by Jane Harris
‘You’ve got a big nose,’ she said. ‘Like a witch.’
I laughed, gaily. ‘Why yes—I dare say I do.’
‘Si-byl,’ said Annie wearily.
In response, Sibyl leapt off the couch and began to skip noisily around the room, darting between the furnishings in a frantic way that looked most hazardous.
Annie turned to me. ‘I do apologise for Sibyl. She’s awful tired.’
‘Indeed,’ said I, watching the child whirl around the table like an agitated Dervish. ‘Poor mite.’
At that moment, a slender young woman entered the room, bearing a heavily laden tea tray. She wore an elegant lace blouse and slim-fitting skirt and her chestnut-coloured hair was piled on her head. I smiled, ready to greet this newcomer, but she failed to return my gaze. From certain angles, she might have been considered a great beauty. The neck was graceful; the features fine. Her eyes were deep blue, almost violet. But there was a hard quality in her face—and something in the breadth and tilt of her jaw—that (unfortunately) put one in mind of a frying pan. She set the tray on the table, and then flitted across to the window, where she proceeded to fold her arms and frown out at the clouds as though they had offended her. Assuming that this person must be another member of the family, I turned to Annie, expecting some sort of introduction, but Annie gave no sign that she had even noticed the woman’s entrance. Instead, she busied herself by setting Rose on the floor and encouraging her to play with a small wooden horse, just as Elspeth sailed back into the room, bearing a teapot, and a plate of little pastries.
‘Here we are!’ cried Elspeth, then shrieked with laughter, for reasons that I could not, at the time, fathom. (However, I came to realise that Elspeth preferred her entrances and exits to be accompanied by the sound of merriment.)
‘Elspeth, please—shh,’ pleaded Annie, and gestured at the ceiling.
Still laughing gleefully, Elspeth crossed to the table, narrowly avoiding a collision, as Sibyl darted past her. The child skipped on and, arriving at the battered old piano, threw up its lid and began to bang on the keys. Annie leapt to her feet, saying again: ‘Shh—remember Papa,’ and she closed the parlour door, whilst Elspeth set down the plate and teapot and turned to me.
‘Sibyl is learning a new song,’ she cried. ‘A Negro Spiritual. She’ll play it for the Reverend Johnson once it’s perfected. Wouldn’t it be very fine, Herriet, if she were to sing it for us, as practice?’
Annie wrung her hands together, saying: ‘But perhaps, Elspeth, not until later—please. We don’t want to make too much noise with the piano, do we?’
‘Och now,’ said Elspeth. ‘She’ll play quietly—won’t you, dear?’ Sibyl nodded, and Annie sank back down, with a sigh. ‘Well, I suppose—’
Elspeth beamed at her granddaughter who, in need of no encouragement, had already begun to fumble and peep her way through a rudimentary hymn. I do not claim to know its title, but like most of its kind it expressed, over and over, naught but patience for this life and triumph in the next. From time to time, amongst the wrong notes, Sibyl cast intense glances at us, over her shoulder, to check that we were paying heed. Annie appeared to be listening with her head on one side, as she rebuttoned her bodice. Rose leaned against her mother’s skirts, watching her older sister, wide-eyed, as though she were a specimen. The young woman at the window had taken out a mirror and was rearranging her hair, while Elspeth smiled proudly at her granddaughter and hummed along, here and there, with the melody.
As the hymn progressed, I took the opportunity to glance around the room. This was not exactly a household of paupers, but judging from the shabby, faded look of the furnishings, the Gillespie family was not, by any means, flourishing. The children’s clothes were clean, but ill-fitting, and oft-mended; the oilcloth on the table was worn thin in places; the cups and saucers were chipped and cracked. Atop the piano, next to the stack of sheet music, I noticed, for the first time, a gentleman’s straw boater, with a narrow brim, and the low crown wrapped around with a glossy striped ribbon in shades of blue and green: a rather lovely hat, which, presumably, belonged to Annie’s husband. He had left it there the last time he had been in this room, perhaps. Had he removed it in order to sit down and play? Or had he set it on top of the piano only in passing?
Such were the idle thoughts that occupied my mind until—at last—the hymn came to a faltering conclusion. We applauded, and Sibyl grinned, baring recently acquired little teeth so gap-ridden and misaligned that the effect was somewhat eerie and vampirish.
‘Bravo!’ cried Elspeth. I braced myself against the possibility that she might suggest we hear another but, thankfully, she began to lay out cups and saucers, saying: ‘That’s enough now, Sibyl, Granny’s tea will be stewed.’ The child continued to tinkle at the keys, while Elspeth picked up the teapot and addressed me. ‘Now, dear Herriet! You must tell us all about yourself. I want to know every single detail about the person who saved my life. Milk? Sugar?’
‘Yes, milk please. And sugar.’
‘Ah—a sweet tooth, like myself. But you are so slender, Herriet, so elegant. Do you avoid starchy foods at all? They are my downfall. Rock cake? Shortbread?’
‘Shortbread, if you please. As for starchy foods, I certainly don’t avoid them. If the truth were known, just between ourselves, I practically exist on biscuits.’
Elspeth admonished me with a wag of her finger. ‘That sweet tooth of yours! Now, in that case, I do hope you’ll have a lemon-curd tart. Rose and I baked them especially for your visit.’
Something must have gone amiss in the preparation, because the tarts were so blistered and misshapen that they bore closer resemblance to a cluster of purulent sores than to a selection of pâtisserie. However, since I had no desire to hurt anyone’s feelings, I selected the least alarming tart, and pronounced it ‘delicious’.
Elspeth smiled at the young woman, who had approached the table, and was helping to serve tea. ‘You and Mabel have been introduced, I presume? This is Mabel, my daughter, recently returned from America.’
‘Ah—America,’ I said and—quickly grasping this straw before it could be whisked away in Elspeth’s beak—I turned to Mabel. ‘How fascinating. Do tell me all about it. What was the climate like over there?’
Mabel smiled at me with what seemed like pity and then explained: ‘Well, it can be hot, of course, but if you stay in the shade it doesn’t matter. And I’d rather have the heat than twelve full months of rain, as happens here in Scotland.’
‘Och, shtoosh-shtoosh,’ said Elspeth, with a smile at me, as she sank down into her chair. ‘Not quite twelve months, dear.’
‘Well, practically twelve months!’ cried Mabel—and when Annie motioned her to lower her voice, she continued, in a mutter: ‘I don’t see why you have to contradict every single thing I say.’
Elspeth took a breath, but before she could speak—and in order to forestall what looked like a disagreement—I leapt in with the first question that came to mind: ‘Have you all been enjoying the International Exhibition?’
‘Ah—our wonderful Ex!’ cried Elspeth. ‘We are season-ticket holders, of course, and I’m partial to a real Indian curry, and they do a marvellous one at the General Gordon Buffet. You’ll have been round the Palace yourself, then, Herriet?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘In fact, that’s one of the reasons I came to Glasgow—to see the Exhibition and take my mind off … well … recent events.’
‘I know, dear,’ said Elspeth, with a sympathetic look. ‘Annie told me you’d lost your aunt. I’m so sorry.’
‘Well, Aunt Miriam was terribly kind—like a mother to me, really. My own mother passed away some years ago.’
Elspeth nodded. ‘I know exactly what you’re going through.’
‘You do?’
‘Well, I’m a widow, you see, and Our Heavenly Father took my own dear mother to himself many years ago. And Annie’s mother was taken when she was quite young. We’ve all been through the passing of our mothers, you kn
ow.’
‘Not all of us,’ said Mabel. ‘Not yet.’
Elspeth blinked, once, but gave no other sign that she had heard, or been wounded, by this comment. In hindsight, there was a reason for Mabel’s prickly demeanour: I later learned that her fiancé, an American, had recently broken off their engagement, resulting in her unexpected and solitary return to Scotland. Dear Mabel was never one to conceal her moods, and, for the time being, the family was treating her with kid gloves, tolerating her more melodramatic outbursts, and ignoring any bad-tempered remarks.
To dispel this moment of awkwardness, I spoke up again: ‘Mabel, I’ve heard it said that America is a very vibrant country. Did you find it so?’
With a shrug of her shoulders, she sat down at the table.
‘Well, naturally—that goes without saying. Everything is so much better over there than it is here. American coffee, for instance, is wonderful. Do you prefer tea or coffee, Miss Baxter?’
‘Usually, I have tea.’
‘Really?’ Once again, she gave me the look of pity. ‘I prefer coffee. But you can’t get decent coffee in Glasgow. It’s tea rooms, everywhere you look. Tea rooms!’ And she hooted with laughter, at the absurdity of it all.
‘Well they do serve coffee,’ muttered Elspeth, and then, turning to me, with a shriek, she banged the table (making Annie wince). ‘Which reminds me, Herriet, I’ve remembered where I’ve seen you before.’
‘I have indeed walked along this street many times, it’s on my route to the—’
‘No, no—it was outside Assafrey’s, last week. I went in, with my son, but the place was full, so we left, and that was when we bumped into you: you were going in, as we came out.’
‘Goodness, I’ve been to so many tea rooms—I’m afraid I don’t recall seeing you, Elspeth. Although, who knows—if your son joins us, I might recognise him.’
I smiled at Mabel, who had been eyeing the cakes, without taking one. Now, she fixed me with a regretful, pained expression. ‘My brother is working,’ she explained, as though I were a child. ‘I doubt he’ll come down. When I left him he said he didn’t want to be disturbed.’
Upon hearing this, Sibyl suddenly ceased to tinkle at the piano. She arranged her features into a sugary little smile, then sidled up to Mabel and began to stroke her skirts, with fluttery fingers, in an ingratiating fashion.
‘Did you go into Papa’s room?’ she lisped.
‘For a wee while,’ replied Mabel, lightly, but in a way that suggested that she was rather pleased with herself.
As Sibyl cast a wistful glance at the door, Elspeth leaned towards me. ‘My son is an artist. I don’t know if you may have heard of him, down south. Ned Gillespie? He’s quite “weel kent” up here, among the art crowd.’
‘Is he a painter?’ I asked.
‘Yes, indeed—a very fine one too,’ said Elspeth and then there was a pause, as she took a bite from her scone.
I turned to Annie. ‘There’s a picture by a Gillespie in the International Exhibition—a little girl, with some ducks.’
Annie nodded. ‘Aye—that’s his—By the Pond.’
I had seen the painting, a few times. In fact, I was almost certain that I had, albeit briefly, met the man who had painted it.
‘I was forever sketching when I was a girl,’ Elspeth announced, having despatched with her scone. ‘And I often came second in the class for my artwork. Such a marvellous teacher I had—I shall never forget her. What was her name again? Miss Niven! She was so encouraging to my youthful talent. But Ned, you see, has taken after me in every respect: he is a genius.’
Fortunately, it was appropriate to smile. ‘How proud you must be,’ I said, and turned to Annie. ‘Has your husband ever been to London? I did meet a Scottish artist named Gillespie, in the autumn, at the Grosvenor Gallery.’
He and I had spoken only for a few moments and I had, more or less, forgotten about him until my arrival in Glasgow when I noticed a Gillespie listed among the artists in the catalogue of the Exhibition, and wondered, vaguely, whether this could be the same man.
Mabel turned to her sister-in-law. ‘He went down to that exhibition, remember?’
Annie nodded.
‘Ah—the Grosvenor!’ exclaimed Elspeth. ‘The wonderful Grosvenor—such a fine gallery, I believe. They were extremely enthusiastic in London about his paintings—and quite right too.’
While we had been speaking, I could not help but notice that Sibyl had edged, silently, towards the closed door, and now, she put her hand to the door knob, and turned it slowly. At the creak of the latch, Mabel swivelled in her seat.
‘Sibyl? Where are you going?’
The girl tittered, guiltily. ‘Nowhere,’ she piped, sidling out of the room.
‘You see?’ Mabel admonished Annie. ‘Yesterday I had to bring her down about six times. She simply won’t leave him alone.’
With a sigh, Annie rose to her feet. One of her plaits had come undone, and she had fastened up her bodice wrongly, leaving a spare button at the top. She trailed out of the room, calling wearily: ‘Sibyl—please come back!’
But Sibyl, it seemed, had no intention of returning. Footsteps thudded up the stairs; there was the sound of a brief scuffle, and then the child began to scream. The screaming grew louder—and more disturbed—until one might have thought that she was being murdered. Moments later, Annie reappeared, dragging her daughter by the hand. The child scrabbled and clutched at the door jamb, but she lost her grip when Annie prised her fingers free. We all leapt to our feet, and Mabel slammed the door shut, then tried to help Annie restrain the girl, who was still wriggling and writhing. As they crossed the room, supporting her between them, Sibyl tried to hang onto a chair, and then, before anyone could stop her, she reached out and grabbed at the oilcloth, with the unfortunate result that it came flying off the table. Down came the cups and saucers, the tarts and cakes, the dull teaspoons, the tarnished tray, the teapot, an old lamp (which, thankfully, since it was daylight, was not lit), a dish of dented wax fruit, a water-stained sewing box, various odds and ends, and all the church newsletters and envelopes. Everything fell to the floor with a sudden, startling crash—which made Rose take fright, and then she too burst into tears. Annie immediately hurried over to comfort her younger daughter, leaving Sibyl to sink to the floor, scarlet-cheeked, and screaming, with Mabel chiding her to behave herself and stop bothering Ned, and Elspeth, in between apologetic glances at me, trying to soothe one and all, whilst—up, up—from the pile of cloths and debris on the carpet went a great rolling cloud of dust.
Just audible, over this bedlam, were some noises from the floor above. I heard a few impatient footsteps, and then, after a pause, a rhythmic banging, as though—in protest at the racket from the parlour—somebody was rapping the floorboards sharply with a cane or stick. The artist—in his garret! Six or seven times the floor was struck and then, it seemed, he gave up, for there was a clatter and then a rattling sound, as though he had flung down the cane and let it roll across the floorboards.
Meanwhile, Sibyl stretched herself out on the carpet, stiffly, her little arms rigid at her sides, wailing for her ‘Papa-aa!’ until, at length, her fit of temper became so prolonged and unbearable that Annie relented, and told her that she could go upstairs to the studio and see her father, after all. At once, the child’s shrieks subsided to shuddering little sobs. Then, she picked herself up and stalked, slowly, out of the room, casting dark, accusing looks at one and all.
I listened to her footsteps as they faltered on the first few stairs, and then increased in speed as she ascended, until she could be heard positively skipping along the upper floor, her misery forgotten. Moments later, there was the sound of a door opening and closing—presumably the door to the studio, wherein worked the girl’s father—the artist, Ned Gillespie.
Ah yes: Ned Gillespie. You may be wondering, dear Reader, when he is going to make an actual appearance in this overwhelmingly feminine account. On this occasion, I must disappoint y
ou, because once Sibyl had disappeared inside the studio, the door remained closed: Ned did not come down to tea, at all, that day; he showed the parlour not so much as a whisker.
Personally speaking, I suppose that I was now quite curious to meet Elspeth’s son, to see if he was, indeed, the young artist whom I had encountered in London. Life is full of strange coincidences. In fact, it was sheer chance that I had even gone to that exhibition at the Grosvenor back in the autumn: left to my own devices, I would never have left Aunt Miriam’s side. As I have already mentioned, she was ill and, by late September, my duties as nurse had caused me to be virtually housebound, for several weeks. A few concerned friends, who had noted my pallor and exhaustion, eventually suggested that I relinquish the sickroom for one night, and accompany them, first to the Grosvenor, and then on to supper. Opening nights of exhibitions always attract a large and fashionable throng and—right up until the very last minute—I was in two minds about whether to go. Not only was I loath to leave my aunt, but I also dreaded the prospect of spending several hours, forced to make conversation, in noisy rooms. However, in the end, my friends persuaded me.
Just as I had feared, the gallery was so crammed that even the large West Room felt overcrowded. My friends formed a merry party, having come from a late luncheon; my own mood, by contrast, was sombre, and such was my state of mind that I soon tired of their jollity, and so contrived to drift away from them, and wander about, alone, gazing at the various artworks.
At one point, I found myself in a relatively tranquil corner of the East Gallery, lingering in front of a small canvas, a domestic interior, entitled The Studio. The colours of this picture were particularly striking against the scarlet damask of the wall. The painting depicted an elegant lady in a black frock. She was standing in what appeared to be an attic room, an easel in the background the only suggestion that this loft belonged to an artist. A shaft of light fell from a skylight window, illuminating the woman’s figure. Her hat was trimmed with a short, diaphanous veil. In one hand, she held a little bag of seed, which she was feeding to a canary in a cage. Although she seemed to be a guest in the house, one formed the impression—simply from the way that she fed the bird—that she was a frequent visitor. The expression on her face was intriguing: she looked so placid and content, lost in thought, perhaps—even—in love.