Gillespie and I (11 page)

‘Sibyl broke my pot!' cried Rose, as her parents and I came into view.

‘I didn't!' shrieked the older girl.

Annie sighed. ‘Oh, Sibyl—did you drop it by accident?

The child jumped up and down, wailing: ‘NO! It wasn't me! I didn't do it!'

‘Oh dear,' sighed Annie, putting her head in her hands. ‘Whatever next?'

Clearly, she found her children—especially Sibyl—difficult to control. Ned went to his wife's side, and slipped his arm around her. She leaned against him, giving him a grateful, watery smile, and he kissed her, once, on the top of the head, and then on the cheek. After a moment, he gave Sibyl a kindly wink.

‘It doesn't matter, Sibyl,' he told her. ‘It's only a pot.'

The child ran to him, throwing her arms around his legs, and he swung her up into his arms, to embrace her.

I turned to little Rose. ‘Your fern is beyond saving, dear. But I'm sure someone can find you another, tomorrow—no need to despair.' She gave me a winsome nod. I peered down at the mess on the rug. ‘That china does look sharp,' I said. ‘Be careful, Christina, when you pick it up. Perhaps, if I might suggest, a pair of gloves to protect your fingers.'

And so, by degrees, the household returned to a calmer state. Ned wandered back up to his studio, with Sibyl in his arms and Rose climbing the stairs in their wake, while Christina cleared up the mess, and Annie came with me to the door, where we said our farewells, and confirmed that our first portrait sitting should take place on the following Wednesday afternoon.

This incident with the fern might have been passed off as an accident, except for what happened later that evening. As the youngest person in the house, Rose slept in the smallest attic room, a little cupboard of a place, just next to the studio. There was only enough space for a child's mattress, a small chest of drawers, and a few toys. Apparently, at bedtime, a shard of blue china was discovered between Rose's sheets, just below her bolster. The fragment was sharp-edged and triangular, with three cruel, jagged points, and had it not been spotted (by the lynx-eyed Mabel, who had offered to read her niece a bedtime story), the child might have been lacerated, perhaps seriously injured, in the night.

It was only with the passing of time, and the unfolding of other, more horrible events, that the family began to wonder in earnest whether Sibyl might, in a rage, have smashed her sister's potted fern and then tiptoed upstairs to hide the nasty surprise in her bed. Admittedly, nobody had heard any disturbance that afternoon, which was mysterious, since the plant pot would have made quite a racket, were it thrown to the dining-room floor. But then, of course, everyone was otherwise engaged, and the culprit might easily have muffled any noise, perhaps by wrapping the pot in one end of the rug and then stamping hard upon it. The resulting sound would surely have been only a faint thud with—perhaps—a dim, ringing crack as the vessel came apart and fell into pieces. Shredding the fern itself would have been the business of a moment, conducted in silence. She must then have slipped out of the dining room, unnoticed, and crept upstairs to her sister's tiny room, where she tucked the vicious fragment between the bedclothes.

At least, such was how we supposed it might have happened, in retrospect.

Wednesday, 12 April 1933
LONDON

It occurs to me that I should, perhaps, say a few words about my current situation. For the past twenty years, I have resided, quietly and modestly, in the Bloomsbury area of London, on the fourth floor of a mansion block, within sight of a large garden square. I am not wealthy: a small inheritance—invested in things that would neither smash nor flourish—provides me with a moderate income. Forty years ago, my accountant informed me that, if I chose so to do, I could dine on chateaubriand and champagne, every day, from then, until my last gasp. However, I rather suspect that he did not envisage me surviving quite this long, and, for the past decade, I have been obliged to make a few economies.

Back in 1888, I remember bounding up and down to the Gillespies' apartment like a mountain goat but, these days, staircases are a challenge, and I am none too fond of the lift in this building, which is prone to breakdowns. Thus, life is lived, for the most part, within these walls. I venture out only infrequently, and tend to rely upon others to bring in what is needed. The local tradesmen deliver, and I have a regular order with Lockwood's, the grocer, across the street. In any case, my needs are few: although my health is generally good, and I am in possession of all my faculties, I am increasingly prone to heartburn, with the result that I eat like a bird. Thus, very little mess is generated, which cuts down on the housework, and means that I have no need for a maid. In any case, I have never been keen on maids; a good one is hard to find, and there is much truth in the old adage about domestic staff: ‘seven years my servant, seven years my equal, seven years my master'—although, from experience and observation, I would reduce the cited seven years to three.

Alas, I am no longer quite able to deal with everything myself and so, as a compromise, I have been in the habit of employing a companion or assistant. Young girls have proved themselves to be unreliable and so, this time, I requested the employment agency to provide a person with a little more maturity. My current girl, Sarah, has been with me now for just over a month. I have tried to make her comfortable. She has her own bedroom, of course, and the use of a little sitting room at the end of the kitchen, overlooking the rear courtyard. In addition to keeping me company, and a few light household chores, she has, very kindly, undertaken to do some research, to help with my memoir: nothing too onerous, just a little checking of facts at the library. She spends one or two afternoons a week there, looking up references for me, and copying passages from various books and documents. Of course, in writing this account, I must rely upon my own recollections, for the most part. However, I find Sarah's notes useful for checking dates and so on. This kind of paperwork is, really, above and beyond her stated duties, but she seems not to mind—at least, as far as I can tell. So far, she has proved sturdily reliable, if a mite taciturn.

Companions tend to come and go, but the true fellow travellers of my twilight years are my lovely birds, a pair of oriental greenfinches. They live in a boxwood birdcage, which was bought, in Glasgow, many years ago; I am delighted to be able to put it to good use these days, and the sight of the bamboo slats and netsuke-type carvings are a constant reminder of my old friend Ned. The cage came from one of his favourite places: a little
japonais
curio shop on Sauchiehall Street, not far from where he resided. Ned had a great fondness for the exotic—hence he always paused to look in at the window of that shop. I cannot but think it a shame that, due to everything that happened, he never had the opportunity to see the cage complete with songbirds.

No doubt, he would have loved my greenfinches. They are petite, lively creatures, and very affectionate to each other, which is why I named them Layla and Majnun (or Maj, for short), after the lovers in the Arabic legend. They have been with me now for six or seven years. Maj, the male, is more brightly coloured, and his song is much sweeter. He sings all day long to his lady love, but mostly in the mornings and towards dusk. Indeed, I can hear him now, chirping away, as the light fades. Much as I adore Maj, he has been known to start singing before dawn, and so the cage is kept in the dining room, which is far enough along the corridor from my bedroom to minimise the early-morning disturbance. Other than that negligible problem, the finches are only a joy to behold. One often sees them preening each other and, occasionally, Maj will feed Layla as she begs, open mouthed, and flutters her wings, as though she were a chick. Quaint though it may sound, having observed them, closely, for several years, it is my belief that these two birds are truly in love. Sadly, they will insist, from time to time, on building a nest, using their own feathers, or any other materials gathered up from the floor of the cage (old apple peel gone leathery, or shreds of newspaper, and so on). I have to discourage them from breeding, as I have no desire to care for fledglings, and so, unfortunately, these little nests must be deconstructed as soon as they are built, otherwise the female will lay.

Last week, having given it some thought, I decided to allocate care of the greenfinches to Sarah. From now on, she is in charge of the daily feeding of the birds, the change of water, the cleaning, and so on. I am perfectly capable of doing that kind of thing by myself, but I can see that the finches give Sarah pleasure, and it is my surmise that her life has, thus far, been short on that very commodity. Moreover, I have become absorbed in the writing of this memoir, and I wish to devote all my energy to it. Of course, I will still look in on my avian friends, for half an hour, each afternoon, when it is my habit to shut the windows and allow them out of the cage to flit about the apartment. Layla likes to investigate corners, and hide behind things, whilst Maj is much more adventuresome and bold: I have even taught him to sit on my finger!

I am pleased to say that, so far, Sarah has responded well to caring for the birds. Indeed, she takes great pleasure in it. One would have to have a heart of stone not to empathise with this girl (I say ‘girl': she must be fifty—and yet despite her years, there is something childlike about her). Admittedly, she has not, thus far, been very forthcoming; but one can tell, from her face—the lines between her brows, the set of her mouth, and an occasional flintiness about the eyes—that she has not had an easy life. In view of this, I am attempting to make her employment here as enjoyable as possible. She has plenty of time off: on Tuesday, she takes a half-day, and I have also given her Saturday evening and all of Sunday to do as she pleases. Since the museum is a short walk away, I encourage her to spend time there, and to take fresh air, en route, in the gardens. If I were her age, I would spend any spare hours at the cinema, but she seems to go only once a week, and prefers to stay in her little sitting room, sewing: she smokes Kensitas, and is making up a flowered quilt from the free silks. One of our daily rituals has evolved around the opening of each new packet of cigarettes, to see what flower is inside; I believe that we are still awaiting several species, including Petunia, Tea Rose and Violet.

This afternoon, she brought me a cup of tea in the sitting room, as usual, but instead of letting her go immediately, I asked her to stay for a moment, and indicated that she should sit down in the armchair that faces mine. Sarah gave the chair a glance and then looked at me. Her expression was difficult to read, but, sensing that she was apprehensive, I was quick to reassure her: ‘Don't worry! I'm very happy with your work. I just thought we might have a little talk.'

‘Oh.' She perched on the chair, and sat there, rigidly, with her hands clasped together. ‘Only, will it take long?'

‘No, no!' I told her, with a laugh. ‘Not long at all. Would you care for some tea? Do fetch yourself a cup, if you so desire.'

‘No, thank you.'

She was not frowning, exactly, but her brow was heavy. Despite the heat, she wore a long-sleeved cardigan, buttoned to the throat. Her top lip was beaded with perspiration, the result of her efforts in the kitchen.

‘I'd just like to know how you're settling in.'

‘Well enough, I suppose.'

‘Your room is comfortable? Not too stuffy? The mattress—it's not too hard?'

‘No, it's fine.'

‘And your duties—how are you coping with them?'

‘Not too bad.'

‘You don't find them onerous?'

‘Can't say as I do.'

‘Well, that's good.'

There was a pause. I smiled at her, even though I myself was now quite ill at ease. She had voiced no complaints, and yet something about her responses gave me the impression that she was not entirely happy. She also made me feel that—by asking these questions—I was fussing too much. I tried again.

‘Sarah, is there something, perhaps, that you might want to ask me?'

She gazed at me, blankly, and then, at length, said: ‘No, I don't think so. Excepting … well, shouldn't I change the birds' water now? Only I ought to do it before I make a start on the supper.'

‘Ah—yes, of course. Do—do go ahead.'

With that, she surged to her feet and plodded out of the room. There seems to be rather a lot going on, under the surface, but I suppose that I should take her at her word, and accept that she is getting on well enough. Sometimes, I get the distinct impression that she disapproves of me. I suspect that she might be less pleasant to me were I not so advanced in years. However, she is obliged to be nice: I have diplomatic immunity; I am almost eighty years of age!

II