Читать книгу Mr American - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 10

He left London on the following morning. A four-wheeler was engaged to remove from the hotel the two handsome Eureka trunks containing the clothing purchased the previous day, as well as the battered old case with which Mr Franklin had arrived, and his valise; these were despatched to St Pancras, while the gentleman himself took a cab by way of Bond Street.

Here, at the exclusive jewellers which he had patronized the previous day, Mr Franklin stated his requirements; the manager, who had seen him coming, smoothly set aside the assistant dealing with him – he personally would see to it that nothing too inexpensive was laid before a customer who paid cash for pearl and platinum watch-chains.

“A bracelet, perhaps, sir. For the wrist?”

“I had thought a necklace,” ventured Mr Franklin. “For the … chest. That is – the neck, of course.”

“Of course, sir. Diamond, emerald – ruby perhaps. May I ask, sir, if the recipient is dark or fair?”

“Oh, fair. Very fair – quite blonde.”

“The sapphires, perhaps. It is a matter of personal taste. Diamonds, of course –” the manager smiled “ – complexion is immaterial.”

“How about pearls? You know, a strand – a substantial strand. These collars one sees …”

The manager was too well-trained ever to lick his lips, but his smile became a positive beam.

“The perfect compromise, sir. Pearls – with a diamond cluster and clasp.” He snapped his fingers, and presently Mr Franklin found himself blinking at a triple collar of magnificent pearls, gripped in their centre with a heart-shaped design of twinkling stones; he visualized it round Pip’s neck, beneath the beautiful dimpled chin, imagining her squeals of delight when she tried it on.

“That’ll do,” he said without hesitation, “I’ll take it,” and two fashionable ladies examining rings at a nearby counter paused in stricken silence at the sight of the lean, brown-faced man weighing the brilliant trinket before dropping it on its velvet cushion. Speculative whispers were exchanged, a lorgnette was raised, and Mr Franklin was carefully examined, while he produced his cigarette case, selected a cigarette, remembered where he was, and returned it to its place. The manager made amiably deprecating noises, and asked:

“I trust the case gives satisfaction, sir?”

“What – oh, yes.” Mr Franklin restored it to his pocket. “Haven’t lost a cigarette yet.”

In this atmosphere of good will the pearl necklace was bestowed in its velvet case, wrapped, and tied, and the manager inquired if the account should be forwarded to Mr Franklin’s address; the attentive ladies, busily examining their rings again, were disappointed when he replied: “No, I’ll pay now.”

The manager bowed, a slip of paper was presented, and Mr Franklin gripped the counter firmly and coughed, once. He should, he realized, have inquired about prices first – but his hesitation was only momentary. He could not recall an evening in his life that he had enjoyed so much, or any single human being whom he had liked so well; he had only to think of Pip’s fresh young face smiling at him across the table to find himself smiling, too, and producing his notecase. It occurred to him, too, that visible signs of affluence probably assisted a stage career – and if that career faltered, well, expensive jewellery was realizable.

His note-case required reinforcement from his money-belt – a sight which slightly embarrassed even the manager, and brought the lorgnette into play again. “Ah,” murmured one lady, “Australian, undoubtedly,” and on being asked by her companion how she knew, replied: “His accent, of course.” They watched intently while Mr Franklin, having paid, wrote out a plain card; he simply addressed it: “Miss Priscilla Delys, Folies Satire”, without enclosure, and asked the manager to see it delivered to the appropriate theatre – no, he told that astonished gentleman, he didn’t know which one it was.

None of which escaped the ladies, who concluded that Mr Franklin was either an unusually forgetful individual intent on marriage, or a foreign maniac – probably both; as he swung out of the shop their eyes followed him with some wonder and genteel regret.

He caught the eleven o’clock train to Ely via Cambridge with barely a minute to spare, and spent two and a half hours alternately glancing at the paper and out of the carriage windows at the passing fenland; it was not a cheering prospect, but by the time Ely was reached, and he had changed to the Norwich line, Mr Franklin was in, for him, a positively animated state – from sitting quietly enough, he now leaned forward, hands on knees, to stare out of the window; he shifted position at least three times during the many local halts, and by the time Lakenheath was reached he was actually drumming his fingers on the arm-rest. Beyond Brandon he let down the window; by Thetford he was leaning out the better to see ahead, and at the next stop, where he alighted, he positively hurried along the platform and in his excitement bestowed a shilling instead of the usual threepence on the porter who unloaded his baggage.

But if Mr Franklin was now disposed to haste, he soon discovered that Norfolk was not. The station was a tiny one, and it took half an hour to summon an ancient gig, driven by an urchin of perhaps nine years, and drawn by a horse possibly twice as old. Mr Franklin gave the lad his destination and resigned himself to patience as they creaked off at a slow walk.

Fortunately it was a glorious autumn afternoon, and their way ran through broad meadows and occasional woodland, the brown and yellow tints mellow in the sunlight. Mr Franklin drank it in with a silent eagerness, as though he would have imprinted every leaf and hedge and thicket on his mind; if he did not display visible impatience, he was certainly breathing rather more quickly than usual, and at each bend in the road he would gaze eagerly ahead. At last, after two hours, they topped a gentle rise, and beyond it a village nestled among woods in the hazy afternoon; a scatter of cottages round a little triangular green; a dusty street winding in front of a small inn; a pond, mud-fringed, a pump and a horse-trough; on the farther side, a lych-gate and the square tower of a Norman church rising among elms and yews.

“Cassel Lancin’,” said the urchin stolidly, and Mr Franklin took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Castle Lancing,” he repeated. “Well, now.” He smiled and shook his head. “Think of that. All right, Jehu, let’s go.”

They creaked up the main street, past the mean cottages where one or two poorly-dressed women started at them from the low doorways, and a few children played in the dust of the unpaved street; there seemed to be no one else about, except for a working-man on a bench outside the Apple Tree, who favoured them with a blank stare. Across the green was a small shop with bottle-glass windows and the name “A. Laker” above the door; a dog lay drowsing in the threshold.

They halted outside the inn, and Mr Franklin asked if the man could direct him to Lancing Manor. The man stared in silence for a moment, and then, in a broad drawl which Mr Franklin found surprisingly easy to understand, said:

“’Arf a mile down the road.” His eyes roved over Mr Franklin and the bags in the gig, and he added: “Ain’t nobody ’ome.”

Mr Franklin thanked him, and they drove on, through the village and along a winding way between high hedges, until they came to a pair of lichened stone gate-posts under the trees, and two large rusty gates chained and padlocked. Mr Franklin got down, took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and after some exertion, unlocked the gates and pushed them open. The narrow drive was high with weeds and rank grass, so he ordered the boy to help him down with his baggage in the gateway; he would not need the gig any longer, he said, and presented the urchin with half a crown.

The boy considered the coin, and then looked at Mr Franklin, standing beside the trunks and valise, and at the tree-shaded pathway. He addressed his passenger for the second time in two hours.

“Ain’t nobody ’ome,” he said, echoing the labourer, and Mr Franklin smiled.

“There is now,” he said, and with a nod to the staring boy, walked up the drive. He was aware that his heart was beating as he pushed his feet through the rustling grass, and that he was walking unduly quickly; then he rounded a bend under the trees, and stopped suddenly as a house came into view. For a full minute he stood looking at it. Then:

“I must have been out of my mind,” he said aloud. Then he took off his hat and looked around him. Finally he said: “No, I wasn’t, either,” and walked towards the house.

Mr Franklin had no romantic notions of what a manor ought to look like, so where another might have expected mullioned windows, crenellations, and half-timbering, he accepted without a second thought the solid, unpretentious Georgian structure which could hardly have been over a hundred and fifty years old. It was, in fact, rather a fine house, built on an Elizabethan site, its shuttered windows precisely spaced on either side of a massive, pillared porch. The broad gravel sweep before it was sadly overgrown, and the lawn to his right was a tangle of rank grass and fox-gloves, but even he could see that the structure was sound and the roof good, and the beeches and chestnuts which surrounded it on three sides were nothing short of magnificent. “Beautifully matured grounds of nearly two acres”, the estate agent had said; sure enough, thought Mr Franklin, it’s mature.

There was a little fountain in the middle of the gravel sweep, lichened and full of leaves, and two heavy stone seats, one on either side of the porch. Mr Franklin paused with his back to the front door, surveying the tangle of sweep, lawn and drive and the trees which screened him from the road; the air was full of the still hum of the late autumn afternoon, broken only by the occasional murmur of pigeons behind the house. His hand was shaking as he fumbled the key into the big lock.

Inside it was cool and dim, and slightly chill from a year’s emptiness. The hall was surprisingly spacious, with a stairway curving gracefully upwards, and doors opening on either side into the main reception rooms. “A delightful Georgian residence, charming woodland situation, three reception, four bed, bathroom with patent water-heater, panelled hall and lounge, expensively fitted, every convenience, kitchen garden …” Well, here it was, and the agent had been as good as his word; it was an admirable house and would plainly have been snapped up long ago if it had been more convenient for the outside world. But the agent understood that Mr Franklin was not concerned with that; quite the contrary, in fact.

The American made his way from room to room, taking his time. It was larger than he had expected, for the agent had made nothing of the servants’ quarters, which consisted of two small rooms at the back, off the low, flagged kitchen. There was running water – cut off for the moment – but no electricity, of course, and no gas. Behind the house was the promised kitchen garden, and a small orchard, heavy with the famous Norfolk apples. Mr Franklin picked a couple and ate them as he surveyed the small coach house and stabling for two horses. All was overgrown, but not seriously; the timber stood at a good distance from the house itself, and all was enclosed by a stout ivy-covered wall.

Mr Franklin returned inside, having hauled his baggage up from the front gate, and stood in the hall, finishing his second apple, glancing round in the satisfaction of possession. It was strange, unreal almost, but it filled him with a quiet content; he took off his hat and was about to hang it on the newel post when he stopped himself, smiling, and laid it instead on the settle which stood to one side of the empty fireplace. When in England, he thought … and I am in England, in Castle Lancing and the County of Norfolk, and it’s been a long, long haul. Three hundred years, give or take a little, and who’d ever have thought it? Long way from Tonopah, but a sight easier to come back from than it must have been to get to.

Mr Franklin ranged his baggage beside the settle, picked up his hat again, and left the house.

By that time, of course, every soul in the village of Castle Lancing, pop. 167, knew that there was a new occupant at the manor. The carrier’s boy, refreshing himself at the Apple Tree from Mr Franklin’s half-crown, had spread the word of the arrival, and opined that he was a big-game hunter and definitely not from Norfolk – Lincoln, maybe. He was silent, and rich, from the cut of his duds, but by the look of his bags he’d come a powerful long way. This was sensation, and by the time Mr Franklin, in his eccentrically broad-brimmed hat and dark suit, had reached the village green, Castle Lancing was fairly agog. Curious eyes watched from the doorways, children were hushed, the labourers on the bench outside the Apple Tree suspended their pints and observed in silence the rangy figure swinging up the dusty street, and the landlord cuffed the carrier’s boy and remarked derisively:

“He’s never from bloody Lincolnshire. He’s furrin.”

Mr Franklin was observed to go into the village shop, and five minutes later the news was winging that he had bought a loaf, two tines of corned beef, butter, coffee, a tin of pears, half a dozen boxes of matches, and a tin of paraffin, which he had asked to have left at the manor’s back door. The proprietress, Mrs Laker, had been quite overcome, not least by the fact that the newcomer had made his purchases with a sovereign, dismissing the change and politely asking her to credit it to his account. The prospect of trade thus opened up caused her to sit down, panting, and observing to Mrs Wood, from the dairy, that she’d never been so took aback in her life, and if Mrs Wood was wise, she’d see there was a pint of milk at the manor’s door, too.

Meanwhile, the Apple Tree had been stricken to silence by Mr Franklin’s arrival and request for a glass of beer. Surprised grunts had greeted his “good evening” as he passed the labourers’ bench, and as he stood in the little tap-room, sipping his drink and surveying the collection of horse-brasses behind the bar, the landlord, Mr Herbert, polished glasses with unusual energy, chivvied away those of his offspring who were peering at the prodigy from the back parlour, and maintained a painful silence. Gradually, with heavy nonchalance, the occupants of the bench drifted within and sat down, and after a decent interval began to converse quietly among themselves. Mr Franklin ordered a second glass of beer, and conversation died. He drank it, slowly, but otherwise quite normally, and the muted talk began again, until he turned round, smiled amiably at the small gathering, and asked if anyone would care for a drink.

At this, one startled drinker dropped his tankard, another sent his pint down the wrong way and had to be slapped on the back, and there was some confusion until an ancient, beady-eyed in a corner, licked his lips and told the ceiling that he didn’t mind if he had a pint of bitter. This was provided, the ancient bobbed his head over the foam, grinned a gap-toothed grin, said “Good ’ealth,” and drank audibly. The others stirred, wondering if they too should accept the stranger’s bounty, and then Mr Franklin observed, to the room at large:

“I just moved in at the manor house.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then the ancient said: “Ar. We know that,” and buried his face in his pot. For the rest, half a dozen pairs of eyes avoided Mr Franklin’s; the landlord made indistinct noises.

“I was wondering,” said Mr Franklin, “if any of you could tell me how I turn the water on. Nothing comes out of the taps, and I’m afraid the agent didn’t remember to tell me.”

Further silence, muttered consultation, and then the landlord observed that there would be a stop-cock. The ancient agreed; there always was a stop-cock, where there was taps, like. Someone else remarked that Jim Hanway had done odd jobs at the manor, when Mr Dawson was there; Jim’d know. Mr Franklin’s hopes rose, only to be dashed by the recollection of another patron that Jim had moved over to East Harling last February.

“Las’ March,” said the ancient, emerging from his beer.

“No, t’weren’t. Febr’y, ’e moved.”

“March fust,” cried the ancient. “Fust day o’ March. His lease were up. Oi know. March fust it was.”

At this the other speaker stared coldly at the ancient and said flatly: “It was Febr’y. An’ Oi know.”

“You know bugger-all,” said the ancient, and emptied his tankard with relish. He beamed at Franklin. “Thank’ee, sir. That was foine. March fust.”

The landlord interposed with a reminder that the gentleman wanted his water turned on, no matter what month Jim Hanway had moved, and silence fell again, until a young labourer said there ought to be a key, for the stop-cock, like, and it’d be round the back o’ the house, likely. Mr Franklin acknowledged this; he would look in the outbuildings.

“Stop-cock won’t be round the back, though,” observed the ancient. “Mains water runs by the road; stop-cock’ll be at front. Grown over, an’ all,” he added with satisfaction, as he hopped off his stool and laid his tankard on the bar. “In all that grass, somewheres.” He sighed.

“Would you care for another drink, Mr –” said Franklin, smiling. “Jake,” said the ancient, beaming. “Wouldn’t mind, thank’ee very much.”

“No, you won’t mind, you ole soak,” said the man who had disputed with him. “Mind ’im, sir; there’s a ’ole inside ’im, an’ it ain’t got no bottom.”

There was a general laugh at this, and Mr Franklin took the opportunity to repeat his invitation; this time the tankards came forward en masse, and while they were being filled he said to Jake:

“My name’s Franklin. Mark Franklin,” and held out his hand. Jake regarded it a moment, carefully wiped his gnarled fingers on his jacket, and inserted what felt like a large, worn claw gingerly into Mr Franklin’s palm. “Jake,” he said again. “Thank’ee, sir; thanks very much.”

Mr Franklin nodded and glanced at the man who had disputed with Jake, a burly, middle-aged labourer with a square, ruddy face and thinning hair. The man hesitated and then said, “Jack Prior”, and took the American’s hand. Thereafter, in quick succession, came the others, with large, rough hands that touched Mr Franklin’s very gently; flushed faces and grey eyes that slid diffidently away from his. He guessed that introductions were not the norm, at short notice, that anything like social ceremony embarrassed these men, but that because he was an affable stranger, they were making a concession to him. Also, presumably, they had no objection to free drink. He was not to know that no occupant of the manor within living memory had set foot in the Apple Tree; nor did he know that if he had introduced himself in similar company two hundred miles farther north, there would have been no answering acceptance. He did not know England, or the English, then.

The tankards were filled and lifted; Jack Prior said, “All the best, sir,” and the others murmured assent; Mr Franklin prepared to answer questions. But none came. In the saloons that he knew, he would have been asked where he came from, how long he planned to stay, what brought him here; he would have responded laconically, as seemed proper. But here, where he had gone out of his way to make himself known, had taken for him the unprecedented step of familiarity – here they drank in shy silence, avoiding his eye and each other’s, moving restlessly like cattle in a pen, and trying to appear unconcerned. Mr Franklin knew there was no hostility; he was sensitive enough to recognize embarrassment, but why it should be there he had no idea. Finally, having finished his own drink, he nodded pleasantly, preparing to take his leave; there was a shuffling of feet, almost in relief, it seemed to him, and then Prior suddenly said:

“Franklin.” He was frowning thoughtfully. “There’s a Franklin over’n the Lye Cottage, at Lancin’ End. Old Bessie Reeve – ’er name was Franklin, warn’t it, afore she married?”

In spite of himself Mr Franklin exclaimed: “You don’t say?”

“Oi do say,” replied Prior seriously. “That was her name. Franklin. Same’s yours.” He looked round, nodding emphatically. “Franklin. She’s the only one hereabouts, though.”

Jake cackled. “Ain’t bin round the churchyard lately, ’ave you? Plenty Franklins there.” He wagged his head, grinning, and drained his glass noisily.

The landlord caught Mr Franklin’s eye. “Used to be a biggish family, sir, in the old days. None left now. Wait, though – ain’t there Franklins over at Hingham?” His question hung unanswered in the silence, and Mr Franklin waited hopefully. The silence continued, and finally he broke it himself, indicating to the landlord that another round would be welcome. The tankards were thrust forward again and withdrawn, replenished; there were salutary murmurs in his direction, but beyond that nothing audible except the occasional gurgle and sigh as another gallon of home-brewed descended to its several resting-places. Mr Franklin decided that Prior’s brief conversational flight had probably exhausted the Apple Tree’s store of small talk as far as he was concerned, so he drained his glass, not without some effort, and remarked that he must be getting along.

Again he sensed the relieved shuffling, but even as he straightened his coat and prepared to nod to the landlord, Prior took a deep breath and said:

“You’ll have another, first – sir? On me, like.” Mr Franklin hesitated. With three pints of home-brewed inside him, backing and filling, he felt he had as much as he wanted to carry, and more. It was on the tip of his tongue to decline politely. Then he saw that Prior was standing rather straight, with sweat on his red forehead, and knew that the invitation had been made with considerable effort. Instinctively he sensed that Prior, while a labourer like his fellows, was perhaps of some standing in that humble company, and was in a curious way asserting his dignity; for Prior’s credit, it would be right to accept.

“Thank you, Mr Prior,” he said. “That’s kind of you.”

“Jack,” said Mr Prior, and laid his coppers carefully on the counter; his glass and Mr Franklin’s only were refilled, although Jake ostentatiously drained his few remaining drops, waited hopefully, sighed, and finally announced that he’d better be off to find that stop-cock afore the light went; all growed over, it’d be. Mr Franklin protested, but Jake hopped away, making ancient noises, leaving the American to pledge Prior and attempt his fourth pint of the dark, soapy liquor which seemed to be filling every corner of his abdominal cavity, and possibly running down into his legs as well.

Finally it was done, and Mr Franklin was able to bid the Apple Tree good evening, and escape from that hot, musty atmosphere, apparently compounded of cow’s breath and old clothes; he was to grow to recognize it as the distinctive scent of the English farmhand. He was feeling decidedly bloated, but otherwise at peace with mankind; his feet seemed slightly farther away from the rest of his body than usual, and it took longer to place them one in front of the other, but he was in no hurry to get home on this balmy evening – for one thing, home was half a mile away, and if there was one thing he was certain of, in his slightly soporific condition, it was that he was going to have to shed some of his alcoholic burden somewhere, somehow, before he got there.

A dusty and deserted side-turning off the main street caught his eye; it wound between large, untidy, and concealing hedges, so Mr Franklin followed it with casual deliberateness, and two minutes later was shoulder deep in a thicket at the roadside, leaning his head against a branch and solemnly examining a spider’s web at close range, grunting contentedly as his troubles poured away into the rank grass, and his lower torso began to feel normal again. Thereafter he took a turn farther up the by-road, and presently found himself regarding an ancient lych-gate set in a mossy wall, and there beyond it, half-hidden by the great yews that lined the wall, the square weathered tower of the village church.

Mr Franklin surveyed it, balancing carefully. What was it his father had said, about some old English king bringing yew-trees from Europe, planting them in every churchyard in England so that the country should never be short of the material on which its army depended – the yew wood that made the great long-bows with which the English peasantry had humbled the armoured might of their nation’s enemies.

“Dam’ good idea,” said Mr Franklin approvingly, staring at the massive, ugly black trunks, their shadows falling on the trim grass among the lichened tombstones. “Bully for you, king.” He passed through the gate with its little steep roof, swayed slightly, and leaned on the nearest tree for support, feeling a trifle dizzy. For the moment he was content to rest there; the evening air was warm and tranquil, and he listened to its quiet stirring while he studied the ruddy stone pile of the old church bathed in sunset; from there his attention turned to the gnarled bark under his hand – and an echo was sounding in his mind, assisted by four pints of October ale, an echo from somewhere in memory – the El Paso road? Hole-in-the – Wall? Cassidy’s slow, deliberate murmur … “and you, good yeomen, whose limbs were made in England, be copy now to men of grosser blood, and teach them how to war …”

He disremembered which battle that had been, but he wondered idly if any of its bows had come from this churchyard, or if any of the people who had been there were perhaps now here – under those old gravestones, dark and crooked on the level turf, and decidedly the ale must have been at work on his imagination, for he was suddenly aware of a voice at his elbow, high-pitched and pleasant, and it was saying:

“Well, we aren’t Stoke Poges, you know, but I suppose the lines are appropriate for all that. The rude forefathers of the hamlet … well, I imagine they don’t come much ruder than ours. How d’ye do?”

Mr Franklin realized that he was sitting down, on one of the flat, raised tombs, and was being surveyed by a stout, baldish man in spectacles, with wisps of silvery hair fluttering over his ears; he was an untidy man, with a flannel shirt open at the neck, a huge tweed jacket which fitted where it touched, and knickerbockers insecurely fastened above elderly stockings. He had a sheaf of papers under his arm and a look of whimsical inquiry on his carelessly-shaven face. Mr Franklin made a partially successful effort to rise and beg the newcomer’s pardon.

“Not at all. I should apologize for breaking in on your … ah, reverie. But when I hear Grey’s Elegy, in an American accent …” The short-sighted eyes peered and twinkled.

“Was I reciting?” Mr Franklin made a mental note to steer clear of Norfolk beer in future. “I guess I must have been ready to drop off. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. Very proper thing to do. Quite natural. Where else should one recite Grey’s Elegy? Apart form Stoke Poges, of course. Forgive me, but I was correct, wasn’t I? You are American?”

“Yes, sir. I –”

“I wouldn’t inquire, but we see very few visitors, you know, much less transatlantic ones. Not much to attract tourists to our rural retreat, I’m afraid – unless you are interested in runes. We have rather a fine example of one of the stones just inside the doorway there – in fact, while I was at Cambridge I was privileged to assist in deciphering it – curiously enough, it was a learned gentleman from one of your universities – Yale, in fact – who finally made the translation. Splendid scholar; splendid. It was really quite interesting,” went on the stout man, “because the inscription reads: ‘Lanca wrote this rune on this stone”. And of course, this place is called Castle Lancing – well, Lancing means Lanca’s people, so we have the mystery of a stone engraved by a Norseman, Lanca, possibly as early as the ninth century, and our church is only twelfth century. Curious, isn’t it? Or perhaps,” said the stout man anxiously, “you aren’t interested in runes?”

Mr Franklin had recovered himself by now. “I might be,” he ventured, “if I knew what they were.”

“Teutonic engraving – adaptation of Roman letters to permit them to be carved in stone – Anglo-Saxon, Danish, that sort of thing,” said the stout man. “But I’m so sorry – you must think me extremely rude, breaking in on you … only –” and he suddenly beamed in a way which made him look about ten years old “-one doesn’t often hear Grey being quoted aloud in one’s churchyard.”

“I’m the intruder,” said Mr Franklin. “Is this – I mean, are you the … the clergyman?”

“Heavens, no!” The stout man laughed. “I’m simply a pest who infests the vestry, like death-watch beetle – which we haven’t got, thank God, not yet, touch wood. Parish records, that sort of thing. No – our vicar is a much more useful member of the community, I’m happy to say.” He smiled on Mr Franklin. “Are you staying in the neighbourhood?”

“You could say that,” admitted Mr Franklin. “I just bought Lancing Manor.”

“Good God!” said the stout man distinctly, and dropped his papers. Mr Franklin helped him gather them up. “You’ve bought … the manor? Well, I never! Well, I’m damned! I do beg your pardon.” He adjusted his spectacles, combed his scanty hair with his fingers, and stared at Mr Franklin. “Well,” he said at length, “that is an extraordinary thing. Of course, after Dawson left, one assumed … still, it is unexpected … goodness me …”

“Not unpleasantly so, I hope?” said Mr Franklin.

“My dear fellow!” The stout man looked alarmed. “I assure you – quite the contrary, absolutely. Splendid news. By God,” he added, emphatically, “I’d sooner we had someone in Lancing Manor who quotes Grey in churchyards than … than – well, you know what it is, some awful people buy country property nowadays. Men in loud checked bags and women with Pekinese voices. Drive about in motors, take the local people into service and don’t know how to treat ’em, try to pretend they’re gentry, simply shocking.” The stout man paused for breath. “Damned motors.”

“I won’t be buying a motor,” said Mr Franklin.

“Ha!” exclaimed the stout man, and beamed. “No, I don’t imagine they’d be your style. You look much too sensible. But, I say – we’re neighbours, you know. Well, I live over at Mays Cottage –” he waved vaguely. “Retired, you understand, after forty years lecturing on the sixteenth century to precocious loafers who only want to waste their parents” money on drink, amusement, and young women. No,” added the stout man seriously, “that’s not fair. Some of ’em did want to learn about the Tudors, God knows why. However, I’m Geoffrey Thornhill, I’m delighted to welcome you to Castle Lancing, and what on earth induced you to buy the manor? I’m all ears.”

Mr Franklin frowned, glanced round the churchyard in some perplexity, and sighed. “It’s a long story,” he said.

“Of course it is! Here, sit down –” Thornhill indicated the flat tomb. “There, now. By the way, you’ll get used to me. The villagers think I’m mad, and may be right; I talk compulsively, can’t mind my own business, am undoubtedly eccentric, but can easily be managed by anyone who’ll simply say ‘Shut up, Thornhill’. Right-ho?” His expression invited Mr Franklin to discourse.

“Well …” the American began, and stopped. His head was feeling clearer than it had done a few moments earlier, clear enough for him to be aware that he had not quite been in control of his tongue, and to realize that he had not meant to say to anyone what he was on the point of saying to this perfect stranger. But why not, he was thinking. I’m here now, and there’s no secret, anyway; this is the end of the line, and this fellow’ll find it all out, anyway, for what it’s worth. He looked out through the yew-trees to the meadow beyond the village, where the dying sun was casting a pale haze over the fading green.

“Well, my name’s Mark Franklin, and I’m an American, as you guessed. And I –” he hesitated. “Well, I guess you could say I’ve come back.” He stopped, frowning, and after a moment Thornhill said:

“Back? To England? Ah, you were born here?”

“No,” Mr Franklin smiled. “But my family came from England, and –”

“Franklin, of course. Not a common name, but not uncommon, either, meaning –”

“A free-born landholder, but not of noble blood,” quoted Mr Franklin. “That’s what my father used to say – and the dictionary bears him out. From what they tell me down at the tavern, there’s quite a few Franklins around here.” He gestured at the gravestones.

“At the tav –, ah, the pub. Why, yes, there are Franklins in the old registers, and certainly the name is on some of the graves – but, of course, I daresay you’d find it in most English church records. Your people may not be East Anglian – unless they emigrated recently and you can establish from your own knowledge that they came from a certain area, it would be difficult to –”

“My people,” said Mr Franklin, “left the village of Castle Lancing in the year sixteen-hundred-and-forty-two. That much I do know – and not much besides, except that the man who left, with his wife and children, was called Matthew Franklin, and every descendant since has been named after one of the four gospel-writers. Where they’ve been in between …” He shrugged. “Grandfather was from Ohio, father from Kansas, but farther back is anybody’s guess. Only one thing’s sure, because it was in grandfather’s bible – which got lost in the war; farm in Kansas got burned – and that was that the first American in our family was Matthew, and he came out of Castle Lancing when they made the place too hot for him. Dad used to say old Matthew was a king’s man, and that the local sentiment was pretty Republican round that time …” He laughed and shook his head, while Thornhill bounced up and down, making apoplectic noises which eventually spilled out in a flood of excited words.

“But … but … but … good God! Well, I’m blessed! You mean you’ve – you’ve come back to the very village! But that’s splendid! Well, I’m damned! That is ab-so-lutely splendid, my dear chap! I never heard the like! After all these years – these generations – these centuries …” Thornhill gaped and beamed. “I mean – well, I suppose most of us here have a vague notion where our families hail from – well, my own lot claimed that they were Normans called Tournelle, but since my own grandfather was a swineherd from Dumfriesshire, I imagine that the village of Thornhill in that county supplies a more plausible clue – it was my aunt, actually, who tried to pretend to the Norman nonsense – foolish old woman, snob to the eyebrows, of course … but, my goodness, to be able to walk back, after nearly three hundred years, into your ancestors” own place! Dear me! And there can’t be any doubt, you see – the parish registers will show Matthew – it was Matthew, wasn’t it? – and his parentage … I mean, you’ve got the date – 1642 – Civil War, King and Parliament – yes, it fits, your father was perfectly right, this was very strong Parliamentarian country, yes, indeed, and anyone of royalist sympathies might well clear out … well, I say!”

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.