Mr. American

by George MacDonald Fraser

  Mr Franklin himself travelled up the following day, having packed his few remaining personal affects. He stood for a few moments in the hall, glancing round; all the furniture, the rugs, the curtains, the pictures, were his own additions, bought since he came to England - the only thing out of place was the big charro saddle, mounted on its stand in a corner. He looked at it for a moment and then thought, let it stay, and went out and locked the door for the last time. The horse and trap were in the drive, and he wheeled out of the gates beneath the beeches and chestnuts and drove up the road without a backward glance.

  It was as he was bowling through the village that he suddenly remembered something and drew up outside the Apple Tree and went in. There were a few of the locals enjoying a liquid lunch, and Mr Herbert was on duty at the bar, under the horse brasses.

  'I just remembered, I forgot to turn off the stopcock,' said Mr Franklin. 'Would you mind asking Jake to attend to it? Thanks.' Normally, on such an occasion, he would have left a half-crown to be passed on to his aged retainer, but not this time; Jake, like all the others who had rendered services during his time in Castle Lancing, would receive an unexpected honorarium in due course, via Mr Franklin's lawyer in Thetford. He was turning away when he almost bumped into a young man coming into the pub - a stalwart youth in new khaki, whose face was familiar. Mr Franklin halted.

  'Why, Tommy Marsh!' He stared in surprise, while the soldier grinned broadly. 'What on earth - you're never in the Army!'

  He had seen the boy very occasionally over the years; presumably he had been working farther afield, and Mr Franklin had barely noticed the gradual change from the cheeky urchin who had drawn attention to his deplorably unarmed condition that first night in Castle Lancing.

  'You can't be old enough!' he exclaimed.

  'I am, though,' said Tommy. 'I'm eighteen - bin in the Terriers this last year, nigh on. I'm goin' into camp tomorrow.'

  'Well, I'm blessed!' Mr Franklin shook his head, smiling. 'Well, you look swell, Tommy. What does your mother say?'

  'Ah, she don't mind,' said the boy. 'It's the old man I got to worry about -'e wants to know why I ain't joinin' the Navy, like 'e did. Yeah - so I says: "Look, gaffer, my territorial battalion's a Norfolk Regiment battalion, an' the Norfolks was the first marines in the ole days, an' that's as close to the Navy as any respectable man wants to get, ain't it?" Tommy laughed, and the locals grinned, and Mr Franklin demanded a pint of Mr Herbert's best for the recruit. He hesitated at a further thought that crossed his mind, and then decided, the blazes with it, and extracted a five-pound note from his wallet.

  'You keep that by you, Tommy - for when rations are short or you need something warm,' he said, and Tommy beamed widely and nodded.

  'Say, thanks,' he said, as they shook hands. 'Thanks very much, squire.' It was the use of the last word that assured Mr Franklin that he had done the right thing; well, there'd be another squire in Castle Lancing presently, once he had got well away and could order his lawyer to dispose of the Manor without his personally having to go through the painful rigmarole of estate agents and prospective buyers. Unless Peggy wanted it kept on, which wasn't likely. And when the time came, and he gave the word, and alien inhabitants moved in, he would not know who they were, or what they were doing to the old house. It would be better so.

  He arrived in London in the late afternoon to find that Samson had everything in readiness for the next day's journey to Liverpool; a stateroom had been reserved on the Aquitania, a room at the Adelphi, and a first-class single on the afternoon train. His effects had gone ahead, variously labelled wanted on voyage or otherwise, and a large suitcase would serve until he got on board. All was arranged; his tickets were on his bedside table. In the meantime he had an evening ahead of him, and it seemed only appropriate to have a last look at London.

  And yet he hesitated. Now that the decision was well taken, and he was calm and quiet in his mind, not unduly depressed, but merely subdued, he had no desire to go out into all the bustle and noise and glitter and activity. It would only remind him of things he would rather forget, things that were going to be put behind him now; he would be sure to compare it with the first breath-taking exciting night, when the taxi-driver had driven him to the Embankment, and he had been engulfed in the wonder of the enchanted city - and Lady Helen had slapped his face outside the Waldorf. And then on the next night there had been the theatre, and his chance encounter with Pip in that grimy alley by the stage-door, and the wilting bunch of flowers in his hand, and her blonde curls glinting under the lamp, and that mischievous inviting smile, and then the dazzling luxury of Monico's, and ... the rest of it.

  It had all been so fresh and new and inviting then, and he had still been dreaming, in his quiet way. It would be different now. He had turned over in his mind the idea of seeing Pip again - perhaps getting a seat for Pip, Squeak! and calling round on her afterwards, but that would have been too much like playing the gramophone record backwards, and he knew it would just have meant discussing his departure, and the reasons for it, and Pip was far too shrewd not to have linked herself with his break-up with Peggy ... no, it would not have done. So he had a quiet dinner at home, and sat up and read Beasts and Superbeasts - it was at least funny, which made it a welcome change from Dubliners, and yet after a few stories he realised that it was somehow uncomfortably close to home. Saki's images of the England that he knew all too well, and which were delighting and convulsing polite society that month, were such a brilliantly accurate reflection of part of his own experience, of all that he had found to dislike and despise, of the very things that he felt had betrayed his own vague hopes, that he had to close the book and lay it aside.

  It was all in there - all the affectation, and snobbery, and brittle emptiness, all the cruelty and shallowness and false values, dissected by a master surgeon who inspected it idly, turned it over contemptuously, and then discarded it with the flick of an epigram. Peggy seemed to be on every page - clever, unscrupulous, beautiful, selfish, and heartless. She could have doubled for any one of the author's sophisticated little bitches; the young men who inhabited her circle were so many Clovises; their amusements, their pursuits, their arrogant, self-satisfied, callous manners, even the smart cross-talk in which they conversed, or put the upstart or the underling in his place, seemed to echo so much that he had heard in the dining and drawing rooms of the West End. He had to admire the skill with which Saki could hold them up to themselves and make them like it - he wondered idly what such a writer could be like, and decided he was probably the complete opposite of the things he described; for one thing, he'd be a deal too intelligent to resemble the people he used as his models.

  And after all, they were only stories, written for fun, and if they touched raw nerves in him that was his own fault and his own bad luck. And that was only apart, a very small part, of England, like the charmed vicious circle he had seen round King Edward. There was another England, too, the England of those three men he had heard talking in the Fleet Street pub, good-humoured and basically decent and ordinary, or the England of Pip, with its vulgar earthy honesty and cheerful vitality, or the England of Thornhill and Jake and Jack Prior and Tommy Marsh, that he had grown truly to love, and that he felt he had become a part of- perhaps had always been a part of in his own way.

  He caught the Liverpool train from Euston the following afternoon. He had simply shaken hands with Samson and said goodbye, and been whirled away in his taxi through Mayfair and across Oxford Street, to a station that was thronged with troops in khaki, fresh-faced young men in peaked caps and boots and tightly-wrapped puttees, with haversacks slung on their hips, rolled blankets over their big packs, and snub-nosed rifles in their hands. They waited cheerfully in raucous groups, cigarettes pasted on to their lips, chaffing the girls and yelling their catch-phrases; the civilians smiled indulgently as they hurried past to their trains, harassed sergeants strode to and fro in an endless quest for missing men, or their superior officers, or orders about wha
t to do next, or information, and ended up blaspheming at station officials, or fate, or the misfortunes of war, while their insolent charges cried encouragement. Mr Franklin passed by a news bill proclaiming: 'French Government Leaves Paris', and found his first-class carriage; a porter heaved his bag on to the rack, three other gentlemen glanced up with the vaguely hostile silence of the British railway traveller, and returned to their newspapers, and Mr Franklin took his corner seat. He was thankful that Samson had managed to book him a place (facing the engine, trust Samson), for the platform had been a mass of troops and travellers struggling for seats in the second and third class compartments.

  Two of the gentlemen in the compartment evidently knew each other intimately, since they exchanged several sentences in the fifteen minutes before the train departed.

  'I see the Germans have crossed the Marne,' said one, and there was a long pause before his companion replied: 'According to this report, they'll be in Rheims by tomorrow.' Silence fell again, and Mr Franklin studied the steam hissing up past the carriage window. Then the first man observed:

  'The Russians have changed the name of St Petersburg to Petrograd.' 'What for?'

  'Doesn't say. Possibly in the hope that the Germans will mistake it for somewhere else.' They both laughed, and the second one said:

  'Be interesting to see if the French decide to change the name of Paris. I must say it seems to me the height of irresponsibility to move the government to Bordeaux - damn it, they couldn't have gone any farther without being in the sea.'

  'Best place for 'em,' said the first.

  'Doesn't display much confidence on their part, anyway,' said the other. 'It's tantamount to admitting that they expect the Germans to take Paris in the next few weeks - the very sort of scuttle that could easily breed panic.'

  'Well, thank God we've got the navy. By the way we're being pushed back from Mons, we're going to need it.'

  On this comforting thought they relapsed into silence, and presently the train started off, chugging north through the endless grey buildings and warehouses and serried rows of grimy roofs. Mr Franklin looked out at them with unseeing eyes, while the wheels thundered their metallic rhythm, and occasionally a paper rustled in the compartment. He was lost in thought as the train rattled on, and the city gave way to the countryside, with its flat green meadows and hedgerows and occasional woodland; he did not notice the names of the stations as they sped by, for his eyes and ears were elsewhere, looking and listening at the memories of five long years.

  `You want to go down there, sir? Paradise Street? Takes us oot o' the road to the Adelphi, like.' The Liverpool cabby, his face astonished and disappointed, at this fare who wasn't interested in where Mr Gladstone had been born .. .

  `... if anyone had suggested to me that an American polo team could come over here and open our eyes to the game, well. ..' The white-whiskered old buffer in the train south. `Give me a call if you feel like a week-end's shooting. The Turf Club. ..'

  `... a copy of the Englishwoman. Will you please buy it and support the cause of women's rights?' Those splendid hazel eyes in the long handsome face with its generous mouth and imperious nose. `Now, then, miss, please to move along, you're annoying this gentleman ...'

  `Plain grey in spats, I think. . . . I'll look back in a couple of hours .. . very passable, sir.' Samson's face reflected in the glass. `I've known frauds, sir, and gentlemen ... I've even known some Americans ... will there be anything else, sir ...?'

  `Have you got five quid? You're sure - 'cos if you're not, we could go dutch - that's fifty-fifty.' Pip's face, pretty and earnest, with the slight squint in the happy blue eyes. `I'm sorry ... I'm dead common, aren't I?' The splendid milk-white body soft in his hands, the red lips pursing impudently at him. `Go and bolt the door. I want to enjoy myself... Good-night, Mr American ... Boiled beef and carrots . . . '

  `Good God! You've come back ... after all these generations.... Look - Johannes Franklinus .. The thin lettering in the flickering match-light

  . `Welcome home...'

  `Break the dam' thing open!' ... `Come on, Jarvie!' ... `Please, sir, may we have our fox back?' The angel face, the red mouth touched with that mocking little smile. `... this is the King's Highway, I reckon ...'

  Mrs Keppel's perfume, her jewelled wrist on the table, Soveral's veiled eyes, the bearded pouchy face opposite him. `Very good, partner. Let us go, indeed. I trust I have... ah, spread them to your satisfaction.' `Double six hearts.' `Redouble' ... green eyes smiling, hesitant . . . the ace of diamonds going down . . .

  `You like land, Mr Franklin?' `We call it country...'

  `What are you doing?' `Well, I'm living here. ..'

  `... we're not one of the invitations you're determined to refuse ... ?' The soft lips opening beneath his own, the half-closed eyes. `Don't do that too often, or you'll find yourself married before you know it ... '

  'Ar, my name wor Franklin.' The old, wrinkled face, and the skinny claw-like hand in his. `You're ... Franklin?' The earth on the coffin, Jack Prior's handshake crushing his fingers, the steady grey eyes in the broad weathered face. Bessie Reeve Franklin. The rain on the wet green grass in Castle Lancing churchyard.

  `So that you could flirt over the teacups, perhaps? It would be a waste of time.' The chilly smile. . . : `The stuffed dates are delicious . . .' Churchill's cheerful grin: `America and England - it's the hope of the world; the only hope ...'

  `This year you'll make your first snowman ...' The glowing warmth of the fire in the darkened room, and Peggy in his arms, her head cradled beneath his chin . . . the perfume of her in his bed, the sleepy lust in her eyes. `We could go on doing this forever . . .' The passionate body against his beneath the mosquito net under the Caribbean night sky.

  'Lichfield! Change for Birmingham, Nottingham, and Derby! Lichfield!' The cry of the porter roused him; another platform crowded with people, and again the inevitable khaki figures among them; feet shuffling in the corridor, a carriage door slamming, and the shrill whistle, the swirl of steam, and they were gliding on again. One of the passengers yawned and folded his hands across his ample stomach, closing his eyes; Mr Franklin sat in his corner and watched the telegraph posts flying past.

  `... hope I don't intrude. My name's Logan. I understand there's a Mr Franklin staying . . .' The bright dark eyes, the tea cakes and scones disappearing under the straggling moustache. `You're fixed kind of pretty here, Mark . . . I want exactly one half of everything you've got . . . you've got nothing when you're dead. ..'

  `I'm certainly not leaving you on your own, sir. If you wish to give me notice, that's another matter ... Perhaps if I was to prepare some sandwiches - there is some rather good roast ham . . .' The wind sighing outside the house, movement by the hedge in the distant moonlight, the soft footed walk to his bedroom door, working his numb hand, opening the door - then the wild glaring eyes, the booming crash of shots, the little twisted figure soaked in blood. .. `You were right, sir, he's quick.' The hiss of falling rain, the mud sucking at his feet, the blanket-wrapped bundle thumping into the grave, the pale dawn over Lye Thicket.

  `Am I right in thinking that Peggy has shown no strong inclination for a family?' Sir Charles's keen, thin face turned towards him. 'If I've an ambition, it's to lead a grandson's first pony along the bridle path yonder . . . '

  `... among those enjoying the ice at Murren . . . Lord Lacy of Gower Castle, Norfolk ...,

  'And you're a settled married man? Why, you sly Yankee, you!' Pip strutting and swaying across the stage at the Lotus Club. `See that ragtime couple over there? Watch them throw their shoulders in the air. ..' The tip of her tongue, hard and polished from the sweatshop. `Hasn't England been the way you thought it would be ... ? ... Good night, Mr American. ..'

  `He was going to resign! Mark, if he hasn't - something must have happened . . . oh, but there must be some good reason for it!' Peggy's hands twisting, her eyes pleading with him not to ask .. .

  `The report says that the ship sailed fr
om Hamburg. . Then the ice-cold, beautiful face in the twilight. `I'm sorry about it, Mark . . . I was out to deceive and swindle, remember. .. ?", .. Shall we play? We might as well.'

  Shattered canvas at the Royal Academy, and a frail little woman sobbing with her beret askew. .. `Did she not attempt to strike you with the parasol? Did Shore attempt to strike Miss Delys with the hatchet?'. .. `You will go to prison for three years . . .' Lady Helen white and furious in the dock. `No! No! I will not accept this!' ... and her voice suddenly gentle in the cab, as the old man snored in the corner. `... he asked one of the Marines to give him his bat - "That'll do better than a medal. " We're very proud of him, of course ... absolutely selfish and dishonest and quite shameless ...'