Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ dominating a quarter of the globe – fourteen miles long by ten miles wide, and housing more than seven million people, half as many again as New York: if so, he gave no sign of it, thought the old gentleman, who had wakened silently and was watching him through half-open eyes. Interesting face, for all its impassivity, purposeful and yet curiously innocent, with those steady eyes that obviously saw everything and yet gave away nothing. Difficult chap to know, probably; not over-given to opinion, but he’d speak his mind succinctly when he had to. Not a city man, obviously – Colorado, of course, he’d said as much. Tough customer? No, that wasn’t right – not with that almost gentle mouth and those long, slender hands. Not weak, though, by any means. And like Inspector Griffin and the Adelphi porter, the old gentleman wondered idly who he might be, and what brought him to England. Interesting bird.

      “Give me a call if you feel like a week-end’s shooting.” As the train rolled slowly into Euston, and they gathered up their hand-luggage, the old gentleman drew a card from his waist-pocket. “Turf Club will always find me. Can’t promise you any bear or bison, but partridge is better than nothing, eh? Good evening to you.”

      And to his astonishment, the old gentleman was rewarded first by a lift of the brows as Mr Franklin took the card, and then by a surprisingly bright, almost embarrassed smile.

      “Thank you, sir. That’s most companionable of you.”

      Extraordinary word to use, thought the old gentleman, as he left the carriage; American, of course; rather pleasant. Hadn’t exchanged cards, or even given his name. Still, Colorado … different conventions.

      Mr Franklin left the station in a taxi, having made his customary comparison of fares and been astonished to find that the motor was fourpence a mile cheaper than the horse. He had never, in fact, ridden in an automobile before; possibly he felt it was more in keeping with the metropolitan atmosphere. The Cockney cabby, having weighed up his fare with an expert eye, asked where he would like to go, and received the disconcerting reply: “The best hotel convenient to Chancery Lane.”

      “You mean – any ’otel, sir? Well, now, there’s the Savoy, in the Strand, which is about the best in London, but just a bit farver on, there’s the noo Waldorf, which is first-class, an’ on’y arf the price. Closer to Chancery Lane, an’ all, or there’s –”

      “The Waldorf,” said Mr Franklin, “will do.”

      “Right you are, sir. First time in London, sir? Ah, an’ from America, very nice. Then we could go round by White’all, if you like, not far aht the way, an’ let you see a few o’ the sights …”

      And taking his fare’s nod for consent, the cabby cranked his machine into life and set off, shouting above the roar of his engine and the traffic, in his role as self-appointed guide. It was, he knew, an exciting ride for a stranger, and from experience he could guess to a nicety what the American made of it. First, that the streets were the most crowded he’d ever seen in his life, with the big omnibuses, taxis and cars, the two-wheel hansoms and the growlers, and the astonishing number of cyclists, including ladies, even at this time of day, weaving expertly through the traffic in their hobble skirts and hats tied down with scarves; second, that the noise, to which the cabby added with his running fire of incomprehensible comment, was deafening; third, that the buildings seemed uncommonly close together, and the streets far too narrow for their volume of traffic. That was what they always said – so when you’d given them their fill of jammed pavements, brilliantly-lit shop fronts, cursing drivers, and honking horns, and topped it off with a mild altercation with a helmeted policeman, just for local colour – then you wheeled them suddenly into one of the great majestic squares, with its tall buildings and towering trees above the central square of green, where the couples sauntered under the strings of lights, and it was possible for the taxi to crawl slowly along the inner pavement, to give the passenger the best view of the laughing girls tripping by on the arms of their top-hatted young men, with an organ-grinder going strong on the corner, and the constant stream of pleasure-seekers round the entrances of the brilliantly-lit hotels. The cabby thanked God for London’s squares – depending what you wanted you could give ’em beautiful lamp-lit peace, with the throb of the metropolis muffled by the magnificence of the trees, or all the bustle and glitter of the richest city in the world, or the dignified quiet of the residential squares with their opulent fronts and the carriages waiting patiently and perhaps a glimpse of a liveried footman pacing swiftly with a message from one great mansion to another. Variety, that was what they wanted – provided it wasn’t raining.

      This particular Yank wasn’t like some of ’em, though; the cabby was used to an incessant yammer of nasal question, with demands for Buckingham Palace, but this bloke just sat sober and quiet, taking it in – judging to a nicety, the cabby decided to limit his diversionary route to Trafalgar Square and the Embankment, after first exposing his fare to the bedlam of St Martin’s Lane, where the theatres were going in, and he could feast his eyes on everything from ladies glittering with diamonds and swathed in furs, sailing in stately fashion up the steps with their opera-cloaked escorts, to the raucous Cockney boys and girls of the gallery crowds, dressed in their raffish best, cackling like jackdaws, or the stage-door johnnies with their capes and tiles rakishly tilted, monocles a-gleam for the expensively painted and coiffured beauties sauntering in pairs – hard to tell ’em apart from the duchesses, the cabby always thought, even when they were plying their trade after the show at the Empire Promenade in Leicester Square. He said as much to Mr Franklin, who nodded gravely.

      “Trafalgar Square,” said the cabby presently, and watched curiously as his fare surveyed the famous lions around the sparkling fountain and the immense pillar of Lord Nelson’s monument; oh, well, thought the cabby, you can’t please everyone, but we’ll startle even this one in a minute. Which he did by driving down Whitehall, wheeling out on to the Embankment, and stopping sharply; it was a cunning move, to confront the unwary suddenly with the magnificent sweep of Thames, and beyond it the great electric-jewelled pile of the Houses of Parliament, with the massive structure of Big Ben towering over all, framed against the glowing night sky. It never failed to win excited gasps, especially if the cabby was clever enough to time his run down Whitehall just as the chimes were beginning; well, why not, he thought; that’s England, after all, in everyone’s imagination.

      Mr Franklin did not gasp, but sat while eight o’clock struck, the great notes booming across the water like an imperial benediction; then he nodded slowly, which the cabby rightly guessed was the equivalent of three cheers followed by an ecstatic swoon. He must have been impressed, for when they got to the Waldorf he paid the cabby’s three shillings without a murmur, and even added a threepenny tip.

      It was as he was turning away from the taxi that the American found himself face to face with a young woman; he stepped politely aside, she stepped with him, he moved again, raising a hand in apology, only to find her still blocking his way. Baffled, Mr Franklin stopped, and the young woman pulled what looked like a small magazine from a sheaf under her arm, and thrust it at him, announcing:

      “This is a copy of the Englishwoman, the official journal of the suffragette movement. Will you please buy it, and support the cause of women’s rights?”

      And while Mr Franklin still hesitated the young woman turned her head and announced loudly: “Votes for women! Support the cause of women’s suffrage! Votes for women!” Then to Mr Franklin: “Sixpence, please!”

      Like her first announcement, it was a command rather than a request, and Mr Franklin paused with his hand half-way to his pocket, to study this peremptory young lady. One glance was enough to tell him that her voice was exactly in character; she was tall and commanding and entirely assured, and the hazel eyes that looked at him from beneath the brim of her stylish broad-brimmed hat were as clear and direct as his own. They were wide-set beneath a broad brow; the nose, like the face, was a shade too long for beauty, but she was undeniably handsome – really very handsome indeed, he СКАЧАТЬ