Gillespie and I (17 page)

‘Well, as it happens,' Peden announced. ‘I heard something very interesting over luncheon, about Old Findlaypops and his sketch of the brothers Gillespie.'

I braced myself: perhaps Findlay had gone ahead and published a caricature in one of the other weeklies:
Quiz
, perhaps, or
The Bailie
. Annie began to bite her lip, a sure sign that she, too, was nervous. Sibyl had thrown herself down on the sofa, out of sight, but there could be no doubt that she was all ears.

‘He didn't even submit it to
The Thistle
,' said Peden. ‘And—seemingly—the reason is, that somebody persuaded him not to. In fact, they made him
destroy
it.'

‘Really?' said Annie.

Peden turned to me. ‘Seemingly,' he said (how I hated the word: seemingly this and seemingly that; he was such an old gossip!), ‘according to what I heard, it was a lady who made him destroy it: an English lady—by the name of Miss Baxter.'

Out of the corner of my eye, I was aware of Annie, turning to stare at me. Indeed, all eyes were upon me, because Sibyl's spyglass was inching silently into view, beyond the arm of the sofa, in a way that I would have found almost comical, had I not been in such a tight spot.

‘What on earth are you suggesting, Walter?' said Annie.

‘Yes, what?' I added, with as much composure as I could muster.

‘Oh, come now, Hetty, don't act innocent. A lady with an English accent—'

‘There must be five thousand of those in Glasgow this summer,' I told him. ‘What with the Exhibition.'

‘Yes, but how many of them are named Baxter?'

Annie was frowning at me, lack of comprehension writ large across her face. After a moment, she turned to Peden.

‘What was in Findlay's drawing?' she asked him. ‘How were Ned and Kenneth depicted?'

Walter shook his head. ‘I don't know,' he replied, then gave me a scolding look. ‘Come on, Hetty—admit it was you. Miss Baxter? From London?'

I laughed. ‘You're barking up the wrong tree,' I told him. ‘Why would I stop Findlay publishing his silly doodles? Why should I interfere?'

‘I have no idea,' said Peden. ‘But it seems evident that you did. I have it on good authority, right down to your physical description.'

At that moment, a strange sound made us both turn to look at Annie. I was surprised to realise that she was sobbing. And then, to my astonishment, she stepped forwards, with a tearful smile, and threw her arms around me.

‘Oh, thank you!' she murmured, in my ear. ‘I was so worried about that stupid man and his drawing. Thank you so much for stopping him.'

Her neck smelt faintly of her favourite ‘Crab Apple' scent. I could see Peden, over her shoulder, staring at me.

‘What I don't understand', he said, ‘is why you made him destroy it, Hetty. What on earth was in it? Findlay won't say a word: claims he's sworn to secrecy.'

Annie released me from her warm embrace, and stepped back to face Peden, as she wiped her eyes. ‘Never mind,' she said. ‘Perhaps we'll never know what was in that vignette. The main thing is it wasn't published. Now, Walter, if you don't mind, we must get on with our work.'

‘Oh! Of course—the Great Portrait!' he said, and danced at her. ‘I'll be off then. Good day, dear Mrs. G—and farewell, Hetty, you sly dog.'

He gave me one last narrow-eyed look, and then sauntered, pigeon-toed, across the hall, and out of the apartment.

Annie addressed her daughter, who was still lying, eavesdropping, on the sofa. ‘Sibyl—go to your room for a nap.'

An interval of whining ensued, but, eventually, the child shuffled out of the room, trailing her blanket behind her. Annie waited until Sibyl had gone upstairs, and then she closed the parlour door, quietly. I expected her to return to her easel, but instead, she sat down in one of the chairs by the hearth and, propping her head up on one hand, she gave me a long, inquisitive look. I thought, at first, that she was studying me, for the purposes of the painting, but eventually she spoke.

‘Now then, Harriet—whatever have you been up to?'

As it turned out, I had been correct in my assumptions about Annie: she
did
know all about her brother-in-law's secret. A few weeks later, I heard the full, unexpurgated story of how she had become his confidante, several months previously, after he had confessed all. Suffice to say, her suspicions about him had first been aroused on a family outing to Edinburgh in late December. Kenneth and Annie had been seated together in a busy train, the rest of the family having been obliged to occupy another carriage. It seemed that, during the journey—and unbeknownst to Annie—Ned's brother had become intimate with an Argyll and Sutherland Highlander who had taken the seat at his other side. The encounter began with the pressure of one man's thigh against the other, at first—apparently—accidental, and then (at Bishopbriggs, following the departure from the carriage of the remaining passengers) more deliberate; and it progressed, by furtive, fumbling degrees, to a concluding act which I will not elucidate here, but which Kenneth performed manually upon the soldier as the train entered Haymarket Station; his actions cunningly concealed by the military cape draped across the stranger's lap. (This aspect of the tale, Annie alluded to only in the most vague of terms, but there was no mistaking what she meant.)

I gathered that what she found most unnerving was that all of this wanton activity had occurred right beside her, whilst she was deeply absorbed in reading a book, her beloved
David Copperfield
and, at the very moment when Kenneth had been applying himself with the greatest fervour to the Highlander, on the approach to Haymarket, she had just reached the saddest part of the story: the deaths of Jip, the adorable miniature dog, and also of the hero's wife, poor little Dora. These combined tragedies (all within a single page!) had reduced Annie to tears; and it upset her to think that—whilst she wept, quietly oblivious, and moved by masterful storytelling—Kenneth had been at her side, fiddling about in the clammy netherworld of a soldier's kilt (not her words but mine). It was only afterwards—when the soldier had disembarked at Haymarket, and Kenneth had acted strangely, running after him, and then refusing to say why—that Annie grew suspicious.

‘So I asked him about it, at Hogmanay, when he was drunk. He wouldn't tell me at first, just kept hinting there was something about him I didn't know. But later, he got more drunk and then—well—he said what had happened on the train.'

Despite any reservations that she might have harboured, Annie had since been careful not to show Kenneth her disapproval. She was, I think, flattered that he had confided in her. As for Kenneth, once he realised that his brother's wife would not only keep his secrets, but also allow him to talk about them without condemning his actions, he acquired a taste for confession and abandoned all modesty, even seeming quite thrilled to provide her with unexpurgated accounts of his exploits.

‘After that, he told me everything,' she said. ‘About all the other men that he'd been with, in all sorts of places. I used to tell him he should be careful, but he never pays a blind bit of notice. And then the Exhibition started, and he met Carmine—the gondola man—and
that
was a blessing, believe me, Harriet, because it calmed him down. He's not going off with strangers any more, one after the other, like he used to. Whatever he and Carmine do, it happens in private.'

‘Alas, not
always
,' I reminded her. ‘Lucky for them that it was only me who saw them under the bridge. Imagine had I been a policeman!'

Annie looked crestfallen. Poor girl (for she really was no more than a girl): carrying the burden of this secret for so many months had been a strain, and I believe it was a huge relief for her to confide in me.

But there I go again, rushing ahead. I did not hear all of the above until—perhaps—September, by which time Annie and I had developed a closer friendship, and were able to talk about such things, albeit in euphemistic terms.

On the day in question, of course, very little was said. Although Annie pressed me, I continued to deny any involvement in the destruction of Findlay's caricature, for several minutes. Then, I will admit, I gave in. She was so desperate to know how Ned and Kenneth had been depicted, and begged me so hard that, eventually, I described it for her. Thereafter, she insisted upon knowing why on earth I had gone to Findlay's house in the first place and so, in the most delicate way possible, I told her that I had witnessed Kenneth, in the park, in the company of the gondolier. ‘They didn't see me—it was quite dark by that time—but I saw them; I saw—what they were doing.'

Annie had clamped her lips together so tightly, that they had all but disappeared. Eager to reassure her, I clasped her hands in both of mine.

‘Please don't fret, dear. Why, I know quite a few men of the same sort, down in London. It's more common than you'd think. I won't tell a soul, I promise.'

She gazed into my eyes, trying to determine whether or not I could be trusted, until, at last, something inside her seemed to yield, and she gave a sigh. ‘Oh, Harriet! Ned doesn't know about it, and I've been almost going mad, thinking that this drawing might come out, and ruin everything—Kenneth, and Ned—all of us.'

‘Well, hopefully we don't have to worry about it any more.'

She shook her head; there were tears in her eyes. ‘I don't know how to thank you. I won't forget what you've done to help us—ever.'

Just at that moment, the front door flew open and, a second or two later, Ned bounded into the parlour.

‘Afternoon, ladies,' he cried. ‘What are you doing in here, all cooped up? We should be out in the park, in the fresh air.'

‘You seem in good form, dear,' said Annie, recovering herself with admirable grace. ‘Have you seen Walter?'

‘Should I have?'

‘He's away to find you at the Club. You must've missed him in the street.'

‘Not to worry,' said Ned, and then turned to me, with a smile. ‘Harriet, I'm sure you'll be glad to know that my
Eastern Palace
is finished, and is now up on the wall at the Art Club, awaiting the verdict of the Fine Art Committee.'

‘Wonderful—how does it look?'

‘I'm not entirely happy with it, of course, but—'

‘Ach,' said Annie, scathingly. ‘Don't listen to him. It's magnificent.'

Ned gave a modest laugh. ‘Well, I wouldn't go that far. But Horatio Hamilton was there, and he did tell me he thought it was my best work yet.'

‘Oh, that's simply marvellous,' I told him.

‘Now Ned, dearest,' said Annie. ‘Don't be disappointed, but that thing wasn't in
The Thistle
after all.'

Ned looked blank. ‘What thing?'

Remarkably, given the straits that the rest of us had been in, he seemed to have forgotten altogether about the vignette.

‘Findlay's sketch, dear. He put Mr Crawhall in
The Thistle
instead of you.'

Ned laughed. ‘Good old Crawhall! Aye, he'd be a much better subject than me, anyway. Now—' He clapped his hands together, the caricature already forgotten. ‘Why don't we all go to the park, and celebrate that I finished my painting? Thanks to your good advice, Harriet, I think I might even stand half a chance of this commission. I do hope I can find some way to repay you.'

‘Oh, good gracious—' I said, more than a little embarrassed. ‘I was just so sure that your
Eastern Palace
would be something special.'

‘Well, you were right—from now on, I shall consult you before I do anything. Annie, where are the girls? Let's get out of here. Come on, Harriet, let me buy you a hokey-pokey or a cold drink.'

‘Oh, that would be wonderful but—' I glanced at his wife, doubtfully. ‘We ought to get on with my portrait. Annie's keen to finish.'

To my great surprise, she shook her head.

‘Och, never mind that, now. We can work on it some other day. Ned's right. We all deserve some fresh air, and some fun, in the park.' She smiled at me and, reaching out, took my hand in hers. ‘Would you mind coming upstairs with me, Harriet dear, and helping me to get the girls ready to go out?'

My face grew warm with pleasure at this unaccustomed display of affection.

‘Not at all,' I told her. ‘I'd be delighted.'

And thus began a wonderful new phase in my friendship with the Gillespies.

Thursday, 8 June 1933
LONDON

How ironic that just as I am writing about improved relations with Annie and the Gillespies, matters with Sarah have taken a turn for the worse. It all began with the finches. The unfortunate thing about keeping any kind of pet—be it dog or cat or bird—is that one can get very attached to an animal and then, when something goes wrong, there can be great heartache and sorrow. Such has been the case with Maj and Layla. They are not sick, thank heavens; despite being mature, in bird years, they seem healthy enough. However, I have had to intervene of late, in a way that always causes me great anguish. Moreover, the incident has created a rift between my new assistant and myself.