Mr. Rosenblum's List Part 6

'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 gla.s.sy orange eyes were staring back at him.

When he arrived home Sadie was waiting for him on the doorstep. Her face was pale and her expression almost compa.s.sionate. Jack was touched, and reached out and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. 'Thank you.'

Sadie flinched and stomped inside the house, 'Not your stupid course. I would have dug that up myself if I'd only thought of it. It's Elizabeth. She's not coming home.'

Jack went cold. He felt the last remnants of optimism trickle out of him like the dregs of tea from a kettle.

'She telephoned to say that Alicia Smythe's father will take them both to Cambridge. She said it would be easier save you the bother of collecting her, and the long journey.'

'It would have been no trouble.'

'I told her that. She was very insistent.'

Jack crumpled the antic.i.p.ation of Elizabeth's visit and then driving her to university had carried him through all the hours of hard labour. The trip was to have been a great adventure for them both, but Mr Smythe had stolen it from him. Jack thought of Arnold Smythe: banker, six feet and three quarters of an inch tall, handsome, blond moustache and a hearty handshake. He would get to take both girls to tea in Cambridge and walk with them through those ancient college quadrangles. Jack could just picture him (moustachioed and smiling) with two lovely English daughters all of them at ease and where they belonged, and with a pang, he wondered whether Elizabeth had planned this all along. Was she so embarra.s.sed of her father and his foreign voice and looks? Yes, he could understand her preferring Mr Arnold Smythe as a stand-in father.

Jack was tormented by the idea that Elizabeth was mortified to be seen with him. He had thought that he was different to the others. He was the one chap in their circle who knew to buy marmalade from Fortnum's, and who realised that Lux was the only brand of soap flakes that would pa.s.s muster (and was not to be confused with a kind of smoked salmon beigel). Yet, it seemed that his own daughter knew him to be a fraud and a foreigner. He must return to his list, and rehea.r.s.e the subtleties of Englishness. This had to be done properly, and so he found a spot in the garden well concealed by an overgrown willow, carried out his list, the wireless, the papers and a bottle of whisky, set down a canvas chair and took up his studies once again.

It was over a month since he last glanced at a newspaper (item forty-nine: an Englishman studies The Times The Times with careful attention) and the city and financial crisis seemed oddly distant. As he turned to headlines about the 'Chronic Housing Shortage', 'National Debt Crisis' and 'Expense of the Health Service', he realised that he was no longer a man who cared about such things. He folded the paper into a neat stack, deciding they would be useful in lighting the fires when the weather turned cold. with careful attention) and the city and financial crisis seemed oddly distant. As he turned to headlines about the 'Chronic Housing Shortage', 'National Debt Crisis' and 'Expense of the Health Service', he realised that he was no longer a man who cared about such things. He folded the paper into a neat stack, deciding they would be useful in lighting the fires when the weather turned cold.

There was a soft thud as a plum hit him on the head and then rolled into the long gra.s.s. He picked it up and rubbed it on his not-quite-clean trouser leg. The skin was dark purple and s.h.i.+ning and, when he bit into the yellow flesh, tasted faintly of honey. He yawned, switched on the wireless and took a large slug of whisky. Number seventy-one an Englishman listens to the BBC felt quite natural to him. He'd been desolate when his set was briefly confiscated during the war (they would have taken his bicycle, camera and car too if he'd had them). The local bobby who came round to collect it was apologetic, but he was under orders to remove wirelesses from all 'cla.s.s B' enemy aliens. He gave Jack a ticket, and promised to return it the minute he was recla.s.sified as a 'cla.s.s C'. On seeing the dejected look on Jack's face, the bobby had a.s.sured him that he wouldn't let any of the chaps down the station listen to it. Six months later, the wireless was indeed returned unscathed by the same policeman, along with a bag of almond biscuits baked by his wife. The incident remained in Jack's mind, a symbol of the vagaries of government legislation (not that he'd ever criticise), and the kindness of the ordinary Englishman.

The clipped tones of the announcer introduced John Betjeman and Jack nestled into his deckchair, closing his eyes in antic.i.p.ation. He remembered his programmes during the war Betjeman, like the great Churchill himself, had reminded the public of what they were fighting to safeguard: a resolutely English way of life. Jack heard the voice of the poet as a rabbi hears the Song of Solomon. Each broadcast was a lament for an England he saw slipping away. Sitting in his garden, he joined with Betjeman in his ardour for feather-grey slate roofs, flowering currant bushes and the ancient place names of Fiddleford, Piddlehinton and Fifehead Magdalene. He felt himself to be one of the broadcaster's select society of ardent anglophiles, devoted to the preservation of everything great about this little island. He too loved the water meadows brushed by hedges of wild rose and adored the idea of bluebells in April. Quietly, he promised himself trips to St Ives, Brownsea Island and the Isle of Man, and swore allegiance to Betjeman's quest to block the march of the pre-fabricated bungalows across England's green and pleasant land.

Betjeman's fascination with churches he could not share. However ancient, ivy clad or pretty the ramshackle tombstones in the churchyard, churches remained a symbol of Jack's un-Englishness. If only what they stood for had some name other than 'The Church of England'. They were stone watchtowers to remind him if he ever got too comfortable or ever began to feel even a little bit English, that he did not belong. He listened to today's talk on churches obediently but, unlike those on every other subject, he did not weep with sympathy. He fidgeted, trying to pay attention until finally, in an admission of abject failure, he switched off the wireless.

He folded up his chair, trapping his finger in the hinge and his temper snapped in a torrent of German obscenities, 'Himmeldonnerwetter', before he recovered enough to curse in English, 's.h.i.+t and skulduggery.'

He stormed into the house and lurked sullenly in his study, irked by his own shortcomings and worrying about Elizabeth. He wanted her to be pleased by her English father and here he was abandoning his studies. He must try harder. He pondered the other topics Betjeman had touched upon: seaside towns, the architecture of Bath, Victorian novelists. Now, that was a good one; he could cultivate his admiration of the novelists Mr Betjeman was very clear that this was a vital aspect of Englishness. Jack had never read the British Canon he had been taught Shakespeare in school, but it was Goethe and the Brothers Grimm that he loved. When the Rosenblums were waiting anxiously in Berlin for their British visas, Jack had prepared for the trip by reading Byron's poems and a Polish translation of P.G. Woodhouse. He understood only a little Polish and read the adventures of Mr Bertie Wooster with the help of a GermanPolish dictionary. It all got rather lost in translation, and the novel appeared to him a very peculiar sort of book and had dissuaded him from sampling further the pleasures of English literature. Now, having listened to Betjeman, he realised that this was a grievous error being an English Gentleman was a state of mind and, while it was too late for him to attend Eton or Cambridge, he must cultivate his mind with the reading of a gentleman nonetheless.

After all, was not Elizabeth reading English Literature at Cambridge? Jack flushed with joy at the delightful prospect of discussing voluminous tomes with his daughter and impressing her with shrewd insights. He drew up a reading list according to the principles of Mr Betjeman, who was very specific about the importance of the Victorian novelists above all others. He listed them: Thackeray, d.i.c.kens, Mrs Gaskell, Thomas Hardy. Yes, he would begin with Hardy because he was the author of Wess.e.x. The house conveniently contained, in seventeen dusty volumes, the complete works of Hardy. Jack had stacked these neatly in his study because he admired the faded bindings and gilt-edged pages. To atone for his inability to appreciate chapels and churches, he would read some Hardy.

He scanned the t.i.tles: Tess of the D'Urbervilles, The Mayor of Casterbridge, Far From the Madding Crowd. Tess of the D'Urbervilles, The Mayor of Casterbridge, Far From the Madding Crowd. Then, one caught his eye: Then, one caught his eye: Jude the Obscure. Jude the Obscure. 'I didn't know Hardy wrote about a Jew! 'I didn't know Hardy wrote about a Jew! And And an obscure Jew.' an obscure Jew.'

In an instant Jack went from feeling excluded by his Jewishness, to glorious exultation. The Great Victorian Novelist of Dorset had written about an obscure Jew like him. 'This is me!' He clamoured excitedly to the empty room as he wielded the book. He had been quite prepared to cultivate his enthusiasm for Hardy but he could see that this would not be necessary.

He attempted to read Jude Jude over breakfast the next morning but he was finding it very tricky to concentrate. On balance, P.G. Woodhouse was easier to read, even in Polish. He gave an unhappy sigh and pushed the book aside, miserably adding 'Victorian novelists' to 'English churches' on the list of things he could not properly appreciate, despite having being recommended by Betjeman. He considered that at this rate, when Elizabeth finally returned, she would notice no difference in her father at all, and began to b.u.t.ter his toast with such aggression that it disintegrated into a mush of crumbs. over breakfast the next morning but he was finding it very tricky to concentrate. On balance, P.G. Woodhouse was easier to read, even in Polish. He gave an unhappy sigh and pushed the book aside, miserably adding 'Victorian novelists' to 'English churches' on the list of things he could not properly appreciate, despite having being recommended by Betjeman. He considered that at this rate, when Elizabeth finally returned, she would notice no difference in her father at all, and began to b.u.t.ter his toast with such aggression that it disintegrated into a mush of crumbs.

Jack rubbed his aching temples; he loved England and wanted to listen to the slow trains rattling through the green countryside via Millford Vale and Blandford Forum. He liked the British Railways: platforms selling soggy sandwiches and paperback novels, cramped compartments filled with suited holiday folk all gazing out of smeared windows at rus.h.i.+ng fields. These trains were pleasant things that made you smile to think of them, like a hot cup of tea. They were not like those other trains the ones of Mittel Europe that stole men's souls.

But there was that other side of England, the people like Ba.s.set, who did not want him and who tore up his land pretending it was the work of a giant pig. It was not the first time, or even the second or third that such a thing had happened to Jack, though it was the first to be blamed on a mythical beast. His factory in the East End had been vandalised on countless occasions. It occurred continually in the run-up to the war, as people did not like that a Jew (and a German) was making money in their city. The walls were daubed with paint, bricks tossed through the windows and every Monday morning Jack helped clean up the damage. It got better during the war; vandalism then was an unpatriotic act, especially on a parachute factory. In the vast, anonymous city such petty hatred did not upset him. The dislike was placid, impersonal and he accepted that his position as a new arrival made him the perfect scapegoat. Here, amongst the dappled clouds and cooing wood pigeons, the hatred punctured his idyll and disturbed him.

He sat in the kitchen miserably chewing his toast and slurping a cup of black tea. Sadie bustled around, scrubbing pots and muttering under her breath, until finally she abandoned an encrusted ca.s.serole dish, letting it clatter into the sink and, fixing Jack with a hard stare, demanded, 'When are you going to start work again on that wretched course?'

'It's broken. Kaput Kaput. Finished.'

'So, you must fix it.'

While Jack's obsession irked her, Sadie discovered that this miserable man, who refused to shave and dripped from study to deckchair like a cat caught in a rain shower was even more bothersome. Gott in himmel! Gott in himmel! She needed him to be fizzing with optimism. ' She needed him to be fizzing with optimism. 'Dann wurstel dich durch!'

'Sausage through? How can I?' Jack gazed steadily at his wife and brushed crumbs off the book beside him. 'I don't want to rebuild because I cannot bear them to destroy it again.'

There was a dull b.u.mp as the post hit the doormat, and he went into the hall to collect it. He recognised the handwriting of Fielding on a white envelope and opened it with a sinking feeling. The letter from the factory manager contained the usual requests for new machinery. The looms were near obsolete, (everyone wanted tufted and pile carpets nowadays) but Jack was reluctant to invest in case he required more money for his course. Fielding was pressing him for a decision, but Jack had no room in his mind for such things and guiltily slipped the letter to the bottom of the pile.

Then he noticed something most unusual. Amongst the usual bills there was a cream envelope made from expensive watermarked paper. He took it into his study such a pretty piece had to be opened with the silver letter knife. He fumbled in the drawer and pulled out the s.h.i.+ning blade, carefully slicing open the envelope to remove a smart cream 'At Home' card.

Piddle HallDear Mr and Mrs Rosenblum,My wife and I are hosting a little gathering for drinks on Friday. We would be delighted if you and Mrs Rosenblum could join us. We look forward to welcoming you to our delightful piece of country. Be so kind as to come at seven.Regards,Sir William Waegbert Jack's hand shook with excitement. This was a letter from a real English knight, not a mere gentleman but an actual member of the aristocracy. He marvelled over the invitation; did it mean that he was finally about to be accepted as an Englishman? He wished again that Elizabeth was here then he could have shown her the card and she would realise he was a proper gentleman. Still trembling, he read and reread the invitation, admiring Sir William Waegbert's close hand and genteel loops. He must strive to make his own handwriting more gentlemanlike. Clearly, his was far too easy to read one must work to decipher the words of a real gentleman like Sir William Waegbert. Jack tried the name aloud, 'Sir William Waegbert.' It sounded most auspicious. Much smarter than 'Arnold Smythe', and a fragment of Jack's jealousy of that man broke off and vanished.

There was one slight difficulty with the otherwise delightful invitation Sadie was also invited. While Jack knew that it was usual to include a man's wife, Sadie was not like most wives. He hoped that she would behave he could not bear for her to make a scene and wished for the thousandth time that she would rinse her hair blue, paint her nails and be like other women. Jack realised it would take all of his persuasive powers to get Sadie to agree to accompany him; the party was on Friday night and she never went out on Shabbas Shabbas. She would not even pick flowers, for the law states that nothing shall be broken into two halves on the Sabbath. Jack ventured into her territory to plead his case and found her kneeling amongst the flowerbeds cutting the dead heads off cala lilies. Without a word, he squatted down beside her and handed her the invitation. Putting down her shears, she read it in silence and pa.s.sed it back to him, leaving a bright yellow smear of pollen across the pristine surface. He winced but uttered no reproach. 'Well, will you come?'

'It is on Shabbas Shabbas,' she said by way of answer.

'Ah, well, no, not quite.' He had been thinking about this on his way into the garden. 'It states an arrival time of seven o'clock and dusk is not until eight thirty. And, therefore,' he gave a little cough, 'by my calculations Shabbas Shabbas will not be in until nine thirty.' He actually had no idea when dusk was, but he spoke with such a.s.surance that Sadie did not question him. She picked up her scissors and continued to snip away at the flowers, placing the fallen heads into a bucket. She moved a stone and instantly the soil was teeming with ants. Jack shuddered, repulsed by the wriggling black bodies and tiny pinkish eggs. will not be in until nine thirty.' He actually had no idea when dusk was, but he spoke with such a.s.surance that Sadie did not question him. She picked up her scissors and continued to snip away at the flowers, placing the fallen heads into a bucket. She moved a stone and instantly the soil was teeming with ants. Jack shuddered, repulsed by the wriggling black bodies and tiny pinkish eggs.

Seeing his revulsion, she gave a snort, 'Everything is home for something.'

'Please,' said Jack, 'please.'

Sadie did not seem to hear him. She gave a little chuckle of glee and pointed to a small blue bloom, 'A cornflower.'

There was the sound of knocking on wood, like a tiny, powerful fist against a ma.s.sive door. Above them a brilliant woodp.e.c.k.e.r, white and red, hammered with his beak against the bark of a tree. Sadie listened acutely to the sound, alert with interest.

'I like his outfit,' said Jack, pointing to the bird's brilliant plumage. 'He's a dapper little fellow. And an excellent percussionist. I'm sure with the right contacts, he could perform at the Wigmore Hall.'

Sadie's face brightened until she was almost smiling. She rocked back onto her heels and glanced up at her husband.

'Very well, I'll come,' she said and carried on snipping.

Jack waited for Friday like a small child for sweets to come off ration. When it finally arrived, he dressed himself meticulously in his Henry Poole suit and carefully selected a lilac silk tie. He combed his few strands of hair and shaved with a new blade. He even speculated whether he ought to grow a moustache for the occasion, but, on balance, did not feel confident enough with regard to the etiquette on facial hair. There were bound to be nuances of meaning in the angle or the shape of the curl and then there was the troubling question of whether or not to wax. It was safer to shave. He would study the gentleman of the aristocracy and then perhaps reconsider. and then perhaps reconsider.

Sadie was waiting for him by the car. He was relieved to see that she was very respectably dressed in a pale olive frock the colour matching the soft green of her eyes with a white cardigan and matching shoes. She clutched a bouquet of garden flowers. 'We mustn't go empty handed. We're not schnorrers schnorrers.'

Jack smiled, pleased by her good thinking. This was their very first evening out since their arrival in the countryside. He had been far too busy with his golf course to drive out with his wife and she was indifferent to excursions, preferring to stay quietly in her garden watching the birds. The evening was warm and Jack had peeled the top off the car. He gripped the steering wheel tightly to hide the slight trembling of his hands. If only he had finished Jude Jude then he would have something suitable to talk about. Privately, he was already certain that he preferred Byron to Hardy, mainly because he was shorter in height as well as length, and Jack always felt a firm sense of solidarity with other small men. then he would have something suitable to talk about. Privately, he was already certain that he preferred Byron to Hardy, mainly because he was shorter in height as well as length, and Jack always felt a firm sense of solidarity with other small men.

The verges had been mown and the evening was heavy with the smell of freshly cut gra.s.s; dotted amongst the dark green of the hedgerows were speckles of scarlet wild strawberries and the whitish flowers of the brambles. The edges of the road teemed with bounding rabbits and every now and again they pa.s.sed one stretched out on the tarmac, its fur bloodied. Jack stared straight ahead and suppressed a shudder.

He had memorised the map and was confident of the route but, in case of misadventure, he had allowed an extra half hour for the fifteen-minute journey. They arrived in fourteen minutes, shortly before half past six. The invitation strictly stated seven o'clock, so he pulled the car to the side of the road and they waited. He had the card with him; it was soiled now but he kept it anyway, safely tucked in his jacket pocket, half expecting to be questioned and turned away by the staff unless he could produce it. In front of them were the gates to the house. They were elaborate wrought iron and supported by two towering gateposts made of blond sandstone, each one topped with a screeching, weather-beaten eagle. A wall, seven feet high, ran from the gates all around the estate, so they could not see what lay beyond. A narrow driveway led away and immediately wound tightly to the right, heightening Jack's sense of expectation. They sat in silence until six fifty-five staring at the austere eagles, which gazed back at them, beaks tilted imperiously.

At six fifty-five Jack started the engine and they drove slowly along the gravel drive. It was lined on both sides with towering bushes of rhododendron and ancient magnolia trees. The land sloped down to a lake where a small flock of sheep grazed on the banks in the company of a brilliant white horse. On either side of the lake parkland was dotted with spreading oaks and Jack noticed a herd of deer grazing in the distance. In a minute they reached the house, a handsome stone manor, the front facade covered with ivy and tumbling wisteria, the evening sun glinting off the windows. They drew up to the main steps, whereupon an elderly man in a grey suit slowly descended. Jack leant out of the car, trying to shake his hand, 'Delighted to make your acquaintance, Sir William Waegbert.'

The man gave an almost imperceptible bow, 'Thank you for the compliment, Mr Rosenblum, but I am not the ill.u.s.trious Sir William. My name is Symonds. The butler.'

Jack flushed with embarra.s.sment his first blunder and he'd not even parked the car.

'Would you be good enough to leave the automobile by the stables, sir?' said Symonds, pointing to a low building around the corner.

Jack steered the Jaguar to the smart stables at the back of the house. They had recently been reroofed with black slate tiles and the wooden walls were newly painted duck-egg blue. Two horses wearing nosebags gazed nonchalantly at the newcomers. A groom polished riding tack to a gleam, while a nut-brown mare fidgeted and tried to back into a wall as a girl in breeches attempted to pick muck from her hooves with a blunt knife. Jack parked alongside a line of other vehicles in the far corner of the yard. The automobiles were in stark contrast to the s.h.i.+ning, well-cared for horses. There was an Austin, its bodywork battered by what appeared to be hoof-prints, the wheel arches eaten away by rust. Next to it was a Rolls-Royce, but it was a model dating to before the Great War its exhaust was missing and there were holes in the leather upholstery where tufts of horsehair stuffing poked through.

They walked back through the yard, Sadie stumbling on the cobbles in her heels. Having taken to walking barefoot over the gra.s.s, it felt strange to her to be wearing shoes at all. Symonds was waiting for them at the front of the house. He must have been in his seventies but Jack noticed with admiration his excellent upright bearing.

'May I show you into the rose garden? Sir William and Lady Waegbert will join you shortly, Mr Rosenblum, Mrs Rosenblum.'

They followed the servant into the formal garden at the front of the manor. Jack still found the English manner of speaking most peculiar. They so rarely made absolute statements or asked you to do something but instead continually spoke in rhetorical questions 'would you?' 'may I?' when what they truly meant was park here, wait there. They liked to give you the illusion of choice, when really there was none.

'Will you be quite comfortable here, sir? And may I bring you a drink, sir?'

'Yes. Thank you. A whisky.'

'With soda or ice?'

Jack paused, wondering which was the correct answer. Which would give him away as a phoney and a foreigner? 'A dash of soda, please,' he said, trying to sound casual.

Symonds gave a tiny bow and Jack relaxed he had chosen wisely. He must remember that. No more neat whisky: whisky and soda.

'And for the lady?'

Now it was Sadie's turn to look stricken, she s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably from foot to foot, heels sinking awkwardly into the gra.s.s. Nice, middle-cla.s.s Jewish ladies didn't drink. Occasionally she might have a gla.s.s of champagne if they went to the opera but only in the Stalls bar, never from the Crush bar. She had once tried a sip of gin and tonic and had rather liked it but Mrs Ezekiel had seen her, and she had told everyone at schul schul on Sat.u.r.day that Mrs Sadie Rosenblum liked a gin. Gin, Sadie decided, was a danger to one's reputation. Jack, however, knew better; only yesterday on the wireless Mr Betjeman had described how gin and tonic with a slice of lemon was one of the great joys of an English summer's evening. Betjeman explained that it evoked the old days of Empire and the nostalgic pleasures of a misremembered past, and noted wryly that even English ladies enjoyed a little 'G and T' amongst friends. on Sat.u.r.day that Mrs Sadie Rosenblum liked a gin. Gin, Sadie decided, was a danger to one's reputation. Jack, however, knew better; only yesterday on the wireless Mr Betjeman had described how gin and tonic with a slice of lemon was one of the great joys of an English summer's evening. Betjeman explained that it evoked the old days of Empire and the nostalgic pleasures of a misremembered past, and noted wryly that even English ladies enjoyed a little 'G and T' amongst friends.

'A gin and tonic, with a slice of lemon if you've got it,' said Jack firmly.

Sadie opened her mouth to speak and then shut it again meekly, smoothing an imaginary crease in her dress. She was still clutching the flowers.

'May I take these, madam?' asked Symonds.

Sadie hesitated. 'They're for Lady Waegbert.'

'The man doesn't think they're for him,' said Jack irritably.

She allowed him to take them from her, watching as he vanished into the house. They were left standing on a lawn, neatly clipped and rolled into smart stripes. Pyramids of Yew were planted in straight lines across the gra.s.s and loomed above them. She wondered whether it was usual to be left hanging about in the garden, waiting for one's host.

In fact it was not. Lady Waegbert liked to greet her guests personally however unwelcome. She could not see why her husband had invited such ludicrous people to her house just because people were odd it was no guarantee of their being entertaining. And now, they had arrived so outrageously early that no one was ready to receive them.

'Surely everybody everybody knows that seven o'clock means seven thirty,' she complained bitterly to her husband. knows that seven o'clock means seven thirty,' she complained bitterly to her husband.

'Darling, they are foreign, Germans. Germans. They are always punctual.' They are always punctual.'

'They are not punctual. They are early,' she said, as if it were one of the worst crimes in society. 'And to arrive before your hostess has even had time to put on her lipstick.'

The Rosenblums, in the shadow of the Yew Pyramids, were oblivious to their violation of the social niceties. Nor did Jack realise that they had been invited solely for entertainment value. The other ten guests had all been asked to stay for dinner, and Jack was intended to provide the pre-dinner cabaret. Sir William was not a cruel man but he enjoyed the bizarre or ridiculous, and he had heard the strange tales about the Jew of Bulbarrow, who was trying to build a golf course in forty days and forty nights with only a shovel. This was too good an opportunity to forgo, so risking the wrath of his wife he dispatched a rash invitation.

Sir William, growing tired of his lady's complaints, went out into the garden to meet his guests. He rubbed his hands in delight as he saw them standing together. They were better than he had hoped she was merely old-fas.h.i.+oned-looking, a plump woman in a faded frock and silly white shoes but he was very promising. To Sir William's eye, Jack's treasured Henry Poole suit was garish and the lilac tie lurid. The fact he wore a suit at all for what was merely drinks was also highly entertaining. A gentleman wears a jacket and tie for drinks and a suit only for dinner. Sir William, however, was the model of perfect breeding and, as he shook their hands with real warmth and profuse apologies at his own lateness, Jack and Sadie suspected nothing.

The remainder of the guests arrived punctually late at seven thirty. They appeared on the lawn with Lady Waegbert just as Jack was attempting to steer the conversation to the first four pages of Jude the Obscure. Jude the Obscure. He had also stashed a collection of Hardy's poems in his breast pocket in case any one was in need of an urgent quotation. He had also stashed a collection of Hardy's poems in his breast pocket in case any one was in need of an urgent quotation.

'Jude, eh. No never read it. Tried Tess Tess once. Heard she was quite a gal, a real corker,' confided Sir William with a wink. once. Heard she was quite a gal, a real corker,' confided Sir William with a wink.

Jack made a silent promise to read Tess Tess next. The combination of whisky, suns.h.i.+ne and nerves was making him feel a trifle faint. The men drew around Sir William eager to meet the promised Jew, like a crowd gathering for a circus act. He introduced Jack to several smart-looking gentlemen, including Mr Henry h.o.a.re, a man of about sixty in a patched flannel jacket and heavy horn-rimmed spectacles. next. The combination of whisky, suns.h.i.+ne and nerves was making him feel a trifle faint. The men drew around Sir William eager to meet the promised Jew, like a crowd gathering for a circus act. He introduced Jack to several smart-looking gentlemen, including Mr Henry h.o.a.re, a man of about sixty in a patched flannel jacket and heavy horn-rimmed spectacles.

'So, do tell us about this golf course, then. The only reason we've come to this ghastly pile at all is to hear about it,' said Mr h.o.a.re.

Jack looked worried he recognised this to be an instance of English wit but did not like it and hoped Sir William had not taken offence. The baronet, however, remained unperturbed and smiled encouragingly.

'Well, the course will be the greatest in the whole South-West. It is the most important labour of my life,' Jack declared.

He looked at the expectant faces and took another sip of whisky. It was nearly a week since he stopped construction but he found his enthusiasm for the project returning in great waves as the alcohol warmed his throat.

'I am following the example of Mr Bobby Jones in my view the greatest player and designer of courses in the whole of golfing history.'

'Jones is a gentleman, too. A true amateur, none of your sporting professionals, sporting professionals,' added a man in a dull green tweed.

Sir William gestured to Symonds, who scuttled over to take a whispered order, reappearing, as if by magic, moments later with another gla.s.s of whisky and soda for Jack. As he sipped, Jack felt warm and pleasant, and became expansive. He wanted these men, these leaders of society, to understand, no, to fully appreciate the wonder that was Bobby Jones. He spread his arms like a rabbi deep in explanation of the mysteries of the Torah.

'There is no one quite like Mr Jones. He truly is a remarkable man. His is a gift straight from Himself,' said Jack, in a voice quivering with emotion and raised his eyes to the cloudless sky. 'Augusta is paradise on earth. There are flowers in red and yellow and gold and blue and silver lakes with multicoloured fish. The sand in the hazards is so fine it feels like ground silk. Parrots roost in the trees and help to find any lost b.a.l.l.s. Nightingales sing and the air is scented with honey from specially kept bees. When the light is just so, the gra.s.s looks blue, and you believe you are playing a round in the sky.'

'Jones, you say?' Sir William asked, caught off guard by Jack's description.

'Yes, Mr Bobby Jones, Sir William Waegbert.'

'Oh, please, please, just plain old Sir William.'

Jack grinned, gratified at the perceived honour of calling a knight by his abbreviated t.i.tle. He was relaxing with Sir William's kindness and the growing effects of the liquor.

'And you say that your course will be the greatest?' demanded the man in mossy tweed.

'Yes. For the very first time in the ill.u.s.trious annals of the sport, I am combining the two great models. Not only am I using the inspiration of Mr Jones's brilliance at Augusta, but also the triumph of Old Tom Morris and the revered wisdom of Mr Robert Hunter. I shall create a links course on the side of Bulbarrow. It will be a perfect copy of St Andrews.'

'Links are by the sea are they not?'

Jack sighed and plunged his hands into his pockets. 'Yes. I may have to dam the Stour. We shall see.'

Sir William beamed. His eccentric guest was proving most amusing and he rewarded him with a benevolent smile.

His confidence growing, Jack risked an observation. He phrased it as a question, in the English way. 'Waegbert is a German name, is it not?'

'Good G.o.d no! It does sound Germanic I'll give you that. Bit like Wagner or what-not. No. It's Anglo-Saxon. There have been Waegberts at Piddle Hall since nine seventy-three. William is Norman. There have been Williams in the family since William the Conqueror. Apparently my ancestors thought it was a good idea to flatter the blighter by naming Waegberts in his honour.'

Jack nodded, overwhelmed by this sense of history. He fully expected that Noah had two Waegberts on his ark.

Sir William was usually quite happy to talk about the grand ancestry of the Waegberts at some length, but he wanted to hear more about the golf course. 'When will it be finished?'

Jack frowned he did not want to admit to the catastrophe, as that would show weakness. And that was not British. Rule sixty-four: an Englishman keeps his head in a crisis no matter what no matter what.

'In time for her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth's coronation. I shall hold a compet.i.tion to celebrate the momentous occasion.'