by Jane Harris
Ever since the egg incident, relations between Sarah and myself have been strained. I am still rather cross that she was letting the birds out, against my specific instructions. Indeed, I have begun to wonder whether she has been entirely honest with me in other respects. Is she, in fact, trustworthy? For instance—although, up until now, I have thought nothing of it—I have noticed a number of inconsistencies in the way that she speaks. Admittedly, when first she came to live here, I scarcely noticed her accent. She is not a Cockney, certainly. To my ears, she initially sounded like many other women of her sort: born and raised—not in London—but in the Home Counties or somewhere in the South. She attempts to speak well, but the end result is that her pronunciation is only rather bland; at times, a little strained. However, as the weeks have gone by, I have begun to notice that there is something amiss with her vowels. The word ‘bird’, for instance, never sounds quite right.
On Friday afternoon, I was having a nap in my room when she tapped on the door and asked my permission to give some fruit to the finches. Their mainstay is seed, but they do love fruit. Lockwood, the grocer, was kind enough to store a crate of Coxes for me this winter. Even though the remaining apples are now wrinkled, they are still edible and, once or twice a week, we pop half of one in the cage, and Maj and Layla peck out the pulp. At any rate, there was Sarah in the doorway, saying: ‘Would you be bothered if I gave the birds some apple?’
Quite apart from the phrasing of this sentence (which does not strike me as pertaining particularly to the South of England), there—again—was her strange pronunciation of the word ‘bird’, with the oddly shortened vowel sound, and perhaps even a slight roll of the ‘r’. Ignoring her question, for the moment, I said: ‘Your accent, Sarah, I can’t quite place it—where is it from?’
‘Around about,’ she said and then clamped her teeth down on her lower lip.
‘But where, exactly? You’re not from London, are you?’
‘Originally West Country, miss, like I’ve told you, but I’ve moved around, London, Colchester, Sevenoaks, Woking…’
‘I see—was that with your family?’
‘For work.’
I sat up, yawning, and put my feet into my slippers. ‘Where, originally, in the West Country, dear?’
‘Dorset.’
‘Ah! Such a pretty county—what part? I do know Swanage.’
‘It’s nearer Weymouth—a small place—you won’t have heard of it.’
‘And your village was called…?’
She paused, and then said: ‘Langton Herring.’
A preposterous name, and it occurred to me that, perhaps, she had made it up. I went on to ask a few questions about her family, and her reactions continued to be guarded. She told me that her parents were dead. I did manage to get a little more out of her. To my mind, it all sounds far too much like something out of a fairy tale. She claims to have grown up in a tiny cottage beside a well; her father was a shoemaker, and her mother, a washerwoman. Tempted to ask: ‘And your grandparents—were they elves?’ I managed to restrain myself, just in time.
Admittedly, while we were talking about Dorset and her family, her pronunciation did veer towards the West Country; but before long she seemed to forget, and resumed her old, bland accent, with its puzzling vowels. I am still not quite sure what to make of this. The way she looks at me, of late, is also rather unsettling. There is a certain flinty cast to her gaze.
On Saturday, while Sarah was out shopping, I telephoned to Burridge’s, the employment agency, and asked them to send me, once again, her letters of recommendation in a plain envelope, one that made no mention of Burridge’s or its address. I stipulated this, since Sarah is often the first to see the post when it arrives, and I had no desire to alarm her, unnecessarily. I merely wished to follow up her references, something that I ought to have done before I hired her, but, at the time, I was busy, and took it for granted that the letters were to be trusted.
Mrs Clinch, the principal of the agency, possesses a drawling, affected, nasal voice, and evidently has a low opinion of the elderly, for she habitually speaks to me, very slowly and loudly, as though I were both half-witted and deaf. ‘What seems to be the problem?’ she shouted, in answer to my request for the references.
‘No problem,’ I replied. ‘I simply wish to be sent the letters in a plain envelope, with no return address, and no mention of your office.’
‘Miss Baxter, I’m just looking at the red chester here—’
‘The what?’
‘The red chester!’
I had heard her perfectly well; I simply cannot believe that anyone imagines a register to be called a ‘red chester’. Clinch is very fond of her ‘red chester’. Whenever she is being particularly superior, I take pleasure in making her refer to it.
‘—and I can see from what’s written here, you’ve already had the references, I believe. We sent them to you some weeks ago, didn’t we—and you sent them back to us, dear, remember? I have them in front of me. They’re good references. Are you having a problem with Miss Whittle?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘No problem.’
‘Then why d’you need the references for, might I enquire?’
‘I’d simply like to have another look at them. I believe I’m perfectly entitled to do so. I really fail to see why it should be so complicated.’
‘Well, provided Miss Whittle is happy—and you’re happy—’
‘We’re both quite content, thanks most awfully.’
‘Rightie-o, I’ll put them in the post directly, dear.’
‘Oh, good—and you’ll mark that in your—in your—eh—’
‘Yes, I’ll mark it in the red chester. They should be with you soon.’
In fact, they arrived on Monday. As luck would have it, Sarah was out again, this time at the tobacconist’s, but I was glad to see that, apart from my address, the envelope was blank. There were two letters of recommendation: one from a Miss Barnes, of Chepworth Villas, London, and another from a Miss Clay, of Greenstead, Essex. Just as I remembered, from when I looked at them back in April, both ladies praised Sarah’s many qualities and did not hesitate to recommend her (et cetera). Only the Chepworth Villas address included a telephone number. I was tempted to dial it straight away, but Sarah was due to return at any moment and, since I wished to make the call undisturbed, I waited until the afternoon, when I sent Sarah back out, with a long list of questions about the economy of Scotland in the last century, and asked her not to return until she had found out the answers. In fact, I have no interest in the Scottish economy. There are, of course, some genuine facts that I would like her to check, but my main purpose in sending her to the library was to ensure that she was out of the apartment for a few hours.
Once she had gone, I waited, just in case she might come back to retrieve something that she had forgotten, until—after twenty minutes or so—it seemed certain that she would not return. Then, I placed a call to Chepworth Villas.
Miss Barnes was younger than I had expected. I had thought that she might be a lady of around my own age, but she sounded as though she was in her forties, or even younger. She also answered the telephone herself.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Miss Barnes—Miss Clara Barnes?’
‘Yes, speaking.’
Her voice was light and high, and she was breathless, almost as though she had just been engaged in some vigorous activity.
‘I’m telephoning about Sarah Whittle. I’m thinking of employing her.’
There was a long pause, and then the woman said (rather carefully, I thought): ‘Sarah is—looking for work then, is she?’
‘Yes. Would you recommend her?’
‘Oh, indeed, I would,’ she said, very quickly. ‘She’s a terrific girl.’ Something about that phrase bothered me: ‘terrific girl’. Is that how one talks about employees these days? She went on: ‘I’d have no hesitation in recommending her.’
‘Forgive me for asking, but might I enquire why she left you?’
The words ‘Harriet Baxter’ almost leapt out of my mouth—and then I thought better of it. Just then, there was a lively twittering from the birds next door, and I had an idea. ‘My name is Gillespie,’ I said. ‘Mrs Madge Gillespie.’
‘Mrs Gillespie, you must understand that it was not through any fault of Sarah’s that she had to leave here—I can assure you of that.’
‘Can’t you be more—specific?’
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t.’
‘I take it, then, you didn’t find her accent disconcerting—the way it roams?’
‘Not in the least.’
‘And you think she’s trustworthy?’
‘Oh yes! One of the most honest people I’ve ever met. I did write a character letter for her. I think I kept a copy—I could send it to you, if you like.’
‘Oh no, thank you—I have it, from the registry. Yes, most impressive.’
Certain aspects of this conversation trouble me. Miss Barnes’s relative youth, for example, is surprising. Her reactions to my questions were also puzzling: she was surprised to hear that Sarah was looking for work (almost as though she knew very well that this was not the case). Then there was her strange response when asked why Sarah had left her employ. Her other replies had seemed prepared, but this question, clearly, took her unawares.
All in all, I am not sure what to make of this Miss Barnes. Recent events have made me think that it might be worth writing to Sarah’s other previous employer, at the Essex address, to see what kind of reply I receive. However, sending the letter will be bothersome, because Sarah usually goes to the pillar box, and I cannot, at this stage, give her an envelope addressed to ‘Miss Clay’ of Greenstead, since she will wonder why, after all these weeks, I am following up her references.
And now, as it transpires, I have made a rather interesting discovery. Of late, I rarely leave the apartment on my own. However, on Tuesday, I had an appointment to see the doctor. I hasten to add that there is nothing whatsoever wrong with me; I simply needed to pick up more of my little miracle pills, to help me sleep. Sarah wanted to accompany me, but I told her that I preferred to go in a cab, alone, and that I intended to spend the rest of the afternoon at the museum.
Dr Derrett was as brusque and Lilliputian as ever. In fact, come to think of it, I will describe, briefly, what happened at the surgery. Forgive me if this incident is, in any way, shocking or unpleasant. I would not, usually, dwell on such things, but it is worth mentioning, if only to record somewhere how one is treated. We may have the vote now, and win Pulitzer prizes, and fly solo across the Atlantic and, these days, a female artist with a family might well earn a good living from painting, but in the privacy of the doctor’s surgery, we are still made to feel insignificant, aberrant, even unnatural.
When I happened to mention, in passing, my heartburn, Derrett insisted that I take off my blouse, and lie down on the couch. My health has always been good, on the whole, and, therefore, it is a long time since I have bared my skin and bones for inspection by a doctor. I felt somewhat self-conscious, and my mood was not helped when Derrett, taking one glance at my torso, cried: ‘Ha! Polythelia!’
‘Polly who?’
He pointed, gleefully, at various places along my upper body. ‘Here, here, here. To be blunt: accessory nipples. You’re probably under the misapprehension that they are moles; in fact, they are supernumeraries along the milk lines.’
‘Milk lines?’
‘Mammalian milk lines. Pigs have them—sows, also cats, rats—and you.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘How revolting!’
‘Nothing to worry about. They’re not connected in any way to heartburn or lack of appetite. They simply—exist—for no reason. They’ll do you no harm.’
‘How reassuring,’ I said.
All the same, I was more than a little disturbed at having been categorised along with pigs, cats and rats. Derrett was still in his element. ‘Mind you,’ he mused, ‘a few hundred years ago, you’d probably have been burned at the stake.’
‘Oh!’
‘The sign of a witch, you see—moles.’ He flicked one of them, with his finger, and then commenced to prod and knead my abdomen with both hands. ‘Now, let’s see about this indigestion … just relax…’
I cannot say that any of his comments had made me in the least relaxed. On the contrary, I felt very hot and bothered, and his poking at my stomach was anything but gentle. He seemed altogether too pleased with himself. In conclusion, he told me: ‘I’ll book a blood test for you, but poor digestion is only to be expected at your age. You’re lucky you can eat at all—lucky you even have teeth. You seem a bit bloated, round the midriff.’
That was the final straw. ‘Now you’re being silly,’ I told him. ‘I ate a bread roll this morning. Bread makes me swell up like a football.’
He is very against smoking and drinking, for some reason, but one never pays any attention to that, since what would life be without cigarettes and the odd tira mi sù? Besides, I believe that I might never sleep, were it not for my little nightcap of Scotch and veronal (of which Derrett gave me another three months’ supply). The ache in my hips (he assures me) is due, simply, to arthritis, and might be helped by exercise. Afterwards, exhausted by this appointment, I decided to skip the museum and return home, directly. The lift in the mansions is such a temperamental contraption—with oak walls, and as cramped as a coffin—that I am always a reluctant passenger, and so I resolved to walk upstairs. At only five storeys, this is hardly the Chrysler Building; one is able to rest and recover on the landings. Besides, Derrett said I should exercise.
It was during the ascent that I became aware of a melodious tinkling emanating from above: someone, somewhere, was playing a piano. To my surprise, as I approached the fourth floor, I realised that the music was coming from inside my own apartment, from the piano in the hall. I would recognise the tones of that old Bechstein anywhere; it has always been boomy, ever since moths ate the felts. There could be no doubt: Sarah was at the keyboard—playing Bach, no less. She had never touched the piano in the past, but then, she had never before been alone in the apartment. I must admit that her playing was not at all bad.
Since I had eschewed the lift—with its groaning, ticking machinery, and the screech of its folding metal gates—my approach, thus far, had been relatively quiet. However, as soon as I put my key in the front door, the music stopped. There was a thunderous scuttle of footsteps as I entered, and I saw my assistant disappearing into the kitchen with such haste that she careened off the doorjamb. Deciding not to speak to her, just then, I turned on my heel, and departed, without a word. For the next half an hour or so, I sat on a bench in the garden square, watching the populace come and go, and thinking about Sarah.
Not once had she mentioned that she could play the piano. The more I thought about it, the more it struck me as strange or, at least, secretive. Surely any normal person might have dashed out a few chords in passing? She ran the duster over the instrument, once or twice a week, when we tackled the housework: was she never tempted to practise? Apparently not, except for when I vacated the building. Was it mere shyness that stopped her from displaying her talent at the keyboard?
It was very warm there, on the bench, beneath the trees and, at some point, I must have fallen asleep. The next thing I knew, there was a tapping on my shoulder, and I awoke to find two young men, in overalls, peering at me. Their faces looked vaguely familiar, and I realised that they worked in the new garage at the rear of the mansions. I had seen them from my bedroom window—on numerous occasions—down in the back yard, washing cars. One of them had bulging brown eyes, like brandy balls. The other sported a downy moustache and curls. As I came to my senses, brandy balls sniggered.
‘She’s right as ninepence,’ he muttered. ‘Told you.’
His companion, who had a kinder face, nodded, and gave me a smile. �
�Excuse us, madam,’ he said. ‘You give us quite a turn then—sat there ever so still, with your mouth open—we thought you was a goner.’
Bestowing upon them my most imperial look, I announced: ‘I have no intention of going anywhere.’
They laughed, as I had hoped, and then they wandered away, across the square, idly kicking out at each other’s shins.
Later, upon my return to the mansions, Sarah served me supper. She looked rather shamefaced, but made no mention of what had happened earlier, and so I, too, said nothing. However, this business with the piano has troubled me, for reasons that I cannot quite put my finger on, or explain.
But here I am, fretting over trivia, like a doddering fool. Age is a terrible thing. Never grow old, my dears: that is my advice to you. Never grow old.
III
September 1888—March 1889
GLASGOW
7
As you may be aware, despite working hard at his submissions, Ned was not fortunate enough to receive the Royal Commission. Following the private view, it was announced that John Lavery had prevailed over his peers, and was chosen, by the esteemed gentlemen of the Fine Art Committee, to paint the Queen. Muttonheads! It serves them right that he cheated and took photographs from which to work: believe it or not, I saw him, with my own eyes. On Inauguration Day, once the good and great had surged out of the Grand Hall in Her Majesty’s wake, I simply popped my head around the door to have a peek at the dais, and saw Lavery himself, emerging, squatly, from a curtained alcove, and what did he have with him? A sketchbook? Charcoal? Paints? No, sir! I beg to differ: he had with him a man—a lugubrious, balding man—who might have resembled an undertaker were he not carrying a bellows camera and tripod. ‘The Great Master’ had hired a photographer to do his work!
But enough of that chump Lavery; plenty has been written about him.
Naturally, Ned was disappointed not to have won, but in some respects, perhaps, it was a relief. After all, the painting would have dominated his life for the foreseeable future. In the meantime, his reputation had been greatly enhanced: the Committee had been particularly impressed with his picture of the Eastern Palace, and rumour was that he had been the unofficial silver medallist. I was greatly surprised and flattered when—a few days later, in the parlour at number 11—Ned consulted my opinion on how he should try to take advantage of this small breakthrough. Having given his question some consideration, it seemed to me that his best course would be to seek out a handful of lucrative portrait commissions. Of course, now that Lavery had the royal seal of approval, many wealthy Glaswegians dreamed only of being immortalised in paint by the Great Man himself. However, they would have to wait until Lavery had finished his ‘Victoria’, which might take months—even years. This being the case, Ned could take advantage of the delay and then, with a few commissions under his belt, devote some time to his own, more interesting, work. Thus, at my suggestion, he made it known that he was interested in undertaking a small number of select portraits. Within weeks, he had received several commissions, including one from Mrs Euphemia Urquart, who resided nearby, in one of the very grand houses on Woodside Crescent. As the wife of an eminent surgeon and university professor, Mrs Urquart had a natural air of command suitable to her elevated station, and rivalled even the Queen for embonpoint and loftiness, to the extent that we came to refer to her, in private, as ‘The Duchess’.