Gillespie and I (5 page)

‘Sibyl? Where are you going?'

The girl tittered, guiltily. ‘Nowhere,' she piped, sidling out of the room.

‘You see?' Mabel admonished Annie. ‘Yesterday I had to bring her down about six times. She simply won't leave him alone.'

With a sigh, Annie rose to her feet. One of her plaits had come undone, and she had fastened up her bodice wrongly, leaving a spare button at the top. She trailed out of the room, calling wearily: ‘Sibyl—please come back!'

But Sibyl, it seemed, had no intention of returning. Footsteps thudded up the stairs; there was the sound of a brief scuffle, and then the child began to scream. The screaming grew louder—and more disturbed—until one might have thought that she was being murdered. Moments later, Annie reappeared, dragging her daughter by the hand. The child scrabbled and clutched at the door jamb, but she lost her grip when Annie prised her fingers free. We all leapt to our feet, and Mabel slammed the door shut, then tried to help Annie restrain the girl, who was still wriggling and writhing. As they crossed the room, supporting her between them, Sibyl tried to hang onto a chair, and then, before anyone could stop her, she reached out and grabbed at the oilcloth, with the unfortunate result that it came flying off the table. Down came the cups and saucers, the tarts and cakes, the dull teaspoons, the tarnished tray, the teapot, an old lamp (which, thankfully, since it was daylight, was not lit), a dish of dented wax fruit, a water-stained sewing box, various odds and ends, and all the church newsletters and envelopes. Everything fell to the floor with a sudden, startling crash—which made Rose take fright, and then she too burst into tears. Annie immediately hurried over to comfort her younger daughter, leaving Sibyl to sink to the floor, scarlet-cheeked, and screaming, with Mabel chiding her to behave herself and stop bothering Ned, and Elspeth, in between apologetic glances at me, trying to soothe one and all, whilst—up, up—from the pile of cloths and debris on the carpet went a great rolling cloud of dust.

Just audible, over this bedlam, were some noises from the floor above. I heard a few impatient footsteps, and then, after a pause, a rhythmic banging, as though—in protest at the racket from the parlour—somebody was rapping the floorboards sharply with a cane or stick. The artist—in his garret! Six or seven times the floor was struck and then, it seemed, he gave up, for there was a clatter and then a rattling sound, as though he had flung down the cane and let it roll across the floorboards.

Meanwhile, Sibyl stretched herself out on the carpet, stiffly, her little arms rigid at her sides, wailing for her ‘Papa-aa!' until, at length, her fit of temper became so prolonged and unbearable that Annie relented, and told her that she
could
go upstairs to the studio and see her father, after all. At once, the child's shrieks subsided to shuddering little sobs. Then, she picked herself up and stalked, slowly, out of the room, casting dark, accusing looks at one and all.

I listened to her footsteps as they faltered on the first few stairs, and then increased in speed as she ascended, until she could be heard positively skipping along the upper floor, her misery forgotten. Moments later, there was the sound of a door opening and closing—presumably the door to the studio, wherein worked the girl's father—the artist, Ned Gillespie.

Ah yes: Ned Gillespie. You may be wondering, dear Reader, when he is going to make an actual appearance in this overwhelmingly feminine account. On this occasion, I must disappoint you, because once Sibyl had disappeared inside the studio, the door remained closed: Ned did not come down to tea, at all, that day; he showed the parlour not so much as a whisker.

Personally speaking, I suppose that I was now quite curious to meet Elspeth's son, to see if he was, indeed, the young artist whom I had encountered in London. Life is full of strange coincidences. In fact, it was sheer chance that I had even gone to that exhibition at the Grosvenor back in the autumn: left to my own devices, I would never have left Aunt Miriam's side. As I have already mentioned, she was ill and, by late September, my duties as nurse had caused me to be virtually housebound, for several weeks. A few concerned friends, who had noted my pallor and exhaustion, eventually suggested that I relinquish the sickroom for one night, and accompany them, first to the Grosvenor, and then on to supper. Opening nights of exhibitions always attract a large and fashionable throng and—right up until the very last minute—I was in two minds about whether to go. Not only was I loath to leave my aunt, but I also dreaded the prospect of spending several hours, forced to make conversation, in noisy rooms. However, in the end, my friends persuaded me.

Just as I had feared, the gallery was so crammed that even the large West Room felt overcrowded. My friends formed a merry party, having come from a late luncheon; my own mood, by contrast, was sombre, and such was my state of mind that I soon tired of their jollity, and so contrived to drift away from them, and wander about, alone, gazing at the various artworks.

At one point, I found myself in a relatively tranquil corner of the East Gallery, lingering in front of a small canvas, a domestic interior, entitled
The Studio
. The colours of this picture were particularly striking against the scarlet damask of the wall. The painting depicted an elegant lady in a black frock. She was standing in what appeared to be an attic room, an easel in the background the only suggestion that this loft belonged to an artist. A shaft of light fell from a skylight window, illuminating the woman's figure. Her hat was trimmed with a short, diaphanous veil. In one hand, she held a little bag of seed, which she was feeding to a canary in a cage. Although she seemed to be a guest in the house, one formed the impression—simply from the way that she fed the bird—that she was a frequent visitor. The expression on her face was intriguing: she looked so placid and content, lost in thought, perhaps—even—in love.

Of course, I would like to be able to say that, upon first viewing, I was seized by the genius in the conception and execution of this painting,
The Studio
. However, knowing little about art, I did not, at the time, single it out as exceptional. Indeed, I lingered in front of it—in what the Scots might call a ‘dwam'—primarily because that corner of the room happened, just at that moment, to be less crowded.

My reverie was suddenly interrupted when a pair of hands grasped me by the shoulders and began to draw me away from the painting. For a second, I assumed that my friends had found me, and were dragging me off to Romano's but, as I turned, I realised that I was simply being moved to one side by a complete stranger: a bearded gentleman, in evening dress.

‘Madam, if you would,' he said, and deposited me a few feet away, next to a gilded table. Then he turned to his companions, a group of important-looking gentlemen. ‘Now, as I said, this picture may be of interest. Note if you will…'

As he went on speaking, I continued to stand where I had been placed, somewhat stunned at having been shoved aside as though I were no more than an irksome piece of furniture. The bearded fellow, I deduced, was a guide, or curator of the exhibition; his companions—a group of be-whiskered gents—were, presumably, potential buyers of the work.

One man, younger than the rest, stood at the back of the group. In comparison to the others, his evening dress was not quite so impeccable, and he was clean shaven, except for a small moustache. While the other men followed the curator's every word, this young fellow stared, rather crossly, at the floor. His face was flushed, and I wondered, at first, whether he had taken too much sherry.

At that moment, the curator beckoned to him, calling out: ‘Sir—would you care to add a few words—perhaps about your intentions in painting this work?'

The young man frowned at him. ‘No, sir, I would not,' he said, in a rich, Scottish brogue. ‘First of all, a picture should speak for itself—'

‘Indeed,' said the bearded guide, with a smile, and then he nodded, indulgently, at the other men. ‘So say many of our young artists.'

The painter stepped forward. ‘But that's beside the point,' he said, and then he extended his arm, to indicate me. ‘I think you should apologise to this lady here.'

The curator gave a short laugh. ‘What?'

‘Right enough, her hat is tall,' the painter continued, ‘and it obscured our view, but that's no excuse. We could have waited, or you could simply have asked her to step aside—instead of acting like a damn brute.'

The gentlemen in the group exchanged shocked glances. I looked at the curator: the smile on his face had vanished.

‘Oh, please,' I said, hoping to forestall an argument. ‘It doesn't matter.'

Ignoring me, the curator addressed the artist, hotly: ‘I
beg
your pardon?'

‘It's not my pardon you should be begging,' said the painter. ‘Now will you please apologise to the lady?'

Wide eyed with outrage, the curator turned to me. ‘Madam,' he snarled and, with a click of his heels, he gave me a sharp bow. Then, he marched off into the crowd, saying: ‘This way, gentlemen. Follow me—I believe there's something more interesting in the next room.'

Some of the group scurried off in his wake, whilst others turned away more hesitantly, offering me the odd apologetic smile or nod as they departed. In the interim, the young artist had come to my side.

‘I do beg your pardon,' he said. ‘That fellow is insufferably rude. Allow me to apologise properly on his behalf.'

‘Oh, please—I don't mind.'

The young Scot scowled after the departing curator, who was guiding his charges towards the doorway. ‘That wasn't a real apology, not by any means. But don't you worry—I'll drag him back here and get him to say he's sorry.'

‘No, don't,' I begged him, before he could charge off across the room. ‘Please don't make a scene on my account. You mustn't cause a fuss. After all, you could have sold your painting to one of those men, if you hadn't spoken out.'

‘Ach, no—they wouldnae have bought it.'

I barely remember what remarks we exchanged thereafter—simple pleasantries, no doubt. We spoke for no more than a few moments. Reading between the lines, I gained the impression that the young man was slightly overwhelmed by the grandeur of the occasion. While we talked, he kept pulling at his collar, as though he was unaccustomed to wearing one so high, and he fiddled so much with one of his brass collar-studs that it fell to the floor, bounced out of sight, and was lost. We both bent down to search for it, but before it could be found, a different curator appeared and ushered the artist away, into the next room, in order to present him to another group of gentlemen; and soon, thereafter, my friends descended upon me, and persuaded me to join them for supper.

That, in brief, was my encounter with the Scottish artist named Gillespie. Upon reflection, it seemed very possible that he and Annie's husband were one and the same person. An interesting coincidence, I thought to myself—and there it might have rested, had not Elspeth invited me to meet the family again, the following Saturday, outside the quaint Cocoa House in the park.

3

On the appointed day, finding that I had arrived at the park a little early, I decided to while away some time in the Fine Art Section. This would have been, I dare say, the last Saturday in May and, due to a spell of fine weather (before those terrible rains at the end of the month), the entire Exhibition was teeming with crowds. As I battled my way through the British and Foreign Loan Collections, I was, as ever, reminded that galleries do attract a disproportionate number of wiseacres: those persons who like to show off to their companions, and give anyone within earshot the benefit of their wisdom about the pictures on display. At one point, I even witnessed a man crouching down in order to
sniff
a canvas, before declaring to his companions that it was ‘
most definitely, wi'oot a doot, an oil painting
'.

Weary of the crowds, I headed for the British Sale Room, which was always a little quieter, although, as usual, it had attracted that other unfortunate breed of citizen: those who possess no real interest in Art, but who hurtle around in groups, barely glancing at the paintings, in their search for that with the heftiest price tag:

‘
There's one at forty-two pound!
'

‘
Never mind that, Archie, here's a six-hundred-pounder!
'

Eight pounds and ten shillings was the price of
By the Pond
, the only one of Ned Gillespie's works to be included in the Exhibition. Now that I had become acquainted with the artist's family, I paused to examine it with fresh eyes.
By the Pond
was a large canvas, in the
plein-air
style of Ned's contemporaries: a rural, naturalistic scene of a little girl chasing ducks. I realised, now, that he had used his older daughter as a model. However, the child in the picture wore an angelic expression: either Sibyl had stopped glowering for a few minutes, or Ned had used his imagination. The painting had an undeniable charm and was fashionable at the time, which would explain its inclusion in the Exhibition. I cannot pretend to be an expert in Art but, in my opinion, the subject matter was too slight to merit its imposing scale: Sibyl and her ducks would have been far better reduced to half the size. None the less, the composition and use of colour were pleasing, and I believed that I would be able to compliment Annie's husband on his exhibit, should we happen to meet.

Regrettably, it was impossible to ignore that
By the Pond
had been terribly badly hung, in the worst spot in all the Fine Art Section: an ill-lit, lofty position, above a doorway, at the eastern end of the British Sale Room, and at unfortunate proximity to an oft-blocked and malodorous drain. This situation gave rise to much hilarity on the part of visitors, who were wont to hasten beneath Ned's painting whilst wafting their hands in front of their faces and uttering various ribald comments. I myself was aware of the jokes regarding the picture's aromatic location—albeit vaguely, as an outsider. The general consensus was that the pond in question must have been a ‘right stinky stank' (stank being a Scots word for a pool of stagnant water or drain). For a time, there was a danger that this phrase might even become a nickname for the artist himself, when a certain satirical drawing, which caricatured Ned unkindly, and appeared above the name ‘Stinky Stank', would doubtless—if published, as planned, in an issue of
The Thistle
—have stoked the flames of mockery. Fortunately, the caricaturist withdrew it at the last moment and thereafter the nickname fell into disuse.