Francesca and the Mermaid

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘Have you nearly finished?’ she asked Francesca and Henry noticed that she spoke timidly as if she was in awe of her.

  ‘I’ve done about as much as I can,’ Francesca told her, still looking at the latest sketch. ‘It’ll do to be getting on with. I might have to come back if it doesn’t come out right when I start to paint. To be sure of the colours.’

  ‘Of course,’ Babs said. ‘But you’ll come and have something to eat now, won’t you, otherwise you’ll freeze to death out here.’

  So they carried the furniture back into the summer-house and went up to the house for their ‘light lunch.’ It turned out to be a full Sunday roast with all the traditional trimmings even down to mustard and horseradish sauce and they enjoyed it very much.

  ‘This is the life, eh?’ Reggie said when they’d moved into his long drawing room for coffee and mints. ‘Good food, good company. Can’t be beat.’

  Babs was more interested in discovering when Francesca was going to start the portraits. ‘Do you want us to come to yours?’ she asked. ‘Or will you come here?

  Henry explained that all the things Francesca needed were at the flat and told her two models that she was taking a week’s sabbatical leave so that she could paint their portrait in time for it to be displayed at the exhibition. They were thrilled to hear about it.

  ‘Imagine that, Reggie,’ Babs said, making eyes at him ‘We’re going to be stars.’

  He grinned at her. ‘Oh I don’t know about that, old thing,’ he said. ‘I would say the star is going to be our Francesca. More coffee Henry.’

  Talk of being the star embarrassed Francesca and Babs saw it and turned the conversation at once asking Agnes when she was going to get ‘that awful plaster’ off her leg.

  ‘In fifteen days, so I’m promised,’ Agnes told her. ‘And it feels like fifteen years. Damned thing.’

  ‘It’ll soon pass,’ Babs said. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘What a lot of good things we’ve got to look forward to,’ Reggie said, beaming round at them. ‘You getting out of plaster, Agnes, our portrait being painted, Francesca’s exhibition, Henry’s colour supplement. And when that’s all over we shall have Bonfire. How’s that going Agnes?’

  ‘Pretty well,’ Agnes told him. ‘We’ve got the bonfire organized. It’s going to be a Viking ship this year.’

  He approved at once. ‘Wonderful. Do you need any more volunteers?’

  ‘We can always use more volunteers,’ Agnes said. ‘You know what it’s like.’

  He nodded. ‘Count me in.’

  It’s like a club, Francesca thought. I wonder whether they’ll let me join it. She felt like a Billy No-mates, sitting there and listening.

  And then almost as if he was reading her thoughts Henry answered them. ‘We shall have to get you measured for your uniform if you’re going to join us this year,’ he said to her. ‘And you will won’t you?’

  She was very surprised. ‘Uniform?’ she asked

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘All the societies have their own uniform. Cliffe’s is a striped shirt and a pirate cap. You’ll look very fetching in it. Agnes’ll measure you up for it, won’t you Aggie?’

  ‘Course,’ Agnes said.

  Then they were off on a long conversation about pallets and rockets and brass bands which Francesca couldn’t follow. The light was beginning to fade, the shadows in the room deepening and lengthening, but they were all so involved with the preparations for Bonfire that none of them got up to switch on the lights. After what seemed to be a very long time, Francesca managed to catch Henry’s eye and look a question at him. He answered it at once.

  ‘We shall have to be getting back pretty soon,’ he said to Babs. ‘I’ve got Liam coming over at seven o’clock.’

  ‘We mustn’t keep you,’ Babs said, standing up. ‘You’ve all got lots to do, I’m sure. Let us know when you want us to come to your flat, Francesca, and what we’ve got to wear and so forth.’

  ‘Come on Tuesday,’ Francesca said, ‘and wear the sort of things you’d wear in the summer out in the garden. And if you’ll bring your trug and a pair of secateurs and Reggie’ll bring a book or a notebook or whatever he writes in when he’s working in the summer house, that’ll be all we need.’

  They promised they would come suitably dressed and equipped. And Babs wanted to know what sort of colours they should wear. ‘We’ve got quite a range,’ she said. ‘Haven’t we Reggie?’

  Francesca had thought that out too. Blues, greens, light browns, maybe pinks, or a touch of red, here and there.

  ‘I’ve got just the thing,’ Babs said. ‘What about hats?’

  ‘If you usually wear them.’

  ‘This is going to be such fun!’ Babs said as they parted. ‘I can’t believe we’re going to be models.’

  ‘I can’t believe I’ve got a whole week with nothing to do but paint,’ Francesca said.

  ‘I can’t believe I’ve got to wait fifteen days until I get rid of this,’ Agnes growled, glaring at her plaster.

  And so they said goodbye. With kisses and laughter.

  It was an extraordinarily happy week. Francesca finished the Castle picture on Monday and started work at coffee time on Tuesday on her first double portrait. It took a little while to get her models to relax and be themselves because they both thought they had to strike poses but by dint of making them laugh and keeping them talking she contrived to catch them as they were, he seriously reading his book and she arranging the flowers in her trug and occasionally flirting with him or tossing her chiffon scarf over her shoulder. By the time the light faded on Thursday afternoon, the painting had taken shape and Francesca was almost pleased with it.

  ‘It needs a bit more work yet,’ she said, as she turned the easel round so that they could see what she’d done, ‘but the essence of it is there.’

  They were thrilled with it, especially as she’d painted pink and yellow roses in the trug ‘without seeing them,’ as Babs said. ‘I don’t know how you do it.’

  ‘I painted quite a lot of roses during the summer,’ she felt she had to explain. ‘While I was staying at Agnes.’’

  ‘And very good they were,’ Agnes said. ‘You’ll see some of them at the exhibition if I’m any judge.’

  ‘Won’t it be wonderful when all your paintings are on display,’ Babs said to Francesca. ‘I’ll bet you’re looking forward to it.’

  Privately Francesca thought it might be a bit embarrassing but she smiled and agreed with her model.

  ‘What will you do tomorrow me dear?’ Reggie wanted to know. ‘Have a day off?’

  She was just opening her mouth to say she would probably work on some of the other paintings when her phone rang.

  ‘We’ll be off then,’ Reggie said as she went to answer it and he and Babs walked towards the door, smiling at her as they went.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ she said as she lifted the phone to her ear but they were already on their way with Agnes hobbling after them to see them out.

  It was a voice she didn’t know, asking to speak to Miss Jones.

  ‘Speaking,’ she said.

  ‘It’s Christine from the galleries,’ the voice said. ‘When would it be convenient for me to come and see the paintings?’

  So much for a day off, Francesca thought. ‘Tomorrow?’ she offered.

  ‘Morning or afternoon?’

  ‘I’d prefer the afternoon.’

  ‘Afternoon it is,’ the voice said. ‘Half-past two?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fine,’ the voice said. ‘I’ll see you then. I’ve got your address.’

  ‘Who was it?’ Agnes said, stomping back into the room.

  ‘It was “Christine from the galleries,”’ Francesca said feeling stunned at the speed of it. ‘Coming to see the paintings tomorrow.’

  ‘I shall make a cake,’ Agnes said.

  Christine was a business-like young woman wearing a navy blue suit and very high heels, with her dark hair in a bun at the nape of her head
and rather severe spectacles on a decidedly Roman nose. At first Francesca was a bit overawed by her but as she examined the paintings and was obviously impressed by them, she relaxed and began to like her.

  ‘I can see why Mr Prendergast speaks so highly of you,’ she said, when she’d seen all the big canvases. ‘These are very fine.’

  ‘There’s another one at my house,’ Agnes told her. ‘You can have that for display if you like.’

  She would like. Very much. ‘What have you got in the folders?’ she asked looking at them where they stood against the wall.

  ‘They’re only small pieces,’ Francesca said.

  ‘May I see them?’

  ‘Some are just sketches.’

  ‘I’d like to see them all, if I may.’

  They were taken from the folders and examined one after the other.

  ‘They’re good,’ Christine told her. ‘Very commercial. You should display them too. We could get you a good price on them. Especially this one of the chaffinches. That’s lovely. We’d frame them of course. The way a painting is displayed makes such a difference. But I don’t need to tell you that I’m sure. What do you think?’

  Francesca felt rushed. ‘I’d like to talk it over with Miss Potts,’ she said, nodding towards Agnes. ‘And Mr Prendergast. If that’s all right.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Christine said, adjusting her spectacles. ‘There’s my card. Just give me a call when you’ve decided what to do.’

  And she smiled at Francesca and Agnes and was gone as briskly as she’d arrived, leaving a rather stunned silence behind her.

  ‘She never had her cake,’ Agnes said. ‘Silly girl!’

  Francesca had been holding on to her self-control so tightly that her neck was aching. Now she saw the ridiculous side of what Agnes had just said and exploded into laughter, control and tension instantly broken and dispelled. Within seconds they were both laughing like hyenas and Francesca had tears streaming from her eyes. Neither of them were in any fit state to answer the door bell.

  ‘Oh – let – them wait,’ Francesca gasped between gulps for air. ‘Maybe they’ll – go – away.’

  But whoever they were they had no intention of going away. They rang the bell again, this time longer and louder.

  ‘Oh – oh – dear,’ Francesca gasped, struggling to control herself and laughing again. She dabbed her streaming eyes and blundered off to answer it.

  It was Henry and he was instantly upset to see her in tears. ‘What is it?’ he said anxiously, stepping into the flat. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Francesca managed. ‘Fit – of giggles.’ And then she was off again, laughing and choking.

  Now that he could see that it was laughter and not distress he relaxed and smiled. ‘Steady on!’ he said. But that only made her worse. And Agnes was almost as bad.

  ‘I’ve got some news for you,’ he said, looking from one to the other. ‘But I can hardly tell you when you’re laughing like drains.’

  ‘Better in – a minute,’ Agnes said and made a valiant effort to stop.

  ‘Come out to dinner with me,’ he said. ‘Maybe a drive’ll take it off.’

  So they got their coats and dried their eyes and, sure enough, by the time they reached the restaurant they were themselves again.

  ‘So what’s this news?’ Agnes asked when they were settled at their table. ‘You’re looking very smug.’

  ‘I think you’ll want to buy a copy of The Times on Sunday.’

  ‘This Sunday?’

  He was grinning like a Cheshire Cat. ‘As ever is.’

  ‘That’s quick,’ Francesca said. ‘When did you hear?’

  ‘Late this afternoon,’ he told her. ‘Good eh? Now we shall see the sales jump.’

  ‘You will,’ Agnes grinned. ‘Nothing but good can come of it. And all nicely in time for the exhibition. We’ve got some news for you about that. It’s really perfect timing.’

  CHAPTER 16

  Jeffrey was heartily sick of working for a supermarket. He’d been there for over a fortnight now and he hated everything about it, the stupid uniform, the long night hours when he should have been asleep, the repetitive chores, the inanity of his workmates, the way the line leader was forever sneering at him, the harsh lighting, the ghastly smells, every mortal thing. If he’d been paid a decent wage it might have been easier to endure but he earned so little it barely kept him in food and ciggies. And the mortgage demands kept coming in and getting more and more threatening with every post. It was no good them hounding him to settle his account. He couldn’t pay them even if he wanted to. He didn’t have the money. And the more they hounded him the less he wanted to.

  That damned Fran, he thought viciously as he split open yet another package of tinned beans. This is her fault, walking out on me like that. If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t be slaving away all night in this hell-hole. She needs a damned good hiding, that’s what she needs, and if I ever find her that’s what she’ll get. That’ll teach her to walk out on me. He paused, knife in hand but not in use, and fed his fantasy for a few happy seconds. He’d frighten the living daylights out of her. That’ud show her who was boss. He’d make her beg on her knees for mercy.

  ‘Day-dreaming again,’ the line leader said in her snidey voice. Trust her to come creeping up on him.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, putting on his superior expression. ‘I was just checking whether one box would be enough.’

  ‘Checking my eye,’ his enemy said. ‘Don’t give me all that tosh. I know a skiver when I see one. Well you can leave that. The Sundays have come in. Go and help Nigel unload. Sharon can do this. She’s quicker than you.’

  Fucking woman, he thought, as he sloped off to do as he was told. Calling me a skiver. I’m the most hardworking man in the shop. She should be grateful to have me on her team, instead of being on my back all the time. He had half a mind to go and tell her so, but she’d gone off to torment someone else and he couldn’t see her. Well she needn’t think I’m going to take any nonsense from that stupid Nigel, that’s all. If he so much as squeaks at me, I’ll beat the fuck out of him.

  Nigel was stacking piles of newspapers on a trolley, checking them off on his list and concentrating so hard his long face was creased with the effort he was making.

  ‘Do the Sunday Times,’ he said, squinting at Jeffrey.

  ‘What’s the magic word?’ Jeffrey said, deliberately talking down to him.

  ‘What magic word?’ Nigel said, scowling at him. ‘What you on about?’

  ‘The word you have to say when you want someone to do something for you,’ Jeffrey said, massively condescending.

  Nigel wasn’t impressed. ‘If I say jump, matey, you jump,’ he said and threw a heavy bale of newspapers straight at Jeffrey’s legs. ‘Get that lot on the trolley.’

  It hit him just below the knee, knocking him off balance so that he had to grab the nearest shelf to stay on his feet and it hurt so much it brought tears to his eyes.

  For a few seconds he was too stunned to speak. Then he roared. ‘You stinking fucking stinking little toerag!’ and lunged towards his opponent, his face contorted with anger.

  ‘Oooh!’ Nigel mocked, taking a step backward. ‘Naughty, naughty! You wanna watch out our line leader can’t see you or you’ll be for it big time.’

  But Jeffrey had seen something that stopped him in mid roar. Something far more important than a miserable little toerag with dirty teeth. Lying at the top of the pile was the cover page of the Sunday Times magazine and bright and clear, just a few feet under his nose, there was that mermaid again and a banner headline. ‘Must-haves for Christmas.’ That was the answer. Always had been only he’d forgotten about it. New improved clay for a company on the up. He cut the string and pulled the copy from the pile, ripped off the cover and folded it as small as he could get it so that he could tuck it in his trouser pocket. Whatever else he had to do on this hideous shift, he didn’t care. He’d get cracking on his real job th
e minute he got back home. That was where the money was. ‘Get out my way,’ he said to the toe-rag. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

  For the rest of his shift he worked automatically, stacking papers on the stands, filling shelves endlessly, sweeping and clearing and when it was time to scarper he was off out of the building before most of his workmates were aware he’d gone.

  Now, he thought, as he drove home at a happily reckless speed. Now I can start making money.

  He switched on his computer as soon as he got in and found the company at once. Prendergast Potteries in East Sussex, proprietor Henry Prendergast. Then, growing steadily more excited, he trawled for information about firms that provided ‘high quality clay’. I’ll have some Coco Pops, he thought, give ’em a chance to get to work, then I’ll start ringing round. But as he poured the Coco Pops into one of the new bowls he’d had to buy because Fran had been so foul, he realized that it was Sunday and that everybody would be at home. Never mind, he consoled himself. I’ll have a good long sleep, which God knows I deserve, and then I’ll get up and shower and go off for a pie and a pint somewhere – I shan’t bother going in to Tesco’s – I’m done with all that – and then I can be up early on Monday morning and set to work. Oh there’ll be no stopping me now.

  ‘There’ll be no stopping us now,’ Liam said, grinning at his boss. ‘That magazine’s only been out four days and we’ve already taken more orders than we’ve had in the last two months put together. And we’ve still got another two months to Christmas.’ He passed the order book across the desk for Henry’s approval. ‘Those have been dispatched already.’

  ‘I shall have to order more clay,’ Henry said happily. ‘I’ll go down and check what we need presently. When I’ve written a notice to spread the good news.’

  ‘It’s spreading like wildfire,’ Liam said equally happily. ‘Molly’s been singing since the third order came in.’

  She was singing when Henry walked into the workshop and pinned up his notice. ‘Is this good or is this good?’ she said as he walked towards her.

  ‘Yes,’ he told her wearing his serious expression. ‘I think we could say it’s good.’ Then he smiled at her because he couldn’t be serious for long, not in these circumstances. ‘How are supplies?’