Francesca and the Mermaid

by Beryl Kingston

  Henry held up his hand like a policeman stopping traffic. ‘I’ll stop you there, Mr Walmesly,’ he said. ‘You must understand that we have examined the packaging of your so-called product and the examination has given us very serious cause for concern, hasn’t it Mr Taylor.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the solicitor said.

  ‘Indeed,’ Henry repeated. ‘Very well then, Mr Walmesly, explain one thing to me. I will presume you removed the clay from its original packaging in order to add your magic ingredients.’ And when Jeffrey nodded – what else could he do? – he continued, ‘As we thought. Very well then, tell me this, how did you manage to put your “improved” clay back into its original packaging?’

  Jeffrey’s heart was beating most uncomfortably but he tried another bluff, comforting himself that he was nothing if not a fighter. ‘I have a special hoist, designed for the purpose,’ he said. ‘I felt a double wrapping would be safer when the clay was in transit.’

  Henry slapped the desk with the palm of his hand and laughed out loud. ‘I never heard such a load of old codswallop in my life,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in this business for years and I’ve never known any company that double wrapped their clay.’

  ‘Maybe I have higher standards,’ Jeffrey said huffily.

  Mr Taylor leant across the desk and spoke, gently but clearly. ‘You do understand, do you not, Mr Walmesly,’ he said, ‘that selling another company’s goods and profiting by the sale is an offence, answerable in law. It is called selling on and there are legal penalties for it.’

  ‘You are insulting me, Mr Taylor,’ Jeffrey said. ‘I’m a man of honour. I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.’

  ‘Then,’ Mr Taylor said, ‘you will be perfectly agreeable to chemical tests being carried out on the clay you sold to Prendergast Potteries so that we can ascertain whether or not your samples really have been chemically improved.’

  Jeffrey was flooded with panic and, as always in such a situation, he responded with roaring anger. ‘How dare you doubt my word!’ he shouted. ‘I’m a man of honour. I’ve told you. A man of honour. My word is my bond. I’ve offered you the best clay that’s ever been invented. The best. And you turn your idiot noses up at it and call me names. How dare you call me names! It’s disgraceful, shameful. Call yourself businessmen! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.’

  Henry was laughing again. ‘Methinks,’ he said to his two companions, ‘the lady doth protest too much.’

  The sight of that easy laughter pushed Jeffrey to exploding point. It was intolerable, insufferable. ‘How dare you laugh at me!’ he shouted. ‘I won’t stay here and be insulted. God damn it! It’s not ethical. You’ve got no right to insult me. No right at all. I won’t stay here. I won’t.’

  ‘You may leave whenever you please,’ Henry told him. ‘We will run the necessary tests on your “improved” clay and then you will be hearing from Mr Taylor. Good afternoon to you.’

  ‘I hope you rot in hell!’ Jeffrey shrieked. ‘The lot of you!’ And he ran from the room, red-faced and weeping and beside himself with anger and frustration, groaning as he ran. Oh God! Oh God! He needed the toilet so badly he was afraid he was going to wet himself. Oh God! How could they be so vile? He had to get out. Now. This minute. Where’s the door? There must be a door. Oh for Christ’s sake, where’s the door? Try that one. A fucking cupboard. Wouldn’t you know? That one then. And at last he was out in the car park in the pitch dark and fell towards the nearest bush where he emptied his bladder before the fucking thing burst.

  This is all Fran’s fault, he thought as he shook off the last drops and yanked up his zip. Fucking awful woman. She runs off and leaves me with that fucking mortgage, she nicks all my fucking furniture. I didn’t even have a glass for my beer that first night. How heartless was that? And now she’s told tales on me in this fucking awful pottery and wrecked the best chance I’ve had in years. God rot her. She needs a good seeing to. I’ve half a mind to. . . .

  There was an eruption of sound somewhere to his left, voices calling and laughing, he could see a sudden beam of light colouring the path. The workers were leaving. It was the end of the afternoon. The sight of them gave him an idea. A very good idea. He’d wait till Fran came out of the damned place, that’s what he’d do, and then he’d follow her home and give her a piece of his mind. He was edging round the parked cars, looking for his own and peering into the gloom to see if he could spot her Fiat. Oh it would be a different story then. And she’d got it coming to her, vile woman, the way she’d treated him.

  His car was found and unlocked. He sat inside with the heating on and waited, as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. More people came wandering out, car doors slammed, feet tramped and scuffled, voices were calling good night. And there she was, swinging towards him. He had to duck right down or she would have seen him. He gave it a minute or two before he sat up to resume watch. And luck was on his side. She was getting into the Fiat. It was no distance away. Right, he thought. Start the engine. Be prepared. Now follow. Not too close. You don’t want to warn her. But keep your eyes skinned. You don’t want to lose her either.

  It was all too easy. Once he knew she was on the Lewes road he tailed her with perfect confidence, feeding his anger as he drove. My God he’d make her pay for this, the bitch. He’d take her apart at the seams.

  Francesca was singing as she drove. It had really been quite a good day. She painted more than her usual quota of plates and the thought that Jeffrey was getting his comeuppance up there in Henry’s office had warmed her all afternoon. And now it was the opening of her exhibition. She was still a bit apprehensive about it and not at all sure about those high prices but she meant to enjoy it if she could and Agnes and Henry would be with her. She parked neatly and skipped into the flat calling out to Agnes.

  ‘Good day?’ Agnes said, walking out of the kitchen into the hall.

  ‘Interesting,’ Francesca said. ‘Must have a shower then I’ll tell you.’

  ‘I’ve got a meat pie in the oven,’ Agnes told her. ‘Don’t be long.’

  ‘Two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’

  ‘Your clothes are on the rail.’

  She’d showered, dressed and brushed her hair in six minutes and went back to the kitchen feeling pleased with herself.

  ‘Well you do look nice,’ Agnes said. ‘That dress suits you. Sit down and I’ll dish up.’

  But someone was knocking at the door.

  ‘That can’t be Henry already surely to goodness,’ Agnes grumbled, as Francesca went to answer it. ‘Well the pie’s ready so he’ll have to wait till we’ve had our supper, that’s all. I don’t want you going off to an exhibition with nothing in your stomach.’

  He won’t mind waiting, Francesca was thinking as she walked towards the door. She was warm with pleasure at the thought that she was going to see him so soon and smiling as she opened the door. What happened next was so sudden and so brutal it took away all her power of thought completely. For it wasn’t Henry waiting in the porch. It was Jeffrey Walmesly and he was dark in the face and trembling with temper. He pushed her into the hall, glaring and swearing. ‘You fucking whore! How dare you tell such lies! You fucking, lying whore!’

  The old terror rose in her, paralyzing her, stopping her breath, holding her in a shocked silence. She couldn’t speak or think, she could barely listen. ‘Why. . . ?’ she said, stepping backwards away from him. ‘Why. . . ?’

  ‘Why?’ he roared. Those terrible black eyebrows were a straight hard line full of hatred. ‘You dare to ask me that? That was the best deal I’ve ever set up. The best. It was absolutely brilliant! Foolproof! And you have to stick your fucking great nose into it. You’ve ruined it, cut it to shreds.’ He was prodding her with every angry word, pushing her backwards, his face distorted with fury.

  ‘Please!’ she cried, putting her hands in front of her face to protect herself. ‘Please don’t. I didn’t say anything. . . .’

  But he was too far gone in rage to hear
her. ‘You’ve had this coming for years,’ he shouted, still pushing her backwards with that awful prodding finger. ‘You fucking, fucking whore. For years.’ They were in the living room – she could feel the carpet under her feet – and he was punching her in the chest and pushing her back, back, back with every punch. Her legs were against the settee and she was bending, falling, off balance and afraid.

  ‘I hate you,’ he roared at her. ‘Hate you. Hate you. D’you hear me?’ His hands were round her throat, squeezing and pushing. She struggled to get away from him, but she could barely breathe and there was no strength in her; she clawed at his hands but he just increased his pressure, his distorted face within inches of hers; she was so frightened she didn’t know what to do. And then suddenly she saw Agnes’s crutch, raised in the air, silver as a sword, and there was a loud thud and he was lying on the carpet, rolling over onto his back, holding his head and Agnes was standing over him with the crutch jabbed into his crotch and one foot on his chest. ‘Phone for the police,’ she said to Francesca coolly. ‘Dial 999. Your bag’s behind you.’

  It took Francesca several seconds to pick up her bag and find the phone because she was shaking so much that her hands weren’t functioning properly and then it was hard to find the energy to answer the cool voice of the operator. ‘Police,’ she said, finally, her voice croaky. She was relieved when Agnes held out her hand for the phone and she could sit down and hand over responsibility for all this to someone else. She was still shaking uncontrollably but it comforted her to hear Agnes giving their address and speaking so calmly.

  ‘An assault on a young woman,’ she was saying. ‘Yes. He tried to strangle her. Yes. I did say strangle. Yes. An intruder. Yes. He’s still on the premises. Yes. That would be helpful.’ She tossed the phone to Francesca. ‘Keep hold of it,’ she said. ‘They’re on their way but we might need it again.’

  Jeffrey was rubbing his head and making an effort to sit up.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Agnes growled at him. ‘You just stay where you are or I’ll do you a mischief, so help me.’

  He was getting his breath back. ‘You can’t make me stay if I don’t want to,’ he said truculently. ‘I’ve got my rights.’

  It was the wrong tone to take with Agnes Potts. ‘You gave up all your rights when you tried to throttle my friend,’ she said. ‘Now you’ll do as you’re told and stay where you are till the police get here. Move an inch and I’ll lay you out cold. I warn you.’

  There was something dripping from his nose and he put up his hand to wipe it away and discovered that it was blood. ‘You wicked old witch!’ he said, looking at her with horrified disbelief. ‘You’ve made me bleed. It’s all over my best shirt. My best silk shirt!’

  ‘Good!’ Agnes said. ‘Serve you right. Toss him a tissue, Francesca.’

  Francesca pulled a handful of tissues from the box on the table and threw them at him. Now that Agnes was so obviously and totally in control, her heart was beginning to steady and she could breathe more easily. She watched as Jeffrey dabbed at his nose and shook his head so that drops of blood spattered his precious shirt. The minutes passed. She could hear her clock ticking. Nothing happened. Jeffrey snorted and shook more blood onto his shirt, almost as if he was doing it deliberately. Then there was the sound of a police siren, the screech of brakes as the car came to a halt and seconds later someone was ringing her doorbell.

  ‘I’ll go,’ she said to Agnes. And went. Two policemen looking reassuring. ‘Miss Potts?’ one of them asked. But she was too weary to correct him and simply stood to one side so that they could come in and then led the way into her living room.

  ‘Ah,’ Agnes said. ‘There you are. That was quick.’

  ‘Are you Miss Potts ma’am?’ the older policeman said.

  ‘I am,’ Agnes said, ‘and this is. . . .’

  But before she could say another word Jeffrey interrupted her. ‘Jeffrey Walmesly,’ he said loudly and firmly. ‘I wish to report an assault. This person,’ sneering towards Agnes, ‘has assaulted me, as you can see.’ He laid one hand on his shirt where his bloodstains were drying out but still very visible.

  Despite the state she was in, Francesca understood at once that he was going to plead innocence of any attack on her, play the victim himself and put the blame on Agnes. A sudden invigorating anger rose in her. No, she thought, I’m not having this. ‘Now look,’ she said to the nearest policeman. ‘The person who was assaulted was me. Take a look at my neck. That man was trying to choke me. Miss Potts stopped him.’

  ‘I see,’ the policeman said, looking at her neck. ‘Could I have your name miss?’

  ‘Francesca Jones,’ Francesca said, ‘and this is my flat and that man has no business being in it.’ She was hot with anger.

  Jeffrey stood up, straightened his tie, smiled at the policeman in a conspiratorial way and sat himself on the nearest chair like a man who had every right to be there. ‘Oh come on Fran,’ he said in his persuasive voice. ‘I know you’re upset about something but you mustn’t tell naughty porkies. Tell the constable the truth.’ He turned his head to smile at the young policeman again and spoke to him, confidentially, man to man. ‘We’ve been an item for the last five years,’ he said. ‘I’ve every right to be here. Fact, I’ve come here with a message from your mother, Fran. She wants you to ring her. Apparently some distant relative has left you some money. Your father’s cousin or some such. I can’t remember the exact details. Anyway she wants you to give her a buzz. OK?’

  The older policeman took out his notebook and spoke to Jeffrey. ‘Can I have your full name and address, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ Jeffrey said. ‘You understand that this is just a domestic. She gets a bit hysterical sometimes – you know what women are like – and I was restraining her, the way I usually do.’

  ‘No, no!’ Francesca said, her face anguished. ‘It wasn’t like that at all. He was trying to strangle me. He’s making this up. Oh please listen. It wasn’t like that.’

  Agnes moved into the attack all guns blazing. ‘You lying hound,’ she roared. ‘You pushed your way in here, you screamed abuse, you punched her and then you put your hands round her neck and tried to choke her. You weren’t “restraining” her, as you put it. You were beating her up. That’s the truth of it. And I stopped you.’

  Now that he thought he was in command, Jeffrey was mockingly calm. ‘Well she would say that, wouldn’t she,’ he said to the policeman. ‘I’m going to sue her for assault so she has to make up a good story. We don’t need to take any notice of that do we.’

  ‘Ye Gods! You really are the most objectionable creature I’ve ever met,’ Agnes roared at him. ‘Don’t tell lies, you vile little worm. You were strangling her and I hit you because she was too shocked to fight you off.’

  ‘Common assault,’ Jeffrey said smugly. ‘And I’ll make you answer for it. Look at the blood. You can’t deny blood.’ He plucked at his shirt and looked at the policeman for support.

  ‘Name and address, sir, if you please,’ the policeman said, massively calm in the uproar. ‘Let’s take this nice and easy.’

  They were all talking at once. Jeffrey easing, ‘Of course’, Francesca crying ‘Oh please. You mustn’t listen to him,’ Agnes roaring. ‘Oh for crying out loud!’ And somebody was ringing the doorbell, its sharp call clear even over the racket they were making.

  ‘Are you expecting somebody?’ the older policeman asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Agnes said, remembering.

  ‘Go and get it Nigel,’ the older policeman said and the younger one went to answer the door.

  Jeffrey went on talking at the older policeman but Agnes and Francesca held their breath and their peace. And presently their pause was rewarded by the sound of Henry’s warm friendly voice greeting the younger policeman. ‘Hello, Nigel. What are you doing here?’ And Nigel answering equally warmly, ‘Hello, Mr Prendergast. It’s a domestic.’ And then the two of them walked into the living room and Henry’s tone ch
anged instantly from warmth to ice.

  ‘What is that man doing in this flat?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a domestic Mr Prendergast, sir,’ the older policeman said.

  But Henry wasn’t listening to him. He’d seen the state Francesca was in, had crossed the room in one stride and was sitting beside her on the sofa with one arm round her shoulders, massively and furiously protective. ‘What’s he done to you?’ he asked.

  ‘Gave her a mouthful of abuse, punched her in the chest and tried to strangle her,’ Agnes said. ‘I had to hit him with my crutch to stop him.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Henry approved. ‘I hope you hurt him.’

  ‘Now look here,’ Jeffrey said, looking aggrieved. ‘You don’t know anything about it and it’s none of your business. I suggest you keep out of it and leave it to the police.’

  ‘It’s very much my business,’ Henry said to him coldly. ‘In every sense of the word.’ Then he turned his attention to the two policemen. ‘This young woman is the premier artist at Prendergast Potteries,’ he said, ‘and very highly valued. And this person is a liar and a fraud, who has been passing off the product of another company as his own, as Prendergast Potteries will prove in court. I think I should tell you he will be hearing from my solicitor at the beginning of next week. And now, as if it weren’t enough to be facing a charge of serious fraud, he appears to have added assault and battery to the list of charges he will have to face. I will consult with my solicitor about that in due course.’

  ‘I see,’ the older policeman said. ‘Can I have your address, sir?’

  ‘Nigel knows where I live,’ Henry said. ‘Or you can find me at the Potteries if you would prefer. Now I suggest you remove Mr Walmesly from this flat, where he has absolutely no right to be, and give Francesca and Miss Potts a bit of peace so that I can find out whether we need to call a doctor. I can give you his address. It’s in my filing system.’