Francesca and the Mermaid Read online

  It was another half an hour before Brad got back and when she lifted the take-away cartons from their plastic bag, they were barely lukewarm. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said airily, when she frowned. ‘Met up with some mates and they would talk. You know how it is. We can pop ’em in the microwave though, sort of hot ’em up. Won’t take a minute. No problem.’

  ‘I haven’t got a microwave,’ Francesca told him, rather crossly. ‘Just sit down and let me dish up. I’m starving.’

  ‘Sorry about that Boss,’ he said, ‘but they would talk. I did get us some beer.’

  She was peeling off the lids and didn’t look at him. ‘Sit down and eat it,’ she ordered, ‘before it’s stone cold. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.’

  She was quite startled when he flung himself on his knees at her feet and spread out his arms towards her dramatically. ‘Have pity on your devoted slave, most beautiful lady!’ he begged. ‘I would go to the darkest corners of the earth for you. Have pity!’

  It was so ridiculous she didn’t know whether to be cross or laugh at him. ‘Get up do!’ she said. ‘This food’ll congeal if we muck about any longer.’

  But he grabbed her hand and held on to it which made her cross. ‘I am your devoted slave,’ he said. ‘Your word is my command.’

  She was very cross by now but she held on to her self-control. ‘Well I’m eating mine,’ she told him. ‘If you want to play silly buggers that’s up to you. I’m hungry.’

  He got up and dusted down his trousers. ‘Silly buggers!’ he said to the mirror in tones of feigned outrage. ‘I declare my undying love and she calls it silly buggers!’

  ‘I’ll dish yours up, shall I?’ she said mildly.

  ‘You know your trouble,’ he said as he sat down at the table. ‘Your trouble is you’ve got no romance in your soul.’

  ‘Romance is greatly overrated,’ she told him. ‘I’d rather have a warm meal.’

  ‘Oh well,’ he said, sighing extravagantly. ‘Back to the real world. D’you want some of this beer?’ And he smiled at her.

  The smile made her feel a bit ashamed of herself. She was treating him unkindly and he had been a help to her even if he was fat. ‘Eat your meal and I’ll make some coffee when we’ve finished.’ she said.

  ‘You’re a star!’ he said, opening the first can and handing it across the table to her.

  They sat over the coffee until past midnight, even though she was aching for sleep. She should have seen the danger signs as she poured the first mug and handed it across the table to him. He was sitting just a little too comfortably in his chair, gazing at her just a little too earnestly and reminding her of someone she didn’t like. But she was too tired to force her mind to work out who it was.

  ‘You don’t know how good it is to have a friend like you,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve hardly known one another long enough to be friends,’ she said, hoping to put him off.

  He wasn’t put off in the least. ‘But it’s not time that counts, is it?’ he said earnestly. ‘It’s how we treat one another. I set a lot of store by how people treat me. It’s what comes of being treated so badly when I was young. And you’d never believe how badly treated I was.’

  She sipped her coffee, closed her eyes with sheer fatigue and then opened them again and said ‘No’ because he seemed to be expecting her to say something.

  ‘I had a terrible time of it,’ he said, leaning forward towards her. ‘You’d never believe the half. Looking back on it and between you and me, I think they were going out of their way to put me down and make me miserable, though for the life of me I can’t see why they should. I mean when you think about it, what’s the point of making a child miserable? They said they were toughening me up. Cold baths in the middle of winter. And I mean cold. Icy. I ask you. Was that kind? It makes me shiver to remember.’ He gave an elaborate shiver. ‘Out for a run every single rotten day of my life. Never mind if it was raining – or snowing even – off I had to go. It’s a wonder I didn’t get pneumonia. And if I didn’t do it I got a clip round the ear. And then there was the porridge. Porridge for breakfast every morning. Every single rotten morning. Usually lumpy. They said it was healthy. It was to make me grow big and strong. All that sort of bosh. Mind you I did grow big and I’m very strong. Well you’ve seen that today, haven’t you? Yes. You could hardly be off seeing. But it sure as hell wasn’t the porridge.’

  His voice droned on and after a while Francesca closed her eyes and stopped listening. It was altogether too much effort. From time to time she forced her eyes open again and looked at him to show that she was still awake, and then a few words penetrated her fatigue. ‘Nag, nag, nag all the time. I used to feel I couldn’t do a thing right. Fact, to tell you the truth, I was glad when they took themselves off to rotten Australia. They said I could go with them or stay with my aunt. So I stayed with my aunt. That was a fool’s trick and no mistake because she’s worse. Well you saw that at the party. She puts me down all the time. Never has a good word to say for me. I’m lazy, I’m bone idle, I turn the house into a tip, I deserve everything that’s coming to me . . .’ But once she’d closed her eyes again, he was just a wasp buzzing in a corner. If only he’d drink up his coffee and go home.

  She woke with a start and for a few bewildered seconds she couldn’t think where she was or why she’d been asleep sitting up in her chair. Then she realized that someone was crying, in great gulping sobs, and she looked across the room towards the sound and saw that Brad had his head in his hands and was weeping with abandon, his shoulders heaving. And before her reason could wake and rescue her, her overactive sense of pity kicked in and she leant towards him to try to comfort him.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ she said.

  She knew it was a mistake as soon as the words were out of her mouth. He looked up at her with such a tragic face, it was painful to see it, and made a grab at her hand as if he was drowning and needed to be pulled ashore.

  ‘You don’t know what it means to me to have a friend like you,’ he said, earnestly. ‘All these years I’ve been so unhappy. You’d never believe how unhappy I’ve been.’ He stopped and gulped, choking back tears. ‘And now I’ve found you. You’re like a beacon in my life. I don’t know how to thank you.’

  What could she possibly say? She was trapped in her pity for him. ‘It’s very late,’ she said, glancing at her clock. ‘Past midnight. I think we ought to call it a day. You’ll feel better in the morning.’

  ‘I can come back, though, can’t I?’ he said. ‘I can see you again in the morning. Please say I can see you again in the morning.’

  She was too tired to resist the pressure he was putting on her, and she didn’t have the heart to tell him she’d rather be on her own, not after all the sad things he’d been telling her about and the way he’d cried. ‘I suppose so,’ she said and she sounded as weary as she felt.

  He didn’t seem to notice her fatigue. ‘I’ll see you then,’ he said and walked to the door. At last.

  I shall sleep for a week, she thought, as she finally crumpled into bed. She was wrong. She was awake at half past four.

  The room was full of light, washed and refreshed by the delicate pale gold of early morning. The window sill glistened as if it was wet, the creamy walls were patterned with the shifting, smoke-blue shadows of leaves and branches and, beyond the window, birds were singing in a chorus of complicated, full-throated trebles. The combination of movement, sound and colour was so unexpected and delicious that for a few seconds she lay where she was and enjoyed it. Then she realized that she was watching a sunrise and got up and walked into the living room and out onto the balcony to see more of it. It was a revelation. For now she was receiving the full impact of the sumptuous colour in the skies, long swathes of orange, scarlet, lemon yellow and pale, pale green interlacing and drifting as she watched while above them the lighter blue of day eased into the darker tones of night. In the rising light, trees took colour and changed shape but the river was white as polished si
lver and the two swans sailing downstream in their imperturbable way were gilded like golden toys. She had a paintbrush in her hand almost before she realized what she was doing. Oh, quick, quick, she urged herself. Catch it before it fades.

  She had no idea how long she painted. Time enough to make two passable sketches, to catch the colour of the swans and at least part of that amazing sky. Someone came knocking at the door but she ignored them. She wasn’t even interested enough to wonder who it was, for by that time there were skeins of colour in the river too. It was all too good to miss. It wasn’t until the knocking began again that she bestirred herself to answer and then she wandered to the door with her paintbrush still in her hand.

  It was Brad with croissants, peaches and an enormous bar of chocolate. ‘Breakfast,’ he said, ‘because I’ll bet you haven’t had any.’

  He was right. She’d quite forgotten about eating and seeing the croissants made her aware that she was hungry. So they carried her occasional table out onto the terrace and breakfasted in style and sunshine. It was easy to forgive him for interrupting her when he’d provided a feast to start the day and anyway the sunrise was over.

  When the last crumb had been eaten, she cleared the cups and plates and washed them up, wondering how she could get rid of him. There was still a lot to do and she wanted to get on with it in her own way and her own time. But he seemed to be impervious to any sort of hint.

  ‘Right,’ he said, rolling up his sleeves. ‘I’ll start on those shelves, shall I?’

  ‘I can manage,’ she told him.

  But she was wasting her breath. ‘Not to worry,’ he said, smiling a superior smile. ‘I’ll have it done for you in a jiffy. You watch.’

  So as she couldn’t see how to stop him, she let him put up the shelves, while she cleaned her brushes and hoped that he’d go home when he’d done it. But no, when all the shelves had been tested and pronounced ‘secure’, he unpacked the rest of her kitchen ware, without asking her or telling her, and then took the cardboard boxes out to the salvage bin, as if he were the man of the house, and when the flat was cleared to his satisfaction, he fixed her portable radio and the TV remote. Fran grew crosser by the minute. He was trying to be helpful, she had to admit that, but he was cutting into her precious independence. She could have fixed the shelves herself – and the remote and the radio.

  She was tidying her clothes in the bedroom, more to get away from him than because it needed doing, when someone rang the doorbell. This time she was glad to think she’d got company and she left the rest of her jumpers unfolded and went off to see who it was. But he was already calling ‘Don’t worry! I’ll get it!’ and opening the door as if he was in residence.

  ‘Miss Potts!’ he said. ‘How nice to see you.’

  Agnes gave him a look that would have withered an oak and strode past him into the flat. ‘Me dear,’ she said to Francesca, ‘I’ve come to take you to lunch. Leave what you’re doing. It’ll be there when you get back.’ It was like the cavalry arriving.

  ‘I’ll just get my bag,’ Francesca said, gratefully. ‘Won’t be a minute.’

  Agnes was turning her formidable attention on Brad. ‘You’d better be getting back, hadn’t you,’ she said. ‘Your aunt’s been asking for you.’

  She took his breath away. ‘My aunt?’ he said, looking bewildered.

  ‘Your aunt,’ she told him firmly. ‘You know the one. Your aunt Clara. The one you live with.’ And she opened the door for him. ‘Look sharp. You don’t want to keep her waiting.’

  He went out obediently – what else could he do? – just as Francesca was walking back into the room with her bag and a jersey.

  ‘How did you do that?’ she said to Agnes. ‘I thought I’d never get rid of him.’

  ‘You’re too soft,’ Agnes said, watching to make sure he was getting into his car. ‘Right. He’s gone. Come on. I’ve got a sirloin cooking.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Henry’s eye-catching advertisement for Prendergast Potteries’ new dinner service appeared at the most appropriate time. It came out in all the classy magazines in the week after the first ten sets had been completed and were ready for dispatch. Copies were pinned on the staff notice board at mid morning break and instantly gathered a crowd. There was much happy admiration for how splendid they looked.

  ‘Wow!’ Sarah said, her blue eyes wide. ‘They’re well good. They must have cost an arm and a leg. At least.’

  They laughed at her happily. ‘And quite right too,’ Molly told her. ‘Good advertising brings in the business. The doom an’ gloom boys won’t be so quick to write us off now.’

  It was a chance for Francesca to ask her worrying question. ‘Have they been?’ she said.

  ‘There’s always gossip,’ Molly told her, ‘especially when there’s a recession. It gets more dog-eat-dog then. But this should do the trick. If I’m any judge we shall be working our socks off in the next few weeks.’ Then, having reminded herself of what they should be doing, she got them back to business. ‘Time for work, everybody. Chop chop. Break’s over.’

  Francesca returned to her latest copy of the mermaid, thinking hard. Then it was true. They had been in trouble and they were hoping the mermaid would pull their fortunes round. It wasn’t a surprise because she’d expected it since the party, but even so it was quite a responsibility and she wasn’t at all sure how she felt about that. She was pleased to think that her image could have so much power – or so much potential power – but it worried her too, in case the advertisement didn’t pull in the orders they wanted and needed. Not that there was anything she could do about it if it didn’t. But oh, she thought, picking up her brush, imagine if it does. I do so hope it’ll work for us. Mr P deserves it to work. We all deserve it, come to that. And as she painted the first sweeping stroke, she wondered when the orders would start coming in and how they would cope if there really were a lot of them. Just as well I’ve learnt to paint at speed, she thought. It had taken her nearly two days before she’d fined down her original to the smallest number of brush strokes that were absolutely necessary for a copy and, although it had grieved her to see her painting reduced to a design, she’d grown so accustomed to it as she’d painted it day after day that now she barely noticed the change. Go girl, she said to the mermaid. Make it work for us.

  The advertisement was pinned on the cork wall behind Henry’s desk like a talisman. It was the brightest thing in the room, its expensive sheen catching the sun and the attention, and when he’d first put it up it had filled him with such hope and optimism he’d grown warm just looking at it. But, as the days passed and became a week and then two and there were no orders, he grew more and more pessimistic, although he did his best not to show it.

  His work force waited for news with greater patience because they had less knowledge of the market and simply went on stacking up new sets in the store room, singing and chatting as they worked. Only Francesca, Molly and Liam Norris were concerned and they kept their opinions to themselves, Molly and Liam because they were determined not to be negative, Francesca because there was too much going on in her life to give her time to brood and worry about sales.

  For a start, Brad was pestering her so much she was beginning to think she would have to say something to him about it. She’d been looking forward to the freedom of having a home of her own and he was wrecking it. The trouble was he seemed to think that because he’d helped her to move in he had the right to call whenever he felt like it and he usually felt like it at just the wrong time of the evening, when she was cooking her dinner and, what was worse, he always arrived with a present of some tatty flowers or a small box of chocolates. Which was all very well but it meant she felt bound to ask him in, because he was trying to be kind even if his timing was bad, and once he was over the doorstep, he said such complimentary things about her cooking that she felt compelled to invite him to stay to dinner which meant she had to halve her own meal. She didn’t know how to deter him without being unkind. She’d t
ried hints but he didn’t seem to hear them or he was ignoring them, the way Jeffrey always did when she said something he didn’t want to hear. She was beginning to think she’d have to tell him he wasn’t welcome, straight out, and that seemed harsh when he was so pathetically grateful for her attention and he’d had so many awful things to put up with when he was a child. But it couldn’t go on because it was getting in the way of her new life. She didn’t feel she could settle down to the next picture when he was sitting in her armchair talking.

  But even with all his interruptions to contend with, her painting was getting stronger and more competent by the day. The portrait of Agnes Potts was almost finished and she was really rather pleased by it. She’d caught her almost exactly as she remembered her, standing on the cliff-top with the wind tangling her hair and bellying her skirt into a rounded sail and wild flowers tumbling from the bunch she was carrying and trailing back along the path. It was a bold, strong composition which was fitting for such a bold, strong woman and yet she’d managed to catch the compassion and kindness in her face. When she took it to Agnes’ house for the last minute touches on a mild Saturday morning, she felt she’d really achieved something.

  ‘Yes,’ Agnes said, looking at it intently. ‘Not half bad.’ And that was praise indeed.

  ‘I’ll frame it for you,’ Francesca said as she cleaned her brushes.

  ‘Thank you me dear,’ Agnes said, still looking at the portrait. ‘That would be kind. I shall hang it in the hall.’ Then she turned away from the picture and gave Francesca one of her searching looks. ‘Who are you going to paint next?’

  ‘I’d rather like to tackle Henry,’ Francesca told her. She’d been thinking about it for several weeks and the more she thought, the more tempting the idea became.

  Agnes was intrigued. ‘Why?’ she asked, filling the kettle.