Francesca and the Mermaid

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘You don’t have to tell me how pleased you are with all this,’ she said. ‘It’s written all over your face.’

  He nodded and smiled, saying, ‘Good isn’t it.’ And watching him, Francesca sipped her champagne and was struck by how handsome he was and how much younger he looked than he usually did. It was having his hair a bit scruffy probably and wearing that silky looking shirt and those classy trousers. The greeny blues of the shirt suited him. If I ever got to paint him, she thought, that’s what I would ask him to wear. But then the next arrivals rushed at her and her thoughts were smothered by their excited greetings.

  ‘Find me a seat before I get knocked off my feet,’ Agnes said when there was pause in the onrush. ‘I’m finding this a bit tricky.’ So they went off to find a safe corner where she could watch the arrivals from a distance. But if she was hoping for a little peace and quiet she didn’t get it. The next incoming stream swirled round their host and then headed off to find them. They were bubbling with excitement. ‘The Sunday Times! Wow!’ ‘You’ll be famous.’ And in the middle of the crowd, dressed in an incredible party dress of pink and purple frills, with a huge pink bow in her frizzy hair was Clara.

  ‘Isn’t this wonderful!’ she said, grabbing Francesca’s arm. ‘Next thing you know you’ll be on telly.’

  Francesca laughed and tried to withdraw her arm. ‘I doubt that,’ she said.

  ‘Oh that’s how these things start,’ Clara said, clinging on hard ‘I know. First the papers, then the telly. That’s how it starts. And once you’re on telly there’ll be no end to it. You’ll be a celebrity. You see if I’m not right. I shall tell all my friends I know you. They’ll be so impressed. I shall say, did you see Francesca Jones on the telly last night? Well she’s my friend.’

  Francesca watched her empty avid face and tried to pull her arm away from those clutching fingers and thought how foolish she was.

  ‘You’re losing your bow,’ Agnes said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your bow. It’s coming loose.’

  The fingers fluttered to Clara’s mound of hair and pushed at the bow and Francesca was able to move away and turn her attention to someone else.

  ‘How’s that nephew of yours?’ Agnes said, steering the conversation away from all that fawning admiration because she could see how uncomfortable it had made Francesca feel. Obtuse woman.

  ‘No idea,’ Clara said, fiddling with the bow. ‘Some silly girl took him in for a little while. Lived in a flat down by the river. He was full of it, how pretty it was and how she was looking after him and what a good cook she was and how she was feeding him. I thought what a fool she was. But there’s no telling these young girls. They’re all the same. More fool her. Anyway he’s a bit quiet about it these days so I suppose she got sick of him and slung him out.’

  Francesca listened with surprise and shame to hear herself described in such a way. It was a jarring leap from being fawned over and told she was going to be a celebrity. ‘It might interest you to know,’ she said,’ that the stupid girl you’re talking about was me. I took him in because he told me he’d got nowhere else to go.’

  Clara wasn’t the least bit put out by the revelation. ‘He would,’ she sniffed. ‘That’s his usual stock in trade. Poor me. Pity me. Whinge, whinge, whinge. Used to wear me out. I used to say, “Get a job. Stand on your own two feet.” I’m glad you threw him out. Serve him right.’

  Francesca couldn’t think how to answer that but she didn’t have to bother because Molly was rushing across the room towards her, arms outstretched to hug her. ‘I’ve drunk so much champagne today I shall be tiddly for weeks,’ she giggled. ‘The two J’s have arrived. We’re going in to supper. Mr P sent me to fetch you. You’re to lead us in.’

  In fact she led the supper parade into the dining room on Henry’s arm, blushing with a mixture of undeniable pleasure and residual guilt at having to acknowledge that she was the star of the show and secretly delighted that she chosen such a grand dress to star in. It was a noisy supper and a great deal of wine was drunk and then as if that weren’t enough, they finished it with more champagne ready for the toasts and a speech from their host.

  It was, as his old friends told one another afterwards, the best speech they’d ever heard him make. He started conventionally enough by thanking all his guests for their company and telling the ‘special guests who call themselves the two J’s’ how much they enjoyed having their lively company over the last two days. ‘For most of the time,’ he told them, ‘life in a pottery is pretty humdrum. We enliven it with tea parties for time to time but the fact is that making pots and plates can sometimes get a bit boring.’ Appreciative laughter. ‘However, for the last two days everything has been transformed. Our work has become something special, not because we were putting on an act for the camera or posing or being poseurs – or at least I hope we weren’t.’ That brought a laugh too. ‘No. It was for two different reasons. The first one was because it was such an experience to see two other workers doing a very different job, the second was because it gave us a chance to see ourselves as others see us. For which, “two J’s”, we are happily grateful. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the “two J’s.”’

  The toast was drunk and the two J’s were smiled at. Then they settled down to wait for the next part of the speech because they hadn’t drunk a toast to Francesca and her mermaid yet and there was obviously more to come.

  ‘And now,’ he said, smiling round at them all, ‘I’ve got a little bit of news for you all. Our artist is going to hold an exhibition of her work. I made the final arrangements this afternoon. It will be during the last full week of October, just before Bonfire, running from Friday to Friday in the Riverside Gallery. You are all invited to the opening on the first Friday, when, besides being a chance to see a lot more of Francesca’s work, some of which will probably be for sale – we haven’t discussed the finer details yet, have we Francesca – there will also be champagne and nibbles of various kinds. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Francesca and her mermaid without whom this party wouldn’t be happening.’ He raised his glass and looked straight at his artist. ‘To Francesca and her mermaid.’

  Francesca was so surprised by the news that her mouth had fallen open and she’d forgotten to close it. He arranges things so quickly, she thought, trying to compose herself. She’d hardly had time to decide whether she wanted this or not. She supposed she did but even at that moment she wasn’t sure. But it was done and there didn’t seem to be anything else she could do except go along with it because he was so pleased about it; he was like a smiling sunshine. She gathered her wits together and turned from side to side raising her own glass at her friends to acknowledge their chorus of excited voices.

  And then the banquet was over and although Agnes declared she’d eaten so much she didn’t think she’d be able to stand up, they all went off giggling and cheerful to the living room which had been transformed into a ballroom in their absence, the carpet rolled up and carried away, a DJ with all his gear at one end of the room and chairs set in rather a haphazard way round all the sides of the room with small tables beside them in case, as Henry explained, they needed anything more to drink, which provoked laughter and cheers. And the music began and Henry and Francesca led the dance, which was an easy old-fashioned waltz, as their guests clapped and cheered. It was almost like a wedding party.

  ‘Good?’ Henry asked as other couples began to join them on the floor. It was a happily rhetorical question and didn’t require an answer but she gave him one anyway.

  ‘Fabulous,’ she said.

  They were dancing so close together and were both so happy and pleased with themselves, he gave her a hug. This time he was answered with a radiant smile. It was the perfect start to the second half of their evening. After that they danced together so many times he lost count. He hadn’t felt so happy in years, not since Candida died in fact. It was a triumphant occasion.

  By the time Francesca and Agnes got back to the fl
at, it was past two in the morning and they were so tired that Francesca said she was asleep on her feet.

  ‘Me too,’ Agnes said. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m going to have a quick pee and give my teeth a miss for once and get to bed.’ Which she did, snuggling under her duvet with such a contented sigh that Francesca heard it in the living room.

  I shall never get to sleep after all this, Francesca thought, as she too slid into bed. Seconds later she was dead to the world.

  They slept on until late the next morning and even then they were languid when they finally got up. They yawned into the kitchen in their dressing gowns and slippers, and made tea and toast in a leisurely way, dissecting all the events of their extraordinary evening as they worked. Francesca was still a bit stunned by Henry’s announcement. But Agnes said it was ‘first rate’ and predicted a great success. ‘With Henry backing you, the place’ll be packed,’ she predicted. ‘He’ll have the press there and everything. You see if I’m not right.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to sell my pictures though,’ Francesca said, frowning. ‘I mean, they belong to me. I think I’d like to keep them.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Agnes said pouring tea. ‘He won’t make you do anything you don’t want to. He may go at things like a bull at a gate and he’s brilliant at getting publicity but if you say you’d rather not sell that’ll be your decision. Watch out! You’re burning the toast.’

  Francesca gave a shriek and rushed to the grill to rescue it but it was too late. ‘Past tense,’ she said. ‘Oh look at it! It’s burnt black.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Agnes said easily. ‘You can always make more.’

  And there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Someone’s called the fire brigade,’ Agnes said, swinging off to answer it. But it was Henry, in his old chinos and his favourite sweater.

  ‘Glad to see you’re up,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some news for you.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve come to breakfast,’ Agnes said, standing aside to let him in.

  He grinned at her. ‘If there’s any going. Or have you burnt it all?’

  ‘We’ve got company,’ Agnes called to Francesca. ‘Put out another cup and saucer.’

  ‘I’m watching the toast,’ Francesca called and then blushed when she saw who’d arrived. ‘Oh hello!’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I’m not dressed. I mean, if I’d known you were coming, I’d have. . . .’

  He thought she looked very pretty in her blue dressing gown with the blush colouring her cheeks. ‘Not to worry,’ he said. ‘I’ve come over much too early but I couldn’t wait to tell you my news.’

  Agnes was pouring the tea for him. ‘Sit down and spit it out,’ she said. ‘We don’t want you bursting a blood vessel in our nice clean kitchen.’

  ‘Toast?’ Francesca asked. And when he nodded, she turned her back on him to watch it while it cooked. So she missed the mischievous expression on his face as he began his story.

  ‘I’ve got you a commission for a double portrait,’ he said. ‘What do you think of that?’

  She turned to face him. ‘A commission?’

  ‘Reggie and Babs,’ he said, and this time she saw the mischief. ‘Mad keen. They came over to speak to me just after you’d left. Wanted to know if you’d be up for it. I told them I thought you might be and promised to ask you. What do you think?’

  Francesca had no doubt about it. ‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘They’d make good models. He’s always so – well, solid, I suppose – and she’s chiffon, gossamer, sort of floaty. They’re the perfect foil for one another.’ She was already beginning to see how it could be done.

  Henry beamed at her. ‘Well that’s just as well,’ he said, ‘because I’ve negotiated your fee.’

  He was expecting to impress her, but she was embarrassed. ‘Oh I wouldn’t want a fee,’ she protested. ‘I mean, I’d like to do it. I’d do it for free.’

  ‘I’m sure you would,’ he said, ‘but you’re an established artist now and established artists charge a fee. It’s all right. You needn’t worry. They’re quite happy about it. They’ve agreed to it. Reggie said it was very reasonable.’

  It was necessary to find out how much money he was talking about. ‘How much did you ask for?’ she said.

  ‘Three thousand pounds,’ he told her. ‘Three thousand pounds but they’ve got to give you permission to display it in your exhibition. How would that be?’ The mischief on his face was as bright as sunshine.

  ‘Excellent!’ Agnes said. ‘Quite right.’

  Francesca was shocked. There was no disguising it. ‘I can’t ask them for all that,’ she said. ‘I mean, it’s much too much. It’s . . .’ then she was lost for the right word and hesitated, her blush deepening.

  ‘Look,’ he said seriously, feeling he had to explain himself. ‘This is just the start. They’re getting a bargain and they know it. By the time you’ve had your exhibition you’ll be in such demand you’ll be able to charge anything you like. It’s a commercial world out there and you’ll be valued according to the price you ask for your work. That’s the way commerce works. You’ll have to get used to that.’

  She struggled to think of an answer. He was plainly right. That was the way the market worked but she didn’t want to be part of a market. She simply wanted to paint. It was good to think that she could earn her living with her brush. She had to admit that. And she knew he’d done it because he wanted to help her. But even so. . . .

  Watching her anxious expression, Henry realized that he’d been too quick and too clumsy and that he’d upset her. It was a difficult thing for him to have to admit because it wasn’t what he’d intended at all but that anxious face of hers revealed more than she knew. Modesty, he thought. That’s what it is. Modesty and lack of self-confidence. She really doesn’t know how valuable she is. And he was caught up in a rush of protective pity for her and rushed to make amends.

  ‘You don’t have to make a decision yet awhile,’ he said. ‘There’s no rush. Or compulsion, come to that. If you’d rather not take a fee that’s up to you. It’s your painting. But I can tell them you’d like to paint them, can’t I? They were very keen.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, hastening to reassure him because she could see he was upset. ‘I’d love to paint them. Like I said. It would be a challenge.’

  He took a deep relieved breath and realized that he could smell burning again, quite strongly. ‘Your toast’s in flames,’ he said and when she rushed to the grill to attend to it he followed her. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘You sit down and drink your tea and I’ll make the next lot. I make a mean toast.’

  The awkwardness had passed. She sat down, sipped her tea and watched him as he made three rounds of perfect toast. And Agnes watched them both and pondered. And when the toast was cooked golden, they sat round the table and had breakfast together and were simply and effortlessly happy, as if there’d been no difference of opinion and no upset and no embarrassment.

  He’s so like Agnes, Francesca thought. He puts rows behind him just like she does. He doesn’t hang on to bad emotions. After years spent with her mother, she was struck by how easy and admirable it was and how quickly he’d found a compromise they could both accept.

  They talked about the party and the two J’s and Agnes wondered when the article would be published, which Henry said he couldn’t tell them. ‘Yet. But I will as soon as I know anything.’ And when Francesca went to fill the kettle to make a second pot of tea, they started to talk about their childhoods.

  ‘I was thinking the other night how you used to squeeze through that hole in the fence and come in and play cards,’ Agnes said. ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘Like yesterday,’ Henry said, smiling at her. ‘Beat your neighbour out of doors. You used to cheat so that I could win.’

  ‘Did I?’ Agnes asked and then answered her own question almost at once. ‘Yes, I probably did. You were such a dear little boy and you did so want to win.’

  ‘We used to live next door to
one another when we were young,’ Henry explained to Francesca. ‘Just round the corner from here as it happens. She took me to my first Bonfire. Do you remember that?’

  ‘You were horrid that night,’ Agnes told him putting on her stern face. ‘You threw fire crackers into the crowd.’

  ‘You just said I was a dear little boy.’

  ‘Not that night you weren’t. You were a pain in the bum.’

  ‘And you were bossy-big-sister.’

  ‘Only because you needed it.’

  They were speaking so easily and intimately together that Francesca felt she could ask, ‘How old were you?’

  ‘About ten I should think,’ he said. ‘Still at prep school anyway.’

  ‘It was the year Ralph proposed and my mother decided to be ill,’ Agnes said, making a grimace.

  He leant across the table and patted her hand lovingly, without saying anything and she smiled at him with affection as if she really had been his bossy big sister and he really was her brother. And watching them, Francesca was warmed and touched by what she saw. This is what it’s like to be part of a proper family, she thought, accepted and loved no matter what sort of person you are. If only my mermaid could give me that.

  CHAPTER 15

  Life was a bit flat at Prendergast Potteries in the week that followed the party. The weather was cold and damp and cheerless. There weren’t so many orders coming in so there was a general air of restlessness and uncertainty about the place. Molly was fidgety with impatience for the Sunday Times to publish ‘our article’ so that trade would pick up, Liam worried over the sales figures, the cook was in a bad mood because she’d burnt one of her big saucepans. Francesca was the only person in the works who simply went on stolidly painting her plates and dishes and didn’t seem to be worrying about anything, but that was because she was planning her double portrait. She’d decided not to think about the fee until the painting was done and now she was trying to solve the enjoyable problem of how to present these two very different people to show them to advantage. Having found the perfect settings for Agnes and Molly she couldn’t be content until she’d thought of something equally suitable for Babs and Reggie.