Francesca and the Mermaid

by Beryl Kingston

  It took him an hour and a half, three cups of coffee, considerable imagination and the frequent use of Google but at the end of it he’d produced something suitably tempting, filling in the form at just the right level of honesty and composing an accompanying letter that was quite simply a masterpiece. He’d stressed his great experience in the field; referred lightly and modestly to his three degrees, which was stretching the point a bit because he’d only just scraped a low O-level in Geography and had no geological qualifications at all but you have to embroider a bit if you’re going to get noticed; gone into some detail about his invention of coloured concrete and what a boon that was to the building industry; mentioned half a dozen reputable geologists and said he was sure they would be happy to provide a reference for him. Three of them were people he knew about but had only met briefly, the others were names he’d found on Google. If this doesn’t clinch the job, he thought happily, as he strolled back to the flat to print off the letter, I don’t know what will.

  The living room was in the same disgusting state as it had been when he left it but the door to the spare room was open and there was no sign of Bubbles, which was gratifying. His self-confidence was fully restored and he had the rest of the day to spend as he pleased. There’s not a woman alive who can put me down, he thought, as he printed off his letter. It doesn’t matter who she is.

  It took Agnes and Francesca just over twenty-four hours to find a working pattern for their new life together in the flat. When Francesca got home from work on that first Friday there was a rabbit stew on the hob, an apple crumble in the oven ready for their supper and an opened bottle of red wine on the table.

  ‘Tuck in,’ Agnes said as she dished up.

  ‘I am spoilt,’ Francesca smiled at her. ‘How did you get all this? Have you been out shopping?’

  ‘No. Course not,’ Agnes said. ‘I’m not daft. I rang my nice butcher and told him he’d have to deliver things to me for a week or two and your nice neighbour on the next balcony along gave me the apples. We had quite a chat across the balconies.’

  Francesca felt rather ashamed to think that she’d only ever nodded to her neighbours in all the weeks she’d been in the flats. Trust Agnes to make friends. ‘I shall have to go and thank her,’ she said.

  ‘Eat your supper first or it’ll get cold,’ Agnes said, picking up her fork. ‘How was work?’

  ‘Manic,’ Francesca told her. ‘The Christmas orders are coming in. Henry’s like a dog with two tails. This is good. I haven’t had rabbit for ages. It’s delicious.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Agnes said. ‘So you won’t mind if I appoint myself chief cook and bottle washer while I’m staying here.’

  ‘Chief cook sounds like a perfect arrangement,’ Francesca told her happily. ‘Especially if it means coming home to a meal like this. I’m not so sure about the bottle washer bit though.’

  Agnes laughed. ‘Well all right then. You can wash the bottles. That’s a good division of labour.’

  ‘You’ll have to put up with me tidying the place up,’ Francesca said.

  ‘It’s your place, me dear,’ Agnes said. ‘Just providing you can face me making your bedroom a bit untidy.’

  This time it was Francesca’s turn to grin. ‘I expect that,’ she said. ‘It’s not in your nature to put things away, now is it.’

  Agnes was rueful but honest. ‘’Fraid not. But I make a mean crumble.’

  ‘And a gorgeous rabbit stew.’

  Agnes beamed. ‘Want some more?’

  ‘We’ll go back to your house tomorrow,’ Francesca said as Agnes emptied the serving dish, ‘and get a change of clothes and anything else you need. After I’ve been to thank my neighbour. Must do that first. What’s her name? Did you find out?’

  ‘Sandra,’ Agnes told her. ‘And her little boy’s called Tom. I’ll make a list of what I need while you’re out.’

  The next morning they woke to an easy autumn day, cloud dappled skies reflected in the river and the railway land on the opposite bank lush with reddening foliage. Francesca stood on the balcony, teacup in hand, and luxuriated in the richness of the colour.

  ‘I know,’ Agnes said, hopping up behind her. ‘You’d like to paint it. That’s what you’re thinking isn’t it.’

  ‘I’d like to do a series of paintings’, Francesca said. ‘In all weathers.’

  ‘Well you can, now I’m here to feed you,’ Agnes said. ‘What’s to stop you?’

  A rowing boat passed below them, oars creaking. Its wash broke the gentle reflection of sky and cloud into shimmering patterns. It was a great temptation. ‘Half an hour,’ Francesca decided, ‘and then I really must get on.’

  She painted for nearly two hours, while Agnes cooked a cake, and she would have gone on longer if someone hadn’t come knocking on their door. As it was she drifted to the door with the paintbrush still in her hand.

  Her visitor was a small boy holding a bag of plums. ‘Is Miss Potts there?’ he asked. He had a lot of thick fair hair flopping over his forehead, large almond shaped hazel eyes and a very earnest expression and, for an odd, brief moment of déjà vu, she thought she’d seen him before. Then Agnes came swinging towards the door and greeted him by name.

  ‘Hello Tom. What can we do for you?’

  He held out the bag towards her, then saw that she was using crutches and couldn’t take it and was blushingly embarrassed, biting his lip, uncertain what to do. And the bitten lip revealed who he was. The little boy in the castle, the one she’d sketched lying on his stomach, writing in his yellow notebook and concentrating so hard his tongue was sticking out. ‘Mum thought you might like these,’ he was explaining, giving the bag a little shake. ‘My Nan bought them over for us and there are ever so ever so many, and she thought you might like some, ’cos you can’t get to the shops. My Mum I mean not my Nan.’

  ‘Well how kind,’ Agnes said. ‘Yes, we would, wouldn’t we Francesca. We could make a plum pie. Tell her thank you very much. Would you like to come in? I’ve just made a chocolate cake. You could taste it for me and see if it’s all right. Give the plums to Francesca.’ And she led them off towards the kitchen, where the cake was on the rack cooling and the percolator was bubbling coffee.

  ‘I’ll just clean my brushes,’ Francesca said, putting the plums on the worktop and heading for the living room.

  ‘Francesca is an artist,’ Agnes told the little boy. ‘She’s been painting the view from our balcony.’

  He was impressed. ‘A real artist?’ he said and when she nodded, ‘Wow!’

  ‘You can come and see what I’ve done, if you like,’ Francesca said.

  He followed her into the living room, eyes shining. She was rather touched.

  ‘There it is,’ she said, starting on the brushes.

  He looked at it in silence for a long time. Then he turned and gave her his slow smile. ‘I like the little boat,’ he said. ‘Did you make it up?’

  She smiled back. ‘Oh no. It was a real boat. I paint from the life. Always have. In fact. . . .’ And she paused because she knew that what she was going to say would have an impact and she didn’t want to miss a second of it. ‘Somewhere in that folder over there I’ve got a sketch of you.’

  He was so surprised his mouth fell open. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Really truly?’

  ‘Really truly,’ she said, enjoying herself. ‘You were in the castle on a school trip. I’ll find it when I’ve cleaned up and you can look at it while you have your cake.’

  It took her quite a while to sort through all the sketches in the folder but eventually she found his little portrait just as Agnes called to them from the kitchen that the coffee was ready. Then she waited until the three of them were sitting round the kitchen table and Agnes had cut the cake and poured the coffee. Tom was impressively patient, eating his cake politely and sipping his coffee neatly although she could see from the surreptitious glances he was giving the folder that he was itching to see his picture. His behaviour didn’t surprise her. She
’d recognized something special in him the first moment she saw him. He’d been so quiet and so absorbed. ‘There you are,’ she said, taking the sketch from her folder and handing it across the table to him. ‘That’s you writing in your yellow notebook.’

  He stared at it for a very long time without saying anything, then he looked up and gave her an absolutely rapturous smile. ‘That’s well good,’ he said. ‘I always write like that. My Mum’d love to see it. I couldn’t take it home and show her, could I?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ Francesca said. ‘I’ll put it in a folder for you. But tell her she’ll have to give it back. I’d let her keep it only it’s going to be part of a big picture I’m going to paint later.’

  ‘There you are, you see,’ Agnes grinning at Tom. ‘You’re going to be famous. Any more cake for anyone?’

  Francesca found a new folder and put Tom’s portrait inside it, well away from the new influx of chocolate. Then they all enjoyed a second slice and a second mug of coffee. And then Tom said he thought he ought to be getting home or his Mum’ud be wondering where he was. It had been an extraordinary visit.

  ‘We’ll have to look sharp with our lunch if we’re going to my house this afternoon,’ Agnes said.

  ‘Have you made your list?’

  ‘All done and dusted.’

  ‘Then let’s go now,’ Francesca suggested, looking at her watch. ‘We can have a sandwich or something when we get back. What do you think?’

  It was peaceful driving between the long rustling hedges and the blushing, shushing trees. Once, a kestrel hovered above them, its eyes focused on the fields below, once the red fox streaked across the road ahead of them. It reminded Francesca of the first time she’d driven these lanes, full of hope and excitement. I knew my life would change, she thought, but I didn’t realize how profound the change would be. ‘I like Tom,’ she said to Agnes.

  ‘You’ll like his mother too,’ Agnes said. ‘It’s a good family. You only have to talk to them for half an hour to know that. A good family and very fond of their children. Which is why our Tom’s such a dear little boy.’

  That was an intriguing idea. ‘Do you think families make you what you are then?’

  ‘It’s an old debate,’ Agnes said. ‘Been going on for donkey’s years. Nature versus nurture. Or to put it another way, is it your inborn nature that makes you what you are or the way you’re brought up? My money’s on nurture. I think that’s well and away the most influential. It can make or mar you.’

  Francesca was intrigued. ‘In every family?’

  ‘When they’re loving families, certainly,’ Agnes said. ‘I’m sure of it. You can see it happening. When they love you as you are and allow you to be as you are, you become as you are and it’s the best you can be. You’re happy in your skin. That’s why Tom’s such a charmer. He’s happy in his skin. Of course, it works in quite a different way when their love is conditional. But that’s because they’re trying to turn you into something you’re not. I’ll give you a for-instance. My mother insisted on making me tidy everything up. I had to tidy my room every single blessed day. She used to say, “There’s a place for everything and everything should be in its place.” And look at me now.’

  Francesca bit her lip to stop herself from laughing. ‘I take your point,’ she said.

  Agnes gave her a shrewd look. ‘And yours put pressure on you too, didn’t she?’ she said. It was only just a question.

  Francesca wasn’t sure how to answer it. Not for the first time she was surprised by how easily a car could become a confessional. ‘Well yes,’ she said, ‘I suppose she did.’

  ‘I knew that as soon as I met you,’ Agnes said.

  Francesca felt compelled to say more, even though she’d never told anybody about her childhood and she wasn’t at all sure that it was wise to do it then. But Agnes was smiling encouragement and the weight of her unspoken questions was heavy in the air between them so she had to say something. ‘She didn’t nag me to do things,’ she said at last. ‘I mean it wasn’t anything like that. She didn’t tell me to tidy my room or give me orders.’

  ‘But it was pressure,’ Agnes prompted, ‘or you wouldn’t have ended up with so little self-confidence. Until you saw the mermaid, you let that hideous Jeffrey trample all over you. It used to make me want to thump him.’

  That made Francesca laugh and after that, carried along on the warmth of her laughter, she found it possible to make an admission of sorts. ‘Well, yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose it was pressure. I don’t think she meant to be unkind, though. It was just her way.’ Then she stopped, feeling she really shouldn’t be telling tales on her mother, even to Agnes.

  ‘Um!’ Agnes said. ‘So what did she do? It must have been something. It’s OK. I’m not judging her, I’m just interested.’

  Francesca frowned and licked her lips. The confession had to come. She couldn’t avoid it. And it was OK. Whatever else you might think about Agnes Potts she wasn’t judgemental. ‘Oh,’ she said, trying to make it sound light and unimportant, ‘she just said I wasn’t any good at anything. I think she wanted to spur me on.’ My God, she thought, it still hurts me, even to remember it.

  Again the shrewd look. ‘And did it spur you on?’

  ‘Well no. Quite the reverse really.’

  Agnes looked another question at her.

  ‘I believed her you see,’ Francesca said. ‘Well you do, don’t you, when you’re a child, I mean, and when it’s your mother who’s telling you. If she said I wasn’t any good, then I wasn’t.’

  ‘Well you’ve proved her wrong now,’ Agnes said. ‘You’re a superb artist and if that’s not being “good” I don’t know what is.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Francesca said. ‘I suppose. . . .’

  ‘Never mind “suppose,”’ Agnes said trenchantly. ‘Your work is good. Very, very good. And I’ll tell you something else while I’m about it. You paint with affection. You like your models and it shows.’

  Francesca could feel the blush spreading from her neck to her face.

  ‘You’ve driven past the house,’ Agnes said.

  It was possible for Francesca to laugh at herself. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ she said. ‘I did that the first time.’

  ‘You’re perfection,’ Agnes said, as Francesca reversed. ‘Tell you what, when we’ve got all the things we need, let’s go down the pub and have a pie and a pint.’

  ‘That,’ Francesca teased her, ‘is the most sensible thing you’ve said all morning.’

  Jeffrey Walmesly had a pub lunch that Saturday too but he was in such a bad temper it gave him indigestion. That stupid Bubbles had got up early for once, just when he’d have preferred her to be out of the way, even if she did snore, and then she’d banged about the flat packing her things all the time he was trying to eat his breakfast which was very annoying and totally unnecessary. And just as he’d worked himself up to give her a piece of his mind, that moronic Chris had arrived and she’d gone giggling off with him.

  ‘This is Chris,’ she said, as they were going through the door. ‘I told you that didn’t I? I’m moving in with him, aren’t I Chris my little honey woney? Thought you ought to know. See you around.’

  And before he could think of anything to say to her, she’d flicked her fingers at him and gone. She hadn’t paid a penny piece towards her keep or the mortgage or the gas bills or anything. She’d just gone swanning off and left him with all the debt. And the flat was a tip. And there wasn’t any coffee. And her ghastly lipstick was all over all the mugs. And he hadn’t got a job or even a hope of one. Life was just fucking unfair. It was enough to make a saint weep.

  He could have wept in earnest if it hadn’t been for the fact that the phone rang.

  ‘Not now,’ he said to it. ‘Not now, you stupid thing. Can’t you see I’m busy?’ But then it occurred to him that it might be somebody ringing him with the offer of a job or an interview. They ought to. God knows, he’d sent out enough letters. He rearranged his expressi
on, took a deep breath and picked the phone up in mid squawk. ‘Jeffrey Walmesly,’ he said and was pleased by how smooth his voice sounded.

  ‘And about time too,’ a woman’s voice said crossly.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, being splendidly polite. ‘To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?’

  ‘Come off it Jeffrey,’ the voice said. ‘Don’t give yourself airs. It’s Mrs Jones. Francesca’s mother.’

  He was instantly deflated. ‘Oh,’ he said flatly.

  The voice went on, now gratingly familiar. ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with my daughter for weeks. I’ve sent her two letters. Did you forward them?’

  ‘Of course,’ he lied.

  ‘Well she hasn’t answered. I suppose it’s too much to hope she’s at home with you.’

  ‘’Fraid not.’

  ‘No. I didn’t think she would be. If she knew what this is about she’d come home like a shot, I’m certain sure.’

  There was such a sneering tone to her voice he was intrigued. ‘Perhaps if you told me what it was about,’ he suggested, ‘I might be able to help you.’

  ‘She’s come into some money. Rather a lot of money.’

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask how much but he forbore. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I see.’