To the Manor Drawn

by Leslie Ann Bosher

  But the whiff of financial success has crossed the pond and has tainted even the rarified world of the aristocracy. The well bred no longer consider networking to be the domain of the middle classes. In fact, Prince Charles unabashedly promotes his organic food products while other Royals tout furniture design, clothing and investments. Today, polite dinner conversations in the grand houses of England are more likely to be about the sizes of the guests’ portfolios than the number of grouse brought down in the day’s shoot.

  Still, the power of money is no less satisfying than when spent shopping. Ever optimistic, Americans have the belief that purchasing a ‘new and improved’ electric toothbrush or a pair of trendy hipster jeans can change the quality of their life forever. Predisposed to the healing effects of marketing, they enthusiastically embrace the concept of the ‘upgrade’ on a daily basis. They demand variety in all aspects of life, from politicians to prescriptive drugs. They’re deeply suspicious of package tours and dislike restaurants with set menus. They vigorously defend their constitutional right to free choice on every level.

  Seeing familiar brand names as we travelled across the country brought back memories. We were reminded of the convenience of life when so many of our personal and household needs could be taken care of by any one of a hundred Pottery Barn stores or Home Depots selling everything from closets to country pine furniture. It was all so easy, rather like having a retail big brother looking after your every need.

  It was also refreshing, if not cynically amusing, to be back in the land of unashamed self-promotion. A Mercedes with a bumper sticker proclaiming the scholastic achievements of little Suzie or the athletic ability of a middle child, ‘My daughter is a female wrestler’, was not unusual. Neither was the notice on a mini-van stating, ‘Our son is gay and we’re proud of it!’ I muse whether it is possible this bumper sticker culture could catch on in England, but unthinkable is more likely.

  There was one aspect of life in America that did disappoint us. Poor air quality seemed to follow us like a dark cloud. Not the kind emitted from SUVs or aeroplanes, but the kind that caresses you at night while sleeping. Staying with friends as we journeyed across the country, we noticed a developing pattern of fresh air depravation. Our guestroom window in Los Angeles had been bolted shut, presumably to deter sticky-fingered burglars. The sliding glass window in our Mission Viejo room was secured and draped to keep out the glare of the street light. Our window in Palm Springs was closed so as not to let the precious airconditioning escape. The shutters in Charlotte would not even open and the salmon-coloured window in our bedroom in Virginia had a notice affixed to the sill warning, ‘Due to security precautions please do not open.’ By the time we reached Washington DC our lungs were in a state of atrophy. Note to myself: on my next trip to the United States buy a personal fan.

  Fielding questions about life and living abroad was always part of the United States travel experience. The thought that anyone would want to permanently reside anywhere other than America underpinned friends’ curiosity. Over time I found the questions to be more perplexing than amusing. Implied, but never stated, was the issue of patriotism, loyalty and heritage. This was the circumstance I found myself in one evening as my dinner partner leaned genuinely and intimately closer to me in order to deliver his well thought-out question. I knew my reply would be of sincere interest to him just as it would be to the other guests at our table.

  ‘Do you miss the States?’ he queried in a serious, rather pastoral tone.

  I wondered if he specifically meant whether I missed the convenience of America or whether I missed the ‘American Way’ of life. Not the least surprised by the query, I knew my response had a fifty-fifty chance of disappointing every person at the dinner table. The romantic listener in ear shot of my opinion would prefer a picturesque view of life in England, so full of adventure that time did not allow for homesickness. For the patriot, no answer would be correct other than a sincere and profound ‘yes’.

  Unfortunately I could offer neither and opted for a quiet and reserved, ‘No, not really.’

  For whatever reason, I had determined years ago that England was my spiritual home; in other words, the home of my heart. As inexplicable as it was to me, it was even more so to others. I fumbled with terms such as being part of Europe, less is more, living closer to the soil, being in the face of history, but in reality I meant life in England was more suited to my personality.

  It did not seem appropriate at this point to divulge my personal aversion to mammoth shopping malls and cluttered outlet centres, no matter how handy they were to everyday life. Rather, I spoke of the bridge between our two countries, CNN, Larry King Live and The Simpsons, any of which could provide a dose of America on demand thanks to cable television. Only my oldest and dearest friend sitting across the table from me knew the full extent of my passion. Her eyes told me she understood and realized my answers spoke volumes for how often we would have the opportunity to see each other as we aged. Time as well as distance would eventually become our sworn enemies.

  Most of my friends were aware that I had applied for and received my British citizenship several years back. A few understood why it was necessary while some felt it was tantamount to an act of treason. In fact, on several occasions it was helpful for me to produce my American passport in order to prove that the United States government did actually recognize dual citizenship, whether due to birth, marriage or naturalization. For me there was no debate. On a purely logical level, having a British passport made travel within the European Union less stressful. Passport controls were swift and I could go through immigration in the same line as my husband. Psychologically, it was important for me not to be regarded as an ‘other’, the unflattering term for those not holding European Union status. I had been a taxpayer in this country, I was politically active and had attended the University of London for a masters degree. I had always honoured the traditions and institutions of Britain; therefore, I felt it was time for the compliment to be returned to me.

  On a more personal level it was about injustice, prejudice and bureaucracy. Having lived in the United Kingdom many years prior to meeting Bill and having fulfilled all the requirements to apply for citizenship, I was denied my ‘Right to Remain’ by a bureaucrat who informed me that I did not qualify on the basis of my marital status. In other words I needed a husband.

  Years later, and with all the good fortune in the world, I met and married Bill and eventually returned to England. This decision required us to go to the British Consulate in Los Angeles to complete the necessary paperwork for my visa. As a reasonably mature and most independent woman, I only had to sign on the dotted line—once here, twice there, while Bill was required to write three separate letters on my behalf. The first stated that we were legally married. The second stated Bill’s intention to remain married to me and the third gave banking details of how he proposed to support me. Nearly fifteen years had passed since my first attempt to apply for citizenship and yet nothing had changed with regard to female status. As far as the British government was concerned I was still required to be in the shadow of a man.

  So it was with determination that I began my final assault on the Home Office Department of Immigration in 1994. The route to citizenship was not complicated; it was just lengthy. Bill was a great cheerleader every step of the way and none more so than on the day, four years later, when my burgundy, coat-of-arms encrusted passport arrived in the mail. For me this was a significant life event, a rite of passage, but in Britain it went unnoticed. There was no such thing as a swearing-in ceremony or a pledge of allegiance to the Queen. No one cared other than my Bill. That evening when he came home from work he presented me with a bottle of champagne and showered me with congratulatory hugs, then he led me to the window in our drawing room, which overlooked the imposing skyline of London. It was here that I repeated to Bill the oath of allegiance printed inside my passport.

  I can’t remember how long I slept with the document under
my pillow. I told Bill it was there for safekeeping, but he knew the passport was there to be close to my heart.

  The Brits basically have only two reactions to any foreigner holding dual nationality. The first is total disbelief as to why anyone would want to even bother. Not that they aren’t patriotic, but given half the chance to emigrate there would be a stampede to the Australian, American and French borders. The second reaction, at least in my case, was that I was obviously here because my husband pressured me to return to his homeland, not because of any hint of self-determination on my part.

  I did encounter a third and most unusual response from a well-travelled English woman I met at a party. Upon learning I was a former resident of California, she remarked with a turned-up-nose sense of superiority, ‘I assume you’ve moved to England to get away from all the competition. Why else would anyone leave California?’ I’m sure I glared at her with an unmistakable ‘how would you like to have your face slapped’ expression. It was such an un-English comment on her part and thankfully a rarity to encounter. Instead, in my best Southern accent, drawn upon for maximum effect, I whispered, ‘It was a pleasure to have met you. Do have a nice day.’ Then with the grace of a diplomat I moved on to circulate amongst the other guests. You see, it is possible to wear two hats at the same time.

  Chapter 32

  Ladies who lunch

  Email To: Barb

  From: Leslie Ann

  Date: 1 November

  Subject: Getting in the groove

  Dear Barb,

  Things are picking up socially over here for me, especially with the self-unemployed female set. As in San Francisco, they are sooo available for lunch and girlie things. They know the best gyms, where to go for a pedicure and, more importantly, who is a reliable house painter and where to find a good chimney sweep. I’ve noticed, though, that some things are off limits, like who gets regular Botox injections and who goes to London for facial overhauls. That just might be a bridge too far for English women.

  Love,

  Leslie Ann

  One of the truly wonderful aspects of village life is that there really is life in the village and never more so than during the summer fete season and the months leading up to Christmas. All activities seem to materialize by magic, as if they had been waiting in the wings of some lavish Victorian theatre, to be beckoned on stage for the year’s performance. Notification of all our community events comes in the form of the Stretton Newsletter, a quarterly flyer edited by Sue, the village historian. Within these pages we receive tidings from the parish church and incur a slight nudge regarding any special charity or fundraising project that might be in the offing. We can also read about local council elections, conservation issues and the latest details about missing cats. Lottery winners are announced, poets are paraded in the ‘Corner’ section and social gatherings get promoted. Stretton has enough activities going on to keep even the most anti-social person distracted while daylight hours begin to shorten to a sliver. Soon, house curtains will be drawn at 4 pm, formally announcing the arrival of winter.

  November is a particularly busy time of year with harvest festival preparations under way, Bonfire Night, Remembrance Sunday service for the war dead and a singalong in the pub that just happens to correspond with my birthday and Halloween. Don, the party organizer, and I share the same birthday, so like a caboose to a train I hitch my plans to his. It doesn’t take long for word to spread. No invitations are necessary and no one is excluded. Dressed in his usual stove pipe jeans and neatly tucked T- shirt, worn to show off his trim figure, he assumes his position at the bar, his guitar in one hand and a beer on order. Plucking away at old standards and popular war songs, he finishes his set with a touching rendition of ‘Nothing Could Be Finer Than to be in Carolina in the Morning’. It is my birthday gift.

  Pubs are not the only game in town for social activities. Local parish churches often provide a venue for cultural events such as concerts, flower shows, recitals and recitations as well as for the obvious. With fewer than 8 per cent of the population attending religious services some churches are only open to the public by special arrangement with the vicar. This is a shame for many in our area date back to Norman times and have some of the finest stained glass windows in the country.

  Nevertheless, to spend time in a fourteenth-century sanctuary is always a contemplative affair. Just being inside the pale stone walls has a calming effect. That is unless you are there to attend the piano recital of Beethoven’s ‘33 Variations on a Waltz by Diabelli’, a concert billed as not for the ‘faint-hearted’, always an unsettling description to read once you’ve taken your seat in a hard front-row pew only an arms-length away from the pianist.

  Richard, my knowledgeable friend sitting on my left, calculated he could tell the difference between twenty-three of these pithy little tunes before falling into a deep trance. Bless Bill, he never made it past number six before his chin was resting comfortably on his chest. Fearing that I too would fall under the spell, I began to look around for some diversion that could keep me awake for the remaining ten variations. Noticing a bundle of electrical wiring stretching skywards, I traced the path of each cable as it scaled the stone columns in the nave. The beautifully lit grotesques crowning each pillar seemed to be peering down upon the gathering of the numb and nodding, some of whom resembled drugged zoo bears rocking back and forth in hope of finding an escape route. That evening I think the gargoyles had the last laugh.

  Once this little exercise had run its course, I was again in deep trouble. With my hands folded in a ladylike fashion on my lap, well hidden beneath my violet wool cape, I discovered quite by accident that my abdomen and pelvic core had become amazingly tight after ten months of Pilates classes. Poking around at my ribs and tummy, I felt smug about my firm body and began a series of lateral breathing exercises until I noticed an uncomfortable silence had enveloped the church. The kind lacking the familiar sounds of fidgeting and squirming, coughing and sighing. When I gazed behind me towards my fellow music lovers I realized I was the only one still upright and alert. The rest were now collectively in a comatose state. I wondered if they had dutifully taken their cyanide tablets in their KoolAid? Rather a shame I thought, for Variation Number 33 was actually quite lyrical.

  It is often said that strange events come in threes; however, not having been forewarned about the lecture we dragged our neighbour, Tim, with us to another forgettable night of local fun, a talk on Stamford and the shops of Saint Mary’s Hill. Hopeful as ever of an engaging evening, we grabbed front-row seats which was tantamount to putting ourselves on death row as there was no way out when the lights were dimmed for the lengthy presentation. With the rhythm of a metronome, and without benefit of humorous anecdotes, the curator launched into a two-hour diatribe about the history of each of the sixty-four buildings located on the Hill, commencing with their origins in the sixteenth century.

  Now much wiser about the ways of the world, Bill and I read with suspicion a notice that appeared in our mailbox for another upcoming cultural talk on the ‘Manhole covers of Old Stamford’ to be given by Ms Philomena Monotone. Her honorary degrees included a PhD in D.R.O.N.E. According to the flyer the lecture was expected to last four hours with an interval after three hours to remove those with the onset of rigor mortis. The sponsorship of this event was due to the kind financial support of Insomnia (UK) Ltd, makers of NODOFF tablets. This time forewarned was to be forearmed. If, as P.T. Barnham famously said, ‘There is a sucker born every minute,’ Bill and I had no intention of adding our names to his list of easy marks.

  Travelling still further afield for new social adventures, I relied on my ever-increasing female network. There is just no substitute for girlfriends no matter what continent you live on. Like diamonds, you can never have too many. They have the power to make a dreary day sunny, or at the very least bearable. They will be your roommate when your hubby is out of town for the night. They have different friends from you and are a constant source of new int
roductions. They plan girlie things to do. They always write thank you notes and will gladly drink a bottle of white wine on their own then profess in public that they only have a capacity for two glasses a night. We all know how to play the game.

  Trusting in my group of new-found friends, I went to my first manor house luncheon wearing a little navy blue number discreet enough to blend in with any Osborne and Little floral print sofa, yet smart enough to be noticed without upstaging the hostess. A string of pearls and coordinated red pumps and Louis Vuitton handbag topped off my ensemble. Carol, my neighbour and part-time social director, had organized the outing. Once the assembled guests were comfortably arranged in her green Peugeot, we were told the theme of the occasion. Apparently, while I had my head buried in packing crates, an American ‘get rich quick’ ruse had made its UK debut—the ‘you won’t lose your original investment, trust me’ pyramid scheme.

  The postage stamp-sized village, a perfectly lovely setting for the affair, reminded me of a Phillip Treacy wide-brimmed hat. One side was flat and open; the other slightly upturned with the manor placed discreetly on the edge, visible without overpowering the look. The luncheon venue benefited from a pair of stone pillars at the entrance to the private drive, which was covered in crunchy, honey-coloured gravel that sounded like breakfast cereal when trod upon. There was even a gardener dead-heading flowers and a modest lake for reflection to complete the scene.