To the Manor Drawn

by Leslie Ann Bosher

Chapter 30

  Rules of the road

  Email To: Ana

  From: Leslie Ann

  Date: 16 October

  Subject: Help!

  Dear Ana,

  Looks like I’m going to have to take the British driving test soon. My time is running out on my US licence so I have to face the music and get it done. I have a feeling it will be much harder than the last one I took in California. Here is a sample of that test:

  GREATER LOS ANGELES AREA DRIVER’S LICENSE APPLICATION

  Name: __________ Stage name: __________

  Agent: ____________________

  Attorney: ____________________

  Therapist’s name: ____________________

  Sex:

  [ ] male [ ] female [ ] formerly male

  [ ] formerly female [ ] both

  Please check hair color:

  Females: [ ] Blonde [ ]Platinum Blonde

  [ ] Blonde all over [ ] Blonde on top only

  Teenagers:

  [ ] Red [ ] Orange [ ] Green [ ] Purple

  [ ] Blue [ ] Skinhead

  What is your nationality?

  a) Vietnamese

  b) Mexican

  c) Other Latino

  d) Illegal alien

  e) African American

  f) White/Gringo

  How many people are assisting you in taking this test?

  a) only myself and my interpreter

  b) mi hermano solamente

  c) my pusher

  d) my pimp

  e) my lover and his boyfriend

  f) someone else is taking it for me

  Questions:

  When stopped by police, you should:

  a) pull over and have your driver’s license and insurance form ready

  b) try to outrun them by driving the wrong way on the 405 Freeway

  c) have your video camera ready and provoke them to attack, thus ensuring yourself a hefty lawsuit

  When turning, you should always signal your intentions by:

  a) using your directional signals

  b) what is a ‘directional signal’?

  Your rear-view mirror is for:

  a) watching for approaching cars

  b) watching for approaching police

  c) checking your hair

  A green curb means you can:

  a) park in the opposite direction

  b) double park

  c) have sex in your car there when it is dark

  d) park only for loading and unloading of drugs

  Wish me luck,

  Leslie Ann

  I remember when Bill and I fell in love with the Holywell Road. Having made the journey from London to view Stocken Hall for the third and final time before opening our wallet, we were driven back to Stamford to catch our connecting train into London. Winding down what can only be described as a single-track, meandering stretch of bitumen, looking more like a private drive than a public right of way, we were enchanted. Broken and pitted in spots from farm machinery, it sliced through countryside as gentle and soft as a watercolour. Infinite shades of green created a collage of cooling tones. Sunshine flickered through the ancient oak and chestnut trees, dappling the fields while hedgerows crisscrossed the pastureland like ribbons. Well-nibbled emerald hillsides tumbled into small valleys, creating a gathering place for bleating sheep. Mature trees formed a guard of honour over our heads as we passed by. It was a peaceful road; one best used for contemplation not frustration. I silently hoped one day it would become my pig path.

  Now, some ten months later it was time to pay the piper for granting that wish as my driving privileges were soon to come under government scrutiny if I did not acquire a UK licence. Technically, you can drive on a foreign licence for up to a year. After that, you must throw yourself on the mercy of a driving instructor then hope to pass both the dreaded written ‘Official Theory Test for Car Drivers’ and the practical driving test. The other less stressful option is to return to home base, in my case to the States, and upon re-entry into Britain restart the clock for another year.

  Unnerved yet feeling challenged, I contacted a driving instructor in the next village. He came highly recommended as apparently he had taught every teenager, including their parents and grandparents, within a ten-mile radius. I secretly hoped that if I put a little Southern charm on display he would gladly rubber-stamp my motoring skills. After all, I had an unblemished driving record Stateside. Further, at £30 per hour I did not intend to let the money meter run up.

  Why was I not surprised with Trevor’s response when I called for an appointment?

  ‘Ah yes, I heard there was an American woman in the Stretton area. So, have you ever driven a car before?’ he asked.

  What a funny thing to ask of an American, I thought. Like James Bond, the British legendary hero who has a licence to kill, we have a licence to drive a car. It is issued along with our birth certificates.

  My first outing with ‘young’ Trevor was cause for sweaty palms and lots of nervous hair flicking on my part. After simply turning on the ignition and reversing the car in the parking lot of the Hall he failed me.

  ‘Remember this—mirror, action, manoeuvre,’ he barked. ‘And don’t forget to look over your right shoulder before pulling out. The inspector will fail you for sure on that one. Now come to a full stop and let’s start again.’ My decades with a spotless driving record obviously meant nothing to him.

  It was now clear to me there was no end to the damage I could do as I approached the first roundabout at the bottom of our drive. A return-trip, high season, no advance purchase, business-class plane ticket to California at whatever cost looked far better to me than a £30 trip down memory lane with a driving instructor. Who says old dogs can learn new tricks?

  The Brits are proud of their right-hand drive, left side of the road arrangement. It is thought that it derived from the Roman era as there is evidence to suggest that fully laden wagons leaving a quarry cut deep grooves into the left side of the road whereas those returning empty on the right side of the road left no markings at all. Another theory indicates that as far back as 700 years ago, carriage drivers liked to sit on the right side in order to hold their whips in their left hand. The best conjecture is that Pope Boniface VIII advised his fourteenth-century pilgrims to travel to and from Rome, sword arm to sword arm, in order to protect themselves from attack. All seem plausible enough and certainly once acclimatized to driving on the left it is as natural as driving on the right. The trick is not to mix it up.

  What Trevor could not teach, however, was the art of off-road driving. By that I refer to the fact that my tiny, two-door, chicken-livered Vauxhall Corsa and I would go off into the dirt sidings while the juggernauts of the road, the massive combine harvesters with Ben Hur slicing and dicing blades, thundered past me on narrow country lanes. Even yummy-mummy SUVs could force me to cower in the nearest ditch or submissively startle a puddle on the verge. I really wouldn’t mind so much if it were not for the fact that their cars were always shiny and mud free while mine stayed in a perpetual state of mire. Clearly, in the countryside it is a case of he with the most metal wins.

  The other aspect of country driving that must be experienced to be believed is the variety of animals you can expect to encounter around any bend. At a top speed of 40 miles per hour you can drive with relative confidence and know that whatever mystery lies ahead, both driver and combatant have a good chance of survival. I say ‘a good chance’, but there are plenty of circumstances where dinner does meet the road. Thumpers on the bumper and fender benders do occur more than I would like to admit.

  Trundling trucks laden with bales of hay and dawdling farm machinery can challenge any driver’s endurance and patience. You can’t see past them, under them or through them. Following behind one often means you end up with enough seed in the seat of the car to plant a small garden. In a strange way they remind me of the fragrant, flower-adorned Rose Bowl floats in Pasadena, California. Although I see no similar beauty
in farm machinery, there is something sexy about all that road dominance.

  There is one facet of country driving that gives me constant pleasure. It is the seldom forgotten gesticulations offered by one driver to another when approaching a hazard or negotiating a narrow stretch of road. No, I do not mean the gesture with the middle finger pointed upwards that is often used in America, or in the case of England two fingers. I mean the polite nod of the head, the tip of the cap, the wave of the hand or the flicking of the headlights. To miss an opportunity to say ‘thank you’ for hanging back when necessary, slipping onto a verge in order to pass in safety or slowing through a particularly muddy or slippery patch would be as rude as not speaking to your neighbour in church. I think this sign language, an important element of country manners, has both a calming and focusing effect on drivers and is not nearly as appreciated as it should be.

  Taking a written driving test, in case you can’t remember your heady teenage years, is intimidating at any age. True, the results aren’t published in the newspaper and most likely no one will ever know whether one, two or three attempts were necessary until the required ‘Pass’ is stamped on your sheet. Still, it’s a rather small but essential mountain to climb whatever time in life you are forced to take up the challenge. My assigned test centre was in Grantham, a market town some 20 miles away. The office was in a thoroughly modern, multistoreyed shopping centre that provided Bill with entertainment while I pitted my wits against a computer touch screen. With a kiss on the cheek and a thumbs up motion, he let out a hearty ‘you go girl’ as I entered the room and took my seat in the cubicle. The combined ages of the other applicants, including the examiner in the room, did not add up to half a century. Clearly, if they were confident enough to sit the exam at age seventeen, then with all my years of driving experience, I had nothing to worry about.

  I did feel slightly disadvantaged with my motoring terminology, however, as some British phrases were just too funny to take seriously. I had long since become au fait with terms such as ‘dual carriageway’, ‘articulated lorry shedding its load’ for an 18-wheeler tractor trailer spilling its cargo over the highway and ‘contraflow’ for a highway diversion that rearranges the road system into spaghetti.

  Other terms, however, could not fail to put a devilish smirk on my face no matter how hard I tried to be earnest. One sign that always made me laugh was ‘Beware of Trains’, a rather casual and understated warning placed at rural railway crossings. It conjured up visions of the evil Strelnikov thundering down the line in his Red Army killing-machine train in Doctor Zhivago. The other humorous sign was a red framed, rectangular notice advising drivers to be cautious when elderly persons were in the vicinity. The caricature depicted a hunched over, helpless man clutching a cane while assisting his equally feeble wife to walk across the street, hand in hand, presumably to their doom. It begs the question, why bother to go slow in that case?

  Once the subtleties of road terminology are mastered, other hurdles require attention. Ponder this one: if you see a yellow traffic light ahead, which combination of colours will come next? Red, red and amber, green and amber, green or none of the above? Of no less importance is the question, where can cyclists and pedestrians traverse a street in safety? Is it the whimsically named toucan, pelican, puffin or zebra crossing? Frankly, I had no idea that three of the four mentioned creatures were found outside Africa or the tropics of South and Central America much less on the streets of Rutland. On reflection, the person who named them must have had an overactive imagination or spent too many years living in colonial splendour. But why should I be surprised with such unorthodox names when England is prepared to equip her police force with black-and-white cars affectionately called ‘pandas’?

  With my written test successfully under my belt, I plucked up the courage to take my driving practical. I knew I was in trouble from the start when a woman trainee was assigned to be my judge and jury. After the 40-minute drive through the streets of Podunk, the nearest testing centre, we returned to the parking lot for the mandatory evaluation lecture. As she removed a marking pen from her pocket in order to grade my examination, she turned to me and inquired in a haughty tone that hinted of her own self-importance, ‘By the way, how did you get here today?’

  ‘I drove here myself.’ I replied. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not acceptable,’ she snarled. ‘You will need to call your husband to pick you up. Further, I must tell you that you did not pass the exam, although in due time, I think you have the potential to be a good driver.’

  Feeling ice water begin to pump through my veins, I coolly asked, ‘Would you tell me why you failed me?’

  ‘Certainly. You pulled out from a parked position twice without turning a full 180 degrees to look completely over your right shoulder.’

  Speechless, I wanted to say to her, ‘Look here honey, with the baggage you’re carrying around your waist you’d be lucky to get your stomach behind the wheel of my car much less move your fat ass around 45 degrees in order to look over either shoulder.’ Instead, we parted without a word spoken. However, my revenge was sweet. Several weeks later, after I learned that she had been moved on to the happy hunting ground of unemployment benefits, I danced through my skills test with an experienced and mature instructor. It was a piece of cake—one that ‘tubby’ would not be sharing.

  Part 9

  RUNNING FOR COVER

  Chapter 31

  A question of loyalty

  Email To: Kathleen

  From: Leslie Ann

  Date: 23 October

  Subject: Out with the girls

  Dear Kathleen,

  Your lunch with the girls sounded wonderful. I wish I could have been with you all. I can’t remember the last time I needed to put on heels and stockings in the middle of the day. I did put some boots on the other afternoon, not the fashion type though, to go with the farmer up to his barn. He gave us a tour of the milking shed. It was amazing. Did you know that cows are creatures of habit? They go back and forth from the fields to the barn in the same order, get milked in the same order and even choose the same milking station. If the station is occupied, they will wait their turn. How did I miss all this growing up?

  We can’t wait to see you in San Francisco. You’ll recognize me at the airport. I’ll be the one with a piece of straw sticking out of my teeth.

  Love,

  Leslie Ann

  Having finally honed the skills required to drive with confidence on the left side of the road, it was now time to revert to driving on the right as Bill and I planned our first trip back to the United States since moving to Stocken Hall. Armed with an album of photographs to show off our new lifestyle, we took pleasure in visiting friends on both coasts, starting in San Francisco and ending in Virginia. Some friends had already made the trip to England to visit us, while others would be unlikely to venture over the pond in the future because of finances, family worries, world politics or health issues. It was therefore up to us to bring our travelling ‘Rutland Road Show’ to them.

  Everyone seemed thrilled with the snapshots of our home, countryside, villages, pubs, foxes and hounds, climbing roses, cows and butter-yellow fields. They delighted in our slightly embellished stories and often commented about what a wonderful lifestyle we had chosen. At the same time, we sensed an almost pensive, searching attitude towards their own existence as though they were recalculating life’s pivotal decisions. Some said they might have contemplated a change of scenery at one time or another but no longer. Another friend sighed, ‘It simply would be too much effort to start over again.’ Frankly, why should he? The reality is that life is much easier in the United States.

  Americans have such a playful disposition about the everyday rigours of life. Driving across the country, Bill and I often laughed at some of the self-deprecating witticisms that so typified the diversity of the nation. One Texas truck displayed a bumper sticker that read, ‘Join the US Army. We go to unusual places, meet
unusual people … and kill them.’ Another sign hanging up in a Tennessee restaurant declared ‘Customers who find our waitresses rude ought to see the manager’. And who could fail not to snicker at a notice in a bric-a-brac shop window warning that ‘Unruly children will be sold to the circus’. They all reminded us how much fun it was to be back in a country of extremes.

  The epitome of America’s collective good nature came to me while reading a popular syndicated cartoon strip, The Wizard of Id. In this episode, the protagonist of the cartoon, a diminutive king with a Napoleon complex, mounted a scaffold to address a convicted felon. The king asked the doomed man, hooded and awaiting his beheading, if he had any last words. The prisoner replied, ‘No,’ to which the king countered, after gesturing for the execution to begin, ‘Then have a nice day!’ In my opinion, any nation that can enjoy that kind of humour can be forgiven for their citizens wearing baseball caps backwards, having a tendency to the obese and an obsession with celebrities.

  There is an inexplicable feeling of anticipation, a real buzz each time I return to the States for a visit. My antenna picks up minutiae of every sort that would otherwise go unobserved if I were still a resident. It is an exhilarating time, sadly one that lasts about as long as a goldfish’s memory as it is all too easy to slip back into the familiar.

  Unquestionably the most ‘in your face’ characteristic, and in my opinion an admirable one, is the equation: money equals personal choice equals freedom. No other nation delights in such an unrelenting pursuit of cash, and deservedly so, as Americans not only appreciate it, they take great pleasure in flaunting it. Money is protection against old age, it pays for bi-coastal homes and it feeds the raging consumer beast.

  Historically Brits have viewed their world very differently. Money was important of course, but it was often secondary to the quality of life one enjoyed. Inquiring about a friend’s financial health was considered vulgar. As long as he could afford to exercise his horses it mattered not whether his house needed re-roofing or his tweed jacket required mending. In his mind, both his bank account and life choices were in proper order. Politically speaking, I think many English are closet socialists, even some of the most devout Tories. Financial success could be construed as depriving others of their right to prosperity. The notion that the acquisition of wealth should be proportional to your neighbour’s gives the illusion that life is fair—the one exception of course is the Royal Family, an enigma in today’s world.