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.’
‘Aye. An’ there’s a bus from Wiltshire,’ added Basset.
Jack’s stomach gurgled – now that the moment was here, he was more than a little anxious and, to crown it all, Bobby Jones was late. He felt Sadie slip her hand into his. Just then, there was an enormous rumble overhead and the sky seemed to shake, forcing the women to cling desperately to their hats. The trees shuddered and the cries of the crowd were drowned out, as a small, very noisy biplane swooped down. It circled lower and lower, searching for a place to land and then, engine spluttering, touched down on the flat top of the hill. The crowd stared as it sped along the ridge before stuttering to a halt. A moment later, a figure climbed out over the wing, pausing to pull out a bag of golf clubs, and then bounded down the hill. As the engine lapsed into silence, the crowd roared with excitement.
Jack, Sadie and the other golfers waited expectantly on the first tee, all watching as the figure drew closer until, finally, he reached them. He was immaculately clad in brown tweeds and polished golf shoes, his skin lightly tanned from the pleasant American sunshine.
‘Bobby Jones,’ announced the man, warmly clasping Jack’s hand.
‘Jack Rose-in-Bloom. We’re so pleased you could make it.’
Bobby Jones continued to grip his hand firmly. ‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Jack. I’ve kept every single one of your letters. I savoured them all year long. Gee, at first, I couldn’t believe you were for real.’
Bobby opened his jacket just wide enough to display the letters carefully stashed in the inside pocket, and Jack puffed with pride like a robin with the fattest worm on the garden wall.
‘Shall we?’ Bobby Jones enquired politely, in his soft Augustan drawl.
As he gazed at the expectant faces in the crowd, Jack wavered. He turned to Bobby Jones. ‘Would you do the honour of playing the first shot and opening the match?’
‘Why sure.’
Jack stood next to Sadie, keeping a respectful distance, as the great man walked to the first tee. A hush fell over the crowd. Bobby produced a wooden tee from his pocket, pushed it into the ground and then, with a motion of exactness, placed upon it a white ball. He stretched his arms above his head and swivelled his hips to loosen them. With unhurried calm, he selected his driver and, at last, assumed his famed stance. He was totally at ease, body balanced and poised; then he raised his club and, with the smoothest of movements, brought it down in a steady sweep. There was a satisfying click as the ball flew into the distance. Jack gazed in awe as it flew straight down the fairway and landed with a gentle thud at the edge of the green and rolled neatly to the base of the flagstick. The crowd clapped its raucous appreciation.
Now it was Jack’s turn. He took another swig of cider to steady his nerves. His knees shook as Basset handed him his driver, and he walked up to the tee. He closed his eyes and visualised Bobby Jones’s swing – so natural it flowed like water. Jack stood with legs shoulder width apart and flexed his arms. This was the moment. He sensed everyone watching him as he placed the tee carefully in the earth and popped the small white ball on top. He settled over the ball, brought the club up high, and swung down with a powerful swoosh and then …
Nothing.
Jack glanced down to see the white ball staring back up at him, still perched on the tee.
The crowed bellowed its approval. No one had ever seen a game of golf before and they were certain Jack’s technique was masterful. ‘Why doncha take another swing,’ said Bobby Jones kindly.
Jack managed his second shot with slightly more dignity than the first: the ball rolled twenty yards down the hill before coming to rest in the rough, causing him to wonder, if perhaps, it might have been better to practise.
Now it was Sadie’s turn. Jack had worked very hard to convince her to play; he bought her a beautiful set of lady’s clubs and at first only the knowledge that they would be wasted otherwise, had persuaded her. But now, to her surprise, she was rather looking forward to it. She had never held a club before and had not even practised her grip on saucepan handles. Still, she reasoned, she couldn’t be much worse than Jack. She studied Bobby Jones very closely and, after slipping her tee into the ground, tried to mimic his stance. It felt surprisingly comfortable and she was quite relaxed as she filtered out the din of the crowd. She raised her club, and then brought it down in a seamless arc. There was a crack, and she watched in utter astonishment as the ball sailed through the air and landed in the middle of the fairway.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Bobby Jones in amazement. ‘Your wife has a perfect swing. She’s a natural.’
Jack turned scarlet with pride.
Sadie won the women’s match by twelve strokes and Bobby Jones the men’s by a hundred and three. Jack was not the worst golfer in the competition and actually made it into the top three simply by not losing his ball. Twenty-seven balls were lost completely and two players forced to withdraw as no more replacements could be found, but no one seemed to mind and the crowd hooted encouragement at every stroke. When the match ended there was a small celebration on the final fairway. The crowd whooped as Jack awarded the women’s medal to his wife and the first ever Queen Elizabeth Golf trophy to Bobby Jones. Bobby held it aloft and posed cheerfully for photographs before climbing back into his plane and taking off into the hazy sk
y. The crowd continued to cheer until the small biplane disappeared over the horizon.
After it had gone, Basset cleared his throat and raised himself to his full height for the final announcement.
‘I wish to ask Mr Jack Rose-in-Bloom, with the full authority of the Coronation Committee, if he would do us the honour of crowning the Pursebury Queen at the coronation today in the village hall at eleven o’clock.’
Jack was dumbstruck – he took off his glasses and cleaned them again on his tie. He tried to speak but there was a strange feeling in his throat.
A short while later he sat down in the garden, enjoying the pleasant sunshine on his bald head. He was deeply touched at being asked to crown the village queen, but also a little concerned – considering the amount of cider he was supposed to imbibe. According to Curtis’s instructions, he needed to scramble to the top of Bulbarrow before midday. The coronation was due to start at eleven, but in his limited experience Jack knew that village events rarely ran to time – he was also dubious about being able to make the steep climb after five pints of the brew. He concluded it was best not to think about it.
He took another gulp; it burned his throat and made him choke – this was the proper stuff all right. He drifted off to sleep and dreamt of Curtis. The old man was alive again and they sat on the grass above the fifth tee, sharing the flask. They watched the big clouds buffeting across the sky and the swifts soaring amongst the beech trees. Jack handed him the cider and Curtis took a long drink.
‘Ah. Now that’s there is proper stuff,’ he said, giving a great yawn.
‘I followed your instructions.’
‘I know yer did. But tisn’t many chaps what can make it. Takes a special summat.’ Curtis chuckled. ‘Yoos is a proper Dorsit man now. A real good Englishman. An’ yoos knows what that means.’
‘Dad.’
Elizabeth roused him from his deep doze. ‘Dad.’
Jack opened his eyes and was instantly filled with sadness – his friend was dead once more.
‘It’s half ten. You need to go down to the village hall.’
Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman Page 28
