Chapter 20
Home truths

Email To: Mimi
From: Leslie Ann
Date: 11 June
Subject: Our home is our castle

Dear Mimi,

Sometimes hard work pays off like a Las Vegas slot machine. Bill and I have put a lot of physical man-hours into our home and now finally it is coming together. He has installed one entire bathroom, laid underfloor heating in the kitchen, hung all the art, built bookcases, repaired windows and rewired the chandeliers while I have patched and painted everything I could get my hands on.

Last week, our reward came in the form of an enquiry from an editor of a glossy magazine. She wants to feature our home in an upcoming issue of Embrace. We are thrilled of course, but wonder what the reaction will be as we have turned our back on the current vogue of minimalism, choosing instead to showcase everything we own. Life is too short to live with a flat screen TV and two beanbag chairs as our only creature comforts.

Lots of love,
Leslie Ann

Another popular British institution equally effective at wealth redistribution and property recycling is the BBC television series Antiques Roadshow, celebrating over twenty-five years of sniffing through attic rejects and buried treasure. What a surprise to have a facsimile of this venerable program make an unscheduled visit to Stocken Hall.

One evening, while Bill and I were hosting an impromptu cocktail party for our neighbours, we were asked to take our guests on a guided tour of our home. This in itself was so un-British that we felt a sense of pride and astonishment to even be approached. As we wandered from room to room, we noticed the group dawdling over our furniture. Inquisitive, amateur antique enthusiasts were stopping along the way to inspect our tables, sideboards and silver.

Our eclectic style of decorating, which incorporates California theatrical, Santa Fe adobe, North Carolina southern comfort and English period furniture, includes pieces that have been collected over the years. It is certainly not to everyone’s taste, but the overall effect is dramatic and sophisticated, unlike the magpie school of decorating so often found in thatched cottages. Navigating our way through the house, we were surprised to find our guests’ real interest did not centre around our eighteenth-century walnut chest-on-chest with original hardware, or on our George III cross-banded mahogany writing bureau, but rather on our twentieth-century American furniture. Anticipating comments about the lack of craftsmanship or poor marquetry compared to English workmanship, we were taken aback by their genuine approval and, in one case, a guarded yet direct expression of interest should we wish to sell anything. I realized then there was a willing market and love for so much that is produced in the United States. How disturbing to think that sloppy clothes, fast food and poor table manners are characteristics for which we are more often remembered.

But times are rapidly changing. ‘I’ll have what she’s having’, is the bleat of many an English woman who envies the picture-perfect, suburban dream homes on Desperate Housewives. It is doubtful that American television sitcoms are entirely responsible for the current vogue in housing design but the fact is, in today’s world of galloping consumerism people simply need more space. The trend does not require architects to throw the baby out with the bath water, but they are rethinking spatial design. Modern housing estates are springing up everywhere, not necessarily on an American scale, but designed to American standards. Even the old method of calculating the size of a property based on the total number of rooms is now under review, as more and more realtors prefer the US method of measuring space by square feet. Traditionally, a buyer thumbing through the classified ads had a hard time telling the difference in size between a two-bedroom, two-bath bungalow and a barn conversion with the same number of rooms. Unlike the former, tiny and often dark, the latter would be awash in sunny living space.

In a country where a large proportion of homes are decades, if not centuries, old, it is often easier to tear down and rebuild from scratch. The problem is, in spirit, builders want to construct a prototype of an average American home, but in reality they can only deliver half the living area. English homes are the smallest in Europe as space is at a premium on this island. With a population equal to that of France, Britain lives on one third of the land mass.

Typically, an unrenovated terrace home follows a formulaic floor plan. Many include a drafty entrance hall often separated from the family sitting room by a heavy curtain; a functional, clammy kitchen that operates as the lungs of the house; and one hat-box-sized, dimly lit bathroom located on each of the two floors. On the upper landing are two single bedrooms, often described as doubles, and one single bedroom more closely related to a closet. All are joined by a trail of mismatched carpet collected over the years and seamed together at each doorframe. Subtlety is the key word when it comes to lighting. Doll-sized table lamps with 60-watt light bulbs illuminate, or shroud as the case may be, an array of animal prints hung at tippy-toe height on walls graffitied with exposed radiators. It isn’t that the English don’t know how to decorate, many just won’t. When forced to choose between buying a modern sofa suite or retaining a well-worn, but still serviceable-set, granny passed down, sentiment will win every time.

Re-branding your home by a house doctor or interior designer is finally catching on, but I fear the older generation will have to move aside for the new middle class before the process can be completed. They know what they want and have the money to pay for it. Open plan is all the rage, especially in the dining/family kitchen. Ranges with four burners or more, warming ovens, double-door refrigerators with ice machines, separate laundry rooms and a garage large enough to fit at least one Range Rover are the pivotal elements in a home. Gone are the mini-bar-sized refrigerators with room for a bag of peas and two dressed pheasants. Even American names like the Hamptons, Balboa Island Estates and Harvard Place are considered a big selling point in today’s new chrome and recessed lighting property market.

I sometimes wonder if bucking trends is a subconscious part of my life and if so what penalties will I be required to pay in the future? While stylish Brits all around us are looking forward for answers to their housing questions, Bill and I have turned our back on modern, choosing instead to rely on the past.

Our apartment is majestically named Aquavista, because of the view over a rather unspectacular garden pond, which bears no resemblance to the wonderful water features of Italy’s Villa Borghese. It does, however, provide a sanctuary for water lilies, goldfish and newts. The fountain itself has been likened to a pair of stone bosoms with a tinkle of water shooting forth from the cleavage. However, the panorama from our first- and second-floor windows over the pond into the distant pastureland compensates for the modest puddle for which our home is named.

Our foyer, a perfect Georgian square, looks more like the entrance to a gentleman’s club than to a private home. A canary yellow, regency-stripe, silk covered settee offsets the sophisticated black-and-white colour scheme. The gleaming white Carara marble floor reflects light from the overhead chandelier. On two walls hang eight Aritoschien prints, an anniversary gift to Bill. I never walk by them without remembering my right of passage as I graduated into the big league, by my standards, of art collecting. After years of strolling past a rather snooty gallery on London’s Walton Street, I finally plucked up the courage to go inside. I immediately fell in love with the canine faces superimposed on fastidious human forms and uttered those four damning words, ‘How much are they?’ The rather haughty owner handed me a compliments slip with the sum written on it in her most perfect Mont Blanc script. I instantly saw myself in debtors’ prison. It was her next comment, however, that forced me to buy. Assuming I was a lowly tourist wishing to take my treasures back to America, she reminded me that I could reclaim the value-added tax at Heathrow Airport on my departure. ‘Madam, I have lived here for over a dozen years,’ I explained. ‘That is not an option to which I may avail myself. I’ll take the suite and I’d like them wrapped individually, as they are a gift.’ The next time I frequented her gallery I received the respect I deserved, not just as a patron but, more importantly, as a neighbour.

A doorway to the left of the foyer leads into a pillbox-sized music room. The crystal chandelier casts a soft light on an important collection of family memorabilia. In the corner stands a large porcelain Buddha brought back from China by my parents. My full-length coming of age portrait hangs over a treasured, old pedestal globe. In my youth, my father and I would spin the world map every Sunday morning before heading off to church. With our eyes closed we would take turns pointing to exotic countries then we would read up on the geographic details in the encyclopedia. Dad always inspired me to look deeper.

We named the room for the upright ebony piano that unexpectedly arrived in our shipment of furniture from California. We immediately contacted the storage company to tell them the piano did not belong to us. To our amazement they had no record of a piano in their vaults and more surprisingly did not want it returned. With that stroke of good fortune a simple study turned into a rather smart parlour.

It is my belief that every room in a house should be used or visited each day; that way the cumulative effect of the home’s energy can be absorbed. It also helps to build up strong bonds with the objects that fill the space. That is why I love passing through our drawing room full of curiosities. It is multi-functional with five separate sitting areas, one generous sofa with squashy pillows and a George III games table and four chairs that my mother purchased years ago to commemorate our wedding. The dado rail is wide enough to showcase a selection of silver photo frames. It wraps around the walls of the drawing room like a charm bracelet wraps around my wrist.

Our tastes are quite fickle, which means we are not always in sync with classic English interior design incorporating oversized comfy chairs, needlepoint pillows, stacks of old books and newspapers, pleated lampshades, Chinese porcelain, tassel tie backs and the occasional large, shiny, black labrador sleeping by the hearth.

If nothing else our drawing room reflects our personalities and love of travel. A shiny brass shoebox from Turkey sits on the floor next to two enormous cloisonné opium pots from China. A glass and brass noodle cart from Thailand shows off delicate enamelware boxes from Russia. A dagger from Yemen and a ‘B.C.’ terracotta jug from Hebron co-exist with a triptych Chinese screen and three Oriental paintings of Saudi Arabian desert scapes.

The dining room, entered from the drawing room, is full of large, high impact, playful art. A three-section, fire engine red ‘Serpent’s Feast’ mobile dangles from the 4-metre ceiling, depicting three hungry snakes competing for a succulent yellow worm. Opposite is a kinetic metal sculpture of a coyote howling at the moon. They share the room with our dinner guests who can sometimes number over a dozen on a good night. The frolicsome decor of the room lends itself to good conversations.

We had two decorating rules when we moved into Stocken Hall. One, nothing would be added to our collection, not even the smallest pillow. Two, if it could not fit in the attic, under a bed or in a cupboard it had to go out. With the exception of a French sideboard purchased at auction we have kept our word.

A mellow-yellow coloured hallway leads to the master bedroom that we call ‘the holy of holies’ in deference to the Egyptian term used to refer to the inner sanctum of the great pyramids. A Persian prayer rug lies in front of the double doors that open into the vaulted bedroom. Four portraits of our parents hang on either side, reminding us of the frailty of life and the debt we owe to each of them. Once across the threshold the doors open into a sexy and reverent world of women. Bill is not the victim here of my fussy female decorating, rather he is the object of the ladies’ affections. Scattered about the room is a collection of Madonnas acquired from Russia, Italy, Spain and Belgium in addition to two nude oil paintings, one which dominates the wall above our bed and the other with strong Mexican connections.

Continentally speaking, Bill and I were an equal opportunity couple. We met in London, courted in the Middle East, moved to California and married in Mexico. By today’s standards our wedding would be considered a disaster, but for us it was perfect—at least that is how we choose to remember it.

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.