Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman (24 page)

The machine had done a splendid job clearing the debris from the fairway, but the green still needed to be levelled and reseeded and the tee rebuilt. The eighth and ninth holes had not been started and the seventh was not quite finished. All in all, there was a mountain of work still to do and Jack vetoed absolutely the illicit borrowing of any more machinery – they must continue by hand; a course of action made easier by Freddie and Matt bringing with them another dozen men from Wilson’s Housing Corp. Sadie ordered rose bushes from Dorchester and planted them in clumps around the ponds and along the edges of the hazards. She threw seeds for wild flowers – scarlet poppies, cornflowers, love-in-the-mist, pink-rimmed daises and cowslips – amongst the grasses in the rough. Jack faithfully recorded their progress in his weekly letter to Bobby Jones.

Dear Mr Jones,

Today was a strange sort of pagan festival that involved (as I find they usually do) drinking cider and shouting. We finished the seventh hole and toasted it (and poured a healthy drop into the hole – no doubt giving some poor earthworm a punchy breakfast). There was much laughter and even the womenfolk came along. My wife baked some excellent pear tarts and we ate them with the local clotted cream. It’s strange, I’ve eaten those tarts many times – they’re from an old Bavarian recipe – but they’ve never been so delicious as with that little Dorset addition.

The damage (from a landslide this time, not the woolly-pig) has been repaired and the course looks simply marvellous. I wish you could see it. I’m crippled with bank loans. Any more disasters and we’re up Stourcastle creek.

I’ve placed an advertisement in
The Times
– which I’ve taken the liberty of enclosing.

Yours sincerely etc.

Jack Rose

ADVERTISEMENT

Brand New Golf Course at Pursebury Ash in Dorsetshire. Competition Match to celebrate the Coronation of Her Majesty The Queen Elizabeth to be held on 2nd of June. Inaugural members: Sir William Waegbert (baronet) and Mr Henry Hoare Esq. (gentleman). Open to new members.

There was still the problem of the molehills. Knowing Jack would not approve, Basset waited until he was safely out of the way writing his letter, and then sent ferrets down the holes to root out the moles. The sightless creatures emerged terrified into the daylight, where Curtis and Basset crushed their skulls with hammers. The trimmed green was soon piled high with their minute, velvety corpses, which Curtis quickly skinned, carefully preserving the pelts. Moleskin gloves were much prized by fashionable ladies, and a few elderly women in the village still knew how to make them. Basset dug a grave at the bottom of the field and filled it with the tiny bodies. Jack remained cheerfully oblivious to their method, but was thrilled that his molehill problem had mysteriously vanished.

On Wednesday morning Sadie ambled down to the village hall, carrying a fat chocolate sponge (laced with sugared cherry blossom) for the Coronation Committee. The sun beat down on the corrugated iron roof, and the ladies of the committee had abandoned the sweltering building for the village green. Sadie hovered unseen at the edge of the field, in the shade of a spreading chestnut. Coarse blankets were strewn haphazardly beneath the trees, and the other women sprawled in twos and threes, listening to Lavender Basset, who sat very upright on a wooden chair, rattling through the day’s agenda. Beside her a mouse-like woman in a pale blue frock scribbled and blinked.

‘Has anyone heard back from the electrical store in Dorchester?’ asked Lavender.

A robust lady in a pair of olive slacks struggled to her feet and raised a hand. Lavender tipped her head imperiously, ‘Yes, Mrs Hinton?’

‘Tis as we feared, Mrs Basset. Bulbarrow Hill blocks all signals for the television. The BBC himself has been consulted. But there is nothin’ to be done.’

There was a collective sigh, and mutterings of ‘what a pity’, until Lavender raised her hand again for silence. ‘I know it seems unfair what with them French seein’ it an’ all. But we people o’ Pursebury will not be defeated by pifflin’ disappointments.’

‘We will not,’ agreed Mrs Hinton, settling back down on her rug.

‘We need ideas, suggestions ’n solutions, ladies,’ said Lavender.

‘We can a’ways listen in on t’ wireless,’ said the mouse-lady beside her, in a meek voice.

‘Whole village crowdin’ round a wireless? It’ll be a shambles.’

‘Aye. No sense o’ occasion.’

From the shade of the chestnut tree, Sadie listened to the swell of noise. She thought back to the last great Royal celebration, the marriage of Princess Elizabeth to Prince Philip of Greece, five years before. Then, there had been no possibility of watching the event on the television set. Jack and Sadie had scrutinised every photograph in the newspapers, and Elizabeth’s school held a pageant a few days later, with a girl in a white frock acting the princess and another, hair slicked back, playing the part of the prince. That gave Sadie an idea. She stepped out from the shadow of the tree and into the midst of the chattering women, her chocolate cake held aloft, and cleared her throat.

‘Aye, pop the cake indoors, Mrs Rose-in-Bloom,’ said Lavender, preoccupied with the crisis.

‘I . . . em . . . I . . . have an idea,’ said Sadie, standing her ground.

The women on the rugs stared at her in surprise. Sadie’s cheeks pinked under the scrutiny. ‘At eleven o’clock, when Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second receives the crown from the Archbishop of Canterbury, we should be crowning our very own queen,’ she paused, and smiled at the others. ‘The Queen of Pursebury Ash.’

Lavender jumped up in excitement, knocking over the wooden chair. ‘I like that idea Mrs Rose-in-Bloom!’ She flung her arms out wide, eyes shining, ‘We, of Her Majesty’s Coronation Committee, Pursebury Ash Branch, refuse to be defeated or to permit this village to go without a proper coronation at the proper time.’

There were shouts of agreement from the assembled women.

‘Excellent idea. Marvellous,’ said Mrs Hinton, taking the chocolate cake from Sadie and trying to shake her hand at the same time.

‘Now,’ said Lavender, ‘Over elevenses, me must discuss the matter of the Coronation Chicken.’

‘Aye,’ agreed the mouse-lady, with a stubborn scowl. ‘If they’re havin’ it at Buckingham Palace, we are most certainly havin’ it at Pursebury Village Hall.’

They spread a picnic out on the rug with Sadie’s cake in pride of place. The sticky icing attracted a swarm of biting flies, which Lavender swotted with a roll of newspaper.

‘No, not ‘im,’ said Mrs Hinton, snatching the paper. ‘He’s the one with the instructions. I saved him special.’

Mrs Hinton passed it to Sadie, ‘Here you take a look, Mrs Rose-in-Bloom. You are a handsome cook and you knows all about foreign food.’

Sadie settled down on the rug, the wool scratching her bare legs, and studied the paper. It was a page carefully cut from
The Times
:

CORONATION CHICKEN (COLD) (FOR 6–8)

2 young roasting chickens; water and a little wine to cover; carrot; a bouquet garni; salt; 3–4 peppercorns; cream of curry sauce (recipe follows).

Poach the chickens, with carrot, bouquet, salt, and peppercorns, in water and a little wine, enough barely to cover, for about 40 minutes or until tender. Prepare the sauce given below. Mix the chicken and the sauce together, arrange on a dish.

‘Ahh,’ said Sadie, giving a little murmur of recognition, ‘I heard Constance Spry herself on the wireless. She explained how to make this. I have poached chicken before. In Berlin. I can show you – if you like?’

Lavender blinked, forced a tight smile and then relaxed. This was the first time Mrs Rose-in-Bloom had casually mentioned her German past. But, Lavender supposed, it wasn’t sordid like Mrs Hinton’s younger sister whose ‘past’ had been a long-haired sailor from Kentucky. Mrs Rose-in-Bloom’s past wasn’t her fault, and perhaps it was better that she spoke of it from time to time.

Early one morning, after planting a flag in the restored fifth hole, Jack walked around his course chatting to Basset and Curtis. He held envelopes filled with wages; he liked to pay his men in person so that he could thank them for all their hard work. There was a palpable sense of anticipation. He gathered his workforce around the flagpole and climbed on top of an upturned seed crate so that they could all see him. There were a full score of faces staring back up at him and he gazed at them, and then at his golf course. The land was so beautifully restored that in a few months no one would ever know it had slid down the hillside. The green fields shone in the morning sunshine, while white puffs of cloud drifted across the blue sky. A cuckoo called from where apple trees and cricket willows had been planted to screen the bungalows. The first of the year’s dragonflies danced on the surface of the pond, causing Jack to feel a ripple of happiness.

‘Thank you all for your hard work. Bobby Jones himself could not have laboured more mightily. There is only one more hole to be completed and then we will be triumphant!’

He took off his hat and waved it at the crowd, who bayed and whistled with enthusiasm. Then he noticed a balding man dressed in a grey flannel suit standing apart from the others, watching. Jack did not recognise him and, curiosity piqued, climbed down from his box. The others took this as the signal to go back to work, but the stranger in the suit did not move and instead addressed him in a confidential tone.

‘Lovely spot you’ve got here.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jack smiling proudly. In his view this was the most beautiful spot in all of England and hence the whole of the world.

‘Means I am very sorry to give you these.’ The man opened his briefcase and handed Jack a tightly bound document.

‘What is it?’

‘Afraid it is a cease and desist notice.’

‘A what?’

‘Cease and desist. Means you must stop all work immediately or face a large fine and possible imprisonment.’

Jack sank down on the box, gripping the papers in his hand and scanned the first few lines. He’d always detested legal jargon – it was there to confound and intimidate, but it worked. Then it hit him: all this was his own fault. He always knew he shouldn’t have stolen that mechanical digger, even if it had only been for a single night.

‘It’s Wilson’s Housing Corporation out for revenge. I know it,’ he declared miserably.

The man looked surprised. ‘It’s the council, sir. Nothing personal. You need to apply for planning permission for golf courses. Go through proper channels.’

This was news to Jack and fury began to bubble inside him. He hated bureaucrats – they were nasty, vague men who got in the way of good business in every nation in the world.

‘It’s a golf course, man! There are no buildings. Not even a stupid car park.’

The man gave a nasal groan. ‘I understand. It does seem most unfair. But nowadays even golf courses need permission.’

Jack looked at all the men busily tending the fairway. ‘Well? What am I to do?’

‘Stop all work and apply for planning permission.’

‘And how long will that take?’

‘I can’t tell you that, sir.’

Jack got to his feet and pointed furiously at the men working on the land.

‘Look,’ he said, trying not to shout, ‘See them? I employ all of them. Am I supposed to send them all home? They thought they were to have another month’s solid work. Have some pity, Mr . . . ?’

The grey man looked at him, and relented. ‘Brown. Mr Brown. I can try to call an emergency meeting at the planning commission. Try to get this resolved quickly.’

‘Please,’ said Jack.

‘But you must halt all work.’

That afternoon a telegram arrived from the carpet factory. As Jack read, a sick feeling churned in his belly.

date: 28 April 1953

Post Office Telegraphs

No fees to be paid unless stamped hereon.

to: jack rosenblum, pursebury ash, dorset

from: george fielding, liverpool st, london

loom broken stop new machine urgent stop send funds stop regards fielding stop

Jack stuffed the telegram into his pocket. There was no money to send – a new machine would cost five hundred pounds. All the money from remortgaging the house had been spent on the course. He would write to Fielding and tell the man to make more repairs. There was nothing else to be done.

Jack stood on the fifth tee and gazed down at the deserted golf course. After weeks of frantic labour the stillness was absolute and he shivered. He’d given the men two days off, promising they’d all be back to work and prayed that this would not turn out to be a lie. The countryside was as serene as ever – indifferent to his turmoil. A chaffinch flew from branch to branch and the wind hummed softly through the bulrushes.

‘Smoke?’ asked a voice.

Jack turned to see Curtis and Basset beside him proferring a packet of cigarettes. The three men sprawled companionably on the neat grass, exhaling thin flumes of smoke into the air, Curtis blowing rings, which hovered mistily above their heads for a moment before disintegrating.

‘Wi’ you look at that.’

Basset pointed across the hedge to a field full of sheep, where a black-faced ewe was lying on her side straining, and as Jack looked he saw that a wet membrane sack protruded from underneath her tail. She gave little cries and grunts, and he realised that he was looking at the nose of a black lamb trying to be born. The ewe gave a final groan and, with a rush of water and blood, the lamb slithered out onto the grass. The mother rested there for a moment, gave another push and a second form poured out of her and landed next to its sibling. The sheep panted, closed her eyes for several seconds, and then she was hauling herself to her feet. The umbilical cords snapped and she nudged her new babies, quietly chewing the membranes that covered their noses and mouths. The tiny creatures lay glistening on the grass until, after several minutes of their mother’s busy licking, they gave a cough, then a splutter and finally began to wiggle their ears. Within five more minutes the lambs were wide awake and struggling to their feet, wobbling on their new limbs. Despite his despair, Jack gazed in wonder.

Curtis smiled and toasted him with his cider flask. ‘I remembers my first lambin’. I were ’bout five or six. Sum time last century any hoo. Was on top o’ Bulbarrow in the coldest March. There were still bloomin’ snow. Not like them sissy winters we gits now. Lambs wisn’t due for ’nother month. I wis mindin’ them sheep and saw one of the ewes was makin’ a rackit and I knows it was startin’. There was no barn or nothin’ so out it came. Brand-new little chilver steamin’ on the snow.’ He slapped Jack on the arm. ‘You alwas remember the first. You is a proper Dorsit man now. You sees it finish and then it starts again.’

That night Jack sprawled in bed with Sadie, their fingertips touching, watching a spider spinning a web between the low ceiling beams. The window was open and they listened to the rain falling softly on the creepers outside. A vase of pinks and violets infused the room with the scent of summer. There was the sound of scratching above their heads as mice scampered in the attic, and from the garden drifted the rustling of a fox and the purr of a nightjar.

‘There is nothing we can do but wait,’ resolved Sadie as she rearranged the bedclothes.

It was true. He had put all his faith in this country; councils were little governments and he must trust them to make the correct decision.

The letter popped through the letterbox two days later, as Jack was quietly pretending to eat his breakfast. Sadie watched as he tore it open with the silver knife, slowly read the contents and wordlessly handed it to her:

Dear Mr Rose,

I am sorry to inform you that planning permission for the golf course at Pursebury Ash has been denied. A number of planning codes are in violation. Details of this decision may be obtained from the local planning officer Mr G. Brown.

Yours regretfully,

Etc.

Sadie studied Jack’s face. When he was working outside he appeared lean and strong, but now his skin was grey and he looked like an old man. He took off his glasses and cleaned them absent-mindedly on his shirt.

‘Well, this is it. We’re finished.
Fertig.
’

Sadie shook her head. This was not the Jack she knew. She watched as he slumped into his chair, rested his head on the kitchen table and shut his eyes.

‘We’ll sausage through,’ she said.

‘I am so tired. Too tired to fight anymore.’

Sadie poked him in the ribs. ‘Get up.’

He shuffled round the table to avoid her but she simply poked him harder.

‘Stop it.’

‘Not until you sit up and decide what we are to do next.’

Jack raised his head and gazed evenly at Sadie. She was wearing her floral apron and curlers but her eyes were full of ferocious determination. ‘How much of the loan money do we have left?’

‘Not much. Less than two hundred pounds.’

Sadie frowned. ‘I think there is only one thing you can do,’ she said slowly.

Jack waited by the car at the top of Bulbarrow Hill, listening to a pair of magpies squabble. The evening was so warm that he was sweating in his jacket and his silk tie choked him. The leaves on the trees barely fluttered and in the patches of shade the first of the foxgloves were bursting into flower. A brown cow leant on a gate chewing the cud and stared at him nonchalantly. After what seemed an endless wait, he heard the distant whirr of a car engine and watched as a red Morris Minor chugged its way up the steep slope. In pursuit of his golf course Jack had taken many risks, even pushed the law a little, but the thought of what he was about to do made him frightened. He watched as the red car crept closer and closer and hoped Sadie was right.

The car drew up next to Jack’s Jaguar and Mr Brown climbed out. He was not smiling. ‘I would have much preferred to meet in my office. We could easily have discussed it there.’

Trembling and silently cursing his unsteady hand, Jack reached into his pocket and drew out a brown envelope. Inside was all the money they had left, every last penny.

‘I want to give you this. I hope it might encourage you to . . . reconsider.’

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.’