Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman (17 page)

He toyed with his empty glass. ‘I built up the carpet business from nothing, everyone said I was a
meshuggenah hund
but I proved them all wrong.’

Twenty men had been put out of work by the great machine. Jack learned from Curtis that Basset and the others were only tenant farmers, permitted to work the land in return for hefty rents. Curtis drew his friend a map of Bulbarrow in the dirt to show how the valley of little dairies was changing.

‘Them big farms, now they ’as got themselves beasts from Hamerica, they wants all the land back. All the little farms is bein’ gobbled up by the big ’uns.’

Curtis kicked away a piece of flowering nettle that was standing in for a field boundary.

‘Yer see? Them giant machines can plough whole o’ the buggerin’ hill in a single day.’

Jack agreed sadly and absent-mindedly began to nibble on a strand of wild mint, which he’d been keeping in his pocket in case he felt snackish.

‘It’s a new era, Curtis. Britain and her hedgerows must make way for progress. I don’t like it. I don’t like it all.’

Jack wrote a careful list of the men he was hiring and added them to the payroll of the London factory. It was cripplingly expensive and Fielding was irate, penning Jack a furious letter, which he scanned guiltily and shoved in the back of his desk. The bank agreed to a loan, but he had made none of the investments he ought to have over the last few months and the quarterly profit was down. He was concerned, more for those who relied on him for their wages than for himself, but he signed the loan papers nonetheless, sent them back to the bank and tried not to think of them again.

The rate of progress on the course rapidly increased. These countrymen had worked on the land all their lives, and understood the quirks of soil and scrub. Basset informed Jack that the marsh at the bottom of the course could not be drained – the soil was clay and there was nowhere for the water to run. For the first time Jack had an expert onsite; Jack Basset’s brother, Mike, had actually played a round of golf whilst on holiday in Margate. Jack and Curtis listened to him attentively. He advised them on the placing of the hazards and that a stream cutting the green in two was highly unusual. He also persuaded Jack that nine holes would be ample – ‘Players who wants eighteen ’oles can jist go round again, like.’ Jack agreed to this solution with relief.

Yet, something had shifted within Jack and he no longer dreamt of demolishing the side of Bulbarrow Hill in order to mirror the Old Course. The slow beauty of the country had crept upon him, and he wanted his course to be defined by the rise and fall of the landscape. Mike was adamant that the greens ought to have a less acute angle. A flat surface was impossible – Jack’s land consisted entirely of the south face of Bulbarrow Hill. Jack listened to the men, and learned to listen to the landscape, until it seemed to whisper the direction they should go, and the positions of the holes. He did not want to dig too deep and disturb the ridges of the hill; it was best to go around them, let the edges of the mounds and ditches define the rough. He felt time as he dug and raked with his men: the soil was millennia old and held countless lives and deaths – things born or budded, died and rotted.

At midday the men disappeared home for a hot dinner and returned at two o’clock, ready to work again. Whilst they laboured in the afternoon, Jack drew Robert Hunter from his pocket, sat down on a Mackintosh square and read to them from
The Links.

‘The true links were moulded by divine hands. Links-land, the fine grasses, the wind-made bunkers that defy imitation, the exquisite contours that refuse to be sculpted by hand – all these were given lavishly by a divine dispensation to the British. With wind and wave, with marram-grass and river’s tide, the Great Creator moulded the links of Britain.’

He was soon overwhelmed by his enthusiasm. ‘You see, you see? This is why Britain is Great. God gave you the best golfing land in the whole of the world. It’s providence.’

He reached into his pocket and wiped his eyes with his once white monogrammed handkerchief.

‘Before Robert Hunter very little had been written on the art of golf course construction. It is a very
elusive
subject. I would like to share with you, my friends, the rules I have devised from his methods:

‘Number one: Select well-drained, slightly rolling land.

‘Two. Avoid clay soil.

‘Three. Do not go into hilly country at any cost.

‘Four. Shun also that country broken by streams and ponds. They are most objectionable.’

At the end of this little speech Jack coughed. ‘I am aware that perhaps, according to some, the land here on Bulbarrow does not quite conform to Mr Hunter’s recommendations, but sometimes the most beautiful things are created in the most unusual places. Think of a pearl found in the belly of a fish.’

‘Aye. An’ I once found a nest o’ blue robins’ eggs in middle of a dung heap,’ added Curtis, jumping up in a single bound in his enthusiasm. ‘Lil’ spicketty eggs in a steamin’ pile o’ chicken shit. Lovely they wis.’

Jack grinned. ‘You thieved the words from my mouth, my friend.’

The men listened to Jack, intrigued by his passion and energy. Here was a man who disobeyed the rules he himself devised; his golf course was in the worst possible site and had every known drawback. Yet, he believed in it nonetheless and had absolute faith in their ability to produce a modern-day miracle.

At the end of three weeks two holes were complete. The days became shorter, like a tree-trunk steadily shaved and sanded by a meticulous carpenter, and at dusk the men slipped home to supper by their fires leaving Jack and Curtis alone. The two friends sat on a bank at the top of the hill and surveyed the landscape – the seasons were on the cusp. It was early October, two weeks earlier and the girls were still in summer dresses walking down the lane, and in two weeks’ time the leaves on the flowering plum tree would curl and fall to the ground in purple shades. The air was cold and Jack gave a shiver. He was worried; every Friday he paid the men but he did not pay Curtis, and they had been working on the course together for so long that he did not know how to broach the topic.

‘My friend, I do not wish to insult you. But I would like to compensate you for your hard labours.’

Curtis wrinkled his face in displeasure. ‘Friends durst pay.’

‘Friends also do not take advantage of one another. That is not friendship.’

The old man continued to scowl but Jack knew he was right, and refused to be swayed.

‘Let me give you a gift then. Choose something of mine, anything at all.’

Curtis shrugged; he was not hungry or cold and therefore was quite content. Putting an end to the discussion, he got to his feet and started to walk down the hill. Jack followed, always a few paces behind. They passed the two neat flags wavering in the evening air and reached the marshes at the bottom of the valley. All of a sudden, there was a flash of light, and a ball of fire hovered above the bog. A grey goose gave a low shriek in surprise and flew up into the sky in a flurry of wings.

‘A will-o-the-wisp!’ Curtis gasped in excitement.

The ball of light drifted in the air, weaving between the tall reeds. The water looked as though it had caught fire, and the flaming reflection trembled on the surface. Jack watched in awe as the wisp singed the tall reeds and he remembered Moses and the burning bush. Then, it flickered, and was gone.

The two men retreated to Jack’s study, where he set about his weekly letter to Bobby Jones. It was an unusual predicament for Jack, to write letters without knowing if they would ever be read or answered but it was also strangely liberating, and he found that he confided all his fears to the legendary golfer.

Dear Mr Jones,

It has been a long week. I confess that I am worried we will never finish in time. Winter will come and turn the fairways to mud and we will be able to dig no more in the fierce frosts. I am also running out of money. This is a secret. Even my wife does not know how little we have left. I must finish by spring.

This evening I saw a will-o-the-wisp. I knew it to be nothing but a ball of phosphorescent light but I wanted it to be magical, or mystical. Wouldn’t you like to live in such a world, Mr Jones? A world of magic instead of concrete and bungalows?

Regards,

Your humble servant,

Jack M. Rosenblum

Curtis sat quietly while his friend wrote. He waited until Jack sealed up the letter, and had placed it carefully inside his jacket pocket.

‘I can have anything?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I’d like ’im,’ said Curtis pointing to Jack’s gold watch lying discarded on the bookcase, the strap dangling over the spine of
The Woodlanders
. Jack had taken it off the first week he arrived in the West Country and had not used it since. It was half hidden under a mounting stash of bills and papers but still glinted in the twilight. He pulled out the old timepiece and pressed it into his friend’s hands.

‘Please. I would be honoured. It is yours.’

Reverently, Curtis slipped it into his pocket. ‘’S excellent. Won’t be late no more. Time keepin’s very important.’

Sadie was busy cooking her way through the recipes in her mother’s book, and the house became filled with scents of her childhood. Sometimes, she took her baking down to the village hall for the women to eat. Each time she ventured into the wood-panelled room Lavender Basset tried to persuade her to stay, ‘Come an’ have a nice cup o’ tea wi’ us, Mrs Rose-in-Bloom. Her Majesty’s Coronation Committee could do with an outstanding baker like yerself.’

Sadie set down her tray of almond macaroons or cherry and coconut pyramids on the trestle table and shook her head, avoiding the eyes of the smiling women.

‘Very kind, Mrs Basset. Much obligated, I’m sure. But I can’t stay.’

Sadie wouldn’t be tempted into eating a morsel but hurried away, as soon as she could be sure she wouldn’t cause offence. Walking back to the house, listening to the laughing of the larks as they took flight, she thought of her London friends – Freida and the others at the synagogue. It was strange, but she did not really miss them. Once a week she telephoned Freida from the red call box outside The Crown, but the conversations were always rather unsatisfactory. Freida prattled with gossip about Bernie Solomons’ bad leg (rumoured to be housemaid’s knee, his wife worked all day in the fishmonger’s and Bernie was suspected of keeping house), the difficulty in getting kosher eggs or enough branches for the
Sukkah
. When she’d finished, Freida paused expectantly for Sadie to chatter, before prompting her with, ‘your turn friend, what’s new?’

Sadie sighed. There was nothing new. There were only the rhythms of sun, rain and falling leaves. She could hear the murmur of cheerful conversation drifting up the lane from the village hall. For a moment, she wished she could have said yes, she would like a cup of tea and have sat and sipped and listened. But she always said no, and couldn’t possibly join them now. She picked up her pace, and hurried home.

The Coronation Committee only met on a Wednesday, so the rest of the time she left cakes, biscuits and loaves of honey-coloured bread out on the table in the kitchen and forgot about them. After a taste, enough to fill her mouth and remind her of the texture of lavender and rosewater cream-filled buns, they lay abandoned on the wooden table.

Jack and Curtis, passing through the kitchen on their way to the study, presumed that the offerings laid out were for them and ate hungrily. Jack took them as signs from his wife, small gestures of conciliation. He did not realise that this new burst of cooking was another act of remembrance and took the vanilla crescents, the sand cakes and
Pfefferkuchen
as tokens of a well-concealed affection. He suspected that in some wordless way she understood he was in a spot of bother – being nearly out of money – and that these sweetmeats were a silent symbol of companionship. They barely met, passing as shadows, but he felt for the first time since that day a softening in his wife. He bit into a slice of Stollen, rich with a thick seam of marzipan, and was returned to the tiny flat by the
Zoologischer Garten
in Berlin. As he ate, he heard the howling of wolves from the zoo at dusk, and remembered the smooth roundness of his new wife. There was a time, long ago, when he loved her every day. When the course was finished, he would sit in her garden and ask her the names of the flowers.

As a consequence of the cakes, Jack started to sleep in the bedroom once more. Also, it was getting colder at night and he liked the warm body of his wife; sleeping in his chair he woke in the small hours, shivering in the dark. This morning he tried not to disturb her as he slipped out of bed in the creeping dawn. He opened the curtains a crack so that he could see to dress, and a cool light poured into the bedroom.

Sadie was only feigning sleep, she rarely slept for more than a few hours: her nights were haunted by people who had lost their names, and who rifled through her dreams trying to find them. From the bed she could see across the valley and the water lapping the edge of the garden. Just then, she noticed that the ducks were leaving the pond – there were clouds of them circling high in the sky.

‘Jack. The ducks are leaving.’

They were the first words she had spoken to him in several days and, realising this, he put on his spectacles and stared out the window at the dark shapes moving smoothly into the distance. The air filled with the sound of quacking, striking a melancholy note in the morning stillness. Jack shuddered; he hesitated and then, uncertainly, placed his arm around Sadie. In a minute the ducks were gone and the pond lay empty, its surface rippled only by the fish gliding underneath the surface. They were bereft.

‘Come, I’ll make tea,’ said Jack, feeling that this would mark the sorrow of the occasion.

After breakfast, Jack decided to light the fire in his study, and with meticulous care cleared away the piles of maps and books lying near to the grate – it would be a disaster if Robert Hunter or Old Tom Morris went up in flames. There was rustling behind him as Sadie rumpled the papers on his desk. He gave a tiny sigh – a man’s study was his own. She scrutinised the calendar on the wall above him.

‘What day is it?’

Jack peered at the date. Why was she asking him? The woman had eyes of her own. ‘Twenty-second of September.’

‘Nein,
du Mistkerl
. In the Hebrew calendar.’

Jack shrugged. ‘How would I know?’

He was now late – Curtis and the men would be waiting for him in the field and he did not like them to start without him, but Sadie was not to be dissuaded. She went over to the bookcase, pulled out a tattered Hebrew almanac and flicked through the pages.

‘I’ve forgotten. How could I forget?’ Sadie raised her eyes to the heavens and muttered an apologetic prayer.

Jack continued to look at her blankly.

‘It’s Rosh Hashanah, Jewish New Year, the Day of Judgement, the Day of Remembrance . . .’ she snapped.

‘Yes? And what does it have to do with me?’

Two pink spots appeared on Sadie’s cheeks and her eyes flashed with anger. ‘Go. Go to your fields and your new friends, then. I’ll say
Kaddish
for the dead. I am sure they’ll understand.’

Jack stood up sharply, took one last look at the curling tongues of flame in the grate, and retreated into the kitchen. Lying on the table were the fruits of Sadie’s sleepless night: a platted loaf of
challah
, studded with currants, sprinkled with cinnamon and warm from the oven, with a jar of honey resting beside it. He studied the bread on the cooling wire, and considered his wife. One. She scolded him. Two. She was stubborn and indifferent to happiness. Three. She baked for him during the night, making all the treats and sweets he recalled from those brief months in Berlin – they were happy then, ignorant of what was to come. Elizabeth was conceived there, in that tiny flat with its glimpse of the stone elephants outside the park, and Sadie had laughed and been kind to him. Jack picked up the
challah
, tore off a piece, dipped it in the honey and popped it into his mouth. He chewed pensively, took another bite and then another. In ten minutes the entire loaf was gone. Wiping the crumbs from his mouth, he returned to the study.

‘I’ll sit with you,’ he informed her with a puff of resignation.

Sadie’s lips flickered into an almost smile. She liked the ritual of Rosh Hashanah and liked to think of all the other Jews, busy with their own recollections; it was a rite of shared sorrow,
The Day of Remembrance
. Most days, she thought about
before
alone, in silence, but this was a whole day dedicated to remembering. She thought back to the final Rosh Hashanah in Berlin, the last with her family. Back then, she had not known that soon she would be saying
Kaddish
for them. She was young in those days, a mere girl – she had been late to synagogue, arriving in a flushed hurry of joy, and apologised to the disapproving women as she squeezed her way through the tightly packed chairs to Mutti, who scolded her for her tardiness on
today of all days
. Sadie claimed it was because she couldn’t find her coat but this was a lie. She was late really because her new husband had persuaded her back to bed to make love. He kissed the backs of her knees and the inside of her wrists, and had tugged her laughing onto the small wooden bed. She did not know that day, but Elizabeth began to grow in her belly. Perhaps that was why she became so unhappy, because she conceived on the Day of Remembrance. The dead that she was too busy to remember grew alongside the child in her womb and, long after she gave birth to her daughter, wormed their way into her conscious, insisting that she say
Kaddish
for them every day. Once, she had confided this thought to Jack and he became angry.

‘Life, that is the most precious thing! Life. It takes the place of death. Wedding has precedent over a funeral. I choose joy over this pointless sorrow.’

The
shofar
blowing was Sadie’s favourite part of New Year: the eerie note of the hollow ram’s horn calling through the centuries. It sang of the symmetry of time and was one constant in an ever-changing world. She listened to the
shofar
with her family and later, in England, she would close her eyes and pretend she was a girl again. She knew the
shofar
was the same for her grandparents, her great-grandparents and for King Solomon in the Temple.

‘Let us go and cast away our sins into the river.’

Jack perked up; he had abandoned any thoughts of working with the others on the third hole today. While he was dubious about the prospect of ditching his sins into a body of water, it meant going outside and quietly checking on the course. Curtis and Mike would be in charge; they were smoothing the tee and shaping the bunkers but some determined rabbits were continually disrupting progress.

Together, they walked down towards the dew pond at the bottom of the large field. The small duck pool by the house was rejected, as Sadie was insistent that the water must contain fish.

‘A fish’s need for water symbolises the Jew’s need for God and, as a fish’s eyes never close so His watchful eyes never cease.’

‘Well, there are bloody great fishes in the dew pond and the stream. Curtis saw a pike,’ added Jack, not awed by his wife’s reverent tones.

It was a damp morning, the clouds hovered low in the sky, and the air smelled moist and earthy. Jackdaws circled, cawing overhead in the trees and leaves lay in mushy piles that squelched as they trod. Jack peered up towards the third hole where he could see several men digging and Basset leading two great carthorses down the steep slope. They lumbered unsteadily, their huge hooves trying to grip the slippery ground, until they reached the flat area of mud that was to be the green for the third hole. Jack paused and watched with interest as two men hitched the horses to a pair of stone rollers.

He was reassured that they were managing spectacularly without him, despite wishing that he could climb up to admire the progress. Basset had promised he would bring the horses to level the ground before they put down turf. The horses were old, but Basset kept them in a rare gesture of sentiment, even though he claimed they were merely a back-up in case a tractor broke down. They were bred from a mare belonging to Basset’s grandfather, and Jack supposed the old farmer liked to think of the line carrying on. The horses were enjoying their brief respite from retirement, and steadily pulled the massive roller across the muddy ground.

A few more weeks at this pace and Jack would have another hole done. There was a chance, if the winter was not a cold one, that he would have all nine holes completed by spring. He uttered a little prayer to heaven.

‘Listen, please don’t be offended that I don’t really believe in you. But, just in case, I would be most obliged if you could make this winter a mild one. I’d very much like to finish my course. Otherwise, there is a very good chance that I’m finished –
fertig
. And, if you really are there, I am sure you don’t want that. There is enough unhappiness.’

He was not sure whether this was the right tone for a prayer – it had been quite a while since he last addressed God. He thought as a concession that perhaps he ought to cast off a few sins. If the slate was clean, God might be more inclined to favour his request.