by Jane Harris
Of course, I would like to be able to say that, upon first viewing, I was seized by the genius in the conception and execution of this painting, The Studio. However, knowing little about art, I did not, at the time, single it out as exceptional. Indeed, I lingered in front of it—in what the Scots might call a ‘dwam’—primarily because that corner of the room happened, just at that moment, to be less crowded.
My reverie was suddenly interrupted when a pair of hands grasped me by the shoulders and began to draw me away from the painting. For a second, I assumed that my friends had found me, and were dragging me off to Romano’s but, as I turned, I realised that I was simply being moved to one side by a complete stranger: a bearded gentleman, in evening dress.
‘Madam, if you would,’ he said, and deposited me a few feet away, next to a gilded table. Then he turned to his companions, a group of important-looking gentlemen. ‘Now, as I said, this picture may be of interest. Note if you will…’
As he went on speaking, I continued to stand where I had been placed, somewhat stunned at having been shoved aside as though I were no more than an irksome piece of furniture. The bearded fellow, I deduced, was a guide, or curator of the exhibition; his companions—a group of be-whiskered gents—were, presumably, potential buyers of the work.
One man, younger than the rest, stood at the back of the group. In comparison to the others, his evening dress was not quite so impeccable, and he was clean shaven, except for a small moustache. While the other men followed the curator’s every word, this young fellow stared, rather crossly, at the floor. His face was flushed, and I wondered, at first, whether he had taken too much sherry.
At that moment, the curator beckoned to him, calling out: ‘Sir—would you care to add a few words—perhaps about your intentions in painting this work?’
The young man frowned at him. ‘No, sir, I would not,’ he said, in a rich, Scottish brogue. ‘First of all, a picture should speak for itself—’
‘Indeed,’ said the bearded guide, with a smile, and then he nodded, indulgently, at the other men. ‘So say many of our young artists.’
The painter stepped forward. ‘But that’s beside the point,’ he said, and then he extended his arm, to indicate me. ‘I think you should apologise to this lady here.’
The curator gave a short laugh. ‘What?’
‘Right enough, her hat is tall,’ the painter continued, ‘and it obscured our view, but that’s no excuse. We could have waited, or you could simply have asked her to step aside—instead of acting like a damn brute.’
The gentlemen in the group exchanged shocked glances. I looked at the curator: the smile on his face had vanished.
‘Oh, please,’ I said, hoping to forestall an argument. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Ignoring me, the curator addressed the artist, hotly: ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s not my pardon you should be begging,’ said the painter. ‘Now will you please apologise to the lady?’
Wide eyed with outrage, the curator turned to me. ‘Madam,’ he snarled and, with a click of his heels, he gave me a sharp bow. Then, he marched off into the crowd, saying: ‘This way, gentlemen. Follow me—I believe there’s something more interesting in the next room.’
Some of the group scurried off in his wake, whilst others turned away more hesitantly, offering me the odd apologetic smile or nod as they departed. In the interim, the young artist had come to my side.
‘I do beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘That fellow is insufferably rude. Allow me to apologise properly on his behalf.’
‘Oh, please—I don’t mind.’
The young Scot scowled after the departing curator, who was guiding his charges towards the doorway. ‘That wasn’t a real apology, not by any means. But don’t you worry—I’ll drag him back here and get him to say he’s sorry.’
‘No, don’t,’ I begged him, before he could charge off across the room. ‘Please don’t make a scene on my account. You mustn’t cause a fuss. After all, you could have sold your painting to one of those men, if you hadn’t spoken out.’
‘Ach, no—they wouldnae have bought it.’
I barely remember what remarks we exchanged thereafter—simple pleasantries, no doubt. We spoke for no more than a few moments. Reading between the lines, I gained the impression that the young man was slightly overwhelmed by the grandeur of the occasion. While we talked, he kept pulling at his collar, as though he was unaccustomed to wearing one so high, and he fiddled so much with one of his brass collar-studs that it fell to the floor, bounced out of sight, and was lost. We both bent down to search for it, but before it could be found, a different curator appeared and ushered the artist away, into the next room, in order to present him to another group of gentlemen; and soon, thereafter, my friends descended upon me, and persuaded me to join them for supper.
That, in brief, was my encounter with the Scottish artist named Gillespie. Upon reflection, it seemed very possible that he and Annie’s husband were one and the same person. An interesting coincidence, I thought to myself—and there it might have rested, had not Elspeth invited me to meet the family again, the following Saturday, outside the quaint Cocoa House in the park.
3
On the appointed day, finding that I had arrived at the park a little early, I decided to while away some time in the Fine Art Section. This would have been, I dare say, the last Saturday in May and, due to a spell of fine weather (before those terrible rains at the end of the month), the entire Exhibition was teeming with crowds. As I battled my way through the British and Foreign Loan Collections, I was, as ever, reminded that galleries do attract a disproportionate number of wiseacres: those persons who like to show off to their companions, and give anyone within earshot the benefit of their wisdom about the pictures on display. At one point, I even witnessed a man crouching down in order to sniff a canvas, before declaring to his companions that it was ‘most definitely, wi’oot a doot, an oil painting’.
Weary of the crowds, I headed for the British Sale Room, which was always a little quieter, although, as usual, it had attracted that other unfortunate breed of citizen: those who possess no real interest in Art, but who hurtle around in groups, barely glancing at the paintings, in their search for that with the heftiest price tag:
‘There’s one at forty-two pound!’
‘Never mind that, Archie, here’s a six-hundred-pounder!’
Eight pounds and ten shillings was the price of By the Pond, the only one of Ned Gillespie’s works to be included in the Exhibition. Now that I had become acquainted with the artist’s family, I paused to examine it with fresh eyes. By the Pond was a large canvas, in the plein-air style of Ned’s contemporaries: a rural, naturalistic scene of a little girl chasing ducks. I realised, now, that he had used his older daughter as a model. However, the child in the picture wore an angelic expression: either Sibyl had stopped glowering for a few minutes, or Ned had used his imagination. The painting had an undeniable charm and was fashionable at the time, which would explain its inclusion in the Exhibition. I cannot pretend to be an expert in Art but, in my opinion, the subject matter was too slight to merit its imposing scale: Sibyl and her ducks would have been far better reduced to half the size. None the less, the composition and use of colour were pleasing, and I believed that I would be able to compliment Annie’s husband on his exhibit, should we happen to meet.
Regrettably, it was impossible to ignore that By the Pond had been terribly badly hung, in the worst spot in all the Fine Art Section: an ill-lit, lofty position, above a doorway, at the eastern end of the British Sale Room, and at unfortunate proximity to an oft-blocked and malodorous drain. This situation gave rise to much hilarity on the part of visitors, who were wont to hasten beneath Ned’s painting whilst wafting their hands in front of their faces and uttering various ribald comments. I myself was aware of the jokes regarding the picture’s aromatic location—albeit vaguely, as an outsider. The general consensus was that the pond in question must have been a ‘r
ight stinky stank’ (stank being a Scots word for a pool of stagnant water or drain). For a time, there was a danger that this phrase might even become a nickname for the artist himself, when a certain satirical drawing, which caricatured Ned unkindly, and appeared above the name ‘Stinky Stank’, would doubtless—if published, as planned, in an issue of The Thistle—have stoked the flames of mockery. Fortunately, the caricaturist withdrew it at the last moment and thereafter the nickname fell into disuse.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
Towards four o’clock, the hour appointed for our meeting, I made my way outside, into the sunshine, and strolled over towards Van Houten’s Cocoa House. The exterior tables were all fully occupied, and so I found a place on the grass, from which vantage point to watch for the approach of Annie and Elspeth.
From where I stood, I could see Kelvingrove Mansion, and the stream of visitors, emerging—benumbed and replete—having just gorged themselves on the sight of Her Majesty’s many gifts: the silver caskets, battleaxes, bejewelled slippers, and so on; an array of useless, opulent articles which (to my mind) struck a vulgar note when contrasted with the poverty evident elsewhere in Glasgow, a city that teemed with beggars, many of whom were children—an inequity to which these day-trippers seemed oblivious. Is it only me who is tempted, in such circumstances, to shout insults, such as ‘Imbeciles! Fools! Pudding-heads!’? Of course, one resists these urges, and tries not to feel too much in common with the ragged, drunken little men who often seem to crop up in public places, shaking grubby fists at the throng, and uttering oaths and imprecations; I do sometimes wonder whether I myself—by sheer force of will and dint of imagination—have not conjured up these little fellows to berate the multitude on my own behalf: the very daemons of my psyche.
My daydreams were interrupted by the hoot of the little steam launch on the Kelvin. So lost had I become in my thoughts, as I stood there on the grass, that I had failed to notice the passing of time. Now, glancing at my watch, I saw with surprise that it was half past four o’clock, long after the hour that Elspeth had proposed that we meet; of course, I had no idea, then, that the Gillespies were always late, for every occasion. I hurried into Van Houten’s and peered into each salon, but my new friends were nowhere to be seen. Thereafter, feeling disappointed, I gave up, and decided to return to my rooms, by way of the lake and the Hillhead exit.
Beyond the Mansion, I took the path towards a crossroads where several routes converged, just south of the lake. It was at this point that I heard a strange yelping sound. Thinking that perhaps some poor dog was in pain, I glanced in the direction of the noise, only to see Elspeth Gillespie bearing down upon me. The high-pitched cry that I had mistaken for a canine yap was, in fact, emanating from her throat, apparently as a means of attracting my attention. ‘Youp!’ she cried. ‘Youp! Miss Bexter! Youp! Youp! Herriet!’
In her wake came Mabel, walking closely with a gentleman in a straw boater (he had, at that moment, bent his head to light his pipe); and, behind them, Annie and the children, trailing along with a younger man, who was staring off, towards the river. Just then, the gentleman in the boater looked up, exhaling a mouthful of smoke. He was a broad-shouldered individual of about the middle height, with even, handsome features, his eyes perhaps a little sad. I recognised him, at once, as the artist whom I had met those several months previously in London.
Here, then, was Ned Gillespie: the man himself, walking towards me. Of course, I feel a thrill now in describing this moment but, at the time, I cannot think that it meant terribly much to me to see him there in the park, especially since I was obliged to direct my attention to his mother, who already had me in her clutches.
‘Miss Bexter! Lovely to see you! We are a little late, but it took some time to get organised. Allow me to introduce you to…’—she peered over her left shoulder; Mabel and Ned had just drawn abreast of us, behind her, and Annie had paused to admonish Sibyl for some misdemeanour, so that Elspeth’s gaze fell instead upon the young man, who was fast approaching—‘… to my son, Kenneth. Kenny, dear, this is Miss Herriet Bexter, the lady I told you about, who saved my life!’
The young man greeted me, briefly. I judged him to be about twenty-four years of age, and handsome enough, notwithstanding a slight puggish cast to his nose, and his hair, which one might, in all politeness, describe as ‘auburn’. He was dressed in checked trousers, cutaway coat, and fob watch and, despite the studied nonchalance with which his bowler was perched upon his head, he emanated mild discomfort and impatience. This, I interpreted (perhaps wrongly, as later events might suggest) as youthful shame at having to be seen passeggiare with his mama. We exchanged a few pleasantries, and then he turned to Elspeth, saying: ‘I’m away to the refreshment bar, mother’, and, without further ado, he strode off down the path.
‘Don’t stay out too late, dear!’
Elspeth frowned anxiously after his retreating figure, leaving me to exchange greetings with her daughter-in-law. Compared with the last time that we had met, Annie’s face appeared a little tired and pale. Diplomacy was required and, since she had clearly made an effort to dress smartly—in a narrow-skirted plaid frock, and jade velvet tam o’ shanter—I paid her a compliment. ‘What a delightful costume, Annie!’
She looked surprised. ‘Thank you, Harriet. Did we keep you waiting?’
‘Oh, on such a day as this, one doesn’t mind a little wait.’
I turned to her girls, whom good manners required that I also acknowledge. With their shining cheeks and stiff, short dresses, Sibyl and Rose had the scrubbed, chastened look of children who have been soundly bathed and fastened into their finest clothes. ‘What a pretty dress, Rose! How smart you look, Sibyl!’
The younger girl grew bashful, and attempted to hide her face, while Sibyl raised a coy shoulder and gave me an affected grin across it, displaying her little fangs. Seconds later, however, the smile vanished, and I found myself, once more, unsettled by her dull-eyed, unflinching gaze: it was not malicious, exactly, yet neither was it pleasant.
Meanwhile, Mabel had linked arms with Ned and—somewhat impolitely, I felt—steered him off down the path, rather than stopping to say good afternoon. It was of no consequence, but I daresay that I was mildly curious to be reacquainted with the artist. However, Mabel was possessive of her brother to a degree that might almost be regarded as—one hesitates to say unnatural—but all her actions concerning him were coloured by an anomalous proprietary instinct. I noticed that Kenneth caught up with them and appeared to borrow money from his brother before hurrying off, and then Ned and Mabel paused to converse with some acquaintances.
Our little group, consisting of Elspeth, Annie, the children and myself, began to move in their direction. Unfortunately, Elspeth hampered our progress somewhat by stopping in her tracks, every so often, the better to speak. She began to tell me about a person that an acquaintance of hers had once encountered; somebody whom I was never likely to meet, and whom, moreover, Elspeth herself had never met—but apparently none of these particulars prevented her from expounding at length on the subject of this complete stranger.
I could have wished for some moral support under this torrent of verbiage, but Annie, exhibiting no fellow feeling, soon wandered off the path to pick up a leaf, and then became lost in contemplation of its form, thereby falling behind. Sibyl and Rose skipped on ahead. As Elspeth continued to chatter, my gaze drifted over to where Ned stood with the others. He had turned away from his companions in order to gaze across the park at the Waterbury Watches balloon, which was just visible above the trees, over by the Machinery Section. His arm was half raised, and he appeared to be fiddling with something at his wrist—a cufflink, perhaps, or a timepiece. I found myself wondering whether or not he would remember our previous encounter in London.
Just at that moment, he happened to glance in our direction and, almost without thinking, I waved to him, as one might to an old friend. To my surprise, he instantly broke away from Mabel and the others, and hurri
ed towards us, tapping his pipe to dispose of the cinders. I felt sure that he must have recognised me. At the very least, his approach interrupted Elspeth’s monologue.
‘Come and meet Miss Bexter, Ned dear! Herriet, this is Ned, my other son.’
The artist doffed his hat and then, turning to his mother, said simply: ‘Well?’
‘No sign yet, dear,’ replied Elspeth. ‘But we must wait until we get to the Palace. That’s where we’re most likely to see him.’
‘Aye,’ said Ned, and gazed off towards Annie, who was still standing on the grass, some distance away, examining the leaf that she had found. As he considered his wife, his expression softened, and he smiled.
Clearly, he had not recognised me—not at all—but why should he have? A professional artist might well be introduced to dozens of strangers during an opening at a gallery like the Grosvenor, and if his work appears in several other shows over the course of a year, the number of new faces that he encounters must mount into the hundreds. I would have been extremely silly to be hurt that he had not remembered me.
‘What’s she doing?’ said Ned—fondly, to himself—and then he called out: ‘Annie, dearest! Keep up!’
He beckoned to her, but she simply waved back, smiling very prettily: I suspect that she was too far away to hear him. Ned laughed, and blew her a kiss, and then he gave a happy sigh, and set off down the path, swinging his cane. Elspeth and I fell into step with him, and the children began to dart amongst and between the three of us, singing a nursery rhyme, something about bluebells. A passer-by might have taken us for a family, on a day out, with myself as the mother figure: the thought of it rather amused me.