Gillespie and I (10 page)

‘Oh no,' I found myself saying, and they all turned to look at me. I cleared my throat. ‘I mean—I'm afraid—I only have an hour to spare and I was rather hoping to have at least that amount of time to look at Ned's work. I'm sure Mr Peden here would welcome a cup of tea, but perhaps Ned and I might…' I glanced at my host, hoping for support, and to my relief, he agreed.

‘Yes, you go down, Walter; I'll have tea later, my sweet.' This last was addressed not to the balding Mr Peden, of course, but to Annie, of the bewitching golden locks. She frowned at her husband, and then turned to his friend.

‘Well, Walter, it seems you'll have to suffer my company.'

Peden closed his eyes, and danced at her.

‘That would be charming, but I'm sorry—Mrs G.—I must be off.'

‘What a pity,' said Annie, and turned to Sibyl and Rose. ‘Take your ferns downstairs, like good girls. Put them in the dining room. And go and tell Christina to bring up tea.'

The children grabbed their plants and departed, followed by Peden, who jigged across the room, bobbing his head and punching at the air with his fists, much as though he were a member of the Zulu tribe, and not the Glasgow Chess Club. ‘
Exit, pursued by bear
,' he intoned, as he went. ‘Miss Baxter, you will, of course, recognise the quote.'

Deciding that the best policy was to ignore him, I simply smiled and stepped out of his way. He paused at the threshold. ‘
Winter's Tale
,' he said. ‘In case you are completely bemused.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Shakespeare, Miss Baxter. Shakespeare.'

And so saying, he scuttled off down the stairs.

Annie had thrown herself down on the old, battered chaise, and was unfastening her shoes. I had hoped to have some time with the artist, alone, to view his paintings, and to ask him whether he might be interested in undertaking a portrait commission. However, in the presence of a third party, I felt a little self-conscious and constrained.

Ned stood with his hands in his pockets, staring out of the skylight, across the rooftops, towards the tower of St Jude's. He seemed ill at ease, and I wondered why. Of course, in hindsight, it seems likely that he was embarrassed at having someone examine his work, which always made him uncomfortable. At the time, I simply sensed his awkwardness and—since he was making no move to show me his canvases—I brought up the subject of my stepfather, and his request that I have my portrait painted.

‘I wondered, Ned, whether you'd be so kind as to consider taking the commission? I can assure you it will pay well.'

He and Annie exchanged a look. Then the artist turned to me, with a sigh. ‘It's very good of you to consider me, Harriet, but I'm afraid I can't take on any more work, not for the moment.'

Annie dropped her shoes to the floor, with a clatter. ‘He's under consideration to paint Her Majesty, in August.'

I looked at them both, in astonishment. ‘The Queen? Really?'

Ned appeared to blush, saying: ‘Well, it's by no means definite.'

‘But she's coming up to inaugurate the Exhibition,' said Annie. ‘And they want a painting to commemorate the day.'

‘Oh, my goodness!' I said. ‘How thrilling. But—forgive me for saying—if the visit isn't until August, then don't you have some time, before then—'

‘Aye, but it's not that simple,' said Annie. ‘There's six artists being considered, four of them well established, and a couple of newer names, like Ned. They've each to put in some paintings, as examples, and the Committee make their decision based on that.'

Ned cleared his throat. ‘A portrait commission would be useful, financially, Harriet, but I'm having to work, full time, on my picture submissions. I'm so sorry.'

‘Oh, I completely understand. You must think of the longer term. No doubt, the man who is chosen to paint the Queen will never again want for money.'

‘Aye.' He scratched his head, thoughtfully, and then his face cleared. ‘But what about Walter?'

Annie made a sad face. ‘Walter isn't one of the six,' she confided.

‘No,' said Ned. ‘But I'm sure he'd be happy to paint Harriet's portrait.'

‘Mr Peden?' I said. ‘Yes—that's certainly another option to consider. Now, excuse me, Annie, would you be so kind—if you don't mind—as to direct me to your facilities? I'd very much like to wash my hands.'

‘Oh, go right ahead,' she said, swinging her feet up onto the chaise. ‘They're downstairs, just on the left as you come in the front door.'

I hurried out, and descended to the hallway. Apparently, the children were in the kitchen with Christina, for I could hear their girlish prattle above the clatter of pots and pans. I stepped inside the little water closet beneath the stairs, and ran the tap. In fact, my hands were perfectly clean; I had simply wanted to avoid an awkward situation, given that I had no desire, whatsoever, to have my portrait painted by Walter Peden, and I needed a moment to compose myself, in order to find a polite excuse. Watching the water trickle down the plughole, I decided to tell Ned that—if he himself was unable to paint the portrait—then I would ask my stepfather to choose an artist.

And, so it might have been, had I not, on my way back to the studio, caught sight of a pile of drawings on the floor by a chair in the hallway. Annie must have dropped them onto the seat, upon returning from her class, and perhaps the children had knocked them off, in passing. I crouched down to tidy them up, idly glancing through them as I did so. The uppermost sketch depicted a woman, costumed and posed rather in the mode of a Russian princess. I was struck, at once, by how well executed this portrait was, and paused to take a better look. The lines were bold, the composition pleasing. To my untrained eyes, it seemed a very stylish and confident piece of work. Favourably impressed, I gathered up the other pictures, studying them as I went. Annie had been dismissive of her own talent, but I saw now that she was, without question, a very capable artist in her own right. What a talented pair, I thought to myself. And it was while I was replacing the drawings, and making my way back to the attic, that it came to me.

Upstairs, there was silence, although Ned and Annie were still in the studio. As I crossed the landing, I caught a glimpse of them, through the doorway. In my absence, the artist had moved behind the chaise, and was leaning down to embrace his wife, from behind. Her head was thrown back, and her eyes were closed, as he nuzzled at her neck. The first few buttons of her frock had come undone, I noticed, and then I saw that his hands had slipped down inside the bodice, to cup her bosom.

I froze to the spot, and was just wondering whether I should tiptoe away, when a floorboard creaked beneath my foot. Suddenly aware of my approach, Ned pulled away from his wife, and began to inspect a paintbrush, while Annie fumbled with her buttons. Deciding to brazen it out, and pretend that I had seen nothing, I breezed into the room.

‘There you are, Harriet!' said Ned. ‘You're light on your feet.'

‘Yes—but—unlucky at cards!' I trilled, saying the first idiotic thing that came into my head, since I was flustered at having witnessed so intimate an embrace. Unable to stop myself, I babbled on: ‘I hope you don't mind, Annie, but your drawings fell off the chair, and I just stopped to pick them up, out of harm's way. I couldn't help but notice—they're extremely good indeed.'

‘Oh, well, thank you,' said Annie, calmly smoothing down her hair.

And then, I told them my idea: that
she
, instead of Ned, should paint my portrait. Annie gazed at me, in disbelief.

‘What—me?'

‘Why not?' I said. ‘You're very talented—and you were just saying that you need practice. I'd be more than happy to sit for you.'

‘Ach, no.' Annie shook her head. ‘I can't practise on
you
. I mean, on somebody who'd be
paying
for it. That wouldn't be right.'

‘Well, my stepfather will pay, and he left the choice of artist up to me. Oh, please,
do
say yes.'

‘I don't think so,' she said, shortly. ‘It's not necessary.'

Perhaps I had given the wrong impression. She seemed on guard, apparently having decided that I viewed her as a needy case. Ned smiled.

‘Why not, dear?' he said. ‘It's an excellent idea, a great opportunity. I really think it would be foolish to turn it down.'

‘Really?' said his wife, and began to look doubtful. ‘Well, it would be good to do some sustained work with a model.'

Thus, after a little further discussion, it was decided that my commission should go to Annie. I would sit for her once or twice a week—her household obligations, and art classes, permitting. Fortunately, my time was my own, and I was happy to fit in around the family's domestic requirements. Once the details were finalised, Annie settled on an old armchair in the corner and, taking needle and thread from her bag, she mended her bonnet, whilst Ned and I looked at his work. The artist paced the floor, pulling out canvases and drawings of various sizes for me to examine, whilst he stood back, puffing on his pipe. From time to time, the children ran in and out of the studio. Christina brought in the tea, and left. At one point, Sibyl marched into the centre of the room, stretched out her arms, and screamed at the top of her lungs, before marching out again. Neither of her parents seemed at all perturbed by this behaviour: Annie simply carried on sewing, while Ned continued to browse through a stack of canvases.

It seemed that Gillespie spent rather a lot of time painting his relatives, when he could persuade them to sit. Annie featured heavily, as did Sibyl and Mabel. Recalling the picture that I had seen at the Grosvenor, it dawned on me that I was standing at the very spot where it had been painted, and also, that it had been Annie who had posed, veiled, as the woman feeding the canary. I glanced around the attic, in search of a birdcage, but saw none; later, I learned that they had borrowed the cage, to create a focal point for the painting.

The selection of canvases that Ned showed me that afternoon also included some views of the Exhibition: his unsentimental sketches of Muratti's girls; a portrait of the two Venetian gondoliers who had been hired to row visitors up and down the River Kelvin; and several vibrant crowd scenes, at the bandstand, beside the Switchback Railway, and outside the Eastern Palace. In the end, however, I chose a small canvas that had nothing to do with the Exhibition, or with his family.
Stanley Street
was, simply, a view from the parlour window, showing a winter's day, and a few people hurrying along with umbrellas. Here was a picture with an arresting, urban quality, and it leapt out at me as honest, original and modern. Ned had all but forgotten the canvas, which had been propped against the wall, at the far end of the studio, but, having examined it for a few moments, I lifted it onto the table, saying: ‘I do like this one.'

The artist laughed. ‘That thing? Just an exercise I set myself one morning. I'm going to use that canvas for something else—scrape it off and paint over it.'

‘Oh no!' I cried. ‘You mustn't. This is a wonderful painting.'

Ned peered at it, sceptically, his head cocked to one side, to avoid the low roof. He was standing not a foot away from me, panting slightly from the exertion of hefting the larger frames (he was, it seemed, a little asthmatic). A few of the canvases were still damp, and the heady scent of poppy-seed oil rose up and joined with the lingering pipe smoke to envelop us, like a fragrant mist. I ran my fingers down the edge of the stretcher frame, the rough fabric tickling my flesh.

‘This is my favourite,' I told him.

Annie glanced up, from her corner, and gave a tinkling little laugh. ‘Who wants to look at a rainy day in Stanley Street?'

‘Oh, I'm no connoisseur,' I told her. ‘But I think this is a wonderful painting. And it would always be a reminder to me, of my time here, in Glasgow.' I turned to Ned. ‘Presumably, this isn't one of the pictures you're working on for your submission to the Committee?'

‘No-o,' he chortled.

‘Then—please may I buy it? How much would you want for it?'

He shook his head. ‘You're giving us quite enough, already, for the portrait. Take that one, for nothing—please. I'm just glad you like it.'

I realised that he was looking at me, with a quizzical smile on his face. Perhaps he was just amused at my choice of picture, but I like to think that there was also a certain amount of nascent camaraderie in that gaze.

The time for departure came all too soon. One moment we were absorbed in our discussion of his work, and the next Ned was glancing at his watch and exclaiming: ‘Dear God! Ten past! Did you not have an appointment, Harriet?'

‘What a pity—I was enjoying myself so much. I suppose I
could
be late…'

‘Not at all, I won't hear of it. Now, do you have far to go?'

‘Oh—no—just the park. I'm meeting someone.'

‘Well, you'll not be wanting to lug that painting with you, will you—but if you're at home tomorrow, I'll wrap it up and send it round with the neighbour's boy—he's quite reliable.'

‘Oh yes, that might be for the best—thank you, Ned! I'm at number 13.'

‘Don't forget your hat and basket, there. Annie—are you coming, dear?'

As I gathered up my belongings, his wife slipped past us onto the landing and headed down. Ned and I followed, and we had just reached the turn of the staircase, when there was a shriek from the hallway, followed by the sound of juvenile lamentation. Ned peered over the banister.

‘What now?' he muttered.

The reason for the fracas soon became clear: it was simply a continuation of the children's squabble about their ferns. The door to the dining room lay open, and Christina and the two girls stood inside the room. Sibyl was weeping, while Rose glared at her, accusingly, her face also begrimed with tears. The cause of their despair lay on the dining-room floor: Rose's blue pot smashed to smithereens, the earth scattered across the rug, her fern in shreds—while Sibyl's plant sat, pristine, on the dining table.