Gillespie and I (21 page)

However, when Jessie unfolded the cloth for us to examine, we saw that one side of the fabric was coated in oil paint, and realised, with dismay, that it was not a filthy rag at all, but one of Ned's paintings. The canvas had been cut clean away from the frame, and then slashed with a knife or razor, and scorched, until it was almost unrecognisable. Nevertheless, Annie knew the painting, at once, because it was an old, small-scale portrait of herself, depicted against a blue background, a picture that usually sat in the studio, against the wall, amongst a stack of other unsold works. Now, it was ruined.

‘I thought it was one of they paintings,' said Jessie. ‘I just didnae know if Mr Gillespie might have thrown it out hisself.'

At that time, it was unthinkable that Ned would ever have destroyed a canvas, although he might have reused one, by over-painting. There was no telling how long the portrait of Annie had lain, undetected, in the ash pit: perhaps several days. Ned had completely failed to notice that it was missing, and so he cannot have valued it too highly. Admittedly, it was not a recent picture, nor one that was of any commercial value. None the less, the violence of what had happened, and the potential threat that such a fate might befall a more saleable painting, shocked us to the core. Annie told me that when she showed Ned the shredded portrait, that evening, he was devastated. Unable to bring himself to put it on the fire, he took it out to the back green and reburied it in the ash pit. Apparently, he stood staring down at the heaps of ashes for almost ten minutes before returning inside.

Our worst fears were confirmed, that night, when Ned and Annie searched Sibyl's room. Hidden beneath the bed, they found one of Ned's Kropp razors, and a stretcher frame, with—as incontrovertible proof—the remaining edges of the blue-painted canvas still attached. Apparently, Sibyl was present during the search, and went into hysterics as soon as Ned leaned down to peer under her bed.

From that day forth, the child was forbidden to enter the studio, at any time. As far as punishment was concerned, the Gillespies threatened to cancel their Hogmanay celebration, an annual
soirée
that was, by all accounts, legendary. Usually, the children enjoyed the privilege of being allowed to stay up later than usual, and they had looked forward to the party all year. The threat of cancellation—unless there was, in the interim, a dramatic improvement in her conduct—was Sibyl's only real punishment, and so, as might be expected, she promised to be good.

In the aftermath of these latest incidents, Ned's wife began to worry that she had failed as a mother. Once again, when Mabel proposed that an expert in nervous disorders be brought in to examine Sibyl, Annie brushed aside her suggestion, knowing that Ned would be appalled at the mere suggestion that his daughter was not right in the mind. Perhaps out of desperation, Annie seized on the idea that living in the city was entirely to blame for Sibyl's bad behaviour.

‘It can't be good for her, Harriet,' she kept telling me. ‘All this smoke and grime, being cooped up indoors all winter.' She began to talk about the possibility of taking the girls to the coast, believing that seaside air, away from Glasgow, might cure the child. ‘We just need to get her out of town.'

It so happened that Walter Peden had inherited a tiny cottage at Cockburnspath and he invited the Gillespies to spend a few weeks with him there, over Christmas. Ned, Annie and the children were to have the only proper bedroom, whilst Mabel (who was also invited) would sleep in a little adjacent room that had once housed geese. Peden himself claimed that he was happy to doss down in front of the parlour fire, on a mattress.

Sadly, there was no space for me to join them. When the trip was first mooted, Ned did suggest that Mabel and I could share the goose house, but after Peden had described its tiny dimensions, the idea was quickly overruled as impractical. I dare say, had I wanted, I could have taken a room in a guesthouse, nearby. However, I was quite happy with the prospect of remaining in Glasgow. My landlady and her daughters had invited me to spend Christmas Day in their company, and there was the possibility, in the evening, of calling upon Elspeth, who did not celebrate Christmas, a festival that she viewed as entirely heathen.

Having resolved to spend my Yuletide thus, I was surprised, (on the 16th of December, a few days after Peden and the Gillespies had left for Co'path), to hear from my stepfather, who invited me to join him for Christmas dinner at the Grand Hotel. Given his aversion to correspondence, it was extraordinary that Ramsay had even written me a letter. I was delighted to reflect that, not only had I been in his thoughts, but he also desired to spend Christmas with me. As the day approached, I grew increasingly excited, and also, perhaps, nervous, about the occasion.

The 25th of December dawned, frosty and bright. Our table at the Grand was booked for the afternoon, and Ramsay had arranged to meet me, in the tea room, at one o'clock, before we went upstairs for dinner. Having dressed carefully, I arrived in plenty of time and was shown to a table in the corner. There, I remained for almost thirty minutes, and I began to wonder whether my stepfather had forgotten our appointment but, as it transpired, there had been a misunderstanding, and he was waiting for me, with increasing impatience, up in the restaurant. This setback started us off on a bad footing and Ramsay's sour mood endured throughout most of dinner: he was rude to the waiters and impatient with me; the wine was too cold; his beef too stringy. Only when dessert had been served did he mellow somewhat, and offered to take me back to my lodgings in his carriage.

‘How kind of you, sir. If you wouldn't mind, I'd be most grateful.'

In fact, it had just occurred to me that, if my stepfather had an hour to spare, I could show him my rooms. To my mind, Queen's Crescent was a charming terrace, with its central gardens, and stone fountain; my landlady, Mrs Alexander, kept a tidy house; my sitting room caught the morning light; I had sewed my own curtains, and brightened up an old screen, by pasting on scraps and dried flowers. My abode may not have amounted to much, but it was the first place where I had resided that I could call my very own. In hindsight, I suppose that I craved parental approval of my choices. On second thoughts, it was perhaps not approval that I sought; I simply hoped that Ramsay would be glad to know more about my circumstances, and curious to see where I now resided.

The journey to Queen's Crescent took us only a few minutes in the carriage. In my enthusiasm, forgetting that Ramsay knew Glasgow well, I drew his attention to a few local landmarks, and when—having forgotten his customary disdain for ‘sweeties'—I pointed to the chocolate factory in passing, he gave the façade a sideways glance and intoned: ‘Aye', a single word which he imbued with maximum possible West of Scotland scepticism.

The afternoon light was fading as we drew up outside my lodgings. I began to feel rather nervous about inviting my stepfather inside, fearing a refusal. Before I could speak, however, he climbed from the carriage and stood, one arm outstretched, to assist me onto the pavement. As I climbed down, he was casting a critical gaze at the terrace behind him.

‘Is this it?' he asked, and then continued: ‘Listen here, Harriet, I own a house at Bardowie—unoccupied. You'd be welcome to stay there. ‘Merlinsfield', it's called. It's by the loch, very pretty. There's an old couple, Deuchars and his wife, live in the cottage, and they look after the place for me. They'd help you settle in.'

This offer came so abruptly, out of the blue, that I was dumb-founded. ‘I—that's kind of you, sir. I don't know what to say. Where is Bardowie, exactly?'

‘Oh, only six miles out of town. What does your rent cost you here?'

When I told him what I paid, he frowned. ‘For the whole house?'

‘No—just two rooms, in the attic.'

He looked shocked. ‘By Jove! Well—you'd have the run of Merlinsfield—it's a fair-sized house with grounds, mind, and as for rent—well…' He smiled. ‘I'm sure we could reach an agreement to suit your purse.'

At this, I felt confused, and a little deflated: did that mean, then, that he would charge me rent? Or was this comment about my purse an attempt at joviality?

‘Will you be moving back down south?' he asked.

In fact, I had not really thought, on any conscious level, about when—or even whether—I might return to London. There was no pressing reason for me to leave Scotland. At any rate, I was happy where I was, for the present.

‘No,' I told him. ‘I hadn't planned—'

Nodding, he went on: ‘One thing to mention, there's a builder at Merlinsfield, working on the roof and suchlike. You could just keep an eye on him, if you wouldn't mind. He's taken too long already. It's just a few repairs, and there's no real problem with damp—only in a few rooms. At any rate, I'm beginning to suspect the man's a swindler, and old Deuchars is getting on in years; he's got no authority. But now, if I had somebody young on hand, to hurry this builder along… And there's other jobs about the place need done, if you've time.' Ramsay tilted back his head and stared at me down the length of his nose, a look that I remembered well from childhood. ‘Would you be able to manage that, do you think?'

‘I—I don't know, sir. It sounds rather as though you need some sort of building manager.'

He laughed. ‘A building manager, is it, eh? Have you any idea how much that would cost? No, no, I need somebody I can trust.' He dug into his pocket and produced several sheets of paper, folded together, which he handed to me. ‘That's a list of what needs doing to the house. Rooms painted, furniture restored, curtains mended, that kind of thing. Some of it should wait until the roof's done but you could tackle a fair few jobs in the meantime. I expect you can manage most of it yourself, but you could hire a decorator, provided he's cheap and we agree costs.'

Of a sudden, I felt very muddled. It was flattering to be entrusted with the house, of course, and I wanted him to think that I was capable of dealing with builders, and so on. But, on the other hand, I was not sure that I wanted to live six miles away from my new friends.

‘Your offer's kind, sir, but I wonder whether I might prefer to remain in town. If you don't mind, I'd just like to think on it, and let you know in a day or two…'

‘Aye, if you must,' he said, stiffly. ‘Let me know what you decide.'

‘Yes, indeed—and thank you again for your kind offer. Now, would you care to come in for me—I mean, for tea! For tea! Do—please—come in, come in, for tea.'

I told myself to stop repeating every word that I said, but Ramsay was too busy peering at his watch to notice my stammers. ‘No—no,' he said, briskly. ‘I'd best be away. I bid you good day, Harriet.'

Something in his tone made me suspect that I had disappointed him, as though my lack of decisiveness over the matter of the house had confirmed an already low opinion of me. He shook my hand, and climbed into the carriage.

‘Good day, sir,' I called out. ‘I'll certainly give your offer serious consideration and let you know as soon as possible—thank you!'

However, just at that moment, Ramsay was giving instructions to the driver and appeared not to hear me. At a flick of the reins, the horses lurched into motion and the carriage set off around the Crescent.

When I opened the door of my lodgings, I could hear the Alexanders playing parlour games in the sitting room. Although I had been invited to join them upon my return, I was no longer in the mood and so went directly upstairs. My own room seemed very silent and still. Shutting myself away, I went over the events of the past few hours, in my mind. Disappointed that Ramsay had hurried off, so abruptly, I tried to convince myself that he was keen to be on the road before night fell, but I did feel slighted. Clearly, he had not a modicum of curiosity about me.

Moreover, although it was kind of him to have offered the use of his house at Bardowie, I began to wonder whether, in fact, I would be doing
him
a favour by taking up residence, if Merlinsfield was damp, and I was tasked with overseeing the work of a lazy builder. It appeared that I might even be charged rent for the privilege. Not to mention the forty-seven jobs of renovation that required attention around the premises (Ramsay had numbered the items on his list). His proposition had seemed spontaneous—and yet, could it really be a coincidence that, on Christmas Day, he had been carrying around in his pocket this inventory of tasks?

The more I thought about it, the more dejected I became. Disillusioned, I glanced around the sitting room, which looked, suddenly, shabby, as I saw it through my stepfather's eyes. Since it was Christmas, Mrs Alexander's daughter, Lily, had not been in to clean, and everything was exactly as I had left it that morning, with a dirty cup and saucer on the table, a frock draped over a chair, and, on the linoleum, in the kitchen corner, a dark stain of coffee that I must have spilled that morning, without noticing.

But all this bosh about Ramsay is by the bye. There I go again, like the bibulous butler, forever stumbling up the wrong passage.

8

The following week, on the evening of the 31st of December, I bade Mrs Alexander and her daughters ‘Happy New Year', and stepped into the night. Outside, the air tasted of sulphur. A heavy rain had cleared in the afternoon, giving way to a drop in temperature. The cold was magisterial. It had turned the streets to icy metal, and robed the buildings in freezing fog so thick that the gardens at the centre of the Crescent were barely visible. However, I rather enjoy the mystery of fog, and was in fine spirits. Ned and Annie had just returned from Co'path. Sibyl had been as good as gold for the past few weeks, with the result that the Gillespies had decided to go ahead with their New Year's celebrations. I was quite thrilled that I was about to experience my first ever Caledonian ‘Hogmanay' in their company.