Francesca and the Mermaid

by Beryl Kingston

  Henry was impressed to see she had so much fire. ‘Be as angry as you like,’ he said. ‘You’ve every reason. Don’t you think so, Mr Taylor? How about a spot of lunch?’

  Mr Taylor smiled courteously but declined Henry’s invitation to lunch. ‘I’m afraid I shall have to be cutting off in a few minutes,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an appointment in Barcombe at two.’

  ‘Then we mustn’t keep you,’ Henry said. ‘Thank you for all your good work. It’s been a most successful morning.’

  ‘Yes,’ Francesca said, when Mr Taylor had walked off to his car. ‘It has, hasn’t it. I’m going to be a rich woman. Imagine that!’

  ‘And quite right too,’ Henry said. ‘What do you fancy for lunch?’

  CHAPTER 21

  Jeffrey Walmesly was so angry he didn’t know what to do with himself. His face was puce with fury and he was spluttering and spitting and kicking the furniture as he paced the kitchen. How dare they send him threatening letters! Who did they think they were? It was despicable, disgraceful, disgusting. They should be ashamed of themselves. He’d never done them any harm. Never. He was a good law-abiding citizen. Always had been. And then they write to him like this. And not just one letter but two. Two! It was enough to try the patience of a saint. God damn it! Who do they think they are?

  The two offending letters lay on the worktop where he’d flung them, neat, straight-edged and implacable. He couldn’t believe the cruelty of them. For that horrible potter to accuse him of fraudulent activity was foul enough but for the bank to write and tell him they were going to foreclose on his mortgage unless he paid off all his arrears was too terrifying to be faced. He’d be turned out of his home. And then what would he do? It was no good them coming after him for money, especially when it had run into thousands. He didn’t have any money. It didn’t grow on trees. He’d have to go back to shelf filling if he wanted to eat. Oh dear God! What was he going to do? They were going to throw him out of his home.

  He sat down at the table, his hands shaking and his brain in turmoil. Why was everything so fucking unfair? He turned himself inside out to give people a good service, inside out, he couldn’t work harder if he tried, and God knows he tried, and this is how they repaid him. With threats and solicitors’ letters. First his God-awful wife and her God-awful daughters being so unkind to him and then Fran walking out on him and taking all his furniture and wrecking his chances with that stupid potter. And now this. It was more than he could bear.

  Well if that’s the way they’re going to behave, he thought, glaring at the letters, I shall leave the country. I’m not staying here to be bullied and abused. There are limits. But where would he go? And how would he raise the fare? The problems seemed insurmountable. Think! He urged himself. Think hard. If only that stupid Professor Cairns had taken me on the way he should have done none of this would have happened. Fucking man. And after all the good work I did for him. But the name gave him the germ of an idea. I wonder where he is, he thought. If it’s somewhere accessible I could say I was going to work with him. That would get me through Customs and all their stupid questions and I could sell the furniture for my fare. I can’t take it with me and I’m damned if I’m going to leave it here for someone else to make a profit on it. I shall take my laptop. Laptops impress people. A plan was forming.

  ‘All set?’ Henry said, putting on his Bonfire cap. He glanced in the hall mirror to check that he was correctly dressed and decided that he looked quite racy in his striped jersey and his white trousers and that Francesca looked absolutely delectable, like a flower in full bloom.

  ‘Will I do?’ she asked, checking her appearance too.

  ‘I’d show you if we had the time,’ he said, making eyes at her, ‘but it wouldn’t do to be late. Aggie would skin us alive.’ The sky had been peppered with fireworks ever since it grew dark and Bonfire was loudly and obviously under way.

  She took his arm and they stepped out together into the prickling air. ‘Is it always like this?’ she asked, sniffing the unfamiliar scents.

  He smiled at her. ‘Has been for as long as I can remember,’ he said. ‘Wait till you see the tar barrels.’

  ‘Tar barrels?’ she asked. ‘What tar barrels?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ he said, grinning quite devilishly as he opened the car door for her. ‘Hop in.’

  They parked in her space behind the flats because it was nearer the start of the action and strolled off to the local pub where the Cliffe Association was gathering. The place was packed with stripy shirts and beer-warmed faces and Agnes was in the midst drinking from a pint mug which she waved at them happily.

  ‘Sup up,’ she said. ‘The band’s arrived.’

  And so it had, a big brass band, big bass drums and all, to play them on their way. And standing by the door to make sure they were all fully equipped were Reggie and Babs with a pile of metal torches, which they lit and handed across as soon as they were burning brightly. They marched to Cliffe High Street in a state of happy excitement holding their now flaming torches aloft.

  ‘This is amazing,’ Francesca said. ‘I wish I’d brought a sketch-pad.’

  ‘Would a camera do instead?’ Henry offered. ‘Just point me in the right direction and tell me what you want recorded.’

  ‘There’s so much,’ she said. ‘The way these flames are moved by the wind, for a start. Look at them. They’re all streaming in the same direction and yet they’re all different shapes. And the banner. I must use that.’

  ‘At your service,’ he said and pulled his mobile from his pocket.

  From then on he took photographs at every point along the first part of their route, whenever she called ‘Ah! Look at that!’ or he could see from the expression on her face that she was intrigued by what she was seeing: the long column of marchers, the streets packed with sightseers, their eyes dark and their faces whitened by firelight, a banner bent sideways by a gust of wind, the bearers struggling to right it again, fireworks exploding in cascades of impossibly bright stars in the black sky. After years of simply taking part and hardly noticing it, he was seeing it through her wide eyes and enjoying every minute of it.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, as the band led them into a narrow twitten.

  ‘To the tar barrel race, eventually,’ he said. ‘We have to beat the bounds first.’

  ‘You and your tar barrels,’ she teased. ‘They’d better be good.’

  ‘You’ll love them,’ he told her. He was confident of it.

  As she did, waving her torch with delight as the two-man teams pulled their blazing burdens towards the bridge, wanting to know all about them. ‘They’re not barrels are they? They look like oil-drums cut in half.’

  ‘They are,’ he said, snapping happily.

  ‘Just look at the flames,’ she said, entranced. ‘They’re twice as high as the cart. How wonderfully dangerous. And all these people watching. I didn’t expect anything like this. It’s pagan.’

  He hugged her as well as he could for the torches. Pagan was exactly the right word. That, he thought, admiring her, is because she’s an artist. She sees things more clearly than other people. And there was still a lot more for her to see.

  They took another band-led detour round the town and arrived in front of the War Memorial at their allotted time. She picked up the atmosphere of the ceremony even before it began, watching wide-eyed as the stewards took their places and the crowd grew hushed, as their wreath was laid and The Last Post was played, standing totally still during the silence, absorbing it all. And then they were off again and heading for the start of the Grand Parade.

  If what she’d seen of Bonfire was thrilling, the Grand Parade was so overwhelming it took her breath away. The stunning images crowded in upon her so fast she could barely take them all in, the torches and the great burning crosses carried before them blazing white fire, the mixed sounds of bands, songs and cheers that rolled up and down the hills of the High Street like great sea waves, the extraordinary costumes, Tudor la
dies in full rig, a Zulu warrior as black as boot polish could make him, with a headdress of ostrich feathers more than a foot high, Red Indians cavorting, pirates with cutlasses, clowns clowning, St Trinian’s schoolgirls, sexily dishevelled, Roundheads in helmets and armour, and, carried head high among the marchers, effigies of all kinds, from a Pope in his triple crown sitting solemnly on his papal throne, to a huge puppet of Rupert Murdoch looking villainous dangling his own smaller puppets, which were Blair and Brown – weren’t they? – and a seemingly endless variety of Guy Fawkes puppets being borne in triumph to their individual incinerations. And on either side of the road an absolutely enormous crowd, blurred by their passing into a scarfed, hatted, round-faced, dark-eyed, open-mouthed cheering multitude, standing like a vast human backdrop to the passion, humour and determination that surged through the street.

  ‘Good?’ Henry shouted, when she turned her shining face to look at him.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ she shouted back. ‘I can hardly believe it.’

  ‘And there’s still the bonfire to come,’ he said.

  The Cliffe bonfire was huge, as she expected, and it burned with a roar like a furnace but even so it was marginally quieter there in the outer reaches of the town and once the bonfire speeches were over, conversation was possible.

  ‘You’ll be painting for weeks after this,’ Agnes predicted.

  ‘If I can find out how to paint heat and noise and excitement,’ Francesca told her. ‘I’ve been standing here wondering how to do it. My head’s full of it.’

  ‘If anyone can find a way, you will,’ Henry said. ‘And I’ve got the perfect room for you to work in.’

  That surprised her. ‘Have you? I mean I can’t use any of your lovely living rooms. You do know that, don’t you? I’d ruin the carpet.’

  He grinned at that. ‘Make no decisions until you’ve seen what I’ve got planned.’

  She was intrigued. ‘What have you got planned?’

  ‘I’ll show you tomorrow when it’s light,’ he promised.

  In the red light from the fire, Agnes was looking devilish. ‘You know what it is don’t you?’ Francesca said.

  ‘I think so,’ Agnes said, ‘but don’t worry Henry. I won’t spoil your surprise.’

  There was a sudden roar which pulled their attention back to the bonfire. The guy had caught fire and was spraying spectacular fountains of white sparks from the top of his head and all his limbs. And Henry, seeing the instant delight on Francesca’s face took yet another picture.

  Saturday morning brought more surprises than Francesca expected. They slept late so it was light before they woke and by then Francesca was so full of curiosity that she insisted on being shown the surprise room before they had breakfast. And although Henry teased her and complained that she was a terrible bully he happily did as he was told, leading her along the corridor, past his old bedroom and his office until they reached a rather smaller door right at the end.

  ‘We’re going into the oast house,’ he said and teased ‘Be prepared to be amazed.’

  ‘This had better be good,’ she teased back, ‘the fuss you’re making about it.’

  They were inside the round tower of the oast house in an empty room that had picture windows all the way round. The light would be absolutely right for painting whatever time of day she chose.

  ‘Well,’ he said, beaming at her, ‘what do you think?’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ she told him, still gazing at it. ‘Absolutely perfect. Has it always been like this?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘This was where they dried the hops. It was open to the chimney because they needed a draught to draw the fire and when we came it had a plain brick wall and one very small window. I had these windows put in. I gather you like it.’

  ‘I shall go and get my paints as soon as we’ve had breakfast,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait to start.’

  ‘I’ll take you,’ he said, ‘providing you let me have my waffles first. And then I must put the pictures on my laptop if you’re going to start straight way.’

  They talked about the paintings she was planning all the way to the flat and she ran in to her old living room to gather her things as soon as she’d opened the door. Henry picked up her mail before he followed her.

  ‘Most of it’s junk,’ he said, when she glanced at it. ‘But this one’s a letter.’

  ‘I don’t get letters,’ she said, folding up her easel.

  ‘You’ve got one now,’ he said and handed it to her. ‘Take a look.’

  She opened and read it perfunctorily, then realized what it was and gave it her full attention while he waited. ‘It’s a reminder about this flat,’ she said. ‘I took it for three months and the time’s nearly up. This is to tell me next month’s rent is due on Wednesday. I’d forgotten all about it.’

  ‘So what will you do?’ he asked, sitting down on her sofa. ‘Take it for another month or let it go?’

  ‘Let it go, I think,’ she said. ‘I could move all the things I want into the oast house room, couldn’t I? I mean, there isn’t very much of it. Books and videos and things like that. And that sofa. I rather like that sofa. And my clothes, of course. I’ll have to write and tell them what I’ve decided and then I suppose I’d better sort things out and hire a van. I shall sell anything that’s left over.’

  ‘We’ll do it between us,’ he said. ‘And we’ll hire a proper firm to move you. I’m not having you lugging furniture about.’

  ‘You do look after me,’ she said, smiling at him.

  ‘And quite right too,’ he said.

  It took them the best part of the weekend to sort out her things and write the necessary letter, make the necessary phone calls and organize a removal van for Tuesday. It was rather a nuisance when she wanted to get on with her painting but it had to be done.

  ‘I shall have to take Tuesday off,’ she said when all the arrangements had been made, ‘but I’ll paint as many mermaids as I can on Monday, I promise.’

  ‘I’m not going to rush you’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she told him. ‘That’s why I’m going to do it.’

  They went back to work on Monday morning feeling they’d lived a lifetime since they were last there. And the world seemed to have moved on while they’d been away. Henry was met outside his door by Liam who’d obviously been lurking for him and was full of the good news that ‘a sheaf of orders’ had come in by email and then Yvette rang in not long after he’d sat down at his desk to say she’d got Mr Taylor on the phone and should she put him through.

  ‘Thought you ought to know there’s been no answer from Mr Walmesly,’ Mr Taylor said, ‘and it’s a week now since we sent our letter. Do you want us to send him a reminder?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Henry said. ‘If we don’t keep him on his toes he’ll think he’s only got to lie low and we’ll go away.’

  ‘How about Miss Jones?’ Mr Taylor asked. ‘Does she want us to proceed against him, do you know?’

  Henry explained that she was moving house but promised he would test her opinion.

  ‘I hear Bonfire went well,’ Mr Taylor said. ‘Our neighbours were there and they said it was the best yet.’

  ‘Yes,’ Henry said. ‘I think it was.’ And he thought of Francesca’s shining face and had to control the urge to find some pretext to go down to the workshop and see her. Fortunately Yvette came in with her notebook ready to do the letters, so he had to be sensible and get on with the usual events of his day. But it didn’t stop him wondering how she was getting on.

  In fact she was doing exactly what she’d promised to do, sitting at her workstation painting doggedly. From time to time her workmates came over to ask her what she’d thought of Bonfire and she told them how wonderful it had been but she didn’t stop working, partly because she’d given Henry her word and partly because Molly had told her a new lot of orders had come in and the thought that she’d be taking a day off at just the wrong time was making her feel guilty. But over a
nd above everything else, her mind was full of happy images, Red Indians dancing among the flames, rockets erupting into cascades of stars in a pitch black sky, the stillness and peace at the War memorial with the watchers humbled by the sacrifices they were honouring and the torches flickering, that long complicated, noisy parade filling the High Street. You’d have needed to have been in a helicopter to take it all in, she thought. And even before the thought was fully in her mind she could see her first painting in all its complicated detail, living and growing. Oh if only it wasn’t November and she could start on it the minute she got home. The weekend was such a long way away.

  The move went as well as moves usually do and by the end of the day she’d arranged her furniture in her lovely new studio and set up her easel and even made a rough outline of the first painting she wanted to do. Then it was a long wait till Saturday. But the day finally arrived and was given over to painting while Henry cooked their meals and wandered in and out of the studio while she was working to watch and admire. And the painting grew very satisfactorily. By the time the light faded on Sunday it was shaped.

  ‘How are our love birds?’ Babs asked. She and Reggie had asked Agnes over to Sunday lunch and were agog for news.

  ‘Settling in as far as I know,’ Agnes said. ‘I phoned them yesterday evening and Henry said she’d been painting all day. He sounded very happy.’

  ‘He’s a good chap,’ Reggie observed. ‘Haven’t I always said so? Deserves a bit of happiness.’

  ‘Wedding bells then?’ Babs asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ Agnes said. ‘If he can peel her away from her easel. She works all hours when the spirit moves her.’

  ‘I hope they buck up,’ Reggie said. ‘I love wedding cake.’ And was surprised when both women laughed at him.

  But in the event it wasn’t Reggie’s love of wedding cake or Henry’s ability to peel his beloved away from her easel that was the deciding factor.