The American Boy Page 5

  “My name is Mr Noak,” announced the newcomer in a hard, nasal voice. “Pray inform Mr Frant that I am here.”

  “Mr Frant is not at home, sir. If you would like to leave your –”

  “Nonsense, man. They told me at his place of business he was here. He is expecting me.”

  The little man stepped into the hall and Loomis gave ground before him. Beside me, Frederick drew a sharp intake of breath, presumably at this breach of decorum, this frontal assault on Mr Loomis’s authority. Noak was followed by another man, much taller and perhaps twice his weight, who backed into the hall, lowering, collapsing and shaking the umbrella. He turned round, holding out the dripping umbrella to Frederick. This fellow was a Negro, though not so dark as the pageboy and with a more European cast of features. He took off his hat, revealing close-cropped grey hair. His dark eyes examined the hallway, resting for a moment on me.

  “Convey my card to Mr Frant,” Noak said, unbuttoning his coat and feeling in an inner pocket. “Stay a moment. I shall write a word on the back.”

  The butler did not even try to dissuade him. The little man had a natural authority which any schoolmaster would have envied. He found a pencil in his waistcoat and scribbled briefly on the back of the card. The Negro waited, his hat in his hands. The umbrella dripped on the floor. Frederick craned his neck, trying to see what Noak was writing. I edged nearer Mrs Kerridge to get a better view of proceedings. She glanced up at me and rubbed the wart on the side of her chin.

  Noak handed the card to Loomis. “I’m obliged to you.” He passed his hat to Frederick.

  Loomis tapped on the book-room door and went inside. No one spoke in the hall. Noak turned his back towards Frederick and raised his arms, so the footman could help him out of his coat. The Negro was as still as a post, his eyes now fixed on a spot behind Mrs Kerridge’s head.

  The book-room door reopened, and to my surprise Mr Frant himself emerged, his face illuminated with a smile of welcome. The Negro’s head swivelled towards Mr Frant, and the expression on his face had an element of calculation which reminded me of the way farmers at market look when assessing a calf or a mare. At the time it did not strike me as significant – but how could it have done? Only later did I realise what was really happening in the hall of the house in Russell-square.

  “My dear sir,” Frant said, advancing towards Noak with his hand outstretched. “This is indeed an honour. And I had not expected you so soon, though I left word with my clerk in case we were fortunate. You travelled post from Liverpool, I collect?”

  “Yes, sir. We arrived a little after noon.”

  “But I forget my manners.” Frant released Noak’s hand and turned towards Mrs Frant, who was now standing in the doorway behind him. “My dear, allow me to present Mr Noak of Boston, in the United States. You have often heard me speak of him – he is acquainted with the Allans and many of our other American friends. And this, sir, is Mrs Frant.”

  She coloured becomingly and curtsied. “How do you do, sir. You must be exhausted after your long journey.”

  “And here is my son,” Frant continued before Noak could reply. “Come, Charles, make your bow to Mr Noak.”

  You must allow the gentry this, if nothing else: they know how to close ranks in front of strangers. You would never have guessed from their behaviour that the Frants were not the happiest of families. Mrs Frant smoothed her son’s hair and smiled first at her guest and then at her husband. I fancied that the only symptom of her underlying agitation was her breathing: it seemed to me that her bosom rose and fell more rapidly than was natural.

  “Charles is about to return to his school,” Mr Frant said. “Pray excuse him.”

  Noak inclined his head. “I should not like to be the cause of interrupting a young man’s education.”

  He glanced briefly and incuriously in my direction; Frant had not considered me worth introducing. Mrs Frant smiled dazzlingly at Mr Noak, took the boy by his shoulders and steered him towards Mrs Kerridge.

  “Charlie and Mr Shield will leave now,” Mrs Frant murmured. “Make sure they take something to eat with them.” She added in a sudden rush, still in a whisper, “But they must leave at once, Kerridge, the hour is already late. We have detained Mr Shield from his duties for too long.”

  Mrs Kerridge curtsied.

  Mrs Frant turned to me. “I confide my son to your charge, sir. I regret we have inconvenienced you.”

  I bowed, sensing that my own colour was rising. What you must realise is that she was beautiful, and her beauty had the power to invest the simplest words with charm. In her company I was like a man in the desert who stumbles on a pool of clear water fringed with palms. You will understand nothing of what follows unless you understand that.

  “How did you come here?” she asked me.

  “In a hired chaise, madam. It is outside.”

  “Tell them to have it brought round to the area door. It – it will be quicker than using the hall door.”

  Quicker, and more discreet. She hugged her son. Her husband and Mr Noak were chatting about the inconvenience of travelling post, at the mercy of other people’s worn-out horses. I stared at the angle between her neck and shoulder and wondered how soft the skin would be, and what it would smell of.

  She pushed Charles gently away from her. “Go with Mr Shield, Charlie. And write to me often.”

  “But Mama –”

  “Go, dearest. Go quickly now.”

  “This way, Master Charles.” Mrs Kerridge placed an arm over the boy’s thin shoulders and urged him away from the front of the hall. Looking back at me, she added, “If you would be so kind as to come this way, sir.”

  She smiled at Mr Noak’s man, still standing, still watching with grave interest.

  “I am Mrs Kerridge, sir.”

  “Salutation Harmwell, ma’am. At your service.”

  “Come and dry out in the servants’ hall. Perhaps we can offer you a little refreshment while you wait?”

  He paused for a moment, as if contemplating the meaning of her question; then he bowed his assent, and for an instant his gravity dissolved into what was almost a smile.

  I wondered how well Harmwell spoke English. He was undoubtedly a fine figure of a man, though, in any language. Aye, and Mrs Kerridge thought so too; I could tell that from the way she stumbled on the stairs and clung to his arm and thanked him so prettily for his support. It struck me for the first time that, though by no stretch of the imagination was she a handsome woman, she had a fine, mature figure and a pleasing smile when she chose to use it.

  In the basement, the cook emerged and lured young Frant into her kitchen to select the contents of our hamper for the drive back to school. I waited in the shadows by the staircase, ignored and feeling somewhat of a fool. Mrs Kerridge showed Mr Harmwell into the servants’ hall. A moment later she returned, demanding a decanter of Madeira and a plate of biscuits. Unaware of my presence, she raised a finger to detain Frederick, who was about to fetch the chaise.

  “What did that scrawny little fellow write on his card?” she muttered. “Did you see?”

  He glanced from side to side, then spoke in a low voice to match hers. “Can’t have been more than two or three words. I could only read one of them. Carswall.”

  “Mr Carswall?”

  Frederick shrugged. “Who else?” He gave a snort of amusement. “Unless it was Miss Flora.”

  “Don’t be pert,” Mrs Kerridge said. “Well, well. You’d better fetch that hackney.”

  As the footman was leaving, I shifted my weight from one foot to another. My boot creaked. Mrs Kerridge looked quickly in my direction, and then away. I kept my face bland. Perhaps she wondered whether I had marked the oddity of it. If Mr Frant had been eagerly awaiting the arrival of Mr Noak, why had not Mr Noak simply sent in his card? And why had the name of Carswall acted as his Open Sesame?

  The page came clumping down the stairs with indecorous speed.

  “Don’t run, Juvenal,” snapped Mrs Kerridge
. “It ain’t genteel.”

  “The mistress told Mr Loomis to have the carriage brought round,” the boy gasped. “Mr Wavenhoe’s, that is, she come in that. She’s a-going back to Albemarle-street.”

  Frederick grinned. “I wouldn’t want to linger here if it was my uncle a-dying, and him as rich as half a dozen nabobs.”

  “That’s more than enough from you,” Mrs Kerridge said. “It’s not your place to go prattling about your betters. If you want to keep your situation, you’d better mind that tongue of yours.” She turned to me, no doubt to alert the others to my presence. “Mr Shield, sir, I’m sorry to keep you waiting down here. Ah, here’s Master Charles.”

  The lad came out of the kitchen holding a basket covered with a cloth. Frederick called out that our chaise was at the door. A moment later, the boy and I were driving back to Stoke Newington. I unstrapped the hamper and Charlie Frant wept quietly into the napkin that had been wrapped round the warm rolls.

  “In a year’s time,” I said, “you will smile at this.”

  “I won’t, sir,” he retorted, his voice thick with grief. “I shall never forget this day.”

  I told him all things passed, even memories, and I ate cold chicken. And as I ate, I wondered if I had spoken the truth: for how could a man ever forget the face of Mrs Frant?

  11

  The next incident of this history would have turned out very differently if there had not been the physical resemblance between young Allan and Charlie Frant. The similarity between them was sufficiently striking for Mr Bransby on occasion to mistake one for the other.

  On the day after my return from London, I gave Morley and Quird another flogging after morning school. I made them yelp, and for once I derived a melancholy satisfaction from the infliction of pain. Charlie Frant was pale but composed. I believed they had let him alone during the night. Morley and Quird were uncertain how far they could try me.

  After dinner, I took a turn about the garden. It was a fine afternoon, and I strolled down the gravel walk to the trees at the end. On my left was a high hedge dividing the lawn from the part of the garden used as the boys’ playground. The high, indistinct chatter of their voices formed a background to my meditations. Then a shriller voice, suddenly much louder than the rest as if its owner were becoming heated, penetrated my thoughts.

  “He’s your brother, isn’t he? Must be. So is he a little bastard like you?”

  Another voice spoke; I could not make out the words.

  “You’re brothers, I know you are.” The first voice was Quird’s, made even shriller by the fact that it would occasionally dive deep down the register. “A pair of little bastards – with the same mother, I should think, but different fathers.”

  “Damn you,” cried a voice I recognised as Allan’s, anger making his American twang more pronounced than usual. “Do not insult my mother.”

  “I shall, you little traitor bastard. Your mother’s a – a nymph of the pavey. A – a fellow who knows her saw her in the Haymarket. She’s nothing but a moll.”

  “My mother is dead,” Allan said in a low voice.

  “Liar. Morley saw her, didn’t you, Morley? So you’re a bastard and a liar.”

  “I’m not a liar. My mother and father are dead. Mr and Mrs Allan adopted me.”

  Quird made a noise like breaking wind. “Oh yes, and I’m the Emperor of China, didn’t you know, you Yankee bastard?”

  “I’ll fight you.”

  “You? You little scrub. Fight me?”

  “One cannot always fight with the sons of gentlemen,” said the American boy. “Much as one would prefer it.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then the sound of a slap.

  “I am a gentleman!” cried Quird with what sounded like genuine anguish. “My papa keeps his carriage.”

  “Steady on,” Morley intervened, croaking like a raven. “If there’s to be a fight, you must have it in the regular manner.” Morley was older than his friend, a hulking youth of fourteen or fifteen. “After school, and you must find yourself a bottle-holder, Allan. I shall act for Quird.”

  “He’ll have the other little bastard,” Quird said, “the one we put out of the window. That was famous sport, but this will be even better.”

  I could not intervene. From time immemorial, fighting had been commonplace in schools. The little boys aped the bigger ones. An establishment such as Mr Bransby’s aped the great public schools. The public schools aped the noble art of pugilism on the one hand and the mores of the duel on the other. It was one thing for me to intervene in an episode of nocturnal bullying, but quite a different one for me to seek to prevent a fight conducted with the tacit approval of Mr Bransby. I own that I was surprised by the tenderness of my own feelings. I was perfectly accustomed to the knowledge that boys are rough little animals and maul each other like puppies.

  There was a good deal of whispering during afternoon school. The older boys, I guessed, had seized with enthusiasm the opportunity to organise the fight. I consulted with my colleague Dansey, who told me, as I knew he would, that I must leave well alone.

  “They will not thank you, Shield. Boys are morally fastidious creatures. They would consider you had interfered in an affair of honour.”

  By the time supper came, nothing had happened. That was plain from the unmarked countenances of Quird and Allan, and from the buzz of excited whispering that spread up and down the long tables.

  “It will be after supper, I fancy,” Dansey observed. “There will still be enough light, and Mr Bransby will be safe in his own quarters. They should have well over an hour to beat each other into pulp before bedtime.”

  I did not know the result of the fight until the following morning. It did not come as a surprise. There are cases when Jack kills the Giant to universal approbation, but they are few and far between. Quird was at least a head taller than Allan and a couple of stone heavier. Arm in arm with Morley, Quird swaggered into morning school. Edgar Allan, on the other hand, sported two black eyes, a grazed cheekbone and swollen lips.

  I looked for, and found, reasons for me to give impositions to Morley and Quird which would keep them occupied after prayers every evening for a week. Sometimes it is easier to punish the wicked than to defend the innocent.

  Gradually I discovered that the defeat was widely recognised as having been an honourable one. Dansey told me that he had overheard two older boys talking about the fight at breakfast: one had said that the little Yankee was a well plucked ’un, to which the other had replied that he had fought like the very devil and that Quird should be ashamed of himself for picking on such a youngster.

  “So you see there’s no harm in it,” Dansey said. “None in the world.”

  12

  Over the next few days I did not pay much attention to Charlie Frant and the American boy. I saw them, of course, and noted that they showed no further marks of mistreatment, or rather no more than one would expect to find on small boys in their situation. I was aware, however, that they often sat together and played together. Once I overheard two older boys pretending to mistake one for the other, but in a jocular way that suggested that the resemblance between them had become a source of friendly amusement rather than mockery.

  The next event of importance to this history occurred on Monday the 11th October. The boys were more or less at leisure during the period between the end of morning school at eleven o’clock and their dinner two hours later. They might play, write letters, or do their preparation. They were also allowed to request permission to make excursions to the village.

  Their movements outside the school, however, were strictly regulated, at least in theory. Mr Bransby had decreed, for example, among other things, that boys should patronise certain establishments and not others. Only the older boys were permitted to purchase liquor, for which they required special permission from Mr Bransby. The older boys ignored the condition, usually with impunity, and were frequently drunk at weekends and on holidays; and some of the younger ones were
not slow to follow their example. But I own I was surprised when I saw Charlie Frant ineffectually attempting to conceal a pint bottle beneath his coat.

  I had walked into the village in order to buy a pipe of tobacco. On my way back to the school, I happened to pass the yard entrance of the inn which hired out hacks. There was really no avoiding the meeting. Looking as furtive as a pair of housebreakers, Frant and Allan edged out of the yard immediately in front of me. I was on their left, but their attention was to their right, towards the school, in other words, the direction from which they expected trouble. Frant actually knocked into me. I watched the shock spreading over his features.

  “What have you got there?” I asked sternly.

  “Nothing, sir,” replied Charlie Frant.

  “Don’t be a fool. It looks remarkably like a bottle. Give it me.”

  He passed it to me. I pulled out the cork and sniffed. The contents smelled of citrus and spirits.

  “Rum-shrub, eh?”

  The boys stared up at me with wide, terrified eyes. Rum-shrub was something of a favourite among the older boys at the Manor House School, for the combination of rum with sugar and orange or lemon juice offered them a cheap, sweet and rapid route to inebriation. But it was not a customary beverage for ten-year-olds.

  “Who told you to purchase this?” I inquired.

  “No one, sir,” said Frant, staring at his boots and blushing.

  “Well, Allan, is your memory any better?”

  “No, sir.”

  “In that case, I shall be obliged if you would both wait on me after supper.” I slipped the bottle into my coat pocket. “Good day.”

  I walked on, swinging my stick and wondering which of the older boys had sent them out. I would have to beat Allan and Frant, if only for the look of the thing. Allan and Frant followed me round the corner. I glanced back, in time to see a man coming up behind them. He was a tall figure, clad in a blue coat with metal buttons.