Mr American

“Three to get,” muttered the King, presumably in case Mr Franklin had not noticed. His majesty had roused slightly from his gloomy apathy, and was regarding the table as a rabbit watches a snake: there were nine tricks in front of the American – perhaps the age of miracles had not passed. His majesty’s asthmatic wheezing rustled through the room as Mr Franklin led a heart, and Mrs Keppel dropped her diamond king. Perspiring freely, Mr Franklin led his last heart and smiled hopefully at Mrs Keppel, who frowned pathetically and said: “Oh, dear.”

She fingered her cards and bit her lip. “Oh, it is so difficult … I never know what to play. And I always get it wrong, you know.” The green eyes met Mr Franklin’s, and his tiny flickering hope died; they were smiling quizzically – she knew perfectly well he had a diamond, it seemed to him. She toyed with her cards, hesitating – and played the ace of diamonds. The King choked, Soveral sighed, Mr Franklin gathered in the trick, played his nine of diamonds, and Mrs Keppel emitted a most realistic squeal of dismay as she faced her queen of clubs. There was an instant’s sensation as Soveral’s last card went down – a spade – and the King was roaring with delight, coughing and slapping the table: “Well done, Franklin! Oh, well done indeed! Game and rubber! What, Soveral? Pegged out to dry, hey? Oh, Alice, you foolish girl! The Yankee sharper bluffed you into the wrong discard, didn’t he? Oh, my!”

That’s what you think, reflected Mr Franklin, as Mrs Keppel feigned pretty confusion and exclaimed: “Oh, I am such a goose! I always get it wrong – if only I would count the cards, but I always forget! Oh, marquis, what must you think?”

What the marquis thought was fairly obvious, at least to Mr Franklin, but of course he gallantly brushed her penitence aside, and said seriously that it must have been an extremely difficult decision; he was not sure that she had not, in theory, been right. Mr Franklin wondered if there was irony in the words, but if there was, the King did not catch it; he called for whisky nightcaps, clapped Mr Franklin on the shoulder and said they must play together again, and twitted Mrs Keppel unmercifully as he led her to the centre of the laughing group at the fireplace. Mr Franklin offered his arm to Peggy.

“Thank goodness you won at last,” she said. “I shudder to think what he’d have been like at breakfast if you hadn’t. Daddy said he was sure you must go down.” She studied him sidelong. “Do you do everything as well as you play bridge?”

“I hope not,” said Mr Franklin, and as Soveral joined them, he added: “Mrs Keppel was the one who played well, I thought,” and Peggy wondered why Soveral laughed. By the fire the King was being noisily jovial at Mrs Keppel’s expense as he sat back, contented, whisky glass in hand, cigar going nicely, and the beautiful Alice, sitting gracefully on the rug by the royal knee, laughed gaily at what she called her own feather-brain; her expression did not change when she met Mr Franklin’s eyes, and he wondered, with a momentary revulsion, if it was always like this in the royal circle – the petty deceits and subterfuges to keep the monarch amused, to order events for his satisfaction. Was the King himself deceived, or did he, too, join in the pretence? Perhaps it was the warmth of the room, the smoky atmosphere, the long game, the over-indulgence in hock, but Mr Franklin felt vaguely uncomfortable, even ashamed – not for himself, really, but for being a part of it all. It was so trifling, and yet – he listened to Mrs Keppel’s tinkling laugh at one of the King’s sallies, and realized that once again he, too, was smiling mechanically and making approving noises. Soveral, score-card in hand, was announcing smoothly that the last rubber had comfortably levelled up his majesty’s score over the night, and Mr Franklin received a handful of sovereigns from the marquis and polite applause led by Mrs Keppel, tapping her palm on her wrist and smiling up at him. He bowed and pocketed the coins, reflecting that she probably considered it money well spent, and the game well lost, if it ensured his majesty a happy repose.

8

Finally, it was over; the King, yawning but affable, withdrew, a collective inward sigh was heaved, Sir Charles Clayton was smiling a tired smile of pure relief, and the party drifted out into the hall, the dinner guests to go to their cars, and one or two, like Mr Franklin, to be shown their rooms for the night. He, having arrived late, had not yet had one assigned to him, and Peggy summoned her brother from the other end of the house, whence came a sound of distant revelry; the younger set, it seemed, kept hours just as late as their elders, but probably a good deal more happily.

“You ought to have the chamber of honour,” said Arthur, as he led Mr Franklin upstairs. “Peg says you saved the day. Good scout.” And he patted the American affectionately on the shoulder. “But this is the best we can do, I’m afraid –” He led the way along a narrow corridor which seemed to lead to the very end of the gloomy upper floor. Mr Franklin noticed that the doors they passed had visiting cards pinned to them; his own, when they reached it, had a sheet of paper marked “Mr Franklin’.

“If you need anything, pull the bell, but don’t be surprised if it comes out of the wall,” said Arthur cheerfully. “We’re rather in need of repair, I’m afraid. Someone’ll bring your shaving water in the morning. Good night, old chap.”

Repair was about right, thought Mr Franklin, as he prepared to undress; the room was decidedly shabby – much shabbier than he’d have expected from the comfort of the rooms downstairs. Probably the Claytons hadn’t had so many guests in living memory, and of course all the attention would be lavished on royalty’s apartments. But he remembered the hired cutlery and crockery and wondered again, idly, if old Clayton was perhaps pretty well stretched. None of his business, of course, but they seemed nice folk – Peggy was an uncommonly attractive girl, not just for her seraphic beauty, but for the spirit that lay underneath; she looked like an English rose, but there were some pretty sharp thorns on that shapely stem, or he was much mistaken.

What a strange day it had been – how long since he set off to West Walsham? Eighteen hours? And then the ridiculous fox business, and his frantic preparations with Thornhill, and the dinner, and that astonishing game which he still didn’t know how to play properly – and he’d met and talked to the King of England, and shared that intimacy of bridge partnership – that was the odd, unbelievable part, that for a time he had occupied the King’s thoughts, and been the object of his attention: he, Mark Franklin, nobody from nowhere. And yet he was just as much somebody as the King was, after all – just not so many people knew him. And he’d sniffed the air of a court, and in its way it was just like the history his father had taught him – about the Caesars, and the Italian tyrants, and Henry VIII, who slapped people in jail because their faces didn’t fit, or clipped their heads and ears off. Would he have bid six hearts with Henry VIII sitting over the way? There was a thought, now. He turned down the lamp, rolled into the creaking bed, and felt his head throb and spin as soon as it hit the pillow. He knew he wouldn’t sleep easily.

From far off, below him, he could hear the distant murmur of voices, and music, amd muffled laughter; Arthur’s friends were still whooping it up down there. No doubt they were at a safe distance from royalty; it was quite a soothing murmur, anyway, and Mr Franklin must have dozed off, for suddenly he was conscious that the voices were sharp and clear and much closer – in the corridor outside his room, feet clattering, and laughter, and the squeal of feminine laughter. “Where’s Rhoda? Oh, Jeremy, you utter idiot – well, you’ll just have to go back for it!” “Which is my room, then?” “I dunno, can’t you read, Daphne?” “I say, Connie, old thing, give us a ciggy.” “Oh, lor’, look at my dress?” “What is it – custard?” Squeals of laughter, young men’s babbling, idiot catch-phrases: “Oh, a divvy party!” “Oh, Jeremy, how too horridino! Take it away!” Squeak, giggle, clatter, at the tops of their shrill voices, doors slamming – Mr Franklin groaned softly and wondered how long it would be before they shut up. After a few moments it subsided, with only occasional cries and laughter muffled by the walls; then whispers and stifled giggling, furtive rustlings as later arrivals hurried along the passage; Mr Franklin dozed again, uneasily …

His door opened and closed, feet swiftly crossed the room, and in one instinctive moment he was out of bed before he was even awake, crouched and ready, his hand automatically snaking under his pillow. A lamp was turned up brilliantly, dazzling him, a female voice cooed playfully: “All right, Frankie, here’s a little coochy-woochy come to get you!” and Mr Franklin had a horrifying vision of a plump, dark-haired young lady throwing aside her frilly dressing-gown and sprawling naked on the bed he had just left. “Where are …” she began, surveying the empty bed, and then her eyes met his, a yard away, and she squealed aloud, putting her knuckles to her mouth. “Oh, my God! You’re not Frank! Oh! Oh, my God!”

“I’m Franklin,” he said mechanically, and the young lady squealed again and belatedly snatched the sheet up to her chin.

“Oh! Oh, my God! What are you doing here? This is Frank’s room! Go away!”

“It’s my room!” Mr Franklin crouched, appalled. “Franklin. You’ve made –”

“What?” The dark eyes stared in panic. “Oh, my God, my God! But the door …” She squealed again. “That bloody Jeremy! He’s changed the cards! The swine! Oh, God!” She dived completely under the covers. Her voice sounded muffled. “Go away!”

“I can’t.” Mr Franklin, standing in his nightshirt, observing the heaving sheet with alarm, was at a loss. “This is my room – I … I … can’t just … here.” He walked round the bed, picked up the discarded flimsy gown, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Take your … your robe, and get out, quick. Before someone comes.”

“What?” An eye peeped from beneath the sheet. “You mean you’ve got someone …”

“I don’t mean anything of the dam’ sort!” hissed Mr Franklin. “Look – take it and vamoose, will you?”

“No! I can’t! Oh, God, why don’t you go away! If Frank finds out he’ll …”

“Will you get out of here – please?” whispered Mr Franklin, desperately. “Look, you can’t stay here –”

“Damn that rotten little toad Jeremy!” Suddenly her head came out. “My God – I wonder whose name he’s put on Frank’s door? Here, who are you, anyway?”

“That doesn’t really matter!” He was beginning to get thoroughly annoyed. “Will you please go?”

“You’re American,” said the young lady. “I say, what an utter frost!” She brushed the hair out of her eyes, still keeping the sheet firmly in place. Then, alarmingly, she giggled; Mr Franklin wondered was she going to have hysterics. But she seemed to have regained her composure remarkably.

“That little brute! Of all the mean tricks!” She giggled again, considering Mr Franklin. “You weren’t in the crowd downstairs, were you? I’d have seen you – I mean, I’d have noticed you.” She nibbled the top of the sheet. “You’re rather divvy, really.” And she giggled once more, infuriatingly.

Mr Franklin took a deep breath. Then he dropped the dressing-gown on the bed, walked to the door, took hold of the knob, and jerked with his thumb. “Out,” he said.

The young lady looked at the robe and tossed her head. “You’re not very gallant! I mean, it’s not my fault I mistook your rotten room, is it?”

“Out!”

“Well, it isn’t! So there’s no need to be horrid. I mean, it could happen to anyone.” Again the giggle. “It’s rather a lark, really – gosh, what would Frank say?” And to his alarm, the young lady snuggled down in the bed. “Anyway, it’s awfully comfy here.”

Mr Franklin felt the hairs rise on his neck. He was not a prude, and faced with Pip Delys in a similar situation, he had been human enough not to hesitate above a moment. But that had been entirely different: Pip had known precisely what she was doing, and he doubted if this young woman did. This was a silly, feckless, no doubt promiscuous but completely irresponsible little piece of … of English upper-class stupidity – or so he supposed. My God, was the country just one great cat-house? Or had he got her wrong? Was she just so dam’ stupid that she didn’t realize what she was doing? Was she drunk – probably under the influence, slightly, but not so that it mattered. No, she thought it was just a great lark – and since she’d been going to roll in the hay with someone – Frank, whoever he was – well, presumably the next best thing would do. Mr Franklin swore softly, and at that moment there were feet moving in the passage, and a voice was whispering irritably:

“Poppy? Poppy? Where the devil are you?”

There was a muted squeak and giggle from the bed. “Oh, golly – that’s Frank!”

“Poppy? Oh, come on! What are you playing at?” The voice was louder, and impatient. “Poppy! Damnation! Poppy!”

“Poppy’s killed in South Africa,” called a distant male voice, and a girl laughed shrilly. The footsteps paused outside Mr Franklin’s door, and he heard a match being struck; a distant door opened and a young voice called: “What on earth’s up, Frank? Why the blazes can’t you go to bed?”

“Which is Poppy’s room?” The questioner was on the other side of the panels, loud and truculent. “Blast! Oh, go to hell, Jeremy!”

Convulsive rustlings came from Mr Franklin’s bed; he could hear Poppy giggling hysterically. The young voice was coming closer, laughing: “Oh, leave off, Frank! You’re tight, you silly ass! Poppy’s fast asleep by …”

“Shut up!” Another match scratched, followed by heavy breathing. “What? This is my room – but it’s not … what the hell?”

“Well, if it’s your room, Poppy’s probably in there, don’t you think?” The malicious amusement in the young voice was evident, and then abruptly the door was thrust open almost in Mr Franklin’s face, and in the bedside light’s gleam a large young man in evening dress shirt and trousers stood framed in the doorway. As Mr Franklin had deduced from the voice, it was Frank, Lord Lacy, his acquaintance from the foxhunt.

“What the hell?” Lacy glared at him, blinking in the light. Behind him a fresh-faced young man was doubling up with laughter, and on the other side of the passage another man’s head was emerging.

“You!” Lacy stood, his face blank. “Oh! Where’s Po –” He broke off, his eyes bulging, as he looked beyond Franklin to the bed. “Christ! Poppy!”

“Take it easy,” said Mr Franklin, but Lord Lacy seemed to be having difficulty in taking in anything at all. He stared from the bed where Poppy, eagerly apprehensive, was huddled up bright-eyed, hugging her knees beneath the sheet, to the American.

Mr Franklin spoke quickly. “The young lady mistook my room for yours. The names seem to have got switched.” He looked past Lacy at the fresh-faced young man. “She just this minute got here, and was on the point of leaving.”

“Leaving?” His lordship gurgled. “Leaving? She bloody well looks like it, doesn’t she?” He plunged forward towards the bed before Mr Franklin could stop him. “You dirty little bitch!” he roared, and made a grab at the squealing Poppy who slithered frantically out of the other side screaming: “No, Frank, no! Leave me alone!” She was pulling the sheet with her, but Lacy caught it, dragging it from her grasp. Left naked, Poppy covered her eyes and dived wildly towards the door, Mr Franklin obligingly side-stepped to let her past. She stumbled into the fresh-faced young man, bringing him down, the corridor was suddenly full of staring faces, female shrieks, cries of astonishment, and hurrying feet, and Mr Franklin took his forehead in his hand and swore, with feeling. Someone began to have hysterics, and then he was aware of Arthur, half-dressed, emerging from the confusion. “What on earth’s happening?”

Mr Franklin explained rapidly; Arthur glanced quickly from the door-card to the errant Poppy, now huddled in semi-decency in someone else’s gown, to Lacy, who was still gaping foolishly at the sheet in his hand, and nodded, grinning. “I see. Just so. Poppy, you half-wit, what the –”

“Twasn’t my fault!” Poppy, with several people between her and her bewildered lover, was prepared to enjoy the excitement. She tossed her head. “I wasn’t to know, was I? Jeremy, you pig, you changed the cards – I know you did! Beast!”

“What happened?” “Poppy, what on earth?” “The wrong room?” “A likely story!” “Whose room was it?” “Oh, crumbs! Isn’t it priceless!” The babble of the bright young things was drowning Poppy’s giggling protestations when there was a sudden roar from Lacy. His lordship might be slow on the uptake, but a thought had evidently occurred to him. He turned on Mr Franklin, his face working in rage, and before Arthur could intervene, he flung himself at the American, head down and fists swinging.

Mr Franklin became impatient. He had had a trying day; several things had happened which were outside his experience, and he was not used to being at a loss. It irritated him. Now, however, a problem had arisen with which he was equipped to deal; furthermore, the angry man intent on murdering him was a man for whom he had formed an instinctive dislike. He almost welcomed the opportunity of expressing his own feelings, which he did by side-stepping quickly and hitting Lord Lacy hard on the jaw as he went past, thus diverting him head-first into the wall. But to his surprise the peer merely shook his head, swore luridly, and resumed the attack, so Mr Franklin, who had learned his self-defence in an irregular school, kicked him sharply in the stomach. Lord Lacy doubled up, fell into the corridor, and was profoundly sick.

“Here, you can’t do that!” cried Arthur indignantly. “Can’t kick a chap!”

Mr Franklin did not reply. He did not feel like discussing the ethics of rough-housing, and with the corridor resonant with cries of disgust, alarm, and – unless his ears deceived him – raucous amusement and excited cries of female glee, it would have been a waste of time. He stood over Arthur, who had dropped to one knee beside the groaning Lacy.

“You’d better get him to bed,” said Mr Franklin, shortly. “His own, for preference. And since I’m a guest in your father’s house, Mr Clayton, and don’t wish to cause him embarrassment, I suggest you tell Mr Lacy – oh, no, Lord Lacy – that if he comes near my room again I’ll break his goddamned neck. I might –” he paused with his hand on the door “– even kick the chap. Good night.”

He closed the door with unnecessary violence, surveying his room and the wreckage of his bed. Outside the babble of voices, giggles, and groans gradually died away, with Arthur supervising the assistance of Lord Lacy to some distant haven. Mr Franklin swore again, pondering on the ways of English house-parties, and the morals of the younger generation, as he restored his bed to some order. Poppy’s gown still lay on the floor; he picked it up and marched to the door, intending to throw it up the corridor, which was now presumably empty – but on opening the door he found Poppy herself, fetchingly swathed in her borrowed garment, in earnest whispered conversation with Arthur. They started.

“Your robe,” said Mr Franklin, holding it out.

“Oh, thank you,” said Poppy brightly. “I say, I am sorry – but you see, I wasn’t to know –”

“Jeremy had switched cards,” said Mr Franklin heavily. “I know.”

“He’s a horrid little beast,” said Poppy, and giggled again. “It was quite fun, though, wasn’t it? I say, that was a dreadful thump you gave poor Frank – serve him right for getting in such a wax over nothing. He’s a bit of a spoilsport, isn’t he?”

“Just a bit,” agreed Mr Franklin.

“I’m awfully sorry, old chap,” said Arthur. “Our guests don’t usually have their rooms invaded, I assure you – oh, shut up, Poppy! It’s all your fault, anyway; go on!” He pushed her playfully away, and she tripped up the corridor to the open door of a bedroom. “No harm done, anyway,” went on Arthur. “Except to Frank – and he’ll be right as rain in the morning. Don’t worry about him, by the way. I mean, he won’t –”

“No,” said Mr Franklin, “I don’t think he will.”

“No.” Arthur laughed. “Gosh, I’m glad the guv’nor didn’t hear us, though. Phew! Or Peg. There’d have been hell to pay, I can tell you.”

“Or the King, I imagine.”

“Don’t mention it! Oh, shut up, Poppy. I’m coming.” He gave Mr Franklin an apologetic grin. “’Night, old chap.”

“Night-night,” called Poppy softly, and fluttered a hand at Mr Franklin. She vanished into the bedroom hastily, and Arthur, with another slightly sheepish look at Mr Franklin, shrugged and followed her.

Mr Franklin closed his door, a trifle shaken, and retired to sleep for what remained of the night. But even that was denied him; he was aware of stealthy peregrinations in the corridor, and once all hell broke loose shortly before six – it transpired that Poppy, intent on revenge, had stolen into Jeremy’s bedroom, and emptied a jug of cold water over the occupant – or rather, occupants, neither of whom, it turned out, was Jeremy at all. None of which surprised Mr Franklin when he heard about it next day.

That day began for him at the most unsatisfactory hour of eight-thirty, when he had just fallen into a deep sleep; a nondescript person knocked and entered with a can of hot water which he emptied into the wash-stand bowl, pulled back the curtains, and without a by-your-leave turned out Mr Franklin’s case and cast a critical eye over his tweed suit.

“Ought to been hung up last night,” he observed coldly. “I’m sorry, sir, I shall attend to it while you shave. I would ’ave run you a ’ot bath, sir, but hunfortunately some of the young gentlemen ’ave been playing pranks with the soap and boot-polish, and the bath ain’t fit to be used. Disgustin’, it is; one of the guests can’t even get dressed, covered with muck, ’e is. I don’t know; you’d think they’d learn ’em better at their expensive schools. Your tea is on the bedside table, sir. Thank you.”

Mr Franklin drank his tea and shaved, and was ready in his underwear when the servant returned with his suit. He thanked the man and asked if the King was in the habit of going down to breakfast.

“It is ‘is majesty’s custom to break ’is fast with the other guests – at the better country ’ouses, sir,” was the astonishing reply, and Mr Franklin paused in pulling on his trousers.

“Not here, you mean?”

“I could not say, sir, not bein’ conversant with the routine of this hestablishment.”

“But don’t you work here?”

“No sir, I do not.” The nondescript man stiffened slightly. “I am ’ere on a pro tem basis honly – I am ’appy to say.” He hesitated. “I beg your pardon, sir, but would you be a transatlantic gentleman?”

Mr Franklin hid a smile and said that he would be.

“I see, sir. I ask because I would not wish you to be hunder any misappre’ension, or to carry away a false himpression. This is not what I am haccustomed to. Do you know, sir, that I ’ave five other gentlemen to valet besides yourself, and ’alf of them I daren’t go into the rooms –” he dropped his voice “ – on account of their not bein’ alone? Fair scandal it is; I don’t know what the country’s comin’ to – it is not like this at such as the Duke of Devonshire’s residence, I can tell you. But nowadays, with ’is majesty bein’ so generous of ’is presence, an’ very free an’ easy about where ’e stays –”

“You work for the King?” Mr Franklin was astonished.

The man smirked. “Very kind of you to think that, sir, but no; I ’ave not ’ad that honner. I am not in regular employ at the moment, but occasional, like now.” Mr Franklin noted the bottled nose and slightly shaky hand, and guessed the employ was very occasional. “What I meant to say, sir, was that with ‘is majesty bein’ so easy, Society ’as enlarged nowadays, an’ there is country ’ouses which he honners with ’is presence that wouldn’t ’ave smelt so much as ’is equerry’s cigar smoke in the old Queen’s time, God bless ’er. That is a very fine suit, if I may say so, sir; reg’lar pleasure to lay out. An’ the trouble is, sir, they ’aven’t got the money nor the dignity, ’arf of ’em. Oh, fine old families, no doubt – but not up to the top mark, you see. An’ some rather queer fish, too, that didn’t ought to be in Society at all – Jews an’ rich foreigners and that like – not Americans, of course, sir, they not bein’ foreigners – you know what I mean, though, sir – Eyetalians, an’ so forth. Well, what can you expect? Standards go down, and the young people’s behaviour is fair shockin’; it’s this new music, if you ask me, sir, an’ them motor cars. Even the young ladies – well! Young ladies, did I say?” He shook his carefully-pomaded grey head sorrowfully. “It’s my belief that ’alf of them goes to the altar knowin’ more than their mothers do. But it’s the same everywhere, sir, isn’t it?” He adjusted Mr Franklin’s pocket handkerchief. “Excellent, sir. Now, was there anythin’ else, sir?”