'We were born in Berlin. We came to England before the war.'

'Berlin that's in Germany.'

He nodded. 'Yes, it is.'

The ragged woman was not impressed. 'So, you is a Kraut,' she corrected herself, 'you was was Kraut. You sounds Kraut.' Kraut. You sounds Kraut.'

'No. I am a British Citizen.'

'Why 'ave you come to Pursebury?'

'To build a golf course.'

This was unexpected.

'A what?'

'A golf course.'

Jack was standing in the centre of a growing crowd, where he was proving to be the most popular attraction at the fair this did not please him, as he was trying his best to be inconspicuous. He never understood how, when he always obeyed the list to the letter, dressing in the uniform of the English gentleman, he was instantly identified as a rank outsider.

'I shall build the greatest golf course in the South-West.'

The faces in the crowd stared at him dubiously.

'Everyone in the village shall have membership,' he announced proudly with a magnanimous wave.

No one seemed especially excited at this prospect and continued to stare.

'This ent golfing country. It's skittling country,' said Ba.s.set. 'Ever played skittles?' he asked with a note of challenge.

'No, I haven't.' Jack was intrigued an English game he hadn't heard about. He was filled with instant enthusiasm.

Seeing this, Ba.s.set smirked. 'I'll learn you,' he said and led him away with a glint in his eye.

Choosing not to witness Jack's latest escapade, Sadie wandered from the tent into the village hall. It was an unusual building; the pitched roof and walls were all made of sage-coloured corrugated iron while inside it was wood-panelled and decked with multicoloured flags. Framed photographs of the Royal family adorned every wall; the pictures of King George all draped in black crepe. A small army of women stood at the back of the hall guarding the tea table. Sadie was used to London where good food was scarce; it wasn't like anyone went hungry there was enough to eat it was just plain. Food had lost its colour; there were drab potatoes, grey meat and tinned vegetables. Spices were a rare luxury and it took all of her skill to make her cooking taste of anything much at all. In contrast, the table in the church hall was a monument to excess and could have been the tableau of 'gluttony' in a painting of the Deadly Sins, heaving as it did with sandwiches of rare beef blood turning the bread red and baskets of brown speckled eggs, bowls of cream and trays of bright strawberries. She recalled the delicate pastries of the chefs in Berlin the light folded palmiers and vanilla sugar biscuits those were fragile pieces of artistry but this English feast was something different. She couldn't remember food being such lurid colours the dripping beef and scarlet strawberries looked obscene next to the faded floral patterns on the women's dresses. She became conscious of someone staring at her, and turned to see a thin woman, hair swept into a severe schoolmistress bun, standing very close.

'I'm Mrs Lavender Ba.s.set. Secretary of the Parish Council fourteen years runnin' and chairwoman of the Coronation Committee. Will you be wantin' some tea?'

Sadie swallowed, shyness making her perspire, and her blouse cling underneath her arms.

'Thank you. That is very kind. I'm Mrs Sadie-'

Lavender cut her off with a snort, 'Oh. I knows who you are Mrs Rose-in-Bloom.'

She led Sadie to the front of the hall and filled a plate for her with a fat slice of Victoria sponge oozing with cream, made pinkish by the jam. Sadie didn't want to eat. The food was too much, and she worried that once she started she'd cram the sponge into her mouth, unable to stop. She always felt self-conscious eating in front of strangers, but Lavender was scrutinising her through owlish spectacles. Glancing around the hall Sadie realised that all the women were waiting, teacups poised on saucers, watching. Feeling a little sick, she took a bite and forced a smile.

In the field beside the hall, Jack was not faring well at skittles. He shook his head in total bemus.e.m.e.nt. Curtis, a tiny old man, gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder.

'Nope. Like this, Mister-Rose-in-Bloom.'

Curtis clasped the rock-hard ball, took a run up and then, falling to his knees, slid along the wooden alley on his belly. The ball rolled from his hand and collided with the skittles, knocking them flying in a perfect strike.

'Now, that there is the Dorset flop. Nothing like the piddling Somerset wump. Much more effective. 'S why we beats them nillywallies every time at t' Western Skittlin' championship.'

'Yer turn to try,' growled Ba.s.set and thrust the ball once more into Jack's damp palm.

'Trick is to let go of the ball at last minute. Got to do it sharpish like. Skittles knocked over with yer noggin doesn't count, mind,' added Curtis tapping his head.

The others grunted in agreement at this sound advice. Jack rubbed the ball against his trouser leg and prepared to bowl again. The rules were beyond him; he knew only that the general aim was to knock down as many as possible and that somehow, whenever it was his turn, the skittles remained resolutely upright on their wooden platform, whilst, when Curtis, Ba.s.set or one of the others bowled, the skittles clattered to the ground. Steeling his nerves, he took a deep breath, stepped back a few paces and began his run-up along the gra.s.s. Reaching the wood of the skittle shoot, he screwed his eyes shut and threw himself onto his belly, knocking all the wind out his lungs. He slid two yards along the ramp and stopped. Jack opened his eyes, and realised that everyone apart from Curtis was laughing.

'Yer forgot to let go of the ball.' the old man said sadly. 'An ersey mistake.'

'Loser 'as to drink,' said Ba.s.set thrusting at Jack a br.i.m.m.i.n.g mug of a sweet, apple-scented alcoholic drink.

As the afternoon wore on, Jack became dimly aware of jeers, of Ba.s.set and the other men discarding their jackets, of shirts being unb.u.t.toned and raucous shouts of, 'Drink, Mr Rose-in-Bloom, drink!'

His head was really swimming now and the combination of home-brewed cider with hot June sunshine was making his vision cloud. He closed his eyes for a moment and heard a voice mutter, ''Ee's a goner. Skittled. 'Ee'll be seeing Dorset woolly-pigs soon.'

There were more snickers and hissing mirth. Then another voice. 'Dorset woolly-pigs. Them is idiots wot believe that.'

There was a derisive cry from Curtis, 'Don't mock. Yer doesn't josh about the Dorset woolly-pig. A n.o.ble beast of strength and savagery. If yer'd saw one yerself, yer wouldn't say things.'

Jack tried to open his eyes and failed.

Curtis rumbled on in his deep burr, 'I saw it. More 'an thirty yer ago. But I saw it.'

Jack struggled and with supreme effort opened his eyes. The sight that greeted them made him think that he was indeed skittled. A tree was standing in front of him: a huge knot of branches covered with leaves and woven with drooping flowers swaying on a pair of stout legs. There seemed to be a man inside, but he was almost entirely hidden by the vast framework of twigs, and perched at an odd angle on top of his head was a misshapen crown of leaves studded with daisies. Unsure if he was in the midst of a dream, Jack closed his eyes again.

'Git moving, you drunken b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' yelled a voice.

Concerned that he was being addressed, Jack opened one eye to see the tree-man lumber forward. He swayed and staggered across the field where he paused, and then slipped into a ditch. There were shouts, and a rush of children surged towards him, yanked him out and then, clutching the branches, pulled him onwards. A minute later the strange procession disappeared up the hill, the crowd resumed their business, and Jack drifted back into his stupor.

When he woke up, he realised his legs wouldn't work. He looked at them, told them to move but they stayed on the ground, splayed out in front of him, immobile. The field was quieter now, the crowd had thinned, and his wife sat on the ground by his feet. She did not look pleased.

'Scold later,' he murmured.

She studied him for a moment and then heaved him upright but it was no use and, his legs as weak as a newborn lamb's, he slid back down.

'Just get me to the car. I can drive us back up the hill.'

Sadie said nothing and, pursing her lips in profound annoyance, half dragged, half carried her husband to the front of the hall where only the stragglers remained. Together they staggered past Curtis snoring beneath a wooden bench, their feet crunching on s.n.a.t.c.hes of twig and fallen blossoms that had been discarded by the tree-man as he lumbered up the lane. In the distance there were cries and shouts and Jack could smell bonfire smoke. Vicious gnats whined in his ears and tried to bite him as he slipped into crevices and potholes. It was still warm, making his damp shirt mould to his back and, as they reached the shade of the trees, he paused for a moment to rest.

'You go on. I'm going to wait here for a minute,' he panted and, with a self-sacrificing little wave, slumped to the ground. A moment later, he watched indignant, as Sadie stalked off up the winding lane without a backward look.

'Fine. You just leave me.'

He wiped his damp forehead with the back of his hand and stared at several cows chewing the cud by the side of the road. There was an unpleasant heavy sensation in his belly and a pulsating pain was building in his temples. Outside the hall lounged a few young men, smoking and idly rolling up the battered tents. A gunshot rang out and Jack winced in pain as the sound pierced his aching skull. Birds rose in a flurry out of the trees and an empty tin bounced along the ground. He frowned someone had purchased the guns; he did not like men playing with such things even air rifles and toy pistols disturbed him. A crew of youths reloaded the rifles and stared curiously at Jack as he ambled unsteadily past. He swaggered a little and wished, not for the first time, that he were five inches taller and wearing his Henry Poole suit the next time he was in London he would purchase another. With relief, he saw that Sadie was waiting for him across the lane.

'This where we parked the car?'

He pointed to an iron gate and she nodded. Jack heaved at the gate; it was heavy and squealed like a trapped rat. The car's dark paintwork shone in the afternoon sun and Jack shambled to it, fumbling in his pocket for the key, but sitting in the driver's seat, eyes shut and chewing happily, was a large woolly sheep. The words burst out of him before he was aware of it. 'GET OUT! HELP! FIRE! THIEF!'

The sheep looked at him in surprise, scrambled to its feet and leapt out, clipping the top of the door with its hoof. Swaying slightly, Jack rubbed the door with a corner of his shirt.

'It's scratched. Mein Gott. Scheie! Kaputt! Mein Gott. Scheie! Kaputt! It's scratched.' It's scratched.'

He only lapsed into German at moments of extreme stress, as he prided himself on what he considered to be his great emotional self-control. The boys across the road paused to watch the peculiar little man shout at his car.

Sadie caught a glimpse of them and gave a wave. 'Stop being ridiculous. Your beloved car is fine. You're making a scene.'

Jack stopped running his hands frantically through his hair, opened the car door and sat down but, just as he was about to swing his legs inside, he realised that a long black face was gazing up at him. He prodded the second sheep.

'You. Out.'

Reluctantly, it got to its feet and climbed out the car.

'They is not used to such luxury,' said a voice.

Jack looked round to see a stocky youth with a lopsided grin standing by the car, toying with an empty cartridge casing.

'Yes, well, no harm done.' Quickly he recovered his good temper. 'Jack Rosenblum.'

He shook the young man's hand.

'Max Coffin,' said the boy.

Jack thought for a moment through the apple haze in his head.

'What do you do, Max?'

'Work at farm.'

'How would you like to earn some extra cash?'

Max flexed his arms awkwardly. 'Always want extra cash.'

Jack liked this bit and felt his mind sharpen, and the sense of bleary sickness subside. He owned the biggest carpet factory in North London and there wasn't a house in the whole of Hampstead Garden Suburb that wasn't fitted with a Rosenblum peach, peppermint or lavender plush pile carpet. He was good at striking a bargain pay what you have to and then add a little bit extra so that the men really want to work that bit extra for you.

'What do they pay you at the farm?'

'Three pound a week.'

Jack paused for effect; this was part of the process the boy needed to feel that this was a real negotiation and he was being taken seriously.

'I am creating the greatest golf course in the entire South of England and I'm going to offer you the opportunity to share in that triumph.'

The lad stared at him blankly.

'Come and work for me,' Jack explained with an expansive smile. 'I'll pay you and your friends,' he gestured to the young men folding away tables outside the village hall, 'Three pound ten a week.'

Max's eyes widened for a second and then he scrutinised his fingernails, trying to appear indifferent. Tactfully, Jack pretended not to notice his surprise. 'Go and discuss it with the lads.'

Jack watched Max saunter back to the village hall. The lads huddled in animated discussion.

'Are you sure this is a good idea?' Sadie asked, concerned.

'Of course.'

Max returned, hands in his pockets, clearly relishing his sudden elevation to negotiator and spokesman.

'Five of us wants to help.'

'Wonderful,' said Jack, 'The course will be the jewel of England.'

'But we wants three pounds twelve.' Edgy and uncertain, he glanced back at the group of boys.

Jack whistled and Max looked stricken, as though he knew he shouldn't have pushed it. Jack thought for a moment, watching as the boys reloaded a rifle and lined up another row of bully-beef tins.

'I tell you what. If you promise to throw those guns in the river, it's a deal.'

'A'right,' said Max.

Jack shook the young man's hand and studied him for a moment before he returned to the others.

'What did you do that for?' Sadie's voice brimmed with irritation. 'Always interfering.'

'And you're always complaining. All is well, my darling. It has started. They will help us build our golf course.'

'Your golf course.' golf course.'

'I am sure they can help on the house once the course is underway. These boys today are remarkable. Turn their hand to anything.'

They climbed into the car and he started the engine. Sadie surrept.i.tiously knocked a shiny, round sheep t.u.r.d off her seat. Hearing the car fire up, Max leapt into action and swung open the gate.

'Goodbye. I shall see you on Monday!' Jack said with a wave.

He drove the car at walking pace. The sky was a bold, unbroken blue and the b.u.t.tercups in the hedgerows glowed yellow. The dandelion clocks sent seed parachutes flying on the breeze and into the car where they tickled his cheek. They pa.s.sed a row of ancient dwellings with sagging roofs and untidy gardens filled with blue forget-me-nots and tall lupins in purple or yellow. b.u.mblebees filed in and out of nodding foxgloves. Jack briefly closed his eyes this evening sunshine felt different from the close heat of London. In the city he felt the grime cling to his skin while this felt clean, as though the sunshine was warming him inside like a generous bowl of curried mutton stew.

Sadie spent the next day scrubbing the house. The same light blue feathers littered every room and white bird excrement had sprayed the flagstone floors and spoilt the walls. She wondered about the people who lived here before. The house had been deserted for years, save for the birds and mice that she could hear scratching at beams in the attic. She did not know from whom they had bought the place but she liked not knowing. It made the house belong more to her; the only history that mattered now was theirs. 'I don't have s.p.a.ce for other people's memories,' she murmured as she crouched in her petticoat and washed away the dirt and the recent past, the years of neglect.

Jack sat in the sunshine listening to the birds. The sound came from every tree and bush, filling the air with a constant high-pitched chatter. He thumbed through a battered copy of the '1951 Golf Year Book' scouring the advertis.e.m.e.nts for tools and brands of fertiliser. There were captions proclaiming the virtues of 'Dorman Simplex Junior Pneumatic Sprayer' and telling him to 'Obtain The Finest Turf Of All From Sutton's Gra.s.s Seeds They Ensure Ensure Success!' He wondered whether he ought to buy some for his greens he didn't want the gra.s.s to grow either too long or too coa.r.s.e, it had to be just right. Success!' He wondered whether he ought to buy some for his greens he didn't want the gra.s.s to grow either too long or too coa.r.s.e, it had to be just right.

Lost in this pleasant reverie, he started when the gate clattered loudly and half a dozen men stomped along the driveway. He recognised them from skittles but now they were unsmiling and had changed into stout leather boots. They were all big men, broad shouldered and bull-like. He glimpsed a flash of steel studs on the bottom of the boots as they marched across the gravel. Trying not to be alarmed, Jack strolled through the garden to greet them, just as Ba.s.set began to hammer furiously on the ancient front door.

'Why did you do it?' Ba.s.set shouted, jabbing a finger accusingly at Jack who stood there whitely on the porch, dropping his golfing annual in shock.