This was more surprising. Jack called, but there was no answer. It seemed strange that she had gone for a walk in this despicable weather, but she could be unpredictable.

'She's probably cleaning out the hens.'

Elizabeth went to the window and peered towards the barn.

'I can't see her, Daddy.'

Jack set down his pen. Where had his wife gone? The snow pounded against the windowpanes, and the trees creaked in the wind. This was not a morning to be anywhere except by a warm fire sipping hot tea. He abandoned his figures, opened the back door and saw a set of partially obscured tracks leading through the garden to the gate.

'I think she's gone outside.'

Jack saw that Sadie's stout walking shoes remained neatly on their Mackintosh square by the door. Her woollen coat and oilskins hung limply on the wooden peg. Jack had a nasty feeling in his belly. Sadie liked to make him cross, to worry at him like a blister, but she never tried to frighten him. She could catch a nasty chill going out in this arctic weather without proper layers. Jack shivered; he was not wearing his vest underneath his dressing gown and now that he had stopped schlepping sacks of straw and dirt he was getting cold once more. He pulled his overcoat over his pyjamas, put on some coa.r.s.e woollen socks, his felt hat and three knitted scarves.

'Won't be long. I'd better check she's all right. Best put the kettle on again.'

He hoped he sounded casual; he didn't want Elizabeth to worry. She said nothing, but he felt her watching from the doorway as he ventured out into the blizzard. He could still discern Sadie's route across the land to the river, and as the feathery layers hid her tracks he followed the stream to the edge of his land. What madness or stupidity made her venture out in this?

Grimly, Jack realised that people had frozen to death on warmer days and with a fierce pang of guilt he remembered all the times that he'd wished she would leave him alone. He thought ruefully of the cakes she left out for him on the table, those little markers of concealed tenderness. He must find her to thank her for the baking. He loathed her cooking; she always forgot the things he did not like and was forever making him rabbit stews, but he knew that she revealed her love for him through her pastries. Years afterwards, he'd learnt that those strudels she brought him in prison used up her entire week's ration of b.u.t.ter. That's why she could only make them once a fortnight. The whole time he was away, Sadie and Elizabeth managed on a meagre half portion of b.u.t.ter, so that he could have his strudels. So that Sadie could show she loved him.

His face stung with cold; it bit into his cheeks and flakes settled on his chin turning his stubble h.o.a.ry. He drew his coat tight around his shoulders and pulled his hat down low over his eyes. Where the devil had she gone? He reached the gate at the bottom of the field, clambered to the top rung and peered into the distance. The river was still; there was only the creaking of the ice and the eerie cry of the dark birds. Nothing moved. Jack could believe that he was the only creature on earth. Was this his fault? Did he drive her to this?

Unable to see any sign of her, he climbed back down and began to trudge the path along the riverbank. The jutting branches and fluttering bird shadows cast weird shapes upon the snow.

'I would like to sit in my house with my two women my daughter and my wife.' His voice sounded thin in the big afternoon and he felt a little sick as he realised how much he wanted the company of his wife. He did not need to try and be English with her. She did not care. She had known him as the little Jew in Berlin and had loved him enough to marry him. He was suddenly light-headed and felt himself sinking into the snow. He cursed himself and his stupidity, yelling so loudly that his throat hurt, 'I am a fool!'

Fool, fool, fool!

His words echoed across the frozen river and he shuddered, drawing up his collar around his ears. There was a brisk flurry and he winced as the icy droplets hurt his eyes. He blinked hard and rubbed them. d.a.m.n this weather. He surged onwards through the gathering drifts, the bottom of his dressing gown hanging down beneath his greatcoat and dragging wetly along the path. He pa.s.sed a rook perched on a bare bough of tree. The bird c.o.c.ked its head on one side and stared back curiously, beak open in hope of food.

'Tell me if you have seen her,' he called in desperation.

It looked at him for a moment and then flew away. With an eager cry, he chased after it, buoyed by the wild hope that it would lead him to Sadie. He scrambled over the uneven ground as he raced to keep up.

'Wait my friend. Wait!'

The bird took no notice and vanished into the white void. Jack swallowed hard, and felt a painful lump in his throat. He must not give up. He must find her. He gritted his teeth, adjusted his knitted hat and stomped on. He gritted his teeth, adjusted his knitted hat and stomped on.

The snow was coming thickly now and he could see only a few inches in front of him. He held out his arm and his hand disappeared. He knew, rather than saw, that the river was still beside him, and moving as quickly as he could, trudged on through the falling snow. His mind began to fill with sinister thoughts: what if he never found her? What if he found her and she was dead? Jack raised his eyes to the dark sky and through chattering teeth tried to bargain with the G.o.d he did not believe in.

'If you help me find her and she lives, I promise I will be a better husband. I will let her be a little sad. I promise I will be good to her. I promise I promise.'

The trees groaned in the wind and a heavy fall of snow landed on his head, trickling wetly down his neck. He shuddered, swore and leant forward to shake it from his scarf. Losing his balance, he staggered and there was a sharp crack. Looking down, he saw Sadie's wooden box splintered beneath his foot. Fingers stiff and covered in painful chilblains, he gathered the shards and shouted into the storm.

'Sadie, it's me! Sadie.'

No one answered.

'I've come. Sadie, Sadie, I've come.'

Still no one answered.

He saw a s.n.a.t.c.h of pink fabric from her housecoat dangling from a twig on the bank she must be nearby. His heart pounding, he slid down onto the river and struggled across the ice, but the cascading snow formed a mantle all around him. He blinked away the flakes. Another flash of pink. Jack slithered urgently towards it.

She was lying on the ice, half buried by snow. With the fury of a wild bear, he cleared it from her body, and brushed her pale cheek with his hand.

'Sadie. Sadie. Mein Spatz. Ich liebe dich Mein Spatz. Ich liebe dich.'

Jack wrapped his arms around her and stroked her damp hair. She was so cold. There was only a faint tickle of breath on his cheek. Her eyes flickered, but they were filmy and unseeing. As he clutched her to him, he realised her housecoat was soaking wet, and the hem was starting to freeze.

'Mein Gott, mein Gott,' he muttered. ' 'Was soll ich nur machen?'

It would take too long to fetch help; he needed to get her into the warm as quickly as possible. He took off his coat and laid it down on the ice. Then, he knelt down beside her, unpeeled her sodden clothes, undid his dressing gown and wrapped her in it as tightly as he could. Jack heaved her onto his fur-lined coat, untied his scarves and wrapped one around her head, another on her feet and slipped the third through the collar on the coat. Holding on to this scarf like a handle, dressed only in his red-striped pyjamas and heavy boots, he began to pull the makeshift sledge along the frozen river.

They reached the bottom of the field that led to the golf course and the dew pond. The snow had drifted and compacted to form a ramp. Panting, Jack used it to drag Sadie up the riverbank to the path, his pyjamas damp with sweat and steam rising from his back into the freezing air. His muscles burned, the air seared his lungs and throat and set his teeth on edge. He struggled to keep his footing as he carried Sadie through the field back home. At last they reached the garden and he dragged her the final few steps to the back door. Thumping on it with his fist, he called for Elizabeth.

'Help me . . . carry her.'

Elizabeth came running from the kitchen and threw open the door. She froze at the sight of her mother. Sadie's face was only a shade darker than the snow covering her. She was coc.o.o.ned in white, like a giant chrysalis, her eyes shut.

'Elizabeth!'

Shaking herself out of her stupor, she helped her father carry her over the threshold. They laid her in the hallway, and Jack leant against the wall, struggling for breath. Sweat and snow trickled down his face and mingled with salty tears.

'In the sitting room . . . put her . . . is warmest in there.'

His voice filled the narrow hall and he could hear the sob stick in his throat as he spoke. Together they carried Sadie into the living room. With trembling fingers Elizabeth unb.u.t.toned her from Jack's coat while he stoked the fire into a fearsome blaze.

'I'll stay with Mummy. You go into the village and send for a doctor.'

Jack shook his head, dazed with grief. 'I can't leave her. I won't.'

Elizabeth gave a small nod and was gone.

Jack stripped off his dripping pyjamas and climbed onto the sofa next to his wife, wrapped himself around her, rubbing her arms and legs to warm them. He was naked and cold but she felt colder still. She made him think of the tiny dead birds he had buried in the deep powder a few days before.

'Don't die, Sadie,' he whispered. 'I'm very sorry, please don't die.'

He rubbed his foot against her calf and kissed her cheek. There was a blanket covering them and he pulled it over their heads, so that they were encased in a crude tent.

'Don't leave me. Please, please.'

He reached his arms around her stomach and felt the soft yielding rolls. He clung to her, his teeth chattering, terrified that if he let go, she would die.

They lay together in front of the fire as the shadows grew long and danced in weird patterns on the stone walls. Jack did not release his grip but slowly fell asleep. He dreamt they were back in London. They were young, he still had his hair and Sadie's was chestnut brown. They were so poor, Elizabeth slept in a drawer in their bedroom, tucked in with the sweaters and tea towels. It was their anniversary but he had no money to buy his wife a present. In his dream, Jack climbed again the rickety cast-iron stairs to their fourth-floor flat and put the key in the lock. As he turned it, he heard Caruso crooning love songs on the gramophone from the place next door. He paused to listen, then pushed open the door to their apartment.

Sadie was standing stark naked on the table and when she saw him come in she began to dance. She swayed in time to the refrain lilting through the thin plaster wall. She was small and slender, her dark hair snaked down her back and she wore nothing but a pair of red high heels. 'Happy anniversary, darling,' she whispered and continued to dance. She turned her back and wiggled her round bottom. 'Mein lieber Schatz. Do you like your present?'

As she spoke, she clicked her heels on the wood. She had lit the gas lamps and her skin glowed warmly in the dim light, her nipples dark pink. Seeing him stare she laughed and coyly pulled her long hair to cover her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Jack stood, his back against the door, gazing at this girl-woman, silent with love.

He woke, embarra.s.sed to discover that he had an erection. He was both aroused and sick with guilt; how could he have wanted this woman to disappear, to leave him alone when she had danced? She was still the girl in the red shoes. The fire had burned low, the embers orange.

'Jack?'

'My darling, you're awake.'

He pulled her tightly to him and began to cry. The tears trickled into his mouth and he licked them away.

'I am so tired,' murmured Sadie, her voice rasping and thin.

'Then you must sleep.'

He stroked her matted hair and tried to wrap his gaunt legs around her in case she was still cold.

'But first you must promise me. Never to do it again.'

'Do what?'

Jack closed his eyes and rubbed the soft down on her arms. He didn't like to say the word. It was a dirty, evil word.

'Leave us,' he whispered, 'promise me that you will never try to leave us ever again.'

'Oh,' murmured Sadie, 'so that is what I did.' She was warm at last, and it was so pleasant in Jack's bony arms. 'I promise.'

Jack kissed her on the mouth. His rough cheeks grazed her skin, and he touched the creases around her eyes with his fingertips.

The doctor diagnosed pneumonia and advised complete bed rest for a month. Sadie was forbidden from venturing outside until all the snow had melted. Jack told Elizabeth that it was an accident; her mother had neglected to put on her boots and slipped and fell on the ice. He nursed Sadie with forgotten tenderness; he brushed her grey hair and brought basins of hot water to warm her feet. He bought newspapers to try and interest her in the world once more, and sat beside her reading aloud. He only read yesterday's papers, because then she could be rea.s.sured that there was nothing so bad in them that the world would not continue tomorrow.

Yet, something had happened to Sadie on the ice. She remembered falling into darkness, floating under the frozen film and looking up at the heavens. She fell further, down through the middle of the earth and then another sky, until she emerged in a dark wood. A gnarled oak tree stood before her, giant fir-trees dwarfed her on every side, and she breathed in the scent of Bavarian pine. Lights twinkled inside a cabin and somewhere she could hear Papa singing. She walked through the cabin door, and Emil grinned up at her from his nest on the rug, before returning to pasting stamps in his alb.u.m. Mutti patted the cushion beside her, saying, 'Come, you must dry yourself by the fire and have a little something to eat.' Sadie kicked off her wet shoes and padded across the floor.

Even lazing by the Dorset hearth, Sadie understood that she'd left a piece of herself in that other place. She knew none of this was possible, yet she felt different: same eyes, same nose, same round belly but something minute had shifted inside her and, to her surprise, she realised that she was glad Jack had found her. She liked sitting on the sofa, reclining on plumped cushions and toasting teacakes on the hot fire. She liked Jack combing the knots out of her hair, and listening to the click, click of Elizabeth's knitting needles in the afternoon.

The incident had triggered another revelation. When Sadie closed her eyes, she was overwhelmed by a pa.s.sionate longing for turkey meatb.a.l.l.s. Her mouth watered, and she could almost smell them frying on the stove. She remembered that Mutti had made them when she was small and they had been her favourite thing as a child. For twenty years nothing had been so bad that it could not be made better by turkey meatb.a.l.l.s, then in the course of time she had forgotten them. One afternoon, when Jack briefly left Sadie alone with Elizabeth, she confided her yearning to her daughter, who took the task seriously.

Elizabeth listened as her mother explained how the taste hit her tongue, until she too could hear her grandmother in the kitchen bashing spices with a rolling pin. She followed the instructions in the battered recipe book with its magical amalgamation of German and Yiddish, but the quant.i.ties were vague and imprecise. The book required her to cook with instinct, to imagine the flavour she wished to create and then use the book as a companion and guide. Her mother refused to eat the early attempts if the recipe was wrong, Sadie would forget the taste once more.

Elizabeth was a small baby when they had fled Berlin and had no memory of her grandmother, but she began to know her through the book. The meatball method was in a chapter ent.i.tled 'food to soothe troubles' and slowly she learned to listen to her voice. She procured some turkey, ground it carefully, and then she heard a whisper, 'Mustard seed, mustard seed.' She pounded it with the old farmhouse pestle, added it to the sizzling meat and then presented it proudly to her mother, confident that this was perfection.

As Sadie ate, her face was radiant. 'This is a good thing,' she decided, comforted by the scents wafting from her kitchen. History could be carried forward in tastes and smells. Elizabeth was learning to cook from her grandmother; her children would know the tastes of the shetetl shetetl and the world and the world before. before.

January was drawing to a close and it was Elizabeth's last evening before returning to Cambridge. The ground was wet and slick with mud, the gra.s.s brown and battered by the heavy snow. The icicles dangling from the rooftops dripped away into nothingness and sleepy badgers emerged to scavenge once more. As the snow retreated, shrinking first to the edges of the garden and fields, hiding under hedgerows, then disappearing altogether, Sadie rose from her bed. She took a long bath, washed her hair, dried it by the fire, put on a green stuff skirt, a cable knit sweater and went into her kitchen. Jack was not pleased.

'Go back to bed. You've been ill. Lie by the fire.'

'No. The doctor said I could get up when the snow was gone.'

She pointed out of the window. The evidence was irrefutable: drizzle dampened the ground, and the melt.w.a.ter had turned the trickling stream into a torrent. There was something Sadie needed to cook before Elizabeth left for the station; the meatb.a.l.l.s were an excellent start, but she wanted to teach her how to make a Baumtorte.

It was gathering dusk, the lights were lit and the stove burning when the two women lugged the tin bath inside to scrub it clean. They counted out the eggs, weighed the b.u.t.ter, flour and sugar and mixed them together. Tired from her illness, Sadie sank onto a kitchen stool, unfastened her stockings and washed her feet, then she climbed into the bath and began to tread the batter slowly between her toes, the mixture oozing creamily.

'Let me do that,' said Elizabeth, sitting down to take off her own shoes and socks.

Sadie shook her head. 'I must do this one. The next one is yours.'

Taking her time, she blended the ingredients, feeling them grow smooth and slippery beneath her skin. Elizabeth watched as she ladled the b.u.t.tery mixture into great tins and toasted each layer under the grill. The cake grew tall, sprouting like a sapling, while dusk mellowed into nightfall. Soon it was dark outside, the sky was overcast with cloud and the soft rain continued to fall silently into the earth.

The church bells struck midnight and Jack came into the kitchen carrying his bottle of Scotch. The sweet scent of baking pervaded the house, and disturbed him the fragrance of Baumtorte was always tinged with sorrow.

Sadie surveyed her cake-in-progress, chewing her lip. Once a.s.sembled, it would be as high as the one she had baked last summer, but this time it needed one extra layer. Tiers of cakes were spread out across the kitchen table. She spooned the final coating of batter into one of the tins and put it under the grill. She was no longer tired; she was hot and her arms felt sore from lifting and beating the eggs, but she felt a surge of energy as she lifted out the last tier and set it down on the table to cool.

Jack gulped whisky from a rose-patterned teacup and watched his wife curiously. Surrept.i.tiously he poured a drop into the bowl set aside for the icing. Elizabeth giggled and said nothing but started to sift the icing sugar and stir in the lemon flavouring with a wooden spoon.

'No. No. I must do that. This is my Baumtorte,' Sadie protested.

'For goodness' sake. Let me make the icing,' said Elizabeth. Now that her mother was almost well, she was beginning to irritate her again.

Sadie conceded and allowed her to smooth it into a glossy paste. Then, together they piled the tiers on top of one another, using the icing to bind them, until finally the Baumtorte was ready.

'You should have the first piece,' said Elizabeth.

Sadie shook her head. 'I made it for you.'

Standing on a chair, Sadie cut her a slice, as thin as her little finger but several feet deep. As Elizabeth bit into it she felt a wave of sadness. She considered how lonely her mother must be, to bake cakes in order to remember. It was both strange and sad, and a fat tear trickled down her cheek.

Seeing her daughter cry, Sadie believed Elizabeth finally understood, and was comforted.

Jack and Sadie went to bed in winter, the big wind buffeting the walls of the cottage, and woke to discover spring in the garden. Pinp.r.i.c.ks of snowdrops grew in icy cl.u.s.ters beneath the apple trees, their heads nodding in the breeze like a trembling all-day frost. The branches remained bare, the sky empty and cold, and yet there was the possibility of green things: everywhere there were tight curled leaf buds, the newly uncovered gra.s.s seemed lurid in its brightness and shoots poked the brown earth aside. Jack and Sadie inspected the garden arm in arm, pointing out the sprouting stems to one another, each patch of plants a surprise treasure h.o.a.rd. As the snowdrops began to fade to brown, the primroses crept into view and shone like tiny suns growing from the earth.

After the primroses came clouds of daffodils, golden with bright orange trumpets. Sadie picked armfuls and brought them inside until every room was filled with vases of happy daffodils. The ones she liked best were white ones with pink rimmed hearts. In Berlin they had been banned from the parks, so in their first English spring they circled round and round Regent's Park, marvelling at all the flowers. Back then, she and Jack were still dazed and she was silent, unable to speak English. Not knowing it was forbidden, Sadie had picked one white daffodil, and it smelled of freedom. When Elizabeth was a child, Sadie bought bulbs for her to plant in the window boxes. The girl cut one open to look for the flower but it was empty and wet and white.

All England smelled of damp, fresh earth. As he went to his course each morning, Jack found himself walking with his mouth open taking great gulps of clean, moist air. He gathered the men on the field by the fifth hole; this was the one with the most splendid aspect, the land falling away beneath them and the tall gra.s.s glimmering in the morning light. They were not the only ones working in the distance, on the edge of the village and only half concealed by a motley clump of trees, the bungalows were going up. Wilson's Housing Corporation had been true to their word and pre-fabricated buildings sprouted up across the cleared meadows. There was the far-off clatter of picks and clashing metal as scaffolding was hoisted. Jack sighed and thought of Old England, that mythical place before the Great War. Why did mankind want to ruin everything with his d.a.m.ned improvements? The English cottage was a thing of nature it sprang up from the earth with walls made from local stone or mud and roof of slate or straw as if it had grown there. When abandoned, it sunk back into the ground like the corpse of a tree or a rabbit. He longed for the days when whole villages were pretty clumps of white cob houses and the visitor did not need to close his eyes when driving through the concreted developments that scarred the peripheries. When the course was finished he would plant more trees, white ash and elm, to shield his land from their ugliness. He stood on a mound, drew himself up to his full height and cleared his throat, since he wanted very much to be inspiring.

'Friends, we must press on, full puff ahead. I need nine holes finished before June. This will be the greatest golf course in the whole of England. We must work like hedge sparrows building their nests or the honeybee gathering nectar. We will triumph! And a bottle of Scotch to the man who moves the most molehills.'

He was determined that the course be finished on schedule; it was a matter of necessity as he was nearly out of cash. He must be brave, like the champion Bobby Jones himself, hold fast and not lose his nerve. If he allowed even a second of wavering hesitation, he was finished. From first light he worked so furiously that the others marvelled at his energy.

He did not rest but laboured by the light of the bright spring moon, digging, digging. Night was another world; the trees, gra.s.s and houses might be the same made from the same leaves, water or bricks but they were transformed. Flowers closed their petals; the green gra.s.s turned purple and the wind changed key as it hissed through the rustling trees, whilst the trickling stream tore through the fields in a rush of noise. Night hid the unsightly bungalows, masking the concrete in darkness so that one could almost believe that the modern world had not yet impinged on the village.

Jack worked steadily, breaking up clods of soil with his spade, the edge glinting sharply like a square sword. There was power in his small frame and he laboured relentlessly raking, cutting, smoothing. Dropping his tools in exhaustion, he halted shortly before dawn and traipsed back to the house where Sadie had left him breakfast on the table. There was a tall gla.s.s of milk, a fat slice of apple strudel and cold slices of lamb, the fat thick and white. He ate methodically, drinking the milk down in a single gulp then chewing the lamb, savouring the marbled lines of grease. He saved the strudel till last, licking the b.u.t.tery pastry off his fingers and, half in a dream, picked out all the currants, lining them end on end around his plate. Leaning back in his chair, he gazed at the neat row and thought of Emil. Hearing the kitchen door creak, Jack looked round to see Sadie standing behind him, her eyes bright. She leant over and rested her chin on the top of his bald head.

'You remember too,' she said. 'I never knew.'

Before he climbed the stairs to bed, ready to sleep for a few hours next to the warm body of his wife, he retreated into his study to write to Bobby Jones. The sun was stealing over Bulbarrow Ridge, as he pulled out his sheet of paper and began.

Dear Mr Jones,I really hoped to hear from you before Christmas so either your sp.r.o.ncy American postal service is slower in coming than the Jew's messiah, or the aeroplane delivering my letters is tipping them out in the middle of the Atlantic.

Jack decided not to acknowledge the third, most likely possibility, that Bobby Jones discarded his correspondence with no intention of ever responding at all.