To the Manor Drawn

by Leslie Ann Bosher

  On our way to the viewing, Bill displayed all the characteristics of a man futilely treading treacle. Upon reflection, it was understandable as his subterfuge was about to be exposed. Soon I would discover that he had already placed a deposit on a two-storey, three-reception room and four-bedroom unit. Not the little nest I was expecting to see.

  The 100-mile journey was punctuated with one disclaimer after another. Bill’s concerns were focused entirely on me and my reaction to the property, while I was worried about how not to show disappointment should there be any. I knew it would be a long trip back to London if we had to travel in silence.

  ‘It’s okay if you don’t like it. Really!’ Bill ventured. ‘Remember, there is still a lot of work yet to be done on the building.’

  Trying to reassure him that I did not consider this a life or death decision—after all, purchasing a modest weekend getaway is hardly earth shattering—I tried to console him with a few simple girlie phrases. ‘If you picked it I’m sure I will love it,’ and ‘Sweetheart, you’ve been right about most things in our life so far.’ That was the best I could muster as we drove deeper and deeper into the countryside, leaving all remnants of life, as we knew it, behind.

  We arrived on a murky, dank afternoon when even a sliver of light was at a premium. Greyish-white fog dusted the exposed trunks and branches of the trees. A hint of rain was stalking us in our car mirror. It was a perfect day for a reality check. Sunshine and blue skies can sell any property, but on a day such as this everything ran together like a smudged watercolour.

  The approach to the Hall was by a graceful 800-metre drive flanked by double rows of mature beech and walnut trees. On either side were views over what was once parkland, now open farmland. As we made the turn, Bill stopped the car for one last pitch. It reminded me of the husband who gave his wife a dress for Christmas that was several sizes too large. The poor soul spent the rest of the holiday paddling as fast as he could to get back in her good graces.

  It was at this point that I seriously considered getting out and walking, which made me regret not owning a pair of all-weather Wellington boots. Bill, on the other hand, was one step ahead of me. He apparently had purchased a pair, definitely not a fashion accessory in London, in anticipation of just such an occasion. They were hidden in the back of our rental car.

  ‘Bill, stop. I promise it will be fine. You would never deceive me about something like this so stop worrying,’ I bleated.

  At last, ahead of us at the top of the rise, I had my first glimpse of the honey-coloured stone Hall standing proudly in a fold in the landscape. This once noble residence, less grand than I had imagined, projected a sense of intimacy and a quirky lack of symmetry. Of course, I knew there was a wealth of other properties on the market to explore, with more impressive pedigrees, but I was compelled to see the building that had so captivated my husband.

  If Bill were writing an account of the day’s events, I suspect he would remember it quite differently. As it is up to me, however, the truth will have to suffice. As a paid-up member of the blue-sky theory of thinking, I envisioned an estate of more than modest splendour and semi-affordable opulence, which was not surprising given all the Merchant Ivory films I’d seen. Bill, bless him, divulged little to me of the state of the building or the surroundings, possibly thinking full disclosure would negate any interest on my part, or on a more hopeful note, that I might not notice any flaws at all.

  Our arrival was announced by the sound of our tyres rumbling over a cattle grid. I assumed this was located at the entrance of the drive in order to keep neighbouring cows off what could soon be our land. Further down the road, on the left side, stood a building that resembled an abandoned breeze block aircraft hangar with faded green sidings and rusted hinges. Next to it were stacked bales of hay as high as an elephant’s eye, giving the impression that more was taking place on the grounds than ornamental topiary horticulture. Looking still further ahead, I noticed two swing gates, similar to railroad crossings, with a wide river of thick, trodden sludge flowing from one side of the road to the other. As no animals were in sight, I assumed this was a messy legacy of the past; one that would soon be demolished and replaced by something more appropriate. I had in mind a beautification scheme incorporating an organic garden or an expansive rockery.

  The driveway snaked forward leading to an arc of ten, single family homes forming a semicircle behind the Hall, the largest being a converted stable block. Turning in at the stone pillar just before the Mews we parked our car between two dumpsters heaped full of dry wall, rotted wood and corroded wiring. Manoeuvring our way through the debris we opened the front door to this immense and soulless Hall. Now stripped bare, the interior sadly belied her former glory. Builders and workmen over time had taken liberties with her, often appropriating some of the best bits for salvage or resale. Strips of missing and rotted oak plank flooring allowed the smell of damp, cold air to rise, filling the foyer with a sense of abandonment. It was clear, however, that the property had potential, especially if you could purchase an apartment before the builder stamped his own pedestrian style upon it. Looking at the glossy photos of the show unit, placed on display for visitors, I could already see the designer fashionistas forcing minimalism on what could be a real Georgian beauty.

  They say you can have an affinity with a place the moment you walk inside, so it was for this reason I asked Bill to wait for me in the garden. If the apartment was to be ours, it would have to sell itself to me on its own merit. ‘Send me subliminal messages if you like, but first give me a moment to be alone in the space.’ It was my only request.

  With an impish kiss, Bill watched as I ascended the main staircase to the first floor landing, opening the door to what I presumed to be a humble residence. With gaping jaw, despite the state of disrepair, I felt an immediate sense of belonging. The clarity and logic of the floor plan, the relationship between passageways, door sizes and windows all created an impression of stability and pleasure. The sun briefly broke through the grey day magnifying the vast air space between the floor and the 4-metre ceilings. Light flooded through rows of double-hung, twelve-pane sash windows illuminating 400 years of built up dust particles that floated in the air creating a creamy haze. It was surprisingly perfect.

  I am not sure if it was the look in my eyes or my body language, serene and fluid, that gave Bill the clue but he knew instantly, as I did, that we had found a home. Not just for weekends and holidays but for the foreseeable future. Paris, lovely lady that she is, would have to remain patient a little longer.

  Chapter 3

  The ties that bind

  Email To: Christi

  From: Leslie Ann

  Date: 5 April

  Subject: Thought for the day

  Dear Christi,

  It’s always good to hear from you as it brings back fond memories of our salad days together in California enjoying taco lunches, pitchers of margaritas and suntanned skin—none of which are available here.

  Soon, London will go into my scrapbook of memories just like Palm Springs, as Bill and I prepare for our move to the countryside. It’s ironic that the things I will most likely miss won’t be the big events, but the little niggles that define my own personal space. They’re the ones that seem to form the warp and weft of real life. Take, for instance, the grumpy bus conductor who only last week broke a smile at me despite having been a loyal passenger on his route for years. I wonder if he will notice that I am no longer there? And who will snarl at the legions of mothers with their bulging baby carriages blocking every entrance and aisle in Peter Jones department store making shopping virtually impossible? You know, it is conceivable the city won’t be able to get along without me. I’m glad we’ve had this little talk.

  Bye for now,

  Leslie Ann

  ‘You must be bonkers. What can you possibly do in the countryside all day?’ interrogated Blanche, my American soul-sister and London mate, as we sat on a bench sipping tepid tea from our styrofoam c
ups while being traumatized by the unruly children playing in Hyde Park. ‘You don’t shoot, you don’t have dogs and you never walk without a shopping bag in your hand. Won’t you get bored to death up there?’ she continued as her brow slowly wrinkled, unveiling an expression of bewilderment.

  Coming from such a close friend this was a perfectly valid question. After all, a move like this was not for the faint-hearted, which made me wonder if I had taken the matter as seriously as I should have. Some of our friends even said it was tantamount to social suicide.

  As far as I can recall these were the only two questions consistently put to us by our friends, family and business colleagues when Bill and I announced our move, after a decade in London, to deep within the English countryside. We certainly didn’t expect cheers of support, but neither did we anticipate being compared to characters in the 1970s American television series Green Acres or the limey equivalent The Good Life.

  Swings and roundabouts was a perfect description of our life so far. One more ‘about face’ seemed of no real consequence. Even Bill, despite being a hopeless nester, had demonstrated his flexibility about our life choices. Born in Britain, raised on the south coast in Sussex, and initiated into manhood in the corporate world of the City, he had been more than willing to move to Los Angeles following our chance meeting in London in 1980. The truth is, Bill was strikingly handsome and rather debonair for a Brit, so not surprisingly he swept me off my feet. From there it was only a matter of time before we married and became official Californians with a home on the third tee of a country club and a golf cart in the garage. Fourteen years and multiple earthquakes later we returned to England.

  And so it was that we regarded this relocation as just one more adventure. Our overseas friends, however, took the view that leaving London was some sort of penalty we had to pay for having spent so many decadent years in a coveted location. More importantly for them was the realization that our well-placed flat, on one of the city’s smartest streets, would be a thing of the past. Whether our friends’ holidays were planned in advance or the result of a spur-of-the-moment, heavily discounted airline ticket, our door had always been open.

  The decision to sell our penthouse apartment, a tongue-in-cheek term for former servants’ quarters located at the top of a Victorian home, had more to do with serendipity than sanity. It was as though a biological clock had awakened us to the need for earthy pursuits, the very same ones that had often been the butt of jokes about people with anoraks and walking sticks.

  At this juncture in my life the only thing I knew for certain was that London would be my eternal home as Bill was honour-bound to keep his promise to sprinkle my ashes amongst the well-tended shrubs of my chosen grotto in Green Park. This was a pledge I knew he would keep even if it meant wearing a dirty old raincoat to avoid detection while he distributed his cache observed only by the beady eyes of the local geese and ducks.

  Up to this point, our knowledge of grass and all that grew on it had been limited to Sunday walks in New York’s Central Park, Paris’ Jardin Des Tuileries and Sydney’s Royal Botanic Gardens. They all offered outdoor enthusiasts open space and freedom of movement without encroaching upon what we considered to be the necessities of life: fashionable shopping haunts and trendy watering holes. We had our priorities.

  There was one aspect of London life that we understood all too well—public transportation. Always a love-hate relationship, it was nevertheless the linchpin of our daily lives. The idea of straying too far from the sound of a Number 19 diesel-belching, red double-decker bus was unthinkable. Even the unmistakable grinding motor of an ageing black taxi cab conveying a lavishly paid CEO to a rendezvous on Sloane Street was comforting to our ears. Yet, there were two tones even dearer to our hearts that represented the continuity of life and the belief that the world was intact.

  Each morning around 5.15 the first flights of the day would arrive at Heathrow Airport from such exotic destinations as India, Indonesia and Thailand. As these fully loaded aircraft began their slow descent over the city, skimming across the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea and our bedroom, I would lie snugly tucked under my duvet thinking of the variety of humanity waiting to enter the airport’s arrivals hall. Soon their clothing, skin colour, language and religion would be gracing the streets of London. It was such an important aspect of life in the Capital, one that few cities could offer with such depth and certainty.

  The other distinctive sound that called me to the window each evening at 6.20 was my personal American connection. Lifting my head slightly, I could see the gentle glide path of Concorde arriving from New York as she lowered her wheels like a mallard duck preparing to land on a remote mountain lake. Unlike the passengers on the early morning flights, Concorde delivered her cargo in style and elegant exclusivity. Soon, London would be infused with shoppers, movie stars and entrepreneurs anxious to spend dollars, which seemed to those of us on this side of the pond to be in a never-ending supply.

  Viewing life from the perspective of a cultural transplant (you never entirely forget your roots) made me an expert at spotting the idiosyncrasies of other nationalities. Sniffing out ethnic groups manoeuvring through the crowded streets and Tube stations became an amusing pastime. Italians were the easiest to recognize. Their sculpted facial features, toned bodies and dedication to fashion detail made them pleasing on the eye and always welcome. Germans made less of a statement, actually none at all, while the Spanish, famous for roaming in rowdy packs, were known for their display of copious amounts of uncoordinated colour. Aussies, the most popular social tribe, were ecologically responsible, hard working and could fit in anywhere with their easy going ‘no worries, mate’ attitude to life.

  As an American, I took particular interest in locating my fellow countrymen and women in a crowd. The obvious indication of their presence was that they frequently seemed vocally challenged. To my now Anglicized ear, their voice boxes lacked a volume control. Intimate space meant nothing to them. The other telltale sign was that they often looked like they were going off to climb Mount Everest rather than navigate the streets of one of the largest and most prestigious cities in the world. Hanging from hip, buttock and shoulder would be an assortment of survival gear only a mountaineer would invest in. Their colourful casual wear could have come from the locker room of any professional sports team as they invariably carried the markings of a brand name or other ‘need to know’ advertisement. Seldom would their clothing be made of linen or natural fibre, but rather of some NASA-inspired fabric or petroleum byproduct that could easily be removed, folded, placed in an envelope and posted back home to be opened and laundered upon arrival. The fact that London was the fountainhead of bespoke clothing was often lost on them.

  By contrast, it was a pleasure to see American businessmen in London. With their polished teeth, valet-pressed pinstripe suits, immaculate nails and coiffed hair they were the essence of success. They instinctively knew that they earned more money, and thus had more style, than their British counterparts. Flashing the newest iPod or quad-band mobile phone was never showy. It was expected.

  The ‘I can have it all’ female American executive was, on the other hand, a formidable creature. Camouflaged behind skin half Sarah Jessica Parker, half Joan Rivers, she set out to singlehandedly defy the laws of gravity and the statistics on aging. Her style was accomplished and perfected right down to her calfskin briefcase and Burberry scarf, casually tied at the neck to complement her tightly cinched raincoat which provided protection from the elements as well as from any human contact that could spoil her Spray and Starch appearance.

  These were my companions on the streets of Chelsea and Kensington. They served as a constant reminder that London was the beating heart, at least in Europe, of everything vibrant and happening. Shopping was no exception. As designer lingerie, bling-bling jewellery shops and handbag boutiques were only a stone’s throw from my front door, I was in constant jeopardy of being victimized by the never ending siren call to �
�just take a look’. These little temptations usually manifested themselves while I was en route to the bank or supermarket, distracting me from my more mundane chores.

  Parking in London was a nightmare, which meant car ownership was not a practical option. It was a luxury. One we did not enjoy. Therefore, several times a week I had to make the twenty-minute journey to Waitrose, my local food purveyor on foot. I often thought of my friends back in the States and how different our daily lives had become. They had only to get into their Mercedes, press the automatic garage door opener, drive to a thoroughly modern, air-conditioned superstore only minutes away where services from dry cleaners to hair salons, poodle parlours to post offices could be found under one roof. They could then select enough items to fill a small campervan, have the contents bagged and placed in the car by an attendant, then make the identical journey home.

  My experience, on the other hand, was slightly more complicated and involved some pre-planning. For starters, my purchases were restricted to what I could carry, which often meant sacrificing a large six-pack of toilet paper for more important items such as a bottle or two of cheeky Rioja. Life was about choices and I was proud of mine. Each time I returned home from the grocery store my fingers would be the colour of mashed red berries and my arms inches longer, having been stretched from the weight of the shopping bags. This supported my theory that the further I walked the heavier my load.

  As an urbanite who preferred concrete and steel, public transport and congestion to endless fields and tranquility, I enjoyed my proximity to absolutely everything I had ever wanted. Situated halfway between London’s two great department stores, Harrods and Harvey Nichols, I was spoiled for choice. I had no idea what my options might be up the Great North Road. For me, London was the centre of the universe.