Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald
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