Francesca and the Mermaid

by Beryl Kingston

  Christine smiled. ‘That’s how we like it,’ she said. ‘Now when you’re ready we’ll go to my office and I’ll show you the catalogue we’ve designed.’

  It was a handsome cover, very glossy and featuring the mermaid – what else – and lying beside it was a typewritten list of all the sketches and paintings arranged, as she was quick to notice, wall by wall. But the prices were much too high. Surely they were. It made her feel grasping and avaricious. She gave Henry a quick look, at once startled and anxious and he smiled at her reassuringly.

  ‘I would like to open the proceedings by buying “Chaffinch and Chick”,’ he said to Christine.

  ‘That sounds like a good place to start,’ she said and grinned at him. ‘I trust you’ve brought your cheque book.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Francesca was checking the price of it. £500 seemed far too much for such a little painting. ‘It’s very small,’ she demurred. ‘I mean, is it really worth all that?’

  ‘Collectors buy the quality of a painting,’ Christine told her, ‘not the size. Isn’t that right Henry?’

  ‘It is,’ he said, smiling at Francesca. ‘And this one is very high quality. Wait till you see what I’m going to do with it. It’ll be the star of our spring collection.’

  How could she argue with him? He was so happy to be buying her picture it gave her a lift despite her fears of overpricing. ‘Well . . .’ she said.

  Henry was writing his cheque, Christine was fixing a little blue sticker on the frame. ‘There you are,’ she said to Francesca. ‘Your first sale. And it won’t be your last, I can tell you that. There’s a lot of interest in the castle for a start.’

  ‘At six thousand pounds?’ Francesca said her eyes round.

  ‘Oh yes. It’s well worth six grand. Trust me. I’ve got three different sets of people coming to a private view on Monday.’

  ‘Heavens!’ Francesca was feeling a bit dizzy. This wasn’t the way she’d expected this meeting to go at all.

  ‘There you are,’ Henry said to her. ‘What did I tell you?’ And he turned to Christine and smiled. ‘She still doesn’t believe how valuable her work is.’

  ‘Come next Friday I guarantee you’ll believe it,’ Christine said. ‘This is going to be a great success. Ah! Here’s the coffee.’

  By the time Henry drove her back to the flat, Francesca was thoroughly disgruntled and very disappointed in herself. She’d come out that morning full of good intentions and all of them had been turned on their head. She’d agreed to nearly every single price Christine had suggested even though she’d had no intention of doing any such thing. She’d made a stand over her sketch of Tom and talked the price down to £50 because she knew how much Sharon wanted to buy it, but that was all. And worse than all that, she hadn’t warned Henry about Jeffrey and she really should have done. But there was no way she could say anything now, not after he’d spent all that money on the chaffinch. And in any case he was busy planning the rest of her week. ‘Do you need time off to take our Aggie to the hospital on Thursday?’ he asked as he turned into the nearest parking space behind the flats.

  She had to admit it would be a great help. ‘She’s so sure she’s going to be skipping about when they take the plaster off,’ she said, ‘and I know it’s not going to be that easy. I’ll come in for the morning and cut off at lunchtime, if that’s all right. Then I can feed her before we go. It shouldn’t take very long, should it? I could be back by mid-afternoon.’

  ‘Take as long as you need,’ he said, smiling that lovely easy smile without having the faintest idea that the sight of it was making her feel guilty. ‘We can’t have our Aggie in a state and with no one to comfort her.’

  ‘I think she’s going to need a lot of comfort on Thursday,’ Francesca predicted as she got out of the car. Then she remembered her manners. ‘Thanks for taking me to the meeting.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ he said

  Thursday began badly, just as Francesca had feared. Agnes stomped about the kitchen on her crutch, frowning and complaining. ‘Well I hope they’re not going to keep me waiting all afternoon, that’s all,’ she said, banging the kettle onto its stand. ‘I’ve waited long enough to get rid of this damned plaster, God knows. I shall be furious if they keep me hanging about for hours on top of everything else. Furious.’

  Francesca tried to soothe her. ‘I’m sure they won’t,’ she said. ‘Do you want some toast? We could open the plum jam. What d’you think?’

  Agnes sat down heavily and shrugged the plum jam away. ‘Do what you like,’ she said tetchily. ‘I can’t think about jam when I’ve got this hanging over my head.’

  She’s frightened, Francesca thought, watching her anguished face. Poor Agnes. She tried to find something to say to ease her. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘Really.’

  But that only made Agnes more irritable. ‘Don’t keep saying that,’ she shouted. ‘You don’t know. How can you? It could be awful.’

  Francesca made the tea and cut two slices of toast in a vain effort to keep calm. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it might, but on the other hand it might be better than you expect. That’s a possibility, don’t you think. I mean, you’re right to say I don’t know. That’s true. I don’t. But then you don’t either.’

  It was the worst thing she could have said. ‘I can’t bear this,’ Agnes shouted and clomped back to her bedroom, her face set and her spine stiff.

  Francesca stood with one hand on the jam jar and the other covering her mouth. This is awful, she thought. I was trying to make things better and now I’ve upset her. Poor Agnes. It made her feel impotent. I can’t say anything to help her, she thought, and I should have done and I couldn’t warn Henry, when I’m the one person who ought to have done that. She could hear her mother’s voice, nagging in her head. ‘You’re useless. What are you? Useless.’ She felt like a trapped bird, beating against implacable bars, hurting herself and making no progress. She was so tense the clunk of the toaster made her jump but at least the mundane business of buttering toast and opening the jam jar calmed her enough to think of something else she could try. She set Agnes’s slice on a tray with the mug of tea she’d left on the table and the marmalade pot – just in case – and carried it to the bedroom door.

  ‘I know you might not feel like it,’ she said through the door, ‘but I’ve made you some breakfast. I shall be going to work in a minute. Shall I bring it in for you or leave it here?’

  There was a long pause. She was just about to carry the tray back into the kitchen when the door was opened and Agnes held out her hands to receive it. ‘Thanks,’ she said, gruffly. ‘That was kind. It’s all a bit difficult, you understand.’

  ‘Yes,’ Francesca said. ‘I do. Really.’

  But Agnes was closing the door and the conversation.

  ‘It was dreadful.’ Francesca said to Molly when she got into work. ‘She’s in such a state and everything I said made it worse. I didn’t know what to do.’

  Molly round face was wrinkled with concern. ‘Poor you,’ she commiserated. ‘But you’ll be going with her this afternoon, won’t you. She’ll be glad of that. When will you leave?’

  ‘Lunchtime,’ Francesca told her.

  ‘Well, wish you luck if I don’t see you before,’ Molly said and was off on her rounds.

  But in fact she made a point of coming back to see her about half an hour before the lunch break. ‘I’ve got something to show you,’ she said, her face very serious. ‘Finish what you’re doing at the moment but don’t start anything new.’

  Francesca used up the paint on her brush, cleaned it and set it aside, wondering what she was going to be shown. Then she followed Molly’s determined back through the workshop and out into the store room. They stopped by Jeffrey’s sack of clay, now depleted and lop-sided, with its flamboyant cover torn back.

  ‘Look at that,’ Molly said, lifting up the torn flap of the cover. ‘See? What do you think of that?’

  Francesca stooped, looked and was lif
ted into such instant and triumphant delight that her worries about Agnes melted away. The torn flap revealed another cover underneath and enough of it was visible for her to read what was printed on it. ‘Cornish Clays’ it said. ‘High quali. . . .’ ‘Didn’t I tell you he was no good?’ she said. ‘He’s no more created a new clay than I have. That’s someone else’s product and someone else’s package with his cover put on over the top of it. If he’d worked on the clay he’d have unpacked it the way you do and then put it in a new sack when it was ready to sell.’

  Molly was looking worried. ‘That’s illegal, isn’t it?’

  ‘Highly,’ Francesca said, her pleasure in their discovery growing by the second. ‘Or if it isn’t it ought to be. Henry would know. See what he says when you show him.’

  ‘Come with me,’ Molly said. ‘I don’t like being the bearer of bad tidings and I shall have to tell him. This JW man is coming back tomorrow, so Liam told me. You could tell Henry all about him, couldn’t you, being as you know him.’

  Francesca was tempted but when she looked at her watch she knew she couldn’t do it. ‘I would if I could,’ she said, ‘but I shall have to go. I want to give Agnes some lunch before I take her to the hospital. Sorry about that.’

  ‘Yes,’ Molly said, sighing. ‘I’d almost forgotten. Well good luck.’

  ‘And good luck to you too,’ Francesca said. But she was thinking maybe I don’t need luck now I’ve got all this to tell poor Agnes. With luck it’ll cheer her up and give her something else to think about.

  It did even better than that. It gave her something to talk about all through lunch and all the way to the other end of town and the hospital. ‘Poetic justice,’ she said, as she helped herself to Francesca’s tossed salad and a chunk of spicy chicken. ‘I always knew he’d come to no good. He had bad lot written all over him, even on a cruise. Well, particularly on that cruise. I haven’t forgotten the way he blamed you for getting left behind.’

  ‘No,’ Francesca grinned. ‘Nor have I. I think my mermaid’ll be applauding.’

  Agnes’ good mood lasted even when they were in the hospital and she was waiting to have her plaster removed. ‘Henry’ll sort him out,’ she said with great gratification. ‘I’d love to be a fly on the wall when he does.’

  ‘He’s coming back tomorrow,’ Francesca told her, ‘according to Molly.’

  ‘I’ll get my fly kit ready,’ Agnes said.

  There was a nurse approaching them. ‘Miss Potts?’ she asked. ‘Ready to have this plaster off?’

  ‘Carve away!’ Agnes said and followed her out of the waiting room as meek as a lamb.

  After her extraordinary see-saw of a morning, Francesca was suddenly struck by how ridiculous life could be and got a fit of the giggles. Carve away! she thought as she struggled to control herself. For heaven’s sake! But really it was all too absurd. She’d been worrying herself silly for far too long, sure that she was in for a terrible time of it this afternoon and now this.

  She was still giggling and wiping her eyes when Agnes came back, using her crutch but free of the plaster. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Francesca told her. ‘I just saw the funny side of something that’s all. More to the point, how are you?’

  ‘Stupid muscles have shrunk,’ Agnes said, but she didn’t seem to be complaining. She was just stating a fact. ‘I’ve got to go on using this crutch and have physiotherapy which is a bit of a pain but other than that it’s fine. Healed up nicely so they said. Shan’t be able to get home for a day or two because of the physiotherapy – I’ve got two sessions booked for next week – but you won’t mind putting up with me for a bit longer, will you?’

  ‘Oh I think I could manage it,’ Francesca teased. It was such a relief that it had all gone well. ‘Have they finished with you for today?’

  ‘They have.’

  ‘Then let’s get home and have some tea. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘And tomorrow it’s your exhibition and that hideous Jeffrey’s going to get his comeuppance,’ Agnes said with great satisfaction. ‘I wish I could book a ringside seat.’

  ‘Me too,’ Francesca said.

  CHAPTER 18

  Jeffrey wore his best suit, his most expensive shoes and his silver-blue silk shirt for his second meeting with Henry Prendergast. He was on a roll now and felt he had to put on some style. By this time tomorrow, he thought as he sped along the motorway, my troubles will be over. I can clear off my debts on that stinking mortgage and stop all those stupid demands they will keep making and then I’ll give myself some treats. They’re long overdue, God knows. I shall buy myself a pair of swanky boots for a start and a classy overcoat and I’ll put a deposit on a new car. Why not? I’m going to make a fortune. The world’s my oyster. And I deserve every penny of it, the work I’ve put in. Oh it was wonderful to know he was going to be appreciated at last. It was a grey, miserable day and the light was fading fast but he was whistling as he drove. By the time he reached the pottery it was completely dark but his mood was still wonderfully upbeat. He followed the receptionist into the workshop with a swagger. That’s right, he thought, as heads turned in his direction, take a good look, I’m going to be rich man.

  ‘He’s just come in,’ Molly said to Francesca. ‘Strutting like a turkey-cock.’ She’d been standing right next to Francesca for more than twenty minutes, watching out for him. ‘I do wish we knew what Henry’s going to do. He could have told us. Just saying ‘I see,’ was no help at all.’

  ‘He’s a private sort of person,’ Francesca said. ‘He wouldn’t want to worry us with bad news. He’ll deal with it, I can tell you that, whatever he’s going to do.’

  ‘Mr Taylor’s been with him all afternoon,’ Molly said, ‘so he’s got something planned. Just look at the man, will you. I never saw anyone so cocky.’

  Francesca turned her seat and looked out into the workshop following Molly’s sight line. Which was how Jeffrey found himself staring up at her.

  It gave him quite a shock. What’s she doing here? he thought, stopping in mid stride. Fucking woman. I thought I was rid of her. He felt as though someone was squeezing his throat. I hope she’s not going to make trouble for me. I wouldn’t put it past her. Fucking woman. Then he realized that people were looking at him quizzically and walked off again. But his spine was stiff with displeasure and the cockiness of his walk was gone.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ Molly said, grinning. ‘You gave him a turn.’

  ‘Good!’ Francesca said and went back to her mermaid.

  ‘Wait here,’ the receptionist said, stopping outside the boardroom door. ‘Mr Prendergast’s secretary will collect you when they’re ready for you.’

  Jeffrey was a bit put out to be told to wait. But he remembered to be polite and thanked her and sat in the chair she was indicating. It worried him that he wasn’t being shown straight in the way he had been last time. It was rude to keep a valuable supplier hanging about. On the other hand, maybe they were finalizing the details of a big order and if that was the case it would be worth waiting for. But as the minutes ticked past he grew more and more uncomfortable and his unease made him want to go to the loo, which set him a problem, firstly because he didn’t know where it was and secondly because he didn’t want to be somewhere else when they came to collect him.

  The door was being opened, a woman in a brown suit was stepping out, turning towards him. ‘Mr Walmesly?’ she asked and when he stood up, ‘they’re ready for you now.’

  At last, he thought. And not before time. He settled his shoulders so that they looked square and confident and strode into the room. It seemed brighter than he remembered it and rather forbidding. Mr Prendergast was sitting behind his desk and there were two other men positioned one on each side of him. The armchairs had been moved to a corner of the room and there was one, single, straight-backed chair which looked very uncomfortable placed immediately under the central light and facing the desk.

  ‘Take a seat,
Mr Walmesly,’ Mr Prendergast said, nodding towards the chair.

  It was as uncomfortable as it looked and the light above his head felt like a spotlight but he smiled and nodded and tried to look at ease although he felt like a prisoner in the dock.

  Mr Prendergast introduced his two companions. ‘Mr Spencer, my accountant,’ he said, gesturing towards Liam, ‘and Mr Taylor my solicitor.’

  Jeffrey murmured that he was pleased to meet them and was annoyed to feel his throat being squeezed again. What does he want with a solicitor? he thought. He’s only going to put in an order.

  ‘I hope my new improved clay came up to expectations,’ he said, trying to thaw the frost in the atmosphere.

  The frost congealed, strengthened, became ice.

  ‘I asked my staff to give your clay a thorough testing Mr Walmesly,’ Henry said, ‘and then to write a report on how they found it.’

  ‘Audience research,’ Jeffrey said, nodding to show he understood. ‘Very wise.’ He was a bit upset because Mr Prendergast gave him a really horrid look. He’d have called it scathing if he’d been in an unkind mood. As it was, he decided to ignore it. ‘I hope they were pleased with it.’

  ‘Their opinion of it was unequivocal,’ Mr Prendergast said. ‘They found it identical to a high quality clay we have used on several occasions. Cornish Clays. You may have heard of them.’

  The name made Jeffrey’s heart shrink but he decided to bluff it out. ‘I believe I have,’ he said as insouciantly as he could.

  ‘I believe you have too,’ Mr Prendergast said, icily cold. ‘That was the company you purchased this clay from in the first place. Am I not right?’

  Jeffrey felt the first stirrings of what felt uncomfortably like panic. It was time to offer a confession –– of sorts. ‘I’ll level with you Mr Prendergast,’ he said, spreading his hands before him in a placatory gesture. ‘I’m still new to this business. I can’t fund my own company completely as yet. We all have to start somewhere as I’m sure you’ll agree. I did buy clay from Cornish Clays but of course I added to the product and improved it beyond recognition as I’m sure your workers will agree.’