Francesca and the Mermaid

by Beryl Kingston

  It does seem out of character, Francesca thought. I hope it wasn’t me upsetting him. She didn’t say anything because that would have made her feel even more guilty than she already did, but the thought kept her quiet all through lunch and niggled in her head all afternoon, no matter how hard she tried to push it away. It was so easy to upset people, even though you didn’t mean to. And he’d been so kind to her and was such a gentle man, she wouldn’t have upset him for the world. She was quite glad when her working day was over and she could drive home to her nice quiet flat and be alone with her thoughts. I’ll have an easy supper, she promised herself, beans on toast or something, and then I’ll sketch out Molly’s portrait, while the ideas are fresh.

  Brad was crouched on the doorstep with his back against her front door and the most disagreeable expression etched on his face. ‘You’re late,’ he said accusingly.

  The sight of him, sitting on the step as if he had every right to be there, tipped her into tetchiness. ‘Long day,’ she said. ‘Shift yourself. I can’t reach the keyhole with you all over the place.’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ he wheedled, gazing up at her earnestly. ‘I’ve had the most terrible time today. Terrible. My aunt’s thrown me out of house and home. Right out. Threw my clothes all over the lane. I’ve had to put them in my boot. I mean, how cruel can you get? There are times when I despair of human nature. I truly do.’

  She looked at him with distaste, wishing he’d shut up and go away. ‘Get up,’ she said. ‘I want to open the door.’

  He didn’t seem to notice her expression. ‘I knew it would be all right once you got home,’ he said, as she walked into the hall. ‘You’re such a star.’ And before she could tell him not to, he followed her in.

  ‘Now look,’ she said, ‘I’ve had a long day too and I’m really tired. I haven’t got the energy to look after someone else.’

  He was unabashed. ‘Just as well I’m here then,’ he said, walking into the kitchen. ‘My turn to look after you. Let’s have some tea, shall we. And then I’ll rustle us up some supper. Unless you want a take-away. You’ve only got to say.’

  She couldn’t say anything. She just stood in her kitchen watching him fill her kettle and reach up for the jar containing her tea bags and plump himself in her chair with one of her mugs in his fat hand and she couldn’t think of a thing to say although her thoughts beat in her head like birds in a net. How could anyone be so thick-skinned? She’d stopped short of telling him outright, but hadn’t she made it clear she didn’t want him here? She thought she had. So why couldn’t he see it? And how could she get rid of him now, if his aunt had thrown him out and he was going to cook her supper?

  She took the mug he offered her and sat down with a sigh. This was worse than living with Jeffrey.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘what do you fancy for dinner?

  ‘Peace and quiet,’ she said.

  ‘You just sit there then,’ he told her in his lordly way, ‘and I’ll be cook.’

  There didn’t seem to be any way she could stop him short of physically throwing him out. He cooked what he called ‘a good old fry-up’ using every frying pan she possessed, ate it hungrily and seemingly unaware that she was eating very little of it and left the kitchen in such a shambles it made her feel weak just to look at it.

  ‘We’ll do the washing-up later,’ he said. ‘What’s on telly?’

  This is awful, she thought, as the television shouted and fired guns and she washed up and cleaned her kitchen. He’s settling in for the night. How on earth am I going to get rid of him? But the longer she struggled to find an answer, the more she couldn’t do it.

  ‘You look all in,’ he said, when she finally drooped into the living room. ‘I’d have an early night if I was you. I can make up my own bed.’

  ‘I think you ought to be going,’ she said. ‘Don’t you.’

  ‘Nowhere to go to, old thing,’ he said. ‘Like I told you, I’ve been thrown out. You don’t mind if I stay the night, do you?’

  A direct appeal made her dither. ‘Well . . .’ she said. ‘I suppose . . .’

  ‘That’s sorted then,’ he said. ‘You’re a star!’

  She went to bed feeling as if she’d just run a marathon. And couldn’t sleep. The hours crawled by, half past one, twenty to three, ten past four. I must just make sure he goes in the morning, she told herself, sternly at six o’clock. I can’t put up with this.

  CHAPTER 9

  Henry Prendergast drove to London that morning in such a furious temper he found it quite cleansing. He’d been holding it in check all through those long, waiting weeks but Francesca’s impossible request had pushed him beyond restraint. Then and oddly, when it broke, instead of making him feel ashamed of himself, as he usually did when he lost his temper, it filled him with a reckless, unstoppable energy. It was like riding a surf wave. He knew at once that he had to go to London and offer his new dinner service to a few prestigious clients in person instead of waiting for them to notice his advertisements and then sending his salesmen to display the goods in the usual gentlemanly way. And the first person he would contact would be old Johnny Makins. A good bloke, old Johnny. They’d done a lot of business in the early days. Truth-straight-out sort of man. Called a spade a spade. If anyone was going to see what a seller this service could be, Johnny would be the one. And if he couldn’t take an order for it he’d know someone else who might. He dialled his number at once and fixed a meeting. By the time he walked into the restaurant they’d chosen, he was warm, happy, ridiculously confident and quite sure that he’d made the right decision.

  They spent the first half hour of their reunion sharing trade gossip and enjoying one another’s company just as they used to do. Johnny was much the same as he’d been in the old days, rather heavier perhaps, and a bit more thin on top, but the wit and the cynicism were undiminished. As they ate their starters, they had fun tearing various politicians apart for brown-nosing Rupert Murdoch; as they enjoyed their steaks, the spate of quizzes and ‘talent’ shows on television were analyzed, shredded and dismissed as ‘bread and circuses’; but eventually, when his second plate was clean, Henry’s impatience bubbled over and he simply couldn’t wait any longer to show his old friend what he’d brought for him to see. He picked up his briefcase, carefully unpacked his precious dinner plate and laid it on the table. And then, before he could even look up to ask Johnny Makins what he thought of it, the waiter reappeared at his elbow and gave him an instant and gratifying answer.

  ‘Oh wowie!’ he said. ‘That is ver’ pretty plate, sir. If you don’ mind for me sayin’ so. I never see a plate with mermaid on. If you don’ mind for me sayin’ so.’

  Henry grinned at him. ‘I don’t mind you saying so at all,’ he said. ‘I think it’s pretty good too.’

  Johnny picked up the plate and examined it while the waiter cleared the table and laid the menu in front of them again, this time rather reverently. ‘Full dinner service of course,’ he said. ‘Who’s taken it?’

  ‘As of this moment, nobody at all,’ Henry admitted.

  ‘Which is why you’re showing it to me.’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘I’d order it like the proverbial if it was up to me,’ Johnny said. ‘But everything has to be run past a committee these days. What sort of ads have you taken out?’

  Henry pulled four magazines from his briefcase and passed them across the table, where they were studied knowledgeably and the various dates noted.

  ‘It’s strong,’ Johnny said. ‘Very strong. Quirky. Good colours. Eye catching. You’ve got a top-rate artist, that’s for sure. If you want my opinion, and I suppose that is what you want, I’d say this is just the sort of thing our benighted super-rich would lap up. I’d like to see the full service.’

  ‘It’s in my boot.’

  Johnny had his mobile in his hand. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘we’ll strike while the proverbial is hot.’ Then he spoke into the phone. ‘Steven. Makins here. Yup. Got somethin
g that might interest us.’

  There was a long pause while Henry gazed round the restaurant and tried to look unconcerned. Two young men in expensive and almost identical suits strutted in, yah-yahing, and were led to the table in the window; his waiter grinned at him as if they were conspirators, glasses gleamed against the starched white of the tablecloths, gilded chairs looked like stage props, the wine waiter descended on the new arrivals, gliding across the carpet as if he was dancing. It was all a bit unreal. Oh come on Johnny!

  Finally his old friend spoke again. ‘The mythological figures was a winner though,’ he said and it sounded as though he was wheedling. ‘Sold like the proverbial. You’ve got to admit that.’ Another pause, then he said, ‘Similar but better. It’s a mermaid. Very classy. Yep! A mermaid.’

  Then there was a very long pause indeed while Johnny nodded as if the invisible Steven could see him and Henry tried to control his impatience. But eventually the phone was put down and Johnny grinned at him across the table. ‘He’ll give us ten minutes at half past four,’ he said. ‘Get your skates on.’

  They collected the full service and skated to their prestigious destination in a taxi. By that time Henry was in a state of such racing excitement he could barely breathe. The walk to the committee room pushing his precious packing case on his portable trolley calmed him a little but when he opened the door and saw that a full committee was sitting round the central table, he felt as if he was on a high diving board waiting for the order to jump and his throat was so full he was reduced to mumbling as they shook hands.

  ‘Well then, let the dogs see the rabbit,’ the chairman said, when he and Johnny were comfortably seated

  They lifted the case from its trolley, unpacked it as rapidly as they could and set the service out all over the table so that the committee members could get a good look at it. The given ten minutes passed and passed again and they were still handing plates and dishes to one another and talking and considering. Henry watched their body cues and tried to listen to what they were saying and anguished. He had never found patience more difficult in the whole of his life. Eventually after twenty-two minutes, the decision was made.

  They would take four services, sale or return, at the usual discount plus the one on the table, which they would use for display. Henry was so relieved he wanted to cheer and punch the air.

  He was purring all the way back to Lewes. Hadn’t he always known the mermaid was a winner? Right from the moment he first saw her. The very first moment. And now here she was selling at last and selling in the best possible place what’s more. Where Harrods led, the rest would follow. It was too late to tell anybody, because the pottery would be closed by the time he could get there but that was a minor disappointment. He would drive in early in the morning and pin a notice on the board so that everyone could see the good news as soon as they arrived. And they would have a celebration at coffee time. He couldn’t wait.

  Once he was back at home, loneliness dampened his euphoria somewhat. He wandered aimlessly in and out of the empty kitchen and the even emptier living room, wishing there were someone he could phone. For a few minutes he wondered whether to ring Francesca but decided against it because even though he knew she’d be pleased to hear that her mermaid was selling at last, it wasn’t the done thing for a boss to ring his employees in the evening. They had lives of their own and bosses shouldn’t impinge. Agnes was a possibility but she had a disconcerting habit of telling you things too bluntly and she might think he was showing off and give him a wigging. In the end he poured himself a double whisky and settled down in front of one of Johnny Makin’s castigated TV shows and didn’t watch it. Triumph would have to wait till the morning.

  Francesca overslept the next morning and got up in a panicked rush to find that Brad was still sprawled all over the settee and snoring. He was even more unattractive asleep than he was awake.

  ‘Get up!’ she said, as she passed him. ‘I’m late.’

  He grunted.

  ‘Up!’ she repeated. ‘Get up!’

  He didn’t open his eyes. He just groaned and grumbled. ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Yes,’ she told him firmly. ‘You do. I’m off to shower and I want you up and dressed before I come back. You’ve got ten minutes.’

  He was still sprawled all over the settee when she looked in on her way to the kitchen, clean, clothed and feeling disgruntled. ‘I shall be off in half an hour,’ she said ‘and if you’re not dressed I shall put you out in the street as you are. Get up.’

  He opened his eyes and squinted up at her. ‘You’re the most hard-hearted woman I ever met,’ he grumbled. ‘It wouldn’t hurt you to let me stay here. Orphan of the storm and all that. Oh come on Fran! Be a sport.’

  ‘Get up,’ she said, unsportingly, and went to put the kettle on. ‘I mean it. I’ll throw you out.’

  But he was more artful than she expected. As she prepared her breakfast she heard him blundering about and nodded her head with satisfaction to think she’d got him to move, but by the time she’d cleared the work top and put her mug and plate in the dishwasher, he was in the shower where she couldn’t reach him and singing so noisily she couldn’t make herself heard above the racket.

  There was no time to wait for him to finish. If she didn’t leave that minute she’d be late for work. She frowned with fury all the way to the pottery. Damned boy, she thought, as the green miles gentled past her window, lolling about on my new settee and getting in the way of everything and eating all my food and turning my nice new kitchen into a tip. And he snores! He’s got about as much sensitivity as a slug. This whole thing is ridiculous. He’s got no right to take over my home. No right at all. But even while she was ranting she was aware that the real source of the problem was her own inability to get rid of him. But how could she do that when he didn’t take a blind bit of notice of anything she said? She could hardly frogmarch him out. He was too heavy. He’d simply shake her off. And then what would she do? It was like having a tapeworm in her innards.

  She was still seething when she strode into the workshop but then everything changed. The long hall was fizzing with excitement and nobody was working. They were all crowded round the notice board, talking in loud excited voices. She caught sight of Sarah, jumping up and down in the middle of the throng and, not far away from her, the cook clapping her hands and smiling at her friends, and Liam thumping Molly on the back and grinning all over his face. And standing in the middle of the melee was Mr P, all over smiles and looking so happy she knew at once that the mermaid had begun to sell.

  ‘Here she is!’ he called. ‘Here’s our Francesca. The girl of the hour.’

  Faces turned towards her, their eyes beaming like searchlights and the little crowd parted and made a way for her so that she could walk up to the notice-board where Henry was standing. She felt like royalty.

  ‘I gather it’s started to sell,’ she said to him, trying to stay calm.

  He waved his hand at the notice and they all waited while she read it. Then the racket erupted again. ‘Isn’t it good?’ ‘Great eh?’ ‘Five sets to Harrods.’ ‘How about that!’

  ‘I’ll bet you’re chuffed,’ Molly said, giving her a hug. And Henry caught her by both hands, bent his head and kissed her on both cheeks, as his workers cheered and applauded.

  It would have been hard to say which of them was the most surprised, she because it had been a long time since anyone had kissed her, even on the cheek, he because he’d acted on impulse for the first time since Candida died, and that was now so out of character it took his breath away. He recovered himself quickly, of course, told them there would be cakes for them all at coffee time ‘as a little celebration’, smiled at them when they applauded again, sent a rapid eye message to Molly that they should all get back to work, and retreated to his office.

  But his surprise went with him and kept him puzzling and inactive at his desk until an incoming phone call gave him something else to think about. It was from a buyer wanting to or
der three sets of ‘your mermaid dinner set’. He dealt with it calmly but his hands were shaking. They were selling at last. Just as he’d always known they would.

  Francesca worked doggedly that morning. She was afraid that excitement would make her hands unsteady so she concentrated hard to make sure it didn’t. If this dinner service was really going to sell, and everyone here seemed to think it would shift like the hot cakes Henry had promised, she had to put in her best work on every piece. After a while the rewarding movements calmed her and the calm gave her a space in which to think. There was a lot to be thought about. Not just the first sale but everybody it was affecting. Agnes and Henry and all the people round her here who were beaming at her every time she raised her head. And specially Agnes. Dear Agnes, she thought. She’ll be so pleased when she hears the news. I’ll call in and see her on my way home from work. Henry’s probably told her already but I’d like to see her anyway. I wonder whether he’ll throw one of his parties. I’ll bet he does. He’s so predictable. But at that point her thoughts went into a spin because he hadn’t been a bit predictable when he kissed her. That had been really unexpected. Totally unexpected. To be kissed by the boss. She couldn’t imagine any of the other bosses she’d worked for doing anything even half as graceful. It had been a lovely moment. She had to admit it. It had made her feel so good, so valued, so special. If that wasn’t too strong a word to use. Even the memory of it was making her glow.

  When they all began to troop down to the canteen for their promised cake, she realized that she hadn’t thought about Brad since she set foot in the workshop. All this has put him in his place, she thought, as she linked arms with Molly. I could have strangled him when I was driving here. Now he’s just an irritating nuisance and I haven’t got time for him. She knew in a vague corner of her happy mind that she would have to deal with him sooner or later but it could wait. This was a day to enjoy.

  The coffee break was a celebration. The cakes were carried in to applause and whistles, Henry walked from table to table chatting, coffee mugs were raised in Francesca’s direction as if they were champagne flutes. They only needed paper hats and it would have been a party. And sure enough when he reached the table where she was sitting with Molly and Liam, there were invitations for all of them to a celebratory supper that Friday.