Gillespie and I (28 page)

‘Like Kenneth,' he said. ‘It was him I was thinking about—wondering where he might be—if he is far away.'

‘Oh—oh well, I'm sure he's fine, wherever he is. It's probably for the best that he's left Glasgow.'

I suppose that, in saying this, I had Kenneth's secret in mind, but Ned—knowing nothing of all that business—misinterpreted my words.

‘You're right,' he said. ‘This city—it was no good for my brother, and it's not much good for Sibyl either—the wee soul.'

‘Yes, poor dear.'

He was still staring at the window display, but the moon was so bright that, when I turned again, I could clearly see his eyes: they were dark and uncertain, full of pain. Again, I wondered what might be on his mind. My heart was beating strangely; my hands felt suddenly cold.

He was about to speak again when we heard Elspeth, calling from Charing Cross corner, where she and the others were waiting for us.

‘Son! Herriet! Are you coming?'

Both of us fell into step, at once, and when I gave him a questioning glance, Ned shook his head again and said: ‘Don't pay any attention to me—I've had too much to drink.' And then I watched him as he fixed a smile on his face and strode on ahead, suddenly bold and cheerful, with a quip for Elspeth.

‘Mother, you must shout a bit louder, they didn't quite hear you in Carntyne. For your information, Harriet and I were just deciding which kimono would suit you best. We've decided you must wear it to church.'

‘Och, son, away with you!' cried Elspeth, delighted to be the focus of his amiable attention whilst in the company of her neighbours.

Of course, we hoped that the exhibition would attract favourable notices and, following the opening, a handful of reviews were published, but, sadly, the reactions were mixed. The most enthusiastic article, in
The Glasgow Evening Citizen
, claimed that although, hitherto, Gillespie's pictures had been tentative, he had now acquired mastery over his own style and, at times, the work showed ‘flashes of brilliance'. By contrast,
The Arts Journal
accused Ned of ‘cheap cleverism, carelessness and slapdash'.
The Herald
disliked the unflattering, sombre tones of the recent portraits which, it claimed, were unlikely to attract many prospective sitters. And the critic from
The Thistle
confessed that, in the most recent landscapes, the intensity of the style had made his skin ‘creep', which could either have been a compliment, or a criticism, depending on what one requires from a painting.

Regrettably, the
Thistle
review was illustrated by a sketch of the gallery on opening night, penned by none other than Mungo Findlay. In his drawing, Gillespie and I were standing close together; I was looking up at Ned, and the caricaturist had made the expression on my face annoyingly rapt. His caption read: ‘The Artist in deep conversation with his English friend, Miss Harriet Baxter'. It was all very unfortunate and hardly accurate, since not once, during the course of the evening, had I even stood next to Ned. No doubt, Findlay was making the most of an opportunity to embarrass me. A few tongues were set wagging, inevitably, but only for a brief while.

All in all, in that first week, the critical response to the exhibition was disappointing and, after the initial few days, attendances at the gallery fell away. Gillespie put on a brave face, but I could tell that he was deflated. Later that week, he was even obliged to drop everything and don an apron, to serve behind the counter of the Wool and Hosiery, when Miss MacHaffie fell ill and was unable to work. I, for one, avoided the shop during that period, although I did glimpse Ned, one afternoon, as I returned from a riverside walk. Glancing across, from the opposite side of Great Western Road, I could distinguish him, in the shadowy interior of the premises. He was serving two ladies, showing them rolls of ribbon that he had laid out on the counter; for all the world, he resembled naught but a shop assistant. He looked utterly miserable.

As for myself, perhaps I should just mention that, back in the early spring of that year, I had taken up a new pursuit. In fact, I had been considering trying my hand at drawing and painting for a long time, probably ever since Annie had worked on my portrait. Yes, I believe it was her good example that persuaded me to attempt some pictures, but it took a while for me to pluck up the courage. Eventually, some time after Christmas, I had bought an easel and various other requisites, and I began to practise sketching on paper and daubing at canvases, in secret. My first efforts were frightful, and I kept my new hobby to myself, perhaps because I was mortified to think that Ned or Annie—real artists!—might ask to see the results of my labours. However, it soon became clear to me that I was in desperate need of help, in the form of some sort of tuition, and so I joined the evening group for ladies, at the Art School, which, since Peden's departure, had been taken over by Ned. Of course, it seemed only polite to ask him if my presence in the class, as a friend, would be a distraction, but he assured me that he did not mind in the least. His sole reservation was that it was rather late in the term, and he wondered whether the School would permit me to enrol at such an advanced stage. As a matter of fact, with that very issue in mind, I had already spoken to the Headmaster, who had offered no objection to admitting me as a student. In any case, Ned himself had only just started teaching the class and so, in a way (as we joked, at the time) we would be beginners together.

Annie had seemed a little taken aback when she learned of my plan to attend the classes. But as I told her, I had no lofty aim: it was only ever my intention to dabble in painting and drawing, as a hobby. Perhaps, in an unwitting fashion, she was envious that my time was my own; I was free, in a way that she, as a mother, never could be. There was also the issue of money, of course. Make no mistake, I was all too aware of my fortunate circumstances,
grâce à les bénéfices de mon grandpère
, without whose kind legacy my life might have been quite different. Annie had no such inheritance and, as a woman, in those days, she was in a perilous position, financially speaking. I always felt rather awkward that my small income permitted me to live reasonably well, and without anxiety. Thank heavens, during my lifetime, the world has become a better place: nowadays, we women can own property, whether we are married or not, and I look forward to the day, in the not too distant future, where we can take on the work of men (not only in time of war, mind you), and earn an equal wage, and perhaps even become business tycoons, or magnates—would that not be wonderful?

But where was I? Oh yes, I had begun to attend Ned's classes at the Art School, back in March, and was finding his tuition extremely useful. Not only was he a talented painter, but he also proved to be a gifted teacher. He encouraged everyone as he passed around the room, pausing, from time to time, beside each of us, to comment on our work. Above all, he was a kind man, and no matter how tired he was (and, by then, he often looked tired, his energy depleted by having to teach as well as paint), his criticisms were presented in the most complimentary way: ‘A promising start, Mrs Coats. Perhaps you might want to draw the vase lower down, then your flowers wouldn't be crammed into this narrow space at the top of the page … but all in all, a very strong beginning.' He showed no favouritism, even to me. Truth be told, he went to the opposite extreme, in the interests of fairness, stopping beside my easel less frequently than he did with the other ladies. I understood, perfectly, his reasons: he was unwilling to make the others feel neglected. Very cleverly, he spotted my main problems, from the start: that, in drawing, I pressed down far too hard on the paper and that, in both drawing and painting, I tended to overwork each detail.

Having embarked upon this new hobby, I soon began to feel the limitations of my lodgings in Queen's Crescent. My rooms were at the front of the house, with dormer windows, which were low, and faced in a southerly direction, more or less, which meant that the quality of light was inconstant. Space was limited, and the ceilings were not particularly high. Given all these restrictions, neither room was ideal for use as a studio. With this in mind, I had written to my stepfather, back in March, to remind him that he had offered me the use of his property at Bardowie. I enquired, politely, whether the house was still available, and whether—with his permission—I might use it, for a while. Whether or not the place was habitable, I did not know, but I had an idea that I might spruce up a few rooms and spend some time there, over the summer, practising my drawing and painting.

Miraculously, I received a reply to this letter: a short reply, admittedly, but a reply nonetheless. Yes, Merlinsfield was available, and yes, Ramsay was happy for me to take up residence there. That, in a nutshell, was as much as was contained in the main body of the letter. However, in postscript, he had added:
Builder still at work on roof. Obliged you would conduct surveillance and inform me at once if he is idle. Suspect he will sleep between the rafters if you let him. Cannot fire brute as he is distantly related to the Tuites by marriage. Took him on as a favour—little did I know! Incidentally, I am off to Switzerland for a few months. You can contact me through my factor, as usual
.

I had absolutely no idea who the Tuites might be: presumably some important local family, with whom my stepfather wished to curry favour.

In any case, a few days later, I went to view Merlinsfield, which turned out to be an old jointure house, close by the shores of a loch. Of the builder, that day, there was no sign, and I was able to explore the place alone, having collected the key from Donald Deuchars, the old retainer, who resided with his wife, Agnes, in the cottage at the gate. The acreage at Merlinsfield was larger than I had expected. At its centre was the main building, a handsome mansion, constructed of stone, with crow-stepped gables. Attached to the house was a large tower, with a substantial room on an upper floor. There were several outbuildings, and the property was perfectly habitable, bar a few damp corners, here and there. I was thrilled, in particular, by the tower room, since it looked out over the countryside, both north and east. From the north-facing window, you could see the wind rippling the surface of the loch, and causing the saplings on its shore to shiver. There was a huge fireplace in the wall, and the ceiling was high. I could not help but think that such a room would make a splendid studio, and I decided, on the spot, to accept my stepfather's offer.

Since then, I had been spending part of each week at Merlinsfield, keeping an eye on the builder, whose name was McCluskey. With Ramsay's blessing, and with a view to staying at the house over the summer, I employed another man to redecorate a few of the rooms. I even gained my stepfather's permission to enlarge the windows in the tower, with the aim of admitting as much light as possible. Provided that I paid for the work, Ramsay seemed to have no objection to any improvements that I might want to make to the structure. Donald and Agnes had been overseeing the builder's efforts, but they were elderly and frail, and could not really be expected to supervise or chivvy him. With my encouragement, McCluskey laboured at a swifter rate, and I had high hopes that the repairs and refurbishments would be finished by the middle of May.

It is perfectly true that I invited Ned and Annie out there, in April. I hired a carriage, and we made a day of it. I wanted them to see the house, with the early daffodils in bloom, and it was also an opportunity to take the children out of Glasgow and let them run around the woods and meadows by the loch. Disappointingly, the day began dull and overcast. Sibyl was fractious: she squabbled with Rose during the journey and then, at the loch shore, threw stones into the water, in rather a spiteful fashion. Annie also seemed unhappy that day. She claimed to have a headache, and even the cawing of the crows seemed to vex her. By contrast, Ned took a liking to the place. He was very impressed, both with the property and with the work that I was having done on the tower and the guest rooms. Most of all, he loved the view from the window of the studio: he kept exclaiming over it, and saying how much it reminded him of some of the countryside around Co'path.

In mid-afternoon, by some miracle, the sun came out. Annie and I sat at the edge of the loch on a blanket, while Ned charged about the meadow, encouraging the girls to chase him, keen that they should make the most of this chance of fresh air and exercise. Rose was always happiest by Annie's side and, presently, she came to join us on the blanket, where she cuddled into her mother, like a little cat, the happy recipient of Annie's kisses. In all likelihood, Annie was unaware that, whenever she contemplated Rose, her favourite child, a particular glow softened her eyes: the light of love—of complete adoration—which never appeared when she looked at Sibyl. A little earlier that day, we had picked some daffodils to take back to Stanley Street, and Rose kept holding the flowers up to her mother's throat, to see the golden light of the petals reflected under her chin. For some reason, this sight tickled Rose, and she kept chuckling away to herself.

Meanwhile, Ned continued to play ‘tag' with Sibyl. At one point, he grabbed her, and spun her around, pretending to stagger under her weight. To my surprise and delight, I saw that the child was laughing: a rare moment.

‘Look at Sibyl,' I murmured.

But Annie only rubbed at her forehead, saying: ‘What time were you thinking of going back, Harriet? Only it'll start to get dark soon.'

I dare say that we did mention the possibility of us all living there together, over the summer months, but the notion that any serious proposition was made is far-fetched. We all knew that Annie was set on renting a cottage by the sea, or returning to Co'path, should the tenants move out in August, as Peden had intimated that they might. Evidently, Merlinsfield was not what she had in mind. I certainly did not bear her any grudge thereafter, as has been suggested, most recently, with the appearance, earlier this year, of that piece of gibberish, Mr Bruce Kemp's
Famous Travesties of Scottish Justice
. I do not intend to honour that publication with further mention here, since its author would love nothing better than were I to fan the flames of his publicity; but I will say, in passing, that one particular essay therein is nothing but a distasteful flight of fantasy, written by a conceited, embittered person whose mind is severely deranged.