Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ