Gillespie and I

by Jane Harris

  Since becoming acquainted with the family, I had noticed that Annie and her brother-in-law were quite close. She was nearer to him in age than she was to her husband: only three months separated Annie’s birthday from Kenneth’s. They were always in cahoots together. One would, on occasion, catch them exchanging ‘significant’ glances, and I had seen them, a few times, laughing behind their hands at jokes that were rarely shared with the general company. Obviously, this news about Kenneth and the caricature had upset Annie. But why should that be? Did she know something that the rest of us did not?

  Hoping to draw her out, I mentioned that I had recently encountered Kenneth at the Exhibition, looking troubled. This was not exactly accurate: I had seen him on the river path, but, in truth, he had been walking along with great insouciance, hurling stones into the water. However, by suggesting that he seemed unhappy, I was hoping to make her more conversable.

  ‘It was very strange,’ I told her. ‘He walked straight past, without even noticing me. I wonder what was on his mind; he seemed so lost in thought.’

  ‘He probably didn’t see you,’ said Annie.

  ‘He looked almost haunted. Is he terribly prone to mood swings?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I saw him go into the Cocoa House—he seems to spend a lot of time there, chatting with the waitresses.’

  Annie gave a shrug of her shoulders.

  ‘Good gracious!’ I cried. ‘I think we may have touched on his secret!’

  She looked startled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A clandestine romance—with a Van Houten’s girl!’ Annie laughed, and then, blushing slightly, leaned in to peer more closely at her canvas, thereby concealing her face. I persevered, somewhat clumsily. ‘Perhaps they’ve been careless and she’s in trouble…’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think it’s any of our business, do you?’ said Annie, and then, rather abruptly, she ended our session, claiming that she was too tired, that afternoon, to continue any longer.

  Next day, as previously arranged, I accompanied Elspeth to the General Gordon Buffet, where she bought me an Indian curry luncheon, a treat with which she had been threatening me ever since I had rescued her from suffocation by her teeth. During our meal of many fiery dishes, I made a few discreet enquiries about Kenneth and his habits; but, on that particular afternoon, it was difficult to steer Ned’s mother away from the subject of the state visit and the Queen’s portrait. Elspeth had heard a rumour that the commissioners desired the painting to depict not only Her Majesty but also two hundred and fifty local dignitaries and officials, amongst whom the Fine Art Committee themselves would, no doubt, prominently feature. The widow Gillespie enjoyed getting hot and bothered, and here was something to get hot and bothered about.

  ‘Over two hundred faces, Herriet! And they must all be painted accurately!’

  ‘That is rather a lot,’ I agreed. ‘If Ned gets the commission, perhaps Kenneth could help him. Can Kenneth paint? What are his talents? Do tell me about him.’

  ‘Kenneth? Och, he’s no artist. No, Ned would have to do it by himself; he’d still be at it on his deathbed. Of course, painting Her Majesty would be an honour—but two hundred and fifty sets of whiskers, all got up in their sporrans and robes, all desperate to be in the picture!’

  We were both in agreement that such grand-scale portraits are often more interesting for their topicality than for any contribution towards great Art. However, a commission to paint royalty was not to be sniffed at, since everyone from butchers’ wives to baronets would pay through the nose to have their likeness painted by Her Majesty’s portraitist; and with (say) half-a-dozen such lucrative canvases per year, Ned would be able to pursue his own, more interesting work, in between. Elspeth was sensible enough to realise that such a commission could be a turning point in her son’s career and she was, as ever, admirably enthusiastic in her support of him, but, in the absence of any real knowledge of the way things are achieved in the Art World, her suggestions as to how he should go about being selected by the Committee struck me as rather fanciful.

  ‘He must get his bank manager to recommend him. Or somebody more important should write a letter on his behalf—the Lord Provost! Sir James—no—I have it! Not James King, but the Queen!’ She banged her fist on the table. ‘He must show the Queen his paintings, and she herself will recommend him for the job!’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But, perhaps, meeting the Queen might be difficult to orchestrate. What about Kenneth? Does he know anyone of importance, who could help—perhaps one of his customers at the shop?’

  Elspeth shook her head. ‘Och, Kenneth doesn’t know anybody. No, I think Ned should write a nice letter to the Queen. Or—no! Perhaps we can get the Provost to write to the Queen, on his behalf! Yes, that’s it!’

  And so on and so forth—at any rate, I learned no more about Kenneth from his mother.

  After we had finished our luncheon, Elspeth bustled off and—finding myself at a loose end—I decided, on the spur of the moment, to take up knitting. In search of the requisites of my new avocation, I called in at the Wool and Hosiery on Great Western Road. Of course, this was the Gillespies’ store, where Ned’s brother worked, and although I was indeed eager to begin my new knitting adventure, I must admit that there was a secondary motive for my visit. I was interested to see Kenneth on his own territory, as it were, outside the family circle. Unfortunately, when I went into the shop that day, there was no sign of him, and I found myself discussing needles and yarn, at great length, with the other assistant, Miss MacHaffie, a lethally helpful old lady. I had hoped that Kenneth might emerge, at some point, from behind the scenes, but he did not and, eventually, I made a few purchases and left, realising that it must be his afternoon off.

  However, it occurred to me that by keeping an eye on Ned’s brother, I might see where he went, and perhaps discover his secret, whatever it might be. Praemonitus, praemunitus, as they say. Thus, for a few days, whenever I was able, and without altering my own habits too much, I observed his movements. His routine hardly varied. At half past eight o’clock, he walked to work and opened the shop at nine; he took a meal break, usually at half past two, and usually in the Bachelor’s Café in the park; at six o’clock sharp, he closed the shop, and returned to Stanley Street, sometimes calling at number 11 for a while, to play with Sibyl and Rose, before heading across the road, to his mother’s house, for his evening meal; thereafter, more often than not, he went back to the park, to drink in the Bodega. He seemed to have befriended various Exhibition employees and, once the park had shut for the night, he and assorted friends usually disappeared into the Caledonian Tavern. There was nothing particularly untoward in his behaviour, as far as I could tell. He frequented public houses, not opium dens. He drank, certainly, but no more than other men of his age and class. After a few days, I began to wonder whether Kenneth’s secret, whatever form it took, was something that had happened in the past. However, as it transpired, I did not have to speculate for much longer.

  On Saturday evening, having spent a pleasant few hours at the Exhibition, I turned my steps homewards, intending to follow the river north and head over the Prince of Wales Bridge, thence up and around the dramatic skyline of Woodland Hill—a magnificent circular arrangement of residential terraces, pavilions, and jutting towers and spires, Glasgow’s veritable crown, from which is to be had a commanding view of the whole city—and finally, downhill to Queen’s Crescent: a humble tiara, by comparison. Dusk was gathering, but thanks to all the wonderful electrification, one could see quite clearly. Several great windows of the Eastern Palace glowed brightly, whilst over to the east and south lay the twinkling lights of the city and its factories and shipyards. A smell of chimney smoke was in the air, drifting across the park from the Machinery Section, and the din of the dynamos was still audible, since they would not be shut down until the Exhibition closed for the day. That hour was still distant, and people were flocking, as usual, towards the Fairy Fountain, the magical rainbow
tints of which illuminated the sky and reflected prettily in the river.

  It was as I approached the central bridges that I happened to notice Kenneth Gillespie. This was a coincidence, since I had just been thinking about him, wondering whether he might be in the park. He was leaving Howell’s Smoking Lounge, in the company of a tall individual in a dark, broad-brimmed hat, a man whom I recognised, at once, as the younger of the gondoliers. The two men were within hailing distance and I could easily have greeted Kenneth, but I was tired, and it was getting late, and thus, I pretended to look in at Howell’s window, so that they might walk ahead without noticing me. No doubt they were bound for the Caledonian. They wandered along the path and crossed over to the riverside, in front of the Chocolate Kiosk, where they paused for a moment, in conversation, although I was now too far away to hear what they said. It was my understanding that the gondolier had few words of English, and I wondered how he managed to converse with the locals.

  Just then, a flaring match caught my attention, as a fat man paused to light a cigar in Howell’s doorway before setting off across the bridge, leaving behind him a sour and tantalising whiff of smoke. I myself was perishing for a cigarette, but that would have to wait until I got back to my lodgings. In the meantime, I peered through Howell’s window at the well-stocked shelves and ornamental mirrors. It all looked very bright and cosy inside, and I could almost smell the tobacco through the glass. Two serving girls came downstairs from the lounge, very pretty in their starched pinafores and white caps. A gentleman propped his elbow on the counter as he flirted with another girl. My thoughts drifted to the gondolier. The locals had dubbed the two Venetians ‘Signors Hokey and Pokey’ since, in the mind of the Glaswegian, any Italian is irredeemably associated with ice-cream, or hokey-pokey. Ned had painted these gondoliers, several times. In my opinion, the pictures were too quaint, but Peden kept encouraging him to produce more in the same vein, to be sold as souvenirs of the Exhibition. Personally speaking, I had no high regard for Walter’s opinions on Art; in my mind, I had reduced him to a tongue-twister (Peden the Pedant, painter of pets; postulates, prances and pirouettes), and I wished that Ned was not quite so easily influenced.

  Thus, my thoughts meandered. When I glanced around again, only a few moments had passed, and so I was surprised to find that Kenneth and the gondolier had vanished. I looked in all directions, but they were not to be seen on any of the nearby paths. I made my way to the spot where they had been standing, but although I peered into the undergrowth, there was no trace of them. I began to worry that some misfortune might have befallen them: night was falling, after all; and so I ventured a little way down the riverbank. The slope was steep in places, and I had to proceed with caution. Having established that there was no one on the easterly side, I made my way towards the first bridge, thinking that they might have gone under there, perhaps to throw stones, or to smoke, or for some other masculine reason.

  I wonder can you imagine what sight greeted my eyes as I peered into the shadows under that low bridge? To begin with, I myself did not know quite what to make of it. At first, I was surprised to see that they were wrestling. Signor Pokey seemed to have pounced from behind and got the better of his opponent, since he was on top of Ned’s brother, with an arm around his neck, and he was thrusting him into the dirt, causing Kenneth to grunt. Harm was being done, I was sure; and I was about to cry out when suddenly it came to me that the two young men were not, in fact, engaged in mortal combat; rather, they were committing an act of another kind altogether; and it seemed that the oarsman was (in a phrase that I have since heard said) giving Kenneth quite a tail.

  Please, do not misunderstand me: I am not easily shocked, and I have no objection to acts of love, Greek or otherwise. My immediate and only concern at the time was for my new friend, the artist Ned Gillespie. Clearly, it was not the Cocoa House girls that his brother was interested in, after all; Kenneth was ploughing a rather different furrow. If this was the scandalous matter that ‘Old Findlaypops’ was about to reveal in his caricature, we were indeed facing a catastrophe. You see, the good burghers of Glasgow have never been renowned for their tolerance, especially when it comes to patapoufs or Mary-Anns or inverts (or whatever the current terminology might be). What on earth would it do to Ned’s promising reputation, to his prospects, and to his chances of winning the commission to paint the state visit, if the reckless and inappropriate behaviour of his brother were to be made public in an issue of The Thistle?

  Next day, at Stanley Street, the main door was lying open when I arrived for my portrait sitting, and on my way upstairs, on one of the landings, I bumped into Ned, who was heading out, with his easel under his arm. Apparently, he had just heard from the Fine Art Committee, which had, at last, announced a submission date for canvases. There was to be a small private view and, thereafter, the members would retire to choose which artist they would commission to paint the Queen. The viewing was planned for the 15th of August, just a few days after Findlay’s caricature was due to appear. I dreaded to think what scurrilous image the gentlemen of the Committee might have in their minds whilst they cast their eyes over Gillespie’s work.

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll finish my Eastern Palace in time,’ Ned was saying, as he set down his easel to rest his arm. ‘So I’ll probably submit one of my Gondolier pictures.’

  ‘The Gondoliers?’ I replied, in alarm. ‘Oh no, but surely your Eastern Palace would be a more appropriate subject.’ I disguised my misgivings with a smile. ‘When does that dreadful piece of tosh come out?’

  Ned looked at me, blankly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know—Findlay’s caricature, in The Thistle.’

  ‘Oh—that!’ He laughed. ‘I haven’t a notion.’

  ‘Have you any idea of how he has drawn you?’

  ‘No—none at all,’ he said, and shook his head, smiling. ‘Although Peden says Kenneth is in it, which might be amusing.’

  From his reaction, it seemed perfectly plain that he was entirely ignorant of his brother’s proclivities.

  ‘Well—you must concentrate on your submissions,’ I told him. ‘If the Committee see your Eastern Palace, I wager they’ll be forcing a cheque into your hands before the sherry gets warm. It’s such a wonderful picture, very appropriate, a large building with all those figures, fabulous colours—proof positive that you’re the right man for the state portrait.’

  Ned chuckled, a little puzzled. ‘But—forgive me, Harriet, I don’t believe you’ve seen the painting.’

  ‘Indeed, I haven’t, but Annie told me it’s one of your finest.’

  ‘Och, I don’t know about that…’

  ‘Of course, your Gondoliers are pleasant enough, but they don’t show the full breadth of your talent.’

  ‘Well—we’ll see,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’m just going down there now to make some more sketches in the park.’

  ‘But surely you’ve enough sketches? You could complete your Eastern Palace in a few days, if you put your mind to it.’

  He looked so doubtful of this prospect, that I gave a light laugh. Just then, Annie appeared on the top landing. Perhaps she had heard the echo of our voices in the stairwell. She leaned on the banister, looking down upon us, unsmiling.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Harriet,’ she said. ‘Are you coming in at all?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Ned and I were just talking about his paintings.’

  ‘Well, we should get on with ours, don’t you think? You’ll be pleased to hear we’re almost finished.’

  ‘Really? I thought there was rather more to do, on the hands—’

  ‘No,’ said Annie, shortly. ‘I think I’m nearly done. A few more sessions should suffice.’ She glanced at Ned, who was standing beside me, lost in thought. ‘Are you going out, dear, or what are you doing?’

  The artist hesitated. ‘I don’t know—as a matter of fact, I’ve changed my mind. I think I’ll go back up to the studio.’ And, so saying, he lifted his easel, and gave me a nod. ‘Thank
you, Harriet,’ he said. ‘I do believe you’re right. I probably should press on and, at least, try to finish my Eastern Palace. Shall we?’

  And he held out his hand, to guide me up the stairs ahead of him. I must admit to feeling rather pleased, and not a little relieved, that he seemed to have heeded my advice.

  However, there was still the problem of the vignette. I knew that there must be a way out of this ghastly situation, but temporarily, I was at a loss. The Gillespies were already struggling, financially. If Ned’s commissions and sales were to diminish as a result of the publication of a seedy caricature, the family would suffer even more. I had to blink away some horrible images of Ned and the children, dressed in rags, begging on Buchanan Street. Of course, it would never come to that, I hoped. But how was Mungo Findlay to be stopped?

  Having racked my brains, overnight, I decided that it was imperative to see exactly what the caricaturist had drawn. Thus, I wrote to him and introduced myself with the claim that I wished to engage him as portrait painter and, marking the note ‘Urgent’, I delivered it, by hand, to the handsome new Italianate offices of The Thistle, in West George Street, on Sunday morning. This, I hoped, might result in an invitation to his studio. As yet, I had no clear notion of what I might do once I was there. For some reason, I had imagined Findlay to be an untidy sort of fellow, who left his work lying about the place, and I suppose that I had envisaged a scenario in which the drawing of Ned and Kenneth might be found, in plain view; one glance would tell me whether or not it was damaging, and, if necessary, I was prepared to use all my powers of persuasion in order to protect my friends from scandal.

  As it transpired, Findlay must have called in at the Thistle building at some point on Sunday, for I received his reply, promptly, on Monday morning. He provided his home address, and invited me to visit him, on Tuesday, at three o’clock. Personally, I would have preferred to see him sooner. I already had an arrangement to sit for Annie on Tuesday afternoon. Moreover, it worried me that Findlay had gone to the offices of the paper on the Sabbath: quite conceivably, he could have been delivering the finished caricature. Having no wish to appear over-eager, I simply wrote to him, accepting his invitation, and resolved to wait another day.