse. The gentleman building the other course made no excuses. Submitted a nice set of professional drawings.’
Jack only heard the first part of Mr Brown’s outburst. ‘What other course?’ he asked, colour draining from his face.
‘I can’t tell you that! It’s confidential. But it’s for eighteen holes with a modern clubhouse.’
Jack rubbed his forehead and his throbbing temples, trying to digest this new information. There couldn’t possibly be demand for two golf courses, and the other one had official approval, while his was outlawed. With a miserable sigh, he turned and slouched back to the top of Bulbarrow. He felt sick – he’d never criticised any government legislation before (list item number three) but at this moment, he knew that the council was monstrous.
He did not want to return home without good news. Sadie’s suggestion had failed – backhanders were clearly more common in Mittel Europe than England, and now it was up to him to get them out of this fix. His heart hammered with adrenalin; he must find out who was building this new course – even though he was not sure what he would do then. He leant against the gate and, closing his eyes, listened to the soft hum of the flies flitting around the cattle. Absent-mindedly, he stroked the ears of a dappled cow, which began to lick him with its sandpaper tongue. How could he find out where this other verdammt course was? What he needed was someone on the inside. Hadn’t Sir William Waegbert once been mayor. Jack recalled a splendid certificate embossed with the mayorial seal hanging in Piddle Hall. It was many years ago, but surely he still had the necessary influence to help.
A few minutes later Jack was hurtling down the hill in his green Jaguar as the sun glowed low in the sky, bathing the landscape in a warm haze. The clouds turned red then orange and the brown coats of the cattle shone scarlet. High above him a triangle of swifts flew home to their roosts, their cries filling the evening air. The sun finally slipped below the horizon and it suddenly grew cold, making him shiver and reach for the scarf on the seat beside him. A moment later, a deer streaked across his path forcing him to slam on the brakes. He waited whilst it found a gap in the hedge – its eyes huge and black with fear, legs shaking frantically – and then drove on.
Jack remembered the trip to Sir William’s the previous year. Back then he was filled with trepidation, now he was travelling to see a friend. Jack was quite sure he would smooth out the altercation with the planning department – Sir William was an important man.
The lights came on in the houses and twinkled in the darkness, breaking up the gloom. Jack sighed – there had been money in carpets and he wished that he had paid a little more attention to his business, then he could have paid off his debts and the mortgage on the house. Now the factory needed a massive order, the sort that only ever came from governments – otherwise the bank loans would never be repaid. God only knew how he was supposed to pay for a replacement loom. As he gripped the steering wheel, Jack realised that he’d been happy. That Sadie had been happy. More than anything, he didn’t want to go back to the city. He liked it here, and he wanted to live where there were deer and badgers and woolly-pigs.
Jack drove over the bridge across the river Piddle. It was called the Piddle here but became the river Puddle further downstream. It was said that the name was changed from Piddle to Puddle everywhere that Queen Victoria visited during her tour of Dorsetshire – the courtiers fearing that the word ‘piddle’ would make the Queen blush. Jack found this example of English prudery endearing – imagine being embarrassed by such a little word.
The stone eagles outside Piddle Hall glared down at him from their tall plinths, beaks frozen open in a silent shriek. He gave a tiny shudder and wound along the curving driveway where the avenue of looming oaks surveyed him with gaunt disapproval. A few minutes later, with a rumble of car tyres on gravel, he arrived at the hall and drove straight to the stables at the rear where he had been told to park the previous summer. The horses whinnied softly as he slammed the car door. His heart was beating fast. A little whisky and some good advice would help. There had been some changes since he was here last. What he presumed to be another stable had gone up, which even in the dark he could see was a handsome brick building.
He hurried to the main steps of the hall. Lights were on in the downstairs windows but the vast door was shut; the Waegberts were not expecting visitors. Jack yanked a huge, cast-iron handle that dangled down at the side of the entrance and a shrill bell pierced the night. Instantly, there erupted a chorus of barking, followed by voices, until finally he heard footsteps entering the hall. The door clicked and he saw with surprise that Sir William opened the door himself, a pack of spaniels wagging at his feet. Sir William looked equally amazed to find Jack on his front steps. There was a smear of something at the corner of the baronet’s mouth, he still had his napkin tucked into his shirt and he stood there for a moment, paralysed, before his perfect manners took over.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said, ushering Jack inside.
‘I am sorry to call like this,’ said Jack apologetically, ‘but disaster has struck and I need your help.’
Sir William stared for a moment. ‘Oh dear. Gosh. We’ll sit in the library and you must tell me everything.’
Jack followed him into the dimly lit panelled hall; it smelled musty and damp and, stifling a sneeze, he wondered that he hadn’t noticed before. He was led along a winding passageway into a cavernous library with an elaborate chandelier suspended from the ceiling, though when Sir William clicked the light switch, it was a grimy lamp that illuminated the room.
‘I’ll be back in a moment. I must tell Lady Waegbert to continue without me.’
Left alone in the library, Jack surveyed the faded volumes decorating the shelves. They were all bound in the same worn crimson bindings and coated in a thin layer of dust, making him suspect that they had not been read in a long time. In the centre of the room stood an elegant wooden table with a rich patina that only needed a good polish with a touch of beeswax to have a glorious sheen once more. He wondered whether Sir William used this room very often – it had the smell of something packed away and forgotten.
A few minutes later Sir William returned with apologies and without his napkin. He gestured Jack to sit and they each took a carved upright chair and faced each other across the table. Sir William studied him, then with a tight frown got to his feet and went to a bookshelf. He pulled out several books, which turned out to be hollow carvings filled with a whisky decanter and glasses. His hand shook slightly as he poured two generous measures and slid one across the table to Jack. His face was pale and troubled, causing Jack to wonder if he had been unwell and, guiltily, if he should be here bothering him with his troubles.
Sir William toyed with his glass, downed its contents, then helped himself to another and, not appearing to be in a hurry for Jack to begin, started to trace patterns in the layer of dust on the table. Then, the baronet appeared to steel himself, cross
ed his arms in his lap and closed his eyes.
‘Well, man, let’s have it then.’
‘You’re sure? I don’t want to be a bother.’
‘You’ve come all this way. May as well let it out.’
Taking the invitation, Jack leant forward and in a low voice recounted his unhappy tale. Sir William let him speak without interrupting; his elegant face was impassive and Jack could not read his expression.
‘I love the English. The most wonderful peoples,’ Jack concluded, at the end of several minutes. The thick emotion in his voice emphasised his accent and he pronounced ‘wonderful’ with a soft hiss ‘vf’ at the beginning. ‘I want this golf course so much. So very much,’ he added, tears beginning to form in the corner of his eyes. ‘Without it, I am ruined. I lose my house. Everything.’
Sir William said nothing. He settled back in his chair and studied the chandelier – the crystal shards were covered in filth and needed a thorough clean.
Jack waited in agony for him to speak and made one final plea for his assistance. ‘Can you help me to discover who this rival is? Please.’
Sir William shifted on his narrow seat. He got up and began to pace the length of the room before moving to the stone mullioned window, where he stood gazing out into the darkness.
‘It’s me, Jack. It’s my course.’
Jack did not hear him properly – could not understand his friend’s words.
‘Beg pardon?’
Sir William remained by the window with his back turned, so that Jack could only see the reflection of his face in the glass.
‘I am building a golf course. Eighteen holes. Parking for a hundred automobiles. You must have seen the new clubhouse on your way in.’
Jack tried to speak and found he couldn’t. He swallowed but his mouth had gone dry. He opened his lips to speak but again no sound came out. At last, he managed a whisper.
‘We were friends.’
‘Come. We were acquaintances,’ said Sir William smoothly.
‘I gave you membership to my golf course.’
‘And you may have membership to mine. It will be the finest course and the most exclusive in the South-West.’
Jack reeled. He felt like the deer he had caught in his headlights and barely registered that Sir William was offering him membership to an exclusive English Golf Club. This was the last item on his list and the reason for moving to the countryside. Now he was being beseeched to join an elite club by a knight of the realm and he did not care. He spoke softly but his voice quivered with hate.
‘I will never be a member of your club. I do not wish to be part of any society that includes you. You are ein Landesverräter.
Sir William did not understand the word but he comprehended the tone, and it was true; he had used Jack and then betrayed him. He had found out that the Jew was not so stupid after all. After making enquiries, he discovered that there really was demand for a golf course out here in the sticks, and if someone was going to make money, Sir William was going to make damn sure it was he. These country piles took a fortune to run, and the Waegbert fortune was running low. Jack interrupted his thoughts with another furious tirade.
‘I can never be English to you, can I? Did you want to teach the shitty little Jew-Kraut a lesson?’
The venom of the small man took Sir William aback. He disliked conflict of any kind – when he got the council to stop the building on Jack’s land, they had promised him that they would not reveal who had lodged the objection. Sir William wondered how he had found out, certain that Jack had come determined to extort a confession – they were wily these Jews. ‘How dare you address me like this? You’re nothing but a vulgar counter-jumper. Go back to your tailor’s shop.’
Jack blinked, opened his mouth and closed it again.
Aware of his guilt, Sir William became indignant and full of self-justification, ‘You built a golf course on the side of a hill. It’s preposterous. You can’t have played a round in all your life. It would never have worked. I admit that, yes, you gave me an idea, but I am going about it in the proper way. Your scheme was never anything more than a ludicrous pipe dream.’
Jack stared at Sir William in dismay. How could he have done this to him? He ached with the betrayal.
‘I may not have played, but I studied Robert Hunter and Bobby Jones.’
Sir William gave a hard laugh of derision. ‘You read Bobby Jones. I hired him.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Sir William stalked to a desk in the corner and pulled out a piece of paper, which he tossed to Jack.
Dear Sir William,
On behalf of Mr Jones I would like to accept the commission to design the proposed course at Piddle Hall. Mr Jones’ fee is $1000 non-negotiable. Please forward all maps, land surveys and
Jack read no more. He felt a cracking in his chest and wondered if his heart could actually break. He stood up and walked out of the library, along the panelled corridor and out into the hall. Behind him Sir William called in a mocking voice, ‘I am sure I can persuade the council to allow your course. It can be exclusive too. It can be the Jew course.’
Jack made no reply. He pushed open the front door and descended the stone steps into the cool, black night.
He was shaking so much that he struggled to steer the car and it weaved all over the road. He supposed he would have to sell it but strangely this thought did not upset him. Next he wondered how long it would take to sell the house. The pain in his chest returned and he hunched miserably over the steering wheel, too unhappy to cry.
When Jack reached home, he did not park in the garage or lovingly cover the Jag with the horse blanket but stalled it on the driveway and went straight inside. The house was quite still; Sadie must have given up waiting for him and gone to bed. He hoped that his late return might have prepared her for the worst. Only a few hours ago he had left in high spirits, full of optimism that a well-placed backhander would secure the necessary planning permissions and work could start again. He felt ill at the thought of telling her what had transpired. Guiltily, he remembered the last time he had sold her house, in London, over a year before. He wanted to pursue a dream and had been relentless in his ambition. Everything had been sacrificed for his golf course and finishing his list: the London life, the successful factory. They had given up their friends and Sadie had even abandoned her kosher kitchen for him. Shamefully he considered how poorly he had repaid her – he could not make it up to her, as he had nothing left. After nearly twenty years in England, he was once again as poor as he had been when they first arrived, only now he was old and without hope.
Jack wandered forlornly into his study to write one last letter, and for the final time he pulled out a piece of heavy white paper from the sturdy desk. He grabbed his whisky and drank straight from the bottle as he wrote.
Dear Mr Jones,
My heart is broken. After all this time, after all my letters, how could you agree to design Sir William Waegbert’s course? You did not even write to tell me yourself. Sir William Waegbert has betrayed me. But your betrayal is worse. I thought golfers were honourable men. True gentlemen.
I am finished but alas my golf course will never be finished. I am empty. There is nothing left at all.
This is my last letter.
Jack Rose
With that, Jack sealed the envelope, put it out to be posted and wearily climbed the stairs to bed. Sadie was fast asleep, sprawled on top of the covers, her hair fanned out across the pillow and her mouth slightly open. Her breath made a curl of hair move up and down with each exhalation. Jack slotted his body in beside hers, slid an arm around her waist and laid his head on her pillow.
‘I am so sorry,’ he whispered.
When they heard the awful news, the village suddenly remembered that Sir William was poor and had wasted his fortune on horses. They discovered that they had always suspected him; they guessed that the estate was bankrupt and Lady Waegbert gambled. With each telling the tales grew; Sir William
turned into a vagabond who owed all the shopkeepers money and had letched over every daughter in the village. Lady Waegbert, it was said, was forced to pay her vast gaming debts in obscene favours, but none of this comforted Jack – he listened to half of it and believed less. It could not help him now. He had no pity left for Sir William – he needed it all for himself.
Jack lost his exuberance like a balloon the day after a birthday. He sagged and stooped so that Sadie felt she was watching him wither before her eyes. At first she baked him ‘cakes to heal a broken heart’ but either the recipe was faulty or he would not eat enough, not even when she decorated them with sugared violets. The course was silent; no one returned to complete the last fairway and the flags drooped in the stillness of the May afternoon. Inconsolable, Jack wished that the fields and hedgerows would acknowledge his despair. He wanted the flowers to shrivel on the bushes and the cherry blossom to fall to the ground in a pink snow shower, but to his disgust the starlings continued to sing, and the fish swam around the pond like slices of oranges amongst the weeds. He refused to see any of his friends and when Basset arrived to offer words of condolence he stole out to the course and would not be found.
Determined to reason with him, Sadie hunted him down to his favourite spot, hunched on a patch of grass by the fifth hole. In a single week, the fairway grass had sprouted thick and lush, and barely resembled anymore the neat crop of a golf course. Jack’s trousers were dark with dew and he tore the petals off a daisy, all the while muttering incoherently under his breath. Sadie smoothed her skirt and sat down carefully beside him, wishing that she had remembered to bring a Mackintosh square, ‘Why don’t we stay in the village?’
Jack looked at her with mild surprise but said nothing.
‘I mean, the house must be sold, but there might be enough left over to buy another place, a small cottage perhaps.’ Sadie took his hand and rubbed the back of it with her rough, gardener’s palm. ‘We could be happy in a little whitewashed cottage. There are only two of us after all and I’m sure we could afford a box room so that Elizabeth could visit.’
Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman Page 24