Francesca and the Mermaid

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘May I?’ Henry said to Francesca when he’d put the fruit down on her worktop.

  She was anxious at once. ‘It’s not quite finished,’ she warned.

  He smiled at her. ‘Neither was the mermaid, as I recall,’ he said. ‘And look where she is now.’

  So she took him into the room, where the painting of the Castle was still on her easel, the three river sketches were standing against the wall and the table was covered with paintings and sketches of all kinds, including her picture of the workshop and Molly’s half completed portrait. He examined them thoughtfully and for a long time, turning them towards the light. ‘Who’s the person in this one?’ he asked, looking at the painting of the workshop. ‘It’s our workshop. Right?’

  ‘It’s Molly,’ she told him and found her original sketches. ‘I thought she’d look good against pale blues and greys.’

  ‘She will too,’ he approved. ‘She’s a colourful character.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said seriously. ‘She is. It was the first thing I noticed about her. Warmth and colour.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see the finished portrait,’ Agnes said. ‘I’m going to cook a meal for them while Francesca paints and she stands. It’s almost finished now.’

  She waited for Henry to answer her but he was completely absorbed in the pictures and sketches so she sat down to wait for him and Francesca stood between them and watched them both, wondering what he was thinking. It was hard to judge from his face.

  Henry went on turning the sketches over, picking them up and looking at each one with great attention. She can put her hand to absolutely anything, he thought, turning from her artfully composed picture of roses and honeysuckle to her sketch of two little girls walking hand in hand and deep in conversation. There was a quality about her painting that was making him feel unaccountably vulnerable and he couldn’t put a word to it although he was recognizing it most strongly. It was there in all the sketches she’d done of the children in the castle, touching, warming, and disturbing. Then he turned over the next picture and found himself looking at a small painting of a chaffinch feeding her chick and he knew what it was. He could see it clearly in the trusting open beak of the fledgling and the movement of its mother’s head as she bent towards it. It was tenderness, the thing he’d loved so much in Candida. And now here was this hesitant girl who was so unsure of herself that she still didn’t believe in the value of her work and there was so much tenderness in what she’d painted that he could feel the tears pricking in his nose at the impact of it.

  She was looking at him with her anxious expression so he looked away from her pictures and answered her.

  ‘This is a very impressive collection,’ he said. ‘There are so many and they’re all different. I tell you what I think. I think you ought to hold an exhibition.’

  Francesca was very surprised. It wasn’t at all what she’d expected him to say. An exhibition was what a proper artist had. Not someone like her. But before she could open her mouth to tell him so, he was making plans.

  ‘I’ll organize it for you,’ he said. ‘There are one or two excellent rooms in Lewes. I’ll put out a few feelers and see what I can come up with. After the party probably. Don’t worry. I shan’t rush you. You’ll need to give it thought and it’ll take a bit of time to get it right. Now I shall have to be getting back. The caterers are coming in half an hour.’

  ‘Good heavens above,’ Francesca said to Agnes when he was gone. ‘Do you think he means it?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have said it if he hadn’t. Oh no, he means it right enough.’

  ‘But he’s so busy.’

  ‘He’s always busy,’ Agnes told her. ‘Always was. From a very young man. He wore me out. Do we have any cream? I fancy blackberry and apple pie. And you need building up ready for tomorrow.’

  ‘I wonder what it’ll be like,’ Francesca said as she started to peel the first apple.

  ‘Hectic, if I’m any judge,’ Agnes said, getting out the mixing bowl.

  She was right. It was two days of happy chaos.

  CHAPTER 14

  The reporter and photographer didn’t arrive at Prendergast Potteries until well past eleven o’clock and by then the general excitement had run its course, coffee break was over and everybody was back at work. It was a quiet entrance. In fact, the photographer had taken two shots of Francesca painting her mermaid before she looked up and saw what was happening. Then the two young women smiled at one another, one artist recognizing another, and the photographer said her name was Jane.

  ‘And this is the famous mermaid,’ she said. It was hardly a question.

  ‘So they tell me,’ Francesca said, feeling proud to be able to say something like that so lightly and easily.

  ‘Could you stop work for a little while, maybe, so that I can get in close?’

  The reporter joined them while Jane was concentrating on the plate. ‘Jennifer,’ she said introducing herself. ‘And I know who you are. You’re the girl who put magic on a plate.’

  ‘That was what Mr Prendergast said,’ Francesca told her.

  ‘I know,’ Jennifer smiled. ‘It’s his shout line. Can you paint and talk at the same time? I’d like to interview you first.’

  ‘I’ll give it a go,’ Francesca said and dipped her brush.

  Jennifer drew up a chair and sat down. ‘What made you chose a mermaid?’ she asked.

  The question gave Francesca’s pause. She could hardly say, ‘because I saw one,’ although the answer sprang to her tongue at once. She painted the mermaid’s flowing hair while she tried to find something diplomatic to say, glad of the diversion. ‘I think it was the movement,’ she said at last. ‘The flow of that long tail and all this hair. My painting is often about movement.’ Then she stopped because she thought it sounded pretentious.

  But Jennifer took her seriously. ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘So I gather you’re not just a pottery designer.’

  ‘Oh no. The painting came first. I got into the business because Mr Prendergast bought the painting.’ How long ago it all seemed now.

  ‘So how would you describe yourself as a painter?’

  That was another difficult question so she paused again.

  Jennifer encouraged her. ‘Portraits? Landscapes?’

  ‘Both I suppose. I’ve painted two portraits and several riverscapes. I tend to paint what I see. Things that catch my eye. Oh dear, that’s not very helpful is it. I don’t really know, if I’m honest. You’re the first person to ask me.’

  ‘I won’t be the last.’

  The thought made Francesca feel as though she was important and she had to duck her head so that the reporter wouldn’t see her blushes.

  ‘I’ll let you get on,’ Jennifer said. ‘I’m supposed to be interviewing Mr Prendergast first but you were irresistible. I’ll get back to you later, if that’s OK.’

  Molly was heading towards them, all smiles. ‘We’ve got the presentation all ready for you,’ she said.

  Jennifer smiled back. ‘We’re on our way,’ she said.

  It was a carefully lit display of the full dinner service on its dazzling white cloth with a vase of white lilies to set it off and Jane was already at work on it. If they print a picture of it like that, Francesca thought, it’ll sell in spades.

  Henry was striding through the workshop beaming at everybody. He was wearing his familiar chinos and an equally familiar blue sweater and for a second Francesca wondered why he hadn’t dressed in one of his impressive suits. After all he was the boss and they’d be bound to take his picture. But there was so much going on there was no time for speculation. Jane was taking pictures of the kiln being emptied, Jennifer was interviewing Henry and they were both laughing as if they’d known one another for years, the place was buzzing with excitement and importance, everything seemed to be playing at twice the speed. It was really rather fun.

  Their two visitors had lunch with Henry in the canteen and continued work all afternoon. By the time they all packed up to go
home Francesca felt she’d been at work non-stop for a week. And there was still another day and a party to go.

  Agnes wanted a blow-by-blow account of what had happened and was pleased by everything she heard. ‘Not that I’m surprised,’ she said. ‘Henry will have had it organized down to the last button. I’ll bet the champagne will flow tomorrow evening.’

  It began to flow the following morning because the two J’s had decided they wanted to ‘shoot a party.’ Molly greeted them at the door and told them not to put on their overalls or their caps and aprons just yet and handed them a paper hat. Where on earth had she got them? They trouped into the workshop giggling and ready for anything and there was Henry standing beside a dinner table – where had that come from? – all elegantly laid out with flowers and table napkins and silver cutlery and set with their precious dinner service. He was pouring champagne into his familiar flutes and he handed each of them a glass as they approached and told them to gather round. Fourteen of them were allotted places at the table and told to raise their glasses and smile at one another, which was easy enough, especially for Francesca who was sitting next to Henry, and then a Christmas tree was carried in, fully decorated in red, gold and white and Jennifer told them all to gather round with their glasses. It took such a long time and there was so much movement and rearrangement and so much champagne had to be drunk to keep the glasses topped up, they were all stupid with laughter and the fun of it. At which time, cook arrived to say she was ready to dish up and how much longer they were going to be.

  ‘Adjourn for lunch?’ Henry asked his guests.

  ‘We’re going back to our B&B to send in our copy,’ Jenny told him. ‘Just in case there’s anything we’ve missed or something else they’ve thought of that we ought to cover. We’ll come back and do it this afternoon, if there is. Otherwise we’ll see you at the party. Eight for eight-thirty, right?’

  ‘We shan’t get much work done this afternoon,’ Molly giggled. ‘Not after all this.’ Her paper hat was over one eye and she looked decidedly and happily squiffy.

  But she was wrong. They worked very well, a little more slowly than usual but with all their customary attention to detail. And at the end of the afternoon Henry came down to thank them and to say he’d see them all at the party. Francesca went home singing.

  Jeffrey Walmesly had never felt less like singing in his life. ‘No,’ he shouted at the phone. ‘I haven’t. I do have to earn a living you know. I can’t spend all my life trying to find your wretched daughter.’

  ‘You don’t know where she is,’ her mother said tartly. ‘That’s the truth of it. She’s walked out and left you and you don’t know where she is. You were too much of a wimp to tell me. That’s the truth of it. And now I’ve wasted all this time waiting for you to do the right thing and find her. You’re a total waste of space.’

  ‘I haven’t got all evening to stand around talking to you Mrs Jones,’ Jeffrey said as icily as he could. ‘I’ve got work to do.’ It was horribly true. He’d had to take a job stacking shelves at Tesco otherwise he wouldn’t have had enough money to eat and they’d put him on the night shift. ‘Some of us work.’

  ‘We all work,’ Mrs Jones said, ‘only some of us do it more reputably than others and don’t make so much of a song and dance about it. Ah well, if you can’t find her we shall have to put an advertisement in the papers, which is very annoying, I’ll have you know. Advertisements are expensive and it will come out of the inheritance. So what paper does she read?’

  The question irritated him. How was he supposed to know? He’d never seen her reading anything. ‘She doesn’t read papers,’ he said.

  ‘Try not to be foolish,’ the acid voice told him ‘Everybody reads papers.’

  ‘Not your daughter.’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake Jeffrey!’ The voice said and he could hear her sighing. ‘You’re worse than useless. Think about it. I’m sure you’d remember if you tried. Concentrate your mind. Does she read the Mail? Or the Telegraph? Or something else. Think.’

  She was making him feel sullen. ‘It’s no good keeping on,’ he said. ‘I don’t know and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘I despair of you Jeffrey,’ she said and hung up on him.

  Fucking awful woman, Jeffrey thought. How dare she speak to me like that? I’m a grown man, not a child. Calling me names. ‘Worse than useless.’ ‘Total waste of space.’ It made him snort just to think of it. I’m a graduate, or I would have been if I’d had half a chance, I’m a skilled man, a person with a position, which is more than can be said for her and all her tarty friends. I should have told her so. That would’ve put her in her place. He was checking his pockets to make sure he had enough money for the bus. Fucking woman. Now she’s made me late.

  He walked to the bus stop, hunched with bad temper, glowering. The fucking bus had better come on time, he thought. Otherwise it’s going to make me late. But ten minutes went by and there was no sign of it. This is all Fran’s stupid fault, he thought. If she hadn’t gone rushing off in that stupid way, none of this would have happened. Leaving me to pay the mortgage all on my own and taking all my belongings with her. Even the fucking telly. So selfish. Well I hope the old bat does find her. I need my share of that money. I’ve earned it when all’s said and done, looking after her all those years. She needn’t think she’s going to hog it all to herself. Fair’s fair.

  The bus was crawling towards him. He gave it a hideous scowl. And about time too. It was going to be a fucking awful night. He could feel it in his bones.

  ‘What do you think?’ Francesca said to Agnes, pirouetting before her in her new dress. ‘Will I do?’ She’d chosen it for its autumnal colours and was trying not to be too pleased with it because that would be conceited.

  ‘Gorgeous,’ Agnes said. ‘You need a necklace to finish it off. I’ve got just the thing at home. Garnets. We’ll call off on the way and I’ll tell you where to find it.’

  Francesca was doubtful. Jewellery sounded a bit daunting and it might look like showing off. ‘Have we got time?’

  Agnes brushed her doubts aside. ‘We’ll make time. It’ll be the perfect finishing touch. Don’t worry. You won’t have to go on a hunt. I keep my jewellery box in the airing cupboard under the sheets. Always have.’

  ‘Oh Agnes! Only you!’

  ‘Ready for the off?’ Agnes said, giving her a hug. ‘Don’t look so worried. This is going to be a great occasion. I intend to enjoy every single minute of it.’

  The box was exactly where she’d said it would be, neatly hidden under a pile of sheets and duvet covers. It was a bit dusty but she could clean it up when she got downstairs.

  ‘Goes back years,’ Agnes said, looking at it fondly while Francesca rubbed it down with a duster. ‘My father bought it for me and most of the jewellery too. Bit by bit. Usually for my birthday. He was a lovely man. Right. It’s clean enough now. Hand it over.’

  It was handed over, opened and the contents emptied out onto the kitchen table in a tangled pile. There were some stunning pieces there. She could see two diamond rings for a start and several beautiful necklaces. The garnets were caught up with another piece with very pretty pink and green stones. ‘Peridots and pink topaz,’ Agnes said as she disentangled them. ‘He bought that for my sixteenth. I used to wear it a lot when I was young.’ She held up the garnets so that the stones dangled and shone. ‘Turn round and I’ll fasten it for you. There are some earrings somewhere to match. Give me a tick and I’ll find them. You might as well go the whole hog as you’ve got pierced ears. Right let me see you. Very pretty. Go and look at yourself in the hall mirror while I find the earrings.’

  When Agnes was in this sort of mood you did as you were told so Francesca went off to look in the mirror and sure enough the garnets looked very fine and were a perfect match for her new dress. She was surprising herself by how well she looked in evening dress. And how natural it seemed to be wearing it.

  ‘Got ’em,’ Agnes called from the kitche
n. ‘Stay there and I’ll bring them out to you.’

  They were long drop earrings and the stones were exactly the same shape and colour as the ones in the necklace. ‘Perfect,’ Agnes said. ‘You’ll be the star of the show and quite right too.’

  ‘I feel very spoilt,’ Francesca said, smiling at her.

  ‘If you can’t be spoilt tonight, me dear, I don’t know when you could be,’ Agnes said. ‘Come on. Mustn’t be late. It’s going to be a big do.’

  She was right and it was obvious from the moment they arrived, for instead of simply turning in at the drive as they usually did, they found that there was a young man standing at the gate with a lantern waiting to direct them to a nearby field and another one in the field ushering the latest arrivals into a parking space. The next car through the gate was Reggie’s impressive Daimler with Babs in the passenger seat, looking through the windscreen at them and waving wildly

  ‘What sport!’ she said, as she climbed out of the car. ‘Imagine being in The Times. Henry’s cock-a-hoop. I like your dress. Hello Agnes. How’s the leg?’

  ‘Hideous,’ Agnes said, ‘but I’m not going to let a stupid thing like a plaster keep me away from this.’ She was looking round at the long row of cars. ‘However many people has he invited?’

  ‘You know Henry,’ Babs said, flicking her customary scarf over her shoulder and making eyes at Reggie. ‘Come on slowcoach or we shall go without you. Oh look! There’s Clara. I hope she hasn’t brought that awful nephew with her. He ate all the trifle last time.’

  Guests were streaming toward the lights of the house, all talking at once. Francesca and Agnes followed more slowly because Agnes was being sensible and taking care as she picked her way across the grass in the darkness but once they were on the drive and she could walk more easily she swung into her stride and by the time she reached the drawing room where Henry was greeting his guests and his caterers were serving champagne she was back to full confidence and balanced on her crutches like a veteran so that she could lean forward and kiss him.