Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman by Natasha Solomons Page B
Authors: Natasha Solomons
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sigh – part of him wished that the world had not changed, and that fathers could still keep their daughters with them and forbid holidays in Scotland.
Later that morning, as the Rosenblums drove down the lane towards the village hall, it occurred to Jack that he was slightly unprepared for their expedition to the country. In addition to preparations for the golf course, he might need to install indoor plumbing for his house – this was a nuisance, since he had intended to leave the house entirely to Sadie and devote all his energy to the more important matter of the course. Yet, this inconvenience was not a thought that worried him unduly – he merely acknowledged it and then let it float away. He wished he were alone; while in London he succeeded in passing most days without spending more than fifteen minutes in the company of his wife, today he seemed unable to be rid of her. He knew a good husband would be more sympathetic to her unhappiness, but to his mind a person should want to live, if only out of curiosity. He realised she missed Emil – so did he. There was an Emil-shaped hole in the universe. And Elizabeth would have liked an uncle. With a start Jack realised his daughter was the same age Emil had been when he died. Quickly, he thought of other things.
As he slowed to take the corner by the village hall, a burly man in a stiff wool suit stepped into the road and waved at them, forcing Jack to brake sharply. The man stood in front of the car, looking them up and down with steady interest but saying nothing. He seemed to be waiting for something, and then, clearly losing patience he snapped, ‘Well, Mr Rose-in-Bloom, are yer comin?’
Jack experienced the same confusion as his wife had the day before. It must be the done thing here to know everyone’s name – clearly a local custom. So, not knowing the man before him, Jack felt rather awkward and searched for the suitable English phrase ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Mr . . .’
‘Jack Basset. But I is jist called Basset. None of yer misters.’
‘Glad to make your acquaintance, erm, Basset.’
Jack offered his hand, which Basset shook slowly before scratching at a tiny shaving nick in his muscular neck. He made no move to get out of the way of the car. Peering round him, Jack noticed a motley crowd gathering in the shade of the hall; the women dressed in floral frocks and wide-brimmed hats and the men sweating uncomfortably in hot, special occasion suits.
Basset waited for a moment and then cleared his throat. ‘Well? Are yer?’
‘Of course.’
Jack had no idea to what Basset referred but did not want to cause further upset so enquired with the utmost politeness, ‘May I ask where the car park is?’
‘Car park? He wants to know where the car park is?’
Basset started to cough with laughter, a button popped off his shirt and a fleshy triangle of hairy stomach poked through. Embarrassed, he straightened and pointed to a field across the road.
‘That there is the car park. Put him in corner. I’ll get gate.’
Jack steered his beloved Jaguar through a flock of nonchalant sheep and parked under a tree, eyeing the animals suspiciously. The Rosenblums allowed Basset to lead them onto the village green, where a battered white marquee was erected in the centre of the grass. Peering inside, Jack glimpsed plump girls selling fat hunks of red meat. Mounds of dark hearts, piles of kidneys and blue-tinged ox tongues lay on steel trays. Beside them rested baskets filled with misshapen vegetables and trays of grey fungus. He saw a table covered in the limp bodies of pheasant, duck and hare; they were skinned and raw, and the pretty girl presiding over them had a tiny smear of blood on her smooth cheek. Leaning up against a bench was a pile of rifles, and he wondered where they had come from – the trade in de-commissioned arms was strictly illegal. A heap of ammunition lay baking in the sun. ‘This is England,’ thought Jack,
Later that morning, as the Rosenblums drove down the lane towards the village hall, it occurred to Jack that he was slightly unprepared for their expedition to the country. In addition to preparations for the golf course, he might need to install indoor plumbing for his house – this was a nuisance, since he had intended to leave the house entirely to Sadie and devote all his energy to the more important matter of the course. Yet, this inconvenience was not a thought that worried him unduly – he merely acknowledged it and then let it float away. He wished he were alone; while in London he succeeded in passing most days without spending more than fifteen minutes in the company of his wife, today he seemed unable to be rid of her. He knew a good husband would be more sympathetic to her unhappiness, but to his mind a person should want to live, if only out of curiosity. He realised she missed Emil – so did he. There was an Emil-shaped hole in the universe. And Elizabeth would have liked an uncle. With a start Jack realised his daughter was the same age Emil had been when he died. Quickly, he thought of other things.
As he slowed to take the corner by the village hall, a burly man in a stiff wool suit stepped into the road and waved at them, forcing Jack to brake sharply. The man stood in front of the car, looking them up and down with steady interest but saying nothing. He seemed to be waiting for something, and then, clearly losing patience he snapped, ‘Well, Mr Rose-in-Bloom, are yer comin?’
Jack experienced the same confusion as his wife had the day before. It must be the done thing here to know everyone’s name – clearly a local custom. So, not knowing the man before him, Jack felt rather awkward and searched for the suitable English phrase ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Mr . . .’
‘Jack Basset. But I is jist called Basset. None of yer misters.’
‘Glad to make your acquaintance, erm, Basset.’
Jack offered his hand, which Basset shook slowly before scratching at a tiny shaving nick in his muscular neck. He made no move to get out of the way of the car. Peering round him, Jack noticed a motley crowd gathering in the shade of the hall; the women dressed in floral frocks and wide-brimmed hats and the men sweating uncomfortably in hot, special occasion suits.
Basset waited for a moment and then cleared his throat. ‘Well? Are yer?’
‘Of course.’
Jack had no idea to what Basset referred but did not want to cause further upset so enquired with the utmost politeness, ‘May I ask where the car park is?’
‘Car park? He wants to know where the car park is?’
Basset started to cough with laughter, a button popped off his shirt and a fleshy triangle of hairy stomach poked through. Embarrassed, he straightened and pointed to a field across the road.
‘That there is the car park. Put him in corner. I’ll get gate.’
Jack steered his beloved Jaguar through a flock of nonchalant sheep and parked under a tree, eyeing the animals suspiciously. The Rosenblums allowed Basset to lead them onto the village green, where a battered white marquee was erected in the centre of the grass. Peering inside, Jack glimpsed plump girls selling fat hunks of red meat. Mounds of dark hearts, piles of kidneys and blue-tinged ox tongues lay on steel trays. Beside them rested baskets filled with misshapen vegetables and trays of grey fungus. He saw a table covered in the limp bodies of pheasant, duck and hare; they were skinned and raw, and the pretty girl presiding over them had a tiny smear of blood on her smooth cheek. Leaning up against a bench was a pile of rifles, and he wondered where they had come from – the trade in de-commissioned arms was strictly illegal. A heap of ammunition lay baking in the sun. ‘This is England,’ thought Jack,
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