Gillespie and I (27 page)

‘I'm afraid I can't. It would be—impolite. In fact, she did tell me, but I've forgotten what she said. To ask again would be rude. I'm sure you understand. Presumably you have it written down somewhere, amongst her particulars?'

Mrs Clinch let out a great sigh. ‘Hold on a moment,' she said, and the receiver was dropped. I had done well to claim forgetfulness—Clinch is never happier than when one confirms one's age and infirmity. There was a pause and then various scrapes and bangs from afar, which I imagined were filing-cabinet drawers, opening and closing. Then, closer at hand, there was a rustling of paper. Another sigh, and then: ‘Says here she was born in 'eighty-two.'

‘Eighteen eighty-two! Are you quite sure?'

‘Would it have been better for her to be born in a different year?'

‘Ah—no. Except—I believe she told me she was rather younger than that.'

‘Well! I'm sure she's not the first to fib about her age. She's perfectly fit and healthy. And you specifically asked for somebody older this time, didn't you—do you remember?… Miss Baxter?… Are you there?'

‘I say—you don't happen to have a note of her place of birth, do you?'

‘Birthplace, now? Hold on a moment, please.' There was a muffled sound, as though Mrs Clinch had covered the transmitter with her hand. She muttered something to someone. Then she spoke into the telephone again, abruptly. ‘Dorset.'

‘I see. Dorset … is that from her birth certificate?'

‘Ooh no! We don't hold them. I've just got a form here, she filled in her own self. Now, will that be all, dear?'

A form she filled in ‘her own self'. I wonder how much that can be relied upon for accuracy, given that the girl has lied to my face about her age? Born in Dorset—indeed. I have my doubts. I have been listening to her accent very carefully of late, and have begun to suspect that she may not even be English; the more I hear her speak, the more convinced I am that she might be of Glaswegian origin.

IV

April—November 1889
GLASGOW

10

Let me deal, briefly, with Ned's solo exhibition, which was staged in the middle of April that year. The show included several of the portraits that he had completed over the past eight months or so, including Mrs Urquart (looking rather glum and severe), a number of Exhibition pictures from the previous summer, and half-a-dozen new paintings. These, Ned had worked up from sketches that he had done at Co'path—windswept, austere landscapes and rocky coastlines. In similar style to the woodland rendering of Rose and Sibyl, the new canvases often had menacing overtones. All the recent emotional disturbances in Ned's life had given these pictures a gravitas, a new weight that set them apart from the work of his peers. The very fact that he had been able to produce six paintings in as many weeks was remarkable: his output had improved, beyond measure. No doubt, in the absence of Mabel, Peden and Kenneth, and with Elspeth now an unwelcome guest, number 11 was a more tranquil household than ever before but, to my mind, it was the continued banishment of Sibyl from the studio that had made the most difference to Ned's ability to work at an uninterrupted pace.

On the first night of the show, Hamilton's gallery was packed with people and all seemed to go well, more or less. There, in force, were the ‘Art Club' set: in those days, still a cosy clique of ‘hills and heather' mediocrities, like Findlay, who put in an appearance for half an hour. A few of the new breed could be seen amongst the crowd—although not, I noticed, Lavery. The gallery consisted of two basement rooms, and Hamilton had allotted the smaller of these, in its entirety, to Gillespie. I had brought along my landlady, Mrs Alexander, and her daughters, Lily and Kate, who were very excited to be part of the proceedings. Sadly, Ned's wife was not present that evening. The reason given in public, at the time, was that she was obliged to remain at home, because of the children. In fact, I had offered to look after them for her, but Annie had declined. Under normal circumstances, she might have left the girls in the care of her maid, but, unfortunately, the Gillespies had been obliged to dismiss Jessie, the previous week. It so happened that Annie's Christmas gift from Ned—her silver bar-brooch, with the baroque pearl—had gone amissing. Annie wore that particular piece of jewellery only on special occasions, and its disappearance might not even have been noticed for a while had I not, one evening, requested another look at it. Annie left the parlour and returned, bewildered, several minutes later, having failed to find it anywhere in the bedroom. When asked, Jessie claimed not to have seen the brooch for weeks. We were not too worried, initially, but the family possessed few valuables and this silver trinket had been a relatively expensive item. Over the next few days, Annie looked in every conceivable place, but was unable to find the brooch anywhere.

One afternoon, while Ned was out buying wood for a frame, she waited until the girls had gone to the butcher's with the maid, and then undertook a search of Sibyl's room. She half expected to find her missing jewellery there because, unfortunately, whilst little Rose seemed to grow more adorable with each passing day, her sister became only more diabolic, and Annie's earnest hopes that the child was improving had come to nothing. As it transpired, when she looked beneath Sibyl's bed—where the child usually stashed ‘appropriated' items—she found only six jam jars, into which her daughter appeared to have urinated. In any other circumstances, such a discovery might have seemed strange but, by this time, we were so habituated to Sibyl's disturbing behaviour that Annie barely remarked upon the jars.

Perhaps it was an intuition that made her decide to look in Jessie's room. Passing the locked door of her husband's empty studio, she entered the little garret at the end of the attic landing and began a quick search. Within moments, she had found the brooch, wrapped in an old stocking, which had been concealed beneath the mattress. Deciding not to confront the thief alone, Annie replaced the jewellery where she had found it and said nothing to anyone until Ned came back, towards dusk. Although the evidence was overwhelming, it was a measure of Ned's kindness that he was reluctant to give the maid notice straight away, and he and Annie spent much of the evening in whispered discussions about what action to take. I know that Ned felt betrayed by Jessie, certainly, but having to turn her out into the street filled him with guilt and regret. In the end, he decided against alerting the police, in case this might condemn her to prison. Dear sweet man! He spent the night in torment, at the prospect of what he was obliged to do the following morning. However, he steeled himself to go through with it, and the girl left Stanley Street before breakfast, with no written recommendation, in case she stole from a future employer. Needless to say, before she went, Jessie protested her innocence, even making a number of veiled accusations, accusations of an outlandish nature, which—as you may know—she was encouraged to elaborate upon during the trial. Since her testimony will be reported later, there is no need to repeat that malicious piece of character assassination here.

Following Jessie's departure, Annie should, by rights, have gone to an agency and found a new girl, but she procrastinated. She seemed to have had enough of unreliable maids for the time being, after her recent bad experiences, not only with Jessie, but also, previously, with Christina. To some extent, I can understand her position. I cannot abide anyone tampering with my belongings, and listening at doors. That is the problem with servants, you see, the lack of privacy. Dusting is mere subterfuge, an opportunity to snoop. In Annie's case, there was the embarrassment of having to conceal Sibyl's eccentric and wicked behaviour, and it must have been awkward, in that small apartment, to have someone sneaking around the place, spying, and eavesdropping. And yet, if only Annie had bothered to hire a maid, then she might have had more time for the children, and things might have turned out rather differently. But, as I have come to appreciate, over the years, there is no point in such regrets: what is done cannot be undone.

The stolen brooch upset Annie more than she would have cared to admit. Previously, she had been looking forward to the opening night of Ned's show but after we learned that her maid was a thief, she seemed to lose confidence, claiming that she did not really care for the clamour of openings.

‘You go, Harriet,' she insisted. ‘I can't face it. You'll be so much better with all those people. Besides, look at me—my hair's turning grey. I can't go out like this.'

She was right: despite her relative youth, there were now grey hairs, just visible, amongst the gold. I did wonder whether there was some other reason for her reluctance to attend the opening: she and Ned had not been getting on very well, and it was feasible that there might have been some species of tiff. However, if that was the case, she had said nothing to me.

In any event, Ned's show opened without the presence of his wife. Naturally, his mother was there, since Elspeth would not, for the world, have missed an opportunity to bask in the reflected glory of her son's fledgling success. As ever, she made a late entrance. Then she took but a moment to glance around, before protesting that Ned's pictures were ‘too familiar', and inviting me to the adjacent room, where the work of Hamilton's other artists was on display. The canvases in front of which Elspeth lingered longest that evening were sentimental, humdrum fare, paintings that told a simple story, assisted by informative nomenclature: a glum urchin, his head swathed in a bandage, had been helpfully entitled
Toothache
; an ancient, smiling beggar, rendered in oils, was known as
Better Wisdom than Gold
; and a picture of farm folk, standing, dejected, outside a quaint cottage was described in the programme as
Tenants' Notice to Quit
. Elspeth sighed, wistfully, as she examined these paintings.

‘Och, I wish Ned chose subjects like this—something with a nice message, or a lesson—he might sell better.'

‘These pictures are popular,' I replied. ‘But they're old-fashioned. Your son's work is more innovative—and I rather like the fact that he avoids moralising.'

But Elspeth had paused, once again, in front of
Toothache
, shaking her head in admiration. ‘Marvellous!' she said. ‘If only Ned would do something such as that.'

The artist himself was so busy that he and I barely spoke that evening, but I was happy to glimpse him, now and again, through the crowd. In his position as the featured painter, he was much in demand, with Hamilton often at his side, the two of them always at the centre of the conversation, amongst a group of animated persons. Once or twice, when I caught Ned's gaze, across the room, he smiled, or shook his head, as though in disbelief at the situation in which he found himself and, on one occasion, he acted the goat for my benefit, behind Hamilton's back, rolling his eyes, as though overwhelmed, which made us both laugh.

Towards midnight, after the last stragglers had left the gallery, a group of us decided to walk companionably home together along Sauchiehall Street, the western end of which was almost deserted. Earlier rain had given way to clear skies, and the moon was full and bright. With the exception of Elspeth, we had all drunk a little too much sherry. Ned was in fine fettle. As we passed the Japanese curio shop, I happened to glance in at the window display. There, amongst the kimonos and lanterns, I saw, for the first time, the birdcage that is now home to my dear, sweet finches. The moonlight brought out the lustre in the boxwood, making the cage glow. Its shape was so pleasing to the eye; the bamboo slats so fine and delicate; it was a masterpiece of construction. Captivated, I stopped short.

‘Look, Ned,' I cried. ‘Isn't that birdcage beautiful?'

Whilst Elspeth walked on ahead with Mrs Alexander and the others, Ned paused at my side and peered in at the display. When he saw the cage, he smiled.

‘Beautiful,' he agreed.

For a moment, we simply stood there, enchanted, staring in at the window. I could imagine how well the cage would look in the right setting, a cosy, domestic interior, with a bird on one of the perches: one bird—or possibly two.

Next to me, Ned sighed. I turned to look up into his face and saw that his smile had gone, and he seemed thoughtful, even sad.

‘What's the matter?' I asked.

‘Nothing—I was just thinking about faraway places.'

‘I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—'

‘No, it's fine.'

I turned back to the window, mulling over what he had said. Did he mean that he was unhappy where he was, and yearned to go somewhere far away? Was he longing for adventure, the exotic, scorching days and languid nights? Perhaps that was hardly surprising, given his burdensome circumstances, and the dreary Scottish weather. Ned remained silent, and so I murmured:

‘Imagine just being able to pack your bags, and go.'