"We go' a smashin' lit'l breakfast 'fyou, luv---sausages, bacon if y'want it, I scrambled the eggs 'cause I knows tha'toll Yanks like them that way (I do, too), toast an' beans an' stewed tomatoes an' three flavors a'yogurt. An' y'gets both tea and coffee at my
establishment!" she concluded proudly.
"Right on," was all I could say.
"You must be one roight 'ungry bloke...."
"Well, I---"
"Bu' first, you'll sign me-bloomin' guest register, ay?"
"A guest book? Uh....sure, if ya really want me to." Then she waddled over to the front door and came back with the biggest book I've ever seen. I soon found out that it's a routine custom in England, at B&B's, to scribble your name and address in a ledger, sort've like it's a real hotel. A typical B&B ledger might have guests in it from all over the world (I wouldn't be surprised if they put you on a friggin' mailing list.). So I signed my name, but being an old Pro athlete I never liked the idea of giving out my home address to just anybody, even on a harmless guest register in the middle of nowhere like this one, old habit, so for an address I just put down "business office" of the Los Angeles Clippers Basketball Club. Just in case.
Anyway, my luck was holding out. It all looked so good I felt sort've guilty dirtying the dishes. I remember glancing at the flickering headline in the little wooden rack. It was something about those nuts in Iran and the CIA, payoffs and bribes and scandal and such, who knew this and who didn't know that, the usual type of front-page grabber, or is that
front-page garbage, man I swear my stomach soured and tightened from boredom, but I
wasn't about to let the rest of the rotten world spoil this great meal. I immediately dug out the sports page, and immediately began to look for any articles I could find regarding possible roster shake-ups or pending off-season trades. Nothing....
"Have all y'want off the sideboard, ducks, I'll be roight back!"
As she spun back into the kitchen I watched the huge fluttering pyramid of her blue denim skirt barely make it through the door. She had a different blouse on, but I soon learned that the skirt was worn every bit as religiously as if it were a nun's habit. I poured a bowl of Rice Crispies and took my seat.
She was back almost at once: "I want'cha tryin' both me-coffee and the tea," she declared. Holding one pot in each hand, at first I thought she was going to pour them at once, but thankfully she didn't. Ambidexterity is rare, aside from athletes, and I've had my lap scalded by more than one ambitious waitress in my time. "The coffee's Bavarian, the tea a local blend," she said.
"They both smell good. Whered'ja get the paper?"
"I'll 'ave one 'fyou every day yore in residence," she said, not really answering the
question.
I took a sip of the coffee. It was the best I've had to this day.
"Oh! Almost f'got!" she continued abruptly. "You'll also be-tryin' me-own recipe for German pancakes---die Eierkuchen! Paper thin they is. You'll love 'em, luvvy-ducks. No' a man alive that can resist."
"I'm yours!" I said, merely to amplify on the good mood this cute-fat, little old woman
had placed me in. (I guess I shouldn't keep saying she was so old. She wasn't that old.)
"I'll 'member that!" she countered, she was a bright lady, and before I could say a word in rebuttal she had whirled and rolled (since her skirt reached the floor she might just as well've been on wheels) right back into the kitchen.
It's amazing how a few bites of some truly superior chow can convince a man who thinks he isn't hungry he's an idiot. I've never attacked a meal with such vengeance in my life. Of course it didn't hurt that it was just about the best-tasting breakfast ever served me. I loved the bangers. I've never had scrambled eggs so light and fluffy. And those German pancakes! They melted in my mouth like friggin' butterscotch candy, and now I'm wishing I'd asked for the recipe! They sort've reminded me of these Swedish pancakes we used to drive all the way up the coast to Carmel for. Same light, "airy" consistency.... Really, the whole thing was perfect. And Frieda was like a loyal hound dog, never far from my side, invariably there at a moment's notice whenever she sensed one of my cups was low so she could pour it full herself.
"My, but it feels good t'cook f'er bloke with a'nappetite!" she spat through her chipmunk smile.
"What about your husband?" it made me think to ask. "What kind've work does he do?"
She put the teapot down before answering, and stabbed her chubby little fists into the
soft, flaring shelf of her hips. I knew right away I'd blown it.
"Me-'usband? Oh, that's fine i'tis! Y'automatically assume tha' just because I'm a
woman, with a fine 'ouse an'....an kiddies, an' gettin' on a bit, tha' I moost be married! Tha' there must be a bloody man about, like i'twas bloody written down somewheres!"
Hell, I didn't know what to say. But she did:
"Did it eve' occur t'you, Yank, tha' this might be one ol' bird that don' need a bloody
man in 'er bed t'be 'appy?"
"But I just thought---"
"You just thought, you just thought...."
Women. You would've thought that I'd be used to it by now, but the whole thing caught me completely off guard. And you would've thought by the look on her face that I'd run over the family cat or something. Before I could even apologize (though I didn't exactly know what I'd be apologizing for) she'd waddled back into the kitchen. Thank god she wasn't crying or anything.
When she reappeared about ten minutes later I had just about finished this all-time-great
breakfast. She was carrying a fresh pot of tea. Before she could say anything I cut her off; I just wanted to do right by her. I wanted to make things right.
"Lis'n, luv---"
"No, let me. Frieda, I'm sorry if I said anything. You gotta understand, Americans are
kind've stupid sometimes. Sometimes we don't even know when we're sayin' something
wrong."
"Oh no, I was just bein'---"
"Besides, I'm still a little tired from the flight in. I was just gonna finish breakfast and go back to bed for a few hours. Then go out exploring a little."
When the nuts puffed up inside her cheeks again, I knew the old charm had done the
trick.
"Yer a good bloke, ducks!" she said with a laugh. "Bu' y'know no' all blokes are as
brilliant as you!"
"I know," I said modestly. "Some of us can be real ass---uh, real jerks sometimes."
(almost made God mad there)
"Come on, 'ave s'more tea, darlin'."
As she leaned over my shoulder to pour the tea I had a strange feeling. It was weird. Like we were playing house or something. But I guess the point is that I really liked her, liked her a lot. I even made her sit down and have a cup of tea with me. Naturally she resisted, being the proper blushing English hostess and everything, but once I convinced her it was alright and she finally sat down I couldn't get her to shut up! Just my luck being the only guest, I guess. She told me all about her early childhood living in an orphanage, about being underage and working for pennies in London taverns, she even gave me a crash course in some of the more important English quirks and customs. She started to tell me a little about her marriages (she hinted that it was plural) but that's where she stopped herself. I told her a little bit about myself, too; my getting to grow up in Illinois, my weird dad, Mom and I moving to Southern California when I was still in high school so I could impress the local scouts and prepare, hopefully (and successfully, as it turned out) to go to UCLA, that sort of thing. I even tried my best to explain basketball to her: "Is 'at the one where they wear the funny 'elmets an' toss the odd-shaped ball about?" she said once. The English; in many ways, such a backward culture! As you might expect, though, she was suitably impressed with the story of my turbulent hoops career, even though she didn't understand a word of it. All women love jocks. The country doesn't matter. And even though she didn't know what I was talking about, I think she was genuinel
y sympathetic about how the Clippers screwed me over. Who wouldn't be.
We talked and talked. It was a good rap. She was so darn friendly; gave me my first inclination of that bitter-sweet phenomenon which is that virtually all the English are so darn friendly. Almost like they all feel guilty about how they jerked everybody around back when they practically ruled the world. It drives you crazy after a while. But Frieda was more than friendly. She was my friend, or should I say became my friend. Best ambassador for her country they could possibly've picked to start me off. She actually got my jumpy stomach to lie down a bit. I could've talked to that woman all day if I wanted. If I ever do a serious piece someday, I mean like actual literature, I'll probably pick some character like Frieda to write about. I know she's the type of character I'd like to read. Somebody both quirky and likeable. (Although it just now occurs to me that there's a chance my all-knowing all-deciding editor will slash her out of this one completely, assuming that anyone can be that much've a f _ _ _ head.)
I don't know what it was about that woman. Maybe it's the way she talked. Or maybe
even the way she looked, if you mentally carve her up a little. I don't know. One thing's for sure, writing about someone else'd be better than writing about yourself. It's pretty
embarrassing wondering and worrying over it. You know. The caring.
Finally I had to cut it short. I was pretty goddam tired....
"That's all for me, Frieda. I'm stuffed. It was great, though, thanks a million."
"Y'roight welcome, luv. Do 'ave s'more tea. Since y'not goin' out, I'll quick go'n clean y'room straight away."
"No no, not at all necessary. All I wanna do is just crawl back in bed. There's really
nothing to do in there anyway." I didn't want her poking around the sink.
"Bu' I insist! I wouldn' feel roight 'fi dint take care've a guest's room!"
"Please, just don't worry about it, okay? It's okay, really."
"Well then I joost won' charge you f'er the whole night. Wouldn' be fittin'. I'll charge
'aff."
I'm telling you, she was really amazing.
"After a breakfast like this? Are you crazy? I should be payin' you double for chow this
good."
"You 'mericans an' y'money!"
"That reminds me---where was that place you said I can change traveller's checques into pounds?"
"Oh....They's a NatWest in Petworth, in the middle of the town square. Can't mi'sit." And then she proceeded to tell me about the post office and the antique dealers and the Chinese take-out and the chemist (pharmacy) and all of the shops of the nearby town of Petworth that might be of use to me.
"What about this pub up the road?"
For some reason I think her cheeks lost their puffiness for a second, then quickly
bunched up again. She was always doing stuff like that.
"The Badger? Oh, quite nice actually. Ver' quaint, ver' English. Bu' a trifle small, luv.
Don' y'be expectin' one've y'big 'merican saloons like a barn with long bars an' plenty
o'tables scattered about!"
"Oh, I won't," I promised. Too many cowboy movies.
"The owner's an alright gent, 'e is. A roight nice gent, actually. Name's Delbert....Delby. Tell 'im i'twas Frieda sent'cha."
"Thanks."
I was almost halfway up the stairs, but I couldn't resist and turned back around and asked her: "So why Frieda?"
"Sorry?"
"You said it was German."
"Oh! Why i'tis German!" she exclaimed. The smooth skin around the eyes cracked and splintered, as her cheeks puffed again into a proud smile. "I think Frieda's a beautiful name--- an' Mannheim? Why that's a roight proper Bavarian surname, isn' it. Classy names, they is. That's why I picked 'em"
"So what's wrong with your real name?"
She stopped smiling, and the air went out of her face.
"I dint want it anymore," she said. And she started to walk away.
Of course I had the feeling that I'd put my foot in it again, and that I was on the verge of really starting to pry, but you got to remember that I'd known the lady less than a day and these were hardly the most personal questions and since we couldn't actually be called friends yet I figured I could get away with anything. So I went ahead:
"I'll be the judge. Just what exactly is your real name?"
Thank god whatever was bothering her had already passed, and when she turned back
around the grin she used on me was so lewd and penetrating that I felt like I was naked.
"Don' stay out too late, luv. They's some awful grabby girls in our pubs....I usta be
one've 'em!"
Like I said, she was something. She was some amazing old gal.
* * *
By the time I woke up from my nap it was almost six in the afternoon. I wasn't hungry. With that huge breakfast still heavy and half-digested inside me, it felt like I'd swallowed a deflated basketball. I call it afternoon because it doesn't get dark in England until around 9:30 this time of the year, and being sort've an old-fashioned Midwest-born-and-bred guy I just don't feel right calling what looks like daytime evening. After taking a few minutes to update some of these notes I squeezed out a baby piss, sloshed some water around, pulled on some jeans and threw a leather jacket over a T-shirt, crept silently down the stairs so as to avoid the possibility of Frieda seeing me and trying to feed me, jumped in my waiting MG, and headed without a second of hesitation or indecision for THE BADGER & THE HONEYJAR.
Surprisingly, as I ducked my head through the door, I encountered only four or five people to witness my maiden voyage into the world of English pub life. I knew that all English pubs served food, and with dinnertime at hand I guess I sort've figured that this out-of- the-way establishment would have a corner on the surrounding rural dinner trade, right? Just another perfect example of flawed human thinking. The place was dead. I took my seat at the bar. The lone bartender, wiry-thin, about thirty-five, with short black hair almost as blue as mine but with a thin black moustache to go with it, leaned over his muscular, out-of-proportion forearms that were resting on the bar and said, "What'chaff, mate!"
"You must be Delbert."
"Ah, ove' from the states, is it? Yes, m'friend---Delbert Basingstoke, that's me. I'm the per'prietor 'ere."
"Mind if I call you Del?"
"Indeed I do. But'cha can call me Delby if y'like."
He was wringing a white bar towel in his capable-looking hands. The forearms were
impressive. There were lots of tattoos, things like anchors and mermaids and fake scars and coils of rope, choices that let me know a little something about him right away.
"Navy man, huh?"
"Royal Navy, mate, that's it. Only gave 'er two years but it's always in me-blood, the sea." He picked this juncture to shake my hand. I was impressed. His hand was every bit as strong as mine, and I'm a professional athlete. I introduced myself, and told him I was staying nearby and that therefore I might very well be doing the lion's share of my drinking at his establishment. Being the typical, overly-jovial Englishman, his face reacted to this information as if he'd just been given his knighthood. I ordered a beer. I thought this to be a simple enough request at the time, but after bandying the subject back and forth a bit I learned that if I wanted something reasonably akin to what I was used to in a beer I had to employ the term "lager" in ordering it; otherwise I might accidentally wind up with some sort've brownish, aptly-named concoction called "bitter", the taste of which, I later found, I can only compare to twice-sweetened dishwater. When this initial flurry of get-acquainted activity was over, my beer safely drawn and in place in front of me, I naturally expected him to toddle off to some other corner of the establishment and, perhaps, attend to one of the other three or four customers in attendance. But he didn't. He just continued to lean over his Popeye forearms resting on the bar, while continuing to eyeball me. Smiling. And this smiling face could not have been more than eighteen inches fr
om my non-smiling one. He just kept staring and smiling....
"So where 'the women in here?" I said finally, just to throw out something to break the
spell.
The handful of customers sitting off at a corner table---all men, all at least in their forties-- -started chuckling. Like it was a stupid scene from a movie and the director had told them to start chuckling all at once at the stupid American. Pissed me off. Only other thing I remember about them is that they all had bad teeth.
"Women, ay! Y'wants our women, lad? So y'comes 'affway 'round the world joosta
pick on our English birds!"
"I'm here on business," I said coolly.
"Women's bloody-good business!" one of the old drunks shouted over. "Spesh'ly when they don't give ya the business back! Haw!"
"Wha'tizzit, mate---they run outa blackbirds in America?"
"Aw, don' mind them, m'friend," said Delby with a friendly wink. "They got nuthin' better to do than to come in 'ere and give a stranger 'ard time." Before I could say anything
The Basketball Expatriate Page 7