Mr. American

by George MacDonald Fraser

  A sudden, odd thought struck Mr Franklin, and it seemed doubly odd that it had only just occurred to him.

  'D'you think England'll win this war?'

  'Ask them,' said the General, and jerked his thumb at the window, grinning. Then he considered, the eyes narrowing in the flushed, ancient face. 'Probably - yes, on balance, we ought to win. Germany can lick Russia, but not Britain and France together. But they'll take a lot of beating, if it's a fight to the finish. Yes, I'd say we were odds on to win - not that it matters all that much.'

  Mr Franklin stared at him in astonishment. 'You can't mean that - it doesn't make sense!'

  Sir Harry turned to look at him, and then glanced out of the window again.

  'It isn't important whether you win or lose,' he said, 'so long as you survive. So long as your people survive. And that's the only good reason for fighting that anyone ever invented. The survival of your people and race and kind. That's the only victory that matters.'

  A scarlet tunic appeared at the window, and a face beneath a bearskin stooped and peered. 'Not before time,' growled Sir Harry. 'The amount of liquor that's occupied my bladder in ninety years has rendered it a rather perished article.'

  Mr Franklin felt slightly anxious. 'What are you going to say when we get inside?'

  'Who knows? The Lord will provide,' said Sir Harry placidly. 'They can't throw an old man into the street, now, can they? Not,' he touched his medals, 'with all this.'

  'Well, if you don't mind,' said Mr Franklin, 'I feel I ought to get out here.' This old gentleman, he told himself yet again, was decidedly unsafe. 'I hope you don't think I'm running out - '

  'I do,' said the veteran promptly. 'And I commend you for it. First sign of exceptional character I've detected in you. But you're missing a great chance, you know.' He tapped Mr Franklin on the knee. 'The first man I ever rode through those gates with was the Duke of Wellington, seventy-two years ago. Wouldn't you like to be the last?'

  Mr Franklin hesitated. He was amused, and astonished, and a little touched. He looked into the mischievous, grinning old face, and then he shook his head. .

  'I think you ought to ride in alone,' he said gently.: And with the hood back.'

  He reached across and shook the old man's hand, and then managed to push his way out of the car. The Guardsmen had succeeded in clearing the crowd from round the car, and a long aisle between the people ran fairly clear to the gates; police were moving in it, ushering them to keep it clear. At a word from Mr Franklin the hood was removed, and with the General leaning back comfortably in one corner the car rolled slowly forward. The crowd had begun to sing again, willing the King and Queen to come out on the balcony; as the car pulled away, Sir Harry was waving to him with his crooked grin; the crowd jostled forward into the space where the car had been, but Mr Franklin, craning, could see over their heads. With policemen half-running on either side, and Sergeant Rooney pacing ahead on his horse, the car was moving into the opened gates held back by the red-coated Guardsmen; the singing was thundering up in fullthroated ecstatic chorus, and he could just glimpse the great white head above the back seat and Sir Harry's raised hand solemnly waving in time to the music:

  Land ... of ... hope. .. and ... glory!

  Moth ... er ... of ... the ... free!

  How. .. can we ... extol ... thee,

  Who ... are ... bo-orn of thee!

  The car was lost to sight as it turned through the gates and made towards the Palace, even as the lights on the balcony came up again and royalty reappeared. The singing swelled to a triumphant climax; Mr Franklin could imagine the monarch glimpsing the car with its eccentric occupant as it sped across the open space before the Palace - what in God's name was the old villain going to say when he got inside and the Palace minions discovered he was an entirely unauthorised visitor bent only on relieving himself? Mr Franklin could not guess - but he had no doubt Sir Harry would think of something. He'd had a lot of practice.

  It took Mr Franklin some time to push his way out of the crowd into the less congested environs of the Mall. He glanced back from a distance at the floodlit Palace, and the swarming mass before it; they were singing 'Rule, Britannia!' now, the stirring strains floating on the midnight air beneath the trees. Up by Admiralty Arch the crowds were thick again, but here the people were standing in small groups, laughing and talking as they listened to the distant sound. There were ladies in evening dress and girls in frocks, men in tails and young fellows in open necks and blazers, a couple of sailors in their bellbottoms and flat white caps, a news vendor offering his papers, a policeman sauntering majestically, pausing by one of the groups.

  'That's right, miss,' Mr Franklin heard him say. 'I understand it's official that no satis-factory answer 'as been received to the government's hultimattum to Germany. Yes, sir, that means we are at war - now, if you'll please to pass along, ladies and gentlemen ... move along, please ...'

  So that was it. War. Mr Franklin thought about the labourer, and the Jew, and the Cockney, and wondered what they were doing. And Peggy - would there be any word from her tomorrow? In the small hours he made his way through the busy, laughing, bustling streets, gay with the heady news of conflict about to begin, and came home past the lighted windows of Belgravia to Wilton Cresent.

  26

  Royal Hibernian Hotel, Dawson Street, Dublin.

  Dear Mark,

  Daddy tells me that you've been holding the fort at Wilton Crescent while we've been over here, so I thought I should let you know that I shan't be coming back to London immediately. Susan Dean and Basil have asked me to spend a few days with them in Westmorland - as you know, Basil's brother John is at the Curragh, and when they heard from him that I was there with Daddy they sent the invitation through him, which was kind. And after that it would hardly be worth while coming up to Town again, as I promised to go to Scotland with the Stewarts for the `Glorious Twelfth', which always means .. .

  Mr Franklin paused in the doorway of the morning-room to turn the page. He had torn open the envelope as soon as he recognised Peggy's hand-writing, reading the first page as he crossed the hall. He moved aside to let the maid pass in with his coffee, and as she set it beside his place he went on reading.

  ... at least two weeks - I expect I'll be with them at Knockinsh until the twentieth or thereabouts, and then go over to the Cheshires' place near Crieff - I can never remember what it's called, something frightful in Gaelic, but you christened it Whisky Slide when we were there a few years ago, remember? They asked if you'd be coming, and so did Cecil Stewart. And there's the usual open invitation from Tommy Appin, who will be having all the big guns. So I shan't be darkening the doors of Wilton Crescent until September at the earliest, and probably only for a flying visit then, because dear Cecil was hinting heavily, as you know, about the Mediterranean - he's been dying to play Captain Kidd on his yacht ever since last autumn when I was with them at Antibes. I suppose all this war nonsense may put the kibosh on his cruising, but I hope not.

  Mr Franklin reached his chair and sat down. He poured himself a cup of coffee, and was preparing to take up the next page when the maid asked 'Mrs Fields said to ask what you'd like, sir - kidneys and bacon or a chop? Or she thought you might care for some kedgeree, sir?'

  He became aware that she was regarding him with slight apprehension, and had to shake himself mentally and ask her to repeat her question, while he forced himself to pay attention. This was Ellen, the parlour maid, the little jolly one who was being courted by Constable Atkinson; she was standing there in her starched cap and apron, with the tray held flat against her in the approved style, asking him what he wanted for breakfast. 'No, thanks, Ellen - nothing ... just some toast, perhaps. Oh, it's here, ... tell Mrs Fields.' She tripped out and he went back to the letter.

  So would you ask Polly to bring my trunk up on the ninth, and wait at the Station Hotel in Perth? She'll know what to bring me for the moors and so on. Tell her I'll be all right until then - I've got enough things for West
morland, and I shall be arriving at Perth on the tenth with the Stewarts and going on to Knockinsh the same day.

  Daddy has gone across to Galway to stay with an old friend of his for a few weeks - he's rather used up, and says he couldn't bear Oxton just now, which is understandable.

  Could you tell Polly to bring my red jewel case? I don't think she'd better be entrusted with the blue one from the safe - unless you're coming to Knockinsh, in which case perhaps you wouldn't mind bringing it with you.

  Fondest love,

  Peggy.

  Mr Franklin read the letter through carefully a second time, and then sat looking thoughtfully before him while his coffee went cold and untasted. So there it was, as plainly as though she had written it: 'We can go on or not, as you please, but it will be on my terms as far as I'm concerned. And on your terms as far as you're concerned. If that suits you, fine - if it doesn't, equally fine.' It was more or less what she had said to him on that morning after the Savoy Ball, and she was saying it again now to let him know that nothing had been changed by Arthur's death - to which she had not referred directly in her short letter.

  He could see her reasoning, or thought he could. If she had returned from Ireland to Wilton Crescent, and he had been there, he must have tried to comfort her, or at least sympathise in husbandly fashion, over her brother. And she did not want that; it would have blurred the lines of difference between them, perhaps led to the appearance of reconciliation of the fearful problem with which he had been confronted after the Savoy Ball. But the problem would have remained unresolved, or would have had to be thrashed out again without getting any nearer a solution. She was simply restating what they already knew, to let him know that outside, temporary, and necessarily sentimental considerations, like Arthur's tragedy, were not to be weighed in balancing the main issue, which was whether he would accept her terms for living, for marriage, or not. He was not deceived by the fact that she had not mentioned Arthur in the letter - he knew her well enough to understand that her feelings, her shock, and her grief would be things that she would not willingly share with anyone else, but that however serene a face she presented she would still be experiencing them underneath. In that respect, it was not as callous a letter as it might have appeared to a third party. It was, in fact, an eminently practical letter, carefully phrased to let him see what the position was, and leave the decision to him. She was making no plea, no recommendation, no statement of feeling one way or the other; she had carefully avoided any word or sentence that might disturb the delicate balance -'... unless you're coming to Knockinsh . . . ' '.. . they asked if you'd be coming. ..'Cool, guarded, realistic Peggy.

  When he came to think of it, the letter was not unlike half a dozen similar notes she had dashed off to him on occasions in the past, when she had changed plans at some country house or other -'Bobbie and Madge say why don't you meet us at Newmarket?' or 'Tom was asking if you'd feel like a spot of fishing - we don't expect to be coming back from Wales until next week, anyway.' But this time the circumstances were different; it was quite literally make or break, and they both knew it.

  In the meantime, it was the morning of August the fifth, and if Polly was to assemble her mistress's extensive wardrobe for the grouse moors, picnics, social calling, and, of course, the evenings, and no doubt foray through Bond Street for various cosmetic impedimenta, in time to catch the overnight train on the eighth, she might as well start now. He rang for her, passed on Peggy's instructions, and ordered hot coffee while he lit a cigarette and glanced at the morning paper. It was only after several minutes, when he realised that he had skimmed the main news page, which was devoted entirely to the war, and got half-way though a theatre review - Montague Love in Grumpy-without taking in a word, that he pushed the paper aside and rang for Samson.

  'Mrs Franklin's in Westmorland for a few days, staying with friends - doesn't feel like coming back to Town so soon after... her brother, you know. Then she'll be going up to Scotland for the Twelfth - I've told Polly, and she's getting everything together.'

  'I see, sir.' The square, impassive face displayed no more interest than usual. 'Will you be going to Scotland also, sir?'

  'I haven't made up my mind yet, Thomas. Mrs Franklin's going to be up there until well into September, so there's no desperate hurry. I think I'll probably go down to Lancing at the week-end. So you can start thinking about packing - for yourself as well.'

  Afterwards he went for a walk in the Park, and watched the unusual sight of ammunition wagons rumbling past under the trees, their khaki-clad drivers sweating in the hot sunshine as they cracked their whips and encouraged the heavy horses pulling the long tarpaulin covered carts. He walked on, following his feet along Piccadilly to the Circus, and observed the constables marshalling the crowd of men who were besieging a recruiting office which had opened near the corner of Regent Street. Men in their twenties, obviously in high spirits as they allowed themselves to be shepherded into line by the constables, all under the benevolent eye of an imposing warrant officer with three stripes and a crown on his arm, a broad red sash, and a magnificent waxed moustache.

  'All in good time, gentlemen!' he was saying. 'This is one shop where you'll find the customer is always right - provided he's the right customer. Single file, gentlemen, and we'll have you enlisted before you can say Jack Robinson.'

  'And you won't be calling us gentlemen then, Fatty!' sang out a voice from the queue.

  'That I won't,' agreed the warrant officer, with a genial chuckle. 'And you won't be calling me Fatty, neither. ' He winked at Mr Franklin and added: 'If you wouldn't mind moving along a little, please, sir - the photographers would like to take a picture. Unless, you'd care to join the queue? Always room for one more.'

  Mr Franklin stood aside; two men were erecting a camera tripod on

  the edge of the pavement, and the waiting queue was arranging itself to be snapped - men smiling with unabashed pleasure, others selfconsciously, some presenting impassive profiles as though this was a great performance about nothing, a few mugging shamelessly for the camera and being nudged playfully by their companions, those at the back craning on tiptoe so that they would get into the picture. Young men in jackets and open necks, working men in overalls, a bus conductor in his peaked cap, a drayman from one of the Piccadilly pubs in his apron, an obvious 'knut' in tight collar and rakish hat and spats, leaning nonchalantly on his stick, clerks in their humdrum suits, noisy Cockneys in boaters, a stout man in well-cut tweeds - passers-by were stopping, smiling, to watch; the warrant-officer, cane beneath his arm, drawn up as smartly as his portliness permitted, posed with a proudly proprietorial air.

  'All still! Smile, please! Stea-dy ... all smiling now.' A flash and a puff and a cheer from the crowd, and the queue relaxed, laughing and well pleased. At that moment there was the rumble of a charabanc drawing up at the kerb, and a squeaking of brakes, followed by female cries and greetings as a horde of young women descended and advanced on the queue; they were all unusually pretty and strikingly-dressed, and the thickening crowd pressed forward to look, while the would-be recruits grinned broadly and called out invitations. The photographers shouted, the police asked everyone to keep back, please, the girls attached themselves to the young men in the queue, and then there was a spatter of applause as a field officer in Sam Browne, red tabs, and gleaming riding boots appeared, handing down from the charabanc the guest of honour, the former third lead of the Folies Satire, now the reigning star of Shaftesbury Avenue and glittering attraction of the smash-hit revue, Pip, Squeak!, none other than 'that delightful celebrity, Miss Pip Delys, who with the young ladies of her company has kindly, and I may say, most patriotically, come to assist us in the worthy and - ah - noble cause, of ... of. .. er, recruiting.'

  Loud applause, a flashing smile and curtsey from the beautiful principal, who had chosen to appear for the occasion in her Lilian Russell costume, crimson spangled Victorian gown, huge feathered hat, and long parasol which, when unfurled, proved to be a Uni
on Jack. The field officer beamed and clapped his elegantly-gloved hands, the warrant-officer stamped and saluted with a flourish, the photographers shouted hoarsely for order, the chorus girls squealed and chattered with the grinning young men, and the pictures were taken. First Miss Delys was photographed in front of the queue with the field officer on one arm and a Chelsea Pensioner in his red coat on the other - as a tourist attraction he was almost as used to cameras as she was. Then the warrant-officer was persuaded to step bashfully forward, removing his cheese-cutter cap to reveal martially short hair apparently gummed down into a permanent cow's-lick; Pip cuddled him fondly while the crowd roared approval, the warrant-officer beamed and posed, the field officer smiled indulgently at this breach of discipline, and the flash recorded it for posterity.