Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman (30 page)

‘Aye. An’ there’s a bus from Wiltshire,’ added Basset.

Jack’s stomach gurgled – now that the moment was here, he was more than a little anxious and, to crown it all, Bobby Jones was late. He felt Sadie slip her hand into his. Just then, there was an enormous rumble overhead and the sky seemed to shake, forcing the women to cling desperately to their hats. The trees shuddered and the cries of the crowd were drowned out, as a small, very noisy biplane swooped down. It circled lower and lower, searching for a place to land and then, engine spluttering, touched down on the flat top of the hill. The crowd stared as it sped along the ridge before stuttering to a halt. A moment later, a figure climbed out over the wing, pausing to pull out a bag of golf clubs, and then bounded down the hill. As the engine lapsed into silence, the crowd roared with excitement.

Jack, Sadie and the other golfers waited expectantly on the first tee, all watching as the figure drew closer until, finally, he reached them. He was immaculately clad in brown tweeds and polished golf shoes, his skin lightly tanned from the pleasant American sunshine.

‘Bobby Jones,’ announced the man, warmly clasping Jack’s hand.

‘Jack Rose-in-Bloom. We’re so pleased you could make it.’

Bobby Jones continued to grip his hand firmly. ‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Jack. I’ve kept every single one of your letters. I savoured them all year long. Gee, at first, I couldn’t believe you were for real.’

Bobby opened his jacket just wide enough to display the letters carefully stashed in the inside pocket, and Jack puffed with pride like a robin with the fattest worm on the garden wall.

‘Shall we?’ Bobby Jones enquired politely, in his soft Augustan drawl.

As he gazed at the expectant faces in the crowd, Jack wavered. He turned to Bobby Jones. ‘Would you do the honour of playing the first shot and opening the match?’

‘Why sure.’

Jack stood next to Sadie, keeping a respectful distance, as the great man walked to the first tee. A hush fell over the crowd. Bobby produced a wooden tee from his pocket, pushed it into the ground and then, with a motion of exactness, placed upon it a white ball. He stretched his arms above his head and swivelled his hips to loosen them. With unhurried calm, he selected his driver and, at last, assumed his famed stance. He was totally at ease, body balanced and poised; then he raised his club and, with the smoothest of movements, brought it down in a steady sweep. There was a satisfying click as the ball flew into the distance. Jack gazed in awe as it flew straight down the fairway and landed with a gentle thud at the edge of the green and rolled neatly to the base of the flagstick. The crowd clapped its raucous appreciation.

Now it was Jack’s turn. He took another swig of cider to steady his nerves. His knees shook as Basset handed him his driver, and he walked up to the tee. He closed his eyes and visualised Bobby Jones’s swing – so natural it flowed like water. Jack stood with legs shoulder width apart and flexed his arms. This was the moment. He sensed everyone watching him as he placed the tee carefully in the earth and popped the small white ball on top. He settled over the ball, brought the club up high, and swung down with a powerful swoosh and then . . .

Nothing.

Jack glanced down to see the white ball staring back up at him, still perched on the tee.

The crowed bellowed its approval. No one had ever seen a game of golf before and they were certain Jack’s technique was masterful. ‘Why doncha take another swing,’ said Bobby Jones kindly.

Jack managed his second shot with slightly more dignity than the first: the ball rolled twenty yards down the hill before coming to rest in the rough, causing him to wonder, if perhaps, it might have been better to practise.

Now it was Sadie’s turn. Jack had worked very hard to convince her to play; he bought her a beautiful set of lady’s clubs and at first only the knowledge that they would be wasted otherwise, had persuaded her. But now, to her surprise, she was rather looking forward to it. She had never held a club before and had not even practised her grip on saucepan handles. Still, she reasoned, she couldn’t be much worse than Jack. She studied Bobby Jones very closely and, after slipping her tee into the ground, tried to mimic his stance. It felt surprisingly comfortable and she was quite relaxed as she filtered out the din of the crowd. She raised her club, and then brought it down in a seamless arc. There was a crack, and she watched in utter astonishment as the ball sailed through the air and landed in the middle of the fairway.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Bobby Jones in amazement. ‘Your wife has a perfect swing. She’s a natural.’

Jack turned scarlet with pride.

Sadie won the women’s match by twelve strokes and Bobby Jones the men’s by a hundred and three. Jack was not the worst golfer in the competition and actually made it into the top three simply by not losing his ball. Twenty-seven balls were lost completely and two players forced to withdraw as no more replacements could be found, but no one seemed to mind and the crowd hooted encouragement at every stroke. When the match ended there was a small celebration on the final fairway. The crowd whooped as Jack awarded the women’s medal to his wife and the first ever Queen Elizabeth Golf trophy to Bobby Jones. Bobby held it aloft and posed cheerfully for photographs before climbing back into his plane and taking off into the hazy sky. The crowd continued to cheer until the small biplane disappeared over the horizon.

After it had gone, Basset cleared his throat and raised himself to his full height for the final announcement.

‘I wish to ask Mr Jack Rose-in-Bloom, with the full authority of the Coronation Committee, if he would do us the honour of crowning the Pursebury Queen at the coronation today in the village hall at eleven o’clock.’

Jack was dumbstruck – he took off his glasses and cleaned them again on his tie. He tried to speak but there was a strange feeling in his throat.

A short while later he sat down in the garden, enjoying the pleasant sunshine on his bald head. He was deeply touched at being asked to crown the village queen, but also a little concerned – considering the amount of cider he was supposed to imbibe. According to Curtis’s instructions, he needed to scramble to the top of Bulbarrow before midday. The coronation was due to start at eleven, but in his limited experience Jack knew that village events rarely ran to time – he was also dubious about being able to make the steep climb after five pints of the brew. He concluded it was best not to think about it.

He took another gulp; it burned his throat and made him choke – this was the proper stuff all right. He drifted off to sleep and dreamt of Curtis. The old man was alive again and they sat on the grass above the fifth tee, sharing the flask. They watched the big clouds buffeting across the sky and the swifts soaring amongst the beech trees. Jack handed him the cider and Curtis took a long drink.

‘Ah. Now that’s there is proper stuff,’ he said, giving a great yawn.

‘I followed your instructions.’

‘I know yer did. But tisn’t many chaps what can make it. Takes a special summat.’ Curtis chuckled. ‘Yoos is a proper Dorsit man now. A real good Englishman. An’ yoos knows what that means.’

‘Dad.’

Elizabeth roused him from his deep doze. ‘Dad.’

Jack opened his eyes and was instantly filled with sadness – his friend was dead once more.

‘It’s half ten. You need to go down to the village hall.’

‘All right. All right.’

Jack took Elizabeth’s arm, admiring her new outfit; she was wearing a navy frock that flared above the knee, and her newly short dark hair was glossy beneath a matching blue hair-band. Furtively, he took another gulp of the strange smelling liquid. He had lost count now of how much he had drunk but supposed that this was a good sign. Gratefully, he leant against his daughter and together they made their way down the lane.

Jack had a seat set up outside the village hall; it was the same wooden one as everyone else, but his had a cardboard cut-out of a bishop’s mitre behind and a shepherd’s crook. Behind the audience rows, twenty long tables covered with white cloths and strewn with red roses had been laid out on the village green, ready for the luncheon. Banners blew in the wind and children waved flags. Jack took another stealthy swig from the flask and squinted into the sun – he could just make out the clock tower on the church from here. It was ten forty-five – they were still on time. The Pursebury Queen’s throne rested in the centre of the green on a raised platform that was bedecked with a canopy of flowers and, Jack had to admit, it all looked rather wonderful. He took another drink. Elizabeth blew him a kiss and he beamed back; she was easily the prettiest girl in the crowd. Sadie came and sat beside him, and he cast an approving eye over her; she was wearing a crimson dress and looked very fetching. Then, the Pursebury Players struck up the national anthem and the village rose to its feet. Sadie gave Jack a peck on the cheek. ‘Look, the parade is starting.’

She got up and went to the edge of the green for a better view, leaving Jack alone. He had been far too preoccupied with his golf tournament to listen to any other details. He only knew that it was all supposed to finish before twelve and that the woolly-pig would appear on the top of Bulbarrow at midday sharp. It was most strange; the more of the special cider he drank, the more certain he felt that the creature would come.

Jack sweltered in his regal robes. The music was soothing rather than rousing, and he fought against sleep. Once again, he glanced at the church clock. Eleven. Running late now. Never mind, he could walk fast. He got to his feet and swayed as Elizabeth caught his arm.

‘Are you all right?’

Jack passed her the jar. ‘Have a sip of that.’

Elizabeth choked. ‘Daddy, what is it?’

‘Secret.’ He pressed a finger to his lips. ‘I’ll tell you when I’m dead.’

She looked a little worried as her father collapsed into his chair and began to toy with the bishop’s mitre. Basset ambled past and winked at him. ‘A’ right, Jack – ready?’

Jack tried his best to look official but Basset gave him a second glance – something wasn’t right. He sat down in the empty seat next to him and sniffed.

‘You got special cider.’

Jack handed him the flask and Basset took a loud slug of booze.

‘I am confiscating this. You needs to be sober.’

Jack hiccupped happily. ‘I’m fine. Just fine and dandelion.’

‘Aye. I’ll jist sit here. We is runnin’ late.’

Jack sighed and tried to focus on the church clock – everything was getting a little fuzzy. Eleven thirty. He still might make it. The national anthem started again and the ladies-in-waiting took their places at the foot of the throne, while the children gathered on the grass. The adults all waited expectantly in neat rows; there was a scent of carbolic soap and clean skin.

‘Basset, do you want to crown the Queen?’

‘What does you mean?’

Jack stared at the village clock. Eleven forty-five. If he left now – said he had a headache, a gangrenous leg or something – and ran to the top of Bulbarrow, then he might just make the woolly-pig. Two children began to sprinkle confetti petals on the grass up the central aisle, where the village Queen was to walk, and Jack got to his feet – it was almost his moment.

‘You could crown the Queen.’

Basset’s face fell. ‘You is jist nervous Jack. You’ll be grand.’

There was a hush as the Queen descended from her horse-drawn carriage. She was a tall, buxom girl but she understood the magnificence of the occasion and walked with a stately pride. All the faces on the green turned to watch her – they were filled with such hope and expectation, and Jack realised that he couldn’t disappoint them. He would have to miss the woolly-pig. He hoped Curtis would understand, and muttered under his breath, ‘I can’t let them all down, my friend. It wouldn’t be British.’

He grabbed Basset and lurched dangerously.

‘Jack Basset. Walk with me.’

‘I’d be honoured.’

Slowly, arm in arm, the two old men followed the Pursebury Queen up the aisle. All heads turned to watch them as they passed; the small, purple-robed bishop and the round, suited farmer. Sadie thought she would burst with pride as her husband proceeded past her seat. He moved so carefully, aware of the importance of the day to the village and to avoid toppling over from the cider.

Basset stopped at the end of the aisle. The Queen was already seated on her throne and Jack climbed the steps to kneel before her. She tapped him on the shoulder with her sceptre and he stood. Doing his best to remain steady, he turned to the crowd. He couldn’t see any of their faces and colours began to pool together – there was a sea of white dresses, another of swaying grass and the sky was throbbing blue. Flying above them all was a squadron of jitterbugs. They cast their weird green light over the village and flitted in looping patterns amongst the trees. On the horizon Jack could see Bulbarrow Ridge, and the jagged hawthorn branches uneven against the smooth skyline. Was the woolly-pig there waiting for him?

A child knelt at his feet, holding a cushion on which lay a golden crown. Jack bent down and raised it up to the crowd. He took a step towards the Queen and she lowered her head to receive the diadem. It glinted in the sun, blinding him for a moment. He paused, crown held aloft, and turned once more to Bulbarrow. And there on the top he saw it: a giant boar with great carved tusks as white as bleached bone, its coat thick and matted like a sheep’s fleece, its snout long and upturned like a pig’s. It was a creature of majesty and magnificence, and it seemed to Jack that it saw him and met his gaze with its shining green eyes. As the clock struck midday, Jack placed the crown on the head of the Pursebury Queen. Then, the hour bell finished chiming and the woolly-pig was gone.