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.

But the whiff of financial success has crossed the pond and has tainted even the rarified world of the aristocracy. The well bred no longer consider networking to be the domain of the middle classes. In fact, Prince Charles unabashedly promotes his organic food products while other Royals tout furniture design, clothing and investments. Today, polite dinner conversations in the grand houses of England are more likely to be about the sizes of the guests’ portfolios than the number of grouse brought down in the day’s shoot.

Still, the power of money is no less satisfying than when spent shopping. Ever optimistic, Americans have the belief that purchasing a ‘new and improved’ electric toothbrush or a pair of trendy hipster jeans can change the quality of their life forever. Predisposed to the healing effects of marketing, they enthusiastically embrace the concept of the ‘upgrade’ on a daily basis. They demand variety in all aspects of life, from politicians to prescriptive drugs. They’re deeply suspicious of package tours and dislike restaurants with set menus. They vigorously defend their constitutional right to free choice on every level.

Seeing familiar brand names as we travelled across the country brought back memories. We were reminded of the convenience of life when so many of our personal and household needs could be taken care of by any one of a hundred Pottery Barn stores or Home Depots selling everything from closets to country pine furniture. It was all so easy, rather like having a retail big brother looking after your every need.

It was also refreshing, if not cynically amusing, to be back in the land of unashamed self-promotion. A Mercedes with a bumper sticker proclaiming the scholastic achievements of little Suzie or the athletic ability of a middle child, ‘My daughter is a female wrestler’, was not unusual. Neither was the notice on a mini-van stating, ‘Our son is gay and we’re proud of it!’ I muse whether it is possible this bumper sticker culture could catch on in England, but unthinkable is more likely.

There was one aspect of life in America that did disappoint us. Poor air quality seemed to follow us like a dark cloud. Not the kind emitted from SUVs or aeroplanes, but the kind that caresses you at night while sleeping. Staying with friends as we journeyed across the country, we noticed a developing pattern of fresh air depravation. Our guestroom window in Los Angeles had been bolted shut, presumably to deter sticky-fingered burglars. The sliding glass window in our Mission Viejo room was secured and draped to keep out the glare of the street light. Our window in Palm Springs was closed so as not to let the precious airconditioning escape. The shutters in Charlotte would not even open and the salmon-coloured window in our bedroom in Virginia had a notice affixed to the sill warning, ‘Due to security precautions please do not open.’ By the time we reached Washington DC our lungs were in a state of atrophy. Note to myself: on my next trip to the United States buy a personal fan.

Fielding questions about life and living abroad was always part of the United States travel experience. The thought that anyone would want to permanently reside anywhere other than America underpinned friends’ curiosity. Over time I found the questions to be more perplexing than amusing. Implied, but never stated, was the issue of patriotism, loyalty and heritage. This was the circumstance I found myself in one evening as my dinner partner leaned genuinely and intimately closer to me in order to deliver his well thought-out question. I knew my reply would be of sincere interest to him just as it would be to the other guests at our table.

‘Do you miss the States?’ he queried in a serious, rather pastoral tone.

I wondered if he specifically meant whether I missed the convenience of America or whether I missed the ‘American Way’ of life. Not the least surprised by the query, I knew my response had a fifty-fifty chance of disappointing every person at the dinner table. The romantic listener in ear shot of my opinion would prefer a picturesque view of life in England, so full of adventure that time did not allow for homesickness. For the patriot, no answer would be correct other than a sincere and profound ‘yes’.

Unfortunately I could offer neither and opted for a quiet and reserved, ‘No, not really.’

For whatever reason, I had determined years ago that England was my spiritual home; in other words, the home of my heart. As inexplicable as it was to me, it was even more so to others. I fumbled with terms such as being part of Europe, less is more, living closer to the soil, being in the face of history, but in reality I meant life in England was more suited to my personality.

It did not seem appropriate at this point to divulge my personal aversion to mammoth shopping malls and cluttered outlet centres, no matter how handy they were to everyday life. Rather, I spoke of the bridge between our two countries, CNN, Larry King Live and The Simpsons, any of which could provide a dose of America on demand thanks to cable television. Only my oldest and dearest friend sitting across the table from me knew the full extent of my passion. Her eyes told me she understood and realized my answers spoke volumes for how often we would have the opportunity to see each other as we aged. Time as well as distance would eventually become our sworn enemies.

Most of my friends were aware that I had applied for and received my British citizenship several years back. A few understood why it was necessary while some felt it was tantamount to an act of treason. In fact, on several occasions it was helpful for me to produce my American passport in order to prove that the United States government did actually recognize dual citizenship, whether due to birth, marriage or naturalization. For me there was no debate. On a purely logical level, having a British passport made travel within the European Union less stressful. Passport controls were swift and I could go through immigration in the same line as my husband. Psychologically, it was important for me not to be regarded as an ‘other’, the unflattering term for those not holding European Union status. I had been a taxpayer in this country, I was politically active and had attended the University of London for a masters degree. I had always honoured the traditions and institutions of Britain; therefore, I felt it was time for the compliment to be returned to me.

On a more personal level it was about injustice, prejudice and bureaucracy. Having lived in the United Kingdom many years prior to meeting Bill and having fulfilled all the requirements to apply for citizenship, I was denied my ‘Right to Remain’ by a bureaucrat who informed me that I did not qualify on the basis of my marital status. In other words I needed a husband.

Years later, and with all the good fortune in the world, I met and married Bill and eventually returned to England. This decision required us to go to the British Consulate in Los Angeles to complete the necessary paperwork for my visa. As a reasonably mature and most independent woman, I only had to sign on the dotted line—once here, twice there, while Bill was required to write three separate letters on my behalf. The first stated that we were legally married. The second stated Bill’s intention to remain married to me and the third gave banking details of how he proposed to support me. Nearly fifteen years had passed since my first attempt to apply for citizenship and yet nothing had changed with regard to female status. As far as the British government was concerned I was still required to be in the shadow of a man.

So it was with determination that I began my final assault on the Home Office Department of Immigration in 1994. The route to citizenship was not complicated; it was just lengthy. Bill was a great cheerleader every step of the way and none more so than on the day, four years later, when my burgundy, coat-of-arms encrusted passport arrived in the mail. For me this was a significant life event, a rite of passage, but in Britain it went unnoticed. There was no such thing as a swearing-in ceremony or a pledge of allegiance to the Queen. No one cared other than my Bill. That evening when he came home from work he presented me with a bottle of champagne and showered me with congratulatory hugs, then he led me to the window in our drawing room, which overlooked the imposing skyline of London. It was here that I repeated to Bill the oath of allegiance printed inside my passport.

I can’t remember how long I slept with the document under my pillow. I told Bill it was there for safekeeping, but he knew the passport was there to be close to my heart.

The Brits basically have only two reactions to any foreigner holding dual nationality. The first is total disbelief as to why anyone would want to even bother. Not that they aren’t patriotic, but given half the chance to emigrate there would be a stampede to the Australian, American and French borders. The second reaction, at least in my case, was that I was obviously here because my husband pressured me to return to his homeland, not because of any hint of self-determination on my part.

I did encounter a third and most unusual response from a well-travelled English woman I met at a party. Upon learning I was a former resident of California, she remarked with a turned-up-nose sense of superiority, ‘I assume you’ve moved to England to get away from all the competition. Why else would anyone leave California?’ I’m sure I glared at her with an unmistakable ‘how would you like to have your face slapped’ expression. It was such an un-English comment on her part and thankfully a rarity to encounter. Instead, in my best Southern accent, drawn upon for maximum effect, I whispered, ‘It was a pleasure to have met you. Do have a nice day.’ Then with the grace of a diplomat I moved on to circulate amongst the other guests. You see, it is possible to wear two hats at the same time.