Francesca and the Mermaid

by Beryl Kingston

‘It’s Francesca. You wanted to speak to me.’

  The voice changed at once. ‘And about time too,’ it said crossly. ‘I suppose you saw the advertisement.’

  ‘What advertisement?’

  ‘Oh, you didn’t. I knew it was a waste of money. Don’t tell me Jeffrey bestirred himself.’

  ‘He said you wanted to speak to me. Something about a Will.’

  ‘Wonders’ll never cease.’ her mother said, in her biting tone. ‘Well for once in his life, he’s got it right. It is about a will. Quite a sizeable one. It’s that fool Felix, your father’s peculiar brother. You remember the one, that stupid recluse. Never came to visit us from one year out to another and now he’s died and left you twenty-four thousand, if you ever heard of such a thing. And of course I didn’t know where you were, walking off like that, so I couldn’t tell you. We’ve had advertisements in the paper and all sorts.’ There was another voice speaking in the background and the tone changed to sugar sweet. ‘Dorothy dear, I won’t keep you a minute. I’ve just got to give this person an address.’

  So I’m a person now, Francesca thought, but she didn’t comment.

  ‘Have you got pencil and paper?’ her mother said.

  ‘Yes,’ Francesca said, miming to Henry that she needed something to write on. A notebook and pencil was quickly on the table before her. ‘Skeat and Murchison solicitors,’ she repeated, writing quickly. ‘Yes I’ve got that. 22, Cross Gate, Petersfield. Yes, I’ve got it.’ But her mother had already hung up.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ she said to Henry. ‘It was the recluse and he’s left me twenty-four thousand pounds.’ It made her giggle to think about it. ‘Twenty-four thousand! Imagine that!’

  ‘If that’s the case,’ Henry said, in his business-like voice, ‘you’ll need a solicitor to act for you. I suggest we use Mr Taylor. He’s a good man. Knows the ropes. I’ll get on to him first thing on Monday morning. I want to see him anyway to draft a letter to that hideous creature that tried to throttle you.’

  Francesca laughed. ‘My mother called me a person, when she was on the phone just then,’ she said, ‘and now you’ve called Jeffrey a hideous creature.’

  ‘I could call him a great deal worse,’ Henry said, his face darkening. ‘He’s the one who needs throttling. But that’s not the point at the moment. The point is, what do you think about using Mr Taylor?’

  It was a serious question and she took it seriously, impressed by how quickly and easily their conversations could change direction. ‘I think it would be a good idea,’ she said. ‘I mean, if he handled all the correspondence, I wouldn’t have to give that solicitor my address, would I?’

  ‘Not if you didn’t want to,’ Henry said. ‘Mr Taylor would know the ins and outs of it. I presume you don’t want your mother to know it and you think it might get back to her, is that it?’

  ‘The thing is,’ Francesca confessed, ‘she’s not a very nice person. It know it sounds horrid to say that about your mother but it’s the truth. She put me down so much when I was little. Calling me a person just then was typical.’

  ‘It hurts you,’ he understood, watching the pain on her face.

  ‘Yes. It does. Even after all this time.’

  ‘Then keep out of her way. There’s no necessity for you to have anything to do with her if you don’t want to. We’ll see what Mr Taylor says about the address. And now I think you ought to get dressed.’

  That made her laugh again. ‘Yes sir, boss,’ she said.

  ‘The mist’s clearing,’ he explained, ‘and I’d like to take you out for a walk.’

  A walk sounded like a very good idea. ‘Trouble is, I haven’t got any clean clothes,’ she said. ‘I’d have to wear my party frock.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ he told her. ‘Tell me what you need and I’ll go to the flat and get it for you. It’ll be a chance to check up on our Aggie. See she got back all right last night.’

  So Francesca went to wallow in a scented bath in her luxurious bathroom, feeling spoilt and Henry drove through the gentle lanes to Lewes feeling happier than he’d done for a very long time.

  Agnes stayed in bed that morning until the mist had cleared and the central heating had warmed the flat. With Francesca away there was nothing to get up for. It was the first time she’d eaten breakfast on her own since she fell out of the tree and it felt dispiritingly lonely, which was ridiculous when she usually ate all her meals on her own when she was at home. But there it was. The flat felt empty without its tenant, the trees were cold and denuded, the river grey and sullen and the square of sky she could see through the window as she ate her breakfast was the colour of dirty dishcloths and enough to depress anyone. Not a good morning, she decided. I think it’s time I went home. I wonder if I could walk without this crutch. I ought to be able to by now. And she decided to try. It lifted her spirits to find that she could walk about unaided. And she was just wondering whether she could manage the stairs at home and feeling pretty sure she could, when the phone rang. Francesca, she thought, picking it up. But it was Babs.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Just a quickie. How would you and Francesca like to come to lunch with us? It was such fun last night we thought it might be nice. Carry on the good work sort of thing.’

  ‘I’d love to come,’ Agnes said, ‘but I can’t speak for Francesca. She isn’t here.’

  Babs was very surprised. ‘Isn’t there?’

  ‘She’s still with Henry,’ Agnes explained.

  ‘Oh!’ Babs said. ‘Well, well, well.’

  ‘Um,’ Agnes said, picking up on the worldly-wise nuance in those three repeated words. ‘That’s what I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Well I hope it won’t stop you joining us,’ Babs said. ‘We could come and pick you up. It’s a roast so it’ll stretch to three or four. Tell you what, I’ll ring you again when I’m going to start the vegetables.’

  ‘There’s someone at the door,’ Agnes said. ‘Better go.’

  ‘Maybe it’s her,’ Babs said.

  ‘She’s got a key,’ Agnes said, ‘so I shouldn’t think it’s likely. I’ll ring you back if it is.’ And she walked to the door without her crutch feeling pleased with herself. It was no surprise to find that it was only Henry who was standing on the step.

  ‘Hello Henry,’ she said, standing aside to let him in. ‘How’s Francesca?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ he said. ‘Much better.’ The flat was pleasantly warm after the chill outside and smelt of toast and coffee. ‘I’ve come to get her some clothes. We thought we might go for a walk. No crutch?’

  ‘No,’ Agnes said. ‘I’m really making progress now. Then she added slyly, ‘Just as well because I’m going to lunch with Babs and Reggie.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said vaguely. ‘That’s nice. We shall probably stop for a pie and a pint somewhere.’

  ‘So she’ll need warm clothes,’ Agnes said lightly. ‘Did she give you a list?’

  ‘’Fraid not,’ he said, looking slightly abashed. ‘She said something about a green jumper and some trousers. I thought you’d know the sort of thing.’

  They chose a variety of skirts, shirts and jumpers and Agnes sorted out some underwear and her pyjamas, several pairs of shoes, a raincoat and a pair of boots ‘in case it rains’ and a selection of toilet things. He watched and was impressed by her speed and she packed as neatly as she could, noticing that he made no demur at the number of clothes that were being packed and wondering just how long Francesca was going to stay with him.

  When he’d kissed her goodbye and walked away carrying the suitcase, she dialled Babs’ number. ‘It’ll only be me, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Henry’s come to collect her clothes.’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ Babs said. ‘This is going to be a very interesting lunch.’

  And it was.

  When Reggie had filled their glasses with wine and carved the leg of lamb and declared it done to perfection and they’d all helped themselves to Babs’ splendid variety of vegetables, they settled down
to gossip.

  ‘Now then,’ Babs said, cutting into her lamb, ‘tell all. Is this a romance do you think?’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ Agnes said

  ‘Nor me,’ Babs said. ‘He was very attentive and she was holding his arm all evening.’

  ‘Ah!’ Agnes said, ‘but there was a reason for that. She was rather upset yesterday evening. She’d just been half throttled by some foul man.’

  Babs’ eyebrows disappeared into her hair. ‘What!’

  So Agnes told her the story at length, starting with the attack and how she’d foiled it, and working backwards to Jeffrey’s abominable behaviour while he was on the cruise, all suitably embellished because she could see how much her hosts were enjoying it.

  ‘I never heard anything to equal it,’ Babs said. ‘Strangling her. I mean to say. I thought we lived in a civilized society. And she’d been living with him you said. Whatever did she see in him?’

  ‘She felt sorry for him.’

  ‘Fatal!’ Babs said. ‘Don’t you think so Reggie?’

  ‘Oh indubitably,’ Reggie said. ‘More wine anyone?’

  ‘Just as well you and Henry were there to rescue her. No wonder he was so protective. A good man our Henry.’

  ‘A stout feller,’ Reggie agreed still pouring wine. ‘Good luck to him. He’s been alone in that great house quite long enough.’

  ‘I wonder what will happen next,’ Babs said. ‘Do you think they’ll get married? That would be fun.’

  ‘We shall have to wait and see,’ Agnes said. ‘I can’t imagine our Henry rushing anything. But I can tell you what I’m going to do next.’

  ‘Tell on,’ Babs urged.

  ‘I’m going back home to see if I can climb those stairs. It’s about time I stood on my own two feet again, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Very sensible,’ Babs said. ‘We’ll take you there later. Won’t we Reggie? How would that be?’

  ‘That would be handsome,’ Agnes said.

  CHAPTER 20

  Henry and Francesca were driving through the wintry countryside, heading south towards the sea. It was warm and comfortable in the car with one of his gentle CDs playing and the cold fields securely outside the windows and Francesca snuggled into the luxury of it and was happy to be there. The horrors and puzzles of the previous evening were behind her now. She was with Henry and perfectly safe.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Henry said, turning his head to smile at her.

  ‘Where’s there?’ she asked, smiling back at him dreamily. She really didn’t mind where they were going.

  ‘Rye,’ he said. ‘It’s a very pretty place. Used to be one of the Cinque Ports until the river changed direction.’

  ‘Do rivers change direction?’ she said. ‘I never knew that.’

  ‘Anything can change direction,’ he told her. ‘Even dyed-in-the-wool oldies like me.’

  She laughed at that. ‘I wouldn’t call you an oldie,’ she said. ‘Dyed-in-the-wool, maybe, but not an oldie.’

  He was ridiculously and understandably pleased to hear it. ‘Well thank you ma’am,’ he said. But then he thought he’d better confess his age as the subject had come up. ‘I am an oldie though. I shall be forty-five next birthday.’

  ‘That’s not old,’ she said. ‘Wait till you’re eighty.’

  He wanted to kiss her so much that he didn’t know what to say. Patience, he told himself. Don’t rush this. He had such hopes of this outing and he didn’t want to spoil things by speaking too soon. Fortunately they were passing a road sign and he could divert the conversation to safer ground. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Rye.’

  ‘Is this where we’re going to have our walk?’

  ‘Among other things.’

  Now she was intrigued. ‘What other things?’

  His face was mischievous. ‘You’ll see,’ he said. ‘We’ll take a leisurely stroll round the town and then I’ll show you.’

  They strolled arm in arm through the cobbled streets, uphill and down, past a history of houses, Georgian and half-timbered Tudor, past tea shops and antiques stores and quaint inns and potteries. ‘Not a patch on yours,’ Francesca said. They saw an ancient town wall and a tower called Ypres and a sleepy river. It was like walking through a film set or spending time in another century and she was highly taken with it. Eventually they came to a halt in front of a large half-timbered building, covered with ivy.

  ‘We’re here,’ Henry said, watching her face to see what she would make of it.

  She was impressed. ‘Very grand,’ she said.

  He was wearing his Cheshire cat grin. ‘Ah, but look at the name,’ he said.

  It was The Mermaid Inn.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘What a perfect choice.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ he said. ‘Come on. I’ve booked us a table.’

  ‘When did you do that?’ she asked, following him.

  ‘While you were wallowing in the bath,’ he teased, holding the door open for her. It had come to him like an inspiration and he’d acted on it at once. ‘There you are. What do you think of it?’

  She was surrounded by golden light and the warmest of rich colours, bronze and burnt umber, ochre and cadmium yellow. There was a scarlet carpet under her feet, a yellowing panel on the wall and the beams across the low ceiling were a rich Vandyke brown. ‘It’s like something in a fairy story,’ she said. ‘All this gorgeous colour. It makes me think of unicorns and huntsmen in scarlet with hunting horns or Cinderella seeing the royal palace for the first time or Beauty asleep for a hundred years and surrounded by luxury.’

  ‘I knew you’d like it,’ he said. ‘Wait till you see the fire.’ And he led her through into the lounge bar where rows of golden bottles stood on long glass shelves backed by mirrors all artfully set to reflect and glimmer in the soft light.

  It was the biggest log fire she’d ever seen, spreading across the entire width of the wall with a huge oak beam above it supported on two formidable stone piers. ‘I see what you mean,’ she said. ‘It’s magnificent. I’ll bet it’s old.’

  ‘Built in 1156,’ Henry told her, grinning at her delight. ‘Rebuilt in 1420. So yes, it’s a good age. Can I get you a drink?’

  She was removing her coat and scarf and saying ‘I must hang these up first,’ when a young man appeared at her elbow and took charge of them, waiting patiently until Henry had removed his overcoat too. Then they settled before the amazing fire and drank aperitifs while they waited to be shown to their table.

  ‘You’ve been here before,’ Francesca said impressed by how well he knew his way around.

  ‘Many times,’ he said. ‘It was a favourite of ours.’

  ‘Yours and Candida’s?’

  ‘She liked the food,’ he said. ‘I thought you might too. It’s French. I can recommend the steak.’

  She would have liked to ask him if he still missed his Candida and to commiserate with him if he did, but he’d turned the conversation so neatly that she felt she ought to follow it. ‘You’re making my mouth water,’ she said.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. You didn’t eat anywhere near enough yesterday.’

  ‘Yesterday was rather different,’ she said, making a grimace.

  ‘But you’re feeling better today.’

  ‘I’m feeling spoilt.’

  ‘Quite right,’ he said, ‘so you should be.’ Was this the moment?

  But no, it wasn’t. There was a waiter smiling towards them to escort them to their table.

  The restaurant was a soothing, welcoming place, all crisp white tablecloths and sparkling glasses and golden light. She chose the steak, as he’d recommended it, and so did he and they talked about how beautiful the inn was until they were served. The meal was as good as Henry had led her to expect and she ate every mouthful with relish, while he watched her with admiration. The desserts were chosen, more wine ordered and served and the meal and the conversation went smoothly on but he still hadn’t found the right moment to speak as he wanted to and
he was beginning to feel a bit despondent.

  And then, just when he’d almost given up hope the moment arrived, perfect, open, ready and waiting for him.

  She’d put down her spoon when she’d eaten the last mouthful, and smiled at him across their sparkling table. ‘This is the lap of luxury,’ she said. ‘My mother would be so cross if she could see me.’

  ‘Cross?’ he said, sounding as surprised as he felt.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, dabbing her mouth. ‘It wasn’t part of her plan for me to be successful.’

  ‘That sounds peculiar to me,’ he said, drinking the last of his wine. ‘Most parents are mad keen for their children to succeed. Not that I’m an expert, never having had any.’

  ‘She is peculiar,’ Francesca said. ‘I had to face that years ago. Everything has to fit her view of the world, you see, otherwise there are temper tantrums. So if she says you’re never going to amount to a row of beans, that’s what’s got to happen to you and she gets annoyed if it doesn’t.’

  ‘Just as well you don’t see much of her then,’ Henry said.

  ‘Yes,’ Francesca said and added, after a few seconds’ quiet thought, ‘She wasn’t very good at loving, that’s the truth of it. I don’t think she’s ever loved anybody, not really, sad though that is. I’ve never seen any signs of it. But a good thing came out of it, despite her. Or at least I think it’s a good thing.’

  ‘Which is?’ he prompted.

  ‘I made up my mind that if I ever had children I would love them properly.’

  That intrigued him. Until that moment he’d always assumed that loving children was something you did naturally. ‘Properly?’ he asked.

  ‘Unconditionally,’ Francesca explained. ‘As they are, no matter what that’s like. Not trying to change them. I had a long conversation with Agnes about it when she first moved into the flat. She said it was an old debate. Nature versus nurture, she said, and her money was on nurture being the most important. Her mother was tricky too. She bullied her to make her tidy, which isn’t in her nature at all. In fact Agnes said she thought her mother being so ruthless about tidiness had turned her into the sort of person she is, someone who can’t throw anything away. I think that’s likely, don’t you. She said: if your parents love you as you are and allow you to be as you are, you grow up happy in your skin. And I thought that’s the sort of love I’d like to give my children.’ She smiled at him, wondering whether she’d been talking too freely. ‘If that makes sense.’