Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman Read Online Free PDF

perfectly fond of the odd round, he couldn’t fathom Jack’s fixation. That was because Mr Austen was born an Englishman like his father and grandfather. There were Austens in Hampshire and Warwickshire going back at least twenty generations – there was even a rumour that they were distantly related to that greatest of English novelists. Edward Austen knew never to leave home without his hat, but to remove it immediately on entering a church. He knew when to use a fish fork should the occasion arise and he was aware that cake forks were bourgeois. He could tell by the cut of a man’s suit or the angle of his hat, as easily as by the tone of his voice or the wax of his moustache, where he ranked in the social order compared to himself. Such men as Mr Edward Austen never worried about membership to golf courses. They presumed their superiority above every other nation, as confidently as they knew that the 7.03 to Victoria stopped at Vauxhall.
    Jack waited for Mr Austen in his small office, off the main factory floor. The clatter from the mechanical looms made the furniture vibrate and Jack’s temples throb, but he liked to be in the thick of things. One wall was entirely covered with samples from the new season’s range of innovative tufted carpet, in a rainbow of colours. Rosenblum’s Carpets might not have the cachet of a Wilton or an Axminster but Jack was secretly sure that his product was quite superior. Hearing a loud knock on the door, he rose to greet Mr Austen and shook his hand with enthusiasm.
    Mr Austen liked the outlandish little man and his perpetual cheerfulness. He always found his accent surprising; those Germanic vowels and softly hissing consonants had not faded one jot over the years that he had known him. He felt sorry for him, it must be awful to sound like the enemy and have everyone take you for a Kraut.
    ‘Ah, nice clubs. May I?’
    ‘Of course.’
    Jack watched, concealing his concern for his treasure, as Mr Austen pulled out a short iron and stood – legs slightly apart, shoulders tilted – and raised the club. He brought it down in a controlled arc, a proper golfer’s swing.
    ‘They’re a good heft. I like them.’
    Jack beamed. Heft. That was an excellent word. He must remember it.
    ‘Where did you get them?’
    ‘Harrods.’
    Mr Austen laughed unthinkingly. ‘Really? You didn’t? My good fellow, no one actually buys clubs at Harrods.’
    Jack flushed, embarrassed to be found out once again. He stared at his clubs in their white tissue paper. Their shine no longer looked radiant, but taunted him. Perhaps everyone would be able to tell that he had bought his clubs from Harrods, and then they too would laugh at him.
    Mr Austen slid the iron back into the bag and reached into his pocket. There was no point putting it off any longer. He pulled out a sheet of stiff notepaper embossed with the Sanderson Cliffs emblem.
    ‘I’ve heard back. Not good news, old man. It’s a no-go. Terribly sorry.’
    Jack sat down, dumbstruck. It couldn’t be true. Mr Austen had recommended him, and he was one of them .
    ‘You needed more nominations; my paltry one wasn’t quite enough.’
    ‘But you said others had been admitted. That membership was still open.’
    Mr Austen fiddled awkwardly with the label on the golf bag. He wished old Rosenblum would hide his disappointment better – it made this damned uncomfortable – always so emotional these continental Jews.
    ‘Mm, yes. Think that was part of the problem. Apparently the quota’s full.’
    ‘Quota?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Quota . Jack turned the word over slowly. He hadn’t heard that for a while, and with it he knew the game was lost. They would never, ever admit him to any golf course inside or outside London. Despondency seeped into him, like cold water into a leaky rubber boot.
    ‘You told them about the carpets?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Mr Austen. He was longing to leave. He’d done his bit, really he had. The suggestion of free carpets had