by Jane Harris
The following day, as arranged, I called at Stanley Street, to look at Ned’s paintings. After ringing the bell, I was admitted into the building by a person in carpet slippers and apron: clearly, this was the Gillespies’ servant, Christina. On my previous visit, it had crossed my mind that Annie, with her protestations about the maid’s day off, might have been attempting to conceal a genteel poverty, sans serveuse—but here the girl was, blue of eye, dark of lash, and pretty, in a pert, snub-nosed way. She preceded me upstairs, her slippers flapping at her heels. Her appearance lacked polish, perhaps; none the less, she seemed (at least on first acquaintance) a capable enough creature.
Inside the apartment, Christina led me directly upstairs. An attic is an unusual feature for a tenement, but Stanley Street had been built to a rare design. For instance, each apartment had the luxury of an interior water closet, and residents of the top floor, like the Gillespies, had this second storey in the loft. Ned’s family had made full use of the extra space. Besides three tiny bedrooms (one each, for Sibyl, Rose and Christina), there was a linen press, and—my destination that afternoon—the artist’s studio: a narrow, dingy garret, with one skylight. I recognised it, at once, as the attic depicted in the painting that I had seen at the Grosvenor Gallery.
It was a surprise, and something of a disappointment, to discover that I was not the only guest that day. Ned’s friend Walter Peden was already there when I arrived and—‘by coincidence’—happened to have brought along his portfolio. Although of Scottish descent, Peden was born in London and had studied Classics at Cambridge, circumstances that had blessed him both with an English accent and with the attitude that, no matter where he found himself, he was always the most intelligent person in the room. Peden prided himself on his bookishness and wore it conspicuously, like a badge. Alas, he had confounded intellect with pedantry, two separate qualities that are, by no means, the same thing. He was a balding, bespectacled, hen-toed fellow of average height, and his supercilious air was amplified by an inability to address anyone without closing over his little eyes, rather as though he did not care to soil his gaze by letting it fall upon you. So incapable was he of dealing with his fellow humans that he could not, in conversation, face anyone directly, and instead kept finding ways of placing himself at oblique angles to his interlocutor. Equally disconcerting was his tendency, without warning, to dance around like a Native, whilst smiling to himself in a self-satisfied manner. In general, he cut rather a tragic figure, but perhaps this ‘happy dance’ was his way of protesting otherwise to the world, and pretending that, deep inside, he was actually a jubilant and well-contented individual.
It was quite obvious to me that Ned had invited Peden along in the expectation that I might purchase some of his work. Indeed, I had barely set down my basket when Ned very generously suggested that we go through Walter’s portfolio first, before we considered any of his own paintings. A few of Peden’s efforts were on display at the Exhibition, and they had not exactly taken my breath away. However, to oblige my host, I gave my cheerful consent, and was rewarded when I saw how pleased Ned looked.
‘Walter’s work is outstanding,’ he told me. ‘I don’t think I’d be faulted for saying that he’s one of our finest artists.’
Certainly, Peden himself did not appear to dispute this assertion. He proceeded to produce a series of watercolours, tossing the pages upon the table, one after the other, as though they were of little consequence to him. The pictures were executed competently enough but, much as I had expected, the majority were flatly representational portraits of animals: cows, sheep, ducks, a basket of kittens, a pony, a pigeon, some gosses des riches with their puppy, etcetera. I suppose that somebody has to paint livestock and pets, but such subject matter has never been of great interest to me. It was all that I could do to stop my gaze from wandering off, towards the stacks of canvases that leaned, here and there, against the wall, and at the painting on Ned’s easel—which was angled away from us, at the far end of the room. Even though the skylight had been propped open, the garret was stuffy, and seemed unsuitable for use as a studio. The light quality was dim and, since the window faced more west than north, presumably it was also inconsistent. The ceiling, which slanted almost to the floor, presented a hazard for anyone of the normal height. I could only imagine that my host must often bang his head.
‘Psittacus erithacus erithacus,’ announced Peden, throwing down a picture of a grey parrot. ‘Extremely intelligent birds, originally native to Africa and, as I’m sure you know, Miss Baxter, much prized by the ancient Greeks and Romans, for their ability to talk, sometimes in complete sentences.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I replied. ‘And pray tell, what did this magnificent bird communicate to you?’
‘As it happens,’ Peden sniffed, ‘he was mute.’
‘He spoke not at all?’
‘No—the owner had recently had him stuffed.’
A somewhat undignified admission, perhaps, but to demonstrate that he suffered no discomfiture, Peden danced about on the spot with his eyelids sealed shut, and a smile of rapture upon his face.
‘Remarkable!’ I said. ‘Well, in that case, may I congratulate you, sir. You’ve done a wonderful job of bringing him back to life. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve even put a gleam in his eye.’
I smiled at Ned, who nodded, happily, in agreement, and then gestured at the other pages on the table, saying: ‘Do you see any painting you like, in particular?’
‘Oh no, they’re all equally good,’ I said. ‘And if one were a devotee of animal portraiture, and had money to spend, then I’m convinced that one would be hard pressed to find better than these marvellous pictures.’
As I had hoped, this made it quite plain that I had no intention of purchasing any, and Peden began, a little crossly, to gather up his work.
‘I quite agree, Harriet,’ said Ned. ‘Walter’s pictures will be worth a fortune, one day. He’s such a talent.’
‘I am now aware of Mr Peden,’ I said, ‘and of his work. Thank you so much for the introduction. But I’m most curious to see your own recent endeavours.’
Ned gave a fretful glance towards his easel, and I felt a tingle of anticipation, but just then, footsteps clattered on the landing, and Sibyl burst in, looking hot and over-excited. She ran to Ned, and tugged at his hand.
‘Papa! Papa!’ she squeaked. ‘Come and see what I done!’
‘Come and see what?’
‘My fern! I planted it in a pot! Come and look!’
She clung to him like a little tick, dragging, with surprising strength, not only at his hand, but also at the hem of his jacket, straining the material at the seams.
‘No, Sibyl,’ he said. ‘We have visitors’, and I was about to throw my hat in the air and give three cheers (metaphorically, of course), when he added, ‘Bring your ferns up here if you must. But be quick. Papa’s busy.’
Instantly, Sibyl fled back downstairs. Ned chortled and gave his head an exasperated little shake. ‘My apologies—they’re planting those blasted ferns.’
‘Pteridomania!’ exclaimed Peden. ‘That dreaded disease.’ He angled his body away from me, in order to address me, sideways, over his shoulder. ‘It seems that when you ladies are weary of novels and gossip and crochet, you find much entertainment in ferns. No doubt you preside over a fern collection, Miss Baxter?’
‘Sadly, no!’ I replied. ‘What with all my novels and gossip and crochet, there’s no time left over for ferns.’
The astute reader will, of course, realise that I was employing irony; but Mr Peden gave a self-satisfied nod—as though I had proven his point.
Just then, footsteps thundered once again on the landing, and Sibyl returned, followed by Rose, who sidled into the room, more shyly. Each child bore a fern in a coloured pot (yellow for Sibyl, blue for Rose), which they set down upon the table for us to admire. Sibyl pushed her plant towards Ned, causing Peden to leap forward and rescue his portfolio. ‘Careful!’ he muttered, and began, fussily,
to tie the strings.
‘That’s my one, Papa!’ cried Sibyl, ignoring him. ‘Look at mine!’
‘My one is the nicest,’ said Rose, quietly.
Sibyl turned on her. ‘No, it isn’t!’ she hissed. ‘And you’re just a big fat baby!’
‘Now then, my wee beauty,’ said Ned, with a laugh. He scooped Sibyl into his arms, and smothered her in kisses. Just then, another footstep was heard on the landing, and Annie appeared at the threshold, in outdoor clothes.
‘Here you are!’ she cried, unfastening her bonnet. ‘Good afternoon, Harriet. Walter. Ned, dear.’ And she smiled at us, hazily, as though through a pretty fog.
Peden gave her a little bow and flourish. Sibyl jumped down from Ned’s arms, and the children ran to their mother, their voices clamouring as they struggled to be heard, one above the other.
‘Come in, dearest,’ said Ned. ‘How wonderful to see you.’
It occurred to me to wonder whether there might have been an edge of sarcasm to this remark, but apparently not: he was regarding her with genuine affection. In return, Annie lowered her head and gazed at him through her eyelashes, a look that smouldered sufficiently to make any witness feel de trop.
‘How was your class, dear?’ asked Ned. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, examining the ribbon string of her bonnet, which had just fallen off in her hand, and would require stitching. ‘But we had a model this afternoon, and it was awful difficult. I did some horrible drawings. I need practice.’
‘My wife is being modest,’ Ned told me, and then smiled at her. ‘She’s a far better painter than I am.’
Annie widened her eyes, in mock horror. ‘Och, away!’ she said. ‘Now you’re just being silly. But here—why don’t we all go down and have some tea? It’s a bit crowded in here, is it not? Ned?’
‘Oh no,’ I found myself saying, and they all turned to look at me. I cleared my throat. ‘I mean—I’m afraid—I only have an hour to spare and I was rather hoping to have at least that amount of time to look at Ned’s work. I’m sure Mr Peden here would welcome a cup of tea, but perhaps Ned and I might…’ I glanced at my host, hoping for support, and to my relief, he agreed.
‘Yes, you go down, Walter; I’ll have tea later, my sweet.’ This last was addressed not to the balding Mr Peden, of course, but to Annie, of the bewitching golden locks. She frowned at her husband, and then turned to his friend.
‘Well, Walter, it seems you’ll have to suffer my company.’
Peden closed his eyes, and danced at her.
‘That would be charming, but I’m sorry—Mrs G.—I must be off.’
‘What a pity,’ said Annie, and turned to Sibyl and Rose. ‘Take your ferns downstairs, like good girls. Put them in the dining room. And go and tell Christina to bring up tea.’
The children grabbed their plants and departed, followed by Peden, who jigged across the room, bobbing his head and punching at the air with his fists, much as though he were a member of the Zulu tribe, and not the Glasgow Chess Club. ‘Exit, pursued by bear,’ he intoned, as he went. ‘Miss Baxter, you will, of course, recognise the quote.’
Deciding that the best policy was to ignore him, I simply smiled and stepped out of his way. He paused at the threshold. ‘Winter’s Tale,’ he said. ‘In case you are completely bemused.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Shakespeare, Miss Baxter. Shakespeare.’
And so saying, he scuttled off down the stairs.
Annie had thrown herself down on the old, battered chaise, and was unfastening her shoes. I had hoped to have some time with the artist, alone, to view his paintings, and to ask him whether he might be interested in undertaking a portrait commission. However, in the presence of a third party, I felt a little self-conscious and constrained.
Ned stood with his hands in his pockets, staring out of the skylight, across the rooftops, towards the tower of St Jude’s. He seemed ill at ease, and I wondered why. Of course, in hindsight, it seems likely that he was embarrassed at having someone examine his work, which always made him uncomfortable. At the time, I simply sensed his awkwardness and—since he was making no move to show me his canvases—I brought up the subject of my stepfather, and his request that I have my portrait painted.
‘I wondered, Ned, whether you’d be so kind as to consider taking the commission? I can assure you it will pay well.’
He and Annie exchanged a look. Then the artist turned to me, with a sigh. ‘It’s very good of you to consider me, Harriet, but I’m afraid I can’t take on any more work, not for the moment.’
Annie dropped her shoes to the floor, with a clatter. ‘He’s under consideration to paint Her Majesty, in August.’
I looked at them both, in astonishment. ‘The Queen? Really?’
Ned appeared to blush, saying: ‘Well, it’s by no means definite.’
‘But she’s coming up to inaugurate the Exhibition,’ said Annie. ‘And they want a painting to commemorate the day.’
‘Oh, my goodness!’ I said. ‘How thrilling. But—forgive me for saying—if the visit isn’t until August, then don’t you have some time, before then—’
‘Aye, but it’s not that simple,’ said Annie. ‘There’s six artists being considered, four of them well established, and a couple of newer names, like Ned. They’ve each to put in some paintings, as examples, and the Committee make their decision based on that.’
Ned cleared his throat. ‘A portrait commission would be useful, financially, Harriet, but I’m having to work, full time, on my picture submissions. I’m so sorry.’
‘Oh, I completely understand. You must think of the longer term. No doubt, the man who is chosen to paint the Queen will never again want for money.’
‘Aye.’ He scratched his head, thoughtfully, and then his face cleared. ‘But what about Walter?’
Annie made a sad face. ‘Walter isn’t one of the six,’ she confided.
‘No,’ said Ned. ‘But I’m sure he’d be happy to paint Harriet’s portrait.’
‘Mr Peden?’ I said. ‘Yes—that’s certainly another option to consider. Now, excuse me, Annie, would you be so kind—if you don’t mind—as to direct me to your facilities? I’d very much like to wash my hands.’
‘Oh, go right ahead,’ she said, swinging her feet up onto the chaise. ‘They’re downstairs, just on the left as you come in the front door.’
I hurried out, and descended to the hallway. Apparently, the children were in the kitchen with Christina, for I could hear their girlish prattle above the clatter of pots and pans. I stepped inside the little water closet beneath the stairs, and ran the tap. In fact, my hands were perfectly clean; I had simply wanted to avoid an awkward situation, given that I had no desire, whatsoever, to have my portrait painted by Walter Peden, and I needed a moment to compose myself, in order to find a polite excuse. Watching the water trickle down the plughole, I decided to tell Ned that—if he himself was unable to paint the portrait—then I would ask my stepfather to choose an artist.
And, so it might have been, had I not, on my way back to the studio, caught sight of a pile of drawings on the floor by a chair in the hallway. Annie must have dropped them onto the seat, upon returning from her class, and perhaps the children had knocked them off, in passing. I crouched down to tidy them up, idly glancing through them as I did so. The uppermost sketch depicted a woman, costumed and posed rather in the mode of a Russian princess. I was struck, at once, by how well executed this portrait was, and paused to take a better look. The lines were bold, the composition pleasing. To my untrained eyes, it seemed a very stylish and confident piece of work. Favourably impressed, I gathered up the other pictures, studying them as I went. Annie had been dismissive of her own talent, but I saw now that she was, without question, a very capable artist in her own right. What a talented pair, I thought to myself. And it was while I was replacing the drawings, and making my way back to the attic, that it came to me.
Upstairs, there was silence
, although Ned and Annie were still in the studio. As I crossed the landing, I caught a glimpse of them, through the doorway. In my absence, the artist had moved behind the chaise, and was leaning down to embrace his wife, from behind. Her head was thrown back, and her eyes were closed, as he nuzzled at her neck. The first few buttons of her frock had come undone, I noticed, and then I saw that his hands had slipped down inside the bodice, to cup her bosom.
I froze to the spot, and was just wondering whether I should tiptoe away, when a floorboard creaked beneath my foot. Suddenly aware of my approach, Ned pulled away from his wife, and began to inspect a paintbrush, while Annie fumbled with her buttons. Deciding to brazen it out, and pretend that I had seen nothing, I breezed into the room.
‘There you are, Harriet!’ said Ned. ‘You’re light on your feet.’
‘Yes—but—unlucky at cards!’ I trilled, saying the first idiotic thing that came into my head, since I was flustered at having witnessed so intimate an embrace. Unable to stop myself, I babbled on: ‘I hope you don’t mind, Annie, but your drawings fell off the chair, and I just stopped to pick them up, out of harm’s way. I couldn’t help but notice—they’re extremely good indeed.’
‘Oh, well, thank you,’ said Annie, calmly smoothing down her hair.
And then, I told them my idea: that she, instead of Ned, should paint my portrait. Annie gazed at me, in disbelief.
‘What—me?’