Читать книгу Mr American - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 13

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?”

“No, thanks. Hadn’t you better be seeing to your other … er … gentlemen?”

“‘Er … gentlemen’ is about right, sir.” The man chuckled beerily. “They can wait their turn, sir – an’ get them little hussies out their rooms, an’ all, afore I attend to them! I wouldn’t neglect a real gennleman like yourself, sir, not on their account. Oh, thank you, sir; most kind of you.”

Mr Franklin made his way downstairs thoughtfully, and was rather taken aback to find the King planted before the hall fireplace, smoking a cigar and talking to one of his equerries. He hailed the American genially.

“Morning, Franklin. Sleep well?”

“Very well, thank you, sir,” lied Mr Franklin gamely, wondering if he should inquire in kind. The King settled it for him.

“More than I did, then. Draughts seem to follow me about these days. Getting too old for all this gallivanting, sitting up to all hours getting fleeced by Yankee card-sharps, what?” He beamed over his cigar; for all his complaints about draughts, and the fact that he could not have had more than four hours’ sleep, he was looking remarkably spruce in his check breeches and jacket, hideously offset by his pink tie; his eye was clear and his face ruddy with health. Mr Franklin wondered how he did it.

“Hardly fleeced, sir,” said the equerry, warming Mr Franklin with his smile. “Soveral complains that you and Mr Franklin gave him a very rough passage indeed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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