The agenda for the meeting, set by our chairperson Helen, was three pages long which, in relation to the number of houses in the village, seemed out of proportion to us. By our calculations, if every volunteer played their part, there would be a total of three youngsters and two elderly wheelchair-bound roadsters left to throw wet sponges at Michael, our dear Canon, this indignation being part of his job description. Meanwhile, the rest of us would be roped into selling jars of hedgehog chutney and rook crackling or, worse still, supervising the ‘welly-wanging’ contest. This unfortunate phrase became my first known social gaffe. Either owing to my lingering Southern accent or sheer stupidity, I truly did not understand what such an event could be about. I therefore put my question to our chairperson.
‘Helen, could you explain exactly what willy-wagging involves?’
No answer was forthcoming as convulsions of laughter filled the tightly packed room. The problem of course was not my curiosity, rather a case of a misplaced vowel and consonant that resulted in an embarrassing sexual innuendo.
With that blunder under my belt, I can say with certainty no one here enjoys American political correctness and the deplorable flotsam and jetsam left in its wake. The English have a well-developed sense of humour and are by nature a forgiving people. They are at their best when laughing at themselves. After all, how many nations would choose to refer to their elderly as ‘old age pensioners’, a term no doubt selected to depress seniors into an early grave. The OAP label is applied without shame to men and women who have graduated into the elite club of sixty-plus. Kay, my adopted English mum, can now laugh at this ageist label as she is approaching ninety-two. However, she well remembers her lucrative fashion modelling career that continued long beyond her sixtieth birthday, belying any notion of old age. As she recounted her story to me she said, ‘One day I was a sexy, spirited woman, the next day I woke up as a pensioner. I think you call us wrinklies in America?’
With no regard to age, volunteers were out in force for the Stretton party of the year. Our annual fete fell in mid July, which fortunately coincided with the first hot day of summer. The sky could not have been bluer with a blazing sun overhead and a soft breeze tickling the air. It was the perfect day, but perfection comes with a price and for the revellers that meant headscarves, hats and sun block. The reality is that the English are just not made for sweltering weather. Although they love their sunshine while lounging on the beach or sipping something frosty, one leg dangling in a luscious infinity pool on some tropical island, they can’t take it when it is served up closer to home. Cities sizzle when the temperature begins to approach 27 degrees Celsius. Cabbies become so grumpy they can bite their own tyres. Shoppers drip in store changing rooms without airconditioning while private gardens and public parks turn to sawdust overnight. I truly believe these island people are at their peak of performance when a soft rain is falling and the temperature hovers around 16 degrees.
None of us involved with the fete was brave enough to check the five-day weather forecast on the internet. Frankly, as I have come to learn, it really doesn’t matter. Why needlessly frustrate yourself over circumstances you can’t control? The show will go on rain or shine. After all, getting wet is an inconvenience only to those on holiday. Unpaid labourers, otherwise known as volunteers, are always expected to show up ready for action.
On fete day Main Street was decorated from top to toe with red, white and blue Union Jack banners and bunting. Homemade signposts directed visitors to the cork stabbing event, tombola and putting contest, while a jazz ensemble serenaded the guests throughout the lazy afternoon. Anyone with a grudge or a pint owing them could dip a large yellow sponge in cool water and toss it at the innocent locked in the village stocks. An inflatable bouncy fun house and face painting parlour kept youngsters busy while adults participated in the even more childish activities of tug-of-war and the now infamous ‘welly-wanging’ event involving tossing an eponymous green Wellington boot as far as you can.
Bill, Tim and I were placed in charge of the white elephant stall, which as jobs go was not too bad. Four long picnic tables laid end to end showcased old prints, tarnished cutlery, unwanted table lamps and numerous stacks of plates and chipped tea sets. Every price was negotiable. The sale was all that mattered as leftovers would have to be packed up and stored for the following year. Towards the end of the day, Bill and I applied the American ‘three strikes and you’re out’ rule as we went into the crowd with a dozen empty garbage bags. Priced at a paltry £1 each, we offered everyone the opportunity to come to our table and stuff as much as they could into their sacks from the selected items that had not sold the three previous years. It was a cunning little plan that not only cleared the decks, but more importantly, saved us from a night of back pain as part of our remit included the carting off of all the odds and ends. Of course, it was only after we had profusely patted ourselves on the back for devising such a scheme that we realized most of what was taken away would probably end up on our white elephant stall next year.
Revelry requires fuel, so cream teas and scones were laid on in a nearby garden while cool beer flowed like Saudi oil inside the pub. Decorated stands displayed homemade gooseberry and elderflower preserves, black currant and apple jams, sponge cakes and fruit pies. Sausages and hamburgers sizzled on the barbecue grill reminding me of the many backyard picnics of years passed. By the end of the afternoon, Bill and I well understood why everyone looked forward to the arrival of fete season, while at the same time we were pleased to see the back of it for another year.
Acknowledging those who do the donkey work year after year becomes a challenge so this little poem, written by the co-chair Richard, was printed in the Stretton Newsletter as a tribute:
To everyone who manned a stall, bowled a ball, gave a prize, painted eyes, baked a cake, cooked a steak, printed fliers, sold to buyers, bought a ticket, took a wicket, golf club wielded, deftly fielded, the village hosted, fliers posted, gave their time, and spent a dime, we thank you.
Chapter 25
Greet and meat
Email To: Leslie Ann
From: Jack
Date: 4 July
Subject: Come home!
Dear Les,
All right, a joke is a joke, but it’s time for you to come home. You should be back on American soil celebrating July 4th with us. Be warned that the CIA might accuse you of hobnobbing with foreigners. If you don’t return soon. you’ll end up drinking ale and speaking like a limey with a well-developed sense of irony. Then it will be too late.
Kissy, kissy,
Jack
In America, the word ‘barbecue’ is both a verb and a noun. As a noun, ‘barbecue’ conjures up wonderful memories for me of family backyard gatherings where a fattening assortment of simple yet time-honoured family recipes were paraded. Aunt Betty could be counted on to prepare her famous devilled eggs and Mom could be persuaded to bring a steaming tureen of slow-cooked baked beans with molasses, a family secret that everyone seemed to know. Potato salad tossed with onion, celery and sweet pickle and a tub of roasted, tender summer corn-onthe-cob filled out the menu. If you were lucky Ann C’s version of Hoppin’ John, a mixture of black-eyed peas and rice, might be on offer. Meats invariably included slabs of 5-centimetre thick, marinated prime beef and plump, white chicken breasts for the squeamish.
As afternoon drifted into evening chilled chunks of watermelon, banana pudding topped with mountains of stiff, whipped cream and homemade vanilla ice-cream with warm fudge sauce made their appearance. Each of these dishes came with a tale or two as they had all been passed down through the years. It’s a funny thing how old recipes can almost bring loved ones back to life. Barbecues like this just can’t be exported.
Used as a verb, ‘barbecue’ has an entirely different meaning. As all North Carolinians know, we take the art of pig-on-the-grill cooking very seriously. In fact, the state is proudly known as the ‘cradle of American barbecue’. Here the meat oinks, the cooking is low and slow
and the sauce is peppery hot or molasses sweet. Spit-roasted pork, served sliced or shredded on a plate or in soft, warm buns comes with equal portions of crunchy coleslaw and deep-fried hushpuppies, walnut-sized cornmeal balls. This ceremony is performed without deviation all over the Carolinas. Loyalties run deep in this part of the South. It is both the symbol and sustenance of our state. In fact, a claim that another area could possibly serve up a better barbecue is akin to fighting words on the scale of disparaging someone’s mother.
By contrast, British barbecues are often spur-of-the-moment gatherings, mostly due to the unpredictability of the weather. Raised on a diet of drizzle, Brits will break out a rusty grill at the first indication of sunshine or, in some cases, snow. I think it is a ritual performed as an act of defiance against the weather gods. When an invitation comes in the mail for an outdoor party my antenna always goes up as I know the chances of it occurring on a sunny day are next to nil. In fact, overcast is often preferable to sunshine as the sight of pale British legs and shoulders roasting in the heat while wasps attack every morsel of food on the table can fill me with dread.
What the British typically call barbecue is sliced roasted pig served on a bun with apple sauce and stuffing. Not memorable and not, to my taste, very flavoursome. On the other hand, you can’t beat the combination of hot coals and sausages. It is rumoured that the Brits consume two-and-a-half jumbo jets in weight of sausages each year. You can’t blame them when you can choose from a selection of Lincolnshire, stuffed with pork and herbs, Cumberland Ring with black pepper and sage, wild boar, venison, beef and apple, chipolatas—the list goes on.
With our packets of pork purchased from the local butcher and with fingers crossed for favourable weather, Bill and I joined our neighbours to host the first Stocken Hall barbecue party at the end of the summer. Our venue was the lush, tree-framed side garden with room for all manner of picnic paraphernalia. Realistically, we were expecting a modest turnout of about twenty as the party coincided with the last summer holiday of the year. Traditionally, families take this opportunity to visit warmer ports of call such as Madeira, Cyprus or Crete hoping to get one last look at the sun before it disappears for the winter.
Our community, consisting of residents from the Hall and the Mews, now numbered over twenty families. In the course of the year, however, Bill and I realized certain stereotypes were floating about regarding those who lived in the ‘big house’ and those who lived behind it. There was an unspoken hint of class divide, snobbery and one-upmanship. Demographically speaking, our Hall neighbours were well-heeled city exiles, young married couples and divorcees. By contrast, the residents of the Mews were primarily families with small children and the obligatory dog. They were a more visible free-range group of people who enjoyed getting together on a regular basis, either in their private gardens, in their homes or, more often than not, casually chatting on a warm summer’s evening in the lane over a shared bottle of wine. They had few prejudices, were fun loving and open-minded. Bill and I enjoyed their company immensely.
Some said it was the loveliest night of the summer, others simply mumbled ‘how perfect’ and ‘let’s make this an annual affair’. The smell of fragrant, mown grass and the tinkling sound of the fountain provided an unbeatable backdrop for the occasion. Our social mission was to bring together families who were our geographic neighbours, not necessarily our speaking neighbours. Ever mindful of the pitfalls a Yank might encounter when trying to show others how it’s done ‘over there’, I have discovered it is best to go slow and let events unravel without too much organization. This has been one of the most difficult lessons for me to learn, and learn and learn.
Bill, on the other hand, was in fine form arranging the most important party detail—beer. The Jackson Stops provided us with a keg which Bill iced down and chained to an ash tree. Next to the keg was a container with a sign that read, ‘Honour Bar, £1 a pint’. This was also chained to the tree. Brits love irony and this was irony at its very best.
Thinking we would be under supported by a sluggish RSVP from our community, Bill and I made a last-minute decision to invite some of our friends from Stretton. We later found out that many of these folks, despite having lived nearby for years, had never taken the opportunity to wander down the lane for a peek at the Hall. The crackling sound of tyres on the driveway announced the arrival of those who came by car. Soon ingenious portable banquet tables with linen cloths and candles were popping out of car boots onto the lawn providing sophisticated dining for some, while others were content to hold a wedge of pork pie in one hand and a pint in the other.
As dusk fell, the children began to dance around the garden carrying small torches in their sticky little hands, giving the appearance of fairies alighting from the undergrowth. Social barriers finally collapsed as mingling replaced feelings of uncertainty. Our intimate soirée had blossomed into a party for fifty or more of our nearest and newest friends. The myth of the ‘big house’ was finally dispelled, the virtue of the ‘Honour Bar’ remained intact and our diaries were marked ‘same time next year’.
Chapter 26
A Sanity check-up
Email To: Leslie Ann
From: Marty
Date: 19 August
Subject: What’s so great about living abroad anyway?
Dear Leslie Ann,
I think it is time to ‘beam you up, Scotty’. So, now you think you have Spanish roots and that’s where your black hair comes from. Make no mistake about it, your hair colour comes from a bottle. Not Andalucía! Oh, and by the way, your accent is straight out of the cotton fields of North Carolina. I should know. I’ve heard it for more years than you would like to admit to.
Your friend,
Marty
The Yanks are coming! The Yanks are coming! The thought of enjoying a modestly warm August brought a flood of requests for visits. Flattered as we were, we thought there might be more sinister reasons for our friends wishing to cross the ‘pond’. Possibly they wanted to see if we were uncontrollably babbling or drooling from our mouths due to our close proximity to the bovine population. We knew our life would be under the microscope and that most of their sentences would begin with the word ‘why?’. In an attempt to dazzle our guests with our footwork, we made up an itinerary of activities that included visiting local sights, pubs, restaurants, cathedrals and country houses, our thinking being, the more we could awe them with the amenities the better the report card would be on their return home.
In London, our guests often needed no more from us than the key to our flat and a Tube map. Friends were more than willing to disappear for an entire day, leaving early to haunt the halls of museums, libraries and art galleries, collecting cultural trophies along the way, only to return around cocktail time ‘as one does’. Living in the countryside was another story. We either went out in tandem or we did not go out at all. The only independent activities were walking, sleeping or reading.
Our worries about our guests’ boredom were completely dispelled, however, as we noticed that each new arrival, once settled in, became absolutely mesmerized by the gentle ambling of our udder-swinging friends. Whether sipping a cup of morning coffee, afternoon tea or a long Pimms and lemonade, their eyes were always directed towards the emerald green fields speckled with black-and-white cows. It was like putting a dummy in a baby’s mouth; it calmed, relaxed and entertained all at the same time. We determined that each of our friends, like ourselves, had been animal-deprived in their youth. Most knew more about the back nines of a golf course or the rigging of a schooner than they did about feeding a horse.
My biggest challenge was how to entertain and convince Marty, my oldest and dearest friend, that this countryside move was right for Bill and me. Our deep friendship, which dates back to our thumb-sucking years, is based on honesty and large doses of laughter. Her opinions are valued and always taken on board. However, like most childhood chums, we have had our share of hiccups along the way. Not that I would hold a grudge, but i
t did sting a bit when she captained our fifth-grade Myers Park Elementary softball team and wilfully chose me last. I have also graciously forgiven her for endlessly teasing me about my curtain of curly black hair. You see, Marty is a headlight blonde and in the South that counts for everything. Brunettes go to the end of the line every time.
I have not, however, always lived in Marty’s slipstream. I take full credit for getting us into serious trouble with our parents when we ran away from home at the tender age of ten. Taking an upturned open umbrella for our luggage, we packed all that we needed to sustain us as we went in search of fame and fortune. Supplied with Ritz crackers, a packet of Oreo cookies and two bottles of Coke, we slipped out of the comfort of our homes into the dark, weedy undergrowth that lay beneath a patch of dogwood trees immediately across the street from my house. It seemed a very brave thing to do at that age. Crouching in the bushes, we managed to survive long enough to consume all our rations before dusk set in, sending us back to the safety of our homes and our waiting parents.
Wise mothers know how to preserve their children’s defining pre-teen moments for posterity. Thanks to my insightful mum, whenever I want to tread on the memory boards of history I have the following letter, scrawled in tiny, girlish script complete with juvenile spelling mistakes, to look back upon:
Dear Mother,
Marty and I have left home for a long time. We want to go out in the world and make good. We are sorry it has to be this way. Call Mrs. Carter and tell her. When we get rich we will come home and shire it with you and Mrs. Carter. Goodby. Leslie Ann and Marty
To the Manor Drawn Page 15