‘Clay’s running low, I’m glad to say,’ she grinned. ‘And we shall need more paint in a week or so if this goes on.’
‘I’ll put the orders in this afternoon,’ he promised, looking across the workshop and smiling at Francesca. ‘Give me a list if you think of anything else. Cakes for tea?’
‘Sounds good. Shall I order them?’
He was already walking towards Francesca. ‘Um, yes,’ he said, vaguely. ‘If you will.’ When he’d first come galloping downstairs and walked into the workshop full of his good news, he’d been determined to praise them all and make a fuss of them. Now all he wanted to do was to congratulate his premier artist, to bask in her smile and tell her how wonderful it all was and ask her out for dinner. And the need to do that was so overwhelming he forgot how he ought to be behaving.
Molly watched the speed and eagerness of his walk, and smiled to herself. She been watching him whenever he talked to Francesca for some time and she was beginning to think he was smitten. It would be splendid if he was. He’d been a lovely husband to Candida, nursing her all those years like that, and he was much too nice to go on living alone. She watched as Francesca looked up and smiled at him. That’s it, she thought, encourage him. He’s a dear man.
But she was giving the wrong answer at that moment. ‘Oh yes,’ she was saying. ‘That would be lovely. Agnes is a bit down today. I’ll ring her and tell her. It would do her good.’
No, he thought, I don’t want to take Agnes out, fond though I am of her. It’s you I want to spend time with. But he couldn’t say so. Now that Agnes had come into the conversation he had to ask how she was. ‘What’s up?’ he said.
‘It’s the plaster,’ Francesca explained. ‘She says she’s sick of it and I’m sure she is.’
‘But she’ll be having it taken off soon, won’t she?’
‘Next week.’
‘And then she’ll be able to get back to her house again. She must miss it.’
‘She does,’ she said returning to her painting.
‘I must get on,’ he said, taking the hint and hoping she would smile at him again. Which she did. Next time I ask her, he thought, I must make it clear that I want a twosome, a proper date, just her and me. The thought of it made him yearn. But there was work to be done, clay and paint to be ordered, orders to be met. The excitement of that caught him up and swept him along, comfortingly away from his disappointment. There would be another chance. He just had to handle it better.
Jeffrey Walmesly had just taken delivery of his ‘esteemed order of one sample sack of quality clay’. He was so tantalisingly close to the success and money he wanted that his hands were shaking. He hadn’t the faintest idea how to improve the clay but the more he thought about this transaction the less he felt he had to do anything to it. It was perfectly good clay without any alteration or additions. All he had to do was repackage it under his new logo and make sure the Prendergast person believed what he said. Which he would. He was quite sure about that. He was an expert at making people believe things. In his long experience in selling his skills, he’d learned that people believed what they were told if the person doing the telling was an expert. Look how he’d persuaded Professor Cairns. That had been an absolute piece of cake. No, all he had to do was to make sure this Prendergast person knew how knowledgeable he was and felt he could trust him. That was all. Simples! After all he was a geologist even if he hadn’t got some stupid degree. He’d had years of experience in the field and that was what counted. And his CV was superb. He might take a copy along with him when he made his preliminary visit just to make sure. Oh he couldn’t wait. It was in the bag. He could feel it in his bones. I’ll phone him this afternoon, he thought. Lay on the charm, admire the goods, stress my expertise – modestly of course. I’ve got his number.
Henry had just completed his orders for clay and paint and was feeling pleased with himself when the desk phone rang. He answered it without very much interest but when he recognized the voice he sat up and took notice, his conscience pricking him.
‘I hear you’ve invited me and Francesca to dinner tonight,’ Agnes said coming straight to the point. ‘She’s just rung me.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said. What else could he say? He was pinned to the spot.
‘Would it upset you if I said I couldn’t come?’
He could hardly answer that truthfully so he took a different tack. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘Francesca thought it would cheer you up.’
‘Sorry to sound ungrateful but it would take more than a meal to do that,’ she said. ‘I’m so sick of this stupid plaster. It’s like carrying an elephant about. No, no, you two go and leave me be. I just want to sit in a heap and feel sorry for myself.’
He tried to find something to comfort her. ‘That’s not like you,’ he said.
‘It’s like me today.’
‘Well I’m sorry to hear it,’ he said and was instantly ashamed of himself because it wasn’t really true. He was sorry in one way. Of course he was. He’d have been downright heartless not to have been. But over and above that he was ridiculously, childishly, selfishly glad. He made another attempt to comfort her. ‘They’ll be removing it soon though, won’t they?’
‘Next Thursday,’ she said miserably, ‘and it might as well be next Christmas for all the comfort that is.’
Poor old thing, he thought. She is low. I ought to try and persuade her to change her mind. Francesca’s right. A good meal might be just the thing to pick her up. But he dithered because he wanted his tête-à-tête with Francesca so much. Then he thought he was being selfish and opened his mouth to urge her to change her mind, but she was speaking again.
‘I’d be terrible company,’ she was saying. ‘Much better leave me be. I’ll join you next time when I’ve got my leg back.’
‘That’s a promise,’ he said. ‘I shall hold you to it.’
‘Sorry to be a moaning Minnie.’
‘You’re not,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very patient for a very long time. I’d have been moaning long before this. I wish there were more I could do to help you.’
‘Bring me a bottle of claret,’ she said, ‘and then I can drown my woes.’
‘Your word is my command,’ he said and smiled as he hung up. What a day this was turning out to be. Huge orders, Molly singing at her work, the whole place buzzing, and now an uninterrupted evening with Francesca. It was almost too good to be true.
When the phone rang again a few minutes later, he answered it happily, almost sure it would be good news. It was a strange man’s voice asking if he could speak to Mr Henry Prendergast.
‘Speaking,’ he said. ‘How may I help you?’
‘Well actually,’ the voice said smoothly, ‘and if I may say so, it’s more how I may help you.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ the voice smoothed on. ‘Name of Walmesly, Jeffrey Walmesly. I’m a qualified geologist. My specialities are concrete – you may have heard of my coloured concrete – it’s very big in the States – but, more to the point, china clay.’ Then it paused waiting for a response.
‘I see,’ Henry said. Although he wasn’t sure he did.
‘I’ve been following the fortunes of your company in the national press,’ the voice said. ‘Your mermaid dinner service is very impressive, if you don’t mind me saying so. I’m lost in admiration. It must be selling like hot cakes.’
Henry murmured vaguely.
‘Now the thing is,’ the voice continued, silkily smooth, ‘it happens that I’ve just invented a new process that keeps the fluidity and elasticity of natural clay in peak condition for anything up to twenty years. It prevents crazing, retains colour, all that sort of thing. I perfected it last year and it’s now fully accredited and ready to market. Then I saw the article about your mermaid dinner service in the Sunday Times and I thought, there’s a family heirloom if ever I saw one, so naturally I wondered whether you would be interested in testing a s
ample. One sack perhaps, to give you the feel of it. Of course, with your experience, you would soon be able to judge if it were the sort of thing you could use. It’s slightly more expensive than your standard clays, naturally, but you would expect that.’
The businessman began to question. ‘How much more expensive?’
Figures were quoted. It was more expensive but only marginally and if it really could deliver all those improvements, it might be worth consideration. The sun was shining, the dinner service was selling even better than he’d hoped, he was going to have dinner with Francesca, what could go wrong? ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, persuaded despite his grumbling better judgement but feeling that luck was running with him so strongly that he ought to be fair, ‘if you can deliver a sack to my workshop within the next forty-eight hours, I will give it a trial.’
‘It’ll be with you tomorrow morning,’ Jeffrey promised, grinning hugely because there was no one around to see him. It was a done deal. He was made.
By the time Henry put the phone back in its cradle he’d forgotten all about clay and Jeffrey Walmesly and even the mermaid dinner service. His mind had instantly slotted itself back into the far more enjoyable business of deciding which restaurant he was going to take Francesca to and what specialities he would order to tempt her appetite. He was so excited about this date he was almost fearful. He spent the next half an hour booking a table at his favourite place and discussing the menu, deciding that lobster thermidor might not suit because he wasn’t sure whether she liked shellfish – what a lot he had to learn about her – considering steak or roast duck because they were relatively safe. Then there were flowers to order so as to cheer poor old Aggie up – he still felt uncomfortably guilty about Aggie – and her bottle of claret. Oh it was a delicious afternoon. He felt like a young man again. And he hadn’t even begun to consider what they would talk about. There were so many things he wanted to tell her but he knew he mustn’t rush it. Oh my dear tender Francesca, he thought, I do so want to make you happy.
His dear tender Francesca had worked extremely hard that day, aware that the demand for her mermaid was growing prodigiously and wanting to meet it as well as she could. From time to time, she sat, paint brush in hand, and wondered what sort of people would use the plate she’d just finished and what they would talk about as they sat round their dining table enjoying their meal. And then she thought how wonderful it was to see Henry so happy and how good it would be to praise him at their own meal that evening and that made her wonder whether Agnes would be coming with them. She’d said she didn’t want to when she’d rung her that morning and she’d sounded very determined about it. ‘I shall phone Henry and tell him it can’t be done,’ she’d said. ‘He’ll understand.’ Perhaps I ought to take a bottle of wine home for her, Francesca thought. I don’t like the idea of leaving her at home on her own. She’s been so patient with this horrible plaster and it’s miserable to see her feeling down, especially when I’m so happy. And some chocolates. They’re cheering. I’ll buy them on my way home.
Which she did and arrived in the flat with her arms full of parcels.
‘You’re going to be late if you don’t look sharp,’ Agnes warned her. ‘He’s coming to pick you up at half past seven.’
‘Has he rung?’
‘Just this minute. I told him you weren’t back.’
‘I had a service to finish,’ Francesca explained. ‘It’s selling so well we’re under pressure. I couldn’t very well leave it.’
‘Go and get showered,’ Agnes said, ‘and I’ll make you a cup of tea. What are you going to wear?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Francesca admitted. ‘The autumnal dress maybe.’
‘With my necklace and the earrings,’ Agnes said. ‘Just the thing. I’ll look them out. Off you go.’
‘Aren’t you going to open my presents?’ Francesca asked.
‘Not till you’re dressed. Chop, chop! You don’t want to keep him waiting.’
‘He wouldn’t mind.’
‘Possibly not but I would. I want to see you in your finery before he whisks you off.’
She was dressed and ready a good ten minutes before he was due to arrive. Agnes had plenty of time to make tea, open her chocolates, sample them and declare that they were the very thing for a bear with a sore head. Then the phone rang.
‘Now what?’ Agnes said, making a grimace.
It was Christine-from-the-galleries, asking if she could speak to Francesca. ‘Ah!’ she said. ‘I’m glad I’ve caught you. Your pictures are framed and ready to hang. When would you like to come in and see them? We need to agree on the prices soon so that the catalogue can be printed. And do you think Mr Prendergast would be prepared to loan us the original of the mermaid?’
She was so quick and business-like that Francesca didn’t know which question to answer first so she started with the mermaid. ‘I’ll ask him this evening,’ she said. ‘I’m pretty sure he’ll let you have it.’
‘Good,’ Christine-from-the-galleries said and she spoke so briskly that Francesca could see her ticking it off on her list. ‘Now when will you visit?’
‘Saturday?’
‘It’ll be cutting it a bit fine but Saturday would do. Say ten o’clock.’
Ten o’clock was said.
‘I’ll see you then,’ Christine-from-the galleries promised and was gone.
‘She’s so quick,’ Francesca said, sitting with the phone still in her hand. ‘She takes my breath away.’
‘Here’s our Henry come,’ Agnes said, as the doorbell rang. ‘Have you got everything you need?’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?’ Francesca asked as she picked up her coat and went to open the door.
‘Positive,’ Agnes said. ‘Once I’ve made my mind up that’s the end of it. Hello Henry. You look spruce.’
The word made him laugh. ‘That’s a new one,’ he said, walking into the room. ‘You make me sound like a tree.’
Agnes grinned at him and watched as he smiled at Francesca. The expression on his face told her more than he could have imagined. Oh yes, she thought, I’ve made exactly the right decision. They need an evening on their own together.
‘Have fun,’ she said to them as they left. ‘And don’t bring her home after midnight, Henry, or she’ll turn into a pumpkin.’
The evening was full of soothing autumnal sounds and enticing smells, a bonfire prickling somewhere on the far bank, the river musty and pungent, making soft licking sounds as it gentled towards the sea, an owl giving its echoing call among the dark trees of Railwayland, distant traffic muffled by a rapidly gathering mist. As they walked out of the close, it seemed perfectly natural for Henry to tuck Francesca’s hand into his elbow.
‘We’ll leave the car here,’ he said, ‘if that’s all right. We’re within walking distance.’
She smiled her agreement at him, her eyes shining in the odd mist-haloed light as they walked towards Cliffe High Street. ‘I’ve just had a phone call from Christine-from-the-galleries,’ she said. ‘She wants you to loan them the mermaid for the exhibition.’
‘She’ll have to collect it,’ he told her. ‘I haven’t got time to cart it about. Not now. There are too many other things to do. And she’ll have to give it star billing. That’s essential.’
That made her laugh. ‘I’m sure she will,’ she said. ‘After all that’s where all this began.’
‘We’ve come a long way since that day,’ he said remembering it.
‘We have,’ she agreed. ‘I have to pinch myself sometimes to make sure it’s true.’
He squeezed her hand against his side. ‘Oh it’s true,’ he said, ‘and it’s going to go on getting better and better. Believe me.’ Was this the moment to tell her how he felt?
But she deflected him with doubt. ‘You’re always so sure of things,’ she said, her voice full of admiration.
‘Not everything,’ he confessed and made a joke of it. ‘You’d be surprised how often I feel uncertai
n. Only I keep it to myself.’
She didn’t like to argue with him because he was the boss, after all, but she felt quite sure he’d never had any real doubts about anything at all. So she changed the subject. ‘She was full of plans,’ she said ‘She says she’s priced everything up and she wants me to come in on Saturday morning and agree on the prices.’
‘That shouldn’t take long. She’s got a good eye for business.’
‘I don’t doubt that,’ she said, ‘It’s just I don’t want her to put a price on my pictures at all.’
‘Would you like me to come with you? Bit of moral support?’
The thought of having someone to stick up for her was very tempting and he would stick up for her, wouldn’t he, being the boss and seeing how important the mermaid had been to him? ‘Would you?’
‘Of course. What time’s the meeting?’
‘Ten o’clock.’
‘I’ll be there. Would you like me to pick you up? There’s a car park right by the entrance.’
She would and was obviously grateful. Could he speak now? Was it the right time? The trouble was they were very nearly at the restaurant. Maybe he should wait until they were settled at their table.
‘Here we are,’ he said, standing aside to let her enter the building first. The decision was made. It was better to get settled and comfortable before he said anything. This wasn’t something to be rushed. The maître d’ was already smiling towards them, leading them between the elegant curved screens to their private corner. He noticed in passing what a perfect backdrop the screens provided to Francesca’s dress – all that burnt umber and copper – and how well she looked by candlelight. Then the menu was being laid quietly beside their plates and they were left on their own to make their choices and all the talk was of food.
Francesca liked the sound of blue swimming crab and pink grapefruit and asked what he thought of it. So she does like seafood. He recommended the roasted breast of duck and suggested that they might have a tarte tatin to follow. While she pondered, he gave his mind to the wine list and ordered a Sancerre to compliment the starters. By the time they’d chosen the duck, he’d almost forgotten how he’d planned to open his all-important conversation. But it was a pleasure to see her so happy and looking forward to her blue swimming crab.
Francesca and the Mermaid Page 23
