George Fraser - Mr American

“You never!” She found it incredible. “Well, you’re a fine one, I must say!”

For a moment Mr Franklin, recalling his encounter with the suffragette the previous night, wondered if all Englishwomen were mad, or at least eccentric. This one looked sane enough – not only sane, in fact, but beautiful. Or if not beautiful, perhaps, then quite strikingly pretty. She was small, with bright blonde hair piled on top of her neat little head to give her added height; the face beneath was a perfect oval with pert nose, dimpled chin, and vivid blue eyes – one of them unfortunately had a slight squint, and Mr Franklin instinctively dropped his glance, taking in instead the hour-glass figure in the glittering white evening dress beneath the fur cape. Altogether, she was something of a vision in that grimy back street – a slightly professional vision, though, with her carefully made-up complexion and bosom rather over-exposed even by the generous Edwardian standard.

“You buy flowers from a florist, dear,” she said, regarding him with something between laughter and indignation, “not from street-hawkers. Not for me, anyway.”

Mr Franklin stiffened. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,” he said. “I didn’t buy flowers for –”

“Here!” exclaimed the young woman. “Aren’t you from Box 2A?”

“No,” said Mr Franklin firmly. “I’m not. Not lately.”

“This isn’t your card?” And she held up a rectangle of pasteboard on which some message, indecipherable in that faint light, was scrawled. He shook his head.

“Well!” she exclaimed in some vexation. “I was sure you were him. Where the hell is he, then?”

Mr Franklin automatically looked round; certain there was no one else waiting. Behind her two other girls, in the same theatrical finery, were emerging from the doorway. For the first time he realized that the light overhead shone from within an iron frame reading “Stage Door”, and understanding dawned.

“Oh, damn!” said the blonde. “Another one with cold feet! Honestly, it makes you sick. They get all feverish, watching you on stage, and then at the last minute they remember mama, all worried about her wandering boy, and leave you flat.” She pouted, tore up the card, shrugged, and regarded Mr Franklin ruefully. “Who were you waiting for, then – Elsie, is it? She’ll be out in a minute. I say, Glad,” she said over her shoulder, “he isn’t from 2A after all.”

“Shame.” Glad, a dark, languorous beauty, looked Mr Franklin up and down regretfully. “Elsie has all the luck. “Night, Pip.” She and her companion sauntered off, and Mr Franklin, conscious that he was at a rather ridiculous disadvantage, was about to withdraw with what dignity he could, when the small blonde snorted indignantly.

“Of all the rotten tricks! D’you know, I haven’t been stood up since I was in the chorus? Brewster’s Millions, that was – and just as well, really; I think he was married –”

“I’m afraid –”

“’Course, in the chorus, you learn to expect it – now and then. But when you get out in front – well, when you have a solo, and if you’ve got any kind of figure at all – and I have, no mistake about it – well, you don’t get billings as ‘The Pocket Venus’ if you haven’t, do you? Huh! Of all the disky beasts! Blow him – whoever he was. I could have done with dinner at the Troc., too,” she added wistfully. “Hold on, I’ll see what’s keeping Elsie. Won’t be a sec.”

“Just a minute!” Mr Franklin spoke sharply, and the blonde checked, startled. “I’m sorry, there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not waiting for Elsie. In fact, I’m not waiting for anyone. I bought these flowers by chance –”

“You’re an American,” said the blonde, smiling brilliantly. “Well, I never!”

“I’m sorry if you were disappointed,” Franklin went on. “But you see—”

“Hold on a shake.” She was considering him, head on one side. She descended the step, still smiling, but with less animation than before. “I think you are the fellow from 2A, aren’t you? And you did send round the card, asking me to dinner at the Troc, didn’t you?”

“I assure you –”

“And then you saw me, close to. And I’ve got a squint. Wasn’t that it?” There was a curl of bitterness at the corner of the pretty mouth. “It’s my damned squint, isn’t it?”

Mr Franklin stood for a moment in silence. He was a level-tempered man, but he had found the last few minutes uncomfortable. He had felt momentarily bewildered, and then slightly foolish, and he was not used to either. The fact that the situation should have been amusing, or that most men would have seen it as an opportunity to further acquaintance with this unusually attractive girl, only increased his natural reserve. And now it was not amusing at all. He found himself at a loss, holding a bunch of flowers (something he had not done since childhood, if then) being reproached by a creature who was apparently preparing to feel aggrieved, through no fault of his. It was new to him, and he must take thought how to deal with it.

“No,” he said at last. “You’re quite wrong. I wasn’t waiting for you, or anyone. I said so. And I didn’t even notice if you had … a squint,” he lied. “I still don’t. And if I did, it wouldn’t make any difference – if I had been waiting for you, I mean.” For Mr Franklin, this was positively garrulous, but in this novel and disturbing situation he felt that frontier chivalry demanded something more. “You’re a remarkably beautiful girl, and anyone who saw you on the stage would be even more … impressed, when he met you. I’m sorry your friend didn’t turn up.”

He stepped back, intending to say good-night and go, but the blonde was regarding him with quizzical amusement.

“My,” she said, “you aren’t half solemn. Look, it’s all right, really. If you’re waiting for Elsie, I’ll be gone in a –”

“I am not waiting for Elsie,” said Mr Franklin emphatically.

“Well, the flowers, I mean … it looks odd. And if you are the chap from Box 2A – well, I don’t mean about the squint, but some fellows really do get quite nervous, you know, and change –”

“And I’m not from Box 2A. I’ve never even been in this theatre –”

“You mean you haven’t seen me singing ‘Boiled Beef and Carrots”? That’s my number, you know – a bit vulgar, but if you’ve got a shape for tights, why, that’s what they give you – and it hasn’t done Marie Lloyd any harm, has it? Are you married – is that it?” she asked speculatively.

“No,” said Mr Franklin patiently, “I’m not.”

“Well, then, that’s all right!” she said cheerfully. “Neither am I. And here we are – I’ve been stood up, and I’m starving – and you’re an American visitor, from the wild and woolly west, seeing the sights of London – you are, aren’t you? Well, then, you can’t go home to … to New York, or wherever it is, and say you missed the chance of taking a musical comedy star to supper in a fashionable restaurant – I don’t know about the Troc., though – I had a bad oyster there last time – but there’s the Cri.; no, that’s getting a bit common. Or there’s Gatti’s, that would do.” She smiled winningly at the silent American. “Well – don’t look so worried! It’s only a dinner – and it’s your own fault, anyway, promenading outside stage doors with bunches of flowers – a likely story! Give ’em here,” and she took the bunch of flowers, surveyed them critically, and dropped them on the pavement. “Now, then,” she put a gloved hand on Mr Franklin’s arm. “Where you going to take me?”

Mr Franklin understood that he was being made the victim of a most practised opportunist, but there was little that he could do about it – or, on reflection, that he wanted to do about it. She was a remarkably good-looking girl, and with all his reserve, he was human. However, it was not in him to capitulate informally; he looked down at her, the dark face thoughtful, and finally nodded.