To the Manor Drawn

by Leslie Ann Bosher

  Doesn’t this sound just like the change of scenery you have been looking for? A house swap could be interesting. The deal is, we leave our Wellington boots inside the front door for you and you leave the pool heater on for us. What could be fairer?

  Think it over,

  Leslie Ann and Bill

  The realization that you have one chance to make a first impression only hits you after you’ve made that impression. At least that was the case for us the first time we walked into our ‘local’, the Jackson Stops Inn. It was one of those make-or-break situations. The quality of our social life in the village hung in the balance.

  The flaxen coloured, converted stone barn with thatched roof sits deep within a gravelled courtyard in the centre of the village. Dating back to the seventeenth century, it is a free house, which means the establishment has the right to sell the beer of its choice rather than specific brands dictated by a brewery. The unusual name came about by accident when the pub, originally called the White Horse, was put up for sale by the Jackson-Stops & Staff Estate Agents. When the pub sign fell down in a storm, the ‘For Sale’ sign remained and became the name by which everyone identified the building despite a robust challenge from the estate agent.

  From the outside the dimly lit pub looked as welcoming as a bear’s cave on a moonless night. Bill confidently pushed on the creaky front door handle alerting the only two customers in the room that strangers were about to enter their domain. The timeworn snug bar showed its age. Two pine tables listed at precarious angles on a stone floor rubbed smooth over the years, while a long, rough-hewn bench, prickly with splinters, looked decidedly uninviting. The first gentleman to pay us any mind gave us a cursory backward glance, like a cow’s slow turn of the head when its ruminating has been disturbed. His pub mate never bothered to look around. Not entirely put off by the cold shoulder treatment, Bill moved directly up to the bar, inquired which bitter was the most popular, then purchased a pint for himself and a glass of white wine for me. Downing the first sip, he turned on the charm and confidently directed his initial statement to the duo and said, ‘Hello, we’re your new neighbours.’ That remark netted us a brief conversation with the two self-appointed bulldogs of the pub, Don and Tim. Bill enjoys the challenge of meeting new people and cares little if the reception is frosty; he always believes he will win them over in the end.

  ‘We were expecting you,’ Don said without a hint of welcome. ‘We heard new folks had moved into Stocken Hall. Are you planning to stay long or just fix the place up for a quick sale?’

  ‘No, our intentions are to make this our home. So far, we like what we’ve seen,’ Bill replied. ‘Can I buy you gentlemen a beer?’ Bill was no stranger to pub etiquette. He had honed his drinking skills as a young buck working in London and perfected them over the years at many a business conference.

  Apparently, these two men agreed years ago to take the late shift at the bar, one hour before the government’s mandatory 11 pm closing. It’s not enough time to get into trouble or too costly to break the bank, but it does provide moments of laughter and heaps of friendly sparring before bedtime. Don, always dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, sporting either a flock of puffin birds or a feline, sits on a stool furthest from the fireplace, cigarette in hand. His shiny bald patch exaggerates his angular face and roaming facial hair that extends from his ears to the bottom of his chin. He is a man of few words but with encouragement can evoke a wealth of knowledge on almost any subject. Agree or not, he most often has strong points of view that he supports by little known facts pulled out of his hat. When it comes to competition he is a fierce contender. He sets the annual pub quiz night questions, is past winner of the village treasure hunt and a former Nurdles champion, a curious game of tossing pennies into a hole for which this pub is well known. It would not be the same without his headmaster style of communication and organization.

  Tim, resident wit and ribald comedian, can often be found sitting to Don’s right. He is a perfect foil and together they could be the Norm and Cliff of the hit television series Cheers. Tim’s deceptively quiet manner draws you in on one hand while he prepares to slay you with his rapier repartee on the other. His cherub face and boyish manner belies a cunning sense of humour greatly enjoyed by those with a strong constitution. Thankfully, we qualified. Having ‘a go’ at Americans, or anyone, especially politicians, is never off limits. Always good fun and seldom politically correct, Tim could often send us home dabbing away tears of laughter from our eyes.

  Once our inaugural visit into ‘café society’ Stretton style was behind us, we found future nocturnal trips less intimidating. Just as in a private club, we determined newcomers had to go through initiation. Thankfully, ours didn’t involve blindfolds or require us to march through a field of cowpats to prove we had the necessary qualifications for membership. Eventually, these colourful characters warmed to us and began welcoming Bill and me with their own form of wry greeting, a dispassionate mumble of no consequence, ‘Well, here they are.’ We have now come to appreciate their simple acknowledgements and take quiet pleasure in knowing somewhere out there another interloper awaits his trial by fire.

  For inexplicable reasons, we found some evenings were made for pub going while others could not have enticed us there even with an offer of free beer. On one particular night with warm soup in our tummies and a lightly fallen snow on the ground we decided a little human companionship to be in order and made the short journey from the Hall, down the drive, into the village of Stretton. At least that was our excuse.

  You can never tell from the parking area of the pub whether anyone of interest is inside as most villagers walk from home and back. On this particular evening it was decidedly different. Parked outside was a Land Rover flaunting enough character and dirt to have been used in Montgomery’s Second World War North African campaign. Walter, a self-appointed spokesman for the attributes of the countryside, was inside with his mates topping off an evening of night shooting. Tim, present as usual, greeted us with an impudent remark as we arrived a few minutes before last orders were called from the bar.

  ‘I don’t know about Americans, they’re always late. They came in late in 1917 and didn’t show up again until 1942,’ Tim declared with a cheeky laugh while looking at his watch, indicating that we had just slipped in under the 11 pm wire. This was just the kind of companionship and banter we were seeking. Before our hands could reach into our pockets for coins the first round of beers had already been purchased courtesy of Walter, arranged only by a discreet nod of the head to Sarah, the barmaid. In pubs, words are often superfluous.

  A smouldering coal fire in the corner of the snug bar created a clubby atmosphere. The chiffon-like moisture draping the leaded windows stamped ‘private’ on our group as we huddled together in conversation. Walter, having tenure, held court while narrating snippets of hunting lore. This khaki clad, flat-capped gentleman with a face of a thousand stories had a genuine love for the land and enjoyed passing on his knowledge to the young, the elderly and to newcomers like us.

  In his unmistakable Lincolnshire accent, Walter beckoned to me, ‘Coom here me duck, and sit down,’ as he patted the cushion next to him.

  The local dialect, well known to be more than economical with multi-syllabic words, thankfully had something in common with my Southern twang. To our astonishment, Walter and I were actually able to understand each other. Unsurprisingly, the conversation turned to pheasants at which point Bill and I found ourselves sitting in on our first class of Shooting 101.

  Any straw poll in an English pub would probably support the opinion that shooting for food is natural and permissible, a one-on-one encounter for the bird and sportsman called ‘rough’ shooting. The other side of the coin is that shooting is a big leisure and corporate industry employing upwards of 25,000 workers annually in the United Kingdom. A formal shoot involves ‘beating’, whereby pheasants are encouraged to take flight from the undergrowth, catapult themselves directly over the heads of the sharpsh
ooters and wait to die. Some critics might even call this a form of avian ethnic cleansing. Hiring Walter as gamekeeper for a day’s outing does not come cheap. At £400 per day, per guest, his job is to ensure everyone goes home felicitous, fuelled, fortunate and full of pheasants, and if we know Walter at all, he more than fulfils his obligation.

  ‘Drink up ladies and gentlemen. It’s closing time,’ Sarah instructed, clearly tired from pulling pints and ready to go home.

  We finished our beers, wrapped our Burberry scarves around our necks and gloved our digits in preparation for the cold night air. Walter, appreciating that he had just spent thirty minutes with two complete novices, coaxed us over to his Land Rover. With one hand on Bill’s shoulder, he stretched the other inside to pull out a brace of handsome birds.

  ‘You do know how to cook these, don’t you mate? If not just give me a call. Remember, the secret is to keep them moist,’ he said with a toothy grin.

  Not wishing to let on that neither of us had ever held a dead pheasant, much less plucked and cooked one, we thanked Walter for his gracious gift and left for home vowing never to speak of our shame again.

  Chapter 8

  Sleuthing the source

  Email To: Leslie Ann

  From: Twila

  Date: 9 February

  Subject: Sunny California calling

  Dear Leslie Ann,

  Remember warm winter mornings and sunny afternoons when golfers played in sleeveless shirts and cocktails and dinners were served on the patio? That’s exactly what you and Bill are missing now. Thought if we reminded you often enough you would cave in and come for a visit.

  If this is tantalizing then let me know. We will break out the chips and dips and have a pillow fluffing in your honour when you are headed this way.

  XXX,

  Twila

  In deep winter the sunlight seldom peeped through the mullion windows in our bedroom to massage our eyelids awake before the courteous hour of 8 am. Instead, the snap, crackle and pop of the wall radiators announced the pre-dawn warm up. It alerted us to exactly the right time to emerge from the warmth of our electric blanket into the chilled world of country living.

  It took some time to sleuth out the source of yet another disturbance in order for us to remedy the problem. Eventually, however, we began to solve the curse of the country home and the devil of old dwellings—the dreaded draught. It wrapped around our legs like invisible smoke. It wafted under our noses leaving frostbite in its wake. It was the justification for an entire industry created to annihilate indoor weather patterns.

  Detection first began with me in the four-on-the-floor position so that I could follow the trajectory of dust bunnies as they travelled across the tongue and groove oak floorboards; each moving towards cracks in the wood as though they had a liaison with destiny. I then turned my sights on the nine, twelve-pane windows responsible for sucking out our pricey gas-generated heat. Gently pressing my fingers against the glass I worked my way from right to left searching for the offending fissures in the framework. In both instances my newly purchased hypodermic needle of wood filler did the business.

  Moving on to the fireplaces, not yet operative, more drastic measures were required. An inflatable weather balloon came to our rescue. This was inserted into the chimney cavity until it sealed the entire space responsible for pulling gale force winds through the house. We later found that it was also helpful in preventing bird droppings, feathers, lengths of rope, a page from a Barbara Taylor Bradford novel, bubble wrap, a champagne cork and several pieces of tin from falling into our drawing room. Presumably, these sundry items had been pinched from our roof and grounds by our loudest and closest feathered neighbours, rooks. These pilfering birds could now get on with their lives without intruding upon ours.

  The pursuit of warmth did not stop there. More sleuthing was necessary in order to bring comfort to an old home located in a part of the country that often felt more like the windblown Falkland Islands than the eastern Cotswolds. Freezing hands and feet were bad enough, but when I had to cup my nose in my fingers and blow warm air upward through my lips to melt the icicles hanging from it, I knew phase two of the do-it-yourself heating course was about to start.

  Every room of our house had its own DNA, which meant that regulating individual wall radiators was a must. Each one had an adjustable heat output dial located an inconvenient 8 centimetres off the floor. Printed on the underside of the knob was a numeric scale from one to five, low to high, which could only be read while lying on my back with a flashlight in one hand and a magnifying glass in the other. With a magic marker in hand, I crept from one radiator to the other until all fourteen nozzles had been numbered on the top for easy viewing. This eventually took the guesswork out of the amount of heat released.

  With a smile that made the corners of my mouth turn devilishly upwards, I knew I had created a formula for affordable warmth. All under-window radiators were to be maintained at level three, while those closest to either a door or window were to be set at level two. The study and hall units were to operate at level four, the bedroom at a two/three split while those on the upper floor were to be permanently set on one. I was now finally able to remove my nose mitten, throw away my gloves, and extricate myself from my long johns.

  Unquestionably Americans and Brits define the word ‘comfort’ very differently. The former, with only a flick of a thermostat switch, can create a toasty home environment while the latter believes the ethical choice is to layer up in numerous woolly jumpers, not to be confused with horny sheep. In the main, Brits still believe hardship is a healthy form of self-punishment. Furthermore, the benefit of seeing your own breath in your home is undoubtedly a dewy, glowing complexion. The one room in an English home that is invariably the coldest is the loo. I can’t decide whether Brits genuinely believe they are not worthy of such creature comfort or that they simply can’t be bothered to heat the room. Either way, going into a bathroom to do your business is like wearing a hair shirt. It feels so good when the experience is over.

  So much for the life we had drooled over while thumbing through pages of glossy property magazines. How distant the familiar roar of city traffic had become. This surprising little pile of Georgian stone was asserting the kind of pressure upon us the likes of which were only known by parents of hormonal teenagers. We were evolving into servants of, rather than lords of, our manor.

  Eventually, I discovered a more rewarding and totally self-indulgent way to stay warm: an activity practised and perfected in England with gratifying results called ‘duveting’. This supine pursuit required only a bed, one comfy warm duvet, several well-placed snacks, reading material and a guiltless soul. It was not necessary to nurse an Asian viral affliction or suffer with a ghastly hangover to enjoy all the delights of playing with the fictitious Mr Tickle under the bedclothes. Rain on the roof, gale-force winds battering the belfry, or cashmere grey days were reason enough to cocoon myself in cotton.

  Without doubt, my favourite way ‘to duvet’ was with my radio on beside me, just loud enough to be heard, yet not too invasive should I doze off. My preferred station was BBC Radio 4, an indispensable part of daily life whether relaxing, driving or working. Knowing there was a friendly voice out there did more than keep me connected to the rest of the world. It informed, illuminated and intellectualized the most extraordinary range of subject matter. I first became acquainted with this wireless station years ago while living in London, as a consolation prize for not owning a television. As I recall at that time there were only three television channels available and according to the film, National Lampoon’s European Vacation, they all showed the art of Swiss cheesemaking. Returning to the United States in the 1980s, I was at a loss for airwave stimulation. AM stations were few and far between. Aging fundamentalist preachers and gospel singers typically filled the daytime slots. The turnaround came when personalities such as the conservative political activist and humorist Rush Limbaugh, the hard hitting and unforgiving therapi
st Dr Laura Schlessinger, and the out-of-bounds, always pushing the envelope Howard Stern entered the scene. National Public Radio, the only American equivalent I am aware of that can compete with Radio 4, was still in its infancy and often unavailable in many areas of the country due to poor reception.

  I was not entirely sure if regional radio programming would replace London’s finest, so within minutes of arriving in Rutland I turned on and tuned into 94.5 FM. Gratefully, all my friends from the station, of whom there were many, had made the journey with me to our new home. This was the cream of all addictions for which I wanted no cure. My waking times, my shopping trips and my tea times were often dictated by the daily radio schedule. Jenni Murray, presenter of the esteemed ‘Woman’s Hour’, and I had a standing appointment. After a mere fifteen years as a dedicated listener, I was still a relative newcomer to her insightful mix of issues and information. ‘From Our Own Correspondent’, a penetrating news program chaired by Kate Adie, always made me wish I had a tape recorder handy to save, for posterity, the clear-sighted observations of her journalists. And just the mention of Simon Hoggart’s name, the genial host of ‘The News Quiz’, brought breaking waves of laughter to my tummy. Where else could you find programming as diverse as ‘The Blood Chronicles’, a history of the sticky red substance more precious than gold, or ‘Apostrophe in Our Time’, answering the fascinating and perplexing questions, where the hell did it come from and do we really care? Did I need to know all these things? Apparently, Radio 4 thought so.

  How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. Nineteen hours and twenty-five minutes of daily programming multiplied by 365 days of the year multiplied by all the time I have left on this tiny island. I think that’s a good start.