George Fraser - Mr American

At this, one startled drinker dropped his tankard, another sent his pint down the wrong way and had to be slapped on the back, and there was some confusion until an ancient, beady-eyed in a corner, licked his lips and told the ceiling that he didn’t mind if he had a pint of bitter. This was provided, the ancient bobbed his head over the foam, grinned a gap-toothed grin, said “Good ’ealth,” and drank audibly. The others stirred, wondering if they too should accept the stranger’s bounty, and then Mr Franklin observed, to the room at large:

“I just moved in at the manor house.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then the ancient said: “Ar. We know that,” and buried his face in his pot. For the rest, half a dozen pairs of eyes avoided Mr Franklin’s; the landlord made indistinct noises.

“I was wondering,” said Mr Franklin, “if any of you could tell me how I turn the water on. Nothing comes out of the taps, and I’m afraid the agent didn’t remember to tell me.”

Further silence, muttered consultation, and then the landlord observed that there would be a stop-cock. The ancient agreed; there always was a stop-cock, where there was taps, like. Someone else remarked that Jim Hanway had done odd jobs at the manor, when Mr Dawson was there; Jim’d know. Mr Franklin’s hopes rose, only to be dashed by the recollection of another patron that Jim had moved over to East Harling last February.

“Las’ March,” said the ancient, emerging from his beer.

“No, t’weren’t. Febr’y, ’e moved.”

“March fust,” cried the ancient. “Fust day o’ March. His lease were up. Oi know. March fust it was.”

At this the other speaker stared coldly at the ancient and said flatly: “It was Febr’y. An’ Oi know.”

“You know bugger-all,” said the ancient, and emptied his tankard with relish. He beamed at Franklin. “Thank’ee, sir. That was foine. March fust.”

The landlord interposed with a reminder that the gentleman wanted his water turned on, no matter what month Jim Hanway had moved, and silence fell again, until a young labourer said there ought to be a key, for the stop-cock, like, and it’d be round the back o’ the house, likely. Mr Franklin acknowledged this; he would look in the outbuildings.

“Stop-cock won’t be round the back, though,” observed the ancient. “Mains water runs by the road; stop-cock’ll be at front. Grown over, an’ all,” he added with satisfaction, as he hopped off his stool and laid his tankard on the bar. “In all that grass, somewheres.” He sighed.

“Would you care for another drink, Mr –” said Franklin, smiling. “Jake,” said the ancient, beaming. “Wouldn’t mind, thank’ee very much.”

“No, you won’t mind, you ole soak,” said the man who had disputed with him. “Mind ’im, sir; there’s a ’ole inside ’im, an’ it ain’t got no bottom.”

There was a general laugh at this, and Mr Franklin took the opportunity to repeat his invitation; this time the tankards came forward en masse, and while they were being filled he said to Jake:

“My name’s Franklin. Mark Franklin,” and held out his hand. Jake regarded it a moment, carefully wiped his gnarled fingers on his jacket, and inserted what felt like a large, worn claw gingerly into Mr Franklin’s palm. “Jake,” he said again. “Thank’ee, sir; thanks very much.”

Mr Franklin nodded and glanced at the man who had disputed with Jake, a burly, middle-aged labourer with a square, ruddy face and thinning hair. The man hesitated and then said, “Jack Prior”, and took the American’s hand. Thereafter, in quick succession, came the others, with large, rough hands that touched Mr Franklin’s very gently; flushed faces and grey eyes that slid diffidently away from his. He guessed that introductions were not the norm, at short notice, that anything like social ceremony embarrassed these men, but that because he was an affable stranger, they were making a concession to him. Also, presumably, they had no objection to free drink. He was not to know that no occupant of the manor within living memory had set foot in the Apple Tree; nor did he know that if he had introduced himself in similar company two hundred miles farther north, there would have been no answering acceptance. He did not know England, or the English, then.

The tankards were filled and lifted; Jack Prior said, “All the best, sir,” and the others murmured assent; Mr Franklin prepared to answer questions. But none came. In the saloons that he knew, he would have been asked where he came from, how long he planned to stay, what brought him here; he would have responded laconically, as seemed proper. But here, where he had gone out of his way to make himself known, had taken for him the unprecedented step of familiarity – here they drank in shy silence, avoiding his eye and each other’s, moving restlessly like cattle in a pen, and trying to appear unconcerned. Mr Franklin knew there was no hostility; he was sensitive enough to recognize embarrassment, but why it should be there he had no idea. Finally, having finished his own drink, he nodded pleasantly, preparing to take his leave; there was a shuffling of feet, almost in relief, it seemed to him, and then Prior suddenly said:

“Franklin.” He was frowning thoughtfully. “There’s a Franklin over’n the Lye Cottage, at Lancin’ End. Old Bessie Reeve – ’er name was Franklin, warn’t it, afore she married?”

In spite of himself Mr Franklin exclaimed: “You don’t say?”

“Oi do say,” replied Prior seriously. “That was her name. Franklin. Same’s yours.” He looked round, nodding emphatically. “Franklin. She’s the only one hereabouts, though.”

Jake cackled. “Ain’t bin round the churchyard lately, ’ave you? Plenty Franklins there.” He wagged his head, grinning, and drained his glass noisily.

The landlord caught Mr Franklin’s eye. “Used to be a biggish family, sir, in the old days. None left now. Wait, though – ain’t there Franklins over at Hingham?” His question hung unanswered in the silence, and Mr Franklin waited hopefully. The silence continued, and finally he broke it himself, indicating to the landlord that another round would be welcome. The tankards were thrust forward again and withdrawn, replenished; there were salutary murmurs in his direction, but beyond that nothing audible except the occasional gurgle and sigh as another gallon of home-brewed descended to its several resting-places. Mr Franklin decided that Prior’s brief conversational flight had probably exhausted the Apple Tree’s store of small talk as far as he was concerned, so he drained his glass, not without some effort, and remarked that he must be getting along.

Again he sensed the relieved shuffling, but even as he straightened his coat and prepared to nod to the landlord, Prior took a deep breath and said:

“You’ll have another, first – sir? On me, like.” Mr Franklin hesitated. With three pints of home-brewed inside him, backing and filling, he felt he had as much as he wanted to carry, and more. It was on the tip of his tongue to decline politely. Then he saw that Prior was standing rather straight, with sweat on his red forehead, and knew that the invitation had been made with considerable effort. Instinctively he sensed that Prior, while a labourer like his fellows, was perhaps of some standing in that humble company, and was in a curious way asserting his dignity; for Prior’s credit, it would be right to accept.

“Thank you, Mr Prior,” he said. “That’s kind of you.”

“Jack,” said Mr Prior, and laid his coppers carefully on the counter; his glass and Mr Franklin’s only were refilled, although Jake ostentatiously drained his few remaining drops, waited hopefully, sighed, and finally announced that he’d better be off to find that stop-cock afore the light went; all growed over, it’d be. Mr Franklin protested, but Jake hopped away, making ancient noises, leaving the American to pledge Prior and attempt his fourth pint of the dark, soapy liquor which seemed to be filling every corner of his abdominal cavity, and possibly running down into his legs as well.