Francesca and the Mermaid

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘Tough,’ she said. ‘I need this bed for Agnes. She’s broken her leg.’

  He didn’t seem able to take it in but sat on the edge of the sofa blinking. ‘What?’

  ‘Agnes has broken her leg,’ she explained with icy patience. ‘She’s in hospital and she’s coming here tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Poor old thing.’ Then he tried wheedling. ‘But she doesn’t need a bed now, does she? Not right this minute. I mean to say, she’s not here now is she? I could stay till morning.’

  She was adamant and enjoying it. ‘Get dressed,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you five minutes and if you’re not dressed by then I’ll throw your clothes in the street and you after them.’

  His mouth was a circle of horror. ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘Five minutes,’ she said.

  He grumbled but got dressed and she watched him implacably until the deed was done. Then she walked to the front door and opened it. She didn’t say anything, she simply insisted with her face. And a little to her surprise he shuffled out.

  Once she’d shut the door on him she began to laugh. Then she opened the windows to the clean night air and pulled the horrible crumpled pillow case from the pillow. She didn’t feel the slightest sympathy for him. Not even a twinge. It had been a triumph.

  CHAPTER 11

  ‘ Poppycock!’ Agnes said fiercely. ‘That’s what it is. Absolute poppycock.’ She was up and dressed and sitting in a hospital armchair with her plastered leg propped on a chair in front of her and she was extremely cross. ‘It’s no earthly good them keeping on.’ She mimicked a silly little girl’s voice. ‘You must consider the stairs Miss Potts. We can’t have you falling again can we. Consider the stairs? Did you ever hear the like? I’ve been up and down those stairs every blessed day of my life. I know every inch of every single tread, they’re my stairs, for crying out loud. And now some idiot child pops her stupid head round the curtain just when I’m sitting here ready to be discharged and tells me to consider them. They’re treating me as if I’m half-witted and I won’t have it. Do they really think I can’t manage to get up my own stairs? I don’t need a lecture about stairs. I’m not an invalid. It’s only a broken leg. I’ve shown them I can use their horrid crutches.’

  Francesca sat on the edge of the empty bed and tried to think how to comfort her. It was awful to see her so angry and distressed. ‘I don’t think they mean to be unkind,’ she said. ‘They’re trying to help you.’

  That didn’t ease the situation at all. ‘Help me!’ Agnes snorted. ‘Well they’re going the wrong way about it. And another thing. She said they can’t discharge me until they’re sure I can manage and they’re going to send some nosy social worker to inspect the house. I don’t need my house inspected. That’s bullying. And insulting.’

  She’s frightened they’ll throw things away, Francesca understood. ‘Would you like me to go and talk to them?’ she offered.

  ‘You can try if you like,’ Agnes said and shrugged her shoulders. ‘You won’t get any sense out of them though. I can tell you that for nothing. I’ve been trying since breakfast.’

  Francesca slid off the bed, kissed her friend’s hot cheek and went off to find a nurse, thinking hard all the way. She still hadn’t found the right words when she arrived at the nursing station, where a woman who looked as though she might be the Sister was checking the drugs trolley. She looked up as Francesca approached, smiled and said she wouldn’t be a minute so Francesca smiled back and went on thinking.

  ‘It’s about Miss Potts,’ she said when the trolley had been wheeled away. ‘I’m her friend Francesca.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ the Sister said. ‘She gave your name as next of kin. How can I help you?’

  ‘She wants to be discharged.’

  The Sister made a grimace. ‘So we gather,’ she said. ‘We’ve been trying to explain the situation to her. I don’t think she understands we have to make sure she can cope when she gets home.’

  It was time for a judicious not-quite truth. ‘Actually,’ Francesca said. ‘I’m taking her home with me so she won’t have to cope with anything. I live in a ground floor flat. There aren’t any stairs to worry about and I can look after her. If she’ll let me. She’s very independent.’

  The Sister smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’ve noticed. But of course if she’s going to stay with you that makes all the difference. I’ll tell doctor there’s been a change of plan. Just give me a few moments.’

  ‘Well?’ Agnes said as Francesca walked back towards her. ‘What did they say?’ She was scowling like a goblin. ‘Don’t tell me. Let me guess. They won’t let me go home.’

  ‘Actually,’ Francesca said, enjoying her moment. ‘They will. They’re going to sign you off as soon as they can get in touch with the doctor. But be warned. Just don’t argue with them. Right? I’ve had to tell a porky pie to get them to agree. Just listen to them and keep schtum, whatever they say, even if you think it’s daft.’

  Agnes was delighted. ‘You bad girl,’ she said. ‘And I thought you were the soul of virtue. Don’t worry. I’ll lie through my teeth.’

  But her discharge was quick and simple. She was given a card with the time of her follow-up appointment written on it, warned not to put any weight on her injured leg and eased into a wheelchair with her crutches across her knees. Then, when she’d been pushed to the side of Francesca’s car and gentled into the passenger seat, they were off.

  ‘About time too,’ she said, closing her eyes as they took the Lewes road. ‘I can’t wait for a nice cup of tea from my own pot. I can’t be doing with tea-bags.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on first thing,’ Francesca promised. And did.

  They sat in her untidy kitchen and drank several cups of tea and Agnes looked so relieved and happy it tugged Francesca’s heart to watch her, knowing that sooner or later she would have to face the challenge of the stairs. But for the moment it was enough for her to be back in the house, holding her warm mug in both hands and admiring her garden through the window.

  ‘What could you fancy for lunch? Francesca said, when Agnes finally looked her way. ‘It’s nearly one o’clock.’

  ‘Is it too?’ Agnes said. ‘Um. Well I tell you what, I’ll think about lunch when I’ve been upstairs. Come on. I’ve got something to prove.’ And she slid her arms into her crutches and struggled to her feet.’ Her face was so determined, Francesca simply followed her and tried not to show how worried she was.

  ‘No problem,’ Agnes said when she reached the foot of the stairs. ‘I’ll soon get the hang of it. You watch.’ And she gave the lowest stair her fiercest scowl, swung up a crutch to give her support and stepped onto the stair with her good leg. ‘There you are. Easy-peasy. Just a matter of taking it a step at a time.’ And she hauled her plastered leg up to the step and stood in one-legged triumph on the bottom step.

  ‘Take it gently,’ Francesca urged but Agnes was already trying to swing her crutch onto the next step and was discovering how painful it was to be off balance and forced to put weight on her plastered leg. The pain of it was so excruciating she called out ‘Aah! Aah!’ and clung to the banister for support.

  ‘Bloody hell fire!’ she said when she’d caught her breath. ‘That hurt.’

  ‘Maybe you should . . .’ Francesca began but Agnes turned her most determined face to glare down at her.

  ‘I’ve started,’ she said sternly, ‘so I’ll finish. I can’t expect it to be easy.’ She swung her crutch up to the next step for the second time with redoubled concentration, a lot of heavy breathing and no success at all. Again the lack of balance, again the awful pain. And this time it took her longer to recover. But her spine was set with the determination not to be beaten. She gritted her teeth and swung at the step again.

  Her struggle went on for more than ten minutes and at the end of it she hadn’t moved from the first step. Her face was streaked with perspiration, she was panting and very near tears. ‘This bloody sodding leg,’ she said and sank
sideways onto the step, tears oozing from her eyes. ‘I can’t do this Francesca. There isn’t room for me and this bloody crutch and all this bloody sodding plaster. The step’s too small. How am I going to manage if I can’t get upstairs? I shall have to sleep in a chair. And what will I do with my leg then? I’d like to cut the bloody thing off. And how am I going to get on with my work? That’s all upstairs too.’

  Francesca eased herself onto the stair beside her and held her while she ranted about her bloody sodding leg and her bloody sodding plaster and how she wished she’d never gone out to pick the bloody sodding apples until she’d sworn herself to a halt and was weeping and exhausted.

  ‘You’re right,’ she soothed. ‘It’s not fair. Life’s a bummer.’

  Agnes wiped her eyes. ‘What am I going to do?’ she said.

  ‘Well,’ Francesca said slowly, stroking the damp strands of hair out of her friend’s eyes and smiling at her. ‘I’ll tell you what I think. It’s only what I think, mind. If you don’t like the sound of it, you’ve only to say. I’m not telling you what you ought to do. I’m only saying it’s a possibility.’ Agnes gave her a lop-sided grin. So she went on, aware that she was taking a risk but feeling that the moment was right. ‘I think you ought to come home with me and let me look after you for a little while.’ And when Agnes scowled, she modified quickly. ‘Just until you’ve got used to these crutches. Maybe this happened because you’re trying to rush things. It could be, couldn’t it?’

  Agnes looked doubtful but admitted that she supposed so.

  ‘Well then,’ Francesca said. ‘Let’s give it a try, shall we? For a few days. To see how you go on. If it doesn’t work or you don’t like it, you can always come back.’

  Agnes leant her head against the banisters and closed her eyes. ‘I can’t leave the house,’ she said. ‘Not now. There’s too much to do. I ought to be here.’

  ‘You left it to go on the cruise,’ Francesca said reasonably.

  ‘That was different,’ Agnes said with her eyes still shut. ‘There wasn’t so much work to do then. It’s different now. Bonfire’ll be on us before we know it and I haven’t sent out any information. They’ll all be waiting for it and I haven’t even addressed the envelopes.’

  Francesca had no idea what Agnes was talking about but she tried to find an answer that would comfort her. ‘You can address envelopes at the flat,’ she said. ‘I’ll help you.’

  ‘It’s all upstairs,’ Agnes said despairingly. ‘I can’t do a thing if I can’t get at the folders.’ She was beginning to weep again. ‘And it’s not just envelopes. There’s a newsletter to write and all sorts of things.’

  This would have to be tackled head on. ‘Just tell me what I’ve got to look for,’ Francesca said, ‘and I’ll go upstairs and get it for you.’

  Agnes stopped crying and gave Francesca a long hard look. ‘You’re determined about this, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘One of us has to be,’ Francesca said lightly, ‘or we shall sit on the stairs all afternoon. Now tell me what I’m looking for. Are they labelled these folders? Presumably they’re in your bedroom. Right?’

  ‘Down by the bed,’ Agnes said. ‘They’re all labelled. I work on them most afternoons and evenings now. I’ve got my laptop and printer up there and the box full of paper and envelopes. Oh dear, I was going to get everything ready for Bonfire and now look where I am. I’m being such a nuisance.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ Francesca said. ‘I can be up and back in a second. You just stay there and get your breath back. I’ll bring your night things down too, shall I? Now is there anything else you need? Apart from the folders and the laptop and the printer, I mean. We can come back tomorrow and pack properly.’

  Having agreed to their arrangement, Agnes was recovering her humour. ‘You’re such a bully, Francesca Jones,’ she said in mock complaint and grinned at her.

  ‘That’s me,’ Francesca agreed happily and went upstairs.

  Given how untidy Agnes was, she was rather sur-prised to discover that the folders were exactly where she’d said they would be, and in a neat pile. There were seven of them and the top four were boldly labelled ‘Bonfire’, ‘Badgers’, ‘Soil Association’, ‘Big Pharma’. The bed wasn’t made, but she didn’t expect that, and there were discarded clothes and crumpled towels all over the place and a pile of bulging cardboard boxes in one corner but the laptop and the printer were side by side on the dressing table alongside the stationery box. She found the current pyjamas slung over a chair, a dressing gown hanging from a hook behind the door and a down-at-heel pair of slippers tossed askew beside the wardrobe so it didn’t take her long to gather all she needed. Methodical as always, she made a careful pile of it, the folders and the box on top of the laptop, then the printer, then the nightclothes carefully folded and finally the slippers, one tucked inside the other. Within five minutes she was carrying the whole lot downstairs. Agnes was still sitting where she’d been left.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said. ‘If I’m going to stay with you I must pay my way. That’s got to be understood or I shan’t come.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Francesca agreed. ‘We’ll go fifty-fifty. Now let’s have you on your feet and we can get going.’ She felt it was necessary to keep up the impetus before Agnes changed her mind. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m starving. I’ve got a quiche in the fridge and chips in the freezer and you can toss a salad can’t you. How will that be? I’ve got your things. All I need now is a bag to put them in. I’ll try the kitchen shall I?’

  ‘And another thing,’ Agnes said, worrying on. ‘Where am I going to sleep? You’ve only got one bedroom and this damn leg takes up a hell of a lot of room.’

  ‘We’ll sort that out when we’ve had lunch,’ Francesca promised, heading for the kitchen and the necessary plastic bag.

  ‘And another thing,’ Agnes said as she returned. ‘What if. . . ?’

  ‘Can you get up on your own, or do you want a hand?’ Francesca said as she packed the bag.

  Being challenged, Agnes made a great effort, hauled herself to her feet on the bottom step and eased down until she was standing on the hall carpet.

  ‘Right,’ Francesca approved, smiling at her. ‘We’re all set. I’ll go ahead and get the car door open for you.’

  Half an hour later they were in the flat, drinking a bottle of red wine and eating a happy lunch together. Francesca was inwardly purring at a job well done. It felt like a victory.

  That was Henry’s opinion of it too when Francesca arrived in his office later that afternoon to tell him how she’d got on. He ordered tea and cakes to celebrate and, while they were waiting for the tray to arrive, questioned her closely and happily. When she told him about the folders he laughed out loud.

  ‘That’s just typical of our Agnes,’ he said. ‘Always took her work very seriously. She was the best secretary I’ve ever had.’

  ‘The thing she was most worried about was a bonfire,’ Francesca told him, as the tray arrived.

  He drank tea, smiling at her. ‘She would be,’ he said, as he put his cup down. ‘That’s Bonfire she’s talking about. That’s what we call Guy Fawkes’ Day around here and it’s the biggest event in the Lewes calendar. You wait till you see it. It’s quite something. The bonfires are spectacular, built like ships and palaces and dragons and all sorts. It takes about a week to set them up and there are torch-lit parades and people dressing up and bands and fireworks. People come for miles to see it. The town’s packed. It takes a lot of organization and she’s the secretary of our group. Has been for years. We depend on her to keep us all informed. She’ll have been working on that all afternoon if I’m any judge. You see if she hasn’t. I’ll ask you tomorrow.’

  Now Agnes’ concern made sense. ‘I knew it couldn’t be just an ordinary bonfire,’ Francesca said.

  ‘Nobody could call our Bonfire ordinary,’ he told her happily. ‘Like I said, it’s spectacular. A legend.’

  Above his head the mermaid smil
ed mysteriously. The tea was hot and strong, the cake delicious. Agnes was going to be looked after. Francesca sat back in her chair, feeling pleased with herself. All was right with the world. And then Henry put down his cup and changed the subject and the tone.

  ‘Now we must get that house of hers cleaned up,’ he said. ‘I know we’ve got six weeks but it’s going to be a massive job so the sooner we get on with it the better. I shall start first thing tomorrow morning. Get a couple of skips organized and put my cleaners on to it.’

  I can’t let him do this, Francesca thought. It would cut her to pieces. But how could she stop him? He was the boss and she was one of his workers. Workers don’t tell the boss what to do. She sat quietly in her chair watching him as panic tied knots in her chest.

  ‘We’ll get one of the downstairs rooms cleared first,’ he was saying. ‘We’ll make a really thorough job of it, curtains, carpets, upholstery, cushions, everything, Then if she comes back for a visit during her six weeks, which she well might if I know anything about our Agnes, you’ll have something good to show her.’ He was smiling to think what a pleasant surprise it was going to be and how much it would cheer his old friend.

  His enthusiasm beamed across the desk towards Francesca, the warmth of it paralyzing her. He was so determined and so sure he was right and he was planning this for all the best reasons. She sat very still thinking hard and finding no answers. What on earth could she say to persuade him? She couldn’t think of a single thing.

  ‘Well,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘What do you think? Have I left anything out?

  Two direct questions had to be answered. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘You’ve thought of everything. It’s just. . . .’ And then she stopped.

  He went on smiling at her, intrigued by her serious expression and the puckered forehead that showed she was worried. Her hesitancy reminded him of Candida, when she was hiding how she felt about that dreadful cancer because she didn’t want to worry him. ‘Just?’ he prompted.