Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ 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! СКАЧАТЬ