Gillespie and I (9 page)

‘Not at all!' he said, dismissively. ‘It's all sideshows and sweeties.'

‘Well, sir, there is more to it than that. We should go, one day. There are some very attractive buildings—and the machinery! Not to mention the inventions. They're selling a very clever self-pouring teapot.' A flicker of interest crossed his face. ‘I could also show you Ned's painting, although the one at the Exhibition isn't really his best.'

My stepfather gave me a hard stare. ‘Have you got your hooks dug into this man Dobbin's flesh?'

‘My—I beg your pardon?'

‘Are you set to marry him? Is that what this is all about?'

I laughed. ‘No, no! His name is Gillespie, sir, and he's already married. No, I simply believe that he's extremely talented.'

How typical of my stepfather to associate marriage with an image of female ‘hooks' digging into masculine flesh. He was very devoted to my mother, of course, at least before they separated but, in general, he seemed to have a low opinion of the feminine sex. He would certainly never have been a suffragist! In fact, he was to die long before
that
campaign got under way: the victim, alas, of a bizarre explosion, caused by a newly acquired and unpatented gas-powered shower-bath.

‘Why don't you come to town next week, sir? We could visit the Exhibition—make a day of it. I could invite Mr Gillespie and his wife. Or, I could bring Ned here, perhaps, next time I come?' The look of alarm on Ramsay's face was such that I added, immediately: ‘But perhaps not; it might be better if you yourself came to town. More tea?'

He gave his head a little shake.

‘I was wondering, sir, if you—perhaps—have some friends who are collectors, or gallery owners?'

‘Friends,' said Ramsay, bitterly, and gave the sugar bowl a little push. Perhaps, these days, he was rather more reclusive than I had previously thought.

Not knowing what else to do, I smiled, and then glanced out of the study at the draughty room beyond. ‘You have such a wonderful home here, sir,' I said. ‘It might be nice to hang something on these walls—some paintings, for instance.'

‘Hmmph,' said my stepfather. Then he leaned forwards and looked at me, with a glint in his eye. ‘You're wanting me to recommend this Gillespie, are you, to all and sundry?'

‘Oh, well—that would be very helpful. He's not at the fore-front, yet, but he's as good as any of these fellows, like Guthrie, or Walton.' The expression on Ramsay's face did not change: it was conceivable that he might not even have heard of these artists. ‘If we fixed a date for you to come to town,' I added, ‘then I could arrange for you to view his work—'

‘Aye, well—we'll see.' He held up one of the misty glass negatives to the light and peered at it. ‘Fog in the drawing room!' he croaked. ‘Useless!'

Whether my stepfather would buy any of Gillespie's work, or even recommend him to his associates, remained to be seen. However, before I left that day, Ramsay did make a surprising offer: to pay for me to have my portrait painted, so that he could hang the finished product on his drawing-room wall. Of course, I was flattered and pleased, but I must also admit that, initially, I found the notion a little embarrassing. For one thing, it seemed a vanity to sit for one's own portrait. Moreover, even in my youth, I had no illusions about my appearance, and I certainly did not possess the kind of beauty that might make one relish the thought of being scrutinised, at close quarters, and at length. Nevertheless, such a commission would pay well, and I decided to offer it to Ned Gillespie, certain that it would be of great financial benefit to him. Having my portrait painted might prolong my stay in Glasgow, but I had no objections to extending my trip, even for a few months, and there was nothing pressing in London that required my attention.

The following day, as arranged, I called at Stanley Street, to look at Ned's paintings. After ringing the bell, I was admitted into the building by a person in carpet slippers and apron: clearly, this was the Gillespies' servant, Christina. On my previous visit, it had crossed my mind that Annie, with her protestations about the maid's day off, might have been attempting to conceal a genteel poverty,
sans serveuse
—but here the girl was, blue of eye, dark of lash, and pretty, in a pert, snub-nosed way. She preceded me upstairs, her slippers flapping at her heels. Her appearance lacked polish, perhaps; none the less, she seemed (at least on first acquaintance) a capable enough creature.

Inside the apartment, Christina led me directly upstairs. An attic is an unusual feature for a tenement, but Stanley Street had been built to a rare design. For instance, each apartment had the luxury of an interior water closet, and residents of the top floor, like the Gillespies, had this second storey in the loft. Ned's family had made full use of the extra space. Besides three tiny bedrooms (one each, for Sibyl, Rose and Christina), there was a linen press, and—my destination that afternoon—the artist's studio: a narrow, dingy garret, with one skylight. I recognised it, at once, as the attic depicted in the painting that I had seen at the Grosvenor Gallery.

It was a surprise, and something of a disappointment, to discover that I was not the only guest that day. Ned's friend Walter Peden was already there when I arrived and—‘by coincidence'—happened to have brought along his portfolio. Although of Scottish descent, Peden was born in London and had studied Classics at Cambridge, circumstances that had blessed him both with an English accent and with the attitude that, no matter where he found himself, he was always the most intelligent person in the room. Peden prided himself on his bookishness and wore it conspicuously, like a badge. Alas, he had confounded intellect with pedantry, two separate qualities that are, by no means, the same thing. He was a balding, bespectacled, hen-toed fellow of average height, and his supercilious air was amplified by an inability to address anyone without closing over his little eyes, rather as though he did not care to soil his gaze by letting it fall upon you. So incapable was he of dealing with his fellow humans that he could not, in conversation, face anyone directly, and instead kept finding ways of placing himself at oblique angles to his interlocutor. Equally disconcerting was his tendency, without warning, to dance around like a Native, whilst smiling to himself in a self-satisfied manner. In general, he cut rather a tragic figure, but perhaps this ‘happy dance' was his way of protesting otherwise to the world, and pretending that, deep inside, he was actually a jubilant and well-contented individual.

It was quite obvious to me that Ned had invited Peden along in the expectation that I might purchase some of his work. Indeed, I had barely set down my basket when Ned very generously suggested that we go through Walter's portfolio first, before we considered any of his own paintings. A few of Peden's efforts were on display at the Exhibition, and they had not exactly taken my breath away. However, to oblige my host, I gave my cheerful consent, and was rewarded when I saw how pleased Ned looked.

‘Walter's work is outstanding,' he told me. ‘I don't think I'd be faulted for saying that he's one of our finest artists.'

Certainly, Peden himself did not appear to dispute this assertion. He proceeded to produce a series of watercolours, tossing the pages upon the table, one after the other, as though they were of little consequence to him. The pictures were executed competently enough but, much as I had expected, the majority were flatly representational portraits of animals: cows, sheep, ducks, a basket of kittens, a pony, a pigeon, some
gosses des riches
with their puppy, etcetera. I suppose that
somebody
has to paint livestock and pets, but such subject matter has never been of great interest to me. It was all that I could do to stop my gaze from wandering off, towards the stacks of canvases that leaned, here and there, against the wall, and at the painting on Ned's easel—which was angled away from us, at the far end of the room. Even though the skylight had been propped open, the garret was stuffy, and seemed unsuitable for use as a studio. The light quality was dim and, since the window faced more west than north, presumably it was also inconsistent. The ceiling, which slanted almost to the floor, presented a hazard for anyone of the normal height. I could only imagine that my host must often bang his head.

‘
Psittacus erithacus erithacus
,' announced Peden, throwing down a picture of a grey parrot. ‘Extremely intelligent birds, originally native to Africa and, as I'm sure you know, Miss Baxter, much prized by the ancient Greeks and Romans, for their ability to talk, sometimes in complete sentences.'

‘Yes, indeed,' I replied. ‘And pray tell, what did this magnificent bird communicate to you?'

‘As it happens,' Peden sniffed, ‘he was mute.'

‘He spoke not at all?'

‘No—the owner had recently had him stuffed.'

A somewhat undignified admission, perhaps, but to demonstrate that he suffered no discomfiture, Peden danced about on the spot with his eyelids sealed shut, and a smile of rapture upon his face.

‘Remarkable!' I said. ‘Well, in that case, may I congratulate you, sir. You've done a wonderful job of bringing him back to life. If I'm not mistaken, you've even put a gleam in his eye.'

I smiled at Ned, who nodded, happily, in agreement, and then gestured at the other pages on the table, saying: ‘Do you see any painting you like, in particular?'

‘Oh no, they're all equally good,' I said. ‘And if one were a devotee of animal portraiture, and had money to spend, then I'm convinced that one would be hard pressed to find better than these marvellous pictures.'

As I had hoped, this made it quite plain that I had no intention of purchasing any, and Peden began, a little crossly, to gather up his work.

‘I quite agree, Harriet,' said Ned. ‘Walter's pictures will be worth a fortune, one day. He's such a talent.'

‘I am now aware of Mr Peden,' I said, ‘and of his work. Thank you so much for the introduction. But I'm most curious to see your
own
recent endeavours.'

Ned gave a fretful glance towards his easel, and I felt a tingle of anticipation, but just then, footsteps clattered on the landing, and Sibyl burst in, looking hot and over-excited. She ran to Ned, and tugged at his hand.

‘Papa! Papa!' she squeaked. ‘Come and see what I done!'

‘Come and see what?'

‘My fern! I planted it in a pot! Come and look!'

She clung to him like a little tick, dragging, with surprising strength, not only at his hand, but also at the hem of his jacket, straining the material at the seams.

‘No, Sibyl,' he said. ‘We have visitors', and I was about to throw my hat in the air and give three cheers (metaphorically, of course), when he added, ‘Bring your ferns up here if you must. But be quick. Papa's busy.'

Instantly, Sibyl fled back downstairs. Ned chortled and gave his head an exasperated little shake. ‘My apologies—they're planting those blasted ferns.'

‘Pteridomania!' exclaimed Peden. ‘That dreaded disease.' He angled his body away from me, in order to address me, sideways, over his shoulder. ‘It seems that when you ladies are weary of novels and gossip and crochet, you find much entertainment in ferns. No doubt you preside over a fern collection, Miss Baxter?'

‘Sadly, no!' I replied. ‘What with all my novels and gossip and crochet, there's no time left over for ferns.'

The astute reader will, of course, realise that I was employing irony; but Mr Peden gave a self-satisfied nod—as though I had proven his point.

Just then, footsteps thundered once again on the landing, and Sibyl returned, followed by Rose, who sidled into the room, more shyly. Each child bore a fern in a coloured pot (yellow for Sibyl, blue for Rose), which they set down upon the table for us to admire. Sibyl pushed her plant towards Ned, causing Peden to leap forward and rescue his portfolio. ‘Careful!' he muttered, and began, fussily, to tie the strings.

‘That's my one, Papa!' cried Sibyl, ignoring him. ‘Look at mine!'

‘My one is the nicest,' said Rose, quietly.

Sibyl turned on her. ‘No, it
isn't
!' she hissed. ‘And you're just a big fat
baby
!'

‘Now then, my wee beauty,' said Ned, with a laugh. He scooped Sibyl into his arms, and smothered her in kisses. Just then, another footstep was heard on the landing, and Annie appeared at the threshold, in outdoor clothes.

‘Here you are!' she cried, unfastening her bonnet. ‘Good afternoon, Harriet. Walter. Ned, dear.' And she smiled at us, hazily, as though through a pretty fog.

Peden gave her a little bow and flourish. Sibyl jumped down from Ned's arms, and the children ran to their mother, their voices clamouring as they struggled to be heard, one above the other.

‘Come in, dearest,' said Ned. ‘How wonderful to see you.'

It occurred to me to wonder whether there might have been an edge of sarcasm to this remark, but apparently not: he was regarding her with genuine affection. In return, Annie lowered her head and gazed at him through her eyelashes, a look that smouldered sufficiently to make any witness feel
de trop
.

‘How was your class, dear?' asked Ned. ‘Did you enjoy it?'

‘Yes,' she replied, examining the ribbon string of her bonnet, which had just fallen off in her hand, and would require stitching. ‘But we had a model this afternoon, and it was awful difficult. I did some
horrible
drawings. I need practice.'

‘My wife is being modest,' Ned told me, and then smiled at her. ‘She's a far better painter than I am.'

Annie widened her eyes, in mock horror. ‘Och, away!' she said. ‘Now you're just being silly. But here—why don't we all go down and have some tea? It's a bit crowded in here, is it not? Ned?'