Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald
and the young lady squealed again and belatedly snatched the sheet up to her chin.
“Oh! Oh, my God! What are you doing here? This is Frank’s room! Go away!”
“It’s my room!” Mr Franklin crouched, appalled. “Franklin. You’ve made –”
“What?” The dark eyes stared in panic. “Oh, my God, my God! But the door …” She squealed again. “That bloody Jeremy! He’s changed the cards! The swine! Oh, God!” She dived completely under the covers. Her voice sounded muffled. “Go away!”
“I can’t.” Mr Franklin, standing in his nightshirt, observing the heaving sheet with alarm, was at a loss. “This is my room – I … I … can’t just … here.” He walked round the bed, picked up the discarded flimsy gown, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Take your … your robe, and get out, quick. Before someone comes.”
“What?” An eye peeped from beneath the sheet. “You mean you’ve got someone …”
“I don’t mean anything of the dam’ sort!” hissed Mr Franklin. “Look – take it and vamoose, will you?”
“No! I can’t! Oh, God, why don’t you go away! If Frank finds out he’ll …”
“Will you get out of here – please?” whispered Mr Franklin, desperately. “Look, you can’t stay here –”
“Damn that rotten little toad Jeremy!” Suddenly her head came out. “My God – I wonder whose name he’s put on Frank’s door? Here, who are you, anyway?”
“That doesn’t really matter!” He was beginning to get thoroughly annoyed. “Will you please go?”
“You’re American,” said the young lady. “I say, what an utter frost!” She brushed the hair out of her eyes, still keeping the sheet firmly in place. Then, alarmingly, she giggled; Mr Franklin wondered was she going to have hysterics. But she seemed to have regained her composure remarkably.
“That little brute! Of all the mean tricks!” She giggled again, considering Mr Franklin. “You weren’t in the crowd downstairs, were you? I’d have seen you – I mean, I’d have noticed you.” She nibbled the top of the sheet. “You’re rather divvy, really.” And she giggled once more, infuriatingly.
Mr Franklin took a deep breath. Then he dropped the dressing-gown on the bed, walked to the door, took hold of the knob, and jerked with his thumb. “Out,” he said.
The young lady looked at the robe and tossed her head. “You’re not very gallant! I mean, it’s not my fault I mistook your rotten room, is it?”
“Out!”
“Well, it isn’t! So there’s no need to be horrid. I mean, it could happen to anyone.” Again the giggle. “It’s rather a lark, really – gosh, what would Frank say?” And to his alarm, the young lady snuggled down in the bed. “Anyway, it’s awfully comfy here.”
Mr Franklin felt the hairs rise on his neck. He was not a prude, and faced with Pip Delys in a similar situation, he had been human enough not to hesitate above a moment. But that had been entirely different: Pip had known precisely what she was doing, and he doubted if this young woman did. This was a silly, feckless, no doubt promiscuous but completely irresponsible little piece of … of English upper-class stupidity – or so he supposed. My God, was the country just one great cat-house? Or had he got her wrong? Was she just so dam’ stupid that she didn’t realize what she was doing? Was she drunk – probably under the influence, slightly, but not so that it mattered. No, she thought it was just a great lark – and since she’d been going to roll in the hay with someone – Frank, whoever he was – well, presumably the next best thing would do. Mr Franklin swore softly, and at that moment there were feet moving in the passage, and a voice was whispering irritably:
“Poppy? Poppy? Where the devil are you?”
There was a muted squeak and giggle from the bed. “Oh, golly – that’s Frank!”
“Poppy? Oh, come on! What are you playing at?” The voice was louder, and impatient. “Poppy! Damnation! Poppy!”
“Poppy’s killed in South Africa,” called a distant male voice, and a girl laughed shrilly. The footsteps paused outside Mr Franklin’s door, and he heard a match being struck; a distant door opened and a young voice called: “What on earth’s up, Frank? Why the blazes can’t you go to bed?”
“Which is Poppy’s room?” The questioner was on the other side of the panels, loud and truculent. “Blast! Oh, go to hell, Jeremy!”
Convulsive rustlings came from Mr Franklin’s bed; he could hear Poppy giggling hysterically. The young voice was coming closer, laughing: “Oh, leave off, Frank! You’re tight, you silly ass! Poppy’s fast asleep by …”
“Shut up!” Another match scratched, followed by heavy breathing. “What? This is my room – but it’s not … what the hell?”
“Well, if it’s your room, Poppy’s probably in there, don’t you think?” The malicious amusement in the young voice was evident, and then abruptly the door was thrust open almost in Mr Franklin’s face, and in the bedside light’s gleam a large young man in evening dress shirt and trousers stood framed in the doorway. As Mr Franklin had deduced from the voice, it was Frank, Lord Lacy, his acquaintance from the foxhunt.
“What the hell?” Lacy glared at him, blinking in the light. Behind him a fresh-faced young man was doubling up with laughter, and on the other side of the passage another man’s head was emerging.
“You!” Lacy stood, his face blank. “Oh! Where’s Po –” He broke off, his eyes bulging, as he looked beyond Franklin to the bed. “Christ! Poppy!”
“Take it easy,” said Mr Franklin, but Lord Lacy seemed to be having difficulty in taking in anything at all. He stared from the bed where Poppy, eagerly apprehensive, was huddled up bright-eyed, hugging her knees beneath the sheet, to the American.
Mr Franklin spoke quickly. “The young lady mistook my room for yours. The names seem to have got switched.” He looked past Lacy at the fresh-faced young man. “She just this minute got here, and was on the point of leaving.”
“Leaving?” His lordship gurgled. “Leaving? She bloody well looks like it, doesn’t she?” He plunged forward towards the bed before Mr Franklin could stop him. “You dirty little bitch!” he roared, and made a grab at the squealing Poppy who slithered frantically out of the other side screaming: “No, Frank, no! Leave me alone!” She was pulling the sheet with her, but Lacy caught it, dragging it from her grasp. Left naked, Poppy covered her eyes and dived wildly towards the door, Mr Franklin obligingly side-stepped to let her past. She stumbled into the fresh-faced young man, bringing him down, the corridor was suddenly full of staring faces, female shrieks, cries of astonishment, and hurrying feet, and Mr Franklin took his forehead in his hand and swore, with feeling. Someone began to have hysterics, and then he was aware of Arthur, half-dressed, emerging from the confusion. “What on earth’s happening?”
Mr Franklin explained rapidly; Arthur glanced quickly from the door-card to the errant Poppy, now huddled in semi-decency in someone else’s gown, to Lacy, who was still gaping foolishly at the sheet in his hand, and nodded, grinning. “I see. Just so. Poppy, you half-wit, what the –”
“Twasn’t my fault!” Poppy, with several people between her and her bewildered lover, was prepared to enjoy the excitement. She tossed her head. “I wasn’t to know, was I? Jeremy, you pig, you changed the cards – I know you did! Beast!”
“What happened?” “Poppy, what on earth?” “The wrong room?” “A likely story!” “Whose room was it?” “Oh, crumbs! Isn’t it priceless!” The babble of the bright young things was drowning Poppy’s giggling protestations when there was a sudden roar from Lacy. His lordship might be slow on the uptake, but a thought had evidently occurred to him. He turned on Mr Franklin, his face working