TOO AMERICAN
Is it a real English cottage?” we asked the agent suspiciously, “or is it one that has been hastily aged to rent to Americans?”
It was the real thing: he vouched for it. It was right in the middle of England. The children could walk for miles in any direction without falling off the edge of England and getting wet.
“See here!” I said. “How many blocks from Scotland is it?”
“Blocks from Scotland?” He didn't understand.
“Yes,” I said, “blocks from Scotland.” I explained. My wife and I had been trying to get a real English accent. That was one of the things we had come to England for. We wanted to take it back with us and use it in Brooklyn, and we didn't want to get too near Scotland and get any Scottish dialect mixed up with it. It seemed that the cottage was quite a piece from Scotland. There was a castle not far away—the fifteenth castle on the right side as you go into England. When there wasn't any wind you didn't get a raw sea breeze or hear the ocean vessels whistle.
“Is it overgrown with ivy,” asked Marian, my wife.
Yes, it was ivy-covered. You could scarcely see it for ivy—ivy that was pulling the wall down, ivy as deep-rooted as the hereditary idea.
“Are the drains bad?” I asked.
They were. There would be no trouble on that score. What plumbing there was, was leaky. The roof leaked.