Jack winced with the effort of trying to remain patient.

'Of course it does. The signs were simply painted out during the war and no one's replaced them. Everyone in the village knows where they are. Probably aren't enough strangers pa.s.sing to warrant the effort of replacing them.'

Blue smoke from a nearby bonfire hovered, making strange patterns as the sunlight tried to penetrate. Jack felt Sadie shiver beside him and he tried to make casual conversation. 'I read that the corpses of highwaymen were buried under crossroads.'

She was not rea.s.sured. They pa.s.sed the village hall where a small group of men were hammering wooden tent pegs into the sun-baked ground. Several of the younger men had removed their shirts as they worked, the muscles beneath their skin coiling like rope. They all stared narrowly as the Jaguar pa.s.sed. Jack was perturbed it was part of his grand scheme of a.s.similation that they would simply seep unnoticed into village life, like rain into damp earth, and he did not like their scrutiny.

He steered the car round to the left, turned by a steep hill and then noticed a broken gate leading along a roughly hewn dirt track. 'This is it!' he cried, recognising this to be a great moment in their lives in years to come when he stood at the front of the driveway and ushered in the chauffeured cars to his golf club for the Wess.e.x Cup or the qualifying match for the British Open, he would remember the moment when he saw the place for the first time.

He steered the car up a potholed driveway lined with beech trees, which shaded them coolly as the Jaguar bounced along from one hole to the next. 'Need to get this fixed,' he said resolutely a course such as his would need a proper road.

The trees grew thicker and the light through the leaves played weird patterns over the car bonnet and upon their skin. Jack noticed two black eyes watching them through the gloom, then a shape disappeared into the thicket. He remembered a green painting of a wood in the book of fairy tales he'd had as a child.

And then they were back in the daylight. He pulled the car up beside the front door of the house. It looked rather different to the picture that was sitting snugly in Jack's breast pocket. The thatch was still there, but even with scant knowledge of thatches, he felt that they shouldn't have bald patches. A blackbird darted out of a large hole and another picked at a loose bit of straw. The lime-washed exterior was grimy in the sunlight; the roses grew feral and obscured the boarded-up windows. The walls were made of wattle and the house gave the impression that it wished for nothing more than to slump back into the earth. Jack furrowed his brow, climbed out of the car and ripped away the rotten wood nailed to the window frames. There was a tinkle of broken gla.s.s as a pane fell out. 'Need to fix that,' he muttered, less resolutely than before.

Sadie hadn't moved; she sat fixed in her seat and stared at the house curiously, breathing in deeply there was a familiar scent, something she knew well but had not smelled for a long time. Jack plucked a rose from the wild tangle round the door and presented it to her. She ignored him, so he stuck it in her headscarf.

'Ouch!'

The stem of the rose was covered in sharp green thorns, and she pushed him away. Unperturbed, he opened the car door for her and offered his arm, which she rejected, brushing past him to stalk across the drive to the front door.

'The house looks sad now but with a lick of paint it will be perfect,' he called producing a bunch of old-fashioned cast iron keys, each the size of a giant's finger. 'Ready?'

He slipped one into the big keyhole on the studded door and as he turned it there was a satisfying click. He heaved open the door and entered the dark hallway, Sadie close behind him. She gave a little scream. 'Scheie! Something touched me!' Something touched me!'

Jack wedged the door so that a shaft of light illuminated wisps of a torn cobweb. 'See, it's nothing, doll. Nothing but us.'

Glancing up, Sadie saw the low ceiling was criss-crossed with hulking beams, stained black with soot and age. On the walls the lime plaster was beginning to flake and where the sun fell it shone upon spots of mould and creeping damp. She ducked under a low archway leading into a rudimentary kitchen it certainly wasn't Sadie's idea of a kitchen. There was a filthy stove, a heap of wood to drive it, a worn oaken table with a few broken, upended chairs, and as she looked about her, she saw there was no sink. In fact, not only was there no sink, there was no tap. She tried not to dwell on the significance of this unsavoury fact nor think of her porcelain bidet abandoned to its fate in Hampstead.

Jack had followed her and, having given up trying to peer through the dirt-caked windows, was heaving against the stable-style door that lead to the back garden.

'Just a minute. Nearly got him. Oh . . .'

His voice trailed away, as he saw the land stretched out before him. Wordless, he seized Sadie's hand and oblivious to her protests, led her outside. The fields lay under a shimmering heat haze and the bees hummed in every bush. The lawn sloped gently into fields full of waving gra.s.s tinged with b.u.t.tercups, and high above their heads a kestrel hovered, its wings not appearing to beat.

Here was his golf course. Jack narrowed his eyes and, whether it was the effect of the sunlight or sheer excitement, he could hear a wireless commentary. 'Well, this is the first British Open to be held at the new course at Pursebury Ash. It is a fine day for it. Looking to the seventh you can see Sam Snead taking a practice shot. Ah, yes, here comes Bobby Jones with the owner of the course, that well-known English Gentleman, Mr Jack Rosenblum. Ah yes, it's going to be a great compet.i.tion.' 'Well, this is the first British Open to be held at the new course at Pursebury Ash. It is a fine day for it. Looking to the seventh you can see Sam Snead taking a practice shot. Ah, yes, here comes Bobby Jones with the owner of the course, that well-known English Gentleman, Mr Jack Rosenblum. Ah yes, it's going to be a great compet.i.tion.'

Jack saw the little flags waving amongst the tightly mowed gra.s.s and the yellow of the bunkers. He beamed, closing his eyes for a moment, as he listened to the cheering of the crowd.

Realising that Jack was lost in a daydream, Sadie turned to go inside. A voice from inside the hedge made her start.

'Mornin'.'

An old man was squatting in the shadows behind her, camouflaged by leaves and sprouting cow parsley. His face was the colour of wood stain, and he looked as if he was growing out of the hazel boughs. Sadie took a step back.

'Ja, h.e.l.lo, may I help you Mr . . .'

'Curtis. Jist Curtis. You can help if yer likes. I is huntin' for pignuts, Mrs Rose-in-Bloom.'

Sadie stared at him. 'You know my name?'

'Aye.'

He offered no more explanation, and Sadie continued to gaze at him, her mouth slightly open.

'Them last ones flew away,' he added conspiratorially.

He plucked two leaves off the hedge and made flapping motions.

'I am sorry? I beg your pardon?'

'Them last ones what lived in your house. They flew away.'

Sadie did not understand. 'They took an aeroplane?'

'Nope. Beds a-made of pijin feathers. 'S bad luck to sleep arn pijin feathers. They's wings grow back in the night and then they flies away. With you in bed or not.'

'Oh.'

'Yoos heard of them legends about gins, right?'

'Djinns?'

'Aye. Well they ent gins or Djinns but pi-jins. They is very dangerous things, pi-jins.'

'Pigeons?'

The man tapped his nose.

'What about goose feathers? I have an eiderdown of goose, will they fly away too?'

The man screwed up his face in concentration. 'Nope. Don't think so. Jist pi-jins. But I will make a sure.'

He stood, clambered out of the hedge, gave Sadie a little tip of his hat and wandered away down the hill. Aching with tiredness, all Sadie wanted was to lie down and sleep and determined to find a bed. Attempting to ignore the fustiness of the house, she climbed the wooden stairs and tried the nearest room. A cast-iron bed covered with a moth-eaten quilt rested in the middle of the room. She leant against the rough plastered wall and wondered aloud, 'How did I get here?'

A robin landed on a branch and c.o.c.ked its head, as though the question were addressed to it. Sadie knelt to open the low window but the catch was stiff and splinters of rotting wood broke away as she forced it ajar. The air was full of dust that swirled in the spotlights of sun, and above the gla.s.s a fat cobweb wobbled in the breeze. She stared out at the shining fields, listening to the ribald song of the robin and found herself thinking of her grandparents, who had come from the shetetls shetetls. They had lived as peasants in villages in the east and sowed corn and potatoes, reared sheep and goats. A wind blew into the bedroom carrying tiny seed cases and the same odd scent; it was not the sickly ammonia scent of mice, nor the honeysuckle, but something familiar from her childhood. She walked to the window and slammed it shut. There was a tinkle of gla.s.s as another ancient pane shattered and fell to the ground in a cascade of sharp rain. She sighed, drew the curtain and lay on the bed, scrutinising the thick oak beams in the sloped ceiling above her head. The curtain was faded chintz and it fluttered in the breeze like a giant b.u.t.terfly. On the floor lay a pile of faded books and she reached out to grab a volume from the top. The spine had come away, the cover was damp stained and it smelled vaguely of mould, but she opened it anyway and idly read the contents page. It was a collection of folklore: 'The Dorset Oozeer', 'Apple Bobbin' at Midnight', 'The Drowners', and she skimmed through the t.i.tles, searching for any reference to pigeons. There was none. The rest of the books were novels by Thomas Hardy and once must have been a smartly bound nineteenth-century set, but now they were scarred by brown water marks. She shoved all the books in the corner of the room so that their dank stench could not reach the bed, lay back down and closed her eyes.

She woke with a jolt to find that it was dark and, for a moment, she was back in Bethnal Green underground station in the midst of an air raid. She reached out automatically for Elizabeth the child always slept curled against her hip, oblivious to the booms overhead but Sadie's fingers brushed the wiry hair on Jack's leg, and she remembered where she was. She kept her mouth tight shut, worried that if she opened it the darkness would pour inside and choke her, sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the gentle rasp of Jack's breathing. There was another sound: a soft thudding and flapping. She tried to shake Jack awake but he would not stir. The scrabbling grew louder and screeching cries came from the wall. She dug her nails into her palms she was a middle-aged woman and would not be tyrannised by night-time noises. She dug her nails into her palms she was a middle-aged woman and would not be tyrannised by night-time noises.

She slid out of bed and followed the sound to a door built into the wattle wall in one corner of the bedroom. As she fumbled with a bolt, the door burst open and a cascade of creatures flew at her, their panicked fluttering filling the air as she screamed out, terrified that they would get tangled in her hair. Looming grey shadows poured out from the cupboard and flapped across the ceiling; she could not tell if they were outsized bats or birds. There was only the thud, thud as they flew into the walls or collided with the window gla.s.s. She ran to the window, flung it as wide as she could and then escaped from the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

She raced downstairs in the darkness until she reached the hall, where the flagstones felt icy cold on her bare feet. She didn't like to think of Jack asleep in the room with all those creatures supposing they flew away with him? Then she would be left alone. She laughed at her silliness but her voice echoed in the empty house and, as she padded into the sitting room, she gave a slight shudder. Their furniture had been delivered but was still covered in white sheets, and she wished that she had a torch or even a candle. She could make out the shape of their sofa, an old high-backed Knole. Jack had bought it after reading that the Knole sofa was the oldest of all English designs and boasted a proud aristocratic lineage. Ladies had to be careful whom they sat next to on a Knole sofa as, with a flick of the wrist and a pull on the cord, the sides and back came tumbling down to form a makeshift bed it was a dangerous and licentious sofa. Right now, it proved very useful and Sadie gladly removed the sheet, tugged on the cords and lay down. She wrapped herself up in the dustsheet, screwed her eyes tight shut and waited for sleep.

Jack woke the next morning feeling disorientated. He was lying in a neat, low bed in an unfamiliar room, with his hair sticking up around his ears like meadow gra.s.s. Light grey-blue feathers lay scattered across the floor and a dead bird rested next to the window. Throwing off the covers he jumped out of bed, landed on bare wooden boards and bounded across to the window unhelpfully positioned at the height of his knees and bent down to look out. Rolling down to the foot of the hill were the fields for his golf course; the gra.s.s was thick with dew and clumps of cloud floated lazily across the sky like tufts of duckling down. Early morning sunshine streamed in through the filthy window, and he gave a contented huff as he saw the pond glitter in the distance. There was no sign of Sadie this was a good house; it was big enough for them to lose one another in.

Jack yawned, stretched and went downstairs to the small back parlour that he decided would be his study. It was dingy, the walls smoke-stained and the thick layers of dust made him cough. A pile of dead leaves had blown in from outside and a half-burned fire mouldered in the broken grate. Underneath a bookcase lurked a sprung mousetrap, with a tiny shrivelled form pinned to the base. He looked away quickly really must get a cat, much more pleasant than a trap. He disliked the paraphernalia of death, even b.e.s.t.i.a.l ones and, while he knew deep down that hunting or shooting was as English as golf, he couldn't stomach death being part of the game. Even if it was an un-British sign of weakness, he never added any kind of blood sports to his list. He had hated the rabbits in the butchers' shops during the war strung up in their blood-smeared fur, eyes filmy, humming with flies and he couldn't bear Sadie to buy them, not even when the only alternative was a tin of 'potted meat in natural juices'. It was not only dead animals that repulsed him, a wriggling fish with a line in its lip, suffocating in air, distressed him too. He liked that the English language separated animal and food: cow and beef, sheep and mutton. It was more civilised than German: das Rindfleisch, das Rindfleisch, bull-flesh. It was too literal. Perhaps that was why he hated rabbit rabbit was rabbit whether it was hopping in a meadow or skinned and ready for the pot. bull-flesh. It was too literal. Perhaps that was why he hated rabbit rabbit was rabbit whether it was hopping in a meadow or skinned and ready for the pot.

A box of papers rested on the floor. He removed the lid, rifled through the pages and in a moment found what he was looking for.

A Guide to the Old Course at St Andrews, Scotland, By Mr Tom Morris.

1884.

Printed for T.R. Johnson in St Paul's Churchyard.

It was a yellowed and dog-eared pamphlet, which he had discovered in a second-hand bookstore off Piccadilly sandwiched between a guide to the Lake District and a volume on lesser-spotted quails. He had read it at least fifty times and was almost word perfect. He stroked the battered pages with affection. It was like the commandments given to Moses on the Mount the blueprint for his destiny. With the wisdom of Tom Morris he would build the greatest golf course since the end of the war: an Old Course in the West Country. He didn't have the sea, that was the only slight hitch and it probably couldn't officially officially be a links course with only a duck pond, but other than the lack of ocean, the differences in topography, soil, wind direction and gra.s.s, it would be a perfect copy of St Andrews. be a links course with only a duck pond, but other than the lack of ocean, the differences in topography, soil, wind direction and gra.s.s, it would be a perfect copy of St Andrews.

Jack's cheeks flushed with excitement his entire life had been building to this great event. They had barred him from the London clubs, but this would be the best course in the south of England and he would select the members. He envisioned himself sitting in state at the kitchen table, reading a vast pile of correspondence from lords of the realm and club secretaries beseeching him for admittance, in letters dripping with adjectives.

He went out into the garden, the wet gra.s.s making dark patches on his leather slippers, and listened to a cuckoo calling from a distant copse. He unfolded the central pages of the pamphlet to display a map of the Old Course, which he held up to the prospect before him. He wondered how long it would take until it was all finished five months, maybe six? It was all about positioning the holes and he had Tom Morris to help with that. The holes themselves couldn't take too long to dig it was the greens that would be more tricky. They needed regular watering and he would have to find out where the springs on his land lay.

'The springs on my land.'

The words caught in his throat like a piece of bread. He stared at the ground before him, awed that this patch of green and this slice of steep hill belonged to him and Sadie it scarcely seemed possible that he could be allowed to have so much. He would be the perfect country gentleman and take good care of these fields. What he needed first was a tweed cap and a walking stick with a bone handle that was the wardrobe of a country gentleman with sixty acres, and Jack knew the importance of being properly attired (rule number five: always adhere to English conventions of dress). He returned to the house shouting, 'Sadie, I'm off to buy a hat.'

Sadie was already up; she had managed to fall into a fitful sleep but had risen at dawn to begin the immense task of cleaning the house. There was only one tap, a spluttering stream in the back kitchen that had been just sufficient to wash the floors there was, of course, no hot water and the large tin bath in the kitchen also provided a dismal hint that there was no bathroom. Yet the bare, grimy house with its lack of electric light and strange nocturnal sounds reminded Sadie of her childhood. As a girl there had been long holidays in Bavaria with her family, in an ancient house on the edge of a wood. It was a memory that, like a favourite novel, had been hidden by shelves br.i.m.m.i.n.g with more recent matter, only to emerge that morning when she was woken by the cooing of wood pigeons in the chimney. The childhood holiday cabin was full of privations: a well in the garden, candles for light and no maids. Back then it had seemed like an adventure. She was older now, had a twinge in her knee, her back ached at night and she liked ease but somehow this house reminded her of before. before. Filled as it was with misplaced memories of a distant, underwater childhood, she thought she could lose herself here. Perhaps, she would fall through the cracks in the kitchen wall and re-emerge in Bavaria forty years before. Filled as it was with misplaced memories of a distant, underwater childhood, she thought she could lose herself here. Perhaps, she would fall through the cracks in the kitchen wall and re-emerge in Bavaria forty years before.

She did not share these feelings with Jack he would not understand, nor would he wish to. She resolved to accompany him, and since she knew he did not want her to come, this gave her a kernel of pleasure. From the landing she called down to him, 'Broitgeber you must wash before we leave.' 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 gra.s.s 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 cla.s.ses 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 p.i.s.sing?'

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 unb.u.t.toned 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 cafe 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 pa.s.sed 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 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 pa.s.sing 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 Ba.s.set. But I is jist called Ba.s.set. None of yer misters.'

'Glad to make your acquaintance, erm, Ba.s.set.'

Jack offered his hand, which Ba.s.set 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.

Ba.s.set waited for a moment and then cleared his throat. 'Well? Are yer?'

'Of course.'

Jack had no idea to what Ba.s.set 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?'

Ba.s.set started to cough with laughter, a b.u.t.ton popped off his shirt and a fleshy triangle of hairy stomach poked through. Embarra.s.sed, 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 Ba.s.set to lead them onto the village green, where a battered white marquee was erected in the centre of the gra.s.s. 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, 'you can sell anything here, and some poor b.u.g.g.e.r will buy it.'

Ba.s.set ushered them inside the tent, where it reeked of cider and warm bodies. While the women argued over filched rabbits and game, the men drank and, judging by the stench, they had been here a while.

'This is Mr and Mrs Rose-in-Bloom,' announced Ba.s.set guiding them into the midst of the crowd.

Jack stood quite still and let them all stare, while Sadie took a small step closer to him. A ragged woman viewed them suspiciously, eating the biggest peach he had ever seen; it took him a moment to realise what the round yellow-fleshed fruit was it had been so many years since he had seen one.

'Rose-in-Bloom's a funny name,' said the woman, 'sounds English but yoos foreign, ent you?' There were little pieces of peach flesh smeared round her mouth and caught in her brown teeth.

'We are British now. We love England. We feel very English,' Jack declared.

The woman wasn't to be deterred. 'Yoos British now now. What was you before, then?'

Jack hated this part, the declaration of his otherness.