my husband and I hate princes,my husband would never wear anything that had a prince's anything on it.My friend stiffened.The salesman stiffened.They both drew themselves in, away from me.My friend told me that the prince was a symbol of her Englishness,and I could see that I had caused offense.I looked at her.She was an English person,the sort of English person I used to know at home,the sort who was nobody in England but somebody when they came to live among the people like me.There were many people I could have seen England with;that I was seeing it with this particular person,a person who reminded me of the people who showed me England long ago as I sat in church or at my desk,made me feel silent and afraid,for I wondered if,all these years of our friendship,I had had a friend or had been in the thrall of a racial memory. 15 I went to Bath-we,my friend and I,did this,but though we were together,I was no longer with her.The landscape was almost as familiar as my own hand,but I had never been in this place before,so how could that be again?And the streets of Bath were familiar,too, but I had never walked on them before.It was all those years of reading,starting with Roman Britain.Why did I have to know about Roman Britain?It was of no real use to me,a person living on a hot,drought-ridden island,and it is of no use to me now,and yet my head is filled with this nonsense,Roman Britain.In Bath,I drank tea in a room I had read about in a novel written in the eighteenth century.In this very same room,young women wearing those dresses that rustled and so on danced and flirted and sometimes disgraced themselves with young men,soldiers,sailors,who were on their way to Bristol or someplace like that,so many places like that where so many adventures,the outcome of which was not good for me, began.Bristol,England.A sentence that began "That night the ship sailed from Bristol, England"would end not so good for me.And then I was driving through the countryside in an English motorcar,on narrow winding roads,and they were so familiar,though I had never been on them before;and through little villages the names of which I somehow knew so well though I had never been there before.And the countryside did have all those hedges and hedges,fields hedged in.I was marveling at all the toil of it,the planting of the hedges to begin with and then the care of it,all that clipping,year after year of clipping,and I wondered at the lives of the people who would have to do this,because wherever I see and feel the hands that hold up the world,I see and feel myself and all the people who look like me.And I said,"Those hedges"and my friend said that someone,a woman named Mrs.Rothchild, worried that the hedges weren't being taken care of properly;the farmers couldn't afford or find the help to keep up the hedges,and often they replaced them with wire fencing.I might have said to that,well if Mrs.Rothchild doesn't like the wire fencing,why doesn't she take care of the hedges herself,but I didn't.And then in those fields that were now hemmed in by wire fencing that a privileged woman didn't like was planted a vile yellow flowering bush that produced an oil,and my friend said that Mrs.Rothchild didn't like this either;it ruined the English countryside,it ruined the traditional look of the English countryside. 16 It was not at that moment that I wished every sentence,everything I knew,that began with England would end with "and then it all died;we don't know how,it just all died."Atmy husband and I hate princes, my husband would never wear anything that had a prince’s anything on it. My friend stiffened. The salesman stiffened. They both drew themselves in, away from me. My friend told me that the prince was a symbol of her Englishness, and I could see that I had caused offense. I looked at her. She was an English person, the sort of English person I used to know at home, the sort who was nobody in England but somebody when they came to live among the people like me. There were many people I could have seen England with; that I was seeing it with this particular person, a person who reminded me of the people who showed me England long ago as I sat in church or at my desk, made me feel silent and afraid, for I wondered if, all these years of our friendship, I had had a friend or had been in the thrall of a racial memory. 15 I went to Bath— we, my friend and I, did this, but though we were together, I was no longer with her. The landscape was almost as familiar as my own hand, but I had never been in this place before, so how could that be again? And the streets of Bath were familiar, too, but I had never walked on them before. It was all those years of reading, starting with Roman Britain. Why did I have to know about Roman Britain? It was of no real use to me, a person living on a hot, drought-ridden island, and it is of no use to me now, and yet my head is filled with this nonsense, Roman Britain. In Bath, I drank tea in a room I had read about in a novel written in the eighteenth century. In this very same room, young women wearing those dresses that rustled and so on danced and flirted and sometimes disgraced themselves with young men, soldiers, sailors, who were on their way to Bristol or someplace like that, so many places like that where so many adventures, the outcome of which was not good for me, began. Bristol, England. A sentence that began “That night the ship sailed from Bristol, England” would end not so good for me. And then I was driving through the countryside in an English motorcar, on narrow winding roads, and they were so familiar, though I had never been on them before; and through little villages the names of which I somehow knew so well though I had never been there before. And the countryside did have all those hedges and hedges, fields hedged in. I was marveling at all the toil of it, the planting of the hedges to begin with and then the care of it, all that clipping, year after year of clipping, and I wondered at the lives of the people who would have to do this, because wherever I see and feel the hands that hold up the world, I see and feel myself and all the people who look like me. And I said, “Those hedges” and my friend said that someone, a woman named Mrs. Rothchild, worried that the hedges weren’t being taken care of properly; the farmers couldn’t afford or find the help to keep up the hedges, and often they replaced them with wire fencing. I might have said to that, well if Mrs. Rothchild doesn’t like the wire fencing, why doesn’t she take care of the hedges herself, but I didn’t. And then in those fields that were now hemmed in by wire fencing that a privileged woman didn’t like was planted a vile yellow flowering bush that produced an oil, and my friend said that Mrs. Rothchild didn’t like this either; it ruined the English countryside, it ruined the traditional look of the English countryside. 16 It was not at that moment that I wished every sentence, everything I knew, that began with England would end with “and then it all died; we don’t know how, it just all died.” At