Mr American by George MacDonald Fraser

Author:George MacDonald Fraser [Fraser, George MacDonald]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 1980-08-31T04:00:00+00:00

17

He had not intended going down to Castle Lancing until later in the week, but with Peggy gone the house seemed unusually empty, and he knew that another couple of days would bore him exceedingly. He had an early dinner and thought of going to the theatre, but there was nothing that attracted his fancy – there were the usual revues, but they were sure to be filled with topical gaiety and smartness, and after a couple of weeks in London, exposed occasionally to the noise of Peggy’s friends, he felt he had had all the metropolitan sophistication he could take. Parsifal, now being performed outside Germany for the first time, in defiance of its late composer’s wishes, was drawing the highbrow audiences and exciting the critics by the spectacular melancholy of its sets, but the mere thought of three hours’ Teutonic bawling without benefit of plot filled him with horror. He had already seen Great Catherine at the Vaudeville, and while not certain that he entirely understood what Mr Shaw was talking about, had been amused by the dialogue and intrigued by the sight of an eighteenth-century English officer carrying pistols in his boots – that single touch had raised Shaw considerably in Mr Franklin’s estimation.

He went early to bed, and on the following morning he and Samson caught the train down to Norfolk, arriving at Castle Lancing in mid-afternoon. It was snowing lightly, and by the time they had collected provisions from Mrs Laker, lighted fires in the main rooms at the Manor, and had an al fresco supper, Mr Franklin found his spirits reviving. He felt he was back at home, and took pleasure in walking round the house, looking into the rooms, seeing that all was as he had left it, taking comfort in the familiarity of it all. And as he always did, he paused on the stairs and let his eyes dwell on the patch in the plaster at the far end of the landing, barely noticeable now after several coats of distemper, where the jagged holes left by Curry’s shots had been repaired four years ago – Samson had spent a fortnight in painstaking labour, digging the battered slugs out of the wall, and out of the scarred floor planks and panelling and door jamb, and then patching and planning, plugging and plastering, varnishing and polishing, with a patience and skill that would have done credit to an articled tradesman. Now, standing on the landing, Mr Franklin could run his fingers over the door jamb and wonder where the bullet-hole had been; when he glanced down into the hall he could not be certain of the exact spot where Curry’s body had bled, and they had scraped and scrubbed so laboriously; the new stair carpet which had replaced the old stained one was now itself showing signs of wear. No physical trace remained of that distant desperate battle; if its memory lingered, at least it carried no shadows of regret or guilt or

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