Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald
all”? It pleased him – and suddenly, as he paused outside the manor’s rusty gates, he felt an overwhelming, warm content; a great happiness of fulfilment, of a kind that he could remember only rarely – after the Sunday School prize, at Omaha, when he’d been all of six years old, and his father had led him away afterwards by the hand, smiling down at him; outside the Homesteaders’ Bank in Carson City, when he had made the big deposit, and walked across to the Star and Garter saloon for a beer – and yes, just last night, lying joyously content with Pip’s breast in his hand, blowing playfully at the blonde tendrils of hair across his face. Such different kinds of placid happiness – and now he was feeling it again, as he walked up the drive, brushing his feet through the grass and weeds, feeling for his key – and checking only momentarily as a dim figure rose from one of the stone seats and hailed him in a beer-roughened croak.
“I foun’ the stop-cock, sir – down yonder by the path. All growed over like anythin’ – but I got the key on her all right. So water’ll be runnin’ right enough, whenever you turn the tap. If I coulda gotten in, I’d ’a lit the boiler like, to warm ’er up.” He sniffed complacently. “But I couldn’t get in. All locked up.”
“Why, Jake, that was very considerate.” Mr Franklin felt in his waistcoat pocket, and found a guinea. “I’m much obliged to you.”
“A’right, now,” said Jake. “Say, though, there’s some weeds aroun’, tough, ain’t there? Like an old swamp, I reckon?”
“Think you could get rid of them?” wondered Mr Franklin, and fingered the guinea aside in his pocket, searching out two half-crowns instead. Despite his euphoria, caution told him that if he overpaid Jake the first time he would regret it. Jake assured him volubly that he would tackle the weeds first thing, and make a right proper job of them.
“Well, not too early; I’d like to sleep a long time tonight,” said Mr Franklin, and when Jake had expressed rapture over his five shillings and hopped away into the dark, promising prodigies of service, the new owner of Lancing Manor let himself into the dim, empty hall.
He stood in the darkness, looking round at the half-seen shadows, feeling the tiredness wash over him. He ignored his trunks, but unbuckled his valise, drew out his blanket, and made a bed by simply spreading it before the empty fireplace. He folded his clothes on the settle, made his valise into a pillow, and stretched out, rolling the blanket round him. For a few moments he lay, looking up at the shadowy ceiling, while he thought of the worn stone up in the churchyard, and of his father, and of dim figures that he could not recognize, although he knew they had once existed.
“Well,” said Mr Franklin aloud. “We’re back.” Then he was fast asleep, in Castle Lancing.
Mr Franklin’s arrival at the Manor was something of a nine-day wonder in the neighbourhood. Not only was he foreign, and slightly exotic with his sunbrowned complexion and lanky striding gait, he was also a mystery, and Castle Lancing enjoyed a mystery as much as the next village. Speculation had a field day: as a result of his playful answer to Tommy Marsh it was quickly understood that he had killed a man in the bush, and was in hiding with a price on his head; there followed the rumour that he was the bastard offspring of a Duke, come home to claim his inheritance (this, doubtless, sprang from a chance remark of Thornhill’s anent the American genealogy); finally, the obvious deduction was made that he was extremely rich, and that he intended to buy half Norfolk and reverse the country’s agricultural decline with go-ahead Yankee schemes; this was a popular theory because it was at least comforting in an area which was watching with anxiety the absorption of small holdings into larger farms, and where landlord-hatred was an article of faith.
So interest ran high at the activity observed round the Manor; gangs of workmen arrived from as far away as Norwich to re-gravel the drive, point and sand the stonework, paint the timber, repair the plumbing, and carry out internal improvements to the decoration; local labourers, mysteriously recruited by Jake, who lost no opportunity of establishing his unofficial stewardship and special relationship with the owner, cleared acres of weed and rubbish from the grounds, relaid the flower-bed and repaired the borders; there was a coming and going of pantechnicons and drays with furniture from Norwich – and on two sensational occasions, from London itself – with men in aprons heaving in beds, chairs, sofas, curtains, and mysterious packing-cases whose contents could only be guessed at; for one full day a magnificent new bath, with gleaming taps and a shower attachment of strange pipes and faucets, lay on the gravel before the house, and in Mr Franklin’s absence the entire population of the district came to marvel, and to be kept at a respectful distance by the ubiquitous Jake. All was bustle and concern, great quantities of ale were drunk by the toilers – for Mr Franklin had been prodigal in his provision for the refreshment of his helpers, and the Apple Tree was threatened by drought as the result of its traffic down the Manor road – and it was agreed that the Yankee must have a power of money. The young men spat and exclaimed in respectful envy; the young women and wives were unstinting in their admiration; the gaffers agreed that no good would come of it; and Jake, ensconced on his stool at the inn, cackled knowingly and implied that they had seen nothing yet; let them wait until the Yankee squire – the title dropped into place inevitably with ownership of the Manor House – really went to work (with Jake’s guidance, be it understood). Then they’d see.
Yet Mr Franklin was a disappointment, after the first excitement of his arrival had died down. He kept very much to the Manor, supervising installations in the house itself, occasionally inspecting the work out of doors, stating his requirements civilly but briefly; he knew what he wanted, and that was that. He employed no personal servants, which gave rise to much wonder – who cooked and washed the dishes and kept the house, for one thing? His laundry went to Thetford, his bodily provisions were ordered regularly from Mrs Laker and the dairy, and that seemed to satisfy him. Once or twice he appeared in the Apple Tree, but while he was courteous and affable, he was not communicative, and a natural shyness among the villagers prevented inquiry. Word of his arrival had naturally spread to the more important houses in the district, such as they were, and while there was mild curiosity there was a natural tendency to let the newcomer settle in; the largest estate-owner was an absentee landlord who lived in London most of the year, leaving the management of his estate to a steward whose duties excluded social niceties; the vicar, an amiable elderly soul who studied birds, met Mr Franklin once, and promptly forgot who he was, to the chagrin of the vicar’s wife, who had wished to invite the American to tea but hesitated to do so on such erratic acquaintance.
It followed that initially Mr Franklin’s sole contact with Castle Lancing society – excepting his commerce with the working class – was the eccentric Thornhill, who was himself something of a recluse. They had a brief period of intimacy while Thornhill was busily scavenging the parish records on the American’s behalf: Matthew was duly identified, as was his wife, who proved to have the baptismal name Jezebel – an unprecedented and impossible thing, in Thornhill’s view, but there it was, and how to explain it he could not imagine. Johannes Franklinus of the gravestone proved to be Matthew’s uncle, and Thornhill had no difficulty in tracing the family, and its association with Castle Lancing, back to the Black Death, where the parish records began.
But their relations, though cordial, did not blossom into friendship. Thornhill visited the Manor once or twice, and received al fresco refreshment; he gave Mr Franklin a bachelor supper at his own cosy, deplorably untidy cottage, amidst a litter of books and papers, but although the Burgundy was excellent, and the American was enthusiastic over Thornhill’s researches, they discovered, once the topic of the ancient Franklins had been exhausted, that they had no especial common interest. Mr Franklin was prepared to talk, within limits, about the United States; Thornhill was prepared to talk, without limits, about everything, but he did it with only half his mind, the other half being firmly rooted in that exciting misty area between the accession of Edward III and the Reformation. The truth was that, unless his interest was aroused on his own subject, as it had briefly been in Mr Franklin’s case, Thornhill’s garrulity was a nervous habit; he really preferred talking to himself, which he frequently did, thus provoking