To the Manor Drawn

by Leslie Ann Bosher

  Bill had made the arrangements through Arturo, a dear friend who offered to organize the civil part of our marriage, as we were not fluent in Spanish or, more importantly, members of the Catholic faith. After several nights in Mexico City we drove south to the cool playground of Cuernavaca where we waited to be contacted by someone who, we were advised, had consented to marry us. Two days passed without a word. Bill was beside himself with worry especially as the weekend was approaching, which meant everything would be closed from noon on Saturday. Our flight back to Los Angeles was booked for Sunday.

  We woke early on Saturday morning as Bill made it clear we were not to be denied a ceremony. Leaving his sport coat and my linen wedding suit in our bedroom closet, we headed to town in shorts and flip-flops. We had no rings, no proper identification, just love. Bill positioned me on a bench in a churchyard while he raced like a madman through a tiny government building in search of a Justice of the Peace.

  Eventually, someone understood his manic hand gestures simulating the placement of a ring on a finger and came to our rescue. Bill collected me, wilting in the churchyard from the heat, and together we walked with an elderly man and a young boy in scruffy play clothes to the closed Mexican tourist office. With a turn of the key we entered the dark building. The old man stood in front of Bill and me while the young boy, no more than ten years of age, stood between us. The service began in Spanish. The lad interpreted the marriage vows by tugging at my arm when it was time to utter the confirmatory ‘si’ after the words, ‘Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?’

  At the end of the service the layman, who had thus far not spoken a word of English, discovered he was bilingual enough to ask for a US$300 fee. Bill, slightly shocked, asked, ‘How much would you charge a Mexican?’ Without hesitation or shame he said, ‘$20.’ He then added with a toothless grin, ‘Señor, you are not Mexican, you are not Catholic and it is Saturday.’ His lucid logic was undeniable. Bill paid the gentleman with pleasure.

  We left the building with a glow only a wedding ceremony can give. With my bouquet of bougainvillea flowers, snatched from a vine in the churchyard, we went to the nearest cantina and ordered several pitchers of frosty margaritas. There we sat for hours holding hands as the town closed all around us for siesta. I don’t remember a thing after that, but we do have a beautifully framed, gold embossed Certificate of Marriage hanging on our wall as proof that with a lot of love and a little bit of money you can attain happiness.

  That certificate now hangs in our second floor sitting room accessed by a long curvy staircase in the hallway. Here, the atmosphere of the house alters completely. A sense of intimacy is immediate as chocolate-brown, exposed roof beams crisscross the ceiling. There is a delightfully crooked feel to the two-bathroom, two-bedroom guest suite. Walls undulate, windows creak when opened and doors slope downward giving a slightly drunken aura to the rooms. The setting is wonderfully welcoming with vintage toile curtains, overstuffed chairs and oriental rugs lazily scattered about. A large wicker basket of dried, dusky-purple hydrangeas, artfully stacked pillows and, of course, an old Afghan casually draped over a sofa give the space that English lived-in look.

  The second floor decor is clearly by design while the first floor fell into place by bloody good luck. All in all this is a keep-sake home, full of old memories and new ideas. It is comfortable and familiar, traditional yet faintly contemporary but above all it is Georgian. For us, this is the best of both our worlds.

  Chapter 21

  The necessities of life

  Email To: Alex and Twila

  From: Leslie Ann

  Date: 14 June

  Subject: NHS

  Dear Alex and Twila,

  What a frustrating day. Today I called my doctor’s office to schedule a mammogram. A woman with a voice like maple syrup told me a letter would be forthcoming ‘inviting’ me to make an appointment. How pleasant, I thought. I have never been ‘invited’ by the National Health Service to have my breasts squashed between two cold metal plates. ‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘How often can I have this proactive procedure?’ I, of course, assumed her answer would be annually. ‘Once every three years,’ was the unexpected reply. Gee, that’s comforting. No wonder England has one of the lowest rates of breast cancer survival in Europe.

  Later I went for my pap smear. As I left the examining room I inquired, ‘How soon will I get the results, in a few weeks I presume?’ ‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘you won’t hear anything for at least sixteen weeks.’ Obviously, the NHS does not understand the simple concept that prevention today equals savings tomorrow.

  Hope time is on my side,

  LAB

  Let’s assume that no matter where we live in the world, life is composed of a series of weekly, if not daily, occurrences, unavoidable routines that revolve around the same few simple tasks and key facilities. These chores are performed in an almost identical fashion regardless if one lives in Australia, Brazil or England. This dispels the argument that special skills are required to reside abroad. Grocery shopping still consists of massaging vegetables and sniffing fish whether one shops on the waterways of Bangkok or at the farmers’ markets in Rutland.

  I was thinking about this the other day as I took our car into the local garage in the next village. It’s the kind of grease monkey operation I never imagined patronizing. Before moving to England, our cars had always been purchased and serviced in American, state-of-the-art automobile sales and service centres, usually located on some innocuous street named Benz Boulevard or Porsche Parkway. Once inside, all the comforts of home would be put at our disposal: snack bar dispenser, cappuccino machine and twenty-four-hour news and weather television channels on tap. These conveniences were no doubt made available in order to help ease the pain of paying the anticipated repair bill that could often rival that of a hip replacement operation.

  Our local garage had no such inducements; in fact it more closely resembled a used car lot than an auto centre. Julian, the owner, is a mechanic and race car enthusiast who makes no bones about the lack of fastidious facilities. His sliver of a waiting room has an overpowering smell of oil and the only creature comfort is a single plastic chair tattooed with greasy remains of workman’s overalls. It’s an all too familiar setting that brings back memories of my teenage years in Charlotte. I was raised around the trucking industry and stock car racing. It never occurred to me there could be professional offices without a Pirelli calendar hanging on the wall displaying plump mounds of curvaceous female flesh sensually draped over a phallic muffler or a naughty drip trap.

  Julian’s enterprise is an exception, thank goodness. He’s also the exception to the big business ‘take it or leave it’ attitude. Just being a neighbour is entrée enough and will stand you in good stead should an emergency arise. Like the family doctor, you never know when you will need one until you need one.

  Another necessity of everyday life is the post office. It’s not just for Christmas mailings and stamps, as this institution is considered to be a multi-tasking giant the likes of which are unknown in America. It is for this reason I’ve always found the experience of going to the post office to be rather intimidating. Over the years I have spent my share of minutes, if not hours, at the Royal Mail premises in Chelsea’s Sloane Square. Waiting to purchase stamps I often joined queues so long they snaked outside the door into the street. More often than not, I would stand under skies pregnant with rain threatening to drench the parcels and post clutched to my chest with one hand while the other hand struggled to retrieve my umbrella wedged in the bottom of my handbag. Assuming my position behind dowagers, mums with prams, elderly pensioners and clerks, I would wait patiently in line. Anticipating my turn with the dominatrix behind the glass enclosure, my heartbeat would quicken thinking about the master-class tutorial that lay ahead. Eventually, the robotic voice would bellow out, ‘Counter number three please.’ It was my turn at bat.

  Consider the following questions only a brainiac could answer
correctly. Did I want the item sent recorded, proof of postage or special delivery? Did I desire first-class or second-class stamps? Was the letter under 10 grams and, if so, did I need a 47 pence stamp? Was I aware of the repercussions of intentionally mailing an oversized birthday card without proper postage? Let’s be honest, did I really care? After all, the recipient would have to pay the difference. My chief concern was being outed as an American interloper holding up the line. The glares, the sighs, the deliberate shifting of feet indicating ‘get on with it Yank’ was not my favourite form of intimidation.

  The minefield of posting a parcel is even more complicated. First, it is weighed then checked for proper wrapping at which point the interrogation begins. Does it contain a letter? Was I willing to accept the grievous consequences if discovered and not declared? Did I write ‘small packet rate’ visibly on the front? Did I fill in my customs declaration correctly? Once these details were sorted, I would be instructed to take the package to a forgotten corner of the post office, place it on an unattended ledge, and leave the building with the assurance that it would arrive safely at its destination.

  The trickiest situation at the counter is how to deal with the stamps you have just purchased. First the clerk, separated from the customer by a glass screen, places them in a dirty chrome tray. The gap between the two is exactly the right height for a single finger to be inserted. With arms folded, she sits back and watches you struggle to extricate the Queen’s portrait from a thumbnail-sized piece of paper. To step away from the booth in order to lick and stick the stamps would be simply rude. It just isn’t done. Instead, you bravely moisten the back of the stamp assessing your risk factor of contracting hepatitis C from the now likely germ-infested glue. Self-adhesive stamps would be just too much to ask for and besides I would miss that edginess I now associate with bureaucrats.

  At times the Royal Mail seems to have more in common with the social services than it does with expediting the post. In other words, there is only a modicum of attention paid to selling pre-formed boxes, envelopes, bubble wrap, cards, postcards, wrapping paper, ribbon, packaging, sealing tape and stationery. On the plus side, the Royal Mail does offer the public a wide range of over twenty-five products. Although I do understand the diverse nature of the post office, it can be frustrating when all I want to do is mail a letter to the States while the customer in front of me is selecting from a dazzling list of options. For starters, you can buy a national premium bond, an index-linked savings certificate or pay a British Gas utility bill. In addition you can trade in foreign currency, renew your driving licence, receive a government pension, apply for a passport or, I suspect, even have a quick Botox injection if you’re desperate.

  Now, after all my years of practising and perfecting post office etiquette, I discover Ian, our local shopkeeper and postmaster. He has relentlessly spoiled me by taking the drudgery and mystery out of using the service. Not only does he affix my stamps to outgoing post, he willingly fills in all manner of forms necessary for US officials and best of all I am no longer summoned to the window by an electronic apparition. He actually calls me by my name.

  Brits constantly ‘take the mickey’ out of the Royal Mail; however, I think their service is second to none. A letter posted in time for the last pick-up of the day is sure to arrive at its British destination first thing the following morning. In America, this process can take up to five days, and still everyone is grateful. Despite this knowledge, my pen pals in the States invariably accuse the United Kingdom of slow delivery when it comes from me. I have long since given up trying to explain. Sometimes it is just not worth going head to head with Americans, so sure are they of manifest destiny, the moral high ground and their mail service.

  Probably the most critical essential to organize when moving into a new area is that of selecting a family doctor, not only for emergencies, but for those little niggles like flu and impending death. In this country it is your general practitioner who will listen to your heart rate and know your inner secrets. Our friends at the pub ultimately chose our GP for us as we took their advice one evening while lingering after dinner.

  ‘So, have you signed on with a doctor yet, Bill?’ inquired our knowledgeable mate, Don, leaning on the bar with one hand while dangling a cigarette from the other.

  ‘Not yet. I haven’t really had time to investigate it. Who would you recommend?’ Bill replied.

  With that, several voices, mostly from patrons engaged in other conversations, chimed in together, ‘You want Dr George.’

  Apparently, this fellow is so admired that patrons sing his praise over a pint. Seems he has been in business locally with his equally respected doctor/wife for years and has treated everyone and their kin from crib to coffin.

  Once initial contact is made, a get-together visit is suggested in the surgery. It’s really an easy and workable system. You can either show up during business hours and wait your turn or make an appointment for a specific time. Either way, the meetings are casual and without all the fuss associated with the American system.

  George usually performs his duties in a relaxed manner wearing a loose, casual plaid shirt, creased trousers and no tie. He would look just as at home in a field with a hunting hound and rifle by his side. There are no white uniformed men and women numbly walking down medicine-smelling corridors with clipboards in their hands. It is just a receptionist, a nurse, Dr George and his computer.

  Always of the opinion that four ears are better than two, I accompanied Bill to his introductory session with the doctor to find out the results of his blood work-up panel. As a wife I can, of course, offer so much more information about the state of my husband’s health and who better than me to speak for a fully grown man capable of discussing his own affairs? The doctor was immediately not amused by my presence. With a certain kindness, he dismissed me to a less prominent chair in his office where I sat quietly fiddling with the most recent Journal of Medicine articles I had printed earlier from my computer, ready for discussion at the day’s inquest. Unlike in America, where patients are expected to challenge their doctors with the latest facts researched on the internet, in England such bravado can be misunderstood.

  ‘When did you move here, Bill?’ asked George. ‘Any complaints? Are you in good general health? I received your blood test results yesterday. Everything looks fine.’

  Communicating only as men can, Bill replied, ‘Recently, no, yes, and good.’

  ‘Well then, stay in touch and if you ever need anything give us a call.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I bellowed. ‘What about blah-blah and blah-blah-blah.’

  The doctor gave me a cool glance. ‘No need to worry about that now, Leslie Ann. Your husband is too young. My advice to you both is to go to the pub, have some lunch and a pint of beer to celebrate,’ he said with a smile while showing us to the door. We departed his office with Bill totally satisfied and euphoric about the news that his passing would not be imminent. Thunderstruck, I realized I had just been put firmly in my place—somewhere back in the middle of the nineteenth century!

  Chapter 22

  Food for thought

  Email To: Midlands Superstores

  Director of Customer Service

  From: Leslie Ann Bosher

  Date: 26 June

  Subject: Consumer comment

  Dear Sir,

  As a patron of one of your superstores, I would like to bring to your attention the following observations. Are you aware there are children growing up who believe lettuce grows in plastic bags, green peppers actually spring from the soil hermetically sealed in shrink-wrap and meat comes in styrofoam trays? Do you know there are children who think bacon should smell like fish?

  Scanning the produce department, I have noted that the vegetables are imported from a minimum of nine foreign countries. With the exception of staff, anything from England is conspicuously absent. Is it your policy to ignore local growers in preference to imported produce? Do you actually believe broccoli and tomatoes
improve in quality when transported thousands of miles across continents? If so, then we will become loyal supporters of all local farmers’ markets in the hope that you will realize not all customers want to sacrifice excellence for the sake of low prices.

  Concerned consumer,

  Leslie Ann Bosher

  One of the misconceptions people have about life in the countryside, especially noted by my American cousins whose depth of knowledge is often limited to London, is that amenities such as bookshops, art galleries and food stores must be substandard, somehow second-rate because they are rural. The fact is our supermarkets are almost identical to those found in large cities, both in the United Kingdom and in the United States. Double-wide aisles are stacked with goods so familiar it’s scary: Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, Hellmann’s Mayonnaise, V8, Ocean Spray Cranberry Juice and Heinz Ketchup. At our local supermarket any one of thirty checkout staff will take your cash, cheque or Visa, but unlike in the States they will not offer assistance in bagging your groceries or provide paper as an alternative to plastic.

  In the main, stores are modern, expansive and meet the needs of their customers. The real differences show up in product packaging and variety. In America coffee cream is sold in a dozen different flavours; in England it does not exist, while milk is available only in a limited number of choices. In America you can select Grade A Pasteurized Whole, 2 per cent Fat, 1 per cent Fat, Buttermilk, Cultured Low Fat, Skim Deluxe (fat free with the taste of 2 per cent milk), Acidophilus Plus with vitamins A and D and vanilla flavoured. This is only an abridged list.

  It is always amusing to see a corner of our store draped in swags of red, white and blue crepe paper drawing attention to the best of Yankee imports. Caramel popcorn, chocolate chip cookies, mountainous white hamburger buns, waist-expanding sugar-glazed doughnuts, Sara Lee desserts and Weight Watchers diet meals are all proudly displayed next to each other. It is just the kind of assortment to bring out a feeling of home pride.