He shrugged his fat shoulders. ‘Oh well,’ he said. ‘Can’t be helped, I suppose. Anyway, I’ll see you around.’
She felt mean to have lied to him but, really, she didn’t want to spend any more time with him. Their tea party had been quite enough. He’d made her feel quite depressed. It was her own fault. She knew that. She shouldn’t have felt sorry for him. Feeling sorry for people was always her undoing. It was high time she learnt not to do it. Then she too shrugged her shoulders, walked to the car park and set off for her drive back to Agnes’. It had been an eventful afternoon.
CHAPTER 6
Agnes was lying in her hammock fast asleep with her hat tilted over her face, compost smearing her hands and the trowel on her lap. She woke up when Francesca walked towards her, took the hat from her face and looked up brightly. ‘Ah there you are!’ she said. ‘Did you find your dragon?’
Francesca had forgotten all about dragons. ‘I didn’t actually look for one,’ she said. ‘I found a lot of children though. There were kids all over the place. I think it was a day for school visits. Anyway I did a few sketches. I had to be quick because they were all rushing about, so they’re rather rough but I think I’ve caught enough to be able to work on them.’
‘It’s always the day for school visits,’ Agnes told her. ‘The castle’s a popular place. Come and sit next to me and let me see them.’
They sat side by side on the grubby hammock, swinging gently, and Agnes wiped her hands on her skirt and considered every sketch, nodding and saying, ‘Yes, I like that one.’ ‘And that.’ ‘And that.’ When she’d examined them all, she went on looking at the last page and asked, just a little too casually. ‘And what else did you do while you were there? Did you find any flats?’
‘Well I took the details of anything that was going,’ Francesca said, fishing them out of her bag. ‘Let’s put it that way. I’m not sure whether any of them would do and they’re hideously expensive.’ And as Agnes was looking at her expectantly, she handed the bundle over.
Agnes flicked through them. ‘I see what you mean. Did you look at any of them?’
‘No. I got waylaid by the children.’
‘There’s one here that might do,’ Agnes said. ‘A studio flat down by the river. Hillman Court. Somewhere to paint, maybe?’
Francesca laughed. ‘It depends what they mean by studio and what sort of light it gets.’
‘Worth a look?’ Agnes asked.
Francesca’s mobile was jingling in her bag. ‘Sorry about this,’ she said, retrieving it and lifting it to her ear. It was Henry.
‘Where are you?’ he said. ‘I’ve been ringing Aggie for nearly half an hour.’
‘Out in the garden,’ she told him.
‘Ah, that accounts. Party on Friday, tell her, to celebrate the arrival of my new artist.’
Given how unsure she felt about this job, Francesca didn’t know what to say. But when the pause had gone on rather too long, she contrived, ‘I am spoilt!’
‘And so you should be,’ he said. ‘See you there. Usual time.’
She put the phone back in her bag thinking what a warm voice he had. He makes you feel as if he’s wrapping you up and caring for you, she thought, even when you haven’t really done anything to deserve it. Then she passed on his news to Agnes.
‘Oh good!’ Agnes said. ‘We’ll take him some rasp-berries and add them to the feast. I wonder who we shall meet this time.’
Francesca was wondering what she ought to wear if the party really was in her honour. The blue and white dress maybe. She’d put it on top of the pile on the bed and it was on the top of the pile on the carpet now so at least she knew where it was. She’d have to find her iron and her ironing board and freshen it up. And her blue and gold flip-flops. Or her gold sandals. Would they do? And a pretty bag, if I can remember where I packed them. Then another thought struck her.
‘If I’m going to start work on Monday,’ she said. ‘I suppose I ought to go and look at that studio flat while I’ve still got time to do it.’
‘Very sensible,’ Agnes said and smiled at her. ‘Let’s go tomorrow.’
Francesca was touched to think that Agnes wanted to come with her but she didn’t comment. Their very nearly quarrel was too recent for searching conversations.
So they went to Lewes the next morning and inspected the four flats that Francesca thought she could afford. The first was small and dark and smelled of drains, the second was above a shop and there was nowhere to park, the third was grubby and run down and had the most unpleasant cooker Francesca had ever seen. The fourth was the studio flat which they’d saved till last because they thought it was the most promising one. It was on the eastern edge of town down by the river and the approach to it along a narrow road full of parked cars, wasn’t encouraging. But when they reached the flats themselves and found the one that was up for rent, it was a revelation.
It was newly painted and wonderfully clean, and, although the bedroom and bathroom were a bit small, the kitchen was excellent, fully and newly equipped with cooker, fridge freezer, washing machine and even a small dishwasher, and the living room was exactly what Francesca wanted. It was a very good size, overlooked the river and was lit by a long tall window and, as she saw at once, it would be perfect for painting. There was even a little balcony leading out of it, just big enough for two. She opened the door and she and Agnes stepped out into the sunshine.
It was quiet and peaceful out there and the view was spectacular. Two floors below them the river flowed gently toward the sea, its shifting shadows nut-brown and weed green, with occasional, ephemeral highlights of pale sky blue. It was a delight to her eye and so was the wooded field that flanked the opposite bank and the high chalk cliff that dazzled in the eastern distance. She’d been impressed by the flat but this view made up her mind.
‘I could live here,’ she said, looking back into the living room and watching as sunlight reflected from the river made rippling patterns on the cream walls. ‘It’s got pretty well everything I want. I really like that kitchen. I could move into it tomorrow. And it would be perfect for painting. I could paint in there or out here on the balcony. What do you think Agnes?’
‘If that’s how you feel about it,’ Agnes said, ‘I think you should take it, me dear.’
So they went back to the estate agents and Francesca spent the next hour filling in forms, paying her deposit, which was three months rent in advance and made a sizeable hole in her mermaid money, and then providing the names and addresses of what seemed like an interminable list of people, her previous employer, her bank managers, previous and present, someone who would be able to vouch for her character. ‘That’ll be me,’ Agnes said and gave her address at once.
‘Now we just need the name of your present employer,’ the estate agent said, smiling encouragement. ‘Do you work in Lewes?’
‘She’s the principal artist at Prendergast Potteries,’ Agnes said, grinning at Francesca.
The estate agent was impressed and showed it. ‘Mr Prendergast is very well thought of hereabouts,’ she said as she wrote the details on her form. Then, because she was a kindly woman and could sense how much her new client wanted to take possession, she added that with Mr Prendergast to support her it shouldn’t be too long before she could move in.
‘Can you give me some idea how long it might be?’ Francesca asked, trying not to sound too eager because that wouldn’t have been kind to Agnes.
‘All depends on how quickly your referees get back to us,’ the agent said. ‘The flat’s ready for occupation now, as you saw. It’s just a matter of dotting the ‘i’s’. Probably about a month. Two at the outside. Certainly no more.’
As they left the office and strolled along the familiar, friendly High Street, Francesca began to think aloud. ‘I shall need to buy some furniture,’ she said, ‘and curtains and rugs and that sort of thing. It’s just as well I sold the mermaid. I’d never have been able to do all this if I hadn’t.’
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��Good old mermaid,’ Agnes said. ‘Let’s have a spot of lunch and then we’ll go shopping.’
Her easy, uncomplaining friendship was so touching that Francesca was gripped with conscience pangs all over again. ‘You are good to me,’ she said ‘I mean, I’m moving out, sort of leaving you and . . .’
‘Don’t start all that again,’ Agnes said, sternly. ‘You are not leaving me. You’re setting up home on your own. You’ll come and see me, won’t you.’
‘Of course. Often. I’ve still got your portrait to paint now I’ve got the canvas and everything.’
‘Well there you are then. Let’s have a sandwich and then we’ll go to Shoreham and get cracking on this furniture of yours. I like shopping. And I know just the place for it.’
It was a huge shopping complex with all the major department stores within easy reach of one another and autumn sales in every furniture department.
‘That’s a bit of luck,’ Francesca said.
Agnes laughed at her. ‘They have sales all the year round,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen a sofa at its “full” price for years. Come on. What d’you fancy?’
By the end of the afternoon Francesca was foot-sore and desperate for tea but she’d bought all the basic furnishings for the flat and left instructions that it was all to be held until she knew her completion date.
‘Won’t we have some tales to tell our Henry on Friday,’ Agnes said as they drove home. ‘It’ll be quite a party.’
It was and it began with a positive explosion of champagne and a chorus of congratulations ‘to our new artist and her mermaid!’ So much champagne and so many congratulations that Francesca grew pink with pleasure and embarrassment and, as more and more people flocked around her to tell her how glad they were she was part of the firm, she began to look around for someone to come and rescue her. Agnes was on the other side of the room talking to Henry and, although she caught sight of Molly through the crush and tried to send her an eye message for help, Molly just waved her champagne flute and mouthed, ‘Congrats!’ and stayed where she was. And there were three more people bearing down on her, champagne in hand.
‘Rescue me!’ a voice said in her ear.
For a bewildered second she thought it was someone reading her mind but then she turned her head and saw the fat young man from the castle. Brad who was christened Kenneth. Oh for heaven’s sake! How did he get here? ‘Hello!’ she said and she knew her voice was cold.
He didn’t seem to notice. ‘You don’t know how glad I am to see you,’ he said, taking her by the arm and turning her away from the advancing hordes. ‘Friendly face sort of thing. I don’t know a soul here. Not a single soul! I was beginning to think I’d have to hide behind the curtain.’
‘You must know Henry,’ she said to him. Not a single soul seemed a bit over the top. ‘I mean he must have invited you.’
‘No, I don’t,’ he said, edging her towards the French windows. ‘Wouldn’t know him from Adam.’
She didn’t know much about Henry herself except that he was kindly and generous and a good boss but she didn’t think he was the sort of person who kept open house. ‘Then how did you get here?’ she asked, stepping out of the room into the garden. It was cool and a great deal quieter out there.
‘He invited my aunt and she brought me,’ he explained. ‘I didn’t know it was going to be a big affair or I wouldn’t have come. I mean I don’t know a single soul. And look at them all.’
‘They’re very nice people,’ she told him. ‘They don’t bite.’
And as if to prove her point, Babs and Reggie drifted out through the French windows to kiss her and congratulate her.
‘My dear,’ Babs said, tossing the trailing end of her chiffon scarf over her shoulder, ‘I’m so happy for you.’
‘Didn’t I say you were an artist?’ Reggie said, leaning forward to kiss her.
‘Actually,’ Babs said, correcting him but making eyes at him at the same time, ‘Henry said she was an artist and you agreed with him.’
‘Amounts to the same thing,’ Reggie said affably. ‘You are an artist and now you’ve got a job with the firm and the mermaid’s going to save its fortune or so they’ve been telling me. Henry’s cock a whoop.’ Then he noticed Brad. ‘You haven’t got any champagne young feller,’ he said. ‘Must put that right. Hang on a tick.’ And he ambled back into the room again.
Francesca was digesting what he’d just said. Was the firm in trouble? Was that what he meant? Or was it just the sort of extravagant talk you get at parties? It hadn’t looked as though it was in trouble. But there wasn’t time to think it through. She had to introduce the two people he’d left standing on either side of her as they were both obviously expecting it. ‘This is Brad, Babs,’ she said. ‘He’s come with his aunt. Brad this is Babs, Henry’s nearest neighbour.’
‘Half a mile up the road,’ Babs said, shaking his hand, ‘which passes for near hereabouts. Who’s your aunt? Do we know her?’
‘Tall woman,’ Brad said. ‘In a fluffy sort of white blouse thingy. Long face. Looks like a poodle.’
While Francesca was thinking what an unkind description it was, Babs was peering into the room. ‘I can’t see anyone in a fluffy blouse,’ she said. ‘Not that I can see very much. They’re all on the move. Are they coming out for supper, do you think? Yes. Yes. That’s what it is. They’re coming out for supper.’
Which they were and, naturally enough, the first person through the French window was Henry, leading the way, with Agnes beside him.
‘Ah there you are!’ he said beaming at Francesca. ‘I wondered where you’d got to. Come on. Can’t have supper without the guest of honour.’
‘No, quite right,’ Babs said, nodding at him. ‘I should think not.’ She gave Francesca a little push towards her new boss.
‘Guest of honour?’ Brad said, but Francesca was already walking away from him following Agnes and Henry to the serving table. If he was going to say unkind things about his aunt, let him make his own introductions.
The food was every bit as good as last time, the wine as copious and the conversation at Henry’s table as lively. This time it was about the current spate of trashy television and was very funny but, despite the humour, Francesca’s mind kept drifting off to other things. Was the firm really in trouble? Did they really expect her mermaid to rescue it? Was that why Henry had taken her on? He had said it would sell. All over Great Britain, he’d said. If that was what he was hoping for, it was a putting a heavy responsibility on her shoulders. What if it didn’t sell? There was no accounting for taste. Or worse, what if she couldn’t paint it over and over again? It wouldn’t be the same as painting it for the first time and she might do it badly. Eventually, she lost track of the conversation altogether and found herself sitting mute and puzzled and feeling horribly uncomfortable as everybody round the table looked at her, obviously waiting for an answer to something they’d just said.
‘Sorry,’ she said, trying not to blush. ‘I missed that one.’
‘She’s in a world of her own,’ Henry said in his avuncular way. And changed the subject. ‘Who’s for a sweet?’
As they all strolled off towards the serving table, he put his arm round Francesca’s shoulders. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said.
‘I’m not,’ she said, trying to sound convincing and failing. ‘I mean. . . .’ She couldn’t admit to worrying because that would mean asking him if the firm really was in trouble and this wasn’t the time or the place for that sort of conversation. ‘It’s just I’m not used to being a guest of honour.’
‘First time nerves,’ he said. ‘You’ll get used to it. Wait till your mermaid goes on sale. Now then what do you fancy? The profiteroles look good.’
‘Oh!’ a voice squealed beside them. ‘Profiteroles. I just love them.’
Francesca turned her head, glad of an opportunity to talk to someone else and found that she was standing beside a woman who looked like a poodle. She had very pale blonde hair arranged in a bun on the t
op of her head, small brown eyes and false eyelashes, a long broad nose in a very long pale face, and she was wearing white slacks and a white blouse made of some fluffy material that looked so much like curly fur that Francesca was almost tempted to pat it. Then she had such an overwhelming need to giggle that she had to turn her head and concentrate on the sweets on order to control herself.
‘Do you know one another?’ Henry asked, ever the attentive host.
‘I know who you are,’ the poodle said, looking at Francesca. ‘You’re Francesca Jones, aren’t you, the artist. I’m Clara. God-awful name, but that’s parents for you.’
Francesca said ‘Pleased to meet you,’ but kept her eyes on the food.
Clara didn’t seem to notice. She was giving her attention to Henry, batting her false eyelashes at him and nodding her head so that her pompom trembled. ‘I never thanked you, my dear,’ she said, ‘for letting me bring that awful nephew of mine. I do appreciate it. If I’d left him at home it would have been a tip when I got back. He’s got absolutely no sense of propriety. I never knew such a boy. He’s just been kicked out of another job. Did I tell you that? No surprise to me. He’s absolutely bone idle. Never done an honest day’s work in his life. And so greedy. You’d never believe. It’s like having a locust in the house. Oh you’ve got a trifle too! I couldn’t have both could I?’
‘Feel free,’ Henry said and grinned at Francesca while the lady was piling her plate.
And Francesca, having put a modest helping of trifle on her own plate, feeling abstemious and sensible, looked across the table straight into the self-justified grin of the young man called Kenneth/Brad. ‘See what I mean?’ he mouthed at her. Maybe I misjudged him, she thought. If he doesn’t like his aunt very much, maybe he’s got reason. She certainly doesn’t like him. And she is like a poodle.
The party improved considerably after that, sweetened by trifle and trifling talk. As she walked about the gardens with Henry and Agnes after the meal, talking to people who greeted her like old friends, Francesca became philosophical. It was no good worrying about whether the firm was in trouble or whether she would be any good at her new job. She’d find that out on Monday. And in a few weeks time she would be moving into her flat and putting her new furniture in place and unpacking all her things again. Much better to concentrate on that. Packing and unpacking she could do. She’d done enough of it, God knows, when she was living with Jeffrey.
Francesca and the Mermaid Page 8