Francesca and the Mermaid

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘I could get used to this sort of life,’ she said as the dish was set before her.

  It was the perfect lead. ‘I think you should,’ he said. ‘If anyone deserves it, you do.’

  She took it in entirely the wrong direction. ‘You think I should ask a lot of money for my paintings. Is that it?’

  It was a direct question so it had to be answered. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not unless it feels right. Wait till you’ve heard what Christine has to say about it.’

  She gave an involuntary shiver so that the candle flames dipped and flickered. ‘If I had my own way I’d just go on painting for the fun of it,’ she said. ‘Putting a price on my work doesn’t seem natural. Or right.’

  ‘I put a price on it,’ he reminded her.

  She grinned at that. ‘You did,’ she agreed. ‘But it worried me, even then. I felt I was cheating you. It was such a lot of money.’

  ‘I hope you don’t still think like that. You’ve earned it several times over.’

  ‘Well no,’ she admitted, ‘I probably don’t. Not now anyway.’

  ‘Only “probably” don’t?’ he teased.

  She ducked her head against his teasing. ‘This crab is really good,’ she said.

  They enjoyed their crab for several minutes without speaking, then he tried another gambit. ‘Do you ever wonder what’s in the future for you?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘It’s all I can do to cope with the present. I mean obviously the mermaid won’t go on selling for ever but while it does. . . .’

  ‘How would you feel if I wanted to buy another painting to use on a tea service?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘As I happens, yes I do.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The chaffinch feeding her young.’

  That surprised her. ‘But that was just a sketch.’

  The empty plates were being discreetly removed, the wine glasses topped up. They’d be serving the main course soon and he hadn’t even started to say the things he wanted to say. ‘Have you ever thought about what your life could be if you weren’t tied to the factory?’ he tried.

  ‘I hope you’re not thinking of giving me the sack,’ she said and her face was serious. ‘I like being tied to the factory.’

  ‘Oh, dear me, no,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t dream of giving you the sack. You’re much too precious.’ There, the word was spoken. Now the conversation would change.

  But she didn’t seem to notice that he’d said something significant. ‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ she laughed. ‘I should hate to have to go back to working in an office. You’ve no idea how boring that was. Oh that duck smells superb.’

  He was cast down. It didn’t seem to make any difference what leads he gave her or what words he chose. How could he tell her what he was thinking when she didn’t pick up any cues? There must be some way of opening this conversation. ‘Maybe we’ve reached the point where we should be making plans for the future,’ he tried. And then felt stupid because it didn’t sound right.

  ‘My future’s going to be helping Agnes through the next few weeks,’ she said rather ruefully. ‘She’s so sure she’ll be walking normally as soon as they’ve taken off the plaster and I’ve tried to warn her that she might hit difficulties but she won’t have it. I mean her muscles will have wasted, won’t they.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘She’ll need physiotherapy and she’ll hate that. Being made to do exercises. I mean, imagine it. And she’ll probably have to use crutches for a little while. Even a Zimmer frame. Can you imagine her walking with a Zimmer frame? It does worry me.’

  ‘We’ll have to take her for outings,’ he said. ‘Things to keep her mind off it.’

  ‘That sounds like a very good idea,’ she said, relieved to be offered practical advice. ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Well your exhibition for a start,’ he said. ‘And then there’s Bonfire. She always enjoys that. Don’t worry. We’ll cosset her through.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, smiling at him. ‘We will.’

  The smile lifted him a little, despite his disappointment. He might not have said a word he wanted to say but there was still a bond between them. Of sorts.

  But as he walked her back to the flat he was cast down. Maybe this was a sign that he shouldn’t say anything. Maybe he was too old for her. If only he could be nearer her age things might be different. As it was. . . .

  CHAPTER 17

  If this damned trolley isn’t delivered soon, Jeffrey thought, I shall have words to say. It had been promised at eight-thirty sharp. Eight-thirty sharp and now it was a quarter to nine and there was no sign of the damned thing. It wasn’t good enough. Didn’t that fool salesman understand how important it was? He’d told him enough times. He glared at the traffic passing by his window and sighed theatrically. People were so unreliable. There’d been enough rubbish in their stupid ads about how trustworthy the company was. It was one of the reasons he’d used them in the first place. And now they couldn’t even deliver a simple trolley on time. If it didn’t come soon he’d have to go without it and make his entrance to Prendergast Potteries carrying the sack on his back like a coalman. The thought made him squirm. Oh for crying out loud, he thought, where are the fools? What’s the matter with them? He’d planned this so carefully and it had cost him a packet. Not that he begrudged the cost. He knew that success lies in getting the details right. Having new sacks printed had cost him an arm and a leg but they’d been delivered on time and were well worth it. The original sack of clay was now covered by his company design and his logo, a cunningly entwined JW in red with black edging, wonderfully eye-catching. Just the thing to inspire confidence. But a good strong trolley was essential too so as to make an impression as he wheeled his splendid sample into the workshop. Whatever else he did he meant to be noticed when he arrived. Oh come on, he urged the unseen delivery man, put a jerk on for heaven’s sake. My career’s at stake.

  There was a white van drawing up just along the road. Could this be it? Fat man climbing out of the driver’s seat, strolling to the back of the van, bundling a trolley out onto the pavement. Yes. And about fucking time. He picked up his briefcase and bounded down the stairs, arriving on the pavement beside his own car as the fat man blinked towards him.

  ‘Sorry about this, guv,’ he said. ‘RTA at the junction. Real pile-up. Where d’you want it?’

  ‘In the boot,’ Jeffrey said, lifting it, ‘and look sharp about it, I’m late enough already.’

  ‘Righto,’ the fat man said cheerfully. ‘I wouldn’t go round the junction if I was you. They’re still clearing up. If you wouldn’t mind just signing here.’

  Stupid fool! Jeffrey thought. What sort of an idiot driver does he think I am? But he signed the delivery note and eased into his car, without saying anything else, eager to start his journey. He’d have to make good speed if he was to get there before eleven. But a promise was a promise and – unlike this fat oaf standing on the pavement grinning – he knew how important time-keeping was.

  And after all that angst, it was a fast, easy journey and he reached the potteries comfortably on time. Quick check in the driving mirror, boot opened, trolley unwrapped and stood on the tarmac, sack of clay lifted carefully onto it, logo prominently displayed, and he was ready. It gave him quite a kick to follow the receptionist through the workshop past all those subservient workers in their mop caps and aprons and to know how close he was to success. That’s right, he thought, look at me. I’m worth looking at. I’m a cut above any of you. I’m on the up.

  Francesca didn’t notice him until he was walking past her and then she was so surprised to see him she had to look twice to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks. Molly was heading her way so she waved her paintbrush at her to call her over.

  ‘Problem?’ Molly said when she’d reached the workstation.

  Francesca shook her head. ‘What’s that man doing in here?’ she asked, glaring at his retreating back.
/>   ‘Sales rep, I should think,’ Molly said, squinting at him. ‘He’s got a clay sack on that trolley. Why?’

  ‘I know him.’

  Molly was surprised. ‘Really?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Molly said. ‘That sounds ominous. I gather you don’t reckon him much.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Are you saying he’s bad news?’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll find out what he’s doing here and get back to you,’ Molly promised.

  Which she did, returning to the workstation ten minutes later with the gossip. ‘He’s the MD of a new clay company,’ she said. ‘Something superior by all accounts. JW Clays.’

  ‘That’s his name. JW. Jeffrey Walmesly,’ Francesca told her. ‘He’s a con artist. I hope our Mr P doesn’t get taken in by him.’ It was rather worrying.

  ‘No fear of that,’ Molly said. ‘He’s got far too much sense.’

  But Francesca worried and went on worrying for the rest of the morning, frowning at the mermaid, who did nothing to reassure her or to solve her dilemma. Henry was the most sensible man she’d ever met and quite the kindest but Jeffrey was the most skilled liar she’d ever met and quite the most unprincipled. He could be telling all sorts of stories up there in that office and Henry might be too honest to suspect them or too trusting to see through them. Just the thought of what might be happening was making her feel so angry she could barely sit still. It was intolerable to think of Jeffrey of all people coming down here to con their lovely Henry. She wanted to storm up to the office and show him up for the dishonest monster he was. But she could hardly go butting in on a meeting. That wouldn’t be at all proper, given that Henry was the boss and she was one of his workers. At one point, she tried to phone Agnes because she’d know what to do, but she didn’t get an answer and that made everything worse. Damn you Jeffrey, she thought, as her anger and frustration grew. Why couldn’t you go and tell your lies to someone else? Why did it have to be our Henry? She kept a very careful watch all morning but there was no sign of Henry or Jeffrey. It wasn’t until they broke for lunch and she met up with Molly again that she heard what had gone on while she’d been fretting.

  ‘You won’t like this,’ Molly said, ‘but apparently this is some sort of improved clay. Very high quality. It won’t craze and it’ll hold its colour for years. Henry’s taken one sack on spec and we’re to use it and see what we think of it. He’s just had me in to tell me.’

  ‘He’s been conned,’ Francesca said, sadly.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Molly said. ‘He’s too sensible for that. He’s being fair.’

  ‘But you won’t know if it holds its colour for years, will you?’ Francesca said. ‘Not till the years are up.’

  Molly grimaced. ‘Anyway we’ve got to give it a go,’ she said. ‘So we shall see.’

  Francesca felt horribly depressed. Hadn’t she known he’d pull a fast one? And he’d done it and got away with it.

  ‘It might be as good as he says,’ Molly tried to reassure her.

  And it might not, Francesca thought.

  ‘Oh and some woman’s come to collect the mermaid for your exhibition.’ Molly said. ‘She’s making ever such a business of wrapping it up. Brought a blanket for it.’

  Francesca had been so angry she’d forgotten all about the exhibition. Maybe I could try to warn him tomorrow, she thought, when we’ve got all this business of pricing out of the way. She’d have to choose her words very carefully because she wouldn’t like him to think she was questioning his judgement, but she couldn’t just stand back and let that foul Jeffrey take him for a ride. And she knew that was what he’d done. I’ll talk to Agnes about it tonight, she decided. See what she says.

  ‘Up to no good,’ Agnes said. ‘Plain as the nose on his ugly face. I’m surprised at Henry. I thought he was too street wise to be taken in by a fraudster.’

  ‘He has been though, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Do you think I ought to warn him?’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that now,’ Agnes said, ‘if he’s taken a sack on spec. I think you’d put his back up. If I were you I’d keep schtum and wait for him to work things out for himself.’

  It was sensible advice but Francesca didn’t want to take it. I’ll wait and see if an opportunity presents itself, she thought, which it well might and then I’ll tell him what I know. It’s not fair to leave him in the dark. Besides, I’d like to see Jeffrey get his comeuppance. It’s long overdue.

  Jeffrey treated himself to a fish supper that night. He reckoned he’d earned it because that Henry Prendergast had turned out to be trickier than he looked and had struck a hard bargain. One sack, trade price, half paid on the spot but the other half to wait until the firm was satisfied with the goods. They would be of course, so the man was nit-picking, but it was annoying to have to wait for payment, especially when he needed the cash so much. Still, never mind, his precious firm wouldn’t be able to fault the product and they couldn’t disprove any of the claims he’d made for it so it was only a matter of waiting for a week and then he would land a big order and his problems would be solved. Yep, all in all, he’d earned his fish and chips. Maybe he should put in a big order for the clay just to be on the safe side. Tomorrow maybe. Or Monday. Now where’s the vinegar? Don’t tell me that damned Fran walked off with that too?

  He was rooting about in his depleted cupboard when his mobile rang. Calls in the evening were rather rare these days, so he answered it guardedly. ‘Yes?’

  It was Fran’s hideous mother. ‘Have you found her yet?’ she said.

  ‘I haven’t had time for searches,’ he told her crossly. ‘I’ve been working twenty-four seven.’

  ‘Oh really!’ she said, sounding exasperated. ‘You’re not trying hard enough. That’s your trouble. Mr Turner says she’s got to be found or he can’t proceed. I suggest you pull your finger out. If we’re not careful we shall lose all our money.’

  ‘I thought it was Fran’s money,’ he said sourly.

  ‘You know what I mean. She’s pretty well bound to share it and I mean that’s only fair when it should have come to me in the first place. Anyway, he’s getting impatient.’

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’s no good you going on at me. I don’t know where your stupid daughter is. I’ve tried every place I can think of and she isn’t in any of them. You know her better than I do. Why don’t you look?’

  Her voice grew sharper. ‘We’ve done everything we can think of too, I’ll have you know.’

  He was stung and angered. ‘Well, so have I. It’s no good you going on at me. I’m not a miracle worker.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ she said sharply. ‘You’re a bone-idle useless lump.’

  ‘Now look here,’ he said angrily but she’d already hung up.

  He was extremely upset. To be called names after such a successful day wasn’t just uncalled for, it was hideous. It undid all the good he’d done. I’ve worked my fingers to the bone on this deal, he thought, right to the bone. I need a bit of appreciation not a load of abuse. Foul woman. It quite put him off his fish and chips. And there wasn’t any vinegar.

  Saturday morning was uncomfortably cold. Mist curled from the river in long dank swathes and the sky was metal grey. Francesca decided to wear her boots and her winter coat for her outing to the gallery.

  ‘You need a Cossack hat to go with that outfit,’ Agnes said. ‘Don’t you think so Henry?’

  Henry had only just arrived but he considered it seriously. ‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘But it looks fine to me with or without a hat.’

  He’s such a gentleman, Francesca thought, admiring him. He’s always courteous. He’d never be knowingly unkind to anyone and he certainly wouldn’t cheat them. And now that horrid unprincipled hateful man has deliberately tricked him. She was in a passion of protective anger at the thought of it. How dare he do such a thing! And it was all
made worse because she hadn’t been able to warn him in time. And now, even if she did try to, it might all be too late. She was scowling with anger as Henry eased her into the Merc.

  He misinterpreted the scowl. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll see you don’t get talked into agreeing to anything you don’t approve of. I know Christine will want to price your paintings as high as she can – she’s a good business woman – but if you think a price is exorbitant just give me a look and I’ll see what can be done.’

  She thanked him, feeling worse than ever at the situation he was in.

  He smiled at her as he put the car into drive. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Whatever else, she’s on the side of her artists. Always has been.’

  She certainly knew how to display her artists’ work. That was obvious to Francesca as soon as she walked into the showroom. She was very impressed by what had been done to her paintings, they were all so beautifully framed and grouped so artfully that one picture offset the ones next to it. The picture of the castle was in the centre of the wall that she faced as she walked in with all her preliminary sketches grouped about it so that her eye moved from the originals to the finished work and back again, noticing the nuances and the changes she’d made. The river sketches were set one beside the other to reveal the changing seasons with all her garden sketches grouped about them. By the time she’d walked round the entire display and seen the way the four portraits were featured, she really began to believe that this was an exhibition after all and that she really was an artist.

  ‘If there’s anything you’d like to have changed,’ Christine said, and it was only just a question, ‘just let us know. Our aim is to show your work at its very best.’

  ‘No, no,’ Francesca said. ‘There’s nothing at all I’d like to see changed. It’s . . . well . . . it’s . . . you’ve taken my breath away.’