Mr American

Mr Franklin became aware that he was being regarded with something like reverence; Thornhill took off his glasses, polished them on a huge handkerchief, replaced them, and viewed the American with delight.

“This is absolutely first-rate! I’m more delighted than I can say! I must calm down, I really must …” He puffed and shook his head. “Steady, Thornhill, steady … but this is my hobby, you see – well, more my passion, I suppose – I told you I was an enthusiast for parish records – and to find you …” he regarded Mr Franklin with a possessiveness that was positively gloating, as though he were some rare species of butterfly “ – why, it’s as though you had walked straight off the page of one of my birth-ledgers – a Franklin of Castle Lancing –” He sprang up suddenly. “But what are we sitting here for – my dear fellow – where’s that blasted key …” He rummaged in his pocket, sending its contents broadcast. “We must look – at once! They’re on the vestry shelves – we can find Matthew, and … and … oh, damn!” He struck his forehead a resounding slap. “The lamp’s empty, and it’s getting dark. But we can get some oil from the shop – it’ll only take a moment –” His voice trailed off as he caught sight of Mr Franklin’s expression, and his face fell. “But perhaps you don’t feel like … I mean, I could probably track old Matthew down in an hour or two, if you’d care to …”

He looked so much like a wistful little boy that Mr Franklin almost agreed; in fact, he had felt his own excitement rising in tune with Thornhill’s enthusiasm. But he was suddenly aware that daylight was fading, and the air was getting chilly; also, Norfolk beer and a brief sleep the previous night had left him feeling suddenly bone-weary, and the tombstone on which he was sitting felt uncommonly cold and hard.

“Well …” he insisted, reluctant to damp the other’s evident eagerness. “I know it must sound downright ungrateful – and real disrespectful to my great-great-however-many-greats-grandfather and all, but –”

“My dear chap!” Thornhill was all contrition. “How thoughtless of me! Of course you must be quite used up – journey, travelling, only this minute here – I am most frightfully sorry! That’s my trouble, of course – off in a burst of sparks like a damned rocket! Like one of your prospectors, what? Tell you what – I’ll see you down the road now, but I’ll be up here first thing, and I’ll have old Matthew pinned to the floor by lunch-time, you’ll see! What a splendid thing! The vicar will be delighted. Well, the whole village will be – the wanderer returns, and all that …” He took Mr Franklin’s arm and was steering him towards the lych-gate, when he gave a sudden galvanized start, and stood quivering. “My God! I think – yes, I’m almost sure … here, it’ll only take a second …”

And seizing Mr Franklin’s wrist, he dragged him off towards the church, and round to the side-wall, puffing through the twilight and muttering, “… certain I saw one … somewhere along here – yes, against the wall there! Come on – you’ll see …”

There was a row of old tombstones, piled shoulder to shoulder against the church wall, and Thornhill threw himself on them like a terrier, peering at the lichen-encrusted surfaces, muttering and swearing while Mr Franklin waited slightly nonplussed. “No … no … dammit all… nothing but bloody Quayles and Plowrights … bred like rabbits … no … oh, blast!…” He crouched from stone to stone, vituperating in an aggrieved whisper, and then suddenly gave an absolute squeal of delight.

“Franklin! Look – come here! Look at that! Damn this dark!” It was almost too dim to see in the gathering gloom at the foot of the wall; Thornhill struck a match, and by its light Mr Franklin found himself looking at a smooth sandstone on which were the faint, spidery letters of an old inscription.

“I knew it! I knew there was one here!” Thornhill’s voice was shaking with excitement. “Look, don’t you see?” And as he pronounced the letters, Mr Franklin could just make them out:

“J-o-h-a-n-n-e-s F-r-a-n … then two blank spaces where the letters are worn away … then i-n. Johannes Franklin – with two squiggly bits afterwards which are probably the letters ‘u’ and ‘s’ – Latin style, you see. Johannes Franklinus. John Franklin. And see here …” His finger traced underneath the name: “Obit 1599 – plain as a pikestaff!” The match went out, but Mr Franklin could see the spectacles gleaming in the dusk.

“That,” said Thornhill quietly, “is quite probably your great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, give or take a ‘great’ or two. Buried somewhere within a few yards of us. I’ll go over this with a fine toothcomb tomorrow, but … well, as your countrymen say – isn’t that something? It’s just a matter of establishing who Matthew’s parents were – if his father’s called John, and the date of death fits – well, there you are.”

Mr Franklin stood up; suddenly he felt cold. It was almost dark now; a moth fluttered past him in the dusk; there were a few stars out in the dim vault of the sky. He suddenly felt utterly unreal, standing there by the church wall, in this strange village – where was it? What was he doing here? Maybe he was asleep, and it was only happening in a dream.

Then he was aware that Thornhill, a bulky indistinct figure in the gloom, was holding out his hand. Automatically he took it, and felt his hand shaken firmly.

“Welcome home,” said Thornhill quietly.

He muttered something by way of thanks, but still the feeling of unreality persisted. But what was it that was unreal? Himself? His being here? No, it wasn’t that – it wasn’t the crowded facts of the past few days, either – the liner, and Liverpool, and the railroad journey, and the Waldorf Hotel, and Pip’s blonde softness in his hands, and the glitter and noise of Monico’s, or the smelly stuffiness of the inn down the road – it was none of that: that was all real enough. Was it the time before, then – the other world he had come from? But he was still Mark Franklin the miner, the ranchhand, the wanderer, wasn’t he? Or was that some other person, someone he’d once known? Had he changed into someone else? That couldn’t be, not with just coming to a new place; only this place wasn’t new. It was old, and whether he stayed or whether he went away, it would remain, in his mind, and there would remain, too, the sense of belonging to it – where did he belong, if not here? There was no one spot anywhere else on earth that he belonged to. Here, in this place he’d never seen until today, he had a house, where his belongings were – and within a few yards of him, under the grass, there were the bones of people who, if they could have come back to life, and could have known all that had happened in three hundred years, would have looked at him and thought, why, that is the son of Luke, who was the son of John, who was the child of Matthew’s people who went to the New World in the time of the Great Rebellion, the King’s War. But they were ghosts, from a long time ago – and yet, his own father was a ghost, too, from only a little closer in time. He had no kin, no one anywhere, who was really any closer than those old bones – and everyone had the old bones of kinsfolk, somewhere. But he knew where his were – they were here. Johannes Franklinus had walked down this same road where he was walking now, with Thornhill prattling at his elbow.

“… time to settle in, at first, bound to. Very quiet, of course, but friendly – anyway, you can be sure that I’m going to be busy tomorrow – and for as long as need be, hounding old Matthew out of his dusty obscurity. There’s a thought, eh – while all your people have been crossing the Atlantic, and building log-huts, and fighting Redskins – and the damned British, too – and each other, and driving wagons, and ‘going West, young man’ – why, all that time, that page with old Matthew’s name on it has been enclosed in that book on that shelf in that same vestry, letting the world pass by for a few centuries, just waiting – for you to come and look at him! Strange thought, isn’t it?”

They came out of the side-road into the village’s main street. There were lights in a few of the houses, and from the Apple Tree; voices drifted across from the knot of men who were walking slowly, arguing, from the pub’s door. As they turned past the village shop, the proprietress was at the door; she came hesitantly forward, and Mr Franklin paused.

“Just to let you know, sir, that I put some sugar in with your order, in case you’d forgot,” Mrs Laker explained. “Just so you know to look for it.”

“Well, thank you, I had forgotten.” Mr Franklin smiled and touched his hat; Thornhill, watching, reflected that in ten years of getting groceries from Mrs Laker he had never been so favoured; if he forgot he went without and that was that.

“And Mrs Wood here –” there was a figure bobbing nervously, dabbing her nose with a handkerchief, at Mrs Laker’s elbow, “she put you down a pint of milk.”

“That was most thoughtful, Mrs Wood,” said Mr Franklin. “And it’s Mrs … Laker, isn’t it? Ladies, you’re very kind. I guess when I get squared away I’ll discover what my requirements are.”

“Ooh,” whispered Mrs Wood, impressed. “Squared away – I never!”

“Well, my dear chap, I can see you’re in good hands,” said Thornhill. “What we would do without Mrs Laker, I can’t think … I wonder, Mrs Laker, if I could trouble you for some paraffin.” He glanced apologetically at Mr Franklin. “It’s no use – I must have a shot at Matthew tonight – shan’t sleep otherwise. No, no, my dear fellow, you get some rest – I’ll look along some time, or if you’ve a moment, you know where I’ll be, at the church. Mrs Laker, you are a ministering angel.” He accepted his paraffin gratefully, and wondered if he would have got it so readily if this imposing American in his long black coat and astonishing hat had not been present, dazzling the senses of the good wives of Castle Lancing.

And not only the good wives, it appeared. As Mr Franklin was preparing to take his leave, a small boy, who in common with his associates, had been observing Mr Franklin from a distance, was heard to exclaim that the Yankee hadn’t got a six-shooter, so there. Mrs Wood squeaked indignantly, and Mrs Laker exclaimed: “Sauce! You get out home, Tommy Marsh, or I’ll get your mother! The idea!”

“Well ’e ’asn’t!” cried the impudent urchin, while his friends giggled in the shadows by the shop’s light, and Mr Franklin half-turned in their direction.

“I never carry it at night, Tommy. I do all my shooting in the daytime. Except for Indians and cattle rustlers, of course.”

At which Mrs Wood and Mrs Laker exclaimed with astonishment, Mr Franklin bade them good-night with another touch of his hat, thanked Thornhill warmly for his welcome, and turned as another voice said: “Goodnight, Mr Franklin, sir.” It was Prior, with his cronies from the Apple Tree – and why, wondered Mr Franklin, as he strode down his homeward road, was it such a good thing that he had been able to recall Prior’s Christian name, and respond with “Goodnight, Jack; good-night all”? It pleased him – and suddenly, as he paused outside the manor’s rusty gates, he felt an overwhelming, warm content; a great happiness of fulfilment, of a kind that he could remember only rarely – after the Sunday School prize, at Omaha, when he’d been all of six years old, and his father had led him away afterwards by the hand, smiling down at him; outside the Homesteaders’ Bank in Carson City, when he had made the big deposit, and walked across to the Star and Garter saloon for a beer – and yes, just last night, lying joyously content with Pip’s breast in his hand, blowing playfully at the blonde tendrils of hair across his face. Such different kinds of placid happiness – and now he was feeling it again, as he walked up the drive, brushing his feet through the grass and weeds, feeling for his key – and checking only momentarily as a dim figure rose from one of the stone seats and hailed him in a beer-roughened croak.

“I foun’ the stop-cock, sir – down yonder by the path. All growed over like anythin’ – but I got the key on her all right. So water’ll be runnin’ right enough, whenever you turn the tap. If I coulda gotten in, I’d ’a lit the boiler like, to warm ’er up.” He sniffed complacently. “But I couldn’t get in. All locked up.”

“Why, Jake, that was very considerate.” Mr Franklin felt in his waistcoat pocket, and found a guinea. “I’m much obliged to you.”

“A’right, now,” said Jake. “Say, though, there’s some weeds aroun’, tough, ain’t there? Like an old swamp, I reckon?”

“Think you could get rid of them?” wondered Mr Franklin, and fingered the guinea aside in his pocket, searching out two half-crowns instead. Despite his euphoria, caution told him that if he overpaid Jake the first time he would regret it. Jake assured him volubly that he would tackle the weeds first thing, and make a right proper job of them.

“Well, not too early; I’d like to sleep a long time tonight,” said Mr Franklin, and when Jake had expressed rapture over his five shillings and hopped away into the dark, promising prodigies of service, the new owner of Lancing Manor let himself into the dim, empty hall.

He stood in the darkness, looking round at the half-seen shadows, feeling the tiredness wash over him. He ignored his trunks, but unbuckled his valise, drew out his blanket, and made a bed by simply spreading it before the empty fireplace. He folded his clothes on the settle, made his valise into a pillow, and stretched out, rolling the blanket round him. For a few moments he lay, looking up at the shadowy ceiling, while he thought of the worn stone up in the churchyard, and of his father, and of dim figures that he could not recognize, although he knew they had once existed.

“Well,” said Mr Franklin aloud. “We’re back.” Then he was fast asleep, in Castle Lancing.

6

Mr Franklin’s arrival at the Manor was something of a nine-day wonder in the neighbourhood. Not only was he foreign, and slightly exotic with his sunbrowned complexion and lanky striding gait, he was also a mystery, and Castle Lancing enjoyed a mystery as much as the next village. Speculation had a field day: as a result of his playful answer to Tommy Marsh it was quickly understood that he had killed a man in the bush, and was in hiding with a price on his head; there followed the rumour that he was the bastard offspring of a Duke, come home to claim his inheritance (this, doubtless, sprang from a chance remark of Thornhill’s anent the American genealogy); finally, the obvious deduction was made that he was extremely rich, and that he intended to buy half Norfolk and reverse the country’s agricultural decline with go-ahead Yankee schemes; this was a popular theory because it was at least comforting in an area which was watching with anxiety the absorption of small holdings into larger farms, and where landlord-hatred was an article of faith.

So interest ran high at the activity observed round the Manor; gangs of workmen arrived from as far away as Norwich to re-gravel the drive, point and sand the stonework, paint the timber, repair the plumbing, and carry out internal improvements to the decoration; local labourers, mysteriously recruited by Jake, who lost no opportunity of establishing his unofficial stewardship and special relationship with the owner, cleared acres of weed and rubbish from the grounds, relaid the flower-bed and repaired the borders; there was a coming and going of pantechnicons and drays with furniture from Norwich – and on two sensational occasions, from London itself – with men in aprons heaving in beds, chairs, sofas, curtains, and mysterious packing-cases whose contents could only be guessed at; for one full day a magnificent new bath, with gleaming taps and a shower attachment of strange pipes and faucets, lay on the gravel before the house, and in Mr Franklin’s absence the entire population of the district came to marvel, and to be kept at a respectful distance by the ubiquitous Jake. All was bustle and concern, great quantities of ale were drunk by the toilers – for Mr Franklin had been prodigal in his provision for the refreshment of his helpers, and the Apple Tree was threatened by drought as the result of its traffic down the Manor road – and it was agreed that the Yankee must have a power of money. The young men spat and exclaimed in respectful envy; the young women and wives were unstinting in their admiration; the gaffers agreed that no good would come of it; and Jake, ensconced on his stool at the inn, cackled knowingly and implied that they had seen nothing yet; let them wait until the Yankee squire – the title dropped into place inevitably with ownership of the Manor House – really went to work (with Jake’s guidance, be it understood). Then they’d see.

Yet Mr Franklin was a disappointment, after the first excitement of his arrival had died down. He kept very much to the Manor, supervising installations in the house itself, occasionally inspecting the work out of doors, stating his requirements civilly but briefly; he knew what he wanted, and that was that. He employed no personal servants, which gave rise to much wonder – who cooked and washed the dishes and kept the house, for one thing? His laundry went to Thetford, his bodily provisions were ordered regularly from Mrs Laker and the dairy, and that seemed to satisfy him. Once or twice he appeared in the Apple Tree, but while he was courteous and affable, he was not communicative, and a natural shyness among the villagers prevented inquiry. Word of his arrival had naturally spread to the more important houses in the district, such as they were, and while there was mild curiosity there was a natural tendency to let the newcomer settle in; the largest estate-owner was an absentee landlord who lived in London most of the year, leaving the management of his estate to a steward whose duties excluded social niceties; the vicar, an amiable elderly soul who studied birds, met Mr Franklin once, and promptly forgot who he was, to the chagrin of the vicar’s wife, who had wished to invite the American to tea but hesitated to do so on such erratic acquaintance.

It followed that initially Mr Franklin’s sole contact with Castle Lancing society – excepting his commerce with the working class – was the eccentric Thornhill, who was himself something of a recluse. They had a brief period of intimacy while Thornhill was busily scavenging the parish records on the American’s behalf: Matthew was duly identified, as was his wife, who proved to have the baptismal name Jezebel – an unprecedented and impossible thing, in Thornhill’s view, but there it was, and how to explain it he could not imagine. Johannes Franklinus of the gravestone proved to be Matthew’s uncle, and Thornhill had no difficulty in tracing the family, and its association with Castle Lancing, back to the Black Death, where the parish records began.

But their relations, though cordial, did not blossom into friendship. Thornhill visited the Manor once or twice, and received al fresco refreshment; he gave Mr Franklin a bachelor supper at his own cosy, deplorably untidy cottage, amidst a litter of books and papers, but although the Burgundy was excellent, and the American was enthusiastic over Thornhill’s researches, they discovered, once the topic of the ancient Franklins had been exhausted, that they had no especial common interest. Mr Franklin was prepared to talk, within limits, about the United States; Thornhill was prepared to talk, without limits, about everything, but he did it with only half his mind, the other half being firmly rooted in that exciting misty area between the accession of Edward III and the Reformation. The truth was that, unless his interest was aroused on his own subject, as it had briefly been in Mr Franklin’s case, Thornhill’s garrulity was a nervous habit; he really preferred talking to himself, which he frequently did, thus provoking cries of “Loony!” from the coarser young spirits of the village.

So they remained amiable acquaintances, meeting occasionally in Mrs Laker’s or the street, Thornhill pouring out a torrent of small-talk, and Mr Franklin nodding gravely and occasionally observing “Just so”. And gradually Castle Lancing’s interest dwindled, as such interests do; Mr Franklin remained an object of remark, slightly mysterious – but a mystery has to manifest itself mysteriously if it is to claim much attention, and Mr Franklin remained undeniably normal; a minor sensation in September, he was old news by October – and that suited him very well, apparently. He was content, it seemed, to merge into the background of Castle Lancing, far from the great world, and to forget about it, at least for a season. But, although he did not suspect it as he went about placidly improving and perfecting his house, watching the apples wrinkle and wither in his orchard, and the leaves fall to carpet his garden in brown and gold – although he was far from suspecting it in his sought-out rustic solitude, the great world was not prepared to forget him.

It was a raw October day that Mr Franklin unstabled the hack hired from a farrier in Thetford, hitched it expertly to his small trap, and set out on the fifteen-mile journey to the village of West Walsham. He had seen an advertisement in the local paper offering for sale seventy-five feet of Japanese oak panelling, and since his own hall had struck him as being in need of lightening, he had decided to drive over to the country house where the panelling was on view. It was, he admitted to himself, a fairly thin excuse for the journey; he had no real notion of what Japanese oak looked like, but he had not been abroad for a fortnight, and the prospect of a ramble along the back-roads of Norfolk was attractive. Thornhill had recommended a drive by Wayland Woods – the very wood, he assured an amused Mr Franklin, where the Babes of the famous legend had been abandoned by their wicked uncle, whose house at Griston was still to be seen. So the trap carried a large and well-filled picnic hamper, and Mr Franklin bowled off not caring a great deal whether he reached his destination or not.

He ambled very much at random, roughly in what he believed was the West Walsham direction, guiding himself by the orange ball of the sun which shone dimly through the autumn mist, content to admire the golden woods and the pale green meadows on his way. There was an invigorating nip in the air, a damp cosiness about the countryside with its heavy brown earth and dripping hedges, which he found strangely pleasant; in the far distance he caught once or twice the sound of many dogs barking, and wondered what so large a pack could be doing. It was all very peaceful and English, he told himself, and he was enjoying it – was he turning into a Limey, he wondered, smiling at the thought. Even after a few weeks he was aware that his appearance had probably changed a little; the trim tweeds he was wearing, the shooting-hat and gaiters, were all right in the Norfolk character; he laughed aloud and said “Squire!”, shaking his head – how the roughnecks at Tonopah or the barkeeps at the Bella Union would have laughed at that. He didn’t care; it suited him.

He came out of his pleasant daydream to the realization that he had no idea where he was, and that it must be getting close to noon. He chucked the reins, the hack roused itself to a gentle trot, and they came over a rise and down a gentle slop to a bridge among the thickets where, on a clear space by the roadside, a large Mercedes motor-car was parked. It was an imposing machine, with five passengers that he could see: a lady and gentleman seated on camp-chairs by the roadside, having lunch, with another woman in the car, what looked like a servant attending to the tiny camp-table before the diners, and an undoubted chauffeur busying himself at the back of the car. It occurred to Mr Franklin that where there was a chauffeur there would certainly be a map; he slowed to a halt beside the car and raised his hat.

“Good day,” he said. “I wonder if you could tell me if I’m on the right road for West Walsham?”

The gentleman appeared not to have heard him; at least, he did not take his attention from the heaped plate on his lap. He was a stout, elderly man, clad in a heavy caped coat and plaid trousers, with a cap pulled down over his brows, and he appeared to be enjoying his lunch immensely. Mr Franklin glanced at the lady, and immediately forgot all about the male half of the dining party; she had looked up in surprise at his question, and he found himself looking into a face that was quite breath-takingly beautiful. Bright green eyes and auburn hair were a startling enough combination, with that perfect complexion, but there was a liveliness about her expression, and in the sudden brilliant smile which she bestowed on him, that prompted Mr Franklin to bow in his seat as he repeated his question.