Mr. American

by George MacDonald Fraser

  'I just moved in at the manor house.'

  There was a moment's pause, and then the ancient said: 'At. We know that,' and buried his face in his pot. For the rest, half a dozen pairs of eyes avoided Mr Franklin's; the landlord made indistinct noises.

  'I was wondering,' said Mr Franklin, 'if any of you could tell me how I turn the water on. Nothing comes out of the taps, and I'm afraid the agent didn't remember to tell me.'

  Further silence, muttered consultation, and then the landlord observed that there would be a stop-cock. The ancient agreed; there always was a stop-cock, where there was taps, like. Someone else remarked that Jim Hanway had done odd jobs at the manor, when Mr Dawson was there; Jim'd know. Mr Franklin's hopes rose, only to be dashed by the recollection of another patron that Jim had moved over to East Harling last February.

  'Las' March,' said the ancient, emerging from his beer. 'No, t'weren't. Febr'y, 'e moved.'

  'March fust,' cried the ancient. 'Fust day o' March. His lease were up. Oi know. March fust it was.'

  At this the other speaker stared coldly at the ancient and said flatly: 'It was Febr'y. An' Oi know.'

  'You know bugger-al,' said the ancient, and emptied his tankard with relish. He beamed at Franklin. 'Thank'ee, sir. That was foine. March fast.'

  The landlord interposed with a reminder that the gentleman wanted his water turned on, no matter what month Jim Hanway had moved, and silence fell again, until a young labourer said there ought to be a key, for the stop-cock, like, and it'd be round the back o' the house, likely. Mr Franklin acknowledged' this; he would look in the outbuildings.

  'Stop-cock won't be round back, though,' observed the ancient. 'Mains water runs by the road; stop cock'll be at front. Grown over, an' all,' he added with satisfaction, as he hopped off his stool and laid his tankard on the bar. 'In all that grass, somewheres.' He sighed.

  'Would you care for another drink, Mr -'said Franklin, smiling.

  'Jake,' said the ancient, beaming. 'Wouldn't mind, thank'ee very much.'

  'No, you won't mind, you ole soak,' said the man who had disputed with him. 'Mind 'im, sir; there's a 'ole inside 'im, an' it ain't got no bottom.'

  There was a general laugh at this, and Mr Franklin took the opportunity to repeat his invitation; this time the tankards came forward en masse, and while they were being filled he said to Jake:

  'My name's Franklin. Mark Franklin,' and held out his hand. Jake regarded it a moment, carefully wiped his gnarled fingers on his jacket, and inserted what felt like a large, worn claw gingerly into Mr Franklin's palm. 'Jake,' he said again. 'Thank'ee, sir; thanks very much.'

  Mr Franklin nodded and glanced at the man who had disputed with Jake, a burly, middle-aged labourer with a square, ruddy face and thinning hair. The man hesitated and then said, 'Jack Prior', and took the American's hand. Thereafter, in quick succession, came the others, with large, rough hands that touched Mr Franklin's very gently; flushed faces and grey eyes that slid diffidently away from his. He guessed that introductions were not the norm, at short notice, that anything like social ceremony embarrassed these men, but that because he was an affable stranger, they were making a concession to him. Also, presumably, they had no objection to free drink. He was not to know that no occupant of the manor within living memory had set foot in the Apple Tree; nor did he know that if he had introduced himself in similar company two hundred miles farther north, there would have been no answering acceptance. He did not know England, or the English, then.

  The tankards were filled and lifted; Jack Prior said, 'All the best, sir,' and the others murmured assent; Mr Franklin prepared to answer questions. But none came. In the saloons that he knew, he would have been asked where he came from, how long he planned to stay, what brought him here; he would have responded laconically, as seemed proper. But here, where he had gone out of his way to make himself known, had taken for him the unprecedented step of familiarity – here they drank in shy silence, avoiding his eye and each other's, moving restlessly like cattle in a pen, and trying to appear unconcerned. Mr Franklin knew there was no hostility; he was sensitive enough to recognise embarrassment, but why it should be there he had no idea. Finally, having finished his own drink, he nodded pleasantly, preparing to take his leave; there was a shuffling of feet, almost in relief, it seemed to him, and then Prior suddenly said:

  'Franklin.' He was frowning thoughtfully. 'There's a Franklin over'n the Lye Cottage, at Lancin' End. Old Bessie Reeve - 'er name was Franklin, warn't it, afore she married?'

  In spite of himself Mr Franklin exclaimed: 'You don't say?'

  'Oi do say,' replied Prior seriously. 'That was her name. Franklin. Same's yours.' He looked round, nodding emphatically. 'Franklin. She's the only one hereabouts, though.'

  Jake cackled. 'Ain't bin round the churchyard lately, 'ave you? Plenty Franklins there.' He wagged his head, grinning, and drained his glass noisily.

  The landlord caught Mr Franklin's eye. 'Used to be a biggish family, sir, in the old days. None left now. Wait, though - ain't there Franklins over at Hingham?' His question hung unanswered in the silence, and Mr Franklin waited hopefully. The silence continued, and finally he broke it himself, indicating to the landlord that another round would be welcome. The tankards were thrust forward again and withdrawn, replenished; there were salutary murmurs in his direction, but beyond that nothing audible except the occasional gurgle and sigh as another gallon of home-brewed descended to its several resting-places. Mr Franklin decided that Prior's brief conversational flight had probably exhausted the Apple Tree's store of small talk as far as he was concerned, so he drained his glass, not without some effort, and remarked that he must be getting along.

  Again he sensed the relieved shuffling, but even as he straightened his coat and prepared to nod to the landlord, Prior took a deep breath and said:

  'You'll have another, first - sir? On me, like.' Mr Franklin hesitated. With three pints of home-brewed inside him, backing and filling, he felt he had as much as he wanted to carry, and more. It was on the tip of his tongue to decline politely. Then he saw that Prior was standing rather straight, with sweat on his red forehead, and knew that the invitation had been made with considerable effort. Instinctively he sensed that Prior, while a labourer like his fellows, was perhaps of some standing in that humble company, and was in a curious way asserting his dignity; for Prior's credit, it would be right to accept.

  'Thank you, Mr Prior,' he said. 'That's kind of you.'

  'Jack,' said Mr Prior, and laid his coppers carefully on the counter; his glass and Mr Franklin's only were refilled, although Jake ostentatiously drained his few remaining drops, waited hopefully, sighed, and finally announced that he'd better be off to find that stop-cock afore the light went; all growed over, it'd be. Mr Franklin protested, but Jake hopped away, making ancient noises, leaving the American to pledge Prior and attempt his fourth pint of the dark, soapy liquor which seemed to be filling every corner of his abdominal cavity, and possibly running down into his legs as well.

  Finally it was done, and Mr Franklin was able to bid the Apple Tree good evening, and escape from that hot, musty atmosphere, apparently compounded of cow's breath and old clothes; he was to grow to recognise it as the distinctive scent of the English farmhand. He was feeling decidedly bloated, but otherwise at peace with mankind; his feet seemed slightly farther away from the rest of his body than usual, and it took longer to place them one in front of the other, but he was in no hurry to get home on this balmy evening - for one thing, home was half a mile away, and if there was one thing he was certain of, in his slightly soporific condition, it was that he was going to have to shed some of his alcoholic burden somewhere, somehow, before he got there.

  A dusty and deserted side-turning off the main street caught his eye; it wound between large, untidy, and concealing hedges, so Mr Franklin followed it with casual deliberateness, and two minutes later was shoulder deep in a thicket at the roadside, leaning his head against a branch and solemnly examin
ing a spider's web at close range, grunting contentedly as his troubles poured away into the rank grass, and his lower torso began to feel normal again. Thereafter he took a turn farther up the by-road, and presently found himself regarding an ancient lych-gate set in a mossy wall, and there beyond it, half-hidden by the great yews that lined the wall, the square weathered tower of the village church.

  Mr Franklin surveyed it, balancing carefully. What was it his father had said, about some old English king bringing yew-trees from Europe, planting them in every churchyard in England so that the country should never be short of the material on which its army depended - the yew wood that made the great long-bows with which the English peasantry had humbled the armoured might of their nation's enemies.

  'Dam' good idea,' said Mr Franklin approvingly, staring at the massive, ugly black trunks, their shadows falling on the trim grass among the lichened tombstones. 'Bully for you, king.' He passed through the gate with its little steep roof, swayed slightly, and leaned on the nearest tree for support, feeling a trifle dizzy. For the moment he was content to rest there; the evening air was warm and tranquil, and he listened to its quiet stirring while he studied the ruddy stone pile of the old church bathed in sunset; from there his attention turned to the gnarled bark under his hand - and an echo was sounding in his mind, assisted by four pints of October ale, an echo from somewhere in memory - the El Paso road? Hole-in-the-Wall? Cassidy's slow, deliberate murmur . . . 'and you, good yeomen, whose limbs were made in England, be copy now to men of grosser blood, and teach them how to war. ..'

  He disremembered which battle that had been, but he wondered idly if any of its bows had come from this churchyard, or if any of the people who had been there were perhaps now here - under those old gravestones, dark and crooked on the level turf, and decidedly the ale must have been at work on his imagination, for he was suddenly aware of a voice at his elbow, high-pitched and pleasant, and it was saying:

  'Well, we aren't Stoke Poges, you know, but I suppose the lines are appropriate for all that. The rude forefathers of the hamlet ... well, I imagine they don't come much ruder than ours. How d'ye do?'

  Mr Franklin realised that he was sitting down, on one of the flat, raised tombs, and was being surveyed by a stout, baldish man in spectacles, with wisps of silvery hair fluttering over his ears; he was an untidy man, with a flannel shirt open at the neck, a huge tweed jacket which fitted where it touched, and knickerbockers insecurely fastened above elderly stockings. He had a sheaf of papers under his arm and a look of whimsical inquiry on his carelessly-shaven face. Mr Franklin made a partially successful effort to rise and beg the newcomer's pardon.

  'Not at all. I should apologise for breaking in on your ... ah, reverie. But when I hear Grey's Elegy, in an American accent ...' The short-sighted eyes peered and twinkled.

  'Was I reciting?' Mr Franklin made a mental note to steer clear of Norfolk beer in future. 'I guess I must have been ready to drop off. I'm sorry.'

  'I'm not. Very proper thing to do. Quite natural. Where else should one recite Grey's Elegy? Apart from Stoke Poges, of course. Forgive me, but I was correct, wasn't I? You are American?'

  'Yes, sir. I - '

  'I wouldn't inquire, but we see very few visitors, you know, much less transatlantic ones. Not much to attract tourists to our rural retreat, I'm afraid - unless you are interested in runes. We have rather a fine example on one of the stones just inside the doorway there - in fact, while I was at Cambridge I was privileged to assist in deciphering it - curiously enough, it was a learned gentleman from one of your universities - Yale, in fact - who finally made the translation. Splendid scholar; splendid. It was really quite interesting,' went on the stout man, 'because the inscription reads: "Lanca wrote this rune on this stone". And of course, this place is called Castle Lancing - well, Lancing means Lanca's people, so we have the mystery of a stone engraved by a Norseman, Lanca, possibly as early as the ninth century, and our church is only twelfth century. Curious, isn't it? Or perhaps,' said the stout man anxiously, 'you aren't interested in runes?'

  Mr Franklin had recovered himself by now. 'I might be,' he ventured, 'if I knew what they were.'

  'Teutonic engraving - adaptation of Roman letters to permit them to be carved in stone - Anglo-Saxon, Danish, that sort of thing,' said the stout man. 'But I'm so sorry - you must think me extremely rude, breaking in on you ... only - 'and he suddenly beamed in a way which made him look about ten years old ' - one doesn't often hear Grey being quoted' aloud in one's churchyard.'

  'I'm the intruder,' said Mr Franklin. 'Is this - I mean, are you the ... the clergyman?'

  'Heavens, no!' The stout man laughed. 'I'm simply a pest who infests the vestry, like death-watch beetle - which we haven't got, thank God, not yet, touch wood. Parish records, that sort of thing. No - our vicar is a much more useful member of the community, I'm happy to say.' He smiled on Mr Franklin. 'Are you staying in the neighbourhood?'

  'You could say that,' admitted Mr Franklin. 'I just bought Lancing Manor.'

  'Good God!' said the stout man distinctly, and dropped his papers. Mr Franklin helped him gather them up. 'You've bought ... the manor? Well, I never! Well, I'm damned! I do beg your pardon.' He adjusted his spectacles, combed his scanty hair with his fingers, and stared at Mr Franklin. 'Well,' he said at length, 'that is an extra-ordinary thing. Of course, after Dawson left, one assumed ... still, it is unexpected ... goodness me. ..'

  'Not unpleasantly so, I hope?' said Mr Franklin.

  'My dear fellow!' The stout man looked alarmed. 'I assure you - quite the contrary, absolutely. Splendid news. By God,' he added, emphatically, 'I'd sooner we had someone in Lancing Manor who quotes Grey in churchyards than ... than - well, you know what it is, some awful people buy country property nowadays. Men in loud checked bags and women with Pekinese voices. Drive about in motors, take the local people into service and don't know how to treat 'em, try to pretend they're gentry, simply shocking.' The stout man paused for breath. 'Damned motors.'

  'I won't be buying a motor,' said Mr Franklin.

  'Ha!' exclaimed the stout man, and beamed. 'No, I don't imagine they'd be your style. You look much too sensible. But, I say - we're neighbours, you know. Well, I live over at Mays Cottage -'he waved vaguely. 'Retired, you understand, after forty years lecturing on the sixteenth century to precocious loafers who only want to waste their parents' money on drink, amusement, and young women. No,' added the stout man seriously, 'that's not fair. Some of 'em did want to learn about the Tudors, God knows why. However, I'm Geoffrey Thornhill, I'm delighted to welcome you to Castle Lancing, and what on earth induced you to buy the manor? I'm all ears.'

  Mr Franklin frowned, glanced round the churchyard in some perplexity, and sighed. 'It's a long story,' he said.

  'Of course it is! Here, sit down - ' Thornhill indicated the flat tomb. 'There, now. By the way, you'll get used to me. The villagers think I'm mad, and may be right; I talk compulsively, can't mind my own business, am undoubtedly eccentric, but can easily be managed by anyone who'll simply say "Shut up, Thornhill". Right-ho?' His expression invited Mr Franklin to discourse.

  'Well. ..the American began, and stopped. His head was feeling clearer than it had done a few moments earlier, clear enough for him to be aware that he had not quite been in control of his tongue, and to realise that he had not meant to say to anyone what he was on the point of saying to this perfect stranger. But why not, he was thinking. I'm here now, and there's no secret, anyway; this is the end of the line, and this fellow'll find it all out, anyway, for what it's worth. He looked out through the yew-trees to the meadow beyond the village, where the dying sun was casting a pale haze over the fading green.

  'Well, my name's Mark Franklin, and I'm an American, as you guessed. And I-' he hesitated. 'Well, I guess you could say I've come back.' He stopped, frowning, and after a moment Thornhill said:

  'Back? To England? Ah, you were born here?'

  'No,' Mr Franklin smiled. 'But my family came f
rom England, and -'

  'Franklin, of course. Not a common name, but not uncommon, either, meaning -

  'A free-born landholder, but not of noble blood,' quoted Mr Franklin. 'That's what my father used to say - and the dictionary bears him out. From what they tell me down at the tavern, there's quite a few Franklins around here.' He gestured at the gravestones.

  'At the tav -, ah, the pub. Why, yes, there are Franklins in the old registers, and certainly the name is on some of the graves - but, of course, I daresay you'd find it in most English church records. Your people may not be East Anglian - unless they emigrated recently and you can establish from your own knowledge that they came from a certain area, it would be difficult to -'

  'My people,' said Mr Franklin, 'left the village of Castle Lancing in the year sixteen-hundred-and-forty-two. That much I do know - and not much besides, except that the man who left, with his wife and children, was called Matthew Franklin, and every descendant since has been named after one of the four gospel-writers. Where they've been in between . . .' he shrugged. 'Grandfather was from Ohio, father from Kansas, but farther back is anybody's guess. Only one thing's sure, because it was in grandfather's bible - which got lost in the war; farm in Kansas got burned - and that was that the first American in our family was Matthew, and he came out of Castle Lancing when they made the place too hot for him. Dad used to say old Matthew was a king's man, and that the local sentiment was pretty Republican round that time . . .' He laughed and shook his head, while Thornhill bounced up and down, making apoplectic noises which eventually spilled out in a flood of excited words.

  'But ... but ... but ... good God! Well, I'm blessed! You mean you've - you've come back to the very village! But that's splendid! Well, I'm damned! That is ab-so-lutely splendid, my dear chap! I never heard the like! After all these years - these generations - these centuries. . . .' Thornhill gaped and beamed. 'I mean - well, I suppose most of us here have a vague notion where our families hail from - well, my own lot claimed that they were Normans called Tournelle, but since my own grandfather was a swineherd from Dumfriesshire, I imagine that the village of Thornhill in that county supplies a more plausible clue - it was my aunt, actually, who tried to pretend to the Norman nonsense - foolish old woman, snob to the eyebrows, of course . . . but, my goodness, to be able to walk back, after nearly three hundred years, into your ancestors' own place! Dear me! And there can't be any doubt, you see - the parish registers will show Matthew - it was Matthew, wasn't it? - and his parentage. .. I mean, you've got the date-1642 -Civil War, King and Parliament - yes, it fits, your father was perfectly right, this was very strong Parliamentarian country, yes, indeed, and anyone of royalist sympathies might well clear out . . . well, I say!'