Gillespie and I

by Jane Harris

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Peden. ‘But it seems evident that you did. I have it on good authority, right down to your physical description.’

  At that moment, a strange sound made us both turn to look at Annie. I was surprised to realise that she was sobbing. And then, to my astonishment, she stepped forwards, with a tearful smile, and threw her arms around me.

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ she murmured, in my ear. ‘I was so worried about that stupid man and his drawing. Thank you so much for stopping him.’

  Her neck smelt faintly of her favourite ‘Crab Apple’ scent. I could see Peden, over her shoulder, staring at me.

  ‘What I don’t understand’, he said, ‘is why you made him destroy it, Hetty. What on earth was in it? Findlay won’t say a word: claims he’s sworn to secrecy.’

  Annie released me from her warm embrace, and stepped back to face Peden, as she wiped her eyes. ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we’ll never know what was in that vignette. The main thing is it wasn’t published. Now, Walter, if you don’t mind, we must get on with our work.’

  ‘Oh! Of course—the Great Portrait!’ he said, and danced at her. ‘I’ll be off then. Good day, dear Mrs. G—and farewell, Hetty, you sly dog.’

  He gave me one last narrow-eyed look, and then sauntered, pigeon-toed, across the hall, and out of the apartment.

  Annie addressed her daughter, who was still lying, eavesdropping, on the sofa. ‘Sibyl—go to your room for a nap.’

  An interval of whining ensued, but, eventually, the child shuffled out of the room, trailing her blanket behind her. Annie waited until Sibyl had gone upstairs, and then she closed the parlour door, quietly. I expected her to return to her easel, but instead, she sat down in one of the chairs by the hearth and, propping her head up on one hand, she gave me a long, inquisitive look. I thought, at first, that she was studying me, for the purposes of the painting, but eventually she spoke.

  ‘Now then, Harriet—whatever have you been up to?’

  As it turned out, I had been correct in my assumptions about Annie: she did know all about her brother-in-law’s secret. A few weeks later, I heard the full, unexpurgated story of how she had become his confidante, several months previously, after he had confessed all. Suffice to say, her suspicions about him had first been aroused on a family outing to Edinburgh in late December. Kenneth and Annie had been seated together in a busy train, the rest of the family having been obliged to occupy another carriage. It seemed that, during the journey—and unbeknownst to Annie—Ned’s brother had become intimate with an Argyll and Sutherland Highlander who had taken the seat at his other side. The encounter began with the pressure of one man’s thigh against the other, at first—apparently—accidental, and then (at Bishopbriggs, following the departure from the carriage of the remaining passengers) more deliberate; and it progressed, by furtive, fumbling degrees, to a concluding act which I will not elucidate here, but which Kenneth performed manually upon the soldier as the train entered Haymarket Station; his actions cunningly concealed by the military cape draped across the stranger’s lap. (This aspect of the tale, Annie alluded to only in the most vague of terms, but there was no mistaking what she meant.)

  I gathered that what she found most unnerving was that all of this wanton activity had occurred right beside her, whilst she was deeply absorbed in reading a book, her beloved David Copperfield and, at the very moment when Kenneth had been applying himself with the greatest fervour to the Highlander, on the approach to Haymarket, she had just reached the saddest part of the story: the deaths of Jip, the adorable miniature dog, and also of the hero’s wife, poor little Dora. These combined tragedies (all within a single page!) had reduced Annie to tears; and it upset her to think that—whilst she wept, quietly oblivious, and moved by masterful storytelling—Kenneth had been at her side, fiddling about in the clammy netherworld of a soldier’s kilt (not her words but mine). It was only afterwards—when the soldier had disembarked at Haymarket, and Kenneth had acted strangely, running after him, and then refusing to say why—that Annie grew suspicious.

  ‘So I asked him about it, at Hogmanay, when he was drunk. He wouldn’t tell me at first, just kept hinting there was something about him I didn’t know. But later, he got more drunk and then—well—he said what had happened on the train.’

  Despite any reservations that she might have harboured, Annie had since been careful not to show Kenneth her disapproval. She was, I think, flattered that he had confided in her. As for Kenneth, once he realised that his brother’s wife would not only keep his secrets, but also allow him to talk about them without condemning his actions, he acquired a taste for confession and abandoned all modesty, even seeming quite thrilled to provide her with unexpurgated accounts of his exploits.

  ‘After that, he told me everything,’ she said. ‘About all the other men that he’d been with, in all sorts of places. I used to tell him he should be careful, but he never pays a blind bit of notice. And then the Exhibition started, and he met Carmine—the gondola man—and that was a blessing, believe me, Harriet, because it calmed him down. He’s not going off with strangers any more, one after the other, like he used to. Whatever he and Carmine do, it happens in private.’

  ‘Alas, not always,’ I reminded her. ‘Lucky for them that it was only me who saw them under the bridge. Imagine had I been a policeman!’

  Annie looked crestfallen. Poor girl (for she really was no more than a girl): carrying the burden of this secret for so many months had been a strain, and I believe it was a huge relief for her to confide in me.

  But there I go again, rushing ahead. I did not hear all of the above until—perhaps—September, by which time Annie and I had developed a closer friendship, and were able to talk about such things, albeit in euphemistic terms.

  On the day in question, of course, very little was said. Although Annie pressed me, I continued to deny any involvement in the destruction of Findlay’s caricature, for several minutes. Then, I will admit, I gave in. She was so desperate to know how Ned and Kenneth had been depicted, and begged me so hard that, eventually, I described it for her. Thereafter, she insisted upon knowing why on earth I had gone to Findlay’s house in the first place and so, in the most delicate way possible, I told her that I had witnessed Kenneth, in the park, in the company of the gondolier. ‘They didn’t see me—it was quite dark by that time—but I saw them; I saw—what they were doing.’

  Annie had clamped her lips together so tightly, that they had all but disappeared. Eager to reassure her, I clasped her hands in both of mine.

  ‘Please don’t fret, dear. Why, I know quite a few men of the same sort, down in London. It’s more common than you’d think. I won’t tell a soul, I promise.’

  She gazed into my eyes, trying to determine whether or not I could be trusted, until, at last, something inside her seemed to yield, and she gave a sigh. ‘Oh, Harriet! Ned doesn’t know about it, and I’ve been almost going mad, thinking that this drawing might come out, and ruin everything—Kenneth, and Ned—all of us.’

  ‘Well, hopefully we don’t have to worry about it any more.’

  She shook her head; there were tears in her eyes. ‘I don’t know how to thank you. I won’t forget what you’ve done to help us—ever.’

  Just at that moment, the front door flew open and, a second or two later, Ned bounded into the parlour.

  ‘Afternoon, ladies,’ he cried. ‘What are you doing in here, all cooped up? We should be out in the park, in the fresh air.’

  ‘You seem in good form, dear,’ said Annie, recovering herself with admirable grace. ‘Have you seen Walter?’

  ‘Should I have?’

  ‘He’s away to find you at the Club. You must’ve missed him in the street.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Ned, and then turned to me, with a smile. ‘Harriet, I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that my Eastern Palace is finished, and is now up on the wall at the Art Club, awaiting the verdict of the Fine Art Committee.’

  ‘Wonde
rful—how does it look?’

  ‘I’m not entirely happy with it, of course, but—’

  ‘Ach,’ said Annie, scathingly. ‘Don’t listen to him. It’s magnificent.’

  Ned gave a modest laugh. ‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far. But Horatio Hamilton was there, and he did tell me he thought it was my best work yet.’

  ‘Oh, that’s simply marvellous,’ I told him.

  ‘Now Ned, dearest,’ said Annie. ‘Don’t be disappointed, but that thing wasn’t in The Thistle after all.’

  Ned looked blank. ‘What thing?’

  Remarkably, given the straits that the rest of us had been in, he seemed to have forgotten altogether about the vignette.

  ‘Findlay’s sketch, dear. He put Mr Crawhall in The Thistle instead of you.’

  Ned laughed. ‘Good old Crawhall! Aye, he’d be a much better subject than me, anyway. Now—’ He clapped his hands together, the caricature already forgotten. ‘Why don’t we all go to the park, and celebrate that I finished my painting? Thanks to your good advice, Harriet, I think I might even stand half a chance of this commission. I do hope I can find some way to repay you.’

  ‘Oh, good gracious—’ I said, more than a little embarrassed. ‘I was just so sure that your Eastern Palace would be something special.’

  ‘Well, you were right—from now on, I shall consult you before I do anything. Annie, where are the girls? Let’s get out of here. Come on, Harriet, let me buy you a hokey-pokey or a cold drink.’

  ‘Oh, that would be wonderful but—’ I glanced at his wife, doubtfully. ‘We ought to get on with my portrait. Annie’s keen to finish.’

  To my great surprise, she shook her head.

  ‘Och, never mind that, now. We can work on it some other day. Ned’s right. We all deserve some fresh air, and some fun, in the park.’ She smiled at me and, reaching out, took my hand in hers. ‘Would you mind coming upstairs with me, Harriet dear, and helping me to get the girls ready to go out?’

  My face grew warm with pleasure at this unaccustomed display of affection.

  ‘Not at all,’ I told her. ‘I’d be delighted.’

  And thus began a wonderful new phase in my friendship with the Gillespies.

  Thursday, 8 June 1933

  LONDON

  How ironic that just as I am writing about improved relations with Annie and the Gillespies, matters with Sarah have taken a turn for the worse. It all began with the finches. The unfortunate thing about keeping any kind of pet—be it dog or cat or bird—is that one can get very attached to an animal and then, when something goes wrong, there can be great heartache and sorrow. Such has been the case with Maj and Layla. They are not sick, thank heavens; despite being mature, in bird years, they seem healthy enough. However, I have had to intervene of late, in a way that always causes me great anguish. Moreover, the incident has created a rift between my new assistant and myself.

  Sarah did seem to have been settling in fairly well, despite her inscrutability and a general dearth of cheer. There is a slightly mournful quality to her, a sense of something lacking. She is also inclined to overeat. Indeed, she has gained weight since she arrived here; her waist has thickened; her arms, like two plump sausages, seem ready to burst out of her sleeves. I myself have never had much of an appetite, and, these days, it is an effort to eat enough, in order not to become too frail; none the less, I can understand that it must be uncomfortable to carry around all that extra bulk, especially this summer, which has, thus far, been quite too horribly warm. Sarah is clearly conscious of her size, since—no matter what the temperature—she swathes herself in old-fashioned, wide-beamed skirts, long sleeves, and thick stockings. It is perhaps unfortunate that her sitting room is in the kitchen, adjacent to the larder: in the evenings, there are rustlings, and munchings.

  She has not eaten the birds, of course. That would be silly. Why I even mention her weight, I do not know. She has perfectly pleasant features, and one can see that—beyond the frown lines and dewlaps—she must have been pretty when she was young. I do find myself wondering why she never wed. Perhaps she was once married and is now a widow; but there has been no mention of a husband, and she calls herself ‘Miss Whittle’. Without prying, I have tried, on several occasions, to ask about her life, and her family background, and so on, but she continues to be reticent. I do suspect that she would have had children, had she been able.

  It is unsettling to hear her chatting away to Maj and Layla, as if they could understand her. She checks on their feed and water with a frequency that borders on the obsessive and, recently, I became aware that—even though I had asked her not to—sometimes, when she believed me to be taking my nap, she was shutting the dining-room window and letting the birds out of the cage. At any rate, she has tended to fuss over them too much, and is preoccupied with them in a way that seems not quite healthy. One cannot help but draw certain conclusions, particularly after our recent upset.

  It all began about ten days ago, when Sarah came to the threshold of my sitting room and uttered the following words: ‘Well, you’ll not believe what those birds have gone and done now!’

  Patiently, I put down my book. Having owned Maj and Layla for seven years, I am familiar with all their little quirks, but Sarah, as a newcomer, still has the capacity to be surprised by them.

  ‘What have they done?’ I asked.

  Instead of replying, she bustled off down the hall, and I was obliged to set aside my book, and follow her to the dining room. When I got there, the birds were in their cage, as usual; Maj was preening under his wing, whilst Layla alternately shook her little head, and pecked at seed. Sarah had taken up a position at the end of the sideboard, which had been pulled a few inches away from the wall. She was smiling.

  ‘Look,’ she said, pointing into the shadows.

  My spirits sank: I already had a good idea of what she might have found, but just to be sure, I stood next to her and peered down behind the sideboard. There, next to the skirting, was a small nest made from some horsehair stuffing, newspaper shreds, and a few sweet papers. In the centre lay three bluish white, speckled eggs.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said.

  ‘Aren’t they tiny?’ Sarah whispered. I could feel the heat rising from her body. Her pullover gave off a sharp, damp smell.

  ‘Yes, they are indeed.’

  ‘Those are my toffee papers she’s used, you know, and I only got those toffees once, a few weeks back; they weren’t very good. She must have been building this for ages, out of all the things we’ve dropped or put in the wastepaper basket. I did wonder what she was doing behind here, every afternoon.’

  This, for Sarah, was a very long speech. She was more animated than I had ever seen her before. I sighed.

  ‘Oh, Sarah! Didn’t I ask you not to let them out, unless I was here?’

  She frowned, and looked a little guilty. ‘Sorry, I’ve only done it a few times. I do shut the window if I open the cage—sorry.’

  Feeling quite miserable, I picked up the nest and put it on the sideboard. It really was a too poignantly comic little object. Poor Layla-bird! Presumably, she had pecked the horsehair stuffing out of a chair. She had also utilised, in the nest’s construction, an old shoelace, and some cigarette stubs, which she must have stolen from the ashtrays. ‘Oh dear,’ I said again. ‘They will build nests, you see, if you don’t keep an eye on them. She’s done it before.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, yes, quite a few times, here, behind the sideboard, and once or twice behind the sofa. You can’t let Layla out of your sight, I’m afraid. This breaks my heart. They’re probably no good anyway, but we have to do this, dear, just in case.’

  And then, I did the decent thing—as I have done, on a few previous occasions—according to the vet’s advice. I took the little eggs, one by one and, feeling dreadfully squeamish, I shook them until I heard a tiny, sloshing sound. ‘There,’ I said, despondently, restoring them to the nest. ‘They won’t hatch now. We can put it back on the floor for a
while. She’ll sit on them when she can, poor thing, and then, when they don’t hatch, she’ll grow bored of them, and we can quietly tidy the nest away.’ I turned to Sarah. Her face had fallen. ‘I know, it’s awful,’ I said. ‘Frightful! When the vet first told me what to do, I was appalled. But it does have to be done, and I suppose I’m used to it now. We can’t possibly have any more birds, dear. They’re the most awful breeders. We’d be overrun in no time. Two is quite enough.’

  Sarah said not a word; she simply gave me a very reproachful look, and then marched out of the dining room.

  Since then, I hear her, from time to time, talking to the birds in soothing tones, as though they are the victims of some atrocity. She fails to realise that finches are hardy little souls; I would not be surprised if they had already forgotten about those eggs. What I did was no more than standard practice; most bird owners do something of the sort. Not only that, but the eggs were, in all likelihood, already dead, since Layla can have sat on them only for a matter of minutes.

  I did try to explain all this to Sarah but, for the moment, she continues to brood: a most apt word that—brood—for I suspect that all this upset over the birds is linked in some way to Sarah’s own sorrows about having never brought a child into the world. Consequently, I cannot be cross with her and, to be perfectly honest, I now utterly regret having done the vet’s bidding—or at least, having done it in front of Sarah, without warning. Personally speaking, I have not even been able to look at a boiled egg, since.

  Perhaps, if the birds ever lay again, I might let Sarah keep one of the chicks. There is no reason why she should not have a caged bird of her own; she could keep him in the kitchen. I tend to doubt, however, that there will be much more laying of eggs. Maj and Layla are getting rather too elderly for that sort of thing. I suspect that this clutch of three was one last moribund attempt at breeding.