George Fraser - Mr American

Mr Franklin thought for a moment, and asked: “Aren’t there lots of dinners like tonight’s?” She turned to look at him in the dimness of the cab, and he heard her chuckle.

“Lots of dinners,” she said. “All the time. But not many like tonight. So you needn’t be jealous.”

He handed her out on the corner. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he was beginning. “I mean, I wish I could express my appreciation …”

“Oh, you know,” she shrugged. “Diamond bracelet to the stage door – couple of emerald earrings. Any little trinket your lordship happens to have lying around spare.” She giggled again and pecked his cheek. “Don’t be so soft. Tell you what – pay your money at the box-office some night and watch my solo. Then you’ll have done your bit.” Her gloved hand touched his cheek. “’Night, Mr American.”

Her heels clicked on the pavement, the white figure faded into the gloom, humming happily:

Boiled beef an’ carrots,

Boiled beef an’ carrots!

That’s the stuff for your derby kell …

Mr Franklin sighed, climbed into the growler, and was driven back to the Waldorf.

He left London on the following morning. A four-wheeler was engaged to remove from the hotel the two handsome Eureka trunks containing the clothing purchased the previous day, as well as the battered old case with which Mr Franklin had arrived, and his valise; these were despatched to St Pancras, while the gentleman himself took a cab by way of Bond Street.

Here, at the exclusive jewellers which he had patronized the previous day, Mr Franklin stated his requirements; the manager, who had seen him coming, smoothly set aside the assistant dealing with him – he personally would see to it that nothing too inexpensive was laid before a customer who paid cash for pearl and platinum watch-chains.

“A bracelet, perhaps, sir. For the wrist?”

“I had thought a necklace,” ventured Mr Franklin. “For the … chest. That is – the neck, of course.”

“Of course, sir. Diamond, emerald – ruby perhaps. May I ask, sir, if the recipient is dark or fair?”

“Oh, fair. Very fair – quite blonde.”

“The sapphires, perhaps. It is a matter of personal taste. Diamonds, of course –” the manager smiled “ – complexion is immaterial.”

“How about pearls? You know, a strand – a substantial strand. These collars one sees …”

The manager was too well-trained ever to lick his lips, but his smile became a positive beam.

“The perfect compromise, sir. Pearls – with a diamond cluster and clasp.” He snapped his fingers, and presently Mr Franklin found himself blinking at a triple collar of magnificent pearls, gripped in their centre with a heart-shaped design of twinkling stones; he visualized it round Pip’s neck, beneath the beautiful dimpled chin, imagining her squeals of delight when she tried it on.

“That’ll do,” he said without hesitation, “I’ll take it,” and two fashionable ladies examining rings at a nearby counter paused in stricken silence at the sight of the lean, brown-faced man weighing the brilliant trinket before dropping it on its velvet cushion. Speculative whispers were exchanged, a lorgnette was raised, and Mr Franklin was carefully examined, while he produced his cigarette case, selected a cigarette, remembered where he was, and returned it to its place. The manager made amiably deprecating noises, and asked:

“I trust the case gives satisfaction, sir?”

“What – oh, yes.” Mr Franklin restored it to his pocket. “Haven’t lost a cigarette yet.”

In this atmosphere of good will the pearl necklace was bestowed in its velvet case, wrapped, and tied, and the manager inquired if the account should be forwarded to Mr Franklin’s address; the attentive ladies, busily examining their rings again, were disappointed when he replied: “No, I’ll pay now.”

The manager bowed, a slip of paper was presented, and Mr Franklin gripped the counter firmly and coughed, once. He should, he realized, have inquired about prices first – but his hesitation was only momentary. He could not recall an evening in his life that he had enjoyed so much, or any single human being whom he had liked so well; he had only to think of Pip’s fresh young face smiling at him across the table to find himself smiling, too, and producing his notecase. It occurred to him, too, that visible signs of affluence probably assisted a stage career – and if that career faltered, well, expensive jewellery was realizable.

His note-case required reinforcement from his money-belt – a sight which slightly embarrassed even the manager, and brought the lorgnette into play again. “Ah,” murmured one lady, “Australian, undoubtedly,” and on being asked by her companion how she knew, replied: “His accent, of course.” They watched intently while Mr Franklin, having paid, wrote out a plain card; he simply addressed it: “Miss Priscilla Delys, Folies Satire”, without enclosure, and asked the manager to see it delivered to the appropriate theatre – no, he told that astonished gentleman, he didn’t know which one it was.

None of which escaped the ladies, who concluded that Mr Franklin was either an unusually forgetful individual intent on marriage, or a foreign maniac – probably both; as he swung out of the shop their eyes followed him with some wonder and genteel regret.

He caught the eleven o’clock train to Ely via Cambridge with barely a minute to spare, and spent two and a half hours alternately glancing at the paper and out of the carriage windows at the passing fenland; it was not a cheering prospect, but by the time Ely was reached, and he had changed to the Norwich line, Mr Franklin was in, for him, a positively animated state – from sitting quietly enough, he now leaned forward, hands on knees, to stare out of the window; he shifted position at least three times during the many local halts, and by the time Lakenheath was reached he was actually drumming his fingers on the arm-rest. Beyond Brandon he let down the window; by Thetford he was leaning out the better to see ahead, and at the next stop, where he alighted, he positively hurried along the platform and in his excitement bestowed a shilling instead of the usual threepence on the porter who unloaded his baggage.

But if Mr Franklin was now disposed to haste, he soon discovered that Norfolk was not. The station was a tiny one, and it took half an hour to summon an ancient gig, driven by an urchin of perhaps nine years, and drawn by a horse possibly twice as old. Mr Franklin gave the lad his destination and resigned himself to patience as they creaked off at a slow walk.

Fortunately it was a glorious autumn afternoon, and their way ran through broad meadows and occasional woodland, the brown and yellow tints mellow in the sunlight. Mr Franklin drank it in with a silent eagerness, as though he would have imprinted every leaf and hedge and thicket on his mind; if he did not display visible impatience, he was certainly breathing rather more quickly than usual, and at each bend in the road he would gaze eagerly ahead. At last, after two hours, they topped a gentle rise, and beyond it a village nestled among woods in the hazy afternoon; a scatter of cottages round a little triangular green; a dusty street winding in front of a small inn; a pond, mud-fringed, a pump and a horse-trough; on the farther side, a lych-gate and the square tower of a Norman church rising among elms and yews.

“Cassel Lancin’,” said the urchin stolidly, and Mr Franklin took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Castle Lancing,” he repeated. “Well, now.” He smiled and shook his head. “Think of that. All right, Jehu, let’s go.”

They creaked up the main street, past the mean cottages where one or two poorly-dressed women started at them from the low doorways, and a few children played in the dust of the unpaved street; there seemed to be no one else about, except for a working-man on a bench outside the Apple Tree, who favoured them with a blank stare. Across the green was a small shop with bottle-glass windows and the name “A. Laker” above the door; a dog lay drowsing in the threshold.