Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman (29 page)

‘Curtis,’ he called softly.

He gave the small form a gentle nudge. It made no response. Jack sat on the edge of the cot and lowered his ear to Curtis’s mouth. No breath tickled him. He touched his neck and felt for a pulse. The old man’s skin was cool.

Curtis Butterworth, the last of the old Dorset men, was dead. His life ended less than a mile from where it began, over a hundred years before.

Jack listened to the quiet of the afternoon. The smouldering logs in the old stove cast a warm glow around the cabin and a rosy flush upon Curtis’s cheek, so that Jack could almost fancy he still lived. This strange old man was the greatest friend he had ever known, and yet he did not shed a tear. He felt numbness in his belly and slid to the floor of the hut. Curtis’s stout boots were lined up next to the door and a bloodied brace of pheasant hung from a nail. He noticed something else. Pinned beneath the dead birds was an envelope with ‘Meester Jack Rose-in-Blom’ written upon it. He hauled himself to his feet and unfastened the letter, then, not knowing what he ought to do next, sat back down by the cot, and opened the envelope. Inside was a note, written on very thin parchment that looked suspiciously like toilet paper.

Deer Meester Ros In Blom

Yoos was the onlee one to trooly believe in dorsit woolly peg. Them others thinks it is only silly childers tail. Tis most unfortoonate. They is hignorant.

ONLY TROO DORSIT MEN CAN SEE IM, THAT WOOLY PEG. (an Dorsit men is the bist of all English men)

Not them piles of cow mook. They is noggerheads, ninny-wallies and effing turds.

Ate een deys after auwld midsommer Drink 5 pints

cider per instructshons (resipee on back of this shit of paper) and look top bulbarrow. afore noon.

Yoos afectsionate frend,

Curtis

p.s Please take them pheasants. Tis a shame to waste em like.

 
Jack read the letter through three times. Curtis must have known he was dying. He had retreated into his hut like a wild animal that crawls into the hedgerow to die, and his last act was to pass on his recipe to Jack.

They buried Curtis with his last flask of special cider – everyone knew he could not face eternity without a good drink. Jack and Sadie had never been to a Christian burial before and they stood by the grave with the rest of the village, ready to throw a handful of dirt onto the coffin. Jack felt that there was a Curtis-shaped hole in the universe, an emptiness where once he had been. Curtis hadn’t needed a list to be the best of all Englishmen.

After the service Basset erected a temporary headstone fashioned out of wood, on which he had painted the words that would be transferred to the gravestone for posterity:

‘Curtis. Born Last Century. Died 28th May, 1953

aged somewhere between eighty-nine and

one hundred and thirteen-ish’.

In the now deserted churchyard, Jack held the wooden board as Basset wedged it into the soft earth.

‘He were one of a kind. Unique like.’

Jack nodded, dumb with grief. He wished his friend could at least have lived to see the coronation and the start of the Elizabethan era – it was going to be a new world. Then, perhaps, Curtis belonged to the old one.

‘Do you believe in the woolly-pig?’

Basset chuckled and then looked a trifle guilty. ‘Don’t go daft. I ’ad thought we was all clear ’bout that. Said I were sorry.’

‘No, that’s not what I meant, old friend. It was something Curtis said.’

‘Aye. After ten pints o’ cider, I’ll warrant.’

Basset paused to stare into the horizon. ‘I wish ’ee’d given ’is recipe to some ’un. It is awful sad that ’is cider dies with ’im.’

Jack reached into his pocket and felt the letter, but said nothing.

‘Here,’ said Sadie, handing a red-striped tea towel to Lavender, so that she could wipe the perspiration from her forehead. The kitchen at Chantry Orchard was transformed into an alchemist’s den, with cauldrons of simmering water, trays of chopped herbs ready to be bound into muslin bags for ‘bouquets garnis’ and a mountain of feathers from the plucked chickens, now lying naked and headless in piles ready for the pot.

‘Oooh. I think ’ee’s done,’ said Mrs Hinton, prodding a fat bird, poaching in a vat of water and Jack Basset’s elderflower wine.

‘Juices running clear?’ said Sadie.

‘Oh yes, chief-cook-lady,’ replied Mrs Hinton with a toothy smile.

‘Bring him out then,’ commanded Sadie, handing her a fearsome carving fork and a large plate.

As one fowl was removed, Lavender plunged the next into the steaming basin, cursing as her spectacles misted up, ‘Bugger it. I need bloomin’ wipers on my specs like what Mr Rose-in-Bloom ’as on his smart motor car.’

‘I’m right glad we is doin’ ’im today. Imagine the kafuffle if we was to make ’im on Coronation Day?’ said Mrs Hinton.

Sadie raised an eyebrow – she quite agreed. Fortunately the recipe was clear: the chicken must be made in advance and chilled. This was most considerate of Constance Spry, as otherwise Sadie suspected all the ladies of England would be expected to miss the festivities in order to cook for the men folk. On the great day, the entire country would eat the same luncheon, the nation transformed into a giant dining hall.

Mrs Hinton effortlessly jointed a chicken on a carving board, fat dribbling up to her elbows and greasing the folds of skin. With a polished blade, she diced it into neat bites and scraped the meat into a vast china serving-bowl. Lavender spooned in mounds of creamy mayonnaise, sprinkled on the curry powder and three entire jars of apricot jam.

‘You got to check ’im, Mrs Rose-in-Bloom. You are the committee’s head-chicken poacher,’ said Lavender.

Dipping her finger into the mixture, Sadie took a long lick.

‘Good. But needs something more.’

Mrs Hinton fetched the torn page of newspaper and recited the ingredients. ‘Tomato paste, curry powder, jam, cream, mayonnaise, onions . . . No, we’ve not forgotten anything.’

But Sadie was an excellent cook and she knew when something was missing. She closed her eyes. ‘Currants. It’s wanting currants.’ Emil’s currants.

Lavender and Mrs Hinton watched curiously as she produced a box from the cavernous larder, and sprinkled in several handfuls. With a long-handled wooden spoon, she stirred the creamy-yellow mixture, and took another taste.

Her teeth tingled. ‘Yes. It’s right now.’

Lavender plunged in a teaspoon and sampled a mouthful. There was something else in the mixture, a nameless something that wasn’t there before. She met Sadie’s gaze. ‘Yes,’ said Lavender, ‘Tis exactly right.’

Later that afternoon, Jack sat at the kitchen table and finished the playing order for the match, but he was distracted. Curtis had been with him from the very beginning, and Jack wished that he could have met Bobby Jones. They had spent hours discussing the genius of the great golfer and now, when by a stupendous miracle he was actually coming to play their course, Curtis would not be there to see it. With a heavy sigh, he took Curtis’s letter from his pocket and read the crumpled note for the hundredth time. Was it possible? Basset thought it was nonsense and that Curtis was an old man who drank more special cider than was good for him and sometimes saw things. Only Curtis believed the woolly-pig was real, but then Jack remembered the grunting cry he had heard across the snow all those months ago. And that was why Curtis had left the recipe to him and him alone; the rest of the village were unbelievers.

‘Well? Have you started making the cider?’

Jack looked up to find Sadie reading over his shoulder. ‘I’m too busy. I’ll get to it after the coronation.’

‘You will do it right now, Jack Morris Rose-in-Bloom,’ she declared, her hands lodged firmly on her hips.

Jack was surprised at her vehemence. ‘Why? You don’t think it’s real?’

Sadie shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. This is how he wanted you to remember him. You must honour the wishes of the dead, and this is how he wants you to say
Kaddish
.’

‘But what about the golf game?’

‘What about it?’

‘It’s the same day. I’ll have to drink all that cider, then play in a golf match with Bobby Jones, watch the coronation and then climb up the hill – while I’m blind drunk.’

Sadie raised an eyebrow. ‘I am sure you’ll manage.’

 
Jack realised his wife was right – this was the way to remember his friend. He read through the recipe. There were half a dozen other ingredients that needed to be added to a regular batch of cider, although Jack hadn’t heard of most of them. He didn’t want to ask for advice as to do so might raise suspicions. There were some odd items: Enchanter’s nightshade, mangleworzle, wolfbaine, water from Chantry Orchard spring collected at dawn. With Sadie’s help he managed to track most of them down, adding each as he found it to the vat of cider left in the stable from the autumn. It hissed and emitted noxious fumes that smelled a little like Curtis.

The next day was the first of June and the eve of the coronation. On the wall in Jack’s study were chalked the pairs for the tournament. Bobby Jones was due to arrive at half past six the next morning and would play in a three-ball with Jack and Sadie. The calendar was pockmarked with crosses and there was only one blank square remaining. Jack put a red line through this last date, and remembered how he and Curtis used to count the days together. There was nothing more that Jack could do for his friend, except fulfil his last instructions, scrawled on the piece of toilet paper.

The cider was nearly ready but there was still one missing ingredient – the wings of a jitterbug. Jack ignored his usual armchair, choosing instead the low stool favoured by Curtis. He closed his eyes and remembered his first conversations with the old man. They had climbed Hambledon Hill, where Curtis gave him his first taste of special cider and told him about King Albert and the Wessex knights. There had been hundreds of jitterbugs in the sky that night.

He fired up the car and drove to Hambledon, parking in the lay-by and walking along the tree-lined path to the gate at the foot of the hill. It was much darker than last time, and he shivered as he recollected stories of the head-hunters. He let himself through the gate to the grassland and scrambled to the top of the hill, stumbling over thistles and loose stones. Eventually, he sat under the starless sky on the coarse grass at the summit, wheezing for breath. In daylight he could see five counties and on a clear day as far as the Isle of Wight, but now at a quarter to midnight all the lights in the villages were out, and he could only guess the direction of Pursebury. He wished he had left his headlights on. Just then, he saw a flicker and suddenly, there were the first jitterbugs swaying before his eyes – tiny green stars shimmering amongst the grass stems. He took out a flask containing the half-brewed cider. With one more ingredient it would be special cider: his first batch. A glow-worm inched up a grass strand, drawn to the sweet smell of the alcohol, and crawled on the side of the flask, its light casting a glamour.

‘My apologies,’ said Jack and pushed it down the neck of the flask.

He peered into the liquid. For a second the contents seemed to glow green in the darkness.

Back home, he was far too jittery to sleep. Not sure whether it was nerves, excitement or the cider, he decided to walk out to his course and double check that everything was in order. There would be no time in the morning – they would be teeing off almost as soon as it was light. He traipsed through the shadows to the silent fairway where he could only make out the white flags. The stream sluiced over pebbles and a far-off fox shrieked at the shrouded moon. Jack unfastened the cider top and took a dubious nip – it burned and tickled all the way to his toes. It was still out here on the greens, but in a few hours it would be teeming with people – the entire village was coming to watch and cheer.

At the prospect of all those spectators, Jack pondered whether he ought to practise his swing – he had cleaned and polished his irons and they lay sparkling in the hallway but, as yet, he still had not swung a club. He had waited so long that now it seemed right to hold off until his first try was under the direction of the great, the one and only, Bobby Jones. Jack took another swig and picked up a stray switch of hazel that had blown onto the fairway. Carefully, he placed his hands around the wood, spreading his fingers along the shaft as he tried to perfect the Vardon grip. He widened his feet, leant forward, flexed his knees and swung. The makeshift club swished through the air with ease. Jack smiled – he would be fine. How difficult could it really be?

He marched through the darkness to the fifth tee. This was his favourite spot in all the world – he used to sit here with Curtis and enjoy a good silence. He wondered what time it was, but had no way of knowing, having given his wristwatch to Curtis all those months ago. Now, the watch was buried with him, and Jack imagined that he could hear it ticking from deep beneath the ground.

Jack shook Sadie awake at five the next morning.

‘Wake up. Get up. You need to be ready.’

Thick with sleep, she opened her eyes to see Jack sitting on the edge of bed proffering a cup of tea. She took it from him and noticed a stray leaf sticking to his head and a wild glint in his eye.

‘Did you sleep at all?’

‘I sleep tomorrow. Today is the great day. Get up.’

He nudged her gently in the ribs.

‘Come on. Come.’

Sadie gave a tiny groan and rolled out of bed.

While she dressed, Jack sat on the sill and gazed from the window towards the lane. Rows of blue, red and white bunting were tied to the trees; Union Jacks dangled from the eaves of all the houses and the whole village gave the appearance of having been scrubbed – cottages had been whitewashed, windows cleaned with vinegar, and sills given a lick of paint.

Elizabeth was waiting for her parents in the kitchen.

Sadie smothered her daughter in kisses. ‘What a wonderful surprise – I thought you were watching the coronation in Cambridge.’

‘Yes. But then, I thought I’d rather be here.’

Jack beamed. ‘You do know we have no television signal?’

‘Daddy, you don’t have a television.’

‘True. True. It is a little late to add you to the playing order.’

Elizabeth shrugged, ‘I’d prefer to watch anyway.’

‘Good, good.’

Jack rubbed his hands together in eager anticipation. Elizabeth’s unexpected arrival was a sign – this was going to be a splendid day. She’d managed to hitch a lift all the way from Cambridge to Stourcastle and what were the chances of that? Discovering his daughter raiding the larder this morning had made Jack very happy. He took his first sip of cider – five pints was a lot to get through, and a little nip might help his game. Soon, Basset arrived armed with the morning newspaper. He had declined the offer to play, preferring to caddy instead, and placed it on the table. The family crowded round to study the pictures of the Abbey set up for the coronation.

‘Carpet looks good,’ said Jack, ‘but so it should. Highest quality wool. Well, five hundred yards of it are anyway.’

Jack watched as the sun came up over the chicken shed. He was worried; it was nearly half past six, the tournament was due to start, and there was no Bobby Jones. He took another draught from his flask.

Basset cleared his throat and pointed at the kitchen clock. ‘Thinks we’d best go. Can’t let the first match start late, now can we?’

Effortlessly, the large man picked up both Jack and Sadie’s clubs and walked down to the golf course. The little group heard the sound of the crowd before they could see them – the air vibrated with cheering voices and whooping shouts. The edges of the course were thronging with people, hundreds of them by the trees. Jack saw twinkling on the top of Bulbarrow and realised a moment later that it was the reflection of binoculars from hundreds more people, who had all flocked to watch from the hill.

‘Good God,’ he whispered. ‘Everyone in Dorset’s here.’