Read Online Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman by Natasha Solomons - Free Book Online
Authors: Natasha Solomons
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‘you can sell anything here, and some poor bugger will buy it.’
Basset ushered them inside the tent, where it reeked of cider and warm bodies. While the women argued over filched rabbits and game, the men drank and, judging by the stench, they had been here a while.
‘This is Mr and Mrs Rose-in-Bloom,’ announced Basset guiding them into the midst of the crowd.
Jack stood quite still and let them all stare, while Sadie took a small step closer to him. A ragged woman viewed them suspiciously, eating the biggest peach he had ever seen; it took him a moment to realise what the round yellow-fleshed fruit was – it had been so many years since he had seen one.
‘Rose-in-Bloom’s a funny name,’ said the woman, ‘sounds English but yoos foreign, ent you?’ There were little pieces of peach flesh smeared round her mouth and caught in her brown teeth.
‘We are British now. We love England. We feel very English,’ Jack declared.
The woman wasn’t to be deterred. ‘Yoos British now . What was you before, then?’
Jack hated this part, the declaration of his otherness.
‘We were born in Berlin. We came to England before the war.’
‘Berlin – that’s in Germany.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’
The ragged woman was not impressed. ‘So, you is a Kraut,’ she corrected herself, ‘you was Kraut. You sounds Kraut.’
‘No. I am a British Citizen.’
‘Why ’ave you come to Pursebury?’
‘To build a golf course.’
This was unexpected.
‘A what?’
‘A golf course.’
Jack was standing in the centre of a growing crowd, where he was proving to be the most popular attraction at the fair – this did not please him, as he was trying his best to be inconspicuous. He never understood how, when he always obeyed the list to the letter, dressing in the uniform of the English gentleman, he was instantly identified as a rank outsider.
‘I shall build the greatest golf course in the South-West.’
The faces in the crowd stared at him dubiously.
‘Everyone in the village shall have membership,’ he announced proudly with a magnanimous wave.
No one seemed especially excited at this prospect and continued to stare.
‘This ent golfing country. It’s skittling country,’ said Basset. ‘Ever played skittles?’ he asked with a note of challenge.
‘No, I haven’t.’ Jack was intrigued – an English game he hadn’t heard about. He was filled with instant enthusiasm.
Seeing this, Basset smirked. ‘I’ll learn you,’ he said and led him away with a glint in his eye.
Choosing not to witness Jack’s latest escapade, Sadie wandered from the tent into the village hall. It was an unusual building; the pitched roof and walls were all made of sage-coloured corrugated iron while inside it was wood-panelled and decked with multicoloured flags. Framed photographs of the Royal family adorned every wall; the pictures of King George all draped in black crepe. A small army of women stood at the back of the hall guarding the tea table. Sadie was used to London where good food was scarce; it wasn’t like anyone went hungry – there was enough to eat – it was just plain. Food had lost its colour; there were drab potatoes, grey meat and tinned vegetables. Spices were a rare luxury and it took all of her skill to make her cooking taste of anything much at all. In contrast, the table in the church hall was a monument to excess and could have been the tableau of ‘gluttony’ in a painting of the Deadly Sins, heaving as it did with sandwiches of rare beef – blood turning the bread red – and baskets of brown speckled eggs, bowls of cream and trays of bright strawberries. She recalled the delicate pastries of the chefs in Berlin – the light folded palmiers and vanilla sugar biscuits – those were fragile pieces of artistry but this English feast was something different. She couldn’t remember food being such lurid colours – the dripping beef and scarlet strawberries looked obscene next to the faded
Basset ushered them inside the tent, where it reeked of cider and warm bodies. While the women argued over filched rabbits and game, the men drank and, judging by the stench, they had been here a while.
‘This is Mr and Mrs Rose-in-Bloom,’ announced Basset guiding them into the midst of the crowd.
Jack stood quite still and let them all stare, while Sadie took a small step closer to him. A ragged woman viewed them suspiciously, eating the biggest peach he had ever seen; it took him a moment to realise what the round yellow-fleshed fruit was – it had been so many years since he had seen one.
‘Rose-in-Bloom’s a funny name,’ said the woman, ‘sounds English but yoos foreign, ent you?’ There were little pieces of peach flesh smeared round her mouth and caught in her brown teeth.
‘We are British now. We love England. We feel very English,’ Jack declared.
The woman wasn’t to be deterred. ‘Yoos British now . What was you before, then?’
Jack hated this part, the declaration of his otherness.
‘We were born in Berlin. We came to England before the war.’
‘Berlin – that’s in Germany.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’
The ragged woman was not impressed. ‘So, you is a Kraut,’ she corrected herself, ‘you was Kraut. You sounds Kraut.’
‘No. I am a British Citizen.’
‘Why ’ave you come to Pursebury?’
‘To build a golf course.’
This was unexpected.
‘A what?’
‘A golf course.’
Jack was standing in the centre of a growing crowd, where he was proving to be the most popular attraction at the fair – this did not please him, as he was trying his best to be inconspicuous. He never understood how, when he always obeyed the list to the letter, dressing in the uniform of the English gentleman, he was instantly identified as a rank outsider.
‘I shall build the greatest golf course in the South-West.’
The faces in the crowd stared at him dubiously.
‘Everyone in the village shall have membership,’ he announced proudly with a magnanimous wave.
No one seemed especially excited at this prospect and continued to stare.
‘This ent golfing country. It’s skittling country,’ said Basset. ‘Ever played skittles?’ he asked with a note of challenge.
‘No, I haven’t.’ Jack was intrigued – an English game he hadn’t heard about. He was filled with instant enthusiasm.
Seeing this, Basset smirked. ‘I’ll learn you,’ he said and led him away with a glint in his eye.
Choosing not to witness Jack’s latest escapade, Sadie wandered from the tent into the village hall. It was an unusual building; the pitched roof and walls were all made of sage-coloured corrugated iron while inside it was wood-panelled and decked with multicoloured flags. Framed photographs of the Royal family adorned every wall; the pictures of King George all draped in black crepe. A small army of women stood at the back of the hall guarding the tea table. Sadie was used to London where good food was scarce; it wasn’t like anyone went hungry – there was enough to eat – it was just plain. Food had lost its colour; there were drab potatoes, grey meat and tinned vegetables. Spices were a rare luxury and it took all of her skill to make her cooking taste of anything much at all. In contrast, the table in the church hall was a monument to excess and could have been the tableau of ‘gluttony’ in a painting of the Deadly Sins, heaving as it did with sandwiches of rare beef – blood turning the bread red – and baskets of brown speckled eggs, bowls of cream and trays of bright strawberries. She recalled the delicate pastries of the chefs in Berlin – the light folded palmiers and vanilla sugar biscuits – those were fragile pieces of artistry but this English feast was something different. She couldn’t remember food being such lurid colours – the dripping beef and scarlet strawberries looked obscene next to the faded
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