Francesca and the Mermaid

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘My fool brother-in-law’s only gone and left her all his money,’ Mrs Jones said. ‘It should have come to me by rights but he was always an idiot. Congenital. Anyway the long and the short of it is the solicitor wants her address so that he can contact her.’

  That put him on the spot so he said ‘Ah’ again.

  ‘I assume you do know where she is.’

  ‘Well not exactly.’

  ‘What do you mean “not exactly”? Either you do or you don’t.’

  ‘She moves around a lot.’

  ‘I thought you said she was looking after some old relation.’

  ‘Well that’s what she told me but you know what Fran’s like. Anyway she moves around a lot. It’s – um – not always possible to know where she is.’

  ‘You’re worse than bloody useless.’

  He decided to change the subject to something a bit more congenial. ‘Is it a lot of money?’

  ‘Over twenty-four thousand,’ she said bitterly. ‘I’d call that quite a lot, wouldn’t you?’

  He’d call it a life-saver. An absolute, stone-bonker, once in a lifetime life-saver. He could pay off the mortgage, start a company, buy some decent clothes. He’d be made. ‘I tell you what,’ he said. ‘They could put it in my bank account pro tem, if that would make things any easier.’

  ‘Oh you’d like that wouldn’t you,’ she said and there was no mistaking the sneer this time. ‘It won’t wash Jeffrey. This is her money and she’s the one who’s going to get it. The only one. All I need is an address. Now can you get it for me or can’t you?’

  ‘No problem,’ he said and tried to joke. ‘I’ll go and get my deerstalker.’

  The joke was lost on her. ‘Your what?’

  He sighed. She was so thick. But he answered her politely. ‘Never mind. Don’t worry. I’ll get it sorted.’

  ‘Well see you do,’ she warned. ‘That’s all.’

  He was gritting his teeth as he put the phone down. It was all so fucking unfair. If Fran hadn’t walked out on him they could be living the life of Riley. And now he didn’t even know where she was. And what was worse he had no way of finding out. He couldn’t put a message on Facebook. That would give the game away to the old bat. And he couldn’t trawl round to Randall and Tongs. They wouldn’t tell him anything and they’d laugh in his face. But what could he do? He had to find her. He just simply had to. I mean to say twenty-four grand. Oh why, oh why was everything so unfair?

  CHAPTER 13

  Agnes and Francesca came home from their visit to the house in high good humour. Agnes had spent almost her entire visit out in the garden inspecting her crops. Francesca had watched her go, feeling anxious in case she found it difficult to walk on the rough grass or was upset by what she found by but she came back looking resigned.

  ‘The apples are still in pretty good nick,’ she reported. ‘I thought they’d be rotting by now. But they’re not. It’s frustrating seeing them still on the tree though and me with this stupid leg. I’ve half a mind to ask Henry if I could hire his gardener for a few hours just to get them in for me.’

  Francesca answered her calmly, although her mind was racing with relief. ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘I’d pay him,’ Agnes assured them both. ‘I wouldn’t want our Henry to be out of pocket.’

  Francesca thought of all the money he’d been planning to spend on skips and cleaners and tried not to grin. ‘’Course’ she said.

  ‘There’s no need to rush into it,’ Agnes said. ‘I’ll think about it.’ Then she closed the subject. ‘Now then what about these clothes?’

  Francesca pointed to the neat pile of underwear and cardigans on the table and the thick coat and skirts hanging in the doorway. ‘All done,’ she said. ‘You only need to check them through.’

  Agnes glanced at them and nodded. ‘You’re such a friend,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad you saw that mermaid.’

  ‘Me too,’ Francesca told her. And as things were going so well, she dared a suggestion. ‘I’ve been wondering,’ she began.

  Agnes gave her an odd look, half smile, half question. It made Francesca’s heart lurch. ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘Well,’ Francesca said. ‘It’s just that while we’re here I was wondering whether it might be a good time to clear out the fridge. It’s only a suggestion mind. Only if you want to. I know you can’t do anything that requires standing – or climbing – but you could do this sitting down.’ And when Agnes looked thoughtful and didn’t say anything she went on, trying to sound casual and not urge her too strongly. ‘There might be things in it that ought to be on the compost heap. I mean you forget how the days pass don’t you? We could do that while the weather holds. I mean, you could tell me what’s to go and what’s to stay and we could sort it all out. We could take the good stuff back with us, couldn’t we? I’m sure we could use it.’ She was frightening herself by her daring. Oh come on, Agnes, she thought. Say something. Even if it’s only no.

  But Agnes surprised her. ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding again. ‘Why not? We’ve got time for it if we’re going to have that pub lunch. You’ll have to do the donkey work mind.’

  They cleared the fridge between them, Francesca being careful to check with her friend before she took anything out to the compost heap and Agnes sitting at the kitchen table packing the good stuff in her shopping basket. It took them over an hour but when they’d finished and Francesca had cleaned the fridge outside and in, they left it with its door ajar and went off to the pub feeling well pleased with themselves. It was a triumph of friendship and diplomacy and they both knew it.

  It was a good lunch too. By the time they finally got back to the flat they were well fed, thoroughly at ease and happily contented. And to crown the day, Tom came knocking on their door, as soon as they’d put the food in the fridge, bringing his mum with him and his mum was so excited she was pink cheeked and shining eyed.

  ‘I had to come and tell you,’ she said to Francesca. ‘That painting’s just stunning. There’s no other word for it. Stunning. Me and Kev love it. I mean it’s him to a T. We’ve took great care of it.’ She handed the folder over reverently, watching as Francesca put it on the table. ‘Stunning.’

  ‘Hello Sandra,’ Agnes said. ‘Your apples made a splendid crumble.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Sandra said. ‘I thought of you the minute the old love arrived with them. She always brings us more than we can eat. She thinks we’ll fade away if she don’t feed us.’ Then she turned back to Francesca again. ‘Tom says you’re painting a big picture.’

  ‘I’m hoping to,’ Francesca said. ‘It’s at the complicated stage at the moment, all sketches, ideas, possibilities. You can see some of it if you like.’

  Sandra didn’t have to say how much she would like. Her face was glowing.

  ‘Give me a minute to clear the table,’ Francesca said, ‘and then I can arrange the sketches to give you some idea what I’ve got in mind. Tom will be right in the centre because that’s where he was when I first saw him.’ She put his sketch in the middle of the table. ‘The still centre with all his friends running up the mound.’ It took a little while to put the sketches in position and Sandra watched as if she was spellbound.

  ‘It’s going to be ever such a big picture,’ she said. ‘Oh look Tom, there’s your teacher. That’s good of him too. He’s always got hordes of kids round him. We call him Mr Magnet.’

  It is going to be a big picture, Francesca thought. It’ll be the biggest I’ve ever painted. But oddly the thought didn’t daunt her. After such a successful morning she felt equal to anything. And now that she was looking at her sketches she could see where the movement of the picture should be. It should flow like the mermaid’s tail, round Mr Magnet, over the mound, with clouds above it to echo its movement and the tower and the green mound as a solid focus to offset all that moving energy.

  She blocked out the entire picture that afternoon. And it was big but it worked or perhaps she ought to be more realistic and say
, it would work when it was painted. From then on she worked on it every day while the light held and Agnes fed her and watched her and didn’t say much. And that was all right too because there was nothing to say while it was being painted. That would come when it was completed.

  But then when it was more than half done, Molly asked when she was to come for her next sitting. ‘I didn’t like to worry you with Agnes and her leg and everything,’ she said, ‘but I’ve got an afternoon to myself this weekend and I wondered . . .’

  Put like that Francesca could hardly refuse her. Not that she wanted to because that painting was pulling her most strongly too. So from then on she had two pictures to finish, the easel was in perpetual use and the living room was never free of canvasses. But it was peaceful there with paint and conversation flowing and Agnes on hand with cups of coffee and admiration.

  ‘This is such a good life,’ she said to Agnes as they were eating their supper after a particularly fruitful afternoon.

  ‘Long may it continue,’ Agnes said. ‘Shall we finish this treacle pudding? It’ud be a shame to waste it.’

  Change, when it came was like a thunderclap.

  Francesca had driven to the potteries that September morning, with the sun on her face and the painting in her mind, dreamily and rather slowly but when she walked into the workshop, she was so taken aback by the noise and passion she found there that for a few seconds all she could do was blink. The place was crackling. There was so much powerful excitement there it was as if someone had set light to the air. Nobody was at their work station, most people seemed to be running from one end of the room to the other and they were all talking at once.

  ‘What on earth’s going on?’ she asked as Molly trotted up to join her, pink in the face and so out of breath she was panting. ‘Have we got the day off?’

  Molly grabbed hold of her hand. ‘Come an’ see,’ she puffed and trotted them both off to the other end of the room.

  Now Francesca could see that there was a crowd gathered there and that they were reading a notice. Some of them turned and saw her and stood aside to make way for her so that she could read it too. ‘Wait till you see this,’ they said, their faces shining. ‘It’s great.’ And young Sarah said, ‘You must look at it Miss Jones. It’s well good,’ and gave her a little push towards the notice board.

  It was one of Henry’s brief announcements with his modest signature at the bottom. ‘I thought you all ought to know this as soon as possible. I had a phone call last night from the Sunday Times to tell me that the paper intends to feature our mermaid dinner service in one of their pre-Christmas issues, which they are calling “Must-haves for Christmas”. They will be here on Thursday and Friday this week to interview me and as many of you as they can and to take pictures. How’s that for a feather in our caps?’

  The others waited quietly while she read it, then they crowded round her again. ‘Well?’ they asked. ‘What do you think of that? Is that good or what?’

  She was overwhelmed. To have her mermaid featured in the Sunday Times was almost too good to be true. ‘It’s wonderful,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe it. You’ll have to pinch me or I shall think I’m dreaming.’

  She was pinched at once, very tenderly. And from somewhere behind them, Henry’s voice said, ‘Now how did I guess you’d say that?’ And there he was, striding towards them, having his hand shaken and his back slapped and beaming at Francesca all the time. ‘Have you got a minute?’ he asked her.

  She followed him up to his office and they were clapped and cheered all the way. It was like something from a fairy tale. If a frog dressed as a footman had suddenly appeared to open the door for them she wouldn’t have been the least surprised. They sat in his two armchairs and smiled at one another, savouring this amazing success.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, turning their attention to the second subject on his agenda, business-like as ever. ‘I’m going to give a party on Friday and I’m going to ask the reporter and the photographers to come along. I’m sure they will. Parties are good copy. I thought they might like to see us having fun. But the thing is, I want to make sure that you and Aggie can come before I send out invitations. Will she be up for it, do you think?’

  There was no doubt about the answer. ‘I’m sure she will,’ Francesca said. ‘She’ll love it. She’s getting used to the plaster now. It’s the fourth week. And she’s a dab hand with her crutches. She goes like the clappers. You should see her.’

  He laughed at that, his eyes smiling. ‘In that case I shall send out the invitations by the next post,’ he said.

  Then there was a pause while she waited and he picked up a pen from his desk and twirled it between his fingers. Finally he said, just a little too casually, ‘I suppose you haven’t had a chance to talk to her about her house.’

  The question made her catch her breath. He’s not still going on about that, surely, she thought. But he was wearing his determined expression. Oh dear. ‘Well no,’ she said carefully. ‘I mean I thought I’d give her a chance to get used to being on crutches, to get a bit stronger. I don’t want to upset her.’

  ‘No, no, I understand that,’ he said reasonably, ‘but she can’t go on living in that mess. We shall have to do something about it sooner or later. Don’t worry. She’ll love it when we’ve done it, believe me.’ And when she looked doubtful, ‘I know you think it’s some sort of compulsion and I daresay some cases are. But not this one. The evidence is against it. No one in their right mind could want to go on living with all that rubbish and I’ve known Agnes for years and I can tell you she’s always been entirely in her right mind.’

  I can’t argue with him, Francesca thought. She knew she ought to but she couldn’t. Not at that moment when he was on such a roll. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Possibly. But don’t let’s do it yet. Not just yet anyway. Not now.’ And as he still looked determined, she added, ‘You wouldn’t want to upset her just before your party.’

  That made him smile. He had to admire her skill at persuasion. It was a good point. ‘We’ll defer it,’ he promised. ‘Just for you because you’re the star of the show. And now we’d better get on. Could you ask Molly to come up for a minute?’

  She left him with an answering smile but on the way back to the workshop she was frowning. She really couldn’t allow him to put pressure on Agnes. Not when she was recovering so well. And not when they were living together so happily. She hadn’t eaten so much or so well since she’d moved and she’d got such a lot of painting done she was quite dizzy with the pleasure of it. The picture of the castle was almost finished and she’d painted two more studies of the river and Molly’s portrait was looking really good. But that determination of his was a force of nature and it was in full flow. She knew she’d have a hard job to hold it in check and she knew she had to do it. If only he wasn’t such a good man. It was galling to have to accept that all this was because he wanted to make life easier for Agnes and he couldn’t see that it would upset her. ‘She’ll like it when we’ve done it’ was a real give-away. I shall put my mind to it while I’m painting the mermaid, she thought.

  But she had so many visitors to her work station that morning it was hard to think about anything except the coming visit and the painting under her fingers. Just before their lunch break Molly arrived with an invitation to the party addressed to Francesca Jones and Agnes Potts.

  ‘Won’t we have some fun,’ Molly said. ‘I can’t wait.’

  That was Agnes’s opinion too. ‘We shall have to take another trip back to the house,’ she said. ‘I shall need my pretty shoes and my shawl. What a lark to be in the Sunday Times. I should think Henry’s like a dog with two tails.’

  They went to the house as soon as Francesca got home the following evening and after a lot of rather muddled instructions, Francesca found the things Agnes needed and they packed them all in their shopping bag and Francesca struggled out to the car, with the bag in one hand and the pretty shoes in the other.

  ‘I wonder how my poo
r apples are,’ Agnes said, peering into the dusk.

  ‘Bit too dark to see them,’ Francesca said, arranging the bag on the back seat. ‘We’ll take a look next time.’

  ‘They’ll be rotting on the bough by now,’ Agnes sighed. ‘Bound to be. It’s such a waste.’

  The sigh gave Francesca an idea. ‘Why don’t you ask Henry to get his gardener to come in and crop them? You were thinking about it.’

  Agnes eased into the car and gave it thought. ‘Do you think he would?’ she said as Francesca switched on the headlights and eased the car out of the drive.

  ‘I’m sure he would,’ Francesca said. ‘He likes to help people. And he’s got a very good gardener. I mean just think how good his garden looks. ‘Course, he might not be able to get it done until after the party because he’ll have to make sure Henry’s garden’s in good shape but I’m sure he’ll come and do it after that.’

  In fact it was done the very next day because Henry was delighted with the idea and rang to arrange it as soon as Francesca suggested it. And that evening, he appeared at the flat with a box of pears, a dish full of blackberries and a huge box of apples. ‘John’s been in your garden all afternoon,’ he reported, ‘and it’s all done and dusted. He’s picked all the apples and put the rotten ones on the compost heap. He says to tell you that you didn’t lose many. And he thought you’d like these as well as they were ready for picking. If there’s anything else you’d like him to do just say the word.’

  It would have been hard to tell which of them was the more pleased, Henry because he’d helped his old friend, Agnes because the apples hadn’t been left to rot or Francesca because she’d given them both what they wanted. ‘If you could carry them into the kitchen,’ she said to Henry, ‘I’ll find homes for them.’

  Henry followed her happily but on the way he glanced into the living room and caught sight of her paintings.

  ‘I see you’ve been busy,’ he said to Francesca.

  ‘You should see the painting of the Castle,’ Agnes said, lolloping after him. ‘For my money, that’s a masterpiece.’