They had to shout to make themselves heard above the machine's racket. It could only creep along and Jack believed he could have gone faster if he were partic.i.p.ating in a three-legged race. He was balanced precariously on the running-board at the side of the cab, and only Ba.s.set's restraining arm stopped him from tumbling onto the tarmac. Sweat trickled along his spine. He wondered that they had not been caught and fully expected at any moment the bells of a police car and for a Black Maria to pull up and cart him away. The others would be all right. He would be the one to go to prison he was the Jew and the boss and would be blamed for corrupting these good English men. He considered whether it would be undignified to be sick.

'And we're 'ere,' said Ba.s.set, giving him a friendly pat on the arm.

Ed climbed down and swung open the gate leading to the bottom field, but the s.p.a.ce was just too narrow and the digger tore one of the poles clean from the ground, leaving an unsightly scar along the metalwork. No one apart from Jack seemed in the slightest bit concerned. The beast was quieter in the field, its metal claws made less noise on the earth than the road. The yellow headlights cast a sickly hue upon the bulrushes and made a false moon shimmer on the pond.

Freddie was the only one who knew how to drive the beast, so Ba.s.set explained to him what needed to be done. Jack stared in awe as it dug a huge hole in the rough and deposited a tree, roots and all, into the chasm. The men gathered around the monster in the murk, clutching their hats and shaking their heads in respect.

'See how much stuff he can carry.'

'Aye. Aye. Fifty b.l.o.o.d.y horsepower,'

'Fifty. My G.o.d. My G.o.d. Never thought I'd see the day.' My G.o.d. My G.o.d. Never thought I'd see the day.'

'An' they do bigger ones, too.'

'Bigger'n him? Be bigger'n G.o.d.'

'Is it a pulley system?'

'Nah. A cable. Makes 'im a bit unwieldy, not so fast, like.'

'He really is some-att.'

'It's a nice mustard colour,' added Jack feeling left out.

Under Ba.s.set's direction, the machine manoeuvred the hillside back into place. The land was removed from the fairway and piled piece-by-piece upon the spot where the fifth hole used to be. Jack and Curtis sat on upturned buckets by the ponds and watched the machine work in its own pool of artificial light. While the others were entranced by the sheer power of the contraption, Jack was disconcerted. He was used to machines in his factory great electric looms that wove the carpets and vats of industrial dye. He had imagined the countryside to be a rural idyll, free from the clamour of mechanisation. Unthinkingly, he took the flask Curtis proffered and took a hefty swig, 'Change, I suppose, has to come everywhere.'

Curtis stared through half-closed lids, his lined skin looking like chestnut bark in the gloom. 'Aye. He comes alrigh' whether we wants 'im or not. I remembers the days afore t' railways. Back in them days, every village had 'is songs an' each one were a bit differen' than 'is next door. Then, one day trains come, like bleedin' griffins, an' Dorsit isn't jist Dorsit no more, but a piece of big England. Them trains puffin' along tracks from Lon'on an' Bris'l brings all new stuff from the music halls. In one week jist seven days an' seven nights no one sings the ol' songs anymore. In fields at harvest time they doesn't sing "Ol Linden Lea" no more, but "Down the Lambeth Walk" and "Pretty Lil Polly Perkins o' Paddin'ton Square". An' now no ones remembers them old 'uns 'cept me. An' my singin' voice is worse than a one-legged badger in a bear pit.'

Jack had no reply for the old man and only wondered how long it would be before this place hummed with traffic. The digger was growling up the hill once more with a ton of earth and stone clenched in its jaws.

'It'll still take time for the ground to heal,' murmured Jack.

'Aye, 'ee can move the earth but 'ee can't regrow that there gra.s.s,' said Curtis, with a slow shake of his head.

Jack glanced to the east and saw that there was the thought of dawn in the sky, and behind him a wren began to chirp. That was it. He scrambled to his feet, offering Curtis a soil-stained hand.

'Come on. It's time.'

Jack walked briskly up the rise to the others, with Curtis bleary-eyed, trying to keep pace. Feeling rather brave, Jack stood in the path of the machine and, waving both arms wildly, forced it to come to a stop.

'Eh, what you do that fur?' wondered Ba.s.set crossly.

Jack pointed at the sky. 'It's dawn. We must take it back.'

Ba.s.set studied the east sceptically. 'Got least an hour.'

'No.'

'Don't yer want some of them bunkers? 'Ee could dig you some in a minute. Bob's your uncle.'

'My uncle was Morris. And no bunkers. I don't want that thing tearing out chunks of earth. We must take it back right now.'

Jack was resolute; he stood very upright and looked Ba.s.set in the eye. The other man met his gaze and then shrugged.

'What ever yer wants.'

Ba.s.set whistled and signalled towards the road. In the cab, Freddie stuck up his thumb and the machine began its slow descent towards the lane.

Jack walked beside the digger as it crept along the road. The metal treads clattered horribly against the hard surface making him wince; he had studiously avoided trouble for more than fifty years and here he was actively inviting it he could not be less invisible than he was at that moment, walking slowly next to a giant yellow mechanical digger.

It took him a moment to realise what was up. Dawn glowed rosy in the east and the air was full with the chattering of birds. A c.o.c.kerel crowed in the distance and was immediately answered by another nearby. That was it. He could hear hear the birds: the digger had stopped and its vast engine had fallen silent. Up in the cab, Freddie fumbled frantically with the keys. Curtis tugged on Jack's coat, 'Don't look so worried, everythin'll be jis luvely.' the birds: the digger had stopped and its vast engine had fallen silent. Up in the cab, Freddie fumbled frantically with the keys. Curtis tugged on Jack's coat, 'Don't look so worried, everythin'll be jis luvely.'

Jack swallowed hard as the window rolled down on the cab.

'Out o' juice,' announced Freddie.

'I'll get the spare can,' said Matt and climbed up to rummage around behind Freddie's seat. 'Ent 'ere.'

'Aw s.h.i.t.'

'This is it. I'm going to prison,' said Jack and turned white.

Nimbly, Freddie climbed down and joined the others. They were at the bottom of the hill by Charing Cross. The nameless signpost creaked ominously. The hulking digger looked out of place, marooned in the middle of the road and blocking the narrow lane in both directions, its yellow sides brushing the hedge.

'Let's jis leave it here. Leave key's in 'im an' b.u.g.g.e.r off,' suggested Matt.

'Suppose some one nicks 'im?'

'Won't budge will 'ee. No juice.'

'Well that's settled then,' said Ba.s.set and marched up the lane.

The others muttered a.s.sent and began to follow, until Jack was left alone beside the machine, 'Don't go. We can't leave it!'

'Come on,' called Ba.s.set. 'Nothin' yer can do. Wilson's'll be along in a bit.'

Jack stared at their departing backs as they sauntered up the hill, then with a final glance at the stationary digger, he trailed after them, as the red fingers of dawn streaked the morning sky.

The machine had done a splendid job clearing the debris from the fairway, but the green still needed to be levelled and reseeded and the tee rebuilt. The eighth and ninth holes had not been started and the seventh was not quite finished. All in all, there was a mountain of work still to do and Jack vetoed absolutely the illicit borrowing of any more machinery they must continue by hand; a course of action made easier by Freddie and Matt bringing with them another dozen men from Wilson's Housing Corp. Sadie ordered rose bushes from Dorchester and planted them in clumps around the ponds and along the edges of the hazards. She threw seeds for wild flowers scarlet poppies, cornflowers, love-in-the-mist, pink-rimmed daises and cowslips amongst the gra.s.ses in the rough. Jack faithfully recorded their progress in his weekly letter to Bobby Jones.

Dear Mr Jones,Today was a strange sort of pagan festival that involved (as I find they usually do) drinking cider and shouting. We finished the seventh hole and toasted it (and poured a healthy drop into the hole no doubt giving some poor earthworm a punchy breakfast). There was much laughter and even the womenfolk came along. My wife baked some excellent pear tarts and we ate them with the local clotted cream. It's strange, I've eaten those tarts many times they're from an old Bavarian recipe but they've never been so delicious as with that little Dorset addition.The damage (from a landslide this time, not the woolly-pig) has been repaired and the course looks simply marvellous. I wish you could see it. I'm crippled with bank loans. Any more disasters and we're up Stourcastle creek. I've placed an advertis.e.m.e.nt in I've placed an advertis.e.m.e.nt in The Times The Times which I've taken the liberty of enclosing. which I've taken the liberty of enclosing.Yours sincerely etc.Jack Rose ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nTBrand New Golf Course at Pursebury Ash in Dorsetshire. Compet.i.tion Match to celebrate the Coronation of Her Majesty The Queen Elizabeth to be held on 2nd of June. Inaugural members: Sir William Waegbert (baronet) and Mr Henry h.o.a.re Esq. (gentleman). Open to new members.

There was still the problem of the molehills. Knowing Jack would not approve, Ba.s.set waited until he was safely out of the way writing his letter, and then sent ferrets down the holes to root out the moles. The sightless creatures emerged terrified into the daylight, where Curtis and Ba.s.set crushed their skulls with hammers. The trimmed green was soon piled high with their minute, velvety corpses, which Curtis quickly skinned, carefully preserving the pelts. Moleskin gloves were much prized by fashionable ladies, and a few elderly women in the village still knew how to make them. Ba.s.set dug a grave at the bottom of the field and filled it with the tiny bodies. Jack remained cheerfully oblivious to their method, but was thrilled that his molehill problem had mysteriously vanished.

On Wednesday morning Sadie ambled down to the village hall, carrying a fat chocolate sponge (laced with sugared cherry blossom) for the Coronation Committee. The sun beat down on the corrugated iron roof, and the ladies of the committee had abandoned the sweltering building for the village green. Sadie hovered unseen at the edge of the field, in the shade of a spreading chestnut. Coa.r.s.e blankets were strewn haphazardly beneath the trees, and the other women sprawled in twos and threes, listening to Lavender Ba.s.set, who sat very upright on a wooden chair, rattling through the day's agenda. Beside her a mouse-like woman in a pale blue frock scribbled and blinked.

'Has anyone heard back from the electrical store in Dorchester?' asked Lavender.

A robust lady in a pair of olive slacks struggled to her feet and raised a hand. Lavender tipped her head imperiously, 'Yes, Mrs Hinton?'

'Tis as we feared, Mrs Ba.s.set. Bulbarrow Hill blocks all signals for the television. The BBC himself has been consulted. But there is nothin' to be done.'

There was a collective sigh, and mutterings of 'what a pity', until Lavender raised her hand again for silence. 'I know it seems unfair what with them French seein' it an' all. But we people o' Pursebury will not be defeated by pifflin' disappointments.'

'We will not,' agreed Mrs Hinton, settling back down on her rug.

'We need ideas, suggestions 'n solutions, ladies,' said Lavender.

'We can a'ways listen in on t' wireless,' said the mouse-lady beside her, in a meek voice.

'Whole village crowdin' round a wireless? It'll be a shambles.'

'Aye. No sense o' occasion.'

From the shade of the chestnut tree, Sadie listened to the swell of noise. She thought back to the last great Royal celebration, the marriage of Princess Elizabeth to Prince Philip of Greece, five years before. Then, there had been no possibility of watching the event on the television set. Jack and Sadie had scrutinised every photograph in the newspapers, and Elizabeth's school held a pageant a few days later, with a girl in a white frock acting the princess and another, hair slicked back, playing the part of the prince. That gave Sadie an idea. She stepped out from the shadow of the tree and into the midst of the chattering women, her chocolate cake held aloft, and cleared her throat.

'Aye, pop the cake indoors, Mrs Rose-in-Bloom,' said Lavender, preoccupied with the crisis.

'I . . . em . . . I . . . have an idea,' said Sadie, standing her ground.

The women on the rugs stared at her in surprise. Sadie's cheeks pinked under the scrutiny. 'At eleven o'clock, when Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second receives the crown from the Archbishop of Canterbury, we should be crowning our very own queen,' she paused, and smiled at the others. 'The Queen of Pursebury Ash.'

Lavender jumped up in excitement, knocking over the wooden chair. 'I like that idea Mrs Rose-in-Bloom!' She flung her arms out wide, eyes shining, 'We, of Her Majesty's Coronation Committee, Pursebury Ash Branch, refuse to be defeated or to permit this village to go without a proper coronation at the proper time.'

There were shouts of agreement from the a.s.sembled women.

'Excellent idea. Marvellous,' said Mrs Hinton, taking the chocolate cake from Sadie and trying to shake her hand at the same time.

'Now,' said Lavender, 'Over elevenses, me must discuss the matter of the Coronation Chicken.'

'Aye,' agreed the mouse-lady, with a stubborn scowl. 'If they're havin' it at Buckingham Palace, we are most certainly havin' it at Pursebury Village Hall.'

They spread a picnic out on the rug with Sadie's cake in pride of place. The sticky icing attracted a swarm of biting flies, which Lavender swotted with a roll of newspaper.

'No, not 'im,' said Mrs Hinton, s.n.a.t.c.hing the paper. 'He's the one with the instructions. I saved him special.'

Mrs Hinton pa.s.sed it to Sadie, 'Here you take a look, Mrs Rose-in-Bloom. You are a handsome cook and you knows all about foreign food.'

Sadie settled down on the rug, the wool scratching her bare legs, and studied the paper. It was a page carefully cut from The Times The Times: CORONATION CHICKEN (COLD) (FOR 68) 2 young roasting chickens; water and a little wine to cover; carrot; a bouquet garni; salt; 34 peppercorns; cream of curry sauce (recipe follows).

Poach the chickens, with carrot, bouquet, salt, and peppercorns, in water and a little wine, enough barely to cover, for about 40 minutes or until tender. Prepare the sauce given below. Mix the chicken and the sauce together, arrange on a dish.

'Ahh,' said Sadie, giving a little murmur of recognition, 'I heard Constance Spry herself on the wireless. She explained how to make this. I have poached chicken before. In Berlin. I can show you if you like?'

Lavender blinked, forced a tight smile and then relaxed. This was the first time Mrs Rose-in-Bloom had casually mentioned her German past. But, Lavender supposed, it wasn't sordid like Mrs Hinton's younger sister whose 'past' had been a long-haired sailor from Kentucky. Mrs Rose-in-Bloom's past wasn't her fault, and perhaps it was better that she spoke of it from time to time.

Early one morning, after planting a flag in the restored fifth hole, Jack walked around his course chatting to Ba.s.set and Curtis. He held envelopes filled with wages; he liked to pay his men in person so that he could thank them for all their hard work. There was a palpable sense of antic.i.p.ation. He gathered his workforce around the flagpole and climbed on top of an upturned seed crate so that they could all see him. There were a full score of faces staring back up at him and he gazed at them, and then at his golf course. The land was so beautifully restored that in a few months no one would ever know it had slid down the hillside. The green fields shone in the morning sunshine, while white puffs of cloud drifted across the blue sky. A cuckoo called from where apple trees and cricket willows had been planted to screen the bungalows. The first of the year's dragonflies danced on the surface of the pond, causing Jack to feel a ripple of happiness.

'Thank you all for your hard work. Bobby Jones himself could not have laboured more mightily. There is only one more hole to be completed and then we will be triumphant!'

He took off his hat and waved it at the crowd, who bayed and whistled with enthusiasm. Then he noticed a balding man dressed in a grey flannel suit standing apart from the others, watching. Jack did not recognise him and, curiosity piqued, climbed down from his box. The others took this as the signal to go back to work, but the stranger in the suit did not move and instead addressed him in a confidential tone.

'Lovely spot you've got here.'

'Thank you,' said Jack smiling proudly. In his view this was the most beautiful spot in all of England and hence the whole of the world.

'Means I am very sorry to give you these.' The man opened his briefcase and handed Jack a tightly bound doc.u.ment.

'What is it?'

'Afraid it is a cease and desist notice.'

'A what?'

'Cease and desist. Means you must stop all work immediately or face a large fine and possible imprisonment.'

Jack sank down on the box, gripping the papers in his hand and scanned the first few lines. He'd always detested legal jargon it was there to confound and intimidate, but it worked. Then it hit him: all this was his own fault. He always knew he shouldn't have stolen that mechanical digger, even if it had only been for a single night.

'It's Wilson's Housing Corporation out for revenge. I know it,' he declared miserably.

The man looked surprised. 'It's the council, sir. Nothing personal. You need to apply for planning permission for golf courses. Go through proper channels.'

This was news to Jack and fury began to bubble inside him. He hated bureaucrats they were nasty, vague men who got in the way of good business in every nation in the world.

'It's a golf course, man! There are no buildings. Not even a stupid car park.'

The man gave a nasal groan. 'I understand. It does seem most unfair. But nowadays even golf courses need permission.'

Jack looked at all the men busily tending the fairway. 'Well? What am I to do?'

'Stop all work and apply for planning permission.'

'And how long will that take?'

'I can't tell you that, sir.'

Jack got to his feet and pointed furiously at the men working on the land.

'Look,' he said, trying not to shout, 'See them? I employ all of them. Am I supposed to send them all home? They thought they were to have another month's solid work. Have some pity, Mr . . . ?'

The grey man looked at him, and relented. 'Brown. Mr Brown. I can try to call an emergency meeting at the planning commission. Try to get this resolved quickly.'

'Please,' said Jack.

'But you must halt all work.'