Mr. American Read online

  'The neighbourhood is aware of your existence, and that your station in life is above the untouchable. These three gentlemen, possibly accompanied by the frightful women they are married to, have called to pay their respects, and on finding you not at home, have left cards, to show that they've been - and that if anyone has plundered the house in your absence, it wasn't them.'

  'What should I do?'

  'Nothing. Unless you feel like fleeing the country. I should, if I thought there was the remotest chance of meeting Mrs Aldridge.' 'You mean they'll come back?'

  'Certainly. They want to know you - and to see what your furniture's like, and your wallpaper, and to find out if you have three mad mistresses locked in the attic. Run the rule over you; see if you're fit to be received in society at large.' Thornhill's spectacles took on an evil glint. 'This is what comes of going six hearts before the face of kings, and roaring about like a social lion.'

  'I did precious little roaring,' said Mr Franklin. 'Look here, though, Thornhill - what do they expect of me?'

  'When they call on you? Well, to be received, of course - unless your servants tell them you're "not at home", in which case -'

  'Dammit, I don't have servants.'

  'Neither you do. Well, in that case, you have the delightful opportunity of opening the door yourself and saying that you're not at home. But if you invite them in - which in my view would be extremely rash - then you must regale them with afternoon tea, thinly-sliced bread and butter, cucumber sandwiches, scones, toasted tea-cake, Dundee cake, jam tarts, and conversation. Have some of this gingerbread and a glass of beer,' added Thornhill hospitably, thrusting the elements of his evening snack through the litter of his desk. Mr Franklin sat down abruptly.

  'The devil you say! But I. ..' It came home to him that he was not equipped to offer afternoon tea, or any other social entertainment, to visitors. It had been different with Peggy, but people who called formally, leaving cards . . . He looked round the cosy squalor of Thornhill's room, with its beer-bottle paperweights, scorched hearthrug, litter of paper, old clothes, and undusted furniture.

  'What,' he asked, 'do you do when people call?'

  'They don't,' said Thornhill contentedly, chewing gingerbread. 'One couple did, when I first came here, but they took one look at this he waved at the scholarly mess around him. 'That sickened them. They realised old Thornhill was beyond the pale - all the more so because I ought to have known better, and didn't. No good, Franklin. I ought to employ a housekeeper, at least, and dress decently, and have some yokel keeping my garden in order, and ride to hounds, and pay calls, and be a willing guest at their foul dinner-parties. But I don't and won't. Academic riff-raff, that's what I am, so they let me alone, thank God. Look, I wish you'd have some gingerbread - made it myself, and I can't stand the taste of the bloody stuff. Oh, well, if you won't, you won't.' He sighed and took another piece. 'But they won't let you get away with my sort of backsliding - not now that you've mingled with the topmost drawer.' He wagged his head with morbid satisfaction.

  How right he was Mr Franklin discovered a few ,afternoons later when Sir Peter and Lady Stringer descended on him. He was not entirely unready; afternoon tea, prepared by Mrs Laker, had been waiting under a cloth in the kitchen every day, with the result that on three successive afternoons Jake had been called in to dispose of platefuls of cucumber and tinned crab sandwiches, to the disturbance of his internal economy. On the fourth afternoon, however, the Stringers arrived, and Mr Franklin was able to entertain them suitably. True, there were minor embarrassments; he was helping Jake to clear a blocked drain when they arrived, and on hearing the front bell he thoughtlessly went round to see who was there, and so received his visitors in his shirt-sleeves, befouled to the elbows. Later, having made a hasty toilet, he was listening politely to Lady Stringer's small talk when he realised that he was still wearing wellington boots. And finally, when it came time for him to bear in the tea, he discovered that he had brewed the pot without any tea-leaves in it.

  However, the Stringers appeared to notice none of these things, and were affability itself. They invited him to dine, Sir Peter (who was, in fact, Colonel Dammit), asked him over to shoot, and towards the end of their call Lady Stringer, out of pure kindness for this strange American who was so obviously out of his depth, observed casually: 'I believe you have not engaged any servants yet, Mr Franklin? But of course you have been fully occupied settling in. Still, you will want to have made your arrangements before you go to Sandringham; please do let us know if we can be of any help.'

  The implications of this gave Mr Franklin food for thought. He had realised that at Oxton Hall the other older guests had brought their own servants with them; it now dawned on him that if he was going to visit the King, he would have to take a valet. But he didn't want a valet; he wouldn't know what to do with one. He could hire one, no doubt - there flashed across his mind the memory of the solid, dependable Thomas Samson, who had outfitted him in London. But Samson would only be interested in permanent employment - that wouldn't do, then. Or would it? After all, if people like the Stringers were going to call on him, he ought to have someone opening doors and carrying in tea-trays. .. oh, lord, was he being entrapped in-their ridiculous social customs already? At that, it would be convenient to have someone keeping house . . . why not Samson, if he was available? He'd liked the man, and they'd got on. And he couldn't entertain the idea of some motherly old housekeeper; it would have to be a man or nobody.

  He brooded over the matter that evening, and other trains of thought developed. The result was that on the following morning he went into Norwich, and visited the town's largest bookshop, where he scouted the shelves in the furtive manner of a visitor to Paris buying pornography, and emerged with a small volume entitled A Guide to Behaviour and Etiquette in Polite Society, purportedly written by a Member of the Nobility. Despising himself, but driven by necessity, he took it home to study, and its effect on him was much the same as a nervous hypochondriac experiences on reading a medical text-book.

  A brief survey of the book convinced him that it was impossible for any normal human being to endure for five minutes in the fashionable world without committing some gross blunder of protocol which would ensure his ostracism for ever. He had always supposed that his own behaviour was at least tolerable, and he had visited Oxton Hall in the belief that if a man conducted himself naturally and watched his table manners - and Mr Franklin's, instilled in innumerable frontier parlours, would have done credit to a Duke - he could rub by. Not so, according to the Member of the Nobility. He must know how to manage his hat and stick, and what to do with them when visiting a lady; he must know the ritual of card-leaving (Mr Franklin read, with bated breath, that as a foreigner - he was, he supposed, a foreigner - he should signify the fact by folding over one end of his cards); he must know all forms of style and address and precedence, in case he made the ridiculous error of supposing that a doctor of divinity was superior to an army officer of field rank; he must know how to reply to a christening invitation from a baronet's wife, how to address an unmarried lady if he met her in the street with a married lady to whom he hadn't been introduced, at what hours to ride in the Park (wherever the Park was), how to dress for a water-party (a water-party?), how to take leave after luncheon - it was all there, with awful warnings against the solecism of tipping servants at a hunt ball, or smoking while talking to a lady in public, or pronouncing Marjoribanks or Strachan or Ruthven the wrong way; there was even a whole chapter on when and when not to shake hands ... modes of address, rules even for bowing, walking, riding, and driving. .. `without the strict rules which etiquette imposes, it would be impossible for society to function satisfactorily; no matter what the social stratum, received manners and forms of address and behaviour are absolutely essential ...'

  `Who isn't a lady? Why, goddam you, you greasy, stinkin' old buzzard, I'll larn you whether I'm a lady or not!' He could hear the shrill voice of the dance-hall girl at Fanny Porter's in Fort Wo
rth, standing there, brassyhaired and strident, her tawdry red satin dress slipping off one shoulder, the paint streaked on her haggard face. `You ain't got a nickel's worth of manners, you lousy old drunk!' And Davis, fuming with liquor and staggering on the stairs, pushing aside Franklin's restraining hand. `I ain't drunk, I ain't stinkin', an' my manners is a dam sight too good for any two-bit hoor! So now! Manners, by Christ! You talk about manners, you poxed-up slut? Go get yourself an Injun, or a Mexican! Don't talk to me!' The girl screaming and hurling a bottle, old Davis tumbling downstairs bawling, the bouncers moving in and the fight breaking out, the chairs flying, the ornate glass window shattering, himself wrestling with an infuriated miner and going down in the wreckage of the chuckaluck cage, the shrieks and oaths and turmoil - and somehow he was lying half-stunned behind the wreckage of the bar, and the brassy-haired girl was crouching on hands and knees close by, her dress half off and one breast hanging out, mopping her nose and whimpering: `He said I wasn't a lady! Dirty ole bastard!' Her voice rising to a shrill wail. `I am - I am too a lady! I was brought up good-you know I was brought up good, don't you, mister? I got good manners . . .' The wail dying to a drunken sob. `... sure I got good manners, huh?' The smell ofcheap liquor and cheaper scent. `Say, you look like a nice boy . . . a real gennelman - you got good manners, huh? Know how to treat a lady, darlin', won' you treat me . . . ? All right, goddam you, you're so choosy, go an' git -. ' For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful sit up straight Mark elbows off the table there's a good boy ... manners maketh man . . . Sundance Harry Longbaugh bowing and pulling back the chair for Etta Place, pretty little Etta the schoolmarm, with her neat dark hair and shy smile, raising her coffee-cup with the finger daintily crooked . . . grimy hands reaching into the communal stew pot at Hole-in-the-Wall ... `I am too a lady! I got good manners! . . .'

  Mr Franklin sighed and continued to read at random. .. 'It would be the height of bad ton not to receive callers on an "at home" day .. . after coffee has been served the gentleman highest in rank shall lead the way to the drawing-room . . . a gentleman should never walk arm-in-arm with a lady out of doors unless she is of an age to require support . . . a young lady may drive a motor-car in the afternoon, but should not drive with a gentleman unless accompanied by a married lady or suitable chaperone ...'

  Mr Franklin muttered an exclamation familiar to the Bella Union saloon, but seldom heard in polite drawing-rooms, and thrust the book aside. What did such rubbish have to do with him? And who minded it? Peggy had driven alone with him, and no one so far as he could see had given a damn about precedence at Oxton Hall - the King always went first and that was that. But one passage in the Member of Nobility's work stuck in his mind: `... on visiting a country house, a gentleman shall be accompanied by his manservant; if he does not have one, his host may place one at his disposal, which is not an arrangement favoured in polite circles. ..' If he was going to Sandringham, he'd have to have a man, however much his nature revolted at the idea. And afterwards . . . was it so foolish, the idea of having someone around to run the place, look after things?

  On the spur of the moment he sat down and wrote a letter to the austere Mr Pride, of the London domestic agency, with the result that a bare week later the square sturdy figure of Thomas Samson walked up the gravel drive of Lancing Manor, bowler hat on head and well-worn suitcase in hand, and Mr Franklin, observing his approach from an upstairs window, felt a profound relief mingled with a vague regret, as though some virtue had passed away from him. And why should he feel that, the intangible sense of loss, of abandoning something, of surrender almost? It was only momentary and it passed with Samson's firm handshake, and the friendly steady look in the blue eyes as he returned Mr Franklin's greeting and then glanced round the hall and stairway of the house. `Very pleasant, sir, if I may say so. Shall I prepare some tea?'

  The relief was remarkable, and there was no doubt that in the next few weeks life became much easier. Mr Franklin found himself being weaned away, painlessly and without stress, from his normal irregular bachelor habits: meals became a matter of routine, as did his hours; there were fewer small chores to attend to, and yet no less to occupy him. In a strange way Samson's presence seemed to give a purpose to things; as though routine itself were a matter of occupation. Mr Franklin noted this without considering it deeply, and was aware of a security that he had not known before in his time at Lancing Manor. It did not occur to him that what he was feeling was the sense of no longer being alone in this curious world.

  And even that world, in the next few weeks, became gradually less alien. Several things happened which drew Mr Franklin closer into the web of local life, not all of them unmixedly pleasant. The first was a visit, proposed by Thornhill, to the old Mrs Bessie Reeve of Lye Cottage, she who had been a Franklin of Castle Lancing before her marriage, and therefore presumably Mr Franklin's distant kinswoman. He called on her not knowing quite what to expect, with Thornhill and the local curate in tow to break the ice, for it was explained that Mrs Reeve was not only old but deaf, and almost senile. Had he thought, Mr Franklin might have imagined a rose-festooned cottage with tiny windows and a thatched roof, tenanted by an apple-cheeked old lady in a mutch and apron, bobbing at the doorway and offering seed cake and elderberry wine in her spotless parlour, with a kettle singing on the hob and a black cat purring before a cheerful fire. The reality was rather different.

  Lye Cottage itself was outwardly decent enough, give or take a few missing slates, an apparent absence of paint in the last twenty years, and a garden head-high in nettles. Within, however, it was squalid beyond anything he could have imagined; the smell of damp and poverty hit his nostrils as he ducked his head under the low lintel. With a quick sweep his eyes took in the dim room: the rug with its pattern worn clean away, the rickety table and chair, the empty grate with a pan half-full of stale gruel on the hob, the threadbare sofa with a leg missing. He had a glimpse through a half-open door into a bare kitchen, and then the curate led him through into the bedroom, where a bundle was lying on a low bed in the corner, beneath the window. The walls were peeling, the floor was paved with stone flags; on the window-ledge was a jam-jar containing a few ferns. The bundle stirred as the curate, a hearty young man, shouted 'Good morning, Bessie, here's a visitor for you,' and with a shock Mr Franklin realised that the bundle was a tiny old woman, incredibly wizened, wrapped in grimy blankets. Two bright eyes peered fearfully up at him, and as the curate introduced him a toothless mouth opened and closed, and the little head nodded under its woollen hood. There was a choking smell of soiled linen mixed with camphor.

  'Your name was Franklin, too, Bessie,' shouted the curate, adding to Franklin, 'I'm afraid you'll have to yell at her.' Mr Franklin stooped over the bed and said loudly: 'How do you do, Mrs Reeve? I hope we're not disturbing you. I'm very glad to know you. We're from the same family.'

  'She doesn't hear you,' said the curate, and shouted: `His name's Franklin, Bessie! He's from America! He's come to see you! Isn't that nice?'

  The little old woman nodded again, and made a noise which might have been an acknowledgement. She reached out a small, claw-like hand to a tea-cup of brown liquid beside her bed.

  'It's damned draughty in here,' muttered Thornhill.

  'What's that, Bessie?' said the curate, picking up the cup she was reaching for. He sniffed. 'Good gracious, it's rum! Now, Bessie, you know you shouldn't - '

  The old woman made an unhappy noise, reaching. Thornhill said, 'Oh, come on, Ralph,' and the curate, with a reproachful murmur, handed her the cup. She sipped at it, and nodded.

  'It's a great pleasure meeting you,' shouted Mr Franklin, and held out his hand. The old woman hastened to protect her rum, shrinking back, and then, realising no harm was intended, put her free hand into Mr Franklin's palm for a moment. It felt like a few dried sticks.

  'She doesn't hear,' said the curate, but the old woman nodded and said: 'Franklin. Ar,' and returned to her rum, watching Mr Franklin over the
rim of the cup.

  'Doesn't anyone look after her?' asked Mr Franklin quietly, and before the curate could reply the old woman croaked: 'No. Here by meself.'

  'Yes!' shouted the curate. 'You're here all alone, aren't you, Bessie? All by yourself, I said. But Mrs Farrar looks after you sometimes! MRS FARRAR LOOKS AFTER YOU SOMETIMES, DOESN'T SHE?'

  'Ar. Sometimes.'

  'Yes, the neighbours keep an eye on her,' said the curate. 'And she has an order for medical attendance from the relieving officer. You get along all right, don't you, Bessie?' he roared, and Mrs Reeve sipped at her rum and nodded.

  'She seems to be able to get booze, anyway,' muttered Thornhill. 'She can't be too badly off.'

  'She couldn't be much worse off,' said Mr Franklin. He hunkered down beside the bed and raised his voice. 'How do you cook, Mrs Reeve? How do you ... eat? Do you get enough to eat?'

  The old woman stared at him and nodded. 'Turnips,' she said.

  'You eat turnips?'

  'You had some turnip for dinner yesterday, didn't you, Bessie?' said the curate, and added: 'Mrs Farrar sees she gets something. The parish does what it can, of course; we make sure she gets sufficient. It's terribly difficult, though; the poor relief doesn't go as far as we'd like.'

  The old woman, watching them, took another cautious sip at her rum, and then fumbled with her free hand in the recesses of her bedding, bringing out at last what looked like a very old boiled sweet. She put it in her mouth, sucked, and looked at Mr Franklin.

  'Don't like the taste,' she croaked, and sipped again.