Francesca and the Mermaid

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘Well, what I mean is. . . . The thing is, I’m not sure. . . . I mean I know how much you want to help her, I’m not saying that. Of course you do. You’re fond of her. We both are. I mean we’d never do anything to hurt her, would we. It’s just. . . . Not that it’s my place to say it, I mean.’ She glanced up at the mermaid for inspiration but the mermaid was looking enigmatical.

  The disjointed ambiguity of what she was saying caught Henry’s attention and held it. Why was she talking about Agnes being hurt? That didn’t make sense. ‘Spit it out,’ he said. ‘I shan’t bite you whatever it is.’ And he leant across the desk and patted her hand to encourage her.

  ‘It’s just . . .’ Francesca said, looking down at the tea tray because looking at him was making her feel uncomfortable. ‘I know you want to help her by cleaning her house and getting rid of the junk and everything and it would be a help, I’m not saying it wouldn’t, but. . . . Well, it might not be what she wants.’

  ‘No woman in her right mind could want to live in that sort of squalor,’ he told her reasonably. ‘She’ll be relieved to get shot of it if I’m any judge.’

  ‘I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to you,’ Fran said, forcing herself to look up at him, ‘but actually she does want to live in it.’ His expression was hard with disbelief and she realized that now she’d started she would have to give him reasons for what she was saying, even if it meant being disloyal to poor Ages. ‘I tried to tidy her wardrobe while I was living there,’ she said, ‘and it upset her dreadfully. I mean there were all these lovely clothes lying in heaps on the bottom of the wardrobe and I thought I’d hang them up for her. I thought it would be a help. But it was absolutely the wrong thing to do. She was so upset. You’d never believe how upset she was. She said she didn’t want anything touched. She couldn’t bear it. She wants everything to stay as it is. I think it’s a sort of obsession. A compulsion. Not being able to throw things away. Not wanting to accept change. Something like that.’ Was she making herself clear? His face was puzzled so it was impossible to tell.

  There was a long pause while she examined the tea tray until she felt she knew every line and colour and shadow of every cup and saucer and plate. Eventually he cleared his throat.

  ‘So what you’re saying is we shouldn’t go ahead with this plan to clean the house.’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ she admitted and because he looked stern, she rushed to modify it, her words tumbling over one another. ‘I mean, we might be able to persuade her to do it, later, when she’s got over the leg, back on her feet, I mean, well you know what I mean, and then we could help her, if she wanted us to, and I’m sure she would, but it ought to come from her in the first place. After all it is her house.’

  ‘You’re very fond of her,’ he said, but his tone was too bland to interpret.

  ‘She’s been very good to me.’

  At that, he smiled. ‘I can’t say I understand this,’ he admitted, ‘I really don’t know enough about compulsions or obsessions or things like that, but if you think we’d be doing more harm than good, then obviously we don’t go ahead with it. The aim is to make her life easier not compound her difficulties.’

  She felt limp with relief. ‘Thank you,’ she said and smiled back at him for the first time since their difficult conversation began. Then her conscience stirred. She’d wasted enough of his time. ‘I’d better be getting back to work,’ she said.

  ‘You had,’ he agreed, beaming at her, ‘or we shan’t have enough mermaids to meet the demand.’

  On which happy and positive note they parted.

  After she’d gone Henry stood by the window, with one hand on the sill and looked out at the neat garden below him and frowned. The interview had made him feel decidedly uncomfortable. It was the first time he’d given way to anybody since Candida died and he was torn between feeling pleased by his tolerance and annoyed by the fact that he’d agreed to change his plans, when they were so obviously positive and helpful. He prided himself that he was a good judge of character but he’d underestimated Francesca Jones. There was iron underneath that diffident exterior. He’d known there was more to her than met the eye from the moment they’d met and that being an artist she saw things other people missed. You only had to look at her portrait of Agnes to see that. It was really very perceptive, but even so, she could be wrong this time.

  There was a discreet knock at the door. Liam, he thought, and called to him to come in. There was work to be done.

  Agnes had spent a productive afternoon in the flat. Having plugged in her laptop and printer and been surprised to discover that they worked as well in Francesca’s living room as they had in her bedroom, she’d settled herself comfortably at the table and started work. By five o’clock she’d written the Bonfire newsletter, run off the requisite number of copies, addressed all the envelopes and was feeling very pleased with herself. Cup of tea, she thought, and put on her crutches to walk to the kitchen to make it.

  She’d only hopped three steps when somebody rang the doorbell. It took quite an effort to turn round and hobble off to answer it, so she was none too pleased when she found Cora’s unpleasant nephew, Kenneth or Brad or whatever he called himself, slummocking on the doorstep, looking sorry for himself. His hair was stiff with gel and sticking up like a lavatory brush, which made him look even more stupid than usual, and he was wearing the shoddiest T-shirt she’d ever seen.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, in her most disapproving voice.

  He gave her his unctuous smile. ‘Is Francesca there?’

  ‘She’s at work. Where do you imagine she’d be at this time of day? Some of us work.’

  She was pleased to see that she was making him uncomfortable. He shifted his feet and tried another smile. ‘Maybe I could come in and wait for her. I wouldn’t be any bother.’

  ‘No. You couldn’t. I’ve got work to do too.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be any bother. Really.

  She glared at him. ‘What part of the word “No” do you have trouble understanding?’

  He pressed on, beginning to look desperate. ‘Only I haven’t got anywhere to stay, you see. I thought maybe she’d let me sleep here for a few days. It wouldn’t be for long. Just a few days. Till I find my feet sort of thing. To sort of tide me over. I’ve had such a terrible time of it. You’d never believe how unkind people are.’

  Agnes could see there was a major whinge coming and cut it off at once. ‘There’s no room for you here, young man,’ she said briskly. ‘We’ve only got two beds. I’m in one and Francesca has the other.’

  ‘I could sleep on the floor,’ he said eagerly, putting one foot over the doorstep. ‘I wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘You most certainly could not,’ she said. ‘Move your foot. I’m going to close the door.’

  ‘Oh come on Aggie,’ he wheedled, ‘be a sport. I haven’t got anywhere else to go. You wouldn’t turn me out on the streets would you?’

  She gave him one of her stern looks. ‘Miss Potts to you,’ she said. ‘Move your foot and I’ll give you some advice.’

  He moved his foot and looked plumply hopeful.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Do you know where Station Road is? Yes I can see you do. Very well, go there and follow it until you get to a building called the Job Centre. That’s the place for you to go to.’

  He shuffled his feet and looked sullen. ‘There aren’t any jobs going,’ he told her. ‘I’ve looked.’

  ‘That,’ she said sternly, ‘I can’t believe. There are always jobs going in that centre.’

  ‘Not good jobs,’ he objected. ‘Not the sort of jobs anyone would want to do. Oh I know there are jobs but they’re things like van drivers and cleaners and carers and trolley-walleys. I don’t want to do any of them. I mean to say.’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’ Agnes said. ‘As you should have learnt by now. Well there it is. That’s my advice to you. Get a job. Any sort of job. Get it and hold it down for long enough to earn the money to keep yourself
and rent a room. Stop sponging off other people and learn to stand on your own feet. Now I’m off. Some of us have got work to do.’ And she closed the door on him.

  As she propped herself against the sink so that she could fill the kettle with her free right hand, she was grinning to herself. That’s the way to deal with selfish young men, she thought. What a good job Francesca wasn’t here. She’d have let him in.

  CHAPTER 12

  Jeffrey was slouched in his armchair in his horribly untidy living room biting his nails and feeling sorry for himself. It was nearly two in the morning and life with Bubbles wasn’t working out. She was appallingly selfish. He found it hard to credit how selfish she was. She ate her way through everything in his cupboards and never offered to buy replacements: she stayed out clubbing until the small hours and never got up before eleven: she never did a hand’s turn in the flat. There were dirty mugs and plates all over the room and the kitchen was a tip. She didn’t cook, she never made the beds, and she took her washing home for her mother to do so it was no good expecting her to run his machine for him. And on the one horrible occasion when he’d made a few amorous advances to her she’d flicked him away as if he were a bluebottle or something, and said ‘You’ve got to be joking!’ in that unpleasant voice of hers and then stared at him in such a withering way he could feel himself shrinking away to nothing. If it hadn’t been for the fact that she was going to pay half the mortgage and keep him solvent, he’d have parted company with her after the first week. As it was he’d hung on until the second payment was due and he was sitting up at that moment, waiting for her to come home so that he could remind her of her obligations when she did. It was no good trying to open a conversation about it when she finally got up in the morning because all she ever did then was grunt. He sighed and sloped off to make himself another cup of coffee. You need stamina in this game, he thought, looking at his watch. She’d better pay up and look cheerful, that’s all.

  Somebody was scrabbling a key in the lock. About time too. There was a lot of murmuring and giggling outside the door. They don’t care if they wake people up, he thought, pouring hot water on his Nescafé. He was tempted to shout at her to come in and stop making a row but thought better of it. If he was going to talk to her about the mortgage it would be silly to put her in a bad mood. And eventually his patience paid off and the door was pushed open and two people came giggling through into the hall with their arms round each other.

  ‘Hello,’ Bubbles said. ‘You’re up late.’ She waved a drunken hand at her partner and burped. ‘This is Chris. Say hello Chris.’

  ‘I’ve been waiting up for you,’ Jeffrey said.

  ‘You sound like my mum,’ she said and giggled. ‘This is Chris.’

  ‘You told me.’

  ‘Is there any coffee? You’d like a cup of coffee wouldn’t you Chris.’

  ‘I’ve just used the last spoonful,’ Jeffrey said with great satisfaction and watched while Chris struggled to speak. God, they were drunk.

  ‘I Brett,’ Chris said thickly, as if he was introducing himself. ‘Brett. Um.’ Then he steadied himself and delivered his message in a single breath. ‘Bretter ge’ goin.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Jeffrey said, giving him the full benefit of his blackest frown just to make sure he did. ‘The door’s behind you. You can find your way, can’t you.’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ Bubbles said, scowling at him. ‘He can have a cup of tea even if you have scoffed all the coffee.’ But her partner was stumbling towards the door, muttering to himself, struggling to focus his eyes sufficiently to find the handle. When he’d blundered through it and was gone, she turned on Jeffrey, scowled at him again and began to scold. ‘That wasn’t very hospitable.’

  ‘I had no intention of being hospitable,’ he told her, drinking his coffee. ‘I’ve got more important things to do.’

  ‘Well you can do them,’ she said, flouncing away from him. ‘I’m off to bed.’

  ‘Not yet you’re not,’ he said. ‘We’ve got something to discuss.’

  She gave him a quick glance, saw trouble and moved straight into her good little girl voice, pouting and posturing and flicking her fingers at him. ‘Don’t be like that, Jeffy Weffey. I’m only a little whittle Bubbles. You know that.’ And when he didn’t respond, she went on, ‘Anyway I’m not fit for anything this time a’ night. I’m sooo tired I’m ready to drop. It’ll have to wait till morning. It can, can’t it? Jeffrey? Oh come on Jeffy Weffey, don’t be nasty to me.’

  He was irritated by her silly voice and all that stupid finger flicking. It was artificial and unnecessary. For a drifting second he thought of Fran with an unexpected sense of affection. She’d had no business walking out on him like that but even at her worst she never put on a silly voice. ‘The mortgage is due,’ he said shortly, keeping his temper with an effort. ‘And it’s your turn to pay.’

  She blinked at him and resumed her normal voice. ‘What, now?’

  ‘I’ll have to show you who to make out the cheque to,’ he said, ‘so the sooner the better.’

  ‘Write it down for me and I’ll do it tomorrow,’ she said and giggled. ‘Or today, I suppose I mean.’

  ‘Do it now,’ he said. ‘You’ll have forgotten all about it by the time you wake up. Get your cheque book.’

  She made a moue, trying to tease him into a better humour. ‘You’re such an old bully.’

  He was implacable. ‘Get it.’

  She staggered off towards her bedroom, burping. ‘Fifty wasn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Fifty?’

  ‘Pounds.’

  He gave his barking laugh. She really was stupid. Fancy imagining you could get a mortgage on a place this size for fifty a month. ‘Add another two hundred,’ he said.

  She stopped and turned, with difficulty. Her face was a study in horror. ‘Two hundred and fifty pounds?’ she said. ‘I can’t pay that. I’m at uni. I told you. I’m living on a loan.’

  ‘We’re all living on loans,’ he said coldly.

  ‘I paid fifty at the other place.’

  ‘You agreed to pay the mortgage, every other month.’

  ‘Not that amount.’

  ‘That’s how much it is. And before you make any more excuses, I might point out you’ve been living here rent free since you arrived.’

  ‘I’m not making excuses,’ she said. ‘I’m stating a fact. Fifty is all I can afford. I’ll pay that willingly but not a penny more. I can’t. I haven’t got it. And that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Then extend your loan.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ she said scathingly. ‘It’s big enough as it is. Have you any idea what the fees are for uni? They run into thousands, every fucking year. Thousands. I shall be paying this lot off until I’m in my wheelchair.’

  Temper was beginning to bubble in his chest. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to control it for very much longer. ‘That’s your choice,’ he said coldly. ‘Nobody forced you to go to college.’

  She mocked him. ‘Oh come on! This is uni we’re talking about. I bet you’d have gone if you’d had the chance.’

  The implied insult pushed him over the edge. ‘I’ll have you know I did go,’ he said untruthfully, ‘and got a First what’s more. There’s nothing you can tell me about “uni” as you call it.’

  She went on mocking. ‘Well pardon me for living.’

  The supercilious expression on her stupid face was more than he could bear. ‘Now look here,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to get a few things clear in your head if you’re going to go on living with me.’

  ‘Living with you?’ she sneered. ‘Do me a favour. I wouldn’t live with you if you were the last man alive.’

  ‘Allow me to point out you’re “living” in my flat,’ he shouted. ‘My flat. That’s where you’re “living” and you’re “living” here rent free. Rent fucking free. And look at it. You’ve turned it into a pigsty.’ He waved a furious hand at all the dirty coffee cups and the tumble of st
upid magazines. ‘This is all your rubbish. Yours. And you never clear any of it up. You treat me like a servant and you never pay a penny piece for anything. Well it’s got to stop. You can just get your fucking cheque book and pay your share.’ He was hot with anger. ‘D’you hear me?’

  ‘Oh I hear you,’ she shouted, equally furious. ‘I hear you good, don’t you worry and if you think I’m going to go on living in your rotten flat after this you’ve got another think coming. I shall move out, first chance I get.’

  ‘Good riddance,’ he shouted back. But she’d already left the room and was banging her bedroom door shut. Fucking woman, he thought. I’ll be better off without the likes of her. I’ll show her. I sit up half the night waiting for her and she gives me a faceful of shit. She’s vile. I’ll be well rid of her.

  Anger propelled him to action. He threw one of her filthy coffee cups at the wall so that it smashed to smithereens, scooped up all her stupid magazines and threw them in the bin so violently that half of them fell out again, and stamped off to bed making as much noise as he could, banging every door on the way. Fucking woman. I’ll show her.

  It wasn’t until past ten o’clock the next morning that he woke to a sullen day and a throbbing headache to realize that he’d got to pay the fucking mortgage himself. Oh for fuck’s sake! How was he going to manage that? He’d have to get another loan and that would be fucking difficult. The bank manager had gone all stern on him and said he was pushing his limit last time. He growled out to the kitchen and growled himself a cup of tea as somebody selfish had used up the last of the coffee and then growled off to the living room feeling monstrously sorry for himself, glancing at the doormat to see if there was any post but not really expecting any.

  It was a happy surprise to see that he’d actually got a letter. What splendid timing. He’d sent out countless letters and application forms for a whole variety of jobs over the last few weeks and he’d never had an answer to any of them so he’d rather given up hope. And now here was a comfortably official looking envelope just when he needed it most. The letter inside wasn’t the offer of a job – that would have been too much to expect – but it was the next best thing. It was an answer to a general letter of enquiry that he’d sent out last week to every firm he thought might have a post he could fill. This one was in the Midlands and the writer, whose signature was illegible, told him the company was looking for a qualified geologist to join the team and suggested that he might care to fill in the enclosed application form. At last, he thought, beaming at the letter. Someone with a bit of sense. He would do it at once, while he drank his tea. Or better still he’d go down to Starbucks and have a coffee and a croissant and fill it in there. That would be much more congenial. He checked to see that he had enough change and having established his solvency, showered and dressed and took the letter, his laptop and the form to his favourite coffee house. He would have to bend the truth a bit if he was going to tempt them but needs must when the devil drives.