Francesca and the Mermaid

by Beryl Kingston

  Henry was his usual cheerful self and that was partly because he had more patience than his workforce, partly because he was busy putting the finishing touches to Francesca’s exhibition but mostly because he was savouring a daydream, which was surprising him because it was most unlike him to dream about anything. But there it was. Ever since his happily domestic breakfast with Agnes and Francesca he’d been indulging the hope that meals together could become a regular treat. It had been such a long time since he felt as though he belonged to a family and, even though it had been a fleeting experience, it had affected him strongly. From time to time he told himself that he was being foolish but he couldn’t get the idea out of his head even though he tried to remove it by keeping himself occupied. By the end of the week he’d arranged for one of the directors at the gallery to visit Francesca and assess her paintings, phoned all his friends on the local papers and enthused them for the Exhibition – ‘an amazing talent,’ he’d told them, ‘as you’ll see’ – written the guest list for the exhibition and had begun to organize the catering. He came down into the workshop just before they all went home on Friday evening, feeling rather pleased with his efforts, and headed straight across to Francesca’s workstation to ask her if she and Agnes would like to go out for a meal.

  Francesca was cleaning her brushes but she looked up at him with such obvious pleasure at the idea that it made his heart leap. ‘When?’ she asked.

  ‘Tonight?’ he hoped.

  ‘Well I would,’ Francesca said, ‘but I can’t speak for Agnes. She’s a bit touchy at the moment. She’s getting sick of the plaster.’

  ‘Ah!’ he said, smiling at her. ‘In that case I’ll call round at half-past seven and we’ll take it from there. How would that be?’

  He’s so kind, Francesca thought, and so generous. ‘It would be lovely,’ she said.

  But Agnes had a different opinion. She was perched on the kitchen stool peeling apples for a crumble when Francesca came in. ‘I’ve got a leg of lamb in the oven,’ she said, ‘and the vegetables are all done. You don’t really want to go dragging out to a restaurant do you? It’s a miserable night.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind either way,’ Francesca said. ‘It’s just I think he wants to take us out.’

  ‘He wants company,’ Agnes said sagely, putting the apples on the gas. ‘He’s been lonely since he lost Candida. And then there’s the party. Loneliness always seems worse when you’ve just thrown a big party.’

  She could be right, Francesca thought. She found it hard to think of Henry being lonely when he was always surrounded by people, but once he got home and was all by himself, it was quite possible that he could feel lonely. She’d often felt very lonely in that flat when Jeffrey was out fixing up deals. ‘He’s coming at half-past seven,’ she said. ‘Let’s have the table all set and ready for him and see what happens.’

  What happened was another family meal and a very happy one. They talked of the two J’s and what fun they’d been, tried to guess when they would hear about the publication date and Henry held his peace until Agnes was dishing up the crumble and then gave them his news.

  ‘I’ve got the press coming to your exhibition,’ he said to Francesca, trying to sound modest about it.

  ‘Heavens!’ Francesca said. She wasn’t sure whether she really welcomed all the fuss he was making. What if nobody liked the pictures and it was a flop?

  ‘I shall get to work on the TV people on Monday,’ he told her. ‘They ought to film it if the schedules aren’t full. And there’s a woman called Christine from the gallery who wants to come and see your pictures to give her some idea how they can be displayed. How’s the double portrait coming along? Have you got any ideas for it? It would be an idea to put that on display too.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ Francesca told him.

  ‘And?’ Henry said. And when she frowned, ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I can’t find the right setting,’ she confessed. ‘They’re such strong personalities and so different from one another, that’s the trouble. Well, no, it’s not a trouble, not really, it could be a strength, if I could get it right. Ideally, you see, he ought to be sitting in an office and she ought to be strolling through a rose garden but I can’t see how to get all that on one canvas without making it look contrived.’

  ‘I know just the place,’ he beamed at her. ‘They’ve got a summer house in their garden. He does a lot of work there, when the weather’s warm and there’s a rose garden right near it. I’ll give them a ring and fix a time when you can go over and see it. How would that be?’

  ‘Could be just the thing,’ she said and beamed at him, thinking how quick and decisive he was.

  ‘I’ll fix it for some time this weekend,’ he promised. ‘If you’re going to get the picture done in time for the exhibition, the sooner the better, don’t you think.’

  ‘It would have to be Sunday,’ she told him. ‘Molly’s coming for her last sitting tomorrow.’

  ‘Sunday it is then,’ he said. ‘Then you can get straight on with it.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, although doubtfully because she was beginning to feel pressurized. ‘I don’t want to rush it, the painting I mean. It’ll be a big canvas so it’ll take a while.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you take a week’s sabbatical? On full pay of course. That would give you the time you need, wouldn’t it.’

  It would. There was no doubt about it and it was a generous offer. ‘But what about the mermaid? What if you get a lot of orders?’

  ‘Orders are slow at the moment,’ he said. ‘They’ll pick up when the colour supplement comes out and you’ll be back in time for that.’

  ‘Are you going to eat that crumble?’ Agnes said sternly. ‘Or are you just going to sit there and let it get cold?’

  He picked up his spoon obediently and ate a spoonful. ‘She always was a bully,’ he said to Francesca. ‘I could use some cream on this, Aggie.’

  ‘And you were always a glutton,’ she said. ‘Cream as well as custard! I never heard the like. It’s in the fridge but you’ll have to go and get it.’

  He went, giving her a grin.

  ‘He takes my breath away,’ Francesca said, when he’d gone. ‘He’s so quick.’

  ‘Always was,’ Agnes said. ‘Always will be. Good meal?’

  ‘Lovely,’ Francesca said.

  Agnes purred. ‘I might have a gammy leg but I’m still a dab hand with roast lamb and apple crumble,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll put the coffee on,’ Francesca said.

  When the meal was over, Francesca cleared the table and she and Henry washed the dishes, then they went back into her all-purpose room, pushed the table against the wall and turned it into a sitting room again. As she sank back into the cushions on her sofa-bed, she thought what an easy cosy room it was, curtained against the dark and containing them all so warmly. And watching her, Henry was touched by her contentment and knew he was sharing it.

  He stayed with his hosts until it was past eleven o’clock and Agnes was yawning.

  ‘I’m keeping you up,’ he said to her.

  ‘Yes. You are,’ she said but she spoke so affectionately that he didn’t even feel rebuked.

  ‘I must go,’ he said and stood up.

  ‘We’ll see you on Sunday for our trip to Reggie’s,’ she said to him.

  ‘I’ll fix it first thing,’ he promised her and bent to kiss her, first on one cheek and then on the other.

  So when he and Francesca reached the front door and said goodbye, it was only natural that he should kiss her in the same way. It moved him far more than he expected. To be standing so close to her in that tiny hall and actually kissing her, brief though the contact was, roused him powerfully. He wanted to put his arms round her and kiss her properly, to hold her face between his hands, to feel the warmth of her body, close and urged closer. I could love you, he thought, looking down at her trusting face under that tangle of frizzy hair and he wondered what
on earth she would say if he spoke his thoughts. Instead, he said goodnight quite gruffly and left before he could make a fool of himself.

  As he drove home he began to analyze what had happened. He hadn’t felt like that since Candida died. Or if he had, it had been such a fleeting sensation he’d forgotten it. If he was honest, he’d been so sure he would never feel like that again he hadn’t even let the hope of it enter his head. But now it was there and roaring at him. He’d stood in that hall with a vulnerable, talented, complicated woman and there’d only been one idea in his head. And now he didn’t know whether to be ashamed of it or glad. It was extraordinary, ridiculous, breath taking, almost like falling in love. Oh for heaven’s sake. He couldn’t be falling in love, could he? Not at his age! But when he’d eased his car into the garage and opened the door to his empty house, he wasn’t at all sure.

  Molly arrived at Francesca’s flat the next morning, spot on time, with an armful of chrysanthemums and her bright hair damp with rain.

  ‘They’re for you and Agnes,’ she explained to Francesca. ‘I thought they looked so pretty.’

  ‘Thank you, me dear,’ Agnes said, taking them from her. ‘I’ll put them in a vase. Then you two can get on.’

  The multi-purpose room had become a studio since breakfast and now the easel, paints and brushes were standing ready and Francesca was itching to start work.

  Molly took up her position as soon as she’d removed her coat, standing beside the table in her now customary pose, right in the light with the mermaid plate in her hands. ‘OK?’ she asked, grinning at Francesca.

  Francesca took a long look at her subject and began work without a word, the way she usually did, Molly held her pose, as she usually did, and Agnes clomped about the flat, first arranging the flowers in a vase, then making her bed, and finally producing cups of coffee to sustain them all. She’d just carried the last cup into the studio when the phone rang.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ she said, setting the cup on the table. It pleased her to be useful while the painting was going on.

  It was Henry. ‘Can I speak to Francesca?’ he said. ‘I’ve fixed a time for tomorrow.’

  ‘She’s painting,’ Agnes said. ‘But you can tell me. I’ll pass the message on.’

  Disappointment tightened his throat so that he had to swallow before he could answer. ‘I’ll call for you at eleven. Is that all right?’

  ‘We’ll be ready,’ she said and hung up.

  Henry sat in his comfortable armchair in his comfortable, empty living room with the useless phone still in his hand and felt quite cast down, which was plainly ridiculous. Shamingly ridiculous. If he’d still been a smoker he would have lit a cigarette to comfort himself. As it was, he had to put up with his uncomfortable feelings. I shall see her tomorrow, he thought, trying to be positive. And wondered how long he would be able to spin out the visit to Reggie’s.

  The next day was cold but clear with a sharp hoarfrost dusting the lawn and a red and gold sunrise blazing above the denuded trees. Henry was heartened by the sight of it and accepted it as a good omen. He took time to choose his outfit, picking his favourite sweater after considerable and unnecessary pondering, and brushing his hair far more carefully than was necessary. Then he sat in front of Candida’s dressing table mirror and examined his face. He didn’t really look his age, did he? He’d still got his hair and all his teeth except the one he’d lost when that cricket ball hit him in the mouth. Not too many wrinkles and most of them were laughter lines. He tried to smile at himself but that looked forced and unnatural. In the end he gave up the unequal struggle for truth of any kind and went downstairs to start his journey. He was better when he wasn’t thinking too much but just getting on with things.

  Agnes and Francesca were ready and waiting for him, Agnes in a blue skirt and a mottled jersey that looked as if it had faded from some rather more interesting colour, Francesca in jeans and a sea green jumper that reminded him of the mermaid.

  ‘Will we need our coats?’ she asked.

  ‘You will when we go out in the garden,’ he told her. ‘I’ve got mine.’

  So coats, gloves, scarves, and handbags were found and carried out to the car and when Henry had settled Agnes into the back seat explaining that she’d have more leg-room there and ushered Francesca into the passenger seat beside him to his happy satisfaction, they drove back into the country roads, heading for Reggie’s.

  He and Babs came out onto the front doorstep in their coats and stood between the white columns on either side of it to greet them. Babs was so excited, she said, she couldn’t wait to see if their summer-house would suit. ‘We’ve a little light lunch for you later,’ she said, ‘but maybe we could go out and see the summer-house first? What do you think?’

  They went in procession, bundled into coats and scarves, with Reggie leading the way, Babs arm-in-arm with Francesca and a rather disgruntled Henry following behind with Agnes. It was a garden like a park, with long herbaceous borders, a great many shrubs, several imposing trees and no sign of a summer-house anywhere as far as the visitors could see. But they followed a winding path and eventually came upon it nestling in front of beech hedge and, just as Henry had told Francesca, facing a long rose garden and a pretty fishpond full of koi carp.

  ‘What do you think?’ Babs asked, waving an arm at it. A sharp wind caught her scarf and blew it before her like a banner and she caught at it and tossed it over her shoulder again. The movement would have made Francesca’s mind up for her even if nothing else had done. It was so exactly how she’d visualized this picture.

  ‘Could we get you just to sit inside the house, Reggie?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course me dear,’ he said, and opened the door at once. There was a cane armchair covered by an ancient blue and green rug just inside and he sat in it, put his hands on his knees and looked out at her. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Do you ever read or write out here?’

  ‘Often,’ he told her. ‘In the summer of course. It’s a bit too chilly in the winter. We shut it up then.’

  ‘And do you have a trug, Babs?’

  ‘I do,’ Babs said. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I could see you out here with a trug,’ Francesca said. ‘A trug and secateurs, cutting roses for the house. Do you do that?’

  ‘Frequently.’

  ‘That’s a beech hedge behind you isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. Will it do?’

  Francesca was taking her sketch-pad out of her handbag. ‘I’d like to make a few sketches if that’s all right.’

  ‘Do we have to pose?’ Reggie asked, holding his head on one side and looking extremely awkward.

  She laughed. ‘Not yet. I shall just block you in, where I want you to be. This is for background. Could I have the chair out here do you think?’

  It was carried out and set reverently in front of her and she took it, pushed it into position, sat in it and started to draw. ‘This could take a while,’ she said to her hosts. ‘You can leave me to it if you like. It’s a bit chilly for standing around. I’ll come back to the house when I’ve finished.’

  ‘I’ll stay with you,’ Henry offered. ‘There’s a stool in the house I can sit on.’

  So it was arranged and when the stool had been carried out and set beside the chair, the other three went chattering off along the path and left them alone together.

  It was cold out there in the garden but wonderfully peaceful. Henry watched and didn’t talk so as not to interrupt her concentration but after a while a robin started to sing down by the pond and she looked up from her sketch to see where it was.

  ‘It’s in that rosebush,’ he whispered, pointing. ‘Do you see? The third one down?’

  She saw and had already turned in her seat and begun to sketch it. ‘I love robins,’ she whispered as she worked. ‘Those sharp beaks opening so wide and the way their breast feathers ruffle under all that effort, like Babs’ scarf.’

  He knew exactly what she meant. He could see the si
milarity growing from the end of her pencil, the small quick strokes catching the small fluttery movement to perfection. ‘You can talk to me if you like,’ she said without looking at him. ‘It won’t distract me. If I reach the point where I can’t concentrate on two things at once, I won’t answer but you won’t mind that will you?’ The sketch of the robin was already done.

  ‘You’re so quick,’ he said to her.

  She smiled at him. ‘You have to be to catch a wild bird.’

  The words sent ripples through his mind. A wild bird, he thought. It was so exactly what she was like, timid, unobtrusive, quietly beautiful, needing care and protection in a tough world, with a talent as precious and amazing as birdsong. A wild bird. And he wished he knew how to tempt her into his arms. And sighed.

  ‘I think I’ve just about caught him,’ she said and held out the sketch-pad for him to see.

  Now that he had the chance to examine it properly he could see that it was a delicate sketch and very touching. It could have been a painting in its own right not just a detail in a double portrait. ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ he said and his admiration was obvious.

  ‘I don’t either sometimes,’ she admitted, taking the sketch back ‘When it comes out well, I mean. It feels easy.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not,’ he said. ‘I’ve been watching what a lot of effort you put into it and how you concentrate. It doesn’t look easy to me. How are the main sketches getting on?’

  ‘Not quite right yet,’ she said, returning to them.

  He smiled at that. ‘You see what I mean.’

  ‘Um,’ she said. But she wasn’t listening to him. She was already back to full concentration.

  They sat out in the chilly garden for another forty minutes, she hard at work, he beginning to shiver even though he’d wrapped his coat around him as closely as he could and was sitting with his hands in his pockets. Then they heard Babs’ voice calling from behind the bushes and presently she came tripping towards them on her high heels, to tell them that lunch was ready.