Mr. American

by George MacDonald Fraser

  No other word of Arthur or his impending resignation; Mr Franklin had, however, read with close interest an article in The Times which seemed delicately to foreshadow the kind of Army crisis which Sir, Charles had predicted. He had also telephoned his London banker and learned that the cheque given to Peggy had, as he expected, been cashed. Well, there was nothing to be done except wait until she got home and he could discover exactly what was happening; in the meantime, he decided to return to London as originally planned, in case she cut short her holiday after all.

  He caught the train at Thetford next day and had to wait an hour at Cambridge for a connection. While he was pacing the platform, huddled in his greatcoat against the March wind, a news bill caught his eye: 'Ireland: new sensation'; he bought a paper and took it into the waiting room to read: the main story was the Prime Minister's announcement of a plan whereby Ireland would be granted Home Rule, but that the northern counties of Ulster would have the right, if they chose, to remain outside an independent Ireland for six years, at the end of which time they would be incorporated into the new self-governing state; what the purpose of this elephantine compromise could be was not clear, since it was obviously unwelcome to both sides. Irish National opinion was hostile, since much could happen in six years; Ulster's feelings were aptly summed up by the picture in the paper of the tight-lipped and jut-jawed Carson, and his reply to the Premier: 'We don't want sentence of death with stay of execution for six years.' Elsewhere he was quoted as saying: 'Give us a clean cut, or come and fight us.'

  To the paper's leader writer it was apparent that Mr Asquith was shirking the issue in the most cowardly fashion; if he could get his compromise accepted temporarily, it was not to be doubted that within the six years he would find himself out of office and the ticking bomb of Ireland could be hastily passed to his successor. The immediate outlook was desperate, for if Ulster remained intransigent the government would have no choice but to send in the Army to seize key points, stations, ports, and ammunition depots throughout the province. And Ulster would resist.

  Mr Franklin read the news soberly; suddenly Sir Charles's optimism about his son's future began to seem pathetically unjustified. Arthur wouldn't fight in Ulster for Asquith's policy - not if what Peggy had said was true about his Loyalist sympathies; if the Army was sent in he would have no option but to resign, and for good. So he would probably need his ten thousand pounds for his civilian business, whatever it might be. And in the meantime Ireland would be going up in smoke.

  He climbed into his compartment and discarded the paper for an illustrated magazine. There were photographs of members of the Irish Citizen's Army being addressed by a Sinn Fein orator, and of Ulster Volunteers practising on a firing range 'somewhere in County Tyrone'. Elsewhere there were pictures of Mexican firing squads executing ragged men in bare feet and sombreros, and of Pancho Villa, whose rebels were alleged to have shot a British subject. The new Roman stripes were expected to be the dominating influence in Spring fashions. Bombardier Billy Wells had knocked out Bandsman Blake in four rounds at the Palladium. Mr Franklin leafed idly over the pages until his eye was caught by a heading: 'Winter Sports Supplement' and pictures of skaters and skiers enjoying the season at the Alpine resorts. He saw a name he knew in a caption, and turned the pages with renewed interest - there might be a picture of Peggy. He glanced quickly at the figures in the photographs, men in Alpine hats and knickerbockers, ladies in scarves and ankle-length skirts, balancing precariously on skates, poised, smiling, on skis, or wrapped up in fur rugs in the backs of horse-sleighs. There were the names she had mentioned: Murren, Les Avants, St Moritz, the Village Run - but no picture of Peggy that he could see. He was laying aside the magazine when a figure in a group of skaters caught his attention; he felt a start of surprise and then his eye went down to the caption:

  '... among those enjoying the ice at Murren with Sir Cecil and Lady Stewart's party was Lord Lacy, of Gower Castle, Norfolk ...'

  18

  In the weekend of March 20, 1914, almost all the officers of the two cavalry regiments of the Third Brigade stationed at the Curragh Camp, in Ireland, resigned their commissions. At their head was General Gough, commanding the brigade, and among them was Arthur Clayton, subaltern, of the 16th Lancers. The Curragh Mutiny, as it came to be called, had begun, and Britain was faced with a crisis for which there was no precedent in her history. Soldiers, even whole regiments, had mutinied before, but what amounted to a mass defection of officers was something unknown and undreamed of. Suddenly the question which had not been asked for more than two centuries was being heard: what if the Army refuses to obey the government?

  Mr Franklin read the news in his Times which, in view of the grave national emergency, had been reduced in price to one penny. It was, he reflected, a typically British reaction: when disaster threatens, do the unlikely. In fact, The Times's patriotic gesture had preceded the Curragh Mutiny by two days, and there were those wags who suggested that the cavalry officers had resigned in protest against this cheapening of a national institution; at the same time, however, came warning that the railwaymen and their employers were unlikely to agree on wage demands, that a national rail strike, and possibly a general strike, could well follow, and that it was not impossible that the workers, following the example of the Ulster Volunteers, would take up arms. Mr Lloyd George, never at a loss for a telling phrase, described the Army crisis as the most desperate since the days of the Stuarts - a majority of his audience could probably not have said, offhand, when the days of the Stuarts were, but they were left in no doubt that in his opinion the very existence of representative government was in danger.

  It did not appear to disturb them unduly. To Mr Franklin the most remarkable feature of the crisis was the almost total lack of public interest it aroused. The more popular papers preferred the story of the French Minister's wife who, incensed by Le Figaro's criticism of her husband, had entered the editor's office and shot him dead; prominence was also given to pictures of scantily-dressed revellers frolicking with purple balloons at the Chelsea Arts Club Ball. From what The Times said, Mr Franklin would have expected the name Curragh to be on every lip, but the people of London gave no sign that they had even heard of the the place; that Saturday afternoon, as he walked along Oxford Street, the news boys were chanting their usual raucous slogans: `All the racing! Big winner! All the football! Final results! Getcha papers! Football final!' And from the way the buyers scanned the back pages under the flickering lamps it became evident that they were more interested in Arsenal and Tottenham Hotspur than in the historic convulsion of their armed forces.

  He turned into Bond Street, threading his way briskly through the late afternoon shoppers, wondering whether he should stop at Claridge's for some tea, or make his way home to Wilton Crescent. Peggy was not due until next week, and the house would be quiet; he would be glad when she got home. That picture of Lacy in the magazine had upset him; it was ironic to think that while he had been allowing himself to be persuaded into doing the fellow a good turn, Lacy had been living it up in Switzerland, and undoubtedly in close proximity to Peggy. Knowing Lacy, Mr Franklin had no doubt that he would make himself a complete pest where she was concerned; he was one of the Stewart party, and Peggy had been going to spend time with them, so it was beyond doubt that they'd be thrown together; without a husband along to shoulder Lacy off, she'd probably have difficulty avoiding and getting rid of him; he'd force his attentions on her at every opportunity, and no doubt the kind of scene he had overheard in the passage at Oxton Hall would be played over again.

  He found himself striding out unusually quickly, swinging his stick; he accidentally jostled a passer-by and pulled up, apologising. This wouldn't do - it wasn't the thought that Lacy would make a nuisance of himself that was bothering him - Peggy could handle that sort of thing with one hand tied. If she wanted to. That was it. At the back of his mind - no, right at the front of his mind, ever since he'd seen the picture, was the ugly suspicion that it
wasn't chance that Lacy was at the same ski-resort; that the whole thing was preconcerted, that she and Lacy were ... he found himself looking into the dimly- reflecting glass of a shop window, and was glad that nobody could see his face. What the hell was he thinking of? Peggy was all wool and a yard wide, he knew she was - and still the foul, dishonourable thought was there. Well, it was bound to be; even while he knew it wasn't true, it was a thought that would have occurred to a saint, faced with that kind of unexpected coincidence.

  They were not coherent thoughts that went through his mind; just a repetition of fleeting things that he had been unconsciously juggling with ever since he'd seen that picture. He was a middle-aged fool with a beautiful young wife; Lacy was an unscrupulous lecher who had been besotted with her and probably still was; on the other hand, Peggy was a faithful and loving wife, and if she'd had any lingering affection for Lacy it must surely have shown itself in the past four years - but it hadn't, had it? No, she detested the fellow - he'd heard her tell Lacy to go to hell back at Oxton, he could recall that conversation almost word for word ... had any of the things she'd said that day been capable of any other interpretation than the obvious one? Might she not be flattered to find Lacy still tagging after her? But even if she was, wasn't a woman entitled to be pleased if an old flame tried to scorch her? Had Peggy known Lacy was going to be in Switzerland? Suppose she had-she was still a faithful and loving wife, and he was a jealous middle-aged idiot ...

  And so on, jumbling in his brain, and for the most part creating a firm impression of reassurance - and yet the slight, nagging doubt ... no, it wasn't doubt, even. He knew it was all right, and when the unworthy phantoms arose the best thing was to look them in the face with commonsense and decency and dismiss them. It was coincidence, and Peggy would deal with Lacy if he got out of step. And his jealousy was just that - because Lacy was in Switzerland and he wasn't; because Lacy could see her and he couldn't.

  He felt better, as he'd felt better every time the thoughts had gone through his mind and been resolved; he turned away from the shop window, walking at a gentler pace. It was half-dusk, and Bond Street was beginning to take on that misty, enchanted look that the West End of London wore at evening before the days of neon light, when the streets had that pearly radiance which was the compensation for its ugly stepfather, the pea-soup fog. The lights seemed to hang like magic lanterns against the fading silvery-blue of the sky; the air, for March, was mild and dry, and the bustle of the pavements and the crowded narrow street was leisurely. The horse-cabs and the cars rolled past, and he was glancing idly at them as he strolled down towards the Brook Street corner when a voice suddenly called sharply, close by, and he turned to look.

  'Hey! Hullo! Mr American! Yoo-hoo!'

  There was a car parked at the kerb, with its hood down, and a woman was waving from the driving-seat. Mr Franklin automatically glanced behind him to see whom she was waving at.

  'It's me! Mr American! Hullo!'

  There was no doubt she was waving at him, and no doubt that she was blonde and smart and extremely attractive; for a moment Mr Franklin thought he was being solicited, until it occurred to him that the light ladies of the West End were not in the habit of accosting prospective customers from Sheffield Simplex sports cars, and certainly not at the tops of their voices. And then the strange phrase 'Mr American' triggered his memory, and he was looking with disbelief into the laughing, dimpled face with the pert nose and the sparkling blue eyes - with that curious squint - and the blonde curls peeping out modishly from under the smart little hat, and the years rolled away in an instant.

  'Pip!' he exclaimed. 'Well, I'm darned! It's you, Pip!'

  'Well, of course it's me! Who'd you think it was? Florrie Ford? Well, come on - hop in!'

  She was pushing the passenger door open with a gloved hand, and holding the hand out to him. He shook it, laughing, and she cocked her head gaily and said: 'Well, if it isn't Mr Mark J. Franklin from Way Out West! Climb aboard, partner!'

  `All right -' He was about to step into the car when he realised the motor wasn't running. `Don't you need a crank, though? I'd better '

  'Crank, nothing! I've got a self-starter! In you get, Mr American!'

  He swung himself into the passenger seat and pulled the door to. At that moment a policeman blew his whistle, waving peremptorily, and Pip called out: 'Right you are, Arthur! I'm coming!' She pressed the self-starter, the motor purred into life, and she swung deftly out from the kerb, causing the constable to step back hastily; she managed to spin the wheel, change gear, and flutter her fingers at the policeman all in one rapid movement, and then they were roaring down Bond Street.

  `This is amazing!' exclaimed Mr Franklin. `Pip! Where on earth-'

  'Hold on a sec!' Pip applied the brake just in time to avoid collision with a Rolls Royce, called 'And the same to you, Percy!' to an indignant chauffeur, and inched her way expertly between a horse-cab and a van. 'Men drivers!' she said. 'The frozen limit!'

  'Where are we going?' laughed Mr Franklin.

  'Wherever you like,' said Pip. She turned a radiant smile towards him. 'Gosh, it's good to see you! It's been years!' She was having to shout above the noise of the traffic and the roar of her own sporting engine; Mr Franklin saw the Brook Street turn just ahead and pointed to it, calling: 'Claridge's!'

  'Whoops!' said Pip, and executed a neat turn in front of an oncoming taxi, which honked indignantly. 'Claridge's, eh? That's what I like to hear! Hold on, then, we'll be there in half a jiff!' She clashed the gears alarmingly, made unladylike noises, revved the engine with a roar which startled a passing horse, and brought them gliding smoothly to a halt outside the unobtrusive front of the famous hotel. Mr Franklin got out of the passenger door and was going round to the offside, but Pip was out before him, clicking briskly to the pavement in her hobble skirt and addressing the approaching doorman.

  'Look after her, Basil, all right? Don't let the Brook Street kids climb on the bonnet, and don't play with the horn.'

  And the doorman was smiling ingratiatingly and saying: 'Certainly, Miss Delys, I'll take care of it.'

  `You still have your old way with doormen, porters, and waiters,' said Mr Franklin admiringly, as she preceded him into the hotel. 'If that had been me, he'd have told me to park somewhere else.'

  'Course he would,' said Pip. 'If he didn't, there wouldn't be room for musical comedy actresses in their sports models, would there? Eight hundred and eighty quid that little beauty cost - isn't she swell?' She turned to admire the Sheffield nestling expensively beside the pavement. 'Course, it would have been cheaper without the self-starter, but if you're going to make a splash, make it in style, that's what I say. Here, but this is lovely!' She glowed at Mr Franklin. 'You know, you haven't changed a bit! I knew you the minute I saw you, sauntering along like Gilbert the Filbert, as if you'd owned London all, your life. Where have you been keeping yourself? Have you been away? Back to America?'

  'Let's have some tea,' suggested Mr Franklin, smiling. 'If musical comedy actresses take anything so common, that is.'

  'Musical comedy actresses take anything they can get. Tea - and dinner. Where you going to take me this evening?'

  'Tea first,' said Mr Franklin, and guided her into the lounge. They found a quiet corner, Mr Franklin nodded to a waiter, and then he and Pip looked at each other, and laughed.

  'Mr American,' she said.

  'Miss Pip Delys of the Folies Satire,' said Mr Franklin, 'and looking lovelier than ever.' Which was no more than the truth; the pretty oval face was as fresh and youthful as he remembered it, if more artfully made up, and he had noted with amusement how the male heads had turned at the sight of the perfect hour-glass figure when she crossed the lounge. She was the same jaunty, cheerful gamine who had pounced on him that night outside the stage door four years ago; if there was a change it was that she dressed now with a greater sophistication than the soubrette of twenty. The tiny hat with its little aigret was a Paris model, and the afternoon dress of b
lack silk with the striking white front panel in the skirt, if cut a good deal tighter than fashion demanded - trust Pip for that - was probably from Worth. The small handbag was black crocodile, matching the neat shoes with their ankle-ribbons just visible beneath the hobble skirt. Mr Franklin surveyed her and shook his head in admiration.

  'All right!' said Pip, feigning indignation. 'I've put on six and a half pounds, if you want to know. Well, seven. Does it show? -'cos if it doesn't, it's meant to.' She giggled. 'If I bend down in this dress, it splits. But I've grown an inch taller, too.'

  'Well, however much you've grown, it looks great on you, Pip. How've you been - and where have you been?'

  'Where have I been?' Pip looked at him in disbelief. 'I like that! Where have you been, you mean! I've been on the stage, right here in the West End, like a good hard-working girl! Don't you ever go to the theatre?'