The English Woman

by Inch, Jennifer

  THE ENGLISH

  WOMAN

  BY

  J. A. INCH

  Registered with Copyright Witness:

  Registration No: 284663780

  The factual information I acquired while travelling in America, but I would like to thank the internet, especially Wikipedia, which enabled me to confirm the facts that I obtained. The characters and events in this book are fictitious but some have developed from the experiences and the people I encountered on my travels.

  I would like to thank my husband, Graham, for proof reading my book and also thank my daughter, Susan, who not only proof read my book but also gave me permission to use a photograph of her for the cover. I would add that whilst this illustrates a young English woman I would emphasize the photograph is not the character Fran who is purely fictional!

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  WELCOME TO AMERICA

  THE SUNSHINE STATE

  FROM LOUISIANA TO TEXAS

  THE INVESTIGATION

  OKLAHOMA TO NEW MEXICO AND ARIZONA

  CALIFORNIA DREAMIN'

  TYING UP LOOSE ENDS

  MEETING UP

  FINDING FRAN

  UNDERCOVER

  A CONNECTION?

  ‘SO LIVE YOUR LIFE THAT THE FEAR OF DEATHCAN NEVER ENTER YOUR HEART’

  ‘THE SOUL WOULD HAVE NO RAINBOW IF THE EYES HAD NO TEARS’

  ‘DO THE VERY BEST YOU CAN WITH YOUR HEART AND MIND’

  WELCOME TO AMERICA

  "How long do you intend to stay in the United States?" The Immigration Officer asked as he glared over the top of his glasses at the woman dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. He looked again at the passport of the petite, 5ft 5 inches, twenty nine year old white female with long light brown hair and blue eyes.

  "My ticket is valid for a year, but I understood that you would tell me how long I can stay." Fran replied, hoping to win him over with her smile.

  "Take this to that room over there." The Immigration Officer said vaguely pointing a finger and then handed her a 'red' card, and as she walked past the line of incriminating eyes Fran's face turned 'red' and her heart was pounding.

  "I have millions invested in this country." The small Asian business-man was saying to the second Immigration Officer. Papers were exchanged.

  "Please wait there." He instructed the perspiring Asian man, pointing to a chair on the other side of the room. The Immigration Officer fumbled through some papers and then he turned to Fran.

  “Are you staying with anyone in the States?” he asked.

  “Yes, some of the time I will be staying with a friend” she replied.

  “What’s the friend’s name and address?”

  “Joe Peterson; he lives with his parents Nancy and Larry at the Peterson Ranch in Chico, California” Fran informed him.

  After a few more questions and answers the Immigration Officer retorted coldly "Your visa will be for six months." Then without showing any sign of emotion he cautioned her regarding deportation should she break any of the American Immigration Laws.

  Fran walked out of the office wondering if it was going to be just as unwelcoming everywhere in the States. She had recently been made redundant from her job, and had just flown into JFK from Heathrow having made the decision to use her redundancy money to travel around the USA.

  **********

  When Fran left school she wanted to see the world, meet people; see action and train with the best, so she joined the Army. In 1970 she was stationed at the Aldershot barracks which were not far from the University of Surrey in Guildford, and when Fran had time off she would go to the dances at the University. Joe was a student at the California State University and he had met some students from the University of Surrey when they were travelling around the States. He had arranged to spend the summer of 1970 with them in England, and it was while he was at a gig at the University where Led Zeppelin was playing that he met Fran.

  Joe was a broad 5ft 10 inches tall guy with dark hair and brown eyes and to Fran his chiselled features gave him a rugged look which fitted her image of an American guy, and when he first spoke to her she thought his accent completed the package. Whenever Fran got any time off they spent every minute together and enjoyed a passionate relationship. Fran was heartbroken when he left and had not been involved with a man so deeply since. They had kept in touch over the years, and in Joe’s letters he had asked Fran to travel to America and stay with him at the rice ranch where he lived with his parents. He had never married and although he had had lots of relationships, Fran was hoping that he was currently single.

  Fran stayed in the army for only two more years after she met Joe. On 22 February 1972 Fran was eating her lunch when she heard a loud explosion. She ran out into a scene of panic and commotion, people were screaming and shouting and running around, some covered in blood looking confused and frightened. She tried to help the wounded until the medics arrived and the images of that day were still fresh in her mind. But what was more impressionable on her was how she felt. She had expected to feel sick and frightened, but her senses had been heightened and she actually got a buzz from all the mayhem.

  It came to light that a car bomb had been detonated in the car park outside the officer's mess of 16 Parachute Brigade and that five female kitchen staff and Padre Weston, who was a Roman Catholic Priest, were killed and nineteen others were injured. Apparently the attack was revenge for the shootings in Londonderry on 30 January when thirteen civilians were shot dead by the Parachute Regiment, which was later known as Bloody Sunday. A spokesman in Dublin said the attack was aimed at the British headquarters of regiments serving in Northern Ireland. At the time Aldershot was an open-plan garrison, and afterwards security fences were erected around the barracks and armed security patrols were introduced.

  Fran felt guilty about her reaction on the day of the bombing so not long after she discharged herself from the Army. Fran then joined the security team of a department store, where she worked until she was made redundant. The IRA often contacted the store manager using recognised code words that meant there could be a bomb planted in the store, so Fran had spent a lot of her time searching for suspicious packages. It was at the time when the IRA attacks were on a regular basis in England and other shops had been targeted, so she still couldn't get away from the IRA threat. In a way it was a relief to be made redundant and get out of the security business.

  After Fran lost her job she wrote to Joe saying she had decided to go to America before taking on new employment. She told him that she could not give a definite date when she would be in California because she would be travelling around, and so would contact him nearer the time. Just before she left Fran received a letter from Joe saying his sister had been taken seriously ill which had affected the whole family, and that it could be difficult for her to stay at the ranch, but he still wanted her to come and so would find her somewhere else to stay.

  **********

  It was a cold March day in 1981 when Fran made her way out of the terminal and jumped into a yellow cab. Everything was new and exciting to her as it was her first time in New York. "Can you take me to a cheap hotel in Broadway" she instructed the taxi driver.

  "Sure, you English?" he asked and before she could reply he told her all about his trip to London many years before. After a short while they were suddenly in a traffic jam and Fran covered her ears from the sound of blaring car horns.

  "What's happening?" Fran asked.

  "It's always like this; the traffic is gridlocked. We are only a block away from Broadway. You'll find it quicker to walk. Try the Belvedere, it's old but pretty reasonable." Fran paid him, got out of the cab and set off in the direction he indicated. It was cold and there were small mounds of icy snow still on the side
walk. She wrapped her jacket tightly around her and after a few minutes she found the hotel across from Times Square and booked a room for the night.

  **********

  "Can I have a reduced ticket, I am an ex serviceman," queried the sandy haired man with a drunken Irish accent.

  "Have you proof?" questioned the desk clerk.

  "No."

  "Then you can't. That will be $2.25."

  Words of abuse from the Irish man as he purchased his ticket and walked off. Fran bought her ticket and reluctantly followed the unpleasant man into an elevator. Images of the bombing in 1972 flashed through her mind as she was pushed against the brown paper bag split and bursting with crumpled clothes, which was held by the slovenly man in his green army style jacket. Fran's thoughts also went back to those years when during her working days she spent at least twenty minutes searching for packages, not wanting to find any for fear of the consequences. Those minutes that seemed like hours. The elevator stopped on the 86th floor. Fran felt relieved as she parted from the offensive Irish man. It was not only the cold breeze that took her breath away as she stepped onto the observation deck, it was also the magnificent panoramic mural depicted below. She really was at the top of the Empire State building in New York.

  Below was the Rockefeller Centre where Fran had been just thirty minutes earlier. That huge building with many shops and businesses inside, and the outdoor ice-skating rink with the gliding and twirling figures. Then she read 'Macy's' on the roof of the impressive clothing store which she had visited the previous evening after checking into the hotel. How amazed she had been at the size of the store; at the colour and splendour of the displayed clothes.

  On her walk to the store Fran had been stopped from crossing the road by a police officer who was controlling the traffic. He had told her that she could only cross at the pedestrian lights, otherwise she would be fined, but she had seen other people crossing in between the cars. As she walked on she was shocked to see a man lying on the sidewalk and people were stepping over him as if he wasn’t there. As she bent down to see if he was okay she heard the unexpected sound of horse’s hoofs, and turned to find a policeman on a horse behind her. He told her to move out of the way as he dismounted and checked the man over. She then realised that the man appeared to be a vagrant and was probably out cold through drink, so she carried on her walk to the store.

  As she looked down at Macy’s, Fran thought about the years working in a department store, and then that day in September when she was told that "450 people would be made redundant". The sleepless nights thinking of the unhappiness to come; friends and colleagues looking for work. Five months of saying goodbye, brought to a conclusion by saying goodbye to the family as she went through the terminal in Heathrow Airport.

  Then she could see the Statue of Liberty in the distance, looking like an ornament, and she moved into the sun, away from the biting wind.

  Soon Fran was back in the hotel. She put on her rucksack and picked up her large holdall which was crammed full of her clothes and looked around the room, everything was packed. She opened the door and her fingers tingled from the static. How much the old hotel had reminded her of Paris with its dark wooden furniture and the room with windows opening on to windows. In many ways it was the same as this hotel with a similar view and no light penetrating the room. Fran stepped into the old cramped elevator and realised that she had had enough of New York with its pulsating streets and Kamikaze pedestrians, and was pleased she had decided to leave the cold of New York and catch the next Greyhound bus to the sunshine state of Florida.

  **********

  Fran pressed the button, the seat reclined and she made herself comfortable ready for the long journey. She felt good as she looked out the window, passing industrial New Jersey, and then miles of bare silver trees, brown grass and sandy soil and even going through a sprinkling of snow. Then as the afternoon progressed the sun broke through the clouds and she was nearing Washington.

  "Are you going for a hamburger?" The young man asked. "There's a place over there."

  Fran followed him and after placing their orders they ate burgers together, her clear blue eyes meeting his deep mysterious eyes. He seemed an 'all American boy' and talked about many different subjects, although she felt slightly uneasy because his eyes seemed to be fixed on her as they talked. As she had a few hours to spare before her next bus she decided to go and see the White House and he explained how to get there.

  It was still light enough to see the White House in all its splendour and glory, looking untouched and innocent with its clean white walls, its exterior protecting those important decisions. She made her way back to the bus depot and boarded the bus to continue her journey. The darkness filled Fran's eyes and although her body slept, her mind started an adventure. Fran's dreams were interrupted by cold reality each time she alighted from the bus and became a nocturnal visitor to Richmond, Fayetteville and Savannah bus depots, with their lonely travellers refreshing their tired faces in the washrooms.

  As the bus left Savannah the sky turned from black to grey, to red and then to blue; the trees from black to green. The abundance of trees broken occasionally by flat marshland. Fran changed buses at Jacksonville - she was now in Florida. It was 9 am and the sky was a green/blue on this cold but sunny day in March. Her head began to buzz from the persistent talking of the black female students behind her, only to be smoothed by her own thoughts. As the day grew older the trees turned tropical. She saw the sign for Disneyworld, and then her horizon was filled with orange trees. It could have been a canvas by Van Gough if billboards had not been in the foreground.

  THE SUNSHINE STATE

  Tampa in the afternoon sun seemed a typical American City with its long, straight, wide roads lined with billboards. Enormous signs on top of tall buildings. The infinite variety of single storey homes, mainly made of wood, topped with slated roofs, on their own plot of land, fenced off and guarded by barking dogs. Dusty roads with no side-walks and pedestrians, except in the down town area where the side-walks are often the home of derelicts and wino's, for whom the bus stop seats are their beds and the trash cans their store cupboards.

  Fran stored her holdall in the left luggage lockers of the bus depot, bought a newspaper and map, and headed for an apartment agency. The warm breeze brought a smile to her face as she waited on the bus stop. She walked into the bustling office filled with optimism.

  "Hi, I'm Ricky" the casually clothed, long-haired woman behind the counter announced. Fran explained that she required an apartment for a month that was inexpensive, fully furnished, with no lease and near to the bus route. She was provided with a detailed list of accommodation available in Tampa, the rental of which was half the price of accommodation at the beach resorts. As many of the inexpensive apartments were in an area near to downtown bus routes, she paid the agency fee of $40, and armed with the lists of addresses caught the bus back to downtown.

  "I was in Vietnam" the man in his thirties remarked, "and I still wouldn't walk around this area at night." He warned her to stay clear of the area which she was now considering as her next home. Fran was prevented from nearing the door of the first apartment by a very unfriendly dog who barked continuously until she had walked to the end of the block. There was no answer as she rang the bell of the second apartment.

  "I don't like it" Fran thought, feeling on edge. "I don’t feel safe in this area. I should get out of here before it gets dark."

  The sky had turned a dark blue, shadows had disappeared and houses and trees merged into the background. Remembering what the Vietnam War Veteran had told her, she walked back to the bus stop and got the bus back to the bus depot in the downtown area.

  Fran had spent all afternoon looking for an apartment and it was now dark. She knew that Americans regarded walking the streets after dark as asking to be mugged, or worse still, shot. How unsafe she had felt eating a hamburger just thirty minutes earlier - those eyes staring at her from the balcony, her hands clutching h
er rucksack which carried thousands of dollars in traveller’s cheques. That old, black man with his clear polythene bag which he filled with the food left on customer's plates. How sick that had made her feel.

  Although Fran felt temporarily out of danger in the warmth and friendliness of the bus depot, she knew she could not stay there the night, and had to find refuge nearby.

  "It's $50 a night to stay at the Sheridan, but only $15 at the Floridan" the woman behind the counter in the bus depot informed her. These were the only hotels within walking distance. She continued "The Floridan is ok if you make sure you lock your door."

  **********

  Fran walked into the reception area of the cheap downtown hotel. The desk clerk behind a grill was busy dealing with an intoxicated man. As she waited in line she gazed around her. There was a man in another room rolling his possessions into a sleeping bag. From the 'dining room' came a curly haired blind man, his white stick down by his side.

  "Look out where you're going," exclaimed the man by the reception desk.

  "I've been mugged" the blind man muttered in monotone.

  Fran stepped out of the way before he tried to walk through her.

  "The trouble with you is that you're stupid," came a squeaky voice from the elevators. It was the voice of a woman about the same age as the blind man; both in their early thirties. The woman was strapped into an electric chair. She had no legs and had hands where there should have been arms. "I've told you before about walking out at night." There was no sympathy in her voice.

  As Fran turned the woman was past her and headed for the 'dining room' followed by a throng of disabled people. Fran felt sick in the pit of her stomach. “Is this how America treated her unfortunate citizens? Do they have to live in these dark, unfriendly places?” she thought.

  Fran felt uneasy as she shut the door to her room. Although gloomy and stale, once the door was locked and a chair propped against it, the 'prison cell' somehow seemed security from the inexplicable fear that she had felt in the corridor and the elevator. Her heart was beating fast and hard and she had the same feeling she had when she searched for bombs. It was something so powerful that she dared not let it come to the surface. She stared at the City lights below, not wanting to look back into the room.