The all-American and constantly-cynical Hal Baker turned right onto Silverweed Lane, a winding, dangerously-narrow road which, if his personal GPS proved trusty, and if there were no oncoming traffic, should deliver him safely to his destination.  Hal was rather proud of himself, and he silently gloated while careening through a patch of wild thistle growing up through a crack in the lane, for only twice since leaving Manchester Airport had he been honked at for driving on the wrong side of the road.  Consequently, a question of his had been answered – yes, the Brits did indeed understand the significance of ‘the bird’.

Around a bend, through another overgrown thistle thicket - braking once for a jay-hopping hare - then around another bend…and there it was!  The manor was at once both ancient yet inviting, somewhat rundown yet charmingly noble, and Hal swallowed hesitantly despite himself in awe of the estate which held the heritage and history of his British forebears.  Silverweed Lane wound about the two-story British Baroque and disappeared somewhere behind it into the landscape beyond where the trees turned into moorland, and he was pretty sure that the road he had just traversed had been originally built entirely to greet this property.  He chuckled to himself as he pulled his ‘hired’ Europcar Fiat off the road and onto an unkempt drive, and as he passed a small oaken sign, standing awry in a shallow, marshy puddle, which announced LILLICRAP MANOR to the world, his chuckle turned to outright laughter.  At forty-six years of age he had finally arrived - and who would have ever guessed such a thing! – at the source of some of the biggest jokes of his pre-adolescent years.

"I bet they crap on the lilies!" he used to say to the delight of his little sister whenever they saw the old photo of this sign, a tattered, black-and-white Polaroid which had been found in a box in the attic of their home in Boston.  As he pulled up alongside a Mini Cooper from the eighties he reflected upon how his mother would always shush him for such surly comments, no matter how clever, but as he closed the car door he caught his true reflection in the glass, and the salt-and-pepper of his beard brought him fully back to the present day.  “I suppose Mother is shushing Saint Peter these days – IF she got on the elevator going UP,” he said to himself while lifting the trunk.  “And if not…well, at least she’s finally caught up with Father.”

The front entrance to Lillicrap Manor suddenly flew open and Hal set down his bags as a rotund, little man in his early sixties, clad in a long black jacket and white gloves, came running toward him.  “Please, sir, allow me to help you with those!”  The older man almost fell to the ground while tripping over the hodgepodge of cobbling that passed as stonescaping, but upon a quick recovery he sprang over to Hal only slightly out of breath.

“And just who might you be?” the American asked with humor in his voice, for he could see that the old Brit’s jacket was misbuttoned toward the bottom, as if thrown on hastily at the sound of his arrival.

“I am Mister Christopher Kennington, the valet of Lillicrap Manor, at your service, sir.  I’d like to welcome you to the town of Heslington in Yorkshire, and also to the UK, as I’ve heard this is your first visit to Old Blighty.”  Christopher winked in honor of his own wit; Hal, however, who knew for nothing about Old Blighty, was still caught up on his receiver’s first sentence.

“Well, I’ll be damned!  I didn’t know Lillicrap Manor had its own valet – go figure!  Heck, I just went ahead and parked right here.  I hope that’s alright, but if you really want to move it…”  Upon further review of the estate, however, which was covered with overgrown grass blighted from the long summer past, the expanse of which was interrupted by scattered, boggy oases filled with bracken and moss, Hal quickly decided that there weren’t many other parking options.

Christopher threw the American a glance one might cast an unruly aborigine, and with well-defined snoot in his voice he responded, “I do not park cars, sir, except for my own!”  He indicated the eighties classic with one white-gloved hand.

“Oh, hey there - I didn’t mean to go hurting your feelings none, big guy!” Hal said as he play-punched the penguin-suited bloke in the shoulder.  Christopher looked down curiously at the knuckle imprints which were left on his jacket.  The American before him might have achieved his doctorate in advanced physics, and he might have even achieved low-level membership in MENSA, but he was also passionate and outspoken, jaded and ornery, and, as his late wife Linda used to tell him, he handled awkward social situations with all the finesse of an inebriated Neanderthal.  “Tell ya what – let’s start out anew,” he suggested, grabbing one of the Brit’s white gloves and shaking it vigorously.  “My name is Hal Baker, from Boston USA, and I’ll be staying here for the next three months through the generosity of my aunts Penelope and Phoebe while guest-lecturing and -mentoring at the University of York.”  (These were facts of which the valet had been well briefed, though he stood attentively-annoyed throughout the entire introduction.)

“Should I call you Professor, Mr. Baker?” Christopher asked as he shook free of the American’s shake.  And once free of the manhandling, and without leaving time for his guest to even answer, he bent down and grabbed two of the four bags.

“Why waste your spit when the name Hal slips so easily from the tongue?”

“Have it your way, Mister Baker,” the valet sassed, adamantly refusing to call the visitor by his first name, but when he tucked one of the two suitcases he was holding beneath his arm and bent down to pick up a third Hal decided he’d had enough of the Brit’s offensively-indulgent subservience.

“Excuse me, buddy, but I think I can manage my own bags,” he told him, for after all he was a strong and hale New England boy, or at least had been one thirty years ago.  He grabbed the remaining two bags, but one was a large and heavy duffel, and when the shoulder over which he cast it began to silently complain he instantly wished he had allowed the crusty old fart in black to tote it.

“Very well, sir,” Christopher relented, then he led the way up the pock-mocked path to the entrance of the manor.

“You know what?” Hal suddenly blurted out.  “I remember hearing that my Uncle Nigel had a male servant for years, right up until he died.  Would that be you?”

“Why…yes,” the Brit conceded, happy that someone somewhere had actually mentioned him.  “I was with Mister Bancroft for almost forty years before his sad and untimely departure.  For the past three years now I’ve