Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman (11 page)

 
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 wrapped 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.’

Jack played along. ‘And have any of you gentlemen seen one?’

Curtis had dozed off but he awoke with a start, when Basset nudged him with a sharp elbow. The old man stared at Jack without blinking, slowly taking in the spoilt suit, mud-streaked hair, and tired blue eyes. He cleared his throat and spoke in a rumbling voice. ‘I sawed him. You folk don’t believe me but I sawed him an’ I shan’t talk about it anymore. Yoos are all a bunch of turds. An’ stinkin’ dung heaps.’

Basset gave the old man a vicious nudge, making him scowl and then relent. He set his cider tankard down on the bar with a thud, and when he sensed his audience was ready, spread his arms with an expansive flourish.

‘Twas three score year ago. And twas ’bout two weeks after mid-sommer an’ a real scorcher o’ a day. I were mindin’ sheep on top of Bulbarrow. It was so ’ot that I thought I’d ’ave a little nip o’ special cider like, before goin’ home for my supper. I must have fallen asleep, cos of the sunshine, mind, and when I awoked – well, there ’ee was. The great beast were starin’ at me. ’Is eyes blazed like a burnin’ wheat field and ’is woolly coat glowed as if it were a snowy January. Never seen anything like it.’

Jack’s eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of tail did he have?’

Curtis swallowed hard and stroked his stubble – it was many years since someone had listened this intently to his story. He was fed up with the others and their teasing, but this new chap had proper respect. Rose-in-Bloom seemed like a bright young fellow.

‘’Ee had the curled tail of a pig. And great curved tusks. Like those but on his chops.’ Curtis pointed to the head of a ram with magnificent curly horns that was mounted above the bar.

‘Weren’t you afraid?’

Curtis furrowed his brow and took a sip of cider to help him think.

‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘No. I don’t remember that I was. ’Ee was like nothing else. I jist looked at ’im and ’ee looked at me. And then ’ee were gone.’

As he said ‘gone’ he blew on his fingertips and opened his hands to reveal his empty, if slightly grimy, palms.

Jack turned to the rest of the men. ‘Has anyone else seen him?’

They looked at each other.

‘Old Tom Coffin did.’

‘And Matthew Clinker.’

‘Aye, but they’s dead now. Long since – may God rist their souls.’

There was a general muttering amongst the fellows – a prayer or curse, Jack couldn’t fathom.

‘I is only one left,’ said Curtis. ‘An’ trouble is – you ’ave to really believe in ’im an’ be pure of heart. That’s why these noggerheads ent seen ’im.’

The others didn’t seem to take offence at the insult but just chuckled and refilled Curtis’s pint.

‘We is truly sorry for the mess in yer field. It’s a nasty shame. But only a woolly-pig can make that much trouble. An’ a big ‘un at that,’ said Basset.

‘Aye. Was the woolly-pig what done it. No doubt at all.’

Jack glanced round the sombre faces. So, they were going to blame their barbarous savagery on a fairy tale. Well, he would go along with their ludicrous game. He surveyed the ram’s head on the wall and, for a moment, he felt that the glassy orange eyes were staring back at him.