Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman (28 page)

Sadie screwed up her eyes, trying to picture her mother’s face – tired smile, mole on her left cheek – then opened them and stared at the middle of the pond. Nothing. Although the little girl with her untidy plaits flying out behind her like streamers, reminded her of Elizabeth. The water stank of pond weed and stagnant water. A tufted duck perched on an old tyre poking up through the surface and stared at her quizzically.

‘What do you want?’

It flapped its wings and opened its beak to display an empty mouth.

‘Here you are then.’

She tossed the bird a corner of bread. A glossy mallard swam over and tried to snatch it away, but the black duck objected with a loud quack and a fearsome hiss. In a minute there was a noisy chorus of squabbling birds. The sound echoed all around Sadie until, suddenly, she remembered. She was in Berlin and the Zoologischer Garten at crocus time. The flowers reached her knees, she was so small, and she shrieked as a duck snatched a crust from her outstretched hand.

‘He’s hungry, don’t be frightened, my little one,’ soothed Mutti. ‘Watch!’
Mutti laughed as she tossed a scrap up into the sky, watching as the birds swooped to catch them in open beaks.

Sadie threw another crust and a speckled duckling dived.

‘See them fly, Sadie,’ called Mutti, her shouts mingling with the call of the birds.

Now, standing in the London park all these years later, Sadie shut her eyes and listened: she could still hear Mutti’s voice in the crying of the birds.

She walked away from the pond and onto the open heath. The green rolled down to the city, where buildings and concrete replaced the grass, but here the sky above was empty. It was one of the few places in London where she could see the expanse of sky – everywhere else it was hidden by roofs and she saw only slivers of blue peeping between the houses. She was overwhelmed with longing for the empty spaces and the fields of the Blackmore Vale – that was where her memories were hidden, like a mouse’s nest in a cornfield. Walking along Bulbarrow Ridge she had remembered chasing Emil as a boy through the German countryside. They had been running through the long grass when he shouted at her to stop but she refused, thinking it a ruse for escape, and caught hold of his arm. He pointed to the heavens, where a buzzard hovered, its wings barely seeming to beat, before diving to earth. In her memory, the Dorset landscape replaced that of Bavaria and she chased Emil along the top of Bulbarrow. Only now, when they had returned to the city, did she finally understand. While she had lost their faces, in the open fields she had learned to remember them and somehow, they were waiting for her there.

Jack sat in the hotel bar thumbing through the
Financial Times
.
He tried to interest himself in the headlines and failed, then noticed a copy of the
Daily Mail
on the table and started to flip through that instead. On page two, a news story caught his attention:

Blushes at Red Carpet Trip-Up

Officials organising the Coronation have been left red-faced after ordering insufficient carpet for the big day. More than a mile of carpet is needed but careless measurements by staff have left a shortage of hundreds of feet! So will the Queen break with tradition and be forced to walk up a Paisley swirl? A Palace spokesman declined to comment.

Jack felt a prickle of excitement as an idea began to emerge like a fox from its winter den. He seized the paper, and half an hour later arrived at the gates of Rosenblum’s Carpet Factory. At a half-run, he tore along the corridor to his old office and flung open the door. Fielding was seated at the desk, eating a grey ham sandwich and speaking on the telephone but he lowered the receiver in surprise on seeing Jack, who stood backlit in the doorway, white hair shining like some kind of elderly, bespectacled genie. Jack thrust the newspaper at him and paced anxiously while Fielding read the piece.

‘Well?’ He demanded, when the other man had finished. ‘Can we do it? Can the factory produce all that carpet in a week with one loom out of action?’

Fielding stared at him and then at the newspaper. ‘It would be almost impossible.’

Jack banged the desk with a fist. ‘But almost impossible is still possible.’ He leant towards the younger man. ‘This order is big enough to save us. Imagine in a week’s time, Her Majesty walking up a red Rosenblum carpet.’

Carried away by Jack’s enthusiasm, Fielding leapt from his chair, ‘Do you think we’d get to have the Royal Warrant “
By Appointment to Her Majesty the Queen
” stamped on the side of the delivery pantechnicons?’

‘I am sure we could.’

A flush of excitement suffused through the pallor on the manager’s face, and Jack grinned.

‘When this is over, I’m going to retire, Mr Fielding. I’m making you partner. I should have done it years ago, and then we wouldn’t be in this mess. The decisions are up to you. I won’t take any more money for loony plans. This is your office now.’ Jack glanced down at the ‘Tulip Surprise’ colour swatch on the floor. ‘And Mr Fielding, George, I’m sorry.’

Fielding stared at him for a moment in silence, and then nodded, ‘Thank you.’ He picked up the telephone receiver, ‘Hullo, operator? Can you put me through to Buckingham Palace?’

Walking into the hotel, Jack knew he had done the right thing; his heart had gone out of the business and so it was right that he handed it on. He wasn’t sure what he would do next, but he knew it wouldn’t be carpets. The porter held open the door as Jack slipped inside. A second later, he dropped his hat in shock: there in the marbled lobby stood Jack Basset and Curtis.

For a moment Jack thought he was seeing things. Both men had dressed for the occasion: Curtis wore an ancient tweed suit and for once used smart braces to hold up his trousers, rather than his old spotted tie; Basset was in his Sunday suit with a neat neckerchief but still seemed out of place in the mirrored lobby. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and he rubbed his hands nervously. He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot and gazed about him, spying Jack with relief. Skidding on the polished floor in his hurry, Basset enfolded the smaller man in a large embrace, so that Jack was sandwiched against the wool of his suit jacket. A woman in a mink stole stared curiously at their little group.

Jack eased himself free and shook hands with Curtis, bewildered. He pointed to several stiff velvet armchairs.

‘Shall we sit?’

 
Basset continued to lurk near a tall rubber plant, reluctant to join them, and Jack realised that he was self-conscious amongst the smart set.

 
‘On second thoughts, let’s go upstairs. Sadie will want to see you,’ he said firmly, guiding them towards the lift.

Curtis started as the metal doors of the cage clanged shut. ‘Aye. This is like them cattle cages at Stur market on a Monday. Feel like I is ’bout to be sold for ’alf a crown.’

When Sadie opened the door, her face went wide with surprise. It was nearly six and she was just beginning to wonder what had happened to her husband. She ushered them inside, busily straightening cushions, trying to tidy her hair and wishing she had cakes to offer. Having visitors and not being able to feed them was a travesty.

Basset undid his neck cloth and restrictive top button, and sank into one of the deep armchairs with a grateful sigh. Underneath his weather-beaten suntan he looked exhausted. ‘Traffic was terrible. N’er see sa many cars in all my life. An ’ee wasn’t no bloody use,’ he muttered with a dirty look at Curtis.

‘May I get you a drink?’ Jack asked, always the host.

Curtis produced from his other pocket a large, familiar-looking flask. ‘Brought ’ome brew.’

 
‘Only thing ’ees good for. Stupid auld bugger,’ complained Basset snatching the flask. He unscrewed the cap and after taking a swig passed it to Jack, who took it gratefully and helped himself to a deep draught.

 
‘So,’ said Jack, trying to sound casual. ‘What has brought you to town?’

 
‘I ’as al’ays wanted to see Tower o’ London. My great-great-great-uncle Billy got ’is ’ead chopped off there an’ I wanted to see. ’Bout time I sawed the world.’

 
Jack studied Curtis and saw a smile flicker at the corners of his mouth. Then, the old man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yoos left without even a goodbye. I doesn’t ’ave yer fancy ways, Mister Rose-in-Bloom, but where I is from, that’s rude, that is. Enough to make you a ninnywally.’

 
‘I’m sorry.’

 
‘Right you are. ’Ave another.’

 
Curtis passed the bottle back to Jack who took a gulp.

 
‘We came to give yer this.’

Basset fidgeted on the chair, pulling out an uncomfortable satin cushion, which he placed reverently on the floor. Then, he slid a hand into his breast pocket and proffered a telegram to Jack, who stared at it for a moment.

‘Well, gowarn. Op’n it.’

‘Yes, open it.’

Sadie, Curtis and Basset watched closely as Jack read the sender’s name.

‘It’s from Bobby Jones.’

‘Aye. Aye.’

Jack’s hands began to tremble.

‘Give it to me Jack,’ said Sadie.

Unable to speak, he passed her the telegram and she unfolded it.

DATE: 15 May, 1953

Post Office Telegraphs

No fees to be paid unless stamped hereon.

TO CHIEF EXECUTIVE DORSET COUNCIL

FROM BOBBY JONES AUGUSTA GEORGIA USA

NO LONGER SUPPORT SIR WILLIAM WAEGBERTS GOLF COURSE STOP DID NOT REALISE MY FRIEND JACK ROSENBLUMS GOLF COURSE NEARBY STOP FULLY SUPPORT JACK ROSENBLUM STOP WILL PLAY IN CORONATION MATCH AT PURSEBURY ASH STOP

Jack took the paper from Sadie, read it and then read it again, all the while his head swimming. Basset decided that a little explanation was necessary.

‘Clerk in council’s office gave me this. Sold his dad some cows at good price last year like, an’ ’ee thought it jist might interest me – yoos and me bein’ friends like. Mr Jones sent this ’ere telegram to the council and another to Sir William. Auld Waegbert’s shittin’ a fury.’

Curtis could no longer keep quiet but jumped to his feet and began to prattle excitedly.

‘Yer see, Jack, yer see? Din’ I tell yer to keep an writin’ to ol’ Mister Jones? I said it were right thing to do an’ look now! I bet it were the bit we told ’im ’bout the woolly-pig mischief what dun it, mind. That ud bring dew to a man’s eye, right enuff.’

Jack swallowed hard, trying to take in this momentous news.

‘’Ee won’t work no more for old Sir William Shitterton cos ’ee don’t want to spoil yer chances at ’appiness an’ success. Yoos alwa’s said ’ee was a nice man, mind.’

‘And he really wants to play in the coronation match? You’re quite sure?’ Sadie asked, incredulous.

‘Aye. Says so right ’ere in black ’n’ white.’

Jack could hardly believe that his letters had achieved such a profound effect. He had confided everything to Bobby Jones – in part because he had come to accept that Bobby would never, ever read them. But he had, and they’d inspired in the greatest, most illustrious golfer of all time a feeling of friendship towards him, Jack Morris Rose. It was a miracle. His head felt fuzzy and he needed another drink. He took the flask from Basset and drained it in a single swig. Was it possible? Could there be hope after all?

He stared at the others. ‘So, I might get permission for the course? I can open?’

Basset looked a little ill at ease and stared at his grimy nails. ‘Well. You’ll jist ’ave to trust us a bit.’

Curtis fixed Jack with a steady gaze. ‘Come ’ome,’ he pleaded. ‘Got ninth hole to finish. Can’t let Mister Jones play on an ’alf-cooked course.’

Jack was struggling to absorb all of this new information and when he started to speak it was only to find he had forgotten his words.

‘But what about the other course?’ said Sadie.

Jack found his voice and wagged a finger. ‘Yes, yes. Sir William will just hire another chap to design his perfect eighteen-holes.’

Basset’s nose twitched and he stared at his feet before looking up and meeting Jack’s eye.

‘Well, it’s a funny thing, but Sir William Whatnot seems to ’ave a terrible woolly-pig problem.’

Sir William Waegbert was sitting quietly in the breakfast parlour and sipping a cup of tea with a nice slice of lemon when he noticed a deep, muddy furrow slashed across his manicured fairway. He rushed outside, shirt-tails flapping, and stared aghast at the desecration of his perfect green turf. There, on a scraping of muck, was a fat, round trotter print, bigger than that of any domestic pig. It was of such a size that it could only belong to a giant boar. Sir William had his gardeners rake over the damage and reseed the lawn but in the morning, as Sir William surveyed the garden from his bedroom window, he saw instantly that the woolly-pig had struck again.

Labourers arrived at Piddle Hall from all over the county to prepare the estate for the plans drawn up by the new golf-course designer. They dug and they raked and they preened and they pruned, but every morning, all across the grounds, they were met with fresh marks left by the furious rampaging of the woolly-pig. The course progressed like Penelope’s web, advancing during the day, but unravelling every night.

Several miles away, Jack arrived home to discover that his course was complete. Basset and Curtis led the Roses through the garden gate and out into the field where, fluttering in the summer breeze, were nine chequered flags. Jack stood on the newly rolled ninth green and surveyed the finished scene with awe. It was done: his very own golf course. Basset and Curtis watched with interest as he turned white then pink, and briefly were concerned he was going to cry, but then Jack seized Curtis and kissed him solemnly, while the old man made popping sounds of surprise.

‘You’ve done it. I despaired, I gave up but you didn’t abandon me. This, this is friendship,’ Jack concluded, gravely planting another kiss on the rough cheeks of the other man.

Sadie shook hands with each of them in turn, gratitude radiating from her eyes. Across the fields there was a thud and clatter as the last touches were put on the squat houses belonging to Wilson’s Housing Corp, but nothing was going to spoil this moment for Jack. The sun burned through the clouds and the air was filled with the scent of flowers. The rose bushes Sadie had planted around the dew pond were budding open and formed clumps of crimson and cream against the green grass. Curtis produced his flask from his back pocket and held it up.

‘A toast, to our very big success.’

Jack put out a hand. ‘Yes. A toast to our success
and
to the Queen Elizabeth Golf Club. God save the Queen.’

Curtis grinned, took a swig and then passed the jar around the group. Each took a sip in turn, echoing the toast. Basset gave the flask to Sadie who, with scarcely a shudder, wetted her lips with the pungent liquid.

‘God save the Queen,’ she said, ‘And all of you.’ Unable to further articulate her thanks, she smiled and quietly retreated to her garden, leaving the men alone on the hillside.

‘So how did you get permission?’ Jack asked in wonder.

Curtis and Basset exchanged looks and chuckled. Then, Curtis flopped down on a bank of daisies, sticking his large leather boots out in front of him.

‘This is an auld place. We doesn’t care too much for these snivlin’ rules. No busybody’s tellin’ me whats to do with my land, or nothin’.’

The ancient man spoke slowly, while Basset harrumphed his agreement.

‘But I can get arrested. Go to prison,’ said Jack, still worried, as he settled down between them.

Basset chuckled, ‘Aye right. They takes you and they takes us all. They isn’t goin’ to do nothin’.’

From the top of the hill the church bell began to chime midday. As the deep note echoed around the valley, Basset got to his feet.

‘Right you are then. That’s my dinner bell, that is. Best get ’ome or Lavender will give us a right earful.’

With a friendly wave, he disappeared across the meadow, while the other two lay down sleepily upon the mossy banks.

‘I is glad that ’ee ’as gone. Jack Basset is a nice enuff fellow but still a bit o’ a noggerhead. No such thing as a woolly-pig, my arse.’

Jack laughed and wiped his forehead with his stained monogrammed handkerchief.

‘Take a big breath, Jack, an’ look at the gleam in the grass an’ the sun in the sky.’

Jack filled his lungs with fresh air and looked again at the light shimmering along the grass. The wind rippled through it like waves on an emerald sea. He felt safe under this big blue sky. The village was at the edge of the world where the mundane rules did not apply. He remembered Curtis telling him months ago that this was part of the old world, an ancient place belonging to King Alfred or was it Albert? Jack resolved to be like one of the men of old and ignore the piffling rules of planning departments and councils. He disliked modernity and so he would be like the other men of the village and pretend it wasn’t there. This was a corner of another place, with bluebells, willow herb, fat glossy ducks and mythical pigs.

‘No one tells us what to do but Jack,’ murmured Curtis softly.

‘Oh?’ said Jack in surprise with a sideways glance at his friend, who was lying on his back, head propped on a molehill pillow.

‘Not Jack Basset,’ said Curtis. ‘Jack-in-the-Green.’

‘Jack-in-the-what?’

‘Jack-in-the-Green. You know. The Green one. Robin of the Wood. ’Ee keeps everythin’ in balance.’

He gestured to the concrete bungalows on the horizon. ‘’E’ll flood out them houses, in time, turn ’em back to water meadow an’ muck. Not these ten year perhaps, but ’Ee will.’ He pointed with a stubby thumb at Bulbarrow Ridge. ‘Aye. That’s ’is back.’

Jack turned to gaze once more at the jagged outline of Bulbarrow against the horizon and realised that if he shut one eye and squinted it did resemble a giant man sleeping. The curls of cloud looked a little like smoke rings from the giant’s pipe, which was in reality a lightning-struck tree. But, he wondered if this was the same as the tall tale of the woolly-pig. ‘So, have you ever seen him, this Jack?’

Curtis chuckled. ‘No one ’as seen Jack-in-the-Green. ’Ee’s not like that – a thing or a man. ’Ee is the trees, an’ the gleam in the grass an’ the damp mornin’ dew an’ that feelin’ you gits in an evenin’ when the wind’s in the ash leaves.’

Jack felt a strange sensation in his belly, and when he closed his eyes he imagined that he could hear the worms churning the earth beneath the grass. There was something familiar about Curtis’s words, as though he was telling a story that Jack already knew.

‘A barn owl’s white wings under a full moon,’ he said.

‘Aye. An’ in the stink of badger shit on a nice summer’s night – that’s a good ’un.’ Curtis sat up and looked straight at his friend. ‘That’s ’ow we knew yoos was all right. You’d seen Jack.’

‘I had? But no one sees Jack.’

‘Aye. Not as such. But yoos dug this land all by yerself for what, thirty days and thirty nights. We all watches you from top o’ Bulbarrow. That were Jack.’

He stared at Curtis in wonder.

‘’Ee’s in the earth an’ in our flesh. When a man can work tireless like, beyond what is normal for a little man, that’s Jack-in-the-Green,’ he explained with a twitching smile. ‘Did yer not wonder ’ow a chap like yoos managed it?’

Jack marvelled – he had worked with incredible energy, barely tiring and with boundless enthusiasm but he had not considered where this vigour had come from.

‘So Jack must have wanted this golf course then?’

‘Aye,’ Curtis pulled his hat over his eyes and from beneath the brim added, ‘Fer now.’

Later that afternoon, Jack sat at the kitchen table working out the playing order and the pairs for the grand coronation match. Now everyone in the village wanted to play, so he was forced to decide the entrants by lottery – it was rather complicated and made his head ache. He did not like restricting the number of participants but he had only managed to secure half a dozen sets of clubs, and the game had to be finished in time for the coronation itself. He needed a smoke to help him think and went outside to sit on the front porch. The garden had changed in the week they had been away. Nothing waited even for a moment. The jasmine around the front door had burst into flower and some of the white blooms had already faded and withered brown. Jack admired the front door from the outside – an immense piece of handsome oak with solid iron studs. He breathed out a puff of smoke and gently ran his finger along one of the studs, but it pricked him and a drop of blood appeared under his nail.

‘Bugger.’

He stood up and pressed down the heavy iron latch on the door, only to find it was stuck and that he had locked himself out. Usually, Sadie would let him in but she was at the village hall with Lavender and the Coronation Committee. Muttering, he sat back down on the doorstep; he would just have to wait for her to return. He stubbed out the cigarette and licked his finger. He had an idea: he could stop writing the blasted tournament timetable and go and have a drink with Curtis instead – there were important things to discuss. In all the time they’d been friends, he realised he’d never been to Curtis’s home and was not even sure exactly where the old man lived, although he had mentioned his orchard several times. Jack also knew he kept sheep on Bulbarrow. On balance, the orchard was closer and so he decided to try there first.

He sauntered down the lane, admiring the colourful coronation posters, while women buzzed to and fro looking harassed. Curtis’s orchard lay on the outskirts of the village, down a narrow dirt track, and it was quiet in this part of Pursebury. There were only one or two houses and those were in poor repair. It was marshy and dank in the wet, while in the summer it swarmed with gnats and fearsome Blandford flies. Once, a long time ago, this had been a pleasant part of the village with ten or more cottages and a stony lane leading to them, but then the river had changed its course and turned the road into a flowing stream. The cottages flooded and, in a few years, the wattle walls were washed away and the families forced to relocate up the hill. He gave a low chuckle – Jack-in-the-Green must have wanted it back.

He wondered how Curtis managed to remain. The river had been running its present course for sixty years, and hardly anyone remembered a time when this overgrown place was inhabited by anything other than sheep and wild deer. He opened the gate at the end of the track and went into the field at the bottom. It had been a damp spring and the sodden water meadows were filled with wild flowers – pale pink spotted-orchids, lemon balm and marsh marigolds. He tramped a path through the long grass towards a green shepherd’s hut nestling in a far-off orchard that lay a good half-mile from even the dirt track. He was amazed that anyone lived in a place so isolated – the old man’s nearest neighbours were a family of yellow wagtails nesting in the roots of an ancient sycamore tree that towered above the hedgerows.

Jack’s feet were wet inside his leather shoes and, cursing, he realised that he should have changed into his galoshes. He pushed the wooden gate leading into the orchard and halted unthinkingly to gaze about him. There must have been a hundred trees and the grass around them was neatly trimmed, in contrast to the waving green of the surrounding meadows. The blossom on the branches had faded and early bees buzzed amongst the leaves. The shepherd’s hut sat in the middle of the orchard, painted an olive colour that was starting to flake. It rested on four large iron wheels, red with rust, and a short ladder led to a small door in one end. A thin spiral of wood smoke rose from a narrow chimney on the side of the hut – Curtis must be at home. Jack paused on the top rung to admire the view of Bulbarrow. He could make out the medieval church perched on the hilltop and the thatched roofs of the village and, while it might be lonely, no one could deny that Curtis had picked a magical spot for his home. Rousing himself, Jack rapped on the door. There was no answer.

He knocked again, louder this time. Nothing. He wondered if Curtis was sleeping and if he ought to come back later. He edged round the side of the hut and tried to peer in the window but the curtains were tightly drawn, even though it was nearly six o’clock. He decided to try one last time and thumped on the door with his fist. The door creaked ajar. Gingerly, he pushed it open and crept into the cabin. It was warm and dark, and in the corner of the single room, he saw the red gleam of a wood-burning stove, throwing out a steady heat. There was almost no furniture – only a high-backed chair, a tattered fleece covering the wooden floor and a basket of logs. In a low cot Curtis lay fast asleep with his mouth open. Jack knew he should turn around and leave the old man, but there was something about the stillness of the sleeping figure that unnerved him.