Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman by Natasha Solomons Page A

down to him, ‘ Broitgeber you must wash before we leave.’
    Jack frowned – he had taken a notion to buy a hat, and once fixed upon something there was no time for distractions. He followed the voice of his wife upstairs. She had disposed of the dead bird and was tidying the bedroom, making up the bed with starched white sheets so that it looked almost inviting. A trail of silver feathers led to the cupboard in a corner of the room; the door was ajar and the inside was coated in a layer of yellowing excrement.
    ‘Jack, you must get a man in to fix the ceiling. It’s an aviary up there. And the birds fly down into the cupboard.’
    Jack kicked a feather with his toe, uninterested. ‘I’m going. You stay here and worry about the birds.’
    Sadie studied her husband. He was still wearing the clothes from yesterday; he had grass stuck to his back, a feather on his cheek and a growth of stubble across his chin. She gave him a sly look. ‘You wish to make the correct impression, hmm? They’ll think we’re slovenly foreigners unless you wash.’
    Jack knew that she was right – it was rule thirty-seven on the list (Englishmen of all classes take great pride in excellent personal hygiene). He couldn’t possibly risk the condemnation.
    She watched his face contort at the prospect and pointed to a small wooden washstand in the corner. Set into it was a chipped jug and a round porcelain bowl painted with blue nymphs. Underneath lurked a sinister pink and white flowered pot. Jack it pulled out.
    ‘Is this for pissing?’
    He dangled it upside-down.
    ‘There is a toilet outside. Do not use that unless you intend to empty it yourself.’
    Jack considered this, then looked out the open window – there was not a house or person in sight. He knelt down and unbuttoned his fly. An arc of urine sprayed onto the tangled flowerbeds below.
    ‘That,’ said Sadie, ‘is neither English nor hygienic.’
    He pretended not to hear.
    ‘There is a small room down the hall that will be perfect for Elizabeth.’
    Jack fastened his fly and jumped up, alert with interest, ‘Will she be able to see my course from her window?’
    ‘Come and look.’
    He followed Sadie along the corridor, his elbow brushing the peeling wallpaper, the bare floorboards creaking underfoot, into a room beneath the eaves. A thatched dormer window had a splendid view across the valley below but he surveyed the room critically – it needed to be just right for his Elizabeth.
    Sunday afternoons, that was his only regret on leaving London. He used to take Elizabeth to the Lyon’s Corner House on the high street. Every week the ritual was the same: he held the café door open for his daughter, listening happily to the tinkle of the bell. The waitress glanced up as they came in, ‘Your regular table, sir?’
    Jack saw in his mind he and Elizabeth being led to their booth by the window with an excellent view of the street. The waitress passed him the menu but he did not open it, instead handing it straight to his daughter. On those Sunday afternoons Jack was silent. He knew that his accent betrayed him, after fifteen years in London he still spoke with the measured tones of a foreigner, so he let Elizabeth talk in her flawless English voice, and answered her in little whispers that could not be overheard. For that hour, they would sit in the window booth, sipping warm, sweetened orange juice and nibbling stale jam roll, and Jack was happy. He would listen with a tear in his eye as Elizabeth chattered about books and of how she dreamt of travelling to America, all the while marvelling that he, a man born in a shabby Berlin suburb, had produced such a creature. The waiters and waitresses, the diners at nearby tables, only heard the voice of the pretty girl and so, Jack believed, he appeared to all of them a genuine Englishman.
    Now, standing in the neat bedroom, he tried to work out how many more weeks it was before he could expect Elizabeth’s visit. He gave a tiny