There are some things that money cannot buy, and class is one of them.

Artificial carnations in red, white and blue, for God’s sake! And in a cheap, tatty basket shaped like something Bo Peep might wear on her fucking head during a sheep herding contest! Ronald hadn’t expected anything particularly elaborate for the ceremony but polyester flowers and cheap man-made fabric stapled in pleats around a flimsy platform stage are downright offensive. He wonders if things are quite so tacky back in England when they swear in new British citizens. Surely back home there would be some level of decorum? An oak-panelled court room maybe, with discrete lighting and a tasteful picture of The Queen? (Actually, Ronald isn’t sure there is such a thing as a tasteful picture of The Queen but that’s beside the point).

With his hand on his heart he pledges allegiance to the Stars and Stripes in a barely audible whisper conveniently drowned beneath a sea of foreign accents from one hundred and eighty-three different voices, from sixty-one different countries. The man standing next to him is from Pakistan and his brother-in-law is taking frenzied photographs from the sidelines where relatives and friends are allowed to cluster like paparazzi in what they assume is ‘suitable’ attire. The immigration service had stressed ‘suitable attire’ on the invitation but Ronald is dismayed by what some of these people class as suitable. Surely if you’re becoming an American citizen it isn’t appropriate to wear a bright orange sari or a piece of batik printed cotton fashioned in to a towering head dress? Would the people standing on the makeshift stage appreciate it if Ronald had turned up wearing a Union Jack waistcoat and a bowler hat?
“I Pledge Allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

At what price comes liberty and justice, he wonders. Is it justifiable that people should die because they can’t afford the medications they need to keep them alive? Is liberty nothing more than a statue in the middle of the Hudson River?
The solemn pledge hangs above Ronald like a thin cloud of vapour, hovering uncertainly between the glare of the fluorescent lights of the university auditorium and the tops of the untidy heads which surround him. Like the people who make the pledge, the cloud of words above them shifts uneasily, waiting for the man at the podium to indicate what comes next.

Ronald looks down at his beautifully polished shoes and tugs at his French cuffs so that his silver cufflinks are visible. He makes a quick mental calculation of how much his clothing and jewellery is worth and he comes to the staggering figure of three thousand dollars even though his suit was purchased back in 1988 and his watch, though tastefully splendid, is nothing more than a modestly priced trinket from the January sale at Liberty. He doubts that anyone else in this room of mismatched misfits is wearing anything more than a few hundred dollars worth of anything.

And yet despite his apparent wealth, Ronald is not rich enough to stay in America for much longer. His citizenship carries no weight now but after twelve years of waiting he came to the ceremony anyway. If he’s lucky he might get a couple of years out of it before he is forced to return to live in England.

With a discrete belch Ronald swallows the rising taste of his lunch. Green peppers just don’t agree with him and he’s had heartburn all afternoon. The antacids he bought at the drugstore are the chewy type that look like candy. Without attracting attention he unwraps one and pops it in to his mouth. The taste of spearmint brings to mind the Opal Mints he used to love as a child and he wonders if they still make them. And in that strange, meandering thought process of the human brain Ronald enters a nostalgic world of Spangles and Tootie Frooties and Midget Gems.

The artificial carnations are plonked unceremoniously in the centre of the stage, alongside a bedraggled flag ready for the handing out of the naturalization certificates. Family and friends are offered the opportunity to step in to the aisle to take photographs of their loved ones as they accept the certificate but Ronald is here alone so he has no patience for this little informality. He watches with disgust as people in viscose shirts and rubber-soled shoes jostle for the best position from which to take their photos. Some of the people don’t even know how to operate their cameras and they fiddle with lens caps and uncooperative zoom features while their subject stands awkwardly in the limelight, as sad and lifeless as the red, white and blue carnations beside which they pose. The scene is one of barely controlled mayhem and many of the people who step up to shake the hands of the various officials appear to stare in to the light with expressions of bewilderment and confusion. Their smiles are fixed while their eyes are wild. This is going to take all afternoon if they don’t get a move on! Ronald stifles a yawn and checks his silenced mobile to see if he has any messages, but there are none.

It is after four by the time he gets out of the university annex and he is startled back to reality by the intense blue of the October sky against a shattered expanse of unnaturally orange trees burning bright as though illuminated from within. To say that it is a perfect autumn day would be a criminal understatement and suddenly Ronald remembers why he moved to America in the first place; you just don’t see autumn foliage and skies like this in England; Technicolor is an American invention.

There are many things that Ronald misses about England but the weather is not one of them. When he was home last Christmas it rained and drizzled constantly for the whole time he was there and they had to keep the lights on from the moment they got up to the moment they went back to bed. He had forgotten how that dampness presses up against the outside of the windows on dreary winter afternoons, how it leaks down the chimney to suffocate the flames of the fire, how it swells the joints and rots the wood. He soon grew weary of the claustrophobic little rooms, the low ceilings and the endless cups of tea and he couldn’t wait to get back to Washington where the logs burnt brightly in the hearth and the crisp winter sky was the colour of Swedish china, patterned here and there with small darts of vapour. And there is something infinitely more appealing being English when you’re not in England.

Ronald removes his suit jacket and loosens his tie. He’s not one for sartorial indifference (unlike the Americans and their so-called Casual Fridays) but it is unseasonably warm today and Ronald hates to sweat. He can feel a thin skein of grease across his nose and forehead and he worries that maybe the Clinique bronzer might start to run down his temples. The last thing he needs to be reminded of right now is that pathetic final scene from Death in Venice where Dirk Bogarde sits on the beach with hair dye running down his face! For God’s sake, Ronald is only forty-two!

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