Gillespie and I (14 page)

As for Ned's brother Kenneth, he seemed blithely unaware that Sibyl was a problem. Indeed, her behaviour was worse whenever he was involved. I suspect that she had a childish infatuation with him. She always became very unruly during his visits, and—if he failed to focus on her at all times, or made the mistake of trying to talk to anybody else, she would jump up and down, feverishly, calling out his name, over and over: ‘Kenneth! Uncle Kenneth! Kenneth!' until he gave her his full attention. She always looked forward to seeing him, but Ned's brother was not the most reliable character. When not at work, he frequented the bars and cafeterias in the park and, sometimes, he made promises to visit Sibyl that he failed to keep. On these occasions, she would wait for him, impatiently, before slumping into melancholy when she realised that he was not going to put in an appearance. Then, she would become fractious and tearful, and it was only a matter of time before she would resort to mischief, out of spite.

If only we had known then what the future held in store, then one of us might have acted more promptly. After our conversation over coffee, Mabel did try to persuade Annie to take a harder line with Sibyl, even suggesting that they might bring in some sort of expert in nervous diseases to examine the child. However, Annie seemed to take fright at this notion, and told her sister-in-law to say no more on the subject, particularly to Ned. He would have been alarmed to hear Mabel's idea about consulting a doctor, and Annie did not wish him to be upset in any way while he was working on his submissions for the Fine Art Committee. Thus, the question of addressing Sibyl's misbehaviour was brushed under the carpet.

Of course, as a recent acquaintance, it would have been inappropriate for me to pass comment to the Gillespies on how they dealt with their daughter, and so I kept my thoughts to myself but, as far as I could see, Kenneth was one of the worst influences on Sibyl. Such was the pleasure he took in over-exciting the child that it occurred to me that he might even have taught her to execute those nasty drawings.

6

My curiosity about Kenneth began to be aroused, one fine afternoon, whilst I was sitting for my portrait. Ned was upstairs in his studio, still working on his
Eastern Palace
, and Annie had sent the children to play around the corner, in the gardens of Queen's Crescent. The portrait was nearing completion: my skirts were done, and Annie had begun the difficult work on the fine detail of face and hands. We were taking advantage of the unaccustomed tranquillity to work in peace, when the doorbell rang. Miraculously, Christina, the maid, was in evidence, and she ran downstairs to admit the visitor, who turned out to be Walter Peden, calling to see Ned. As was his wont, he stopped off in the parlour on his way up to the studio, and—in the course of conversation with Annie—he happened to mention a rumour that he had heard.

Apparently, the artist and caricaturist Mungo Findlay was at work on a vignette of Ned. Over the past few months, to coincide with the Exhibition, Findlay had produced a series of irreverent sketches depicting local painters, and these had been published in
The Thistle
, a Glasgow weekly paper, rival to
The Bailie
and
Quiz
. For the most part, Findlay's caricatures were harmless enough. However, the less well disposed he was to his subject, the more mocking the portrayal. For instance, his drawing of Lavery had been particularly merciless, not so much in any exaggeration of the man's features, but in the way that his self-importance was satirised. According to Peden, the vignette of Ned was, as yet, unfinished, but was due to be published in a mid-August edition of the magazine. In some respects, inclusion in this
Thistle
series was flattering, since it meant that the featured artist had, to a certain extent, made his mark upon the world of Scottish Art. The fact that Ned was considered important enough to be depicted ought to have been a cause for celebration. None the less, much depended upon how he was portrayed. The timing was hardly fortuitous, since the caricature would be published just before the Committee met to make its decision about the Royal Commission, and if Findlay's portrayal was unflattering, it could be an embarrassment to Ned.

Peden had heard these rumours from a friend who was vaguely acquainted with Mungo Findlay—or ‘Old Findlaypops' as Peden insisted upon calling him—though it is my surmise that they had never met, since it was Walter's habit to concoct jolly soubriquets for persons he barely knew, in order to imply a social intimacy that did not, in fact, exist. For instance, he insisted upon calling me Hetty.

‘It's not just Ned in the vignette,' Peden told us. ‘Kenneth also features.'

‘Kenneth!' exclaimed Annie. ‘I thought these were sketches of artists?'

‘This time, it's something different: an artist and his brother.'

Annie frowned. ‘Is there a caption? What does it say?'

I suspect that Peden would have danced at her, except that he was stretched out on the sofa, where he had thrown himself upon his arrival. Instead, he moved his shoulders from side to side and gave his nose a knowing tap. He was clearly enjoying his role as bearer of important news.

‘Ah-ha! Old Findlaypops is keeping very quiet about it.'

‘But why is Kenneth in it, at all?'

Despite her questions, Peden was unable to provide us with further details. His friend had not seen the caricature, having simply overheard Findlay bragging, dropping hints that his depiction of Kenneth would throw light on something scandalous. I wondered what sort of scandal Ned's brother could be involved in. All manner of worrying alternatives passed through my mind: an
affaire de cœur
—perhaps with a married lady? Was he a gambler? An eater of opium?

Annie also seemed apprehensive. ‘Can't we see it before it appears?'

‘I doubt it. He tends not to show his sketches until publication. We must just wait and see, Mrs G. All will be revealed next month.'

‘How very mysterious,' I said.

‘Yes, indeed, Hetty! You see—that's just what Findlaypops is like. You never know what the old scoundrel will come up with next.'

Annie sighed, and chewed her lip. She was already worn down by Sibyl's misbehaviour, and all this cryptic nonsense was clearly unsettling her. If only Peden would be quiet. I gazed at him.

‘Would I be correct in saying, Walter, that—normally, if it weren't for the Exhibition—you would be spending the entire summer far away from here, and that you wouldn't return to Glasgow until the winter?'

‘Indeed. It's my habit to spend the summer at Cockburnspath, or Kirkcudbright. Why do you ask?'

‘Oh—no reason,' said I, lightly.

Clearly, the man was bored out of his wits, which made him more tiresome and gossipy than he might ordinarily have been. It occurred to me that what he really needed was a wife: but he was so awkward in his dealings with women that the prospect of matrimony seemed unlikely. Thank goodness, he soon went upstairs to see Ned, leaving me alone with Annie, whose forehead was still puckered by the frown that had settled there ever since Peden had mentioned Kenneth. She took up her brush and began to move it up and down as though applying colour to the canvas, although I suspected that she was only pretending to paint.

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.