Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald
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 decided, with that wide, generous mouth and perfect complexion. The expensive sealskin coat effectively concealed her figure, but Franklin could guess it was beautiful; the grace with which she moved and stood proclaimed it. He caught a drift of perfume, and possibly it was mere male susceptibility that made him not only draw a sixpence from his fob, but favour her with a longer speech than he had addressed to anyone since landing in England.
“Sixpence is a good deal of money for a paper that I never heard of. I mayn’t like it, you know; can you tell me any good reason why I should?”
He got a question back in return – plainly it was a stock one. “Do you think that you alone are entitled to the vote? Simply because you are a man? Votes for women!”
“But I’m not entitled to the vote – not in this country, at any rate. I’m tolerably certain of that.”
The young lady frowned irritably. “You’re an American,” she said, almost indignantly, and raised her voice again for the benefit of passers-by. “Our leader, Mrs Pankhurst, is in America at this moment, spreading our message among our American sisters, and among those American men who have the intelligence and decency to listen.” She turned her attention directly to Mr Franklin once more – really quite unusually handsome, he decided. “Are you one of those – or perhaps you believe that the land of the free is free for men only?”
“In my experience it’s free only to those who can afford to pay for it,” he said smiling, but the lady was not there to be amused.
“Spare us your transatlantic humour, please! Will you buy a paper or will you not? Votes for women!”
“Before such persuasive salesmanship, I reckon I can’t refuse,” he said, holding out his sixpence. “Or should it be saleswomanship? I don’–”
A presence loomed up at his elbow, heavy, whiskered, and officially bowler-hatted. In a deep patient voice it addressed the lady: “Now then, miss, please to move along. You’re annoying this gentleman …”
“Oh, but she’s not, really,” said Mr Franklin, and the lady shot him a glance before directing a withering stare at the plain-clothesman.
“I am entitled to sell our newspaper in the street, like any other vendor.” She might have been addressing a poor relation whom she disliked. “If you are a policeman, be good enough to give me your name, rank, and number, since you are not wearing a uniform.”
“Sergeant Corbett, Metropolitan Police, B Division, and I must ask you to move along at once, miss –”
“And I am not ‘miss’,” said the young woman loudly. “If you must address me by title, I am ‘my lady’.”
The illogicality of this retort from a suffragette passed Mr Franklin by for the moment, but he was naturally intrigued, not having encountered nobility before. She looked expensive, but otherwise quite normal. The policeman blinked, but made a good recovery.
“That’s as may be,” he said. “You’re not wearing a uniform either. And entitled to sell you may be, but you’re not entitled to cause an obstruction, which is what you’re doing.”
It was true; a small group had formed on the already crowded Aldwych pavement, some amused, but most of the men, Mr Franklin noted, either contemptuous or hostile. Aware of her audience, the suffragette raised her voice again.
“Another example of police harassment! You are interfering with