Lady of the Manor

It’s early morning. My first morning in the Manor.

I open the curtains to a staggering panoramic view across the countryside—a breathtakingly uninterrupted vista from my enormous window, stretching over the perfect English countryside and all the way down to the Channel. Whether it’s the pristine, clean air, the dazzling autumn sunshine, or the audaciously unrestricted display of freedom, something brings tears to my eyes.

The Manor’s rooster finally crows. “Ha! I beat you, old boy!” No matter how late or hectic my night was, an alarm clock is surplus to requirements. Having lost to me, the rooster is now adamant about waking the entire community.

My companion grumbles at the rooster’s enthusiasm—or, more likely, at my antisocially early morning habit—before sinking back into a slumbering trance. I quietly retreat outside. Stepping down the regal staircase adorned with stunning centuries-old oak panelling and intricate wood carvings, I savour every detail of its grandeur, feeling, just for a moment, like a true lady.

I was told the coffee could be found in the Butler’s pantry—a fair distance away: down the stairs, up another staircase, and down again. I quickly lose myself in this labyrinth of history and utter beauty, welcoming, for once, my topographic idiocy, and loving every step towards my much-desired coffee fix. Room service—or even an actual butler—would fit perfectly here.

The uniformed gate attendant, John, salutes me as I pass. He eyes the new resident curiously, an oddly early riser. I enter the even more stunning drawing room, trying not to spill my coffee on the immaculate carpet. The centuries-old past is so well-preserved here that I can not only see it but also smell it. How I wish I’d taken history more seriously at school! What do I know about the Jacobean era? Zilch. I must find some information about the Manor and the flamboyant Lord of the Manor who so lovingly and tastefully created this magnificent home. What happened to him and his heirs? How did his grand boudoir become the temporary bedroom of likes of me?

Fresh newspapers are laid neatly on the table. The almost-forgotten pleasure of touching and smelling fresh newsprint mingles with the aroma of coffee. What a life!

The headlines scream “Covid this...” and “…number of deaths that…” “Stop! Sod off, all of you. I am safe here. No Covid may enter my castle. It will vanish by the time I leave this palatial sanctuary. Sure thing.”

Alright, life will never be the same—for me or for anyone, for that matter. Definitely different for me. Better, for many reasons, when I eventually leave the Manor for good. For good!

John’s deep military voice interrupts my thoughts. “Miss, it’s nearly 5:30 a.m. You ought to be in your room for roll check.”

Role what? Oh yes, of course—it’s the morning roll check. Like in every prison. Despite the deceptively glamorous ambience, the smell of real coffee, fresh newspapers, endless green fields, and far-reaching views uninterrupted by bars or barbed wire, the reality is I am still a prisoner, not quite the ‘lady of the Manor.’ And so, I step off the dream and back onto the regal staircase, returning to the room where my padmate snores, lost in her own dreams.