Gillespie and I

by Jane Harris

  I believe that Annie might have been slightly peeved that Ned had consulted my advice about his career, but if she did have any reservations she kept them to herself, particularly when she realised that these portrait commissions would secure the family’s finances for months. Generally speaking, Annie’s attitude to me had undergone a complete transformation, ever since she had learned about my intervention regarding Findlay’s caricature. She was eminently more welcoming, and in less of a hurry to finish my portrait, eventually taking another four sessions to complete it to her satisfaction. Even then, she encouraged me to visit number 11, so that it became second nature for me to call upon the family, a few times a week, without even an invitation. As I grew to know her better, I came to realise that—due to the difficult circumstances of her impoverished childhood—Annie found it hard to trust new acquaintances. However, once her confidence had been gained, she was extremely warm and loyal and soon she began to treat me like an old and trusted friend. Perhaps it was an indication of how welcome I now was at Stanley Street that the Gillespies spent part of the fee from my portrait on a new armchair for the parlour, which became known as ‘Harriet’s chair’ and was reserved for me to sit upon, during my visits.

  Our time was not often spent at leisure, however. Since Ned’s preferred remedy for Sybil’s ‘nerves’ was fresh air and activity, I began to keep Annie company while she took the girls for long walks, in an attempt to tire them out. Vigorous exercise, indeed! There is a saying that the Clyde is the only level highway in Glasgow, and the West End, in particular, is built upon a set of drumlins, producing the curious effect that—no matter which direction one takes—one always seems to be trudging uphill. On fine days, in late summer, these walks were pleasant enough. However, as soon as true autumn set in, there was scant pleasure to be had in tramping the streets of Kelvinside, battered by horizontal rain.

  Knowing how much Annie yearned to improve her painting, I tried to help out around the house, whenever I could, so that she could devote more time to her Art. Personally, I have never had much talent for any of life’s accomplishments. I certainly cannot draw or paint and, despite the early-morning childhood drill of scales and exercises, my piano playing was always indifferent—but any fool can do housework. Thus, I lent a hand with the mending, which led, first, to the reorganisation of the upstairs linen press and, thence, to the creation of new curtains for the dining room, to replace the old ones which had, mysteriously, developed great rips and holes. Arithmetic was not Annie’s strong point, whereas I like nothing better than addition and subtraction, marshalling columns of figures, the fact that there is always, but always, an incontrovertible solution, and—seeing her, one day, struggling over her accounts, I offered to help. As it transpired, both she and Ned were so pleased with the result of my efforts, that they persuaded me to continue balancing the family’s books, something that I did, most willingly, for several months thereafter.

  Accounting aside, there was always plenty to do at number 11, because—despite being employed as maid—Christina appeared to have no initiative or inclination in that respect. Annie knew that she ought to get rid of the girl, but could never quite pluck up the courage. However, the final straw came, in late October, when Christina failed to return from her afternoon off until the following day. Yet again, she was the worse of drink, and this time, giving no credible excuse for her lateness, promptly fell asleep on a chair in the kitchen. At long last, Annie dismissed her—much to the outrage of Christina, who left in high dudgeon (although we will hear more of her, later). Jessie, her replacement, could not have been more different: where Christina had been flighty and fair, this new girl was dull and plain. Unfortunately, she too was not without her flaws, as we were to learn, in time.

  As for the business of the caricature, I kept an eye on every issue of The Thistle until Findlay’s series reached an end in November, but no risqué vignette of Ned and his brother ever appeared. Nowadays, when it comes to such matters, one cannot help but think of Oscar Wilde (a marvellous writer, but a dreadful show-off). Of course, all this took place several years before the Wilde trials, but there had been other high-profile scandals, and Kenneth Gillespie can have had few illusions about what events might have been set in train, had a revealing sketch been published.

  Down at the river, Kenneth’s Venetian friend continued to occupy his usual position, aft of the gondola, steering on, po-faced, whilst his older compatriot laughed and sang as he leaned to his oar. Thankfully, in the immediate aftermath of the Findlay business, Kenneth did curtail his illicit activities. He avoided the park, whereas, previously, he had been a regular visitor, and began to take luncheon in the shop, or nearby, at Assafrey’s. In the evenings, he either stayed at home, in his mother’s house, or called at number 11 to see his nieces. According to Annie, there was a new air of melancholy in his demeanour. Apparently, he blamed himself that Ned had not triumphed over Lavery. Even though Findlay’s caricature had never seen the light of day, Kenneth was convinced that the Fine Art Committee must have heard rumours.

  About a fortnight after the scarecrow-like figure of Mr Crawhall had appeared in The Thistle, I was on my way up Great Western Road, en route to some engagement, when I realised that I was about to pass the Wool and Hosiery. Having not seen Ned’s brother for a few weeks, I was mildly curious to know how his narrow escape had affected him, and so I decided to glance inside the shop, in the hope of catching a glimpse of him. My plan was to give the appearance of casually examining the window display in passing. To this end, I approached at a brisk pace and, drawing near to the glass, fixed my gaze, first, upon a pyramid of cotton reels, and then, on a garden squirt. Glancing up, I was startled to find myself staring, at close proximity, into Kenneth’s face, for he had been loitering just behind the display, daydreaming, as he looked out into the street. Here was a moment of social awkwardness, neatly partitioned by a pane of glass. Ned’s brother flinched like a startled cat, and then, recovering himself, gave me a curt nod. Previously, I might have gone in to offer him ‘good day’, but such an encounter, now, would prove embarrassing. Thus, I simply waved, cheerfully, and strolled on past. As I departed, I saw Kenneth shrink away from the window and walk, rather stiff-legged, towards the counter. He looked utterly miserable.

  Whenever he and I met, subsequently, we were perfectly polite to each other, but he was unable to look at me directly, his gaze tending to slide away to the floor. He seemed perfectly wretched, and I believe that Annie was right in her view that he was punishing himself for what he saw as his role in Ned’s failure.

  Alas, as summer turned to autumn—and despite Annie’s repeated pleas for caution—Kenneth resumed his old ways. Apparently driven by a reckless melancholy, he began, once again, to indulge in venereal activities with the gondolier, now conducted in ever more daring locations: at night, on an empty bandstand; at dusk, behind a mausoleum in the Necropolis; and once (I was reliably informed, by Annie) in broad daylight, on the top deck of a half-empty tramway car. Ned and the rest of the family remained ignorant of his exploits, but it seemed that it would only be a matter of time before he was caught.

  And then, in November, something happened that took us all by surprise.

  Following a successful summer, the Exhibition came to an end on the 10th of the month: the exhibitors packed up their wares, and left the city; many of the buildings began to be deconstructed, and the pleasure boats ceased to plough up and down the River Kelvin. A few days later, Mabel put her head around Kenneth’s door to call him to breakfast, only to find his bed empty, and a note upon his pillow. At some point during the night, he had packed a bag of clothes and crept out of the house. The note—addressed to his mother—explained that he had decided to leave Glasgow. He made no mention of his destination, but begged Elspeth not to worry about him, and promised to contact her when he ‘got settled’.

  In the days that followed, Ned took time off from portrait painting, and attempted to persuade the police to investigate his bro
ther’s disappearance, but they refused to treat the matter as worthy of inquiry. After all, Kenneth had left a letter; he was over twenty-one; and had gone, apparently, of his own volition. With no police help forthcoming, Ned undertook some investigations of his own: he advertised in newspapers, both north and south of the border, and questioned Kenneth’s acquaintances, but nobody was able to enlighten him.

  Ned was hurt, of course, that his brother had chosen to leave without informing him, and greatly inconvenienced, since he himself was obliged to work in the shop for two days, until someone was found to take Kenneth’s place. The artist’s reaction to this latest crisis was admirably level-headed. For the sake of his mother, he put a brave face on things, and assured us all that, no doubt, Kenneth had gone to seek a new life for himself; next time we heard of him, he would have made his name in some important field. Unaware of Kenneth’s secret, Gillespie had a straightforward view of the situation: in his eyes, his brother had simply fled town to escape the drudgery of life as a shop assistant.

  Privately, Annie had her own suspicions about where her brother-in-law might have gone. It was, perhaps, no coincidence that he had vanished just a few days after the closure of the Exhibition. The gondoliers’ employment had come to an end, and they had, presumably, returned to their native country.

  ‘I think he’s gone to Venice, with Carmine,’ she confided, one unexpectedly fine afternoon, a few days after his departure, as we were paying our pennies at the gate of the Botanic Gardens. ‘Either that, or he’s followed him there.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘Kenneth doesn’t strike me as particularly adventurous, in that way. Travelling to Italy alone, for instance. He doesn’t speak Italian, does he?’

  ‘Only a little, from Carmine. But if they’ve gone together… Sibyl! Wait!’

  The child had raced ahead at such speed that she was already almost out of earshot, beyond Kibble Palace. Rose, who had gone tottering after her, retraced her steps towards us, but naughty Sibyl had to be summoned, several times, before she came to a reluctant standstill, and began kicking, disconsolately, at the edge of the grass. As yet, she had not been informed that her cherished Uncle Kenneth had left town. Ned was still hoping that his brother might have second thoughts, and return home, and nobody wished to upset Sibyl, unnecessarily, by giving her bad news.

  Annie sighed as she put away her purse.

  ‘Presumably, he has no money?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘But I expect he’ll manage. He couldn’t be any more miserable than he was here. Perhaps Carmine might get him work, on a gondola.’

  A vision of Kenneth poling up and down the Venetian canals flashed into my mind, and I almost laughed, so incongruous was the image. Never let it be said that I was pleased that Ned’s brother had fled Glasgow, so mysteriously. However, there was, perhaps, a slight sense of relief, on my part, and (I suspect) also on the part of Annie. At the very least, we were able to comfort each other, and the thought that Kenneth was, in all likelihood, safely ensconced somewhere, far from Glasgow, with his gondolier friend, allowed us both to be optimistic about his welfare.

  The rest of the family had reacted to his departure in their own individual ways. Mabel was certainly capable of histrionics but, from time to time, she was just as likely to take everybody by surprise, and shrug off a situation that might have upset any other mortal—and so it was, concerning Kenneth.

  ‘He’s a grown man,’ she told me, one afternoon. ‘He can look after himself fine. He’s probably gone chasing after some girl.’ Perhaps this subdued response was due, in part, to a change in her own circumstances: she and Walter Peden had recently embarked upon an unlikely flirtation. The romance was only in its early stages but, rather than moping at home, or bothering Ned in his studio, as she had been doing all year, Mabel was spending the autumn out and about, with Walter and various friends from the Art School, where he tutored an evening class. These chums were a group of impoverished painters, and arts and crafts tutors, both male and female, who tended to entertain themselves cheaply, dining in each other’s rooms, and taking sixpenny seats at the Gaiety: a bohemian, forgiving crowd, and even prickly Mabel was welcome amongst their number, her beauty a passport into this circle of aesthetes. Peden had made it his mission to distract her, which meant that she was less inclined to fret about Kenneth.

  Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Elspeth. As the weeks went by, and there was no word of her son, and no letter, she became increasingly hipped. Naturally, she knew nothing of his secret life, and Annie and I were unable to reassure her by revealing what we suspected: indeed, I imagine that Ned’s mother would have found the news that Kenneth was a homosexual considerably more alarming than his disappearance. Poor Elspeth! She took it badly, no matter how much we tried to reassure her.

  Nevertheless, without a doubt, the person most affected by Kenneth’s departure was his niece. There came a point when Sibyl had to be told the truth: Kenneth had gone away and nobody knew when he might return. She was utterly inconsolable at this news, and spent much of November moping around in sulks. Her head and tummy aches suddenly increased in frequency, and she got little rest, being almost incapable of falling asleep, and then waking, frequently, in the night. These symptoms always seemed to be at their worst after she had found herself in trouble, yet again, for her various acts of wilful and malicious destruction. Vile drawings continued to appear on the walls of the apartment, but she also developed some new and troubling habits. For instance, she took to rearranging the objects in a room, in secret, like a little living poltergeist, and although this was not exactly hazardous behaviour, it was inconvenient and frustrating. Rather more ominously, however, Sibyl developed a fascination with matches, and the ‘Bryant & May’s’ from the parlour and kitchen would often go missing, only to turn up in one of her pockets. Mabel’s Berlin work was found scorched, as was Rose’s wooden horse.

  Even Ned’s mother finally lost patience with the child. On the last day of November, the entire batch of her church newsletter, Let God Arise, was discovered, burned to ashes on the parlour fire. Elspeth was horrified that Sibyl could have committed such an unchristian act. Sensing that the child had gone too far, this time, Annie came down hard, and locked her in her room, a punishment that sent Sibyl into a filthy, inconsolable rage.

  Early one afternoon, Annie and I were sewing in the parlour when the new maid, Jessie, came running upstairs from the washhouse and presented herself at the threshold, huffing and puffing, and holding out for inspection what appeared to be a soggy, half-burnt sack or rag, which she claimed to have found amongst the ash pile in the corner of the back green. Initially, we failed to fathom why she was so animated, since any amount of rubbish was to be found in the ash pits.

  However, when Jessie unfolded the cloth for us to examine, we saw that one side of the fabric was coated in oil paint, and realised, with dismay, that it was not a filthy rag at all, but one of Ned’s paintings. The canvas had been cut clean away from the frame, and then slashed with a knife or razor, and scorched, until it was almost unrecognisable. Nevertheless, Annie knew the painting, at once, because it was an old, small-scale portrait of herself, depicted against a blue background, a picture that usually sat in the studio, against the wall, amongst a stack of other unsold works. Now, it was ruined.

  ‘I thought it was one of they paintings,’ said Jessie. ‘I just didnae know if Mr Gillespie might have thrown it out hisself.’

  At that time, it was unthinkable that Ned would ever have destroyed a canvas, although he might have reused one, by over-painting. There was no telling how long the portrait of Annie had lain, undetected, in the ash pit: perhaps several days. Ned had completely failed to notice that it was missing, and so he cannot have valued it too highly. Admittedly, it was not a recent picture, nor one that was of any commercial value. None the less, the violence of what had happened, and the potential threat that such a fate might befall a more saleable painting, shocked us to the core. Annie told
me that when she showed Ned the shredded portrait, that evening, he was devastated. Unable to bring himself to put it on the fire, he took it out to the back green and reburied it in the ash pit. Apparently, he stood staring down at the heaps of ashes for almost ten minutes before returning inside.

  Our worst fears were confirmed, that night, when Ned and Annie searched Sibyl’s room. Hidden beneath the bed, they found one of Ned’s Kropp razors, and a stretcher frame, with—as incontrovertible proof—the remaining edges of the blue-painted canvas still attached. Apparently, Sibyl was present during the search, and went into hysterics as soon as Ned leaned down to peer under her bed.