Free Mr. Rosenblum's List: Or Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman by Natasha Solomons

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. Scheiße! Kaputt! 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.’
    ‘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