Gillespie and I (38 page)

Uncertain what to make of this letter, I hid it in my bureau. Then, telling Sarah that I had no appetite for breakfast, I shut myself in the bathroom and drew the water for my morning dip. Having checked the temperature (so cool that it is almost cold, as is the only option, in this infernal weather) I slipped off my shoes and was about to undress when a sudden thought stopped me short. You see, although I had been careful to hide Miss Clay's letter at the back of the drawer, I had dropped the envelope, without thinking, into the waste-paper basket. My worry was that Sarah might notice it—if, for instance, she happened to empty the basket, or if she strayed into my bedroom, for any reason, whilst I was elsewhere. Had Miss Clay not written her return address, then we would have had no problem but, as it was, I felt unhappy that the envelope remained in plain view. Even if the letter were genuine, I did not wish Sarah to know that I had been in contact with her former employer; it might raise unnecessary questions in her mind. Reluctant to leave it to chance, I decided that the envelope ought to be concealed, at once. I left the bathroom and padded back down the hall, still fully clothed, but with bare feet. The door to the sitting room lay ajar and, as I approached, something in there caught my eye.

My companion.

She was seated in my armchair, smoking a cigarette. I was struck, initially, by the sheer nonchalance of her posture. She lay back, low in the chair, as though, by force of habit, she had collapsed into it. Her legs were stretched out, and loosely crossed at the ankles, with one stockinged foot resting upon the other (how unusual it was to see her without shoes!). She looked perfectly at ease, for all the world like a slightly bored
Hausfrau
, taking a moment of leisure in her own sitting room.

Since I, too, was barefoot, I had made no sound as I moved across the parquet in the hall. Sarah was facing the fireplace wall, which meant that she was looking away from the door. Even when I crept up to the threshold, she failed to notice me, and remained, sprawling in the chair. In fact, now that I could see her more clearly, she seemed not bored, but almost transfixed, as though in a deep reverie. At first, I had assumed that she was gazing blankly into space. But then, all at once, I realised that she was staring at the painting that hangs above the mantelpiece.

Previously—at least, to my knowledge—the girl has never shown the slightest bit of interest in art. In my presence, she barely glances at any of the numerous works on display in the apartment; yet, now, here she was, gaping at this picture, as though hypnotised. For some reason, she seemed utterly captivated; staring and staring, gazing up at the wall, like a cat might fix on a bird. The sole movement in the room came from the thin stream of smoke that rose from the cigarette in her hand.

All thoughts of Miss Clay's envelope had vanished from my mind. My legs were shaking. Fearful that Sarah might suddenly turn and see me, I shrank back from the doorway, and returned to the bathroom, one silent step at a time. Safely inside, I closed the door, without a sound, and drew the bolt. Feeling weak, of a sudden, I sat down on the edge of the bath. No longer in the mood for a soak, I pulled out the plug and watched the tepid water swirl away, down the drain.

The sight of that girl gazing up at the canvas had thrown me into perturbation, verging on alarm. I was seized by an overwhelming conviction: not only had she waited until I was out of the way in order to sneak in and look at the picture, but she had done the very same thing on many previous occasions.

The apartment is full of paintings. As well as those in the sitting room, there are pictures in every room, including my own bedroom, where there are about half a dozen. I even have some on display in the kitchen. Why on earth should she be so interested in the one that hangs above the mantelpiece?

All at once, a cloud chased across the sun. The bathroom, with its tiny window, was plunged into shadow, and in that instant, it came to me: this terrible notion that I now cannot seem to shake.

Some time later, I heard the girl in the hallway, calling out to tell me that she was going to the butcher's. The front door opened and closed; I heard the creak and groan of the lift as it began its descent. Only then did I hurry back to my bedroom and lock myself in.

Half an hour passed, and then she was back again, and knocking at my door to ask if I wanted any luncheon. I gave her the impression that I was unwell, and did not wish to be disturbed. Indeed, my indigestion has been rather bothersome; even now, I feel queasy. Later, I rebuffed her offer of tea, and then when she came tap-tapping once more, at around six o'clock, asking if I wanted her to telephone the doctor, I told her that I was going to sleep, and wished to be left alone.

This morning, she has already been at the door two or three times, asking if I am recovered, and whether I want anything to eat or drink. I have no appetite but luckily, there is a jug of water on my bedside table, and I keep a bottle of Scotch in the cupboard, in case my insomnia proves to be irredeemable.

I keep sending her away.

Once, she tried the handle, but the door is still secured.

I shall have to unlock it and emerge at some point soon, if only for practical reasons, which are becoming increasingly urgent. Were it possible to leave this building by some other route than the front door, I probably would. However, there is no way out. I have even investigated my bedroom window as a potential exit. Alas, it has a narrow sill, and then there is naught but a four-storey drop into the courtyard behind the garage.

Is it possible that Sarah is Sibyl? And if so, does she intend to do me harm?

3.30 p.m. She has gone across the road for cigarettes, and in her absence I have been able to make a dash to the facilities. I feel a little better, somewhat calmer, and less distraught.

This weather really does take it out of one.

I had sufficient time to look around the apartment. Everything seems perfectly normal. Maj and Layla are quite safe, thank goodness. The girl has clearly tended to them well during my self-inflicted exile in the bedroom. Their cage is clean; their water bowl full; and they have been given seeds, and one half of an early pear. They are hopping about, as ever, in blithe ignorance.

There goes the lift. It was my intention to lock myself in again before her return. However, one cannot remain behind closed doors, indefinitely. I must be brave, and go out to the sitting room. Oh, but I dare not! No, I must. One ought to have the courage to look her straight in the eye when she comes in.

10.30 p.m. Despite any trepidation that I may have experienced earlier, nothing of an alarming nature has transpired. Sarah, when she returned from the tobacconist, seemed perfectly dull and normal. She poked her head into the sitting room, and expressed concern for my well-being. Thankfully, she appeared not to detect any nervousness on my part. When I told her that I was feeling much better, she asked if I wanted a hot drink, and then trudged off to make tea.

Not once did she glance at the painting above the mantel.

However, now that I have had these strange misgivings, I find that I am unable to look at her in the same way.

This afternoon, when she returned with the tea and biscuits, I watched her closely. If only one could see beyond her middle-aged appearance to tell what she might have looked like as a child—but try as I might, I cannot. Her hair is grizzled; her face sallow and tired; her figure doughy. Time and trouble have moulded her appearance until she resembles ten thousand other women of her age. She does have those neat features that may once have been pretty, but almost fifty years have passed since those days in Glasgow, and I cannot be sure that there is a resemblance between this bloated, faded woman and the girl that I once knew: that thin, frail child, who looked so haunted and guilty in the days after her little sister went missing.

Saturday, 26th August. This morning, simply out of curiosity, I placed a telephone call to the lunatic asylum in Glasgow. Since Sibyl Gillespie has been on my mind, I find myself intrigued to know what might have become of her: was she ever released from that asylum, for instance, or is she, perhaps, still a patient there?

I had hoped to find out some answers straight away but, apparently, they are not permitted to give out such information over the telephone, especially not on a Saturday. It seems that I must put my questions in a letter to a Mr Pettigrew, the Secretary of the asylum, and he will reply, in writing. It all seems frightfully bureaucratic. I did ask the person on the end of the telephone, very politely, a few times, simply to give me a hint: was the Gillespie girl still a patient: yes or no? Even though I explained that I was an old friend of the family, and that we had once been very close, the woman refused to be drawn on the subject. With no other alternative, I have decided to write a letter of enquiry to this Mr Pettigrew.

My sole dilemma is how I am to send it. For various, complicated reasons, I feel just a little awkward at the thought of asking Sarah to take such an item to the pillar box.

A letter came in the morning post, from Derrett. Apparently, the hospital has lost the results of my blood test and he has offered to do it himself. Perhaps I will ask Sarah to make me an appointment. I seem to remember that there is a pillar box outside the surgery. If we take a cab there, I might be able to slip a letter into the posting slot while Sarah is paying the driver.

Sunday, 27th August. This evening, finally, the temperature has dropped. A thin rain has started to fall, coating the sticky windows. Could this be the end of the fine weather, I wonder? Down the hall, the kitchen door is open. Sarah is playing a game of Patience in her sitting room; I can hear the slick slap of the cards as she turns them and lays them out on the table.

I am beginning to allow that I may have been a little hasty. All the girl did was look at a painting. It is, after all, a wonderful work of art. Perhaps she was just daydreaming: perhaps she went into my sitting room to tidy up, and then drifted off into a reverie as she gazed up at the wall. Is that not a much more likely scenario than the one upon which I have been brooding since yesterday?

I will acknowledge that when I saw her staring up at the picture so intently, it did give me rather a turn. At once, everything made perfect sense: her reticence, the lies about her age, even her accent, which I suddenly concluded must definitely be Glaswegian (much disguised, and discernible only because she sometimes shortens her vowels, or rolls her ‘R's). There is no question that Sarah's accent is, at times, odd. However, now that I am calmer, I am no longer sure about this theory that she is Scottish by birth. Is it not more likely that her strange pronunciation is merely an unfortunate hybrid, caused by her habit of moving around from one place to another?

She did lie about her age, of course, but then, many women do, and her secretive behaviour may just be due to a natural reserve and desire for privacy. As for her character references, I will admit that I am still a little dubious about their authenticity. However, just because she might have persuaded a few friends to vouch for her does not mean that she is guilty of any larger, more sinister deception.

I have also been thinking about our little ‘Ding Dong Merrily' incident, and am beginning to suspect that my anxiety that evening may have been generated by a strange muddle of déjà vu, and the seasonally incongruous music. In writing this memoir, I have been spending a good deal of time locked in my imagination, in memories of the past. It is quite conceivable that, while Sarah was playing, I might have been transported, in my mind, back to another apartment, to Stanley Street, in Glasgow, all those years ago, and to one of the little piano recitals that we listened to in the parlour. Perhaps there was nothing malign in Sarah's playing after all; it might simply have been the case that I got carried away by my own excitable imagination, exacerbated by her unwarranted use of the sustain pedal.

How silly to think that I had envisioned her, creeping in here to the sitting room, whenever she could, to look at the painting above the mantelpiece. Besides, the notion that Sibyl would have tracked me down, after all these years, is inconceivable.

Monday, 28th August. It seems that the rain of yesterday was an anomaly, for the scorching weather has returned, just as punishing as before. I have sent Sarah to Gamage's to see if she can find an electric desk fan. They are bound to stock something of the sort.

In the girl's absence, I have been hard at work. It is fascinating how absorbed one can become in a world that consists merely of ink and paper; I often feel as though I have stepped back in time. There we might be, Annie Gillespie and I, walking through the West End of Glasgow. Or here is Ned, right beside me. If I close my eyes, I can smell him: the sweet reek of his pipe, and the fresh, pine-tree tang of turpentine. Sometimes, if I glance up from the page, it is a surprise to find that he is not actually present, seated in the corner, watching me, his lips curving upwards into a fond smile. Of course, I am dreaming of happier times, when events in the manuscript have taken a gloomy downward turn. I wish it were otherwise.

Tuesday, 29th August 1933. Last night, I lay defenceless on my bed as Sarah pinned me down and injected my arm with a powerful sedative, designed to put me into a permanent state of paralysis and stupor. Although I struggled, she was too strong for me. Her needle pierced my flesh and the drug seeped, inexorably, into my veins. At once, I could feel its deadening effects as it flowed through my body. I knew that, thereafter, I would be entirely within her power. All the strength left my limbs. I could not lift my head. I was inert, immobilised, helpless. For certain, this was the end of me.

Somehow, just as I was about to slip under, I found the strength to fight back. With a huge effort of will, I strained to break free, and then, of a sudden, I awoke, gasping and flailing, my heart hammering in my chest; I was as fearful as a fish hauled from the water and left to perish on dry land.