Chapter 24
Politically incorrect

Email To: John David
From: Leslie Ann
Date: 3 July
Subject: Tough times

Dear John David,

Reading our newspapers you definitely get a sense of a love–hate relationship between America and Britain. It’s not just that the United States is the sole hyper-power or that gangsta-rap is flooding the airwaves as nearly 60 per cent of Brits still consider the United States to be their most reliable ally. But there is a feeling that Americans are slightly greedy, sometimes selfish and possibly a little overweight. Last week the tabloids got a hold of a story about a major US manufacturer who makes baby’s jeans in regular, loose and husky cut. That article pushed politics off the front pages for a day.

On the positive side, Starbucks have taken over every street corner. Their mugs of scalding coffee, burly enough to make you want to put your finger in a light socket or strip the wallpaper off your walls in order to relax, have created a nation of addicted caffeine heads. Thank goodness for the franchise society. America rules!

Remember, you don’t have to rely on USA Today for your world news, you have me.

Leslie Ann

You can be as anonymous as you choose in London, so you would think it would be even more pronounced in the countryside. Nothing could be further from the truth. Like smoke signals sent skyward in wispy morse code, word spreads without a trace of origin or destination. Thankfully, to our knowledge, nothing of a malicious nature has been tom-tommed to our neighbours regarding a breech of etiquette or an oversight on our part. However, in our desire to be accepted and with genuine pleasure about being included in our new community, we surely must have, at some point, crossed that solid white line of proper decorum.

If any incident were to come to mind, it would have to be during Feast Week, the pinnacle of summertime village activities, which commences with a Sunday church service followed on Wednesday by a combative yet cordial quiz night of general knowledge questions in the pub. On Friday, participants are tested by the rigours of a car treasure hunt. Organized by tough taskmasters, Don and Richard, teams of four set out from the pub at 6 pm for a two-hour brainteaser involving obscure clues and riddles that have cars crisscrossing 25 miles of back roads and country lanes in search of elusive plants and ancient wall scratchings. The culmination of the week’s activities is the Sunday fete.

The object of all the frivolity is Stretton’s Saint Nicholas’ Church, a building that came to life in the reign of William the Conqueror. Dating from the Norman period, the tiny church has survived both the sixteenth-century Reformation led by King Henry VIII and the English Civil Wars. In 1693, one of Oliver Cromwell’s supporters, Edward Horseman, Lord of the Manor, left a legacy to the poor of the parish in the sum of twenty pounds. Today, the residue of that bequeath is used to purchase an engraved Bible for each village child baptized in the Church. It is this link to previous generations that inspires locals to support ongoing building works through fundraising events such as Feast Week.

The faux pas of the year happened during the run-up to the fete festivities when we all gathered at the Jackson Stops Inn for a planning session. The back dining room, offered to the group for the evening, was choc-a-bloc with volunteers who had either lived in the village for years or who could organize a fete blindfolded. I, of course, had nothing other than enthusiasm to contribute to this arcane ritual, while Bill could remember little from his days in Sussex when such outings would have played a prominent role in his young life. Hoping we could disappear into the inglenook fireplace, while at the same time trying to look supportive and involved, it crossed our minds that the job of clearing up after the circus elephant must be the prize task offered to newcomers like us. That surely must have been the reason we had been invited to participate.

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.