Francesca and the Mermaid

by Beryl Kingston

  It was the chance he’d been waiting for. Given to him like something magical, here in this magical place, just as he’d hoped. ‘It makes perfect sense to me,’ he said and plunged into the truth. ‘It’s the way I love you.’

  She looked at him steadily, caught up in the spell of the place and the moment, almost afraid to breathe. ‘Do you?’ she said. But it was a rhetorical question. She knew he did. He’d been calling her darling ever since he rescued her from Jeffrey. Darling and my darling and little one. She should have known it then or perhaps she had and she just hadn’t recognized it.

  He leant across the table, took her hand and kissed it gently. He felt as if the air was singing. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do. Very much. I think I’ve loved you ever since that morning when I first saw the mermaid. And always as you are. I would never want to change you.’

  She didn’t know how to answer him. She felt she ought to say ‘I love you too’ the way they did in the soaps but she wasn’t sure what she was feeling. She was very fond of him – who wouldn’t be? – very, very fond and he’d looked after her so well and been so kind to her, but was that love? The affection on his face was so moving she was afraid she was going to cry. ‘Oh Henry!’ she said. ‘I think the Unicorn just walked in.’

  ‘Or Sleeping Beauty just woke up,’ he said, in his half-teasing way. ‘I would kiss her to make sure if we weren’t in such a public place.’

  How easily he can shift into a lighter tone, she thought, wondering what to say to him this time, and what it would be like to be kissed by him, but before she could think of answer she caught a glimpse of a waiter hovering. ‘I think we’re being looked at to see if we want coffee.’

  They drank their coffee in a daze of deferred attraction and left the Mermaid with their arms round each other but he didn’t kiss her until they were back in the privacy of their car and curtained by the darkness of approaching evening. Then he kissed her so passionately that they were both shaken. ‘My darling, darling, darling,’ he said. ‘Stay with me.’

  She was caught up in sensation, drunk with it. ‘Yes,’ she said, her mouth close to his. ‘Yes, of course.’ And was kissed again. If this is love, she thought, it’s wonderful. None of the men she’d taken pity on had ever kissed her like this. ‘Yes.’

  Neither of them knew how long they kissed one another, they were enjoying it so much but eventually he paused for breath and said, ‘We should be in bed.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘We should.’

  ‘Home James, in that case,’ he said, beaming at her and he chose a suitable CD, switched it on and put the car in forward.

  Hours later, when they were still lying sleepy and satisfied in her luxurious bed, Francesca’s phone rang. She switched on her bedside light, pulled on her borrowed nightshirt and wandered off to find it in the tangle of clothes they’d left scattered on the floor, scampering back to the warmth of the bed and his arms as she answered it. It was Agnes.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Thought I’d better tell you. I’m back home.’

  ‘Heavens!’ Francesca said, mouthing ‘Agnes’ at Henry.

  ‘Babs and Reggie brought me here after dinner,’ Agnes explained. ‘I wanted to see if I could manage the stairs and I could so I’m staying here. Will it be all right for me to collect my things tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Francesca said, feeling guilty. ‘Would you like us to pick you up?’

  ‘No, no. I can drive. I took the old banger out for a spin this afternoon. I’m right back to normal. I can get to the hospital to see the physiotherapist and everything.’

  ‘Heavens!’ Francesca said again, raising her eyebrows at Henry. ‘OK then. What time will you be there?’

  ‘Ten?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘Ten it is,’ Francesca said. ‘See you then.’

  ‘Evening or morning?’ Henry asked.

  ‘There’s no rush,’ Francesca said. ‘We were talking about tomorrow morning.’ And told him the news.

  ‘Good old Aggie,’ he said. ‘She’s a feisty lady.’

  They lay comfortably side by side in the crumpled bed. ‘It’s quite dark,’ Francesca said idly, looking around at the shadowy room. ‘What’s the time?

  ‘Half-past six,’ he told her looking at his watch.

  ‘It’ll soon be supper time.’

  ‘After all you ate at lunch!’ he teased. ‘Shame on you Francesca Jones. You’re getting greedy.’

  ‘That’s your fault,’ she teased back. ‘You shouldn’t feed me so well.’

  ‘Does your greed extend to other things?’ he said, propping himself on one elbow and turning to face her.

  ‘Oh that too,’ she said. ‘I’m quite spoilt now.’

  ‘Good,’ he said and kissed her.

  They had an extremely leisurely breakfast the next morning. They were still languid with love and in no mood to hurry anything so it was two minutes to ten by the time they got to her flat and Agnes was sitting outside in her car waiting for them.

  ‘Hello me dears,’ she said. ‘Lovely morning.’ She was in a very jolly mood, beaming at them both as she swung her legs out of the car. And it was a lovely morning with a weak sun doing its best to shine and the sky bright.

  Henry kissed her as Francesca opened the door. ‘Breakfast or coffee?’ she said.

  Agnes chose coffee, saying she’d only just had breakfast, so coffee was made and they sat in the kitchen and drank it and told her about Rye and what a pretty place it was, while the sun dappled the wall with swirling patterns from the river below them.

  ‘Now I must get on,’ Agnes said when her mug was empty, ‘or I shall have Bonfire rushing down on me and nothing organized.’

  ‘I can’t believe that,’ Henry teased, laughing at her. ‘I thought it was all under perfect control.’

  ‘There are always volunteers to gee up,’ Agnes said. ‘They need telling what time to arrive. And the pallets haven’t arrived nor the shirts so they’ll need chasing.’

  ‘It’s all got to be perfect,’ Henry said to Francesca, ‘or the sky might fall.’

  ‘You’d be the first to complain if it wasn’t,’ Agnes told him, standing up and wearing her stern face. ‘Come on. We’ve got work to do.’

  She had so few belongings it didn’t take them long to gather them together and carry them out to her car. She gave Francesca a hug saying, ‘Thanks for having me. You’ve been a brick,’ kissed Henry on both cheeks, got into the car in the most sprightly way and drove away, waving at them as she left.

  ‘She’s a girl!’ Henry said, waving back. ‘Now what? Home?’

  ‘Have you got a mixing bowl?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘I’d like to make cakes.’

  ‘Homemade cakes!’ he said. ‘Now you’re making my mouth water. I can’t remember the last time I had a homemade cake.’

  ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I shall go and get all the things I need.’

  Which she did and was touched when he sat in his luxurious kitchen and watched her as she made pastry and cut it out with her fancy cutters and whipped the ingredients for the filling. ‘Do they have a name, these tarts of yours?’ he wanted to know as she put the baking tin into the oven.

  ‘Maids of honour,’ she told him. ‘Speciality of the house.’

  ‘Now what will you make?’

  ‘A Victoria sponge or chocolate cake. Your pick.’

  ‘This is luxury,’ he said, which made her smile. She was rosy with the warmth of cooking and transparently happy.

  ‘Domestic bliss,’ she teased.

  ‘Maids of honour and chocolate cake,’ he said. ‘We could have them at lunchtime. Can I lick the bowl?’

  ‘You can do whatever you like,’ she said, happily.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll do that too. When we’ve had our tea and cakes. Which reminds me. Should I nip out to the chemist?’ And when she gave him a quizzical look, ‘Or are you on the pill? I should have asked before this I know that. It
’s a bit remiss to have left it this late. But we ought to think about it.’

  She was beating butter and sugar together but she paused and gave it thought. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we ought. And no, I’m not on the pill. But. . . .’ Then she stopped because she wasn’t at all sure what he would say if she told him what she was thinking.

  He looked at her steadily, smiling his nice warm smile. ‘You can’t stop there,’ he said. ‘But what?’

  ‘Well . . .’ she said. ‘What I mean to say is. . . . The thing is . . .’ and then because he was still smiling encouragement at her, she told him in a rush of words. ‘It might be a nice idea to let nature take its course, the way people did in the old days, when babies sort of just came. But not if you don’t want to, naturally. We’d have to both want it.’

  He laughed at her and caught her hands, fork and all, ‘Are you referring to our baby as it?’

  Our baby, she thought. ‘Then you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘I think it’s a lovely idea,’ he said kissing her sticky fingers. ‘It means we can be old-fashioned whenever we want.’

  It was quite a jar to both of them when they woke on Monday morning and had to stop being old-fashioned and put on their working clothes and face the twenty-first century.

  ‘I shall phone Mr Taylor first thing,’ Henry said, as he drove them both through the quiet lanes. ‘If you’re going to sue that odious creature for assault, he can attend to both cases at the same time.’

  Francesca was feeling sleepy and forgiving. ‘Do you think I should?’ she said. ‘Maybe it would be better to forgive and forget.’

  ‘It’s up to you, of course,’ Henry said, although his face was giving her a different answer. ‘If it were me he’d be in court before his feet could hit the ground. He needs pulling up short.’

  Francesca looked out of her window at the leafless trees and wintry fields and thought how stern they looked. ‘Maybe I should then,’ she dithered.

  ‘I tell you what,’ Henry said, finding a compromise. ‘Let him deal with your mother’s will first. You don’t have to make up your mind yet awhile.’ He was turning in to the grounds of his pottery. ‘Back to our mermaid.’

  ‘I feel as if I’ve been away for months,’ Francesca said and she wondered what her workmates would say if they knew what she’d been doing over the weekend. But she needn’t have worried because what set them off into shrieks of horror were the bruises in her neck. Molly noticed them at once.

  ‘What have you done to your neck?’ she said. ‘You look as if someone’s been strangling you.’

  ‘Someone tried,’ Francesca said and told her what had happened. And while she was telling her story her fellow artists arrived at their workstations and listened too.

  ‘The vile man,’ Toby said. ‘I hope you’ll sue him.’

  ‘I probably will,’ Francesca said. ‘Henry thinks I should.’

  ‘He’s quite right,’ Molly said. ‘Now are you going to be all right to work?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Really. It looks worse than it is.’

  ‘Well, give me a call if you need a rest,’ Molly said. ‘Don’t struggle on feeling grotty. Mr P wouldn’t approve of that.’

  The story spread and caused a stir all morning and her workmates came over one by one to commiserate with her and tell her what they thought of her assailant. Susan said he was a nasty pig and she hoped Francesca would ‘throw the book at him and make him jump about a bit’.

  ‘Mr Taylor’s here,’ Molly said joining them. ‘The sparks’ll fly now. You mark my words. Were those packing cases all right Susan?’

  Half an hour later she was back at Francesca’s station beaming all over her face to say that Henry had sent for her. And she seemed to have told everybody else on her way across because the workshop erupted into a chorus of well-wishes as Francesca walked through it. I shall have to sue him now, she thought wryly. I’ll be letting the side down if I don’t. I wonder what Mr Taylor’s like. I hope he’s understanding.

  Tall with greying hair and a very serious face, lots of laughter lines and a warm smile. ‘Mr Prendergast tells me you would like me to act for you in the matter of your mother’s Will,’ he said.

  She nodded at him.

  ‘And that you don’t want members of your family to be given your address.’

  ‘No. I don’t. That’s right.’

  ‘That can be arranged,’ he assured. ‘All business can be done through my office. Perhaps you would like me to phone your Mr Skeat and arrange a meeting. I could do it now if you were agreeable.’

  She was agreeable and it was done, very smoothly and easily. A time was suggested, checked with her and agreed. ‘There you are,’ Mr Taylor said as he put down the phone. ‘Eleven o’clock on Thursday.’

  ‘And we’ll come with you,’ Henry said. ‘To see fair play.’

  That surprised her. ‘Both of you?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  She felt she ought to thank them both. ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘It’s what we’re for,’ Mr Taylor said. ‘Isn’t that right Henry?’

  The office of Skeat and Murchison solicitors was in a quiet street just off the centre of town and easy to find despite its discreet fascia. The reception desk was ‘manned’ by two friendly middle-aged woman and lined by comfortable armchairs where Francesca and her two companions sat and waited; and the office to which they were finally ushered was quietly elegant, with an impressive desk and three more easy chairs set ready for them in a semi-circle before it. It was all very soothing.

  Mr Skeat was vaguely middle aged and peculiarly hairless, pinkly bald and so clean-shaven that his rounded chin made Francesca think of a baby’s bottom. But he was courteous and friendly, introducing himself, thanking them for coming and shaking hands with all three of them as warmly as if they were being introduced at a party, indicating with a nod of his bald head that they should make themselves comfortable in the armchairs.

  They made party-style small talk for a few minutes before settling to the matter in hand. Henry confirmed that he was indeed the owner of Prendergast Potteries and Mr Skeat told him that his fame had preceded him. Mr Taylor established that all business should be conducted through his firm and gave Mr Skeat the address.

  ‘We’ve had quite a job to run you to earth Miss Jones,’ Mr Skeat said but it was an opening gambit rather than a rebuke.

  ‘So I believe,’ Francesca said.

  ‘Your mother will have told you what this is about.’

  ‘She said my father’s brother had left me some money in his will.’

  Mr Skeat noticed that she didn’t call her benefactor ‘my uncle’ and seemed remarkably unmoved at the prospect of inheriting his fortune. ‘Did she tell you how big this bequest was likely to be?’ he prompted.

  ‘She seemed to think it would be around £24,000.’

  ‘That is the amount of capital the gentleman left,’ Mr Skeat told her. ‘However there is also the matter of the house and its contents both of which are currently being offered as an executor’s sale. You would like to see a copy of the will, perhaps.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Mr Taylor said.

  The will was produced from Mr Skeat’s folder and he and Francesca read it together. ‘All perfectly straightforward,’ Mr Taylor approved.

  ‘The price put upon the house by the estate agent is somewhere in the region of a hundred and twenty-five thousand, ‘Mr Skeat said. ‘Of course, given the uncertainty of the current market it might not realize such a figure but I would be surprised if it didn’t make a hundred thousand. All in all, this is quite a sizeable bequest.’

  ‘Yes,’ Francesca said calmly. ‘I see.’

  ‘That being so,’ Mr Skeat continued, ‘perhaps this would be a suitable point at which to consider some possible options. It is, for example, possible that you might wish to share your bequest with your mother and sister. Your mother felt this would be a likely step you would wish to take.’

  Francesca was still
completely calm. ‘Oh did she?’ she said. ‘Why was that?’

  ‘I believe she felt that your uncle was rather a – shall we say – distant relation,’ Mr Skeat said. ‘Is that not the case?’

  ‘I suppose you could say that. We very rarely saw him.’

  ‘Quite. That is what your mother led me to understand. She told me that, since your father died, he had become something of a recluse and that he had no blood relations except her and your sister and you. She felt that, given that there are three of you and that he knew so little about you, his original intention might well have been to divide the bequest between you.’

  ‘Oh did she?’ Francesca said again and this time her tone was so icy that Henry was alerted by it and nodded to show Mr Taylor that he should intervene.

  ‘However, this would be an entirely voluntary arrangement, would it not,’ Mr Taylor said, leaning forward. ‘Miss Jones would be under no obligation to agree to it.’

  ‘Oh no, of course not,’ Mr Skeat hastened to assure. ‘No obligation whatever. It was simply her mother’s suggestion.’

  ‘Then if that’s the case,’ Francesca told him, ‘we will let the Will stand and I will be the sole beneficiary of it, which will be altogether simpler and more straightforward. Now, if there’s nothing else that needs discussing. . . ?’ The words were so coldly spoken that Mr Skeat was quite awed by them and inclined his head to signify that no more discussion was necessary. ‘Good,’ she said, standing up and making it clear that she was leaving. ‘You’ve got Mr Taylor’s address and telephone number haven’t you? Thank you for the information. I’ve no doubt we shall be hearing from you in due course.’ And she shook his hand firmly and led the way out of the room.

  ‘I’m sorry to be so angry,’ she said to Henry and Mr Taylor when they were out in the street, ‘but I can’t believe my mother. She spent my entire childhood putting me down, telling me I’d never amount to a row of beans, that I was useless, a waste of space, all that sort of thing. And now she seriously thinks I would hand over two thirds of my inheritance to her and my sister. It beggars belief.’