Gillespie and I (7 page)

Suddenly, just to my right, Sibyl tripped and tumbled to the ground, landing on her hands and knees. There was a hiatus, for a few seconds, while she took in what had happened, and then, unsurprisingly, she began to wail. Elspeth swooped in to the rescue, and Annie hurried over to comfort her daughter, and thus it was that—by a quirk of fate—the artist and I ended up walking ahead together, just the two of us, alone. Ned was clearly preoccupied: he kept looking this way and that, scanning the groups of visitors, presumably in search of Hamilton. Hoping to distract him from his anxiety, I broke the silence.

‘Your mother has recovered very well, it seems.'

He gave me a puzzled smile. ‘Recovered?' he said. ‘Forgive me, but—recovered from what?'

I stared at him, surprised. Surely they had told him what had happened? ‘From her accident, last week, in town—when she fainted.'

‘Oh aye—that. Aye, yes, she has indeed. You're quite right.'

Another moment passed. Ned scrutinised the queue outside Kelvingrove Mansion as we approached. Presently, since he said nothing further, I spoke again: ‘Thank goodness I happened to be passing, in town that day, and saw her.'

He peered at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Oh, so
you're
the lady. I do beg your pardon. Yes, thank
you
. Thank you very much. We're most grateful for what you did.' He smiled at me, warmly. ‘It's turned out a lovely day, has it not?'

It was, indeed, a beautiful afternoon. There was not a cloud in the sky but, thanks to a light breeze, the air was not too hot. The trees were in their best and freshest garniture, and all around us the grass grew, lush and green. We might almost have been two figures promenading in a verdant landscape painting. The Blue Hungarians were playing at the bandstand, and the boisterous sound of their music floated across the park. I felt, suddenly, elated. Perhaps it was this jubilation that caused me to be rather impertinent in my next remarks. I felt carefree and bold: what did it matter if I showed an interest?

‘I believe you're an artist, sir. Pray tell what you've been working on of late.'

Ned gestured, rather bashfully, at the landscape. ‘Well—this,' he said. ‘The Exhibition, artisans. That sort of thing.'

‘Artisans—how fascinating,' I said, and then added (a little mischievously perhaps): ‘Quite a departure from your painting
The Studio
—the lady in the black frock and veil, with the birdcage?'

He turned to look at me, in surprise. ‘But—what? You've seen that, then?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘But—that picture was shown only the once.'

‘I know—I was there, at the Grosvenor. Did someone buy it, then?'

‘Yes—an anonymous collector, no less.'

I clapped my hands together. ‘Anonymous? How thrilling!'

However, Ned had stopped in his tracks. ‘Excuse me—I've just realised, I've been terribly rude. I remember your face now, from that night. I beg your pardon.'

‘Oh, not at all—you've no reason to remember me.'

‘Ah, but I do remember,' he insisted. ‘You were wearing an elaborate hat—a very tall, nice hat—and a—a very striking blue dress. Yes, I remember now—there was that dreadful curator—your hat annoyed him, it was in the way—and then I lost a collar-stud. Forgive me for not recognising you at first. You see, when my mother introduced us, I just assumed you were one of the ladies from her church.'

‘Ah—not I! To tell the truth, I'm what you might call a freethinker.'

Ned glanced over his shoulder, and then gave me a lighthearted, conspiratorial look. ‘Aye, well, just between ourselves,' he said, in a low voice, ‘I'm not a great one for the Kirk either.'

I laughed, and he smiled at me. ‘Sorry, miss, but what was your name again? Those openings are such a trial to the nerves: I never remember what anybody says.'

‘No need to apologise—we weren't actually introduced. My name is Harriet Baxter. But—please—call me Harriet.'

‘Harriet, it is. How d'you do?'

He shook my hand. Such a lovely moment: the first time that I had ever heard my name upon his lips, and then, that shy, endearing smile that he gave me, after he had spoken. His eyes, although sad, were of a rare and startling blue: at that instant, I could not have named the colour, but with the hindsight of years, I would describe their shade, that afternoon, as ultramarine.

I glanced down as he released my hand, noticing first the muscular span of his wrist, and then I saw, scribbled all across the back of his cuff, a pencil sketch of the hot-air balloon, which must have been what he was doing earlier, when I had assumed that he was winding his watch or fiddling with a shirt fastener. It may sound silly, but I found this quite thrilling: that he would spoil his cuffs by drawing on them showed a refreshing lack of vanity, not to mention an appealing, devil-may-care attitude to convention.

We fell back into step and, moments later, came into view of the multitudes swarming in front of the main building. The place was busy, even for a Saturday. Ned's glance darted here and there as we headed towards the Eastern Palace.

‘I'm interested to hear you're sketching the Exhibition,' I told him. ‘Such an inspiring subject. The urban landscape! The smoke! The city dweller! The crowds!'

‘Aye,' he said, doubtfully. ‘But nobody wants to buy paintings of the city. They'd far rather hang haystacks and cottar's gardens on their walls. And a man has to make a living, Miss Baxter, especially with a family to support.'

I recalled the little scene that I had witnessed earlier: Ned's brother, borrowing money. Was that a regular occurrence, I wondered? Certainly, to judge from his clothing, Kenneth Gillespie had expensive tastes to maintain. And how many of the others did Ned have to provide for? His mother was a widow, it seemed; Mabel remained unmarried; and there were also Annie and the children to feed and clothe.

‘I expect there are many demands on your purse,' I remarked.

When Ned made no reply, I glanced at him and found that he was staring at a gentleman who was seated behind an easel, on the grass near Van Houten's, in the very same spot where I had, only recently, been standing. The artist—a squat, balding character—appeared to be sketching the crowds as they milled about in front of the Palace. A white umbrella shaded him from the sun. Several people stood at a respectful distance on either side, admiring his work.

Ned glared at him, as though thunderstruck.

‘Would that be Mr Hamilton?' I ventured.

‘Not at all,' muttered Ned. ‘It's Lavery—confound him!'

And, so saying, he charged across the concourse with great fierceness of purpose. I half suspected that he was about to attack the artist, or overturn and stamp upon his easel and, fearing something of the sort, I hurried after him; but, in the event, Ned did neither of these things (of course not—violence was not in his nature). He simply stared coolly at the man as he strode past, and bade him a stiff and pointed: ‘Afternoon, John.'

By way of greeting, Lavery waved a stick of charcoal in mid-air, and carried on sketching, apparently oblivious to Ned's barbed tone. No introductions were made; Ned marched on, without pause, until we reached the bridges, then he came to a halt, and began scowling around him at the passing crowds. It was easy to guess the reason for this change of humour: he was simply annoyed to find another artist recording the Exhibition. Indeed, as I later learned, Ned had been busy, a few weeks earlier, making studies of Muratti's tobacco girls, rolling their Turkish cigarettes, when Lavery—who, heretofore, had not been seen in the park with so much as a pencil in his hand—happened to wander past and, spying Ned, had paused to comment upon his sketches. It was from this encounter (or so Ned suspected), that Lavery borrowed the idea to draw some Exhibition scenes of his own.

Sad to see my new friend downcast, I ventured to suggest a distraction. ‘Perhaps we could go inside the Palace, Mr Gillespie. I'd be most interested to hear your opinions on the exhibits. And you could show me the location to which you wish your painting to be moved.'

He glanced at his watch and then looked disappointed. ‘I'm afraid that won't be possible today,' he said. ‘I must, as you know, locate Hamilton—and after that I'm obliged to meet a friend. Some other time, perhaps. It would be a pleasure.'

Just then, amongst the scattered hordes outside the Women's Industries Section, I spotted Mabel's wraith-like figure bearing down upon us, followed, at some little distance, by the rest of the family. Inevitable though this intrusion was, I had enjoyed my private time with the artist, and was most disappointed that it was now drawing to a close. However, an excellent idea had just occurred to me: perhaps I could help out the family purse by buying one of Ned's paintings. I wondered how to broach the subject, and said, at last: ‘As it happens, I should very much like to own a painting by an up-and-coming Scottish artist—perhaps even more than one.'

Ned nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Well, if I can be of any help,' he said. ‘I do know Lavery—he's not a bad chap, really. Of course, there's Guthrie and MacGregor; and some of my friends are making quite a name for themselves: Walter Peden, for instance. But MacGregor or Guthrie might be the ones to approach first. I could certainly get you the introductions, if you like.'

‘Oh—but I'm afraid you misunderstand me. What I mean is that, to begin with, I should like to buy some of
your
work.'

Ned swept off his boater and dragged his fingers through his hair, his outstretched arm exposing, once again, the scribbled drawing on his cuff. ‘Good Heavens!' he said. ‘Well, I'm—extremely flattered.'

And so it was agreed that I would call upon him at his studio, later that week. We were just finalising the details of my visit when Mabel arrived and linked arms with her brother. She whispered something in his ear and then turned to me.

‘Afternoon, Harriet. Are you having a frightfully spiffing time?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

‘I think people
should
have spiffing times, don't you, Ned?' Mabel jogged his elbow. ‘What d'you think, brother mine? Eh, what?'

She was making some kind of joke, I gathered, and possibly at my expense. I felt awkward, since there was nothing, really, that could be said, under the circumstances. Ned laughed, of course; no doubt, he would have missed Mabel's mocking undertones, oblivious, as ever, to her bad manners: dear Ned always saw the best in people, and he was often completely blind to their faults.

In extremis
, I fell back upon that old friend, flattery. ‘Why, Mabel, that's a lovely frock you're wearing.'

‘Thank you,' she trilled, mechanically, and—although she looked me up and down—failed to return any compliment. All at once, the others descended upon us, and Elspeth began, immediately, to screech in my ear. Glancing down, I was unnerved to see Sibyl glowering at me and at my parasol. The sight of a child's face transformed by such a baleful stare was most disquieting. I was beginning to realise that being cornered by Elspeth made one feel rather like a fly, trapped in the web of a spider: an irrepressibly cheerful and loquacious spider, but a spider nonetheless. Hypnotised by the movements of her mouth as she chattered on, I had almost convinced myself that I would soon be bound in silken threads and left—dangling—to be devoured later, when Annie bustled over, interrupting her mother-in-law with the words: ‘Where's Rose?'

‘I don't know,' said Elspeth. ‘Was she not with Sibyl?'

We all looked down at the child. The baleful stare had gone, only to be replaced by a look of injured innocence.

‘Where's your sister?' Annie asked.

Sibyl widened her eyes, as though she had been insulted. ‘I don't know.'

I glanced over towards the main building. Outside the entrance, Ned and Mabel had just accosted a prosperous-looking gentleman, perhaps the person that they sought to meet. Elspeth had followed my gaze and, as though to confirm my thoughts, exclaimed: ‘Hamilton!', and sailed off to join ranks with her son and daughter. I watched on, in the hope that Ned might be successful in his mission to have his canvas relocated. The gallery owner gave every appearance of listening intently to his former student. Unfortunately, Mabel had not had the sense to absent herself. Instead, she had adopted a rather superior stance, her eyes half closed, her chin upturned, a condescending and confrontational pose, which I hoped that the man would not find too off-putting. Beside me, Annie was scolding Sibyl.

‘How many times do I have to tell you not to let her out your sight?'

The girl pouted, and kicked at the ground.

At that moment, from the vicinity of the stone bridge, the disembodied wail of a small child could be heard. Annie spun around with a loud cry:

‘Rose? Where are you?'

She hurried off in the direction of the river. I glanced back towards the entrance. Having heard Annie's yell, Ned broke off from his conversation with Hamilton, and stared, with some concern, towards his wife. As I watched, he muttered something to Elspeth, who had just joined their little group, and then, leaving her with Hamilton and Mabel, he ran across the concourse, darting between the crowds, yelling as he went.

‘Annie! What's the matter?'

‘It's Rose!' I heard her shout in reply. ‘Rose, dear—where are you?'

And then the littlest Gillespie came into view. She was sitting on a path, near the Fire Engine, bawling, her fat apple cheeks dirty and tear-stained. As soon as she saw her mother and father approaching, she ceased to cry, realising that she was no longer lost. Annie descended upon the child, and swept her up.

‘There you are, my wee poppet.'

Elspeth, Mabel and the gallery owner were all staring over at the little scene by the river, but as soon as it became clear that Rose was in no danger, the two women turned back to Hamilton and both of them began to harangue him, at once. Elspeth's lips moved, nineteen to the dozen, and although I was unable to distinguish any individual words from where I stood, I could hear her shrill, overbearing tones. Meanwhile, apparently oblivious to the ruination of his plans, Ned had joined Annie and both of them were fussing over Rose. I stole a glance at Sibyl, who was staring across the concourse at her sister and parents. The expression on her face was downcast, perhaps more miserable than sullen. Annie, in particular, appeared to dote on her youngest child: it seemed clear to me, even then, that Rose was her favourite. I wondered whether Sibyl ever felt excluded.