Mr. American Read online

  'We'll give him worse than that, you'll see. Eh, Franklin? Now, look,' said his majesty, 'you'll come down and see us at Sandringham next month -what's the date of that, Halford? Ne'er mind; let Franklin know in good time. We'll have some shooting, and plenty of time for bridge and so on. You'll enjoy it; nothing like this - and his majesty frowned and waved his cigar at their surroundings with a deprecating gesture that would have given Sir Charles Clayton heart failure. 'Small party, good fun - some interesting people for you. You ought to meet them, get to know your way about.' The little eyes twinkled kindly, and Mr Franklin was amazed that he could ever have thought this charming old gentleman spoiled or ill-tempered. 'We'll have Jackie Fisher down, perhaps Churchill, we'll see. Which reminds me - excuse me, Franklin; no, don't go. The King turned to his aide. 'Jackie ought to know that he has to pack up at last; if he wants to do it gracefully, Asquith'll give him a title. But one way or the other, he's got to go. It's up to him. Where the devil,' his majesty resumed, 'is Alice? Women! Is there any one of 'em who can be on time? Had your breakfast yet, Franklin?'

  'No, sir - I shall in a moment.' Mr Franklin was looking for words. 'I thank you for inviting me next month; I'll be delighted-' He wasn't sure that he would be, but it had to be said.

  'My dear chap! Now, go and get your breakfast before the wolves descend. I gather there are young people whom we don't know about.' Mr Franklin nodded gravely. 'I shan't see you again,' added the King, `but we look forward to next month.'

  Mr Franklin had a feeling of being dismissed from audience, and wondered if he should back across the hall to the dining-room. Common sense triumphed in a slight bow before he turned away; as he reached the opposite door the King called: 'Oh, Franklin!' adding in a conspiratorial growl which echoed round the hall: 'Don't touch the haddock. Ghastly.'

  Thus advised, Mr Franklin went in to breakfast, which in its way was the biggest ordeal he had struck yet. There were four or five people round the table - Arlesdon, Lady Dalston, Ponsonby, Smith, someone else; they called 'Good morning!' loudly, and he went on to help himself from the buffet (Thornhill had briefed him on the etiquette of country-house breakfast). Being in no condition to attempt a cooked meal, he ignored the bacon, eggs, ham, kidneys, chops, and condemned haddock beneath the silver covers, contenting himself with fruit, toast and coffee, and sliding quietly into a seat beside Lady Dalston. She smiled automatically and made the usual formal enquiries before rejoining the conversation at large, which was well over Mr Franklin's head-some society children's party which was to take place at the Savoy, shooting at Quiddenham the following week, the new roller-skating craze. Mr Franklin concentrated on not crunching his toast, and studied the marmalade dish; once, Lady Dalston tried to draw him into the conversation by asking if he intended to visit Scotland before Christmas; she caught him with a mouthful of toast and apple, and he risked serious injury getting it down while she regarded him with cool interest; the hoarse 'No' with which he eventually succeeded in answering her seemed a poor return for her attention.

  He was pondering the curious fact that the informality of breakfast was infinitely more trying than the formality of dinner had been when they all got up and went out - the King was leaving. Mr Franklin, cup poised, supposed that etiquette demanded he should go out, too, to speed the departing monarch, and then thought, the hell with it, he can make it without me. So he lingered, in solitary enjoyment, over his toast and coffee, and wished he hadn't, for the King's departure evidently meant that the house was now free for the younger set, and presently he was invaded by a chattering horde who swarmed round the covers, loaded their plates, shouted and squealed at each other, and turned the quiet morning-room into something like a juvenile picnic.

  The fresh-faced Jeremy bounced down beside him, taking him aback by crying: 'Morning, Mark, old bean - shove the pepper along, will you?' Poppy followed, bright-eyed and blooming despite the fact, Mr Franklin calculated primly, that she had probably not slept at all. She startled him by kissing him resoundingly on the back of the neck, patting his head, and addressing him as Uncle Sam.

  'You don't look half as grim in tweeds,' she informed him as she sat down opposite and attacked a large plate of kedgeree. 'Does he, Jeremy? Proper old grizzly bear he was last night, too.' She bared her teeth across the table. 'Hallo, Arthur! Is that the other grizzly bear away - the teddy one? And the bee-yoo-tious Mrs Keppel. Oh, my deah, how ravishing!' She rolled her eyes in affected languour. 'You had to play cards with them last night, Mark, didn't you? You poor darling - how disky for you! Did Kingie cheat? Oh, shut up, Madge - stop shoving!' This to a slim and beautiful redhead who had sat down beside her; Poppy cast envious eyes on her flimsy morning dress. 'Oh, you grim pig! Is that Worth?'

  'Lucile,' said the redhead, 'and if you get marmalade on it I'll slay you.' She glanced across at Mr Franklin, who to his knowledge had never seen her before in his life. 'Hullo, Mark dear - can I have one of these cigarettes everyone's talking about? Oh, no, they're not just Colonel Bogeys? How common!' She pealed with laughter. 'The King thought they were marvellous, Peggy says; poor old ass never heard of them!'

  Arthur sat down beside Poppy, said 'Hullo, young pig-face,' and ruffled her hair. She pushed at him, upsetting his coffee-cup, and they squabbled like ten-year-olds until he threatened to push bacon down the back of her dress - as though they were in a nursery together, thought Mr Franklin, yet last night they had finished up ... oh, well. Beside him Jeremy, with his mouth full, was discussing cars with a young man at the other end of the table. The raised voices were lost in the din: '. . . keep your old Panhard rattle-trap! Haven't you seen Tony's Albion? Well, it's his pater's, anyway. Sixteen horsepower, two cylinders, goes uphill like a rocket - and Jack's going to give me a tool in his new Pilain. Six hundred and forty quid-all right if you've got it!'

  'Why's he called the octopus?' The redhead was calling across to a girl beside Mr Franklin. 'You'll find out if you go to the theatre with him! Ask Poppy - 'she turned to whisper, and Poppy choked with laughter. A squeal from the other end of the table drew all attention; a girl was doubled up, laughing and obviously beating off the under-the-table attentions of the boy beside her. 'Stop it, Hugh! Oh, now you've made me tear my stocking! You're an absolute blight!' And she struck him angrily on the cheek, to the accompaniment of cheers and light ribaldries.

  Children, thought Mr Franklin, grown-up children. It was only now, when he saw them in daylight, that he realised how young they were. It was his first good look at the rising generation of the British upper class, and while he found it rather disturbing, it was fascinating, too. The faces and bodies and appetites of adults, the smart clothes, the confident voices, loud and shrill, sophisticated far beyond their years - and at the same time minds and vocabularies which, so far as he could judge, hadn't progressed much beyond leading-strings. Their manners were appalling, their talk loaded with an amazing, affected slang, they aped the behaviour of their seniors - and yet there was something pathetically innocent about them, too. Innocent and vicious? That didn't make sense - until he looked across at Arthur and Poppy, chuckling together like toddlers, snatching together for the marmalade - and heard that bedroom door closing behind them a few hours before.

  It was their cast-iron confidence that impressed him particularly - it went with the good looks, of course, the shared experiences which obviously went back to infancy, the same schools, the same privileged world. How the dickens had he got here? He glanced round, and with a shock realised that the young woman who was sitting next to the girl who had slapped the forward Hugh, and had carried on talking to her neighbour as though nothing were happening, was Peggy. She caught his eye and waved, smiling, calling 'Good morning' through the noise, but at that moment Jeremy started a toast-throwing fight with another young man across the table, and Mr Franklin beat a diplomatic retreat to the hall. He was too old and defenceless, he decided.

  Seeing that the group who had seen off the King were still chatting on the gravel outside th
e front door, Mr Franklin turned abruptly down the passage to the back of the house; at the moment he wanted solitude as he had seldom wanted it in his life. The past interminable hours seemed to have been a steady procession of dreadful people, of high-pitched grating voices raised in clipped, confident tones. He could decently get away in an hour or two - for the first time he found himself thinking with real warmth of the tranquillity of Lancing Manor; could it be that he was homesick for it already? It struck him in that moment that Lancing Manor was home, more than anywhere else. A place to go back to; most importantly, at the moment, a place where he could be alone.

  The passage led him to the kitchen, where a startled cook directed him to the back door, and without hat or stick he strode out through a kitchen garden and into the paddock beyond, following his nose until he had put a safe distance between himself and the house. It was a sunny, misty morning, with the grass wet underfoot, and the very fact of escape from the cloying, nervous atmosphere of the house-party raised his spirits. He kicked contentedly at the piles of damp fallen leaves, breathing in the pure morning air, circling the wood beyond the paddock with his long, easy stride, and coming at last to a fenced track that ran along the wood leading back to the house. He was half-way along it when he saw that a man was standing by the wicket-gate at the far end; it would have looked odd if he had turned back so he carried on, and the figure turned out to be Sir Charles Clayton.

  His smile seemed rather warmer than any Mr Franklin had seen from him so far, and he looked a good deal happier than the harassed host of the previous night. Mr Franklin guessed that as soon as the King had been sped on his way, Sir Charles had taken the opportunity of a few minutes alone to let out several deep breaths; he seemed content just to be standing there, surveying a pleasant pastoral scene totally devoid of royalty. Mr Franklin remarked that it was a splendid view, and the narrow, intelligent face turned towards him.

  'You like land, Mr Franklin?'

  Mr Franklin gave the question his usual careful concentration, and replied: 'Yes, I guess so. I don't exactly think of it as land, though. We call it country.'

  Sir Charles laughed pleasantly, and nodded. 'There speaks the new world. When it has been enclosed, and worked and farmed for centuries, it's land; when it is open, unbroken, waiting to be possessed, it's country. Not everyone would appreciate the difference.' The grey eyes were interested. 'Do you intend to farm at Castle Lancing?'

  Mr Franklin shook his head. 'No, I have the garden round my house - that's all the farm I want.'

  'Ah. But then, you probably still have business interests in the United States.'

  Mr Franklin looked across the long meadows to the wooded slopes, and smiled. 'I doubt if there's much business, and even less interest, in the claim my partner and I left at Tonopah. You could say I'm in retirement, Sir Charles.'

  'But - you're still a young man.' Sir Charles hesitated, obviously reluctant to pry, but equally obviously interested. 'I gathered from Soveral that Norfolk is the county of your ancestors - as it is of mine. But don't you think it might pall; it must be very different from what you've been used to?'

  'Perhaps that's what I like about it,' said Mr Franklin. He realised

  that Sir Charles was regarding him with an almost benevolent concern. 'I don't know, Sir Charles. I've never stayed long in one place, but right now it suits me. That's all I can say.'

  'Well, I'm glad to hear it. I've no doubt that the last thing you intend is to rusticate. You'll find something in Norfolk to occupy you.' He added thoughtfully: 'It's what we need, heaven knows. Young blood. Our own fault, of course; we simply haven't made the best of what we have, or moved with the times.' He gestured at the meadows. 'Not that I'm a farmer - thirty years in the Army teach you precious little about agriculture - but if I were I'd probably be at my wits' end like the rest of them, what with shortage of labour, repairs, and the rest of it. Shooting rents mayn't be much, but they serve one's turn. But here I am, prosing on like some old Farmer Turvey - I do apologise.' He laughed easily. 'You must be thoroughly bored with hearing the English talk about England. If I were any sort of host I should be asking after you creature comforts, how you've enjoyed your stay ... oh, good. Last night wasn't too tiring, then?'

  'It was the most astonishing night, I think, that I ever spent in my life,' said Mr Franklin, and meant it.

  'Well, I suppose very few visitors ever meet the King, far less have the privilege of partnering him at bridge. Rather an ordeal, wasn't it?' Under the smiling regard of the grey eyes, Mr Franklin recalled that his first impression of Sir Charles had been of cool, calculating intelligence. 'Anyway, I thought you came through it extremely well. There's no doubt your presence added to his enjoyment of the visit.' That was as near as Sir Charles could decently come to saying that Mr Franklin's victory in the final rubber had prevented the visit from being a complete fiasco. 'My daughter and I are very grateful to you. I understand his majesty has asked you to Sandringham next month?'

  It was casually said, but Mr Franklin understood clearly that Sir Charles had not been asked, and never expected to be. He murmured a vague reply, and they walked towards the house' in silence. Once or twice Mr Franklin had the impression that his host was going to say something, but not until they had reached the edge of the gravel sweep did the baronet pause. Then he said:

  'I hadn't meant to mention it - wouldn't ordinarily discuss such a thing with a guest - but in the circumstances I feel I must.' He was looking ahead towards the house, the spare, rather severe profile turned to the American. 'My son tells me - or rather, having heard some talk, I made him tell me - that there was some unpleasantness in the west wing last night. In the first place I must apologise to you, personally, but that's not what I wished to say. I understand that Lord Lacy was behaving improperly towards one of the . . . female guests, and that you knocked him down. No, there is no need to say anything about it, Mr Franklin; it is a distasteful subject, and the last thing I should wish is to cause you the least embarrassment. That you should have been. . . forced to do what you did is distressing enough, and I am more sorry than I can say that you should have had to punish such behaviour under my roof. I can only assure you that I think your conduct was entirely proper.'

  Mr Franklin received this in silence, and after a moment Sir Charles went on:

  'However, as I said, I think I should not have mentioned the incident but for your own circumstances. You are entitled to an explanation. Lord Lacy has already left the house, and it is not my intention that he shall return. I cannot say that that troubles me unduly, but he was a neighbour, one knew him and received him as one does everyone in the county.' Mr Franklin rightly translated this as meaning everyone of a suitable social station. 'His father and I were good friends, served in the same regiment. You understand.' Sir Charles paused. 'Young Lacy and my own children have known each other since the nursery.' He paused again. 'But I am not prepared to excuse improper conduct, especially when it causes distress to guests in my house - and on this occasion of all occasions, when .' Sir Charles obviously found it difficult to put into words his emotions at the thought of royalty being made aware of immoral advances and brawling under his roof. On top of the ptarmigan pie it would have been too much. He turned to look Mr Franklin directly in the eye.

  'All this, you may think, is of no immediate concern to you. However, as I think you know, Lord Lacy is a close neighbour of yours at Castle Lancing, and I imagine that you will find him an unpleasant one.' He shrugged. 'He's influential, of course - on the bench, county council, and so forth - and knowing him, I'd expect him to do you any disservice that lies in his power. You have not only knocked him down, you understand, with all that that implies for a young man in his position, you have also been the indirect cause of his exclusion from a house where he had previously been welcomed, if only for his late father's sake. I can't regret that, from my own point of view; on the other hand, I'm deeply distressed at the thought that it might cause you any ... difficulty. Especia
lly since you are not only a guest in my house, but also in my country. I'm profoundly sorry.' He turned away and paced towards the house, with Mr Franklin keeping step. 'That's all I wanted to say, but I felt I must say it, to make things perfectly clear.'

  You've done that, too, thought Mr Franklin. I've not only given Lacy a sore stomach, I've been the indirect cause of scuppering his chances with your daughter - for which you're only half-thankful. You wouldn't regard him as the ideal son-in-law; on the other hand, he would have been a rich catch. Just so. He chose his reply carefully.

  'Well, thank you, sir - but don't be distressed on my account. From what I've seen of Lord Lacy, I'd probably have hit him sooner or later, anyway. I'm just sorry to have been the cause of any. ... trouble to you.'

  'Quite the contrary,' said Sir Charles briskly. 'We'll say no more about it. At least I hope that you understand that you are always more than welcome here, and that you will regard us not only as neighbours, but as friends.'

  It was courteously said, and yet Mr Franklin felt that there was more than formal politeness behind it. He doubted if Sir Charles was normally this forthcoming - of course, it might be that English hospitality dictated extra consideration towards a guest who'd been put to the trouble of rough-housing with furious peers in the middle of the night. He found himself wondering, too, if his host was always as stiffly puritanical as he appeared to have been towards Lacy - was the man entirely unaware that his son's friends habitually behaved like excited rabbits on a spring day?