To the Manor Drawn

by Leslie Ann Bosher

  When these little countryside hurdles were placed in my path I did what any other red-blooded woman would do: I headed off to London for a girlie fix and a sense of normality. My hairdresser was one of the few remaining links to the city other than friends, metropolitan newspapers and BBC Radio 4 that I still enjoyed on a regular basis. Christine and I had been an item for five years and she was worth every bit of the two-plus hours it took to travel back and forth, as well as a not-so-insignificant bill from her for services rendered.

  The daily newspaper, a cup of coffee and hopefully a free seat next to me in which to stretch out were all that was required to enliven my sixty-minute train ride to the city. The journey from my door to London’s Kings Cross railway station was relatively easy, but more importantly it was all above ground. Green belts paralleled the track from Stamford, as church spires rose in the distance silhouetted against the morning haze. Approaching the outskirts of London the landscape subtly changed from luscious earth tones to a palette of sallow industrial greys and browns.

  There were grey buildings, grey junkyards and derelict brownish-grey building sites all awaiting the long anticipated Saint Pancras railway station redevelopment scheme, which would link Rutland to Europe, via the Eurostar, with one easy rail transfer.

  Upon arrival, I would assess the Tube situation and make my selection of the most expedient route to Bond Street, knowing full well the London Underground was always subject to unexpected delays and cancellations. Train carriages awash with promotions for low-cost personal loans to high-risk players, English language schools for foreigners and gap year travel insurance for those in search of a bungee jumping, life-changing experience reminded me of what I had left behind.

  I was immediately struck by the preponderance of black clothing worn by almost everyone in transit. I had been aware, of course, of this for years and indeed wore mourning attire myself, but never had my eyes been so assaulted by the drabness of it all. Tweedy plaids and country khaki were nowhere to be seen. Then again, stiletto heels were as rare in the countryside as hen’s teeth.

  Plastering the walls of the subterranean escalators were advertisements for theatre tickets, new book releases, the ‘Estee Lauder Free Gift with Purchase’ invitation and low-cost airlines. As I had just spent £22 for a round-trip ticket to convey my head of hair a mere 100 miles to London, I decided to do my sums. For that same amount of money, Bill and I could have purchased a cheap flight to wicked Amsterdam for a quick evening of debauchery. A few pounds more and we could have tangoed in intoxicating Barcelona for the weekend.

  Irrespective of cost, my monthly mission was a visit to Mane Line, my 1970s style beauty salon. Located a short walk from Oxford Street, it allowed me enough time to peruse current fashions as I strolled to see ‘Madam’. Once settled into my chair for the three-hour session, we began the debriefing. Christine took no prisoners and revelled in the naughtiest of tales. She was convinced Bill and I had made the wrong decision by moving out of London and rejoiced in any evidence I might wish to divulge that would support her theory. Happy endings were not sporting enough for her. We were a perfect pair.

  Christine, a formidable and throaty blonde, pitched the first question. ‘How are the neighbours?’

  I always found it helpful to embellish where I could, so the rankest tidbits were offered up first. She then followed with her equivalent metropolitan horrors.

  Next, we would cast our eyes across the latest Hello magazine, pulling apart each glamour photo while howling at the unflattering pretzel positions the celebrities were twisted into. We took comfort in seeing a wannabe diva with a double chin or a posing rock chick with visible panty line. It was proof that imperfection can never be completely air-brushed out of life.

  Coco Chanel once said, ‘A woman has the age she deserves,’ but thanks to hair colour that age can be indefinitely postponed. With one of the most powerful weapons in a woman’s arsenal, Christine started brushstroking my roots with her special concoction of blackish-brown goo; then with the touch of an artist she meticulously plaited strands of caramel-toned highlights into my hair. This was the process that kept me coming back time and again.

  Once this elixir of cream, dye and cellophane had worked its magic on my hair and the heavy-duty blow dryer had cooled in Christine’s holster, it was time for the 360-degree twirl with the hand-held mirror. With the rituals now complete, Christine gave me one more kiss-kiss on the cheek as I prepared to set off to panic-shop before my metropolitan adventure was over for another month. Inching my way through the crowds sauntering down Oxford Street, I headed straight for the heavy metal doors of Selfridges. Once inside, I immediately inhaled the sweet scent of outrageously expensive Hermes and Gucci leather goods located near the entrance. I was back in familiar territory once again.

  For me, the essence of London has always been the privilege of sharing the city with a boundless diversity of people. Londoners have a long history of ethnic mixing and are ultra-professional when it comes to assimilating immigrant populations. Watching a mini-parade of countries pass by me on Oxford Street never ceases to amaze. It is truly interactive travel without having to pack a bag, even a chic Louis Vuitton overnighter.

  Years ago, however, London was not at the top of my wish list of most wanted cities in which to live. It was actually the location offered to Thomas, my partner at the time, as a consolation prize when he declined a job in Tokyo in the 1970s. By comparison to life in Japan, England seemed like a sleepwalk to me. We spoke the same language, our institutions were similar and our history was linked. I had already travelled extensively in crumbling down Europe, slept in railway station hotels and wandered my way through enough poorly lit museums and cathedrals to last a lifetime. Japan provided all the challenges England seemed to lack.

  Eventually I settled in, as I always do, and discovered England was more like a multigrain bread than a bland, starchy white loaf. However, it wasn’t until I made frequent trips to the United States to see my ailing father that I realized each time the aeroplane lifted off the ground a piece of me remained behind, not to be reconnected until I touched down again on English soil. This disconnect process became more difficult for me when I was offered and accepted a two-year contract in Saudi Arabia. It then became apparent that if I were to have any control over my life I would have to obtain British citizenship. That way, no matter where in the world I roamed I would always have ‘the right’ to return to England. That was when I knew the love affair had begun.

  Today, cities are no more than fashion accessories to one’s life, like a soft pashmina. One day the glitterati are in love with San Francisco, the next day the big spenders have moved on to pastures new. New York City’s fall from grace in the 1980s was the most spectacular and most publicized. It brought about an endemic and eventually catastrophic haemorrhaging of money and jobs until Mayor Rudy Giuliani placed a tourniquet around the boroughs.

  London hit the big time in the mid 1990s thanks to the demise of New York and Paris, the latter hitting the skids primarily because of poor public health standards in restaurants and an undeserved, in my opinion, reputation for rudeness and disdain for tourism. The regeneration of Berlin was only in its first trimester of pregnancy and there were no other cities on the European horizon to challenge London for the crown. Hence ‘Cool Britannia’ was born due mainly to a Newsweek cover story in 1996 that declared London ‘the coolest capital city on the planet’.

  The thing about being cool is that it must be experienced on the ascendancy, which was exactly what Bill and I found when we returned to Chelsea from the United States in 1994. Margaret Thatcher had already made her mark on the world stage while a young Tony Blair was waiting in the wings. Kate Moss and Princess Diana graced every tabloid, London restaurants were finally receiving Michelin Guide recognition and the economy was beginning to buzz with investment bankers who could smell outrageous bonuses. West End theatres were filled to capacity and taxicabs were plentiful. Life was sweet here and then the w
ord spread.

  Like those cities that had gone before, London was unprepared for the influx of freeloaders. She took a blind-side hit from the criminal element, both imported and locally grown. Traffic congestion went unchecked as did graffiti and litter. It was an under-governed metropolis with unsophisticated tools not man enough to take back control of the streets.

  We watched all this from the comfort of our home until one sunny Saturday when we became intimate with the criminal element. Being mugged on the street in broad daylight only minutes from our front door was a life-changing event. Personal space was no longer an option, it was a right. One man walking down the street near me became a threat, two men became culpable and three men became jailable.

  It’s possible on an unconscious level this event influenced our decision to move, although I would like to think I am more resilient than that. After all, one indiscretion should not terminate a two-decade affair of the heart. That’s why I steal away from time to time to visit London—to sniff the heady aroma, to enjoy the masculine buildings, to be held in Regent Street’s curvaceous arms and to fall in love all over again.

  Falling in love is a team sport, a two-way street, so you can hardly expect a partner, once deserted, to be attentive to your needs. Where previously I had been the keeper of the keys, in my mind, to the riches of Chelsea and Kensington, I became a visitor, an outsider. Many of the restaurants we had religiously patronized over the years were either gone or, worse yet, had employed a gorgeous size zero woman as maître d’ to whom the name Bosher meant nothing when attempting to make a dinner reservation. Our loyalty points had been wiped off the slate. We had gone from first class to economy in the blink of an eye. Mom and pop specialty shops, cornerstones of the neighbour-hood, had either sold out or closed due to high property taxes. Even my doctor had retired and moved to France. A city that had once seemed expensive to live in, but always worth it, now seemed exorbitant. Worse still, the instant we sold our flat it felt like the entire world made a beeline to London pushing property prices into the stratosphere. Even Harrods, my local emporium, became so disfigured by makeovers that I could no longer find the VIP ladies’ washroom. I felt betrayed on every level.

  Chapter 19

  Charity begins at home

  Email To: Leslie Ann

  From: Marty

  Date: 7 June

  Subject: Too shocked for words

  Dear Leslie Ann,

  You did what? There is no way you would go to a flea market. Remember I’m the one who had to pull you kicking and screaming into a WalMart. Hell, you won’t even shop on eBay. Please tell Bill to take a picture of you at your next swap meet. I want all your high school classmates to see what has happened to you. After all, what are friends for?

  Laughing as I type,

  Marty

  I won’t kid you that country towns are replete with copious amounts of fashionable merchandise or that they can, in any way, compete with larger cities. Most necessities are easily available; however, not always in great quantity, variety, size or colour. Accessories such as shoes, jewellery and handbags are another matter and can give me cause to return to my old hedonistic haunts of London for a greater selection. It’s still a perverse challenge to spend my money in the capital with a sales clerk twenty years my junior who couldn’t care less whether I’m a satisfied customer or not, as it helps to keep my shopper’s claws razor sharp.

  The fashion police, ever present in London, are rarely visible in the countryside so I have a free pass to wear fleecy jackets, comfortable shoes and the minimum of make-up and accessories. If I’m heavily sedated I will even consider going to the market in a quilted green anorak and head scarf, although this has never been documented on film. It’s a constant struggle to keep my wardrobe from being overrun with woolly pullovers and fleece-lined brown gilets and I try to avoid, at all costs, re-sale shops that sell clothes once fashionable when I was a teenager. Last year whatever sense of style I had became so negligible that I made a New Year’s resolution declaring I would wear more skirts and blingy jewellery. So far I have not mustered the courage to venture out in daylight hours in either.

  English stores, primarily in large cities, are renowned for their lack of courteous, attentive staff. Rarely is commission included in their pay packet, which explains why customers virtually have to serve themselves. ‘If you don’t see it, we don’t have it’ is there collective mantra. This attitude puts a strain on the joy of shopping but not nearly as much as a the total lack of public toilet facilities puts on the kidneys. Shopping time is therefore more often determined not by how much money is in your wallet, but by how long your bladder can hold out.

  Oakham, Rutland’s county seat and market town dating back to the Norman Conquest in 1066, is now the recipient of many of my English pounds. Dress boutiques, bookstores and antique markets comprise a significant portion of the shops that line the High Street and narrow lanes. The town is dominated by Oakham Castle, which was erected in the late twelfth century and is recognized as possibly the finest example of domestic Norman architecture still standing in England today. Within the Great Hall of this 800-year-old building hang over 200 horseshoes, an ornamental reminder of times past. This unique custom dates back 500 years to the period when lords and royalty were asked to pay tribute to the Lord of the Manor as they travelled through the region. It is recorded that ‘the first time that any peer of this kingdom shall happen to pass through the precincts of this Lordship, he shall forfeit, as a homage, a shoe from the horse whereon he rideth, unless he redeem it with mony’. One by one, an outstanding collection of wrought iron horseshoes has been amassed, including one of the most recent presented by Prince Charles.

  The medieval Butter Cross, a meeting point for local farmers selling their produce, and the water pump stand in the middle of Market Place and serve as a constant reminder that once preaching, dairy products, fire prevention and corporal punishment administered in the stocks happily coexisted in the town centre. Life is far less harmonious today. The firefighters are volunteers and preaching is confined to the many new and old churches in town. Butter is no longer sold fresh from a churn, but rather dispensed in plastic tubs purchased in grocery stores, and the stocks have been replaced by proper lock-ups for any young lad who doesn’t know when to say ‘when’ on a Saturday night.

  Charity shops seem to have a disproportionate hold on our local towns. Apparently the justification, notwithstanding the obvious axiom that charity begins at home, is that they benefit from reduced or zero taxes. Paying low wages or employing volunteers cuts overheads and allows them to occupy more prominent locations on the high streets while independent retailers often find it hard to turn a profit as they are forced to compete on an uneven playing field.

  It was in one of these charity shops that we had a most unforgettable experience. I had made the decision, out of a pressing need for uncluttered space, to unburden myself of the contents of numerous flat packs of old clothing which had belonged to me and my mother. Some contained outfits that were vintage chic, others were fashion disasters and one was full of evening frocks once worn when my décolleté could part the Red Sea. Before the final goodbye, I photographed those with the sweetest memories. The rest were boxed up for collection, once they had been fondled and folded for the last time.

  On one particularly blustery Wednesday morning several weeks later, we drove into Oakham to do our grocery shopping. Having parked our car safely on a side street, we strolled into the centre of town. What an extraordinary sight! Before us, in an enormous charity shop window was a display containing two evening gowns, both given to the charity the previous month. One was a creamy yellow strapless confection of chiffon with beaded bodice and shawl. The other was a sophisticated black-and-white check taffeta full-length dress with a cinched waist and ebony beaded bodice. The former was given to me as a gift to be worn at a most exotic royal wedding. At that time I was employed as an English tutor by the Saudi Royal Family in Riyadh, where I spent
several interesting years. The latter belonged to my mother. I clearly remember my father taking me shopping as a child to Montaldos, a lovely old Charlotte department store, where he selected this particular dress for her to wear to a Christmas ball. I had never seen anything so lovely. Now, both dresses were reunited, side by side, owned by two different women, worn on different continents, purchased in different decades, yet part of the same family, sadly now departed from me.

  Whether it be a car boot or tabletop sale, tombola or raffle there is no shortage of how or where to dispense with unwanted fondue sets, souvenir teacups, assorted old spoons or dresses so dated they are only recorded in sepia photographs. Even ‘civic amenity sites’, a splendid name for rubbish tips, can lend a hand. Operated by county councils, they provide convenient locations for discarding bulky items such as refrigerators, car batteries, motor oil and outdated computer equipment. The array of items sitting on the bitumen is a commentary on a disposable society that is quickly catching up with America. The good news is that this site, and I presume others like it, send their unwanted electrical items to underdeveloped nations, in our case Zimbabwe. There, clever men, unhampered by government restrictions, rewire and make almost anything functional and saleable.

  By far the most popular form of recycling in England is the car boot sale or flea market, as it is more commonly known in America. You haven’t lived until you have experienced one, not as a shopper but as a seller; the thrill of negotiating, the sorrow of parting with a family treasure, the jingle of coins in our pocket all come to mind. For some depraved reason, these events usually get underway at the crack of dawn. They are better attended when the elements are kind, but you can always count on the stalwarts to be there rain or shine. Many sales are held in support of a charity, but there are several for heathens like ourselves who just want to flog stuff while making lunch money. As we had never been to so much as a garage sale or a swap meet in America, we were unaware of the modus operandi for such events and thus created our own system.