by Jane Harris
As I turned to see what had caught her attention, she swept past my chair and, crouching down at the skirting board, began to rub at the wall with her cloth.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said, sharply. ‘Just a mark on the wall.’
The ‘mark’, as she called it, was executed in red and black pastel crayon. Presumably, to avoid alarming me, Annie had endeavoured to shield it from my view, but I caught a glimpse of it, over her shoulder. What I saw can only be described as obscene. It was a crude drawing, about the size of a small marrow, boldly executed, and yet, clearly, the work of a child. I found myself chilled to the bone at the thought that a little girl could have produced such an explicit image.
Perhaps, up to that point, I had failed to realise how grave the situation with Sibyl had become. Although I had overheard Elspeth and Mabel discussing Sibyl’s new habit of defacing the walls, I had not realised that what she scribbled would be so brutish and disturbing. However, the sight of that drawing convinced me that the child ought to be brought under control, as quickly as possible.
I suspected that Mabel would have disciplined Sibyl more severely than either of the parents, since she pulled disapproving faces whenever her niece misbehaved—or, indeed, when Annie nursed Rose—and she was the only person who really insisted on keeping the children out of the studio, although, paradoxically, Mabel herself was always up there, talking to her brother. On several occasions, when we had been left alone in the parlour at number 11, she had wasted no time in speaking with me, quite openly, about herself, her broken engagement, and her family. Initially, I had found it hard to warm to Ned’s sister, with her puzzling blend of personality traits: she seemed well intentioned, yet pugnacious; sanctimonious, yet confiding. Although she was often abrupt, one could not help but admire her forthright attitude. I soon came to the conclusion that her self-righteous demeanour was the result of having been ignored as a child. Not only did Elspeth, like many mothers, prefer her sons, but her every waking hour was devoted to the coming of God’s Kingdom on Earth; to charitable works; and to the various waifs, strays and exotic personages that she collected from around the globe, her particular favourite being the Jews, whom she believed ought to be first in line for conversion to Christianity, which accounted for her initial interest in me, when she had assumed that I was Jewish. It did not take much imagination to picture Ned’s sister as a child, overshadowed by her brothers, neglected, whilst her mother entertained a multi-hued houseful of guests: Negro evangelists, pallid Polish Jews, olive-skinned Rajahs, dusky Moslem pedlars and all manner of Western missionaries. I had concluded that what Mabel lacked was attention; she yearned to be listened to, and taken seriously. With this in mind, I made it my habit to consult her advice on all things. I sought her counsel on where to find the finest grocer’s, and on how I should best pin my hair. She was, at first, I believe, a trifle suspicious; but ultimately, much too opinionated to refrain from giving me the benefit of her wisdom. I made sure to act promptly upon her recommendations, and always congratulated her excellent taste or admirable sense—and, in this way, she began to warm to me.
One afternoon, she joined me at Queen’s Crescent, for coffee, which I had taken up drinking on her recommendation. Although Mabel and I had been in the same company together on several previous occasions, this was, I believe, the first time that we had arranged to meet, alone: a crucial milestone in female friendship, as you may be aware, and one at which all might be forever lost, should the general atmosphere not achieve a correct and harmonious (yet somehow indefinable) balance of warmth and mutual respect. Regrettably, I was obliged to maintain a sense of humour that afternoon, since Ned’s sister was in a sniffy mood to begin with, and made little effort to endear herself. As soon as she arrived, she found fault with the fabric of the curtains in my sitting room; and then she implied that the view from my window was not quite as attractive as one might have expected; my choice of coffee beans failed to meet with her unmitigated approval; and at the table, she made a great performance of selecting a biscuit, which she then scrutinised, doubtfully, before finally discarding it onto her plate, uneaten.
‘I see you don’t share Elspeth’s sweet tooth,’ I said, in an effort to engage her. ‘You’re so slender in comparison. I’d never take you for mother and daughter.’
‘Really?’
‘Not at all! And besides, you and Elspeth seem so different.’
‘Do we?’
The scowl disappeared; her face brightened: it was as if the sun had peeked through the scullery window, unexpectedly, to put a gleam on the pots and pans.
‘Yes indeed!’ I cried, sensing that I was onto something. (Of course, poor dear, she loved her mama, but this love was combined, as is so often the case in daughters, with a deep-seated desire to be as different from her as possible.) ‘Presumably you and she do not have the same tendency to gain weight; and as for character—well, in some respects, you and your mother are like night and day!’
‘Oh, I do gain weight,’ said Mabel, unable to resist contradicting me. ‘Unless I’m very careful about what I eat. But I have indeed often thought that Mother and I are quite different, temperamentally.’
‘Exactly! And is that not often the case? Annie and Sibyl, for instance—’
‘Och, Sibyl!’ said Mabel, and cast her eyes towards the ceiling.
‘She is a handful,’ I agreed. ‘These terrible drawings…’
Mabel shook her head in disgust. As it transpired, she was of the opinion that an investigation should be conducted at Sibyl’s school, to see if any of the other children might be leading her astray. It was a mixed school, with (according to Mabel) a very rough set of boys. However, since all the pupils and teachers had dispersed for the summer, any enquiry in that arena would have to wait.
‘How on earth does Ned concentrate on his work?’ I asked her. ‘Sibyl is up in the studio bothering him most of the time now she’s on holiday.’
‘Och, I know! We do try to keep her out, myself especially.’
‘When I was a child, I wasn’t allowed to set foot in my stepfather’s study.’
‘Of course not!’ said Mabel. ‘A man needs somewhere quiet to do his work.’
‘I remember once, when I was about Sibyl’s age, I crept in there, while he was upstairs with my mother. He had a collection of kaleidoscopes, you see, that I was curious about. I tiptoed in, and picked one up, and then—suddenly—I heard him coming back downstairs and heading towards the study.’
‘Oh dear!’ said Mabel.
‘Yes, I got such a fright, I dropped the kaleidoscope with a clatter, and some of the paint chipped off. My stepfather came bounding in and when he saw what I’d done, he drew back his fist and punched me in the stomach, as though he might have punched a grown man—so hard, in fact, that he lifted me clean off my feet, and I flew into the air and—rather comically, I think—bounced right off the windowpane.’
‘Mercy me!’
‘Oh, the glass didn’t break, thankfully, I just bounced off. Landed on my own two feet and scampered out of the room as fast as my little legs would carry me.’
We both laughed.
‘That was that,’ I said. ‘Not that I ever minded being hit, and I forgot all about what happened that day, for years, so it can’t have done me any harm. But, as you can imagine, I never went near his study again. He could smoke his cigars in there in peace, and think great thoughts about business, without being bothered.’
‘Quite.’
‘Talking of cigarettes…’
I produced one, and proceeded to light it, an act that caused Mabel to hoot with laughter, since I had never previously smoked in her presence. She was shocked, of course, but too proud to show it, hence her forced amusement.
‘Harriet—you’re smoking?’
‘Oh yes, I’ve done it for years. Recently, I’ve found it goes very well with coffee. And it allows one to skip meals, without ever going hungry.’
‘Is
that so?’ said Mabel, and her gaze fell, with a certain amount of fresh interest, upon the cigarette box.
I blew out a long stream of smoke.
‘Of course, I wouldn’t suggest that they box Sibyl’s ears, not for a moment, but perhaps she needs to be discouraged, more firmly.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Mabel. ‘I’ve always maintained they ought to discipline her in some way, so that she knows the difference between right and wrong.’
Unlike Mabel, Ned’s mother—no doubt relishing her role as sole grandparent—was inclined to spoil the children. Of course, Elspeth herself required veneration and attention much as others require air to breathe, but she liked to be seen to dote on the girls, particularly Sibyl who, as the firstborn—and, arguably, the prettier child—was her favourite. Perhaps she also felt some guilt at having ignored her own offspring while they were growing up, and compensated for this by being an over-indulgent grandmama. She fussed over Sibyl, with hugs, kisses, and shrieks of delight—perhaps in the knowledge that such a charming ‘tableau of the generations’ was bound to attract admiring glances from anyone present. Naturally, most of the admiration was directed at the child, but Elspeth was more than content to bask in the reflected glow. Needless to say, she never scolded Sibyl, and did all that she could to remain in the child’s favour.
By contrast, Annie did try to be firm with her daughter, but Sibyl merely had to throw a prolonged and terrifying tantrum in order to get her own way. Ned tended to be even more indulgent than his wife, so that, unfortunately, the two parents often contradicted each other. For instance, Annie might spend all afternoon denying Sibyl more sweet things to eat, only for Ned to give her some Coulter’s Candy, in an attempt to stop her whining. Annie did try to keep the girl out of his studio, but the artist himself would often crumble before Sibyl’s pleading, and invite her in, and then we would hear her leaping around up there like a little flea, pestering him, and keeping him from his work. No matter how great Ned’s powers of concentration, his darling Sibyl always found it easy to distract him.
As for Ned’s brother Kenneth, he seemed blithely unaware that Sibyl was a problem. Indeed, her behaviour was worse whenever he was involved. I suspect that she had a childish infatuation with him. She always became very unruly during his visits, and—if he failed to focus on her at all times, or made the mistake of trying to talk to anybody else, she would jump up and down, feverishly, calling out his name, over and over: ‘Kenneth! Uncle Kenneth! Kenneth!’ until he gave her his full attention. She always looked forward to seeing him, but Ned’s brother was not the most reliable character. When not at work, he frequented the bars and cafeterias in the park and, sometimes, he made promises to visit Sibyl that he failed to keep. On these occasions, she would wait for him, impatiently, before slumping into melancholy when she realised that he was not going to put in an appearance. Then, she would become fractious and tearful, and it was only a matter of time before she would resort to mischief, out of spite.
If only we had known then what the future held in store, then one of us might have acted more promptly. After our conversation over coffee, Mabel did try to persuade Annie to take a harder line with Sibyl, even suggesting that they might bring in some sort of expert in nervous diseases to examine the child. However, Annie seemed to take fright at this notion, and told her sister-in-law to say no more on the subject, particularly to Ned. He would have been alarmed to hear Mabel’s idea about consulting a doctor, and Annie did not wish him to be upset in any way while he was working on his submissions for the Fine Art Committee. Thus, the question of addressing Sibyl’s misbehaviour was brushed under the carpet.
Of course, as a recent acquaintance, it would have been inappropriate for me to pass comment to the Gillespies on how they dealt with their daughter, and so I kept my thoughts to myself but, as far as I could see, Kenneth was one of the worst influences on Sibyl. Such was the pleasure he took in over-exciting the child that it occurred to me that he might even have taught her to execute those nasty drawings.
6
My curiosity about Kenneth began to be aroused, one fine afternoon, whilst I was sitting for my portrait. Ned was upstairs in his studio, still working on his Eastern Palace, and Annie had sent the children to play around the corner, in the gardens of Queen’s Crescent. The portrait was nearing completion: my skirts were done, and Annie had begun the difficult work on the fine detail of face and hands. We were taking advantage of the unaccustomed tranquillity to work in peace, when the doorbell rang. Miraculously, Christina, the maid, was in evidence, and she ran downstairs to admit the visitor, who turned out to be Walter Peden, calling to see Ned. As was his wont, he stopped off in the parlour on his way up to the studio, and—in the course of conversation with Annie—he happened to mention a rumour that he had heard.
Apparently, the artist and caricaturist Mungo Findlay was at work on a vignette of Ned. Over the past few months, to coincide with the Exhibition, Findlay had produced a series of irreverent sketches depicting local painters, and these had been published in The Thistle, a Glasgow weekly paper, rival to The Bailie and Quiz. For the most part, Findlay’s caricatures were harmless enough. However, the less well disposed he was to his subject, the more mocking the portrayal. For instance, his drawing of Lavery had been particularly merciless, not so much in any exaggeration of the man’s features, but in the way that his self-importance was satirised. According to Peden, the vignette of Ned was, as yet, unfinished, but was due to be published in a mid-August edition of the magazine. In some respects, inclusion in this Thistle series was flattering, since it meant that the featured artist had, to a certain extent, made his mark upon the world of Scottish Art. The fact that Ned was considered important enough to be depicted ought to have been a cause for celebration. None the less, much depended upon how he was portrayed. The timing was hardly fortuitous, since the caricature would be published just before the Committee met to make its decision about the Royal Commission, and if Findlay’s portrayal was unflattering, it could be an embarrassment to Ned.
Peden had heard these rumours from a friend who was vaguely acquainted with Mungo Findlay—or ‘Old Findlaypops’ as Peden insisted upon calling him—though it is my surmise that they had never met, since it was Walter’s habit to concoct jolly soubriquets for persons he barely knew, in order to imply a social intimacy that did not, in fact, exist. For instance, he insisted upon calling me Hetty.
‘It’s not just Ned in the vignette,’ Peden told us. ‘Kenneth also features.’
‘Kenneth!’ exclaimed Annie. ‘I thought these were sketches of artists?’
‘This time, it’s something different: an artist and his brother.’
Annie frowned. ‘Is there a caption? What does it say?’
I suspect that Peden would have danced at her, except that he was stretched out on the sofa, where he had thrown himself upon his arrival. Instead, he moved his shoulders from side to side and gave his nose a knowing tap. He was clearly enjoying his role as bearer of important news.
‘Ah-ha! Old Findlaypops is keeping very quiet about it.’
‘But why is Kenneth in it, at all?’
Despite her questions, Peden was unable to provide us with further details. His friend had not seen the caricature, having simply overheard Findlay bragging, dropping hints that his depiction of Kenneth would throw light on something scandalous. I wondered what sort of scandal Ned’s brother could be involved in. All manner of worrying alternatives passed through my mind: an affaire de cœur—perhaps with a married lady? Was he a gambler? An eater of opium?
Annie also seemed apprehensive. ‘Can’t we see it before it appears?’
‘I doubt it. He tends not to show his sketches until publication. We must just wait and see, Mrs G. All will be revealed next month.’
‘How very mysterious,’ I said.
‘Yes, indeed, Hetty! You see—that’s just what Findlaypops is like. You never know what the old scoundrel will come up with next.’
An
nie sighed, and chewed her lip. She was already worn down by Sibyl’s misbehaviour, and all this cryptic nonsense was clearly unsettling her. If only Peden would be quiet. I gazed at him.
‘Would I be correct in saying, Walter, that—normally, if it weren’t for the Exhibition—you would be spending the entire summer far away from here, and that you wouldn’t return to Glasgow until the winter?’
‘Indeed. It’s my habit to spend the summer at Cockburnspath, or Kirkcudbright. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh—no reason,’ said I, lightly.
Clearly, the man was bored out of his wits, which made him more tiresome and gossipy than he might ordinarily have been. It occurred to me that what he really needed was a wife: but he was so awkward in his dealings with women that the prospect of matrimony seemed unlikely. Thank goodness, he soon went upstairs to see Ned, leaving me alone with Annie, whose forehead was still puckered by the frown that had settled there ever since Peden had mentioned Kenneth. She took up her brush and began to move it up and down as though applying colour to the canvas, although I suspected that she was only pretending to paint.