Read Online Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman by Natasha Solomons - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Natasha Solomons
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floral patterns on the women’s dresses. She became conscious of someone staring at her, and turned to see a thin woman, hair swept into a severe schoolmistress bun, standing very close.
‘I’m Mrs Lavender Basset. Secretary of the Parish Council fourteen years runnin’ and chairwoman of the Coronation Committee. Will you be wantin’ some tea?’
Sadie swallowed, shyness making her perspire, and her blouse cling underneath her arms.
‘Thank you. That is very kind. I’m Mrs Sadie—’
Lavender cut her off with a snort, ‘Oh. I knows who you are Mrs Rose-in-Bloom.’
She led Sadie to the front of the hall and filled a plate for her with a fat slice of Victoria sponge oozing with cream, made pinkish by the jam. Sadie didn’t want to eat. The food was too much, and she worried that once she started she’d cram the sponge into her mouth, unable to stop. She always felt self-conscious eating in front of strangers, but Lavender was scrutinising her through owlish spectacles. Glancing around the hall Sadie realised that all the women were waiting, teacups poised on saucers, watching. Feeling a little sick, she took a bite and forced a smile.
In the field beside the hall, Jack was not faring well at skittles. He shook his head in total bemusement. Curtis, a tiny old man, gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder.
‘Nope. Like this, Mister-Rose-in-Bloom.’
Curtis clasped the rock-hard ball, took a run up and then, falling to his knees, slid along the wooden alley on his belly. The ball rolled from his hand and collided with the skittles, knocking them flying in a perfect strike.
‘Now, that there is the Dorset flop. Nothing like the piddling Somerset wump. Much more effective. ’S why we beats them nillywallies every time at t’ Western Skittlin’ championship.’
‘Yer turn to try,’ growled Basset and thrust the ball once more into Jack’s damp palm.
‘Trick is to let go of the ball at last minute. Got to do it sharpish like. Skittles knocked over with yer noggin doesn’t count, mind,’ added Curtis tapping his head.
The others grunted in agreement at this sound advice. Jack rubbed the ball against his trouser leg and prepared to bowl again. The rules were beyond him; he knew only that the general aim was to knock down as many as possible and that somehow, whenever it was his turn, the skittles remained resolutely upright on their wooden platform, whilst, when Curtis, Basset or one of the others bowled, the skittles clattered to the ground. Steeling his nerves, he took a deep breath, stepped back a few paces and began his run-up along the grass. Reaching the wood of the skittle shoot, he screwed his eyes shut and threw himself onto his belly, knocking all the wind out his lungs. He slid two yards along the ramp and stopped. Jack opened his eyes, and realised that everyone apart from Curtis was laughing.
‘Yer forgot to let go of the ball.’ the old man said sadly. ‘An ersey mistake.’
‘Loser ’as to drink,’ said Basset thrusting at Jack a brimming mug of a sweet, apple-scented alcoholic drink.
As the afternoon wore on, Jack became dimly aware of jeers, of Basset and the other men discarding their jackets, of shirts being unbuttoned and raucous shouts of, ‘Drink, Mr Rose-in-Bloom, drink!’
His head was really swimming now and the combination of home-brewed cider with hot June sunshine was making his vision cloud. He closed his eyes for a moment and heard a voice mutter, ‘’Ee’s a goner. Skittled. ’Ee’ll be seeing Dorset woolly-pigs soon.’
There were more snickers and hissing mirth. Then another voice. ‘Dorset woolly-pigs. Them is idiots wot believe that.’
There was a derisive cry from Curtis, ‘Don’t mock. Yer doesn’t josh about the Dorset woolly-pig. A noble beast of strength and savagery. If yer’d saw one yerself, yer wouldn’t say things.’
Jack tried to open his eyes and failed.
Curtis rumbled on in his deep burr, ‘I saw it. More ’an thirty yer
‘I’m Mrs Lavender Basset. Secretary of the Parish Council fourteen years runnin’ and chairwoman of the Coronation Committee. Will you be wantin’ some tea?’
Sadie swallowed, shyness making her perspire, and her blouse cling underneath her arms.
‘Thank you. That is very kind. I’m Mrs Sadie—’
Lavender cut her off with a snort, ‘Oh. I knows who you are Mrs Rose-in-Bloom.’
She led Sadie to the front of the hall and filled a plate for her with a fat slice of Victoria sponge oozing with cream, made pinkish by the jam. Sadie didn’t want to eat. The food was too much, and she worried that once she started she’d cram the sponge into her mouth, unable to stop. She always felt self-conscious eating in front of strangers, but Lavender was scrutinising her through owlish spectacles. Glancing around the hall Sadie realised that all the women were waiting, teacups poised on saucers, watching. Feeling a little sick, she took a bite and forced a smile.
In the field beside the hall, Jack was not faring well at skittles. He shook his head in total bemusement. Curtis, a tiny old man, gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder.
‘Nope. Like this, Mister-Rose-in-Bloom.’
Curtis clasped the rock-hard ball, took a run up and then, falling to his knees, slid along the wooden alley on his belly. The ball rolled from his hand and collided with the skittles, knocking them flying in a perfect strike.
‘Now, that there is the Dorset flop. Nothing like the piddling Somerset wump. Much more effective. ’S why we beats them nillywallies every time at t’ Western Skittlin’ championship.’
‘Yer turn to try,’ growled Basset and thrust the ball once more into Jack’s damp palm.
‘Trick is to let go of the ball at last minute. Got to do it sharpish like. Skittles knocked over with yer noggin doesn’t count, mind,’ added Curtis tapping his head.
The others grunted in agreement at this sound advice. Jack rubbed the ball against his trouser leg and prepared to bowl again. The rules were beyond him; he knew only that the general aim was to knock down as many as possible and that somehow, whenever it was his turn, the skittles remained resolutely upright on their wooden platform, whilst, when Curtis, Basset or one of the others bowled, the skittles clattered to the ground. Steeling his nerves, he took a deep breath, stepped back a few paces and began his run-up along the grass. Reaching the wood of the skittle shoot, he screwed his eyes shut and threw himself onto his belly, knocking all the wind out his lungs. He slid two yards along the ramp and stopped. Jack opened his eyes, and realised that everyone apart from Curtis was laughing.
‘Yer forgot to let go of the ball.’ the old man said sadly. ‘An ersey mistake.’
‘Loser ’as to drink,’ said Basset thrusting at Jack a brimming mug of a sweet, apple-scented alcoholic drink.
As the afternoon wore on, Jack became dimly aware of jeers, of Basset and the other men discarding their jackets, of shirts being unbuttoned and raucous shouts of, ‘Drink, Mr Rose-in-Bloom, drink!’
His head was really swimming now and the combination of home-brewed cider with hot June sunshine was making his vision cloud. He closed his eyes for a moment and heard a voice mutter, ‘’Ee’s a goner. Skittled. ’Ee’ll be seeing Dorset woolly-pigs soon.’
There were more snickers and hissing mirth. Then another voice. ‘Dorset woolly-pigs. Them is idiots wot believe that.’
There was a derisive cry from Curtis, ‘Don’t mock. Yer doesn’t josh about the Dorset woolly-pig. A noble beast of strength and savagery. If yer’d saw one yerself, yer wouldn’t say things.’
Jack tried to open his eyes and failed.
Curtis rumbled on in his deep burr, ‘I saw it. More ’an thirty yer
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