Gillespie and I (15 page)

On Saturday evening, having spent a pleasant few hours at the Exhibition, I turned my steps homewards, intending to follow the river north and head over the Prince of Wales Bridge, thence up and around the dramatic skyline of Woodland Hill—a magnificent circular arrangement of residential terraces, pavilions, and jutting towers and spires, Glasgow's veritable crown, from which is to be had a commanding view of the whole city—and finally, downhill to Queen's Crescent: a humble tiara, by comparison. Dusk was gathering, but thanks to all the wonderful electrification, one could see quite clearly. Several great windows of the Eastern Palace glowed brightly, whilst over to the east and south lay the twinkling lights of the city and its factories and shipyards. A smell of chimney smoke was in the air, drifting across the park from the Machinery Section, and the din of the dynamos was still audible, since they would not be shut down until the Exhibition closed for the day. That hour was still distant, and people were flocking, as usual, towards the Fairy Fountain, the magical rainbow tints of which illuminated the sky and reflected prettily in the river.

It was as I approached the central bridges that I happened to notice Kenneth Gillespie. This was a coincidence, since I had just been thinking about him, wondering whether he might be in the park. He was leaving Howell's Smoking Lounge, in the company of a tall individual in a dark, broad-brimmed hat, a man whom I recognised, at once, as the younger of the gondoliers. The two men were within hailing distance and I could easily have greeted Kenneth, but I was tired, and it was getting late, and thus, I pretended to look in at Howell's window, so that they might walk ahead without noticing me. No doubt they were bound for the Caledonian. They wandered along the path and crossed over to the riverside, in front of the Chocolate Kiosk, where they paused for a moment, in conversation, although I was now too far away to hear what they said. It was my understanding that the gondolier had few words of English, and I wondered how he managed to converse with the locals.

Just then, a flaring match caught my attention, as a fat man paused to light a cigar in Howell's doorway before setting off across the bridge, leaving behind him a sour and tantalising whiff of smoke. I myself was perishing for a cigarette, but
that
would have to wait until I got back to my lodgings. In the meantime, I peered through Howell's window at the well-stocked shelves and ornamental mirrors. It all looked very bright and cosy inside, and I could almost smell the tobacco through the glass. Two serving girls came downstairs from the lounge, very pretty in their starched pinafores and white caps. A gentleman propped his elbow on the counter as he flirted with another girl. My thoughts drifted to the gondolier. The locals had dubbed the two Venetians ‘Signors Hokey and Pokey' since, in the mind of the Glaswegian, any Italian is irredeemably associated with ice-cream, or hokey-pokey. Ned had painted these gondoliers, several times. In my opinion, the pictures were too quaint, but Peden kept encouraging him to produce more in the same vein, to be sold as souvenirs of the Exhibition. Personally speaking, I had no high regard for Walter's opinions on Art; in my mind, I had reduced him to a tongue-twister (
Peden the Pedant, painter of pets; postulates, prances and pirouettes
), and I wished that Ned was not quite so easily influenced.

Thus, my thoughts meandered. When I glanced around again, only a few moments had passed, and so I was surprised to find that Kenneth and the gondolier had vanished. I looked in all directions, but they were not to be seen on any of the nearby paths. I made my way to the spot where they had been standing, but although I peered into the undergrowth, there was no trace of them. I began to worry that some misfortune might have befallen them: night was falling, after all; and so I ventured a little way down the riverbank. The slope was steep in places, and I had to proceed with caution. Having established that there was no one on the easterly side, I made my way towards the first bridge, thinking that they might have gone under there, perhaps to throw stones, or to smoke, or for some other masculine reason.

I wonder can you imagine what sight greeted my eyes as I peered into the shadows under that low bridge? To begin with, I myself did not know quite what to make of it. At first, I was surprised to see that they were wrestling. Signor Pokey seemed to have pounced from behind and got the better of his opponent, since he was on top of Ned's brother, with an arm around his neck, and he was thrusting him into the dirt, causing Kenneth to grunt. Harm was being done, I was sure; and I was about to cry out when suddenly it came to me that the two young men were not, in fact, engaged in mortal combat; rather, they were committing an act of another kind altogether; and it seemed that the oarsman was (in a phrase that I have since heard said) giving Kenneth quite a tail.

Please, do not misunderstand me: I am not easily shocked, and I have no objection to acts of love, Greek or otherwise. My immediate and only concern at the time was for my new friend, the artist Ned Gillespie. Clearly, it was
not
the Cocoa House girls that his brother was interested in, after all; Kenneth was ploughing a rather different furrow. If this was the scandalous matter that ‘Old Findlaypops' was about to reveal in his caricature, we were indeed facing a catastrophe. You see, the good burghers of Glasgow have never been renowned for their tolerance, especially when it comes to
patapoufs
or
Mary-Anns
or inverts (or whatever the current terminology might be). What on earth would it do to Ned's promising reputation, to his prospects, and to his chances of winning the commission to paint the state visit, if the reckless and inappropriate behaviour of his brother were to be made public in an issue of
The Thistle
?

Next day, at Stanley Street, the main door was lying open when I arrived for my portrait sitting, and on my way upstairs, on one of the landings, I bumped into Ned, who was heading out, with his easel under his arm. Apparently, he had just heard from the Fine Art Committee, which had, at last, announced a submission date for canvases. There was to be a small private view and, thereafter, the members would retire to choose which artist they would commission to paint the Queen. The viewing was planned for the 15th of August, just a few days after Findlay's caricature was due to appear. I dreaded to think what scurrilous image the gentlemen of the Committee might have in their minds whilst they cast their eyes over Gillespie's work.

‘I'm not sure I'll finish my
Eastern Palace
in time,' Ned was saying, as he set down his easel to rest his arm. ‘So I'll probably submit one of my
Gondolier
pictures.'

‘
The Gondoliers
?' I replied, in alarm. ‘Oh no, but surely your
Eastern Palace
would be a more appropriate subject.' I disguised my misgivings with a smile. ‘When does that dreadful piece of tosh come out?'

Ned looked at me, blankly. ‘What do you mean?'

‘You know—Findlay's caricature, in
The Thistle
.'

‘Oh—that!' He laughed. ‘I haven't a notion.'

‘Have you any idea of how he has drawn you?'

‘No—none at all,' he said, and shook his head, smiling. ‘Although Peden says Kenneth is in it, which might be amusing.'

From his reaction, it seemed perfectly plain that he was entirely ignorant of his brother's proclivities.

‘Well—you must concentrate on your submissions,' I told him. ‘If the Committee see your
Eastern Palace
, I wager they'll be forcing a cheque into your hands before the sherry gets warm. It's such a wonderful picture, very appropriate, a large building with all those figures, fabulous colours—proof positive that you're the right man for the state portrait.'

Ned chuckled, a little puzzled. ‘But—forgive me, Harriet, I don't believe you've
seen
the painting.'

‘Indeed, I haven't, but Annie told me it's one of your finest.'

‘Och, I don't know about that…'

‘Of course, your
Gondoliers
are pleasant enough, but they don't show the full breadth of your talent.'

‘Well—we'll see,' he said. ‘Anyway, I'm just going down there now to make some more sketches in the park.'

‘But surely you've enough sketches? You could complete your
Eastern Palace
in a few days, if you put your mind to it.'

He looked so doubtful of this prospect, that I gave a light laugh. Just then, Annie appeared on the top landing. Perhaps she had heard the echo of our voices in the stairwell. She leaned on the banister, looking down upon us, unsmiling.

‘Oh, it's you, Harriet,' she said. ‘Are you coming in at all?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘Ned and I were just talking about his paintings.'

‘Well, we should get on with ours, don't you think? You'll be pleased to hear we're almost finished.'

‘Really? I thought there was rather more to do, on the hands—'

‘No,' said Annie, shortly. ‘I think I'm nearly done. A few more sessions should suffice.' She glanced at Ned, who was standing beside me, lost in thought. ‘Are you going out, dear, or what are you doing?'

The artist hesitated. ‘I don't know—as a matter of fact, I've changed my mind. I think I'll go back up to the studio.' And, so saying, he lifted his easel, and gave me a nod. ‘Thank you, Harriet,' he said. ‘I do believe you're right. I probably should press on and, at least, try to finish my
Eastern Palace
. Shall we?'

And he held out his hand, to guide me up the stairs ahead of him. I must admit to feeling rather pleased, and not a little relieved, that he seemed to have heeded my advice.

However, there was still the problem of the vignette. I knew that there must be a way out of this ghastly situation, but temporarily, I was at a loss. The Gillespies were already struggling, financially. If Ned's commissions and sales were to diminish as a result of the publication of a seedy caricature, the family would suffer even more. I had to blink away some horrible images of Ned and the children, dressed in rags, begging on Buchanan Street. Of course, it would never come to that, I hoped. But how was Mungo Findlay to be stopped?

Having racked my brains, overnight, I decided that it was imperative to see exactly what the caricaturist had drawn. Thus, I wrote to him and introduced myself with the claim that I wished to engage him as portrait painter and, marking the note ‘Urgent', I delivered it, by hand, to the handsome new Italianate offices of
The Thistle
, in West George Street, on Sunday morning. This, I hoped, might result in an invitation to his studio. As yet, I had no clear notion of what I might do once I was there. For some reason, I had imagined Findlay to be an untidy sort of fellow, who left his work lying about the place, and I suppose that I had envisaged a scenario in which the drawing of Ned and Kenneth might be found, in plain view; one glance would tell me whether or not it was damaging, and, if necessary, I was prepared to use all my powers of persuasion in order to protect my friends from scandal.

As it transpired, Findlay must have called in at the
Thistle
building at some point on Sunday, for I received his reply, promptly, on Monday morning. He provided his home address, and invited me to visit him, on Tuesday, at three o'clock. Personally, I would have preferred to see him sooner. I already had an arrangement to sit for Annie on Tuesday afternoon. Moreover, it worried me that Findlay had gone to the offices of the paper on the Sabbath: quite conceivably, he could have been delivering the finished caricature. Having no wish to appear over-eager, I simply wrote to him, accepting his invitation, and resolved to wait another day.

There is no need to dwell at any length upon my encounter with ‘Old Findlaypops'. His house, on Smith Street South, although fair-sized, was filthy, damp and odoriferous; his servant had the ruddy, unkempt look of a man who had been lying, drunk, in a field for several days, and the artist himself turned out to be a thoroughly unpleasant fellow. His studio was situated at the back of the house, in a large-windowed room. To my surprise, it was unexpectedly bare and tidy, with a portfolio on a desk, and about a dozen canvases stacked against the wall, and no sign of any vignettes, anywhere. I am afraid that I could scarcely disguise my impatience whilst Findlay paraded his paintings, which were, for the most part, mediocre renditions of fruit and dead pheasants: perfect for the decoration of tea trays, but fit for little else.

Getting hold of the caricature, thereafter, proved to be less than straightforward. In order to persuade Findlay to leave the room, I had to insist that I had heard someone falling, or dropping something, in the hallway, so that when he went off, sceptically, to investigate, I could sneak a look inside his portfolio. Knowing that I would have no more than a few moments alone, I tugged at the ribbon strings, and flipped open the folder. There—fortuitously, at the very top of the pile of drawings—was the vignette of Ned and Kenneth.

I dare say that there can be no harm in describing it now, after all these years. Findlay had depicted the Gillespie brothers in what appeared to be an artist's studio. Ned was at an easel, upon which stood his painting,
By the Pond
. He looked rather miserable, possibly because Kenneth was at his side, dressed in petticoats and bonnet. There was a large pot of flowers in the foreground, the inclusion of which confused me, at first, until I realised that they were pansies. Kenneth's cheek appeared to have been rouged; there was a beauty spot above his lip. With one hand he was holding up a frock, whilst the other tugged at the hem of Ned's jacket. The drawing was entitled ‘
Stinky Stank et Frère
' and the dialogue beneath, which rhymed with the caption, had Kenneth exclaiming: ‘
Oh Neddy, dear, whatever shall I wear?
'

A crowning touch, you will no doubt agree.

Upon his return to the room, Findlay affected a great weariness.