It was very late by the time the party finally came to an end and she and Agnes walked rather unsteadily to their car, giggling and holding on to one another’s arms. There was a shadowy figure leaning against the bonnet, silhouetted by moonlight, fat legs sticking out before him.
Agnes squinted at him. ‘Who’s that?’ she said.
‘It’s only me, Miss Potts,’ the young man said and stood up to smile at Francesca. ‘Come to offer my services to this lovely lady. I hear you’re moving house.’
Francesca was surprised and not pleased. ‘How do you know that?’
‘My spies are everywhere,’ he said. ‘Nothing escapes my net. Thing is, I was wondering if you’d like a helping hand. Fetch and carry. That sort of thing.’
Francesca didn’t want his help at all. ‘I’ve got rather a lot of stuff,’ she said, hoping it would put him off.
It didn’t. ‘Say no more,’ he told her. ‘I’m just the man you need. What time shall I arrive?’
‘We don’t have a moving date yet,’ Agnes told him sternly. ‘You’re being a bit previous, young man.’
‘I’ll be there,’ he said to Francesca.
‘You’ll have to watch that one,’ Agnes warned, watching him as he went swaggering off along the drive. ‘He’s too cocky by half.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Francesca said, as she slid into the car. ‘He might be cocky now but you should hear him when he whinges. Then it’s all “Pity me! Pity me! I’m a poor diddums. Nobody loves me.” And I’ve heard all that before with Jeffrey. I shan’t get caught twice. I’ll let him carry the packing cases but that’s as far as it’ll go.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ Agnes said, as she eased into the passenger seat and tucked her skirt in after her. ‘You’ve got far too much talent to waste your life with some idle great lump of a man.’ She waited until Francesca had edged her car through the drive and out into the lane and then she said, ‘I wonder what happened to the other one.’
‘No idea,’ Francesca said. ‘Like I told you, he’s history.’
‘I must say I’d have liked to have seen his face when he got home to an empty flat,’ Agnes said. ‘I’d have enjoyed that.’
She would have enjoyed the sight of his face at that moment.
He was sitting on the sofa in his empty flat surrounded by the smelly debris of a take-away Chinese, checking his Barclaycard statement. When he’d opened the letter that morning and seen the total, he’d dismissed it with a snort of disbelief. He couldn’t possibly have got into so much debt. He wasn’t extravagant. They must have made a mistake. But now he was reading it carefully, checking it item by item and what he was discovering was making him scowl like a gargoyle. In the present state of his finances, he was going to have a job to find the minimum payment, never mind shifting any of the debt. It was astronomical. And over half of it had been run up entertaining fucking useless clients, which had been a fucking waste of money. If only some fool would take an order for his coloured concrete. There must be someone somewhere with a bit of fucking imagination.
But even as he raged and scowled at the figures and bit his pen, he knew his concrete was a failure and that nobody would take it. There was nothing for it. He would have to find another line and find it PDQ. As if he hadn’t got enough to do. If he had someone to look after him and cook him decent meals it would be easier. But thanks to that useless Fran, he was on his own and had to do every mortal thing for himself. He was sick to death of making his own tea, and getting into a crumpled bed, and the washing up was endless and so was washing clothes and ironing the damned things but he could hardly go to a board meeting in a dirty shirt. It was all so unnecessary. It could all have been avoided if she’d shown some fucking sense. She didn’t have to go walking off like that. They could have patched things up if she’d made the effort and then he wouldn’t be in such debt. It would serve her right if he found someone else.
‘Life is so fucking unfair,’ he said to the curtains. ‘First Nancy and the girls treating me like shit and now Fran buggering off and leaving me all on my own. It’s enough to make you weep.’ He didn’t know when he’d felt so sorry for himself. ‘There’s no justice,’ he told the curtains. ‘No justice in the world.’
But the curtains were dry-eyed.
‘Now I shall have to go and get some crummy job to pay the bills,’ he told them miserably. ‘Stacking shelves in fucking Tesco I expect and I’m a cut above stacking fucking shelves. There’s no justice at all.’
CHAPTER 7
The mermaid was swimming strongly, plunging through the rolling waves, her pale body gleaming like pearl against the swelling walls of green water, her long tail threshing and showering spray. It was all Francesca could do to keep her in sight, leave alone catch up with her although she was straining every sinew, her arms and legs dragging with fatigue. ‘Don’t go!’ she called. ‘Please don’t go!’ But the mermaid shook her tangled hair and swam on.
It was so important to keep her in sight. More important than anything else but that great fishy tail was moving with such speed and strength it was more and more impossible to do it. Oh make an effort! Try harder!
She sensed a shadow behind her and turned her head, feeling afraid, and saw that it was Jeffrey, sitting in a motor boat and glaring at her, those awful eyebrows a solid line of disapproval. ‘Stupid fool!’ he shouted. ‘You’ll never make it. Face it. You’re not good enough. Don’t even try!’
She shrieked back at him, still swimming with all the strength she had left. ‘Go away! Go right away. I hate you!’ But then she saw that the mermaid had put on speed and she called out again. ‘I didn’t mean you! Mermaid, dear, I didn’t mean you! Please don’t go! Oh please, please don’t go!’
The water was looming over her head. She was sinking, losing the power to swim, struggling for breath. And Jeffrey was sneering at her. ‘Oh please! Please!’
She woke with a palpable start and for a few seconds she lay quite still trying to work out where she was. Heavy rain was rattling against the bedroom window and beyond the streaming panes the roses and honeysuckles were dripping and dishevelled. And she knew that it was Monday morning and that she was due to start work at Prendergast Potteries. And she was full of anxiety.
Agnes was stirring the porridge when she drooped down to breakfast. ‘What’s up?’ she said as she dished up.
‘Bad dreams,’ Francesca told her and shivered as the residue swam in her memory.
‘Just as well I made porridge then,’ Agnes said and she put a steaming dish of it on the table. ‘Get that inside you and you’ll feel a hundred per cent better. Guaranteed. Says so on the box!’
Francesca picked up her spoon and shivered again.
‘Oh dear!’ Agnes said, filling her own dish. ‘It was a bad dream. Tell you what, eat your porridge and tell me all about it and I’ll analyze it for you.’
‘Analyze it?’
‘Best way to knock a bad dream on the head,’ Agnes said cheerfully.
So Francesca did as she was told and by the time she’d drunk her tea and finished the porridge and the story she was grinning. ‘Yes,’ she said, putting down her spoon, ‘I see what you mean.’
Agnes grinned back at her. ‘Told you,’ she said. ‘So what are you really worried about? It’s something to do with our mermaid, that’s clear, but what is it exactly?’
‘It’s painting her on china,’ Francesca confessed. ‘I’ve never painted on china before and I’m not sure I can do it. I mean I wouldn’t like to let them all down.’
‘You won’t let them all down,’ Agnes said, refilling their mugs.
‘Yes but I might, mightn’t I? And I shan’t know until I’ve tried and failed. . . .’
‘Or not.’
‘Or not,’ Francesca agreed, looking at her empty dish. ‘Either way it’ll be too late by the time I find out.’
‘True,’ Agnes said, putting the teapot back in its stand. ‘I suppose it’s no good me telling you that you won’t fail.�
�� And when Francesca grimaced. ‘No, obviously not. So all right, I’ll tell you something else instead. Henry wouldn’t have given you the job if he hadn’t been sure you could do it and he’s employed dozens of artists, so he should know. He’s got an instinct for picking talent. Never failed him. Fact, I’ve never seen him make a bad judgement in all the years I’ve known him.’
Francesca looked across the table at her friend’s honest, loving expression, at those capable hands curved around the warmth of the teapot, at the reassuring ease of her eccentric blue skirt and her old-fashioned blouse with its pearl buttons and all those neat Edwardian pleats, and she yearned to be persuaded of the truth of what she was saying.
‘Well yes,’ she said.’ You could be right. It’s just . . .’
‘You’ve still got that wretched Jeffrey on your back,’ Agnes said in her trenchant way. ‘High time you shook him off. Or have I got to fetch the lawn mower to him?’
‘You’d have a job. He was in a boat.’
‘Don’t make difficulties,’ Agnes said grinning at her. ‘Anything’s possible in a dream.’
‘Or on a train,’ Francesca said, remembering. ‘We ended up with an elephant.’
‘Exactly. Let’s have some toast shall we?’
How easily she comforts, Francesca thought, as Agnes cut two slices from the loaf, and how sensible she is. And she began to think she might be able to paint the mermaid after all. Maybe I’ll ask Molly if she can get someone to show me how it’s done.
Molly was waiting for her in the lobby, standing by the entrance and gazing out into the rain. ‘What weather,’ she said. ‘Glad you’ve got a brolly. You’d have been drowned else. It’s chucking it down. There’s stands for them over there.’ And when Francesca had given her umbrella a shake and tucked it inside the nearest stand, she said, ‘All set?’ and led the way through the workshop to the artists’ work-benches where she produced a mop cap and an overall and gave them to her newest recruit.
‘First day takes a bit of getting used to,’ she said in her cheerful way. ‘Always too much to learn on a first day. Not to worry. There’s no rush. We’ll give you a hand. Now that’s your first plate, all ready for you. And there’s your paints and your stencil.’
‘Stencil?’ Francesca said looking at it.
‘You fix it right across the plate, like this,’ Molly explained, ‘and then you dust it with charcoal, like this, and when you take it off again, like this, there’s the outline of your mermaid and all you’ve got to do is paint her. Simples!’
‘So that’s how it’s done,’ Francesca said, perching herself on her stool.
‘That’s how part of it’s done,’ Molly said. ‘That way the images are all the same size and in the same position and we get a matching set. Good luck. Give me a shout if there’s anything else you need.’ And she walked briskly off to the other end of the shed.
Left on her own at her unfamiliar work station, with the three other artists on either side of her all disconcertingly hard at work, Francesca chose her first brush and, after staring at the naked plate for several minutes, gathered her courage, arranged her original painting on the desk, took a deep breath and started to paint. It was easier than she expected although when she sat back and looked at the picture she’d created, she wasn’t happy with it. The eyes weren’t right and neither were the scales.
She was scowling at it when she became aware that she was surrounded by people and looked round to see who they were. All three of the artists, Molly, six people she didn’t know and Paul, who was grinning at her.
‘Now that’s something,’ he said. ‘Mr P’ll love it.’
‘It’s not quite right,’ Francesca said, self-deprecating as always. ‘I don’t like the eyes and the scales are. . . . I mean, what I’m saying is, it needs work. I’m not happy with it. I’d rather Hen – um – Mr P didn’t see it yet awhile. Not as it is.’
‘I can’t see anything wrong with it myself,’ Paul said. ‘I think it’s stunning.’
There was a murmur of agreement.
‘So do I,’ Molly said. ‘And you needn’t worry about Mr P. He’ll love it. Anyway he’s with Mr Norris this morning, putting the world to rights, so he won’t be seeing anything except balance sheets. Time for coffee, I think.’
Mr P was arguing with his accountant. It didn’t look like an argument, for he was speaking gently and looked like his usual relaxed self, sitting back in his chair with his tie loosened, his hands behind his head and coffee on the desk in front of him, but it was serious for all that and Liam Norris knew it.
‘I wouldn’t be much of an accountant if I didn’t point out the risks,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ Henry said, equably. ‘That’s your job. You point out the risks. I take them. That’s mine.’
Liam smiled at that. ‘I still say I’d be happier if we could halve the outlay,’ he said, rubbing the side of his face, which was a telling sign of how anxious he was. ‘We have to bear this recession in mind. Sales could be slow and publicity on this scale will be costly.’
‘I’m offering them “Magic on your table”,’ Henry said, quoting from the advertisement he’d designed. ‘They won’t be able to resist.’
‘We can’t second guess the market,’ Liam said, rubbing his face again. ‘Especially in a recession.’
‘Trust me,’ Henry said. ‘It’ll be the best dinner service we’ve ever produced. They’ll buy it in scores.’
‘Well I hope you’re right,’ Liam said, but his voice was doubtful.
‘Actually,’ Henry said honestly, for he was taking a huge risk, ‘so do I.’
Liam accepted that his advice wasn’t going to be taken, sensible though it was. ‘When will you have a full service ready for the photographer?’ he asked.
‘As soon as Francesca can finish it,’ Henry told him.
‘Week?’ Liam asked. ‘Fortnight?’
‘As soon as,’ Henry said. ‘We mustn’t rush the girl. She’s an artist.’
The artist took fifteen days of concentrated effort until her first dinner service was completed to her satisfaction and ready for the photographer and by then she was completely exhausted. But it was a rewarding moment to see it all laid out on a table set with a new white cloth, with a vase of white flowers beside it, and to watch as her new friends and workmates gathered round to see the first shot being taken and applauded when it was. Even she was proud of what she’d achieved for it did look good, now that the plates were gold rimmed and bright under the lights. And the vegetable dishes were splendid. She’d made a really good job of them. All in all it was a happy way to spend the last moments of her first fortnight at work.
‘Superb,’ Henry said, standing beside her with his hand on her shoulder.
‘I hope it sells,’ she said, still looking at it.
‘Like hot cakes,’ he told her. ‘Wait till you see the advertisement. It’ll keep us in work for months. Take my advice and have a good rest this weekend. You’ll be hard at it again on Monday.’
‘I’m moving into my flat this weekend,’ she said.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘cancel my advice. But try not to work too hard.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ she said. But she was thinking what bad timing it was for she could actually have done with a rest after such a lot of work, a chance to get up late and sit out in Agnes’ garden while there was still sunshine to sit in, maybe even paint something for fun. On the other hand she did want to move into her flat and what Agnes called ‘the small van’ was ordered to take her things and was coming ‘first thing’.
It arrived before she and Agnes had finished breakfast and, two minutes after the removal men had started to fill it, a strange car turned in at the drive, its wing mirror brushing the laurel. They watched as it stopped behind the van. And Brad/Kenneth swung his chubby legs out of the driver’s seat and stood before them on the drive.
‘Come to offer my services, fair lady,’ he said. ‘Morning Miss Potts.’
‘How did you know it was today?’ Francesca asked. She was quite cross to see him. She’d got enough to do for one day without having to listen to him whining about how hard his life was.
‘I have my spies,’ he said. ‘I’m odd job boy for Chazza here.’ And he grinned at the driver. ‘Isn’t that right, Chaz.’
‘Only for the day, mind,’ Chaz said. ‘And only if you pull your weight.’
‘You know me,’ Brad said, following him into the house.
‘I gather you didn’t know he was coming,’ Agnes said, frowning at his back.
‘No,’ Francesca said, feeling annoyed. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Well he’d better be useful,’ Agnes said, sternly. ‘Work him hard. That’s my advice. And don’t let him think he’s moving in with you.’
Francesca made a grimace. ‘Oh per-lease!’ she said.
‘Watch him, that’s all,’ Agnes said, walking back to the kitchen. ‘There’s altogether too much of that young man.’
But in fact he worked very hard that day, carrying in boxes and cases, and when the van was gone, shifting the new furniture about, making tea, hanging curtains, even popping out for a take-away late in the evening, saying ‘You stay here and put your feet up. Leave it to me. I know where the best places are.’
Of course, she didn’t put her feet up. There was still the bed to make, which she could hardly have done while he was around, and then there were more clothes to unpack and the knives and forks to find and the mirror to hang in a suitable place in the living room. When she finally sat down at her new dining table with her familiar plates set out before her, she felt tired, but so pleased with herself that fatigue didn’t matter. A home of my own, she thought, looking round at it. All of my own. I can eat what I like and listen to music when I like and paint when I like and go to bed when I like and there’ll never be anyone to stop me. I couldn’t have more freedom if I really were the mermaid. I hope he hurries up with that food. I’m starving.
Francesca and the Mermaid Page 9