To the Manor Drawn

by Leslie Ann Bosher

  There is a case to be made for going into a new venture with eyes wide open; however, we took the position that ignorance, up to a point, was bliss. We would debit our personal account by losing amenities of a proportion only a city the size of London could provide and credit our new account with never ending fields of green grass and animals we had previously seen as either roadway casualties or on posh restaurant dinner plates. Taking too much time to reminisce over the loves of our life could have stopped us in midstream, and so with all the awareness of navel-gazing we prepared, with courage, to forsake the familiar for the black hole of life beyond the London M25 Ring Road.

  Chapter 4

  Chocks away

  Email To: Marty

  From: Leslie Ann

  Date: 21 September

  Subject: Second thoughts

  Dear Marty,

  The realization that we will be living 100 miles north of London has just hit us. What are we doing? On the positive side, we will be able to make dinner reservations without having to give our credit card details as a deposit. On the other hand, do restaurants in the countryside even take credit cards? I keep reminding myself that the lifestyle will be healthier and that rabbits and cows can make great neighbours.

  We’ll have to buy a car just to get there, as we never needed one in London. They say driving is like riding a bicycle, you never forget. That’s good because some of the roads are so narrow only bicycles can get by.

  Bill and I will be staying in a Bed & Breakfast in Stamford while the flooring is laid, the bathroom fixtures and telephone lines are put in and a mountain of rubble is removed from the rooms. Workers up there just won’t be rushed and staring at them like a sick basset hound doesn’t seem to help either.

  Don’t lose my address. You might never find me again!

  Lost in Rutland,

  Leslie Ann

  After nearly five months of planning, negotiating and jumping through the necessary hoops for mortgage applications and loan documents we finally saw the light at the end of the tunnel. With a slightly anxious yet hopeful heart, we packed up our newly acquired, two-door, red camel of a car and made our way for the last time across Hyde Park to the pulsing arterial route out of town, the Edgeware Road.

  Navigating our way through pedestrian crossings and crowded streets, we passed the worthy Lords Cricket Ground, the secluded American ambassadorial residence of Winfield House and the exotic Finsbury Mosque. Entering a maze of endless suburbs and ethnic communities, we said our goodbyes to clusters of high street, family-run businesses selling Halal meats, kebabs, Chinese takeaway and kosher deli food. Eventually, we reached the no-turning-back zone, the dreaded green belt, defining the boundary between cutting edge and countryside.

  The journey to our new home up the A1 north motorway was only 100 miles, so clearly we would be making frequent trips back to London often. Right? After all, for an American distance was never a problem. In fact 100 miles was barely enough reason to turn on the ignition. Bill and I fantasized about future romantic getaway weekends with long lunches, third row opera seats and evening walks through Mayfair. London, home for so many years, would now become a rendezvous destination, one that required packing only a pair of satin slippers, a wispy camisole and our Visa card.

  As the city passed out of sight in our rear view mirror, we felt as if we were turning over the keys to those younger, more virile and definitely more foreign than any American could ever be. This was a non-military changing of the guard whose time had come.

  Temporary housekeeping was set up in a Bed & Breakfast located in Stamford, a tolerable twenty-minute drive from the Hall. Our thinking was that living off-site during the renovation would preserve our sanity. This, however, proved to be more time consuming than we had imagined. After a month of daily commutes back and forth to the Hall, we decided to put our faith in the adage ‘let go, let God’. With restoration now in the hands of the Almighty, we checked out of our accommodation and checked into our own personal war zone. Our home finally had a tenant.

  Inside, the flat was a shambles—broken panelling, exposed ceiling beams, cracked door frames, plumbing fixtures, bags of cement, pots of paint, ladders and MDF boards littered the area. Sandwich wrappers and empty beer cans suggested the workmen had happily used the space as a makeshift dining room. An abandoned old loo leaned against the wall in the middle of our 7 x 7 metre drawing room. We knew it would be months before most of the debris could be cleared away. Although in no particular hurry, the prospect of creating minor miracles of architectural improvement boggled our minds. At the same time, we endured endless nights of tossing and turning as we recalculated the dimensions of each room in order to accommodate our furniture, some of which we had not seen in years.

  As in The Perfect Storm, my life also had had a simultaneous occurrence of events which, taken individually, would have been far less powerful than the result of their chance combination. The sudden passing of both my parents presented Bill and me with an opportunity to take stock of our lives. Having no siblings to squabble with I became the sole administrator of the family estate. Coincidentally our California residence sold the moment it went on the property market, rendering us virtually homeless and creating the perfect juncture for us to assess our options. Returning to London was finally to become a reality. Now all our combined possessions, left behind in the States due to the average size of affordable London living space, were all in the belly of a ship in two 40-foot containers. Avoiding ‘Acts of God, Pirates or Serpents of the Sea’, as described in our insurance policy, we were advised the consignment would arrive at an English port sometime in December. Until then, we would live on our wits, supplemented by copious amounts of wine.

  Living away from close and trusted friends at moments like these can have certain advantages. One is that nobody with good sense or sound reasoning can influence your judgment. Making an irrational decision to live without full plumbing, flooring, refrigeration, furniture and lighting seemed sane when bounced around between the two of us. Soliciting a third opinion would have been foolhardy.

  Eventually a sense of order began to emerge as we unpacked and arranged our modest London belongings in our not-so-modest new quarters while at the same time amassing a lengthy list of home projects. Although they were prioritized in order of our creature comforts, nothing was ever entirely left up to us. Rather, it was ‘white van man’ who controlled much of our daily routine and certainly disrupted the scheduling of many a week. I don’t know an American equivalent for this term; however, I am sure there must be one. These workmen, famous for frequently enjoying a bit of tailgating and intimidation on the motorways due to a lack of identification on their vans, were a necessary link to getting household projects completed. The difficulty was trying to distinguish the professional from the dilettante. I would call it a crapshoot on a good day. Many were self-schooled, while others learned their craft from generations of grandfathers, uncles and fathers. Some simply flew by the seat of their pants.

  Either way, working habits were the same no matter who was hired for the job. First, the tradesman would arrive, if at all, around 8.30 am for a general look-see of the situation. If you were smart, you would offer a cup of tea immediately in the hope that you would receive some special dispensation or at best a token discount when the final bill was presented. Once the obligatory chitchat ended and the empty teacup rattled with the spoon inside it was time to begin work, but not before a visit to his van in order to retrieve tools, drop sheets or, more importantly, to grab a quick smoke. Back in the house the dismantling of something, anything, would commence. No matter what the project it gave the appearance of progress.

  Around 10.30 am all work would cease for tea. Back in his vehicle once again ‘white van man’ would enjoy another cigarette and a hot cuppa from his thermos while catching up on all the latest football results listed in The Sun, a popular tabloid newspaper enjoyed by men, not least for the topless beauty on page three. His golden retriever, a man
datory companion, would patiently await his morning constitutional and treat. For half an hour the van would fill with a mixture of steamy cigarette smoke and the smell of damp dog dander. Eventually, with no other choice but to return to work, he would toil until ‘dinner’ at 1 pm, generally known as lunch to Americans and Europeans. With a promise to be back shortly, he would disappear down the driveway for what seemed like hours, reappearing in due course with a strong smell of smoke, and sometimes beer, on his work clothes. Ready to begin the last session of the day he would trudge on until, you guessed it, tea time.

  Sometimes you get a surprise, or even get lucky as we did when Trevor, our plumber, showed up wearing a pinstripe suit coupled with a beautiful shirt and tie. He had coiffured hair, manicured nails and a scent only good grooming can connote. His appearance suggested he would be more comfortable at a table in London’s Savoy Grill than under our kitchen sink. Before the pipe inspection began we offered him a neighbourly cup of tea to break the ice.

  ‘What brought you two to Rutland?’ Trevor inquired. This was a question to which we were becoming more than familiar.

  ‘It was really a fluke, or more a stroke of good fortune,’ Bill replied. ‘Leslie Ann has often surprised me over the years with special birthday weekends away. One particular year it happened to be at Hambleton Hall on Rutland Water. Neither of us had been to the area before so we explored a bit, enjoyed the lay of the land then never gave it another thought until years later when I noticed an advertisement for Stocken Hall. I guess you could say the penny dropped.’

  We sensed a feeling of satisfaction with our answer. At least we weren’t perceived as speculators or profiteers coming into the area to make a quick buck then darting off. With the conversation over, Trevor removed his jacket, loosened his tie and assumed a prone position on our kitchen floor. We had never seen such a well-turned-out plumber.

  It was through this connection that we met Vic, the godfather of the local construction fraternity. He made his decision to assist us with our building problems only after several social hours of afternoon tea while discussing our astrological signs. A Gary Cooper kind of guy—hard on the outside with a soft, creamy centre—he immediately noticed three details about us that eventually led to a lengthy conversation. For starters, we were not wearing wedding rings. Second, our furniture did not make a dent in the empty space we called home and lastly, there were no photos of family members. The natural conclusion was that we weren’t married.

  ‘So, what brings you to Rutland?’ he asked.

  Bill told the story once again about his birthday at Hambleton Hall, but that still left the question of why no wedding rings. We decided it would be wise to come clean about our relationship.

  ‘Vic, one day a woman walked into the Churchill Hotel bar in London. I looked up, saw her face and fell in love. Mind you, it took work to convince her. I had to buy an astrological book on Scorpios to see if they were compatible with Leos as our courtship spanned two time zones. That was twenty-odd years ago and I can tell you that book was a lifesaver,’ Bill declared.

  As proof of our integrity, I scurried off to the bedroom to fetch our wedding rings which had been put aside for safekeeping while we slaved away on the house. Thankfully, Vic felt we were kindred spirits Zodiac-wise and that our explanations were plausible enough to merit our joining his approved list of new clients.

  For the next few months, we waited for ‘chippies’, ‘brickies’ and ‘sparkies’, builder’s terms previously unfamiliar to me, to show up, deliver or repair something. We were as tethered to the house as a dog to a leash. The only difference was that we were never in danger of ‘fouling the footpath’, a quaint expression the English like to use to encourage owners to pick up their dog poop. Finally, our new loo was installed.

  With what looked like a Heathrow Airport length of runway surface to paint, we began to assess the walls and panelling of the house for plastering and colour requirements. Wishing to stay as true as possible to Georgian traditions, we sought out a colour chart from the National Trust range of paints incorporated into the Farrow & Ball line. Historians and chemists compiled this serious guide by tirelessly investigating period paint taken from chips of pigment from manor houses and stately homes. We decided not to tackle the overwhelming array of fifteen shades of white, choosing instead to go straight to the bolder tints. To our amusement, however, we became more infatuated with the names than with the colours.

  It became clear that we could sort out our dilemma by placing the paint into categories according to each paint’s description instead of the usual groupings of reds, blues and greens. Helpful names based on room usage, foods and animals, both dead and alive, provided a useful road map of what to put where. The only problem was that the system required a rambling home the size of Texas to accommodate: Entrance Hall Pink, Studio Green, Book Room Red, Card Room Green, Eating Room Red, Picture Gallery Red and of course the unforgettable Ball Room Blue. Still unsure about how to proceed, we further sorted by foodstuffs: Biscuit, Olive, Lichen, Cooking Apple, Pea, Hay and Bone. My favourite category was creatures, living and departed: Fawn, Smoked Trout, Dead Salmon, Fox Red, Hound Lemon, Pigeon and the unmistakable dusky Mouse’s Back all added a new dimension to the concept of do-it-yourself home improvement.

  Just as the best laid plans of mice and men often go astray, so it was with our decorating ideas once the central heating was turned on in our apartment. After nearly fifty years without warmth, dampness was embedded in every fibre of the structure. Within weeks, walls that were once seamless began to crack, panels buckled and splintered, shutters drooped and ceilings split. It was as though the entire building was plotting a coup d’état to overthrow our regime, but we were having none of it and so stood our ground. However it would take another year before we could assess the damage and corner the market on pollyfilla. In the end, we learned patience was indeed a virtue as renovating the house was just the beginning of our tutorial on country living.

  Our preoccupation with settling in left little time for socializing with our neighbours in the Hall. We often exchanged pleasantries in the gravelled parking area or when passing one another in the communal entrance hall but nothing of any consequence was ever discussed. In the best British tradition it was considered bad form to get too involved. Better to let friendships develop tastefully, even slowly if necessary, over time.

  We likened moving into a new neighbourhood to boarding a long-haul flight. Once you have located your assigned seat, placed your hand luggage in the overhead bin then, and only then, can you frantically look around to see who you will be cooped up with for the next fifteen hours. Strapped in for the journey, you either adjust to your surroundings or you put on your Bose headphones and tune out.

  It became apparent that not everyone had moved to Stocken Hall, or indeed the countryside, for the same reasons. Some couples were downsizing but still wished to be in close proximity to their children, others sought the enjoyment of an estate and large garden without the back-breaking labour and a few, like us, appreciated the lock-up-and-leave security of a shared environment. Despite differences in background, age and in my case nationality, we discovered there was a common thread that joined total strangers together. We all had invested in a piece of English heritage that required our stewardship if it was to flourish and survive.

  Although most of the apartments were occupied when we arrived, there appeared to be little cohesion to the group. As tenants-in-common, we owned the freehold of the Hall and thus were responsible for the maintenance of the building and grounds. We had two alternatives: we could either employ an outside property management company to run the estate or we could form a resident’s association and carry out our duties in-house. Unanimously we chose the latter and less costly option and set our course for the coming year. Our honeymoon was truncated by a roofing disaster which forced us all to dig deep into our pockets to pay for the repairs. It was a hard learning curve as owners but it did prove that we could, with one ex
ception (isn’t there always one?), pull together as a team of horses. In our case Shire horses.

  Chapter 5

  Holiday hell

  Email To: Esther Marie

  From: Leslie Ann

  Date: 19 December

  Subject: English Christmas Happy Cake recipe

  Dear Esther Marie,

  Do you ever wonder why an American loves to recreate the traditional English Christmas? Try this recipe and find out. It is partly responsible for why we are having so much fun here. Of course the cosy pubs and new friends all help, that is when I’m not baking a cake!

  Ingredients

  1 cup of water

  1 cup of brown sugar

  4 large eggs lemon juice

  1 teaspoon of baking soda

  nuts

  1 cup of sugar

  1 bottle of vodka

  1 teaspoon of salt

  2 cups of dried fruit

  Sample the vodka to check quality. Get a large mixing bowl. Sample vodka again to ensure it’s acceptable. Repeat if necessary.

  Turn on the electric mixer. Beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl. Add one teaspoon of sugar. At this point it’s best to make sure the vodka is shill okay. Try a nip, just in case. Trun off the mixerer.

  Break 2 leggs and add to the bowl then chuck in the cup and dried fruit. Mix on the turner. If the fried druit gets stuck in the beaterers pry it loose with a drewscriver. Sample the vodka to check for tonsisticity. Next, sift two cups of salt. Or something. Who giveshz a s**t.

  Now shift the lemon juice and strain your nuts. Add one table. Greash the oven. Turn the cake tin 360 degrees and try not to fall over. Don’t forget to beat off the turner, put the mixer in the dryer, finish the vodka and have a Merry Chrishhhmuss.