Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

He adjusted his spectacles, combed his scanty hair with his fingers, and stared at Mr Franklin. “Well,” he said at length, “that is an extraordinary thing. Of course, after Dawson left, one assumed … still, it is unexpected … goodness me …”

      “Not unpleasantly so, I hope?” said Mr Franklin.

      “My dear fellow!” The stout man looked alarmed. “I assure you – quite the contrary, absolutely. Splendid news. By God,” he added, emphatically, “I’d sooner we had someone in Lancing Manor who quotes Grey in churchyards than … than – well, you know what it is, some awful people buy country property nowadays. Men in loud checked bags and women with Pekinese voices. Drive about in motors, take the local people into service and don’t know how to treat ’em, try to pretend they’re gentry, simply shocking.” The stout man paused for breath. “Damned motors.”

      “I won’t be buying a motor,” said Mr Franklin.

      “Ha!” exclaimed the stout man, and beamed. “No, I don’t imagine they’d be your style. You look much too sensible. But, I say – we’re neighbours, you know. Well, I live over at Mays Cottage –” he waved vaguely. “Retired, you understand, after forty years lecturing on the sixteenth century to precocious loafers who only want to waste their parents” money on drink, amusement, and young women. No,” added the stout man seriously, “that’s not fair. Some of ’em did want to learn about the Tudors, God knows why. However, I’m Geoffrey Thornhill, I’m delighted to welcome you to Castle Lancing, and what on earth induced you to buy the manor? I’m all ears.”

      Mr Franklin frowned, glanced round the churchyard in some perplexity, and sighed. “It’s a long story,” he said.

      “Of course it is! Here, sit down –” Thornhill indicated the flat tomb. “There, now. By the way, you’ll get used to me. The villagers think I’m mad, and may be right; I talk compulsively, can’t mind my own business, am undoubtedly eccentric, but can easily be managed by anyone who’ll simply say ‘Shut up, Thornhill’. Right-ho?” His expression invited Mr Franklin to discourse.

      “Well …” the American began, and stopped. His head was feeling clearer than it had done a few moments earlier, clear enough for him to be aware that he had not quite been in control of his tongue, and to realize that he had not meant to say to anyone what he was on the point of saying to this perfect stranger. But why not, he was thinking. I’m here now, and there’s no secret, anyway; this is the end of the line, and this fellow’ll find it all out, anyway, for what it’s worth. He looked out through the yew-trees to the meadow beyond the village, where the dying sun was casting a pale haze over the fading green.

      “Well, my name’s Mark Franklin, and I’m an American, as you guessed. And I –” he hesitated. “Well, I guess you could say I’ve come back.” He stopped, frowning, and after a moment Thornhill said:

      “Back? To England? Ah, you were born here?”

      “No,” Mr Franklin smiled. “But my family came from England, and –”

      “Franklin, of course. Not a common name, but not uncommon, either, meaning –”

      “A free-born landholder, but not of noble blood,” quoted Mr Franklin. “That’s what my father used to say – and the dictionary bears him out. From what they tell me down at the tavern, there’s quite a few Franklins around here.” He gestured at the gravestones.

      “At the tav –, ah, the pub. Why, yes, there are Franklins in the old registers, and certainly the name is on some of the graves – but, of course, I daresay you’d find it in most English church records. Your people may not be East Anglian – unless they emigrated recently and you can establish from your own knowledge that they came from a certain area, it would be difficult to –”

      “My people,” said Mr Franklin, “left the village of Castle Lancing in the year sixteen-hundred-and-forty-two. That much I do know – and not much besides, except that the man who left, with his wife and children, was called Matthew Franklin, and every descendant since has been named after one of the four gospel-writers. Where they’ve been in between …” He shrugged. “Grandfather was from Ohio, father from Kansas, but farther back is anybody’s guess. Only one thing’s sure, because it was in grandfather’s bible – which got lost in the war; farm in Kansas got burned – and that was that the first American in our family was Matthew, and he came out of Castle Lancing when they made the place too hot for him. Dad used to say old Matthew was a king’s man, and that the local sentiment was pretty Republican round that time …” He laughed and shook his head, while Thornhill bounced up and down, making apoplectic noises which eventually spilled out in a flood of excited words.

      “But … but … but … good God! Well, I’m blessed! You mean you’ve – you’ve come back to the very village! But that’s splendid! Well, I’m damned! That is ab-so-lutely splendid, my dear chap! I never heard the like! After all these years – these generations – these centuries …” Thornhill gaped and beamed. “I mean – well, I suppose most of us here have a vague notion where our families hail from – well, my own lot claimed that they were Normans called Tournelle, but since my own grandfather was a swineherd from Dumfriesshire, I imagine that the village of Thornhill in that county supplies a more plausible clue – it was my aunt, actually, who tried to pretend to the Norman nonsense – foolish old woman, snob to the eyebrows, of course … but, my goodness, to be able to walk back, after nearly three hundred years, into your ancestors” own place! Dear me! And there can’t be any doubt, you see – the parish registers will show Matthew – it was Matthew, wasn’t it? – and his parentage … I mean, you’ve got the date – 1642 – Civil War, King and Parliament – yes, it fits, your father was perfectly right, this was very strong Parliamentarian country, yes, indeed, and anyone of royalist sympathies might well clear out … well, I say!”

      Mr Franklin became aware that he was being regarded with something like reverence; Thornhill took off his glasses, polished them on a huge handkerchief, replaced them, and viewed the American with delight.

      “This is absolutely first-rate! I’m more delighted than I can say! I must calm down, I really must …” He puffed and shook his head. “Steady, Thornhill, steady … but this is my hobby, you see – well, more my passion, I suppose – I told you I was an enthusiast for parish records – and to find you …” he regarded Mr Franklin with a possessiveness that was positively gloating, as though he were some rare species of butterfly “ – why, it’s as though you had walked straight off the page of one of my birth-ledgers – a Franklin of Castle Lancing –” He sprang up suddenly. “But what are we sitting here for – my dear fellow – where’s that blasted key …” He rummaged in his pocket, sending its contents broadcast. “We must look – at once! They’re on the vestry shelves – we can find Matthew, and … and … oh, damn!” He struck his forehead a resounding slap. “The lamp’s empty, and it’s getting dark. But we can get some oil from the shop – it’ll only take a moment –” His voice trailed off as he caught sight of Mr Franklin’s expression, and his face fell. “But perhaps you don’t feel like … I mean, I could probably track old Matthew down in an hour or two, if you’d care to …”

      He looked so much like a wistful little boy that Mr Franklin almost agreed; in fact, he had felt his own excitement rising in tune with Thornhill’s enthusiasm. But he was suddenly aware that daylight was fading, and the air was getting chilly; also, Norfolk beer and a brief sleep the previous night had left him feeling suddenly bone-weary, and the tombstone on which he was sitting felt uncommonly cold and hard.

      “Well …” he insisted, reluctant to damp the other’s evident eagerness. “I know it must sound downright ungrateful – and real disrespectful to my great-great-however-many-greats-grandfather and all, but –”

      “My dear chap!” Thornhill was all contrition. “How thoughtless of me! Of course you must be quite used up – journey, travelling, only this minute here – I am most frightfully sorry! That’s my trouble, of course – off in a burst of sparks like a damned rocket! Like one of your prospectors, what? Tell you