Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris & Mrs. Harris Goes to New York

by Paul Gallico

  The august individual did exactly what he said he was going to do - he sat and thought, but he also felt.

  It was a curious thing about Mrs Harris, that she had the power to make people feel the things that she was feeling. In Paris she had let him into the experience of her passion for flowers and beautiful things such as a Dior dress, and the excitement of loving and desiring them. Now here in her simple way she had made him feel her love for a lost child, and the distress that is experienced all too little at the thought of a child suffering. There were millions of children hungry, distressed, and abused throughout the world, and heaven forgive one, one never thought about them, and here he was thinking about a little starveling being cuffed on the side of the head by an individual named Gusset, whom he had never seen and never would see. How did all this concern him? Looking at Mrs Harris sitting opposite him on the anxious seat, seeing the frosted apple cheeks, withered hair, and hands gnarled by toil, he felt that it concerned him very much.

  In her own way, during her brief visit to Paris this London char had brought him some happy moments, and even, if one wanted to stretch a point, his ambassadorship might be laid partly at her feet, for she had been instrumental in causing him to aid the husband of a friend she had made in Paris, Monsieur Colbert, into an important post at the Quai d’Orsay, where within a year he had proved to be a sensational success. Credit for his discovery redounded to the Marquis, and might well have played a role in his selection for the coveted and honoured post of Ambassador to the United States. But even more, she had recalled to him the days of his youth, when he had been a student at Oxford and another charlady, one of her breed, had been kind to him in his loneliness.

  The Marquis thought to himself, What a good woman is Mrs Harris, and how fortunate I am to know her. And he thought again, What an astonishingly pleasant thing it is to have the power to help someone. How young it makes one feel! and here his thoughts permitted themselves to digress to the change that had come over him since his promotion to this post. Prior to that he had been an old man, resigned to saying farewell to the world and engaged in re-examining and enjoying its beauties for the last time. Now he felt full of energy and bustle and had no thought of quitting this life.

  And he had a final and highly satisfactory thought on the subject of what it means to be so old and dignified - namely, that people were a little afraid of you. It meant, he thought with an inward chuckle, and reverting to his British education, that you could do as you jolly well pleased in almost any situation, and no one would really dare to say anything. Thus he came to the final thought: what was the harm in helping this good person, and what in fact could go wrong with the simplicity of the scheme? He said to Mrs Harris, ‘Very well, I will do as you ask.’

  This time Mrs Harris did not indulge in any pyrotechnics of effusiveness of gratitude, but instead as her naughty sense of humour returned to her she grinned at him impishly and said, ‘I knew you would. It ought to be a lark, what? I’ll wash his ’ands and face good, and tell him exactly what ’e’s got to do. You can rely on him - ’e’s sharp as a new pin. ’E don’t say much, but when he does it’s right to the point.’

  The Marquis had to smile too. ‘Ah, you did, did you?’ he said. ‘Well, we shall see what kind of trouble I land myself in with this sentimental bit of foolishness.’ Then he said, ‘We are due to dock at ten o’clock in the morning; at nine o’clock there will be some kind of a deputation coming on board to greet me no doubt at Quarantine - the French Consul perhaps - and it would probably be best if the boy were here at that time so that the others became used to seeing him about. I will make arrangements to have you both conducted through to me from Tourist-Class at half past seven in the morning. I will advise my secretary and valet to be discreet.’

  Mrs Harris got up and moved to the door. ‘You’re a love,’ she said, and gave him the thumbs-up sign.

  The Marquis returned it and said, ‘You are too. It ought to be quite a lark, what?’

  SOMEONE should have warned the Marquis about the American press, which was aware that the Marquis was the first new Ambassador appointed to the U.S. since de Gaulle came into power; someone likewise should have advised him of and prepared him for the landing arrangements that had been set up for his arrival. The former, however, was completely forgotten, and the latter, through one of those State Department muddles - surely-so-and-so-will-have-notified-the-Ambassador - totally neglected. Everyone thought the other fellow had done it, and nobody had.

  The Marquis himself, a man of innate modesty, had never considered his own person of importance, and while he anticipated an official welcome and a facilitating of entry, he expected no more than that, and upon arriving in the morning meant to have Bayswater drive him to Washington as soon as his car was disembarked.

  Thus he was wholly unprepared for the jostling horde of ship newsmen, feature writers, reporters, newspaper photographers, newsreel cameramen, radio and television interviewers, technical men, and operators of batteries of portable television equipment, who came streaming on board from a grimy tug that drew alongside in Quarantine, and came stamping down the companionways and pelting into his suite to demand his presence for an interview in the press conference room on the sun deck.

  An equal surprise was the trim white Government cutter which also leeched itself to the side of the Ville de Paris, disgorging the official greeter of the City of New York and his henchmen, all wearing red, white, and blue rosettes in their buttonholes, the leaders of both political parties of that same city, along with the Deputy Mayor, the French Consuls of both New York and Washington, members of the permanent staff of the French Legation, half a dozen officials from the State Department, headed by an Under-Secretary of proper rank and protocol to receive an Ambassador, plus a member of the White House staff sent as a personal emissary to welcome him by President Eisenhower.

  Most of these somehow managed to crowd into the suite, while a band on the cutter rendered the Marseillaise, and before little Henry could flee into the ‘barfroom’ where he had been warned by Mrs Harris to retire should anything untoward happen before the actual going ashore should take place.

  He had been scrubbed and polished for the occasion, thrust into a clean shirt and shorts, which Mrs Harris had provided for him from Marks and Sparks before departure, and sitting on the edge of a chair with his feet likewise encased in new socks and shoes, he looked like quite a nice little boy, and one not out of place in his surroundings.

  Before either the Marquis or little Henry knew what was what, or how it happened, they found themselves swept out of the cabin, up the grand staircase, and into the press conference room crowded to suffocation with inquisitors and facing an absolutely appalling battery of microphones, camera lenses - still, animated, and television - and barrages of questions flung at them like confetti.

  ‘What about the Russians? Do you think there’ll be peace? What is your opinion of American women? How about de Gaulle? What are you going to do about NATO? Do you wear the bottoms of your pyjamas when you sleep? Do the French want another loan? How old are you? Did you ever meet Khrushchev? Is your wife with you? What about the war in Algeria? What did you get the Legion of Honour for? What do you think about the hydrogen bomb? Is it true that Frenchmen are better lovers than Americans? Is France going to resign from the Monetary Fund? Do you know Maurice Chevalier? Is it true that the Communists are gaining ground in France? What do you think of Gigi?’

  And amongst those questions shouted by male and female reporters and feature writers yet another: ‘Who’s the kid?’

  Now it sometimes happens when a press conference is as unruly as this one was, chiefly because most of the press corps had had to get up very early in the morning to go down the Bay in a choppy sea to meet the ship, and many of them had hangovers, that in a barrage of shouted questions, none of which can be heard or answered, one of them will take place in a momentary lull, and thus stick out and, anxious to get some question answered, the reporters will te
mporarily abandon their own and pick up that particular one.

  Thus it became: ‘Who’s the kid? Who’s the kid? That’s right - who’s the kid, Your Excellency? Who’s the boy, Mr Ambassador?’ and then everybody quieted down to await the answer.

  Seated together behind the conference table at the head of the room, the venerable statesman turned and looked down at the strange small boy with the somewhat too-large head and plaintive face, half as though he expected the explanation to come from him.

  The small boy likewise turned and looked up into the august countenance of the venerable statesman out of his liquid, sad and knowing eyes, and buttoned up his lips. The Marquis saw them being firmly pressed together, remembered what Mrs Harris had told him about little Henry’s disinclination for speech, and knew that there would be no help forthcoming there. Also, the wait between the asking of the question and the time when he had to reply was waxing heavy and intolerable; it was becoming absolutely necessary to say something.

  The Marquis cleared his throat. ‘He - he is my grandson,’ he said.

  For some unknown reason, but characteristic of some press conferences, this statement appeared to create a sensation. ‘Say, it’s his grandson! Did you hear that - it’s his grandson? What do you know, it’s his grandson!’ Notebooks appeared, memos were scribbled, while the photographers now surged forward shouting their own war cries as their flash lamps began to go off in the faces of their victims, blinding the Marquis and confusing him even more. ‘Hold it, Ambassador. Look this way, Marquis. Put your arm around the kid, Marquis. Hey kid, move up to your grandpa - closer, closer. Give us a smile now. That’s it. Just one more! Just one more! Put your arm around his neck, son! Get up on his lap, bub. How about giving him a big kiss?’

  Added to this bedlam were the further questions engendered by the revelation that the French Ambassador had a member of his family travelling with him. ‘What’s his name? Whose kid is he? Where’s he going?’

  The Marquis found himself caught up in them. ‘His name is Henry.’

  ‘Henry! Henry or Henri? Is he French or English?’

  The Marquis was aware that sometime, somewhere, little Henry would have to open his mouth, and so he replied, ‘English.’

  The press conference now had settled down into some kind of semblance of order and a man in the rear of the room arose and, speaking with the British accent natural to the correspondent of the Daily Mail, asked, ‘Would that be Lord Dartington’s son, Your Excellency?’ As a good English reporter, he was up on his Burke’s Peerage and knew that one of the daughters of the Marquis de Chassagne had married Lord Dartington of Stowe.

  Diplomats ordinarily are supposed never to become flustered, and in the conduct of his official life the Marquis had ice-water in his veins, but this time it was a little too much and too unexpected, and the disaster engulfing him too unforeseen and unprepared for.

  To tell the truth was, of course, utterly unthinkable. To reply ‘no’ would lead to further embarrassing questions, and so without reflecting further the Marquis said, ‘Yes, yes.’ All he wished for now was to conclude this ordeal as quickly as possible and reach the friendly shelter of the shed on the pier, where Mrs Harris had promised to come and relieve him of the now embarrassing presence of little Henry.

  But this latest revelation caused even a greater sensation, and once again the photographers surged forward, their flash lamps winking and flaring, while the shouts of the cameramen rose to a new pitch: ‘What did he say? He’s the son of a Lord? That makes him a Dook, don’t it?’

  ‘Brother, are you a square! That makes him a Sir. Only relations of the Queen are Dooks.’

  ‘What’s that?’ somebody said. ‘He’s related to the Queen? Hey, Dook, look this way! Give us a smile, Lord. What’s his name - Bedlington? How about you giving the Marquis the high sign?’

  Beneath his dignified exterior the Marquis broke into a cold sweat at the horror of the thought that now that the press had him indissolubly linked by blood with little Henry it was not going to be quite so simple for these ties to be severed on the pier when Mrs Harris came to collect him.

  The reporters and radio men now crowded about urging, ‘OK, Henry, how about saying something? Are you going to go to school here? Are you going to learn to play base-ball? Have you got a message for American youth? Give us your impressions of America. Where does your Daddy live - in a castle?’

  To this barrage little Henry remained mute and kept intact his reputation for taciturnity. The interviewers became more and more urgent, and little Henry’s silence thicker and thicker. Finally one impatient inquisitor said facetiously, ‘What’s the matter - has the cat got your tongue? I don’t believe the Marquis is your grand-daddy at all.’

  Thereupon little Henry unbuttoned his lips. The veracity of his benefactor was being impugned. The nice bloke with the white hair and kind eyes had told a whopping big lie for him, and now corroboration was being demanded for that lie. As Mrs Harris had said, little Henry was always one to back up a pal.

  From the unbuttoned lips, in the expected childish treble, came the words, ‘You’re bloody well right ’e’s me grandfather.’

  In the back of the room, the eyebrows of the correspondent of the Daily Mail were elevated clear up to the ceiling.

  The Marquis felt himself engulfed by a wave of horror. He did not know that the catastrophe was just beginning to warm up.

  BACK in Tourist-Class, all packed and dolled up in their best clothes, their passports and vaccination certificates clutched in their hands, Ada Harris and Mrs Butterfield stood on deck by the rail, thrilled with their first real look at this new and exciting land, and gazed down upon the bustle of tugs, cutters, and small boats crowding around the gangways of the Ville de Paris.

  Earlier in the morning little Henry had been escorted forward to the cabin of the Marquis, his head filled with instructions to cover every possible contingency should Mrs Harris be delayed, etc.

  Mrs Harris was triumphant, Mrs Butterfield nervous and perspiring now that action was again demanded of them and another crisis to be faced. She said, ‘Ow Ada, are you sure it’ll be all right? I’ve got a feeling in me bones somefink ’orrible is going to ’appen.’

  Even if Mrs Harris had been able to avail herself of the prophetic nature of Mrs Butterfield’s skeleton, it was anyway too late now to alter the plan, and whilst she was not entirely at her ease with little Henry away from her side - during the five days on the ship she had become more than ever attached to him - she refused to be depressed. Nevertheless, just to make sure she went over the planned routine.

  She said to her friend, ‘Come on love, buck up and keep your hair on - what’s to go wrong?’ She ticked off the sequence on each finger of her hand: ‘ ’E goes through with the Marquis, no questions asked. Once he’s on the pier ’e goes and stands under the letter “B” - “B” for Brown - where we collect him. There’ll be a taxi for us. ’Enry plays the standing-next-to-somebody-else game until the Schreibers have gone off. Then ’e gets in with us. We ’ve got the address. When we get there he waits down on the pavement until we ’ave a look about. When the coast’s clear we’ll have ’im upstairs with us as quick as wink. Didn’t Mrs Schreiber say there was enough room in the flat for a regiment to get lost in? It’ll only be a couple of days ’til we find ’is dad, and then Bob’s yer uncle. Garn now and forget it, and enjoy yerself. What’s to go wrong?’

  ‘Somefink,’ said Mrs Butterfield firmly.

  Looking down over the side and a little before them they could see a gleaming white and grey U.S. Government cutter with a three-inch gun mounted forward, radar mast, and huge American flag. She was connected by a gangway to an opening low in the side of the ocean liner, and as the two women watched, obviously something of importance was about to take place, for the musicians aft pulled themselves together at the behest of their leader, a guard of sailors, and marines ranged themselves at the gangway in charge of a much beribboned officer, the bandleader raised h
is arms, the officer shouted a command, rifle bolts clicked, arms were presented, the bandleader’s baton descended, the band crashed into ‘The Star Spangled Banner’, to be followed by the stirring strain of ‘The Stars and Stripes Forever’.

  To this rousing Sousa march there appeared a procession of gold-braided and uniformed aides provided by the Army, the Navy, and the Air Force, followed by dignitaries in striped trousers, frock coats and top hats, all emerging from the hole in the side of the Ville de Paris and marching down the gangplank on to the cutter. Then came a momentary pause, the bandleader again raised his arms and brought them down violently and his musicians dutifully and loudly went into a rendition of ‘La Marseillaise’. The figure of a handsome, erect, and elegant old man likewise in striped trousers, grey frock coat, and grey top hat - an old man with white hair and moustache and piercing blue eyes under tufted eyebrows, the rosette of a Chevalier of the Legion of Honour in his buttonhole - appeared at the exit and stood there for a moment, removing his hat and holding it against his shoulder during the playing of the French anthem.

  ‘It’s me friend - it’s the Marquis!’ said Mrs Harris, not yet aware of what was happening.

  Not so Mrs Butterfield, for as the anthem ended and to the strains of another tune the Marquis marched down the gangway, the stout woman uttered a piercing scream and pointed a fat and shaking finger, ‘Look,’ she cried, ‘it’s little ’Enry - ’e’s going wiv ’im!’

  He was, too. His hand clutched firmly in that of the imma culately uniformed Bayswater, and followed by secretary and valet and lesser members of the Embassy entourage, little Henry was following the Marquis down the incline and on to the cutter, where he likewise graciously accepted the presented arms of the marines’ guard of honour.