Francesca and the Mermaid Read online

  ‘He’d be a challenge,’ Francesca told her. ‘He’s got two faces. A private one that you see at his parties, warm and relaxed and sort of twinkly – if that doesn’t sound sloppy – it probably does but you know what I mean – and a public one we see at work. That one’s stiff and formal. Almost stern. He’s been wearing it a lot recently.’

  Agnes understood the situation at once. ‘No orders yet, is that it?’ she said, settling the kettle on the Aga.

  ‘’Fraid not.’

  ‘They’ll come, me dear, ‘Agnes soothed. ‘Give ’em time.’

  ‘It’s beginning to be a bit of a worry though.’

  ‘But it’s not your worry,’ Agnes said firmly. ‘It’s Henry’s. Let him carry it. He’s got broad shoulders.’

  ‘And good hands,’ Francesca said, ‘I’ve done a few sketches of them.’

  ‘Can I see them?’ Agnes said, opening the biscuit tin.

  She examined them as they drank their tea and was impressed. ‘It’s extraordinary how much hands can reveal someone’s character,’ she said. ‘Is that why you always draw them first?’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘That’s how you started my portrait.’

  ‘Yes,’ Francesca admitted, sipping her tea. ‘I suppose I did. So yes, I suppose I do. It’s not just the hands though. I mean, it’s the way they’re used. The way they move. Yours are always busy. They look competent, dependable.’

  ‘You said that when you were drawing them.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And what do you see in Henry’s hands?’

  Francesca was looking at two of her sketches and answered without thinking. ‘Tenderness,’ she said and was then horrified to find herself blushing and added a few more acceptable attributes at once, stammering a little, ‘and strength, of course, confidence, dependability. They’re like yours in a way, worker’s hands. I don’t like idle hands. They look so flabby.’ And an image of Brad’s hands suddenly filled her mind, fat-fingered and white, lifting a forkful of her food to his mouth.

  ‘You’re right about the tenderness,’ Agnes said. ‘I can remember thinking that whenever I saw him with Candida. They were lovely together. It was a joy to see them. He was so gentle with her, poor woman.’ She sighed. ‘Cancer is a monstrous illness.’

  Francesca hesitated before she spoke again. ‘I know it’s not my business,’ she said, ‘but was she ill long?’

  ‘Three years,’ Agnes told her, ‘and he nursed her every second of the way.’

  ‘Than that’s the sadness you see in his face sometimes.’

  ‘He was lost when she died,’ Agnes said. ‘Absolutely, totally lost. It was terrible to see. And the house was so quiet. Like a museum. I think that’s why he started giving parties.’

  ‘To fill the house.’

  ‘To fill the house,’ Agnes agreed.

  ‘You make me want to paint him more than ever,’ Francesca said, finishing her tea. ‘Do you think he’d sit for me?’

  ‘You could ask him,’ Agnes said. ‘There’s no harm in trying. D’you want another cup?’

  I could, Francesca thought. There wouldn’t be any harm just asking. Of course, she had to remember that he was the boss and she might be overstepping the mark. It might not be the sort of thing an employee was supposed to do. But she would like to paint his portrait.

  Agnes was adding more water to the teapot and looked up to see her protégée lost in thought. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘The orders’ll come. They’re just taking a bit longer than you all expected. That ad’s much too good to be ignored. They’ll start noticing it sooner or later. Especially if he runs it for a few more weeks. As I’m sure he will.’

  ‘We can’t stop now, Liam,’ Henry said, keeping his patience with an effort. ‘We must keep up the pressure. We’ll give it two more weeks. Then we’ll reconsider.’

  ‘We’ve been running it for a month,’ Liam pointed out, ‘and the costs are beginning to look prohibitive.’

  The two men were arguing through their usual Monday meeting and although the proceedings seemed calm they were both in a state of controlled agitation. Liam had just presented an expense sheet that was, as he put it, ‘somewhat alarming’ and Henry, who’d been growing more and more alarmed as the weeks passed, was now in his most determined and recalcitrant mood.

  ‘Two more weeks,’ he said doggedly. ‘If there are still no takers after that, then we’ll reconsider. I can’t stop now. There’s too much riding on it.’

  ‘Perhaps we should cut back production a tad,’ Liam tried. ‘We’re seriously in the red.’

  ‘That would spread alarm,’ Henry told him, ’which I don’t want. Not at this stage.’

  ‘Well then at least slow it down a bit, ‘Liam suggested. ‘They’re working flat out. The stock’s building up.’

  ‘No,’ Henry decided. ‘We’ll leave things as they are for another week. Someone’s bound to pick up on it sooner or later and then we shall need all that stock and more. Was there anything else we should consider?’

  Privately, Liam thought his boss was making a mis-take but he didn’t comment. The decision had been made and had to be accepted. It was Henry’s money and Henry’s firm. But it made him feel cross just the same. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’ve done all we can for now.’ Then he gathered up his files, gave Henry a nod and left the room.

  He met Francesca on his way back to his office and managed to summon up a smile for her. Poor girl. It wasn’t her fault that the dinner service wasn’t attracting custom. And she had such a dear little face. All that fuzzy hair and her way of turning her head sideways and looking apprehensive when she asked a question.

  ‘Is he busy?’ she asked, inclining that head towards Henry’s door.

  ‘We’ve just finished,’ he said, opening his own door. ‘Worth a try.’ He watched as she gave her timid knock and, on an unexpected impulse, wished her good luck as he left her.

  Henry was sitting behind his desk in his shirt sleeves, scowling at the balance sheet, as if he could force it to improve by glaring at it. It was the first time Francesca had seen him without a jacket or one of his now familiar jerseys and the sight made her pause. Then she noticed that the October sunshine was casting a bright white halo all round his head and shoulders and that took her aback too. It made him look distant and formidable like a painting of some ancient patriarch, especially as there was so much tension and anger in his face. This isn’t the time to bother him with requests, she thought, and she turned and put her hand on the doorknob, ready to escape.

  The abrupt movement alerted him and he looked up, gathered his thoughts with an effort, and told her to come in. ‘What can I do for you?’ he said and tried to smile at her. But the smile was strained and he knew it even as it was on his face and was annoyed because he ought to have had his feelings under better control. Then he realized that that he’d alarmed her and that annoyed him too.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, apologetically, backing towards the door. ‘I mean, it’s not important. It’ll keep.’

  The self-effacing expression on her face made him feel ashamed and he redoubled his efforts and smiled at her again, this time more easily. ‘Come in and tell me about it,’ he said, trying to be reassuring. ‘Is it work?’

  ‘Oh no,’ she told him, sitting, rather reluctantly, in the chair opposite his desk. ‘Nothing like that. Like I said, it’s not important. It’ll keep.’

  ‘Now you’re making me curious,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  She hesitated, still feeling that this wasn’t the time, while he watched her and tried to look as encouraging as he could. In the end she plucked up her courage and said, ‘It’s just I’ve got a favour to ask you. Not a big one. Just something I’ve been thinking about. Well, wondering about really. It’s been in my mind for quite a long time so it’ll keep a bit longer. I mean, it’s nothing important. Nothing to do with work. I could come back later.’

  She’s so unsure of herself, he thought, and that sadde
ned him. It seemed wrong that she should be vulnerable and insecure when she had such talent. ‘I won’t bite,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘You’re quite safe.’

  It was the smile she was used to and it reassured her. But only a little. She still wasn’t sure. To give herself a pause she looked away from his face and up at the wall behind his head. And there was her mermaid glowing in the warming sunlight, her lovely, free, confident mermaid, ready to swim off into the adventure of the ocean. And she remembered the moment in a clarity of sunshine and how she’d felt, aching for the same freedom, the right to live her own life, the right to be herself.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’ve been wondering if you would let me paint your portrait. I’ve done Agnes’ and it’s come out really well. We’re both quite pleased with it. She said it “wasn’t half bad”. Anyway what I mean is, it’s sort of given me the taste for it. It wouldn’t take long. Maybe a couple of sittings. When you’re not too busy. I mean, you could choose the time. I could fit it in whenever you wanted. I know how busy you are. I could do some of the preliminary sketches while you were at work.’ Then she stopped because his face had changed and this time really alarmingly. He’d drawn in his breath and pulled back from her almost as though she’d hit him. Oh God, she thought, what have I said?

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry but you’ve asked me for the one thing I can’t give you. I don’t have my picture taken, ever, not in photographs, or snaps, or pictures or anything.’ Then he realized that she was looking shocked and felt he ought to try to explain. ‘I can’t bear it,’ he said. ‘Ask for anything else and I’ll give it to you like a shot but not that.’

  I’ve hit a nerve, she thought. I’ve been clumsy somehow. I shouldn’t have asked him. I knew I shouldn’t. She was washed with shame and didn’t know what to say after such a bad mistake. ‘It’s all right,’ she stammered, ‘I mean, it’s not important. I shouldn’t have asked you. It wasn’t. . . . I mean I ought to have known. . . . It was really. . . .’ And she scrambled to her feet. ‘Must get on or Molly’ll be after me.’ And fled.

  As the door closed behind her, he realized that he was trembling. ‘God damn it!’ he said, taking his anger out on the empty room. ‘Why don’t those bloody fools wake up to what a bargain we’re offering. It’s the best ad we’ve ever produced. Why don’t they bloody look at it?’

  In a dentist’s waiting room in Beckenham, Jeffrey Walmesly was looking at the ad with considerable interest. He’d been flicking through the quality magazines trying to keep his mind occupied before he had to face the dreaded chair. Not that he was nervous or cowardly or anything like that – perish the thought – but it was sensible to think of other things in a place like a dentist’s. The bright colours and unusual pattern took his attention most strongly. Now there’s a firm that’s going places, he thought. I wonder who provides their clay. I might do some business there. A new improved clay that doesn’t craze and holds its colour. He wasn’t at all sure such a thing could be produced but what of that. It was the presentation that counted and he was a whizz-kid at presentation. I could buy the clay at trade prices, doctor it a bit and charge a good mark-up. I could make a killing.

  The waiting room was empty except for an old man who seemed to be asleep and a woman with a toddler who was climbing over the chairs and taking all her attention. He picked up the magazine and pulled the page out as quickly and quietly as he could. The woman was alerted by the sound and looked up at him but the deed was already done. He gave her his most charming smile as he folded the page in quarters and tucked it into his pocket. This could be just the answer, he thought. All it needs is a bit of skilful salesmanship and I’ve got that in bucket-loads. In fact the more he thought about it, the more possible it seemed. I could make a fortune. That’ll show that stupid Fran.

  ‘Mr Walmesly,’ the receptionist called in her sing-song voice. ‘Surgery four.’

  Fran was sitting at her work station feeling terrible. It was always the same when she’d upset someone. She was sick with guilt and remorse, wishing the words unsaid, afraid she’d done more damage than she could put right, hearing her mother’s scathing voice. ‘You want to mind what you’re doing you stupid, clumsy girl! I don’t know what I ever did to deserve such a great lummox. You’re useless. D’you hear me? Useless. You’ll never amount to a row of beans.’ Even the memory of the words could cast her down. They’d been said so often and so bitingly and they’d cut her to shreds every time. And whenever she upset someone she proved them true. First with Agnes and now with Henry. She really should have been more sensible. She stared at the plate with her paint brush useless in her hand and was too miserable to move. ‘You let me down that time,’ she said to the mermaid.

  Molly materialized beside her, her round face crinkled with concern. ‘You all right, kid?’

  Before she came to work in Prendergast Potteries, Francesca would have kept her misery to herself. Now she looked up at Molly’s sympathetic face and confessed. ‘I’ve just made an awful mistake,’ she said, putting her brush down. ‘Awful.’

  ‘I can’t see any mistakes,’ Molly said, looking at the plate. ‘Looks perfect to me.’

  ‘Not the plate,’ Francesca said, actually smiling at the misunderstanding. ‘I’ve upset Mr P,’ and she told Molly, briefly but truthfully what she’d done.

  ‘Ah!’ Molly said. ‘That’s still going on. I thought he’d got over it.’ And when Francesca looked a question at her, she explained. ‘After Candida died, he was in such a state he could barely talk to people. Couldn’t bear to be photographed or give interviews or anything. Liam had to do it for him. He sort of went into hibernation.’

  ‘Ah!’ Francesca understood. ‘And now I’ve come bouncing in asking him to sit for a portrait. No wonder he was upset.’

  ‘He’ll get over it,’ Molly reassured, patting her arm. ‘Don’t take it to heart. He’s got over much worse than that.’

  ‘But it makes me feel dreadful,’ Francesca said. ‘I wouldn’t have hurt him for the world.’

  ‘I tell you what we’ll do,’ Molly said, solving the problem since that was part of her job. ‘We’ll get him a special tea this afternoon and you can take it in to him and tell him you’re sorry and put everything right. How would that be?’

  ‘I don’t think a tea would work,’ Francesca said doubtfully. ‘It was more serious than that.’

  ‘Well we’ll try it. He enjoys his tea. If it doesn’t work, no harm done.’

  Francesca sighed. ‘This is what comes of fancying myself as a portrait painter,’ she said. ‘It was such fun painting Agnes. I’d never painted a portrait before and it came out really well. I was really quite pleased with it. But you see how it is. It’s made me conceited. I’ve got too big for my boots. I should stick to plates.’

  ‘I don’t see why you should,’ Molly said stoutly. ‘You’re an artist. Artists can do anything.’

  ‘I wish!’ Francesca said. Talking about her predicament was making her feel despondent. ‘No, whichever way you look at it, I’ve made a right pig’s ear of this. And now I’ve lost my model and upset him into the bargain. I should stick to plates and vegetable dishes.’ And even though she was trying not to, she sighed.

  Molly patted her arm again. ‘If you’re looking for a model,’ she said, ‘I’ll sit for you any time.’

  The offer was such a surprise it gave Francesca quite a lift. ‘Really?’ she said.

  ‘You bet,’ Molly said. ‘I’d be honoured. I’ve never had my portrait painted.’

  Sunlight washed into the workshop, leeching colour from the walls and turning everything in it a pale misty blue, potters’ aprons, slip-wear, long shelves, moving feet, tiled floor, even the air around them. The long kiln, which she’d always thought of as solid, was pale grey with long mist blue highlights. It was the perfect backdrop for a study of Molly’s sturdy figure, with those sun-browned arms and busy hands, that round face smiling, all those thick chestnut curls escaping from her cap, as if there were to
o much life in them to be constrained.

  ‘I might take you up on that,’ Francesca said.

  ‘Do,’ Molly grinned. ‘Like I said. I’d be honoured.’ And she went off to supervise the stacking.

  Francesca picked up her paintbrush again and turned her attention to the blank plate on her turntable. And the mermaid flicked her iridescent tail, flickered her golden eyes and swam into the freedom of the sea.

  From time to time during the rest of the morning, when she stopped painting to stretch her back and her neck, Francesca thought of Molly’s portrait, collecting details for the background while the sunshine was still misting the room; here two women stacking vegetable dishes; there a row of cups, glinting; there one of the men pushing a loaded trolley, its horizontal lines echoing the long pale flanks of the kiln. By the time Molly came to collect her for lunch, the shape of the portrait was clear in her mind and she’d made her first quick sketches for it.

  Molly was too preoccupied to notice it. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘and then we can order Henry’s cakes while we’re getting our lunch. Half a dozen fancies. What d’you reckon?’

  But when they reached the serving counter, the cook shook her head. ‘He won’t be eating none a’ my fancies today,’ she said, looking aggrieved. ‘I can tell you that fer certain sure. Nor the hotpot neither an’ I made that special. Gone up to London he has. Took a dinner service, so Liam said, and then off like a flash. He’ll have to have ’em tomorrer.’

  Molly took her tray and eased through the crush until she found the table where Liam was sitting. ‘Well come on, then,’ she said to him. ‘Spill the beans. Has Mr P really gone rushing off?’

  Liam had a mouth full of hot pot so he just nodded.

  ‘Where to?’ Molly asked, settling at the table. ‘That’s not like him.’

  ‘I don’t know any more than you do,’ Liam told her, mildly. ‘He just came out of his office and said he was going and went.’

  ‘He’s up to something,’ Molly said, darkly. ‘Mark my words. It’s not like our Mr P to rush off anywhere.’