Chapter 8
Sleuthing the source

Email To: Leslie Ann
From: Twila
Date: 9 February
Subject: Sunny California calling

Dear Leslie Ann,

Remember warm winter mornings and sunny afternoons when golfers played in sleeveless shirts and cocktails and dinners were served on the patio? That’s exactly what you and Bill are missing now. Thought if we reminded you often enough you would cave in and come for a visit.

If this is tantalizing then let me know. We will break out the chips and dips and have a pillow fluffing in your honour when you are headed this way.

XXX,
Twila

In deep winter the sunlight seldom peeped through the mullion windows in our bedroom to massage our eyelids awake before the courteous hour of 8 am. Instead, the snap, crackle and pop of the wall radiators announced the pre-dawn warm up. It alerted us to exactly the right time to emerge from the warmth of our electric blanket into the chilled world of country living.

It took some time to sleuth out the source of yet another disturbance in order for us to remedy the problem. Eventually, however, we began to solve the curse of the country home and the devil of old dwellings—the dreaded draught. It wrapped around our legs like invisible smoke. It wafted under our noses leaving frostbite in its wake. It was the justification for an entire industry created to annihilate indoor weather patterns.

Detection first began with me in the four-on-the-floor position so that I could follow the trajectory of dust bunnies as they travelled across the tongue and groove oak floorboards; each moving towards cracks in the wood as though they had a liaison with destiny. I then turned my sights on the nine, twelve-pane windows responsible for sucking out our pricey gas-generated heat. Gently pressing my fingers against the glass I worked my way from right to left searching for the offending fissures in the framework. In both instances my newly purchased hypodermic needle of wood filler did the business.

Moving on to the fireplaces, not yet operative, more drastic measures were required. An inflatable weather balloon came to our rescue. This was inserted into the chimney cavity until it sealed the entire space responsible for pulling gale force winds through the house. We later found that it was also helpful in preventing bird droppings, feathers, lengths of rope, a page from a Barbara Taylor Bradford novel, bubble wrap, a champagne cork and several pieces of tin from falling into our drawing room. Presumably, these sundry items had been pinched from our roof and grounds by our loudest and closest feathered neighbours, rooks. These pilfering birds could now get on with their lives without intruding upon ours.

The pursuit of warmth did not stop there. More sleuthing was necessary in order to bring comfort to an old home located in a part of the country that often felt more like the windblown Falkland Islands than the eastern Cotswolds. Freezing hands and feet were bad enough, but when I had to cup my nose in my fingers and blow warm air upward through my lips to melt the icicles hanging from it, I knew phase two of the do-it-yourself heating course was about to start.

Every room of our house had its own DNA, which meant that regulating individual wall radiators was a must. Each one had an adjustable heat output dial located an inconvenient 8 centimetres off the floor. Printed on the underside of the knob was a numeric scale from one to five, low to high, which could only be read while lying on my back with a flashlight in one hand and a magnifying glass in the other. With a magic marker in hand, I crept from one radiator to the other until all fourteen nozzles had been numbered on the top for easy viewing. This eventually took the guesswork out of the amount of heat released.

With a smile that made the corners of my mouth turn devilishly upwards, I knew I had created a formula for affordable warmth. All under-window radiators were to be maintained at level three, while those closest to either a door or window were to be set at level two. The study and hall units were to operate at level four, the bedroom at a two/three split while those on the upper floor were to be permanently set on one. I was now finally able to remove my nose mitten, throw away my gloves, and extricate myself from my long johns.

Unquestionably Americans and Brits define the word ‘comfort’ very differently. The former, with only a flick of a thermostat switch, can create a toasty home environment while the latter believes the ethical choice is to layer up in numerous woolly jumpers, not to be confused with horny sheep. In the main, Brits still believe hardship is a healthy form of self-punishment. Furthermore, the benefit of seeing your own breath in your home is undoubtedly a dewy, glowing complexion. The one room in an English home that is invariably the coldest is the loo. I can’t decide whether Brits genuinely believe they are not worthy of such creature comfort or that they simply can’t be bothered to heat the room. Either way, going into a bathroom to do your business is like wearing a hair shirt. It feels so good when the experience is over.

So much for the life we had drooled over while thumbing through pages of glossy property magazines. How distant the familiar roar of city traffic had become. This surprising little pile of Georgian stone was asserting the kind of pressure upon us the likes of which were only known by parents of hormonal teenagers. We were evolving into servants of, rather than lords of, our manor.

Eventually, I discovered a more rewarding and totally self-indulgent way to stay warm: an activity practised and perfected in England with gratifying results called ‘duveting’. This supine pursuit required only a bed, one comfy warm duvet, several well-placed snacks, reading material and a guiltless soul. It was not necessary to nurse an Asian viral affliction or suffer with a ghastly hangover to enjoy all the delights of playing with the fictitious Mr Tickle under the bedclothes. Rain on the roof, gale-force winds battering the belfry, or cashmere grey days were reason enough to cocoon myself in cotton.

Without doubt, my favourite way ‘to duvet’ was with my radio on beside me, just loud enough to be heard, yet not too invasive should I doze off. My preferred station was BBC Radio 4, an indispensable part of daily life whether relaxing, driving or working. Knowing there was a friendly voice out there did more than keep me connected to the rest of the world. It informed, illuminated and intellectualized the most extraordinary range of subject matter. I first became acquainted with this wireless station years ago while living in London, as a consolation prize for not owning a television. As I recall at that time there were only three television channels available and according to the film, National Lampoon’s European Vacation, they all showed the art of Swiss cheesemaking. Returning to the United States in the 1980s, I was at a loss for airwave stimulation. AM stations were few and far between. Aging fundamentalist preachers and gospel singers typically filled the daytime slots. The turnaround came when personalities such as the conservative political activist and humorist Rush Limbaugh, the hard hitting and unforgiving therapist Dr Laura Schlessinger, and the out-of-bounds, always pushing the envelope Howard Stern entered the scene. National Public Radio, the only American equivalent I am aware of that can compete with Radio 4, was still in its infancy and often unavailable in many areas of the country due to poor reception.

I was not entirely sure if regional radio programming would replace London’s finest, so within minutes of arriving in Rutland I turned on and tuned into 94.5 FM. Gratefully, all my friends from the station, of whom there were many, had made the journey with me to our new home. This was the cream of all addictions for which I wanted no cure. My waking times, my shopping trips and my tea times were often dictated by the daily radio schedule. Jenni Murray, presenter of the esteemed ‘Woman’s Hour’, and I had a standing appointment. After a mere fifteen years as a dedicated listener, I was still a relative newcomer to her insightful mix of issues and information. ‘From Our Own Correspondent’, a penetrating news program chaired by Kate Adie, always made me wish I had a tape recorder handy to save, for posterity, the clear-sighted observations of her journalists. And just the mention of Simon Hoggart’s name, the genial host of ‘The News Quiz’, brought breaking waves of laughter to my tummy. Where else could you find programming as diverse as ‘The Blood Chronicles’, a history of the sticky red substance more precious than gold, or ‘Apostrophe in Our Time’, answering the fascinating and perplexing questions, where the hell did it come from and do we really care? Did I need to know all these things? Apparently, Radio 4 thought so.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. Nineteen hours and twenty-five minutes of daily programming multiplied by 365 days of the year multiplied by all the time I have left on this tiny island. I think that’s a good start.