Gillespie and I (16 page)

‘You appear to be hearing things, madam. I can find—' But there, he paused, noticing the open portfolio on the desk, and the caricature, which I had not bothered to hide, since I needed to bring it to his attention, and I could see no point in further subterfuge. His expression underwent an adjustment, from mild irritation, to outrage. ‘Excuse me!' he bristled. ‘What the blazes—?'

There and then, although it pained me to do so, I pleaded with him not to submit such a ridiculous item for publication. I told him that it was libellous and could only harm his own reputation, to which he replied that he was happy to face the consequences. When I suggested that the drawing was, in any case, far too risqué for
The Thistle
, he retorted that he already had a verbal agreement with the editor, and that, once he had added a few final details, the vignette would be ready for submission, to be published on the 13th of August, which was, as he said, ‘unlucky for Stinky'. Thereafter, in the face of his indifference, I was forced to appeal to the man's conscience, citing Ned's poor infants and their dependence on his income, et cetera, but to my dismay, nothing that I said would dissuade Findlay. Moreover, now that he had ascertained that I was not really interested in engaging him to paint my portrait, he accused me of trespassing, and threatened me with the police (a hysterical over-reaction under the circumstances).

I did only what any good friend might have done. At all costs, I was determined to ensure that Ned was saved, if only from public humiliation. Reading between the lines, I had surmised that Findlay was impoverished, and not about to relinquish any income that this series of caricatures might bring him. It seemed that financial compensation might be the only way to his heart. And so it was that, after some considerable negotiation, the caricaturist agreed to destroy his dratted vignette. There and then, as I watched over him, he put his drawing on the fire, and I saw it reduced to ashes.

Suffice to say: money can buy anything.

Old Findlay was not so bad, I suppose. Despite his general reptilian tendencies, when interviewed, in later years, by the ‘journalist' Mr Bruce Kemp, he said nothing untoward about me, personally, except that I was a ‘nosy pest', when he might, instead, have told any number of elaborate untruths (as did others!). I suppose that one ought to feel, in some ways, grateful to him, and yet, he remains unredeemed in my eyes, for his attempt to harm Ned and family.

Old Findlaypops.

Come to think of it, he probably died
long
ago. Sometimes, one cannot help but feel like the very last sturdy old tree of an extremely ancient forest—still standing, enduring, indomitable—whilst, all around, the weaker ones have rotted and dropped into the stinking mire.

I saw no reason to mention what had happened to anyone of my acquaintance. As far as I was concerned, the matter was closed. For the next two weeks, however, my every waking hour was underscored by mild anxiety, since I could not get it out of my head that Findlay might double-cross me, in some way. How, exactly, he could achieve this, I could not imagine, but the possibility was there, looming. As for Ned, so far as I am aware, apart from a slight embarrassment at the notion of being put in the spotlight, he barely gave a thought to the prospect that he might be lampooned in an issue of
The Thistle
. All his attention was concentrated on finishing his
Eastern Palace
in time to be inspected by the Selection Committee. Annie, on the other hand, seemed tense, and although she made no mention of the caricature during this period, it is my belief that she was living in dread of its publication. I would gladly have reassured her, but in order to do so, I would have had to admit that I had stumbled upon Kenneth's secret, and I was hardly about to bring up
that
subject in polite conversation.

In addition to Annie's concerns about Findlay's vignette, was the constant strain of looking after her children, all day long. Sibyl had recently ripped up some of Mabel's precious Berlin work, and this act of sabotage seemed to have upset Annie more than any other thus far. Poor dear! Her hair was more carelessly pinned than ever, and there was something wary in her gaze, almost as though she was awaiting the next disaster.

With my portrait almost complete, she was using our sessions to add a few finishing touches to the hands and face, but I could tell that her mind was often elsewhere, partly because she kept making mistakes, and having to correct what she had done. To be honest, I was almost glad whenever this happened, since it meant that the painting would take longer to finish. I had very much enjoyed my time in the Gillespie home, getting to know the family, and I realised that I would miss them all once these portrait sessions came to an end.

Very early on the morning of the 13th of August, in the dead hours, I jolted awake, the blood pounding in my veins. I had no memory of any dreams or nightmares, but as I lay there, a dreadful thought came to me, all at once: what if Findlay had drawn
another
caricature of Ned and Kenneth, one that was identical to the first in every way? He could, simply, have submitted such a thing to the editor, as planned. This notion crystallised and accreted in my brain, and—by the time that the dawn light had crept into my room—I was certain that such treachery had always been the man's intention. He had gone along with my request, and destroyed his drawing, but it was all a charade simply to get rid of me. I could just imagine him, sniggering to himself, as he redrafted exactly the same image!

The Thistle
was to appear on shop counters that morning. Assuming that the paper would be delivered first to any shops near its offices, I decided to walk into town, to buy a copy. Without any real knowledge of what time the journal might go on sale, I waited, anxiously, until ten o'clock, and then set out along Sauchiehall Street, prepared to walk all the way to the Central Station, if necessary. As luck would have it, however, I soon passed a confectioner's that sold newspapers and, peering into the shadowy depths of the shop, I saw a small pile of
Thistle
s, sitting on the counter. Having bought a copy, I hurried outside, and turned the pages, with trembling fingers.

One could, of course, ignore the pompous parochialism of ‘Our Crabby Critic', but I did pause to glance at ‘Megilp', the Fine Art column (thank goodness, no mention of Ned or Kenneth there), and then flicking forwards, I located page 9, where Findlay's caricature usually appeared. And there it was, this week's illustration: a sketch of Mr Crawhall, depicted as a scrawny scarecrow, dour of countenance, and sat upon by numerous pigeons and crows. I flicked back and forth through the newspaper, unable to believe that Findlay had, indeed, kept his word; but I could find no other vignettes, and no reference, anywhere, to Ned Gillespie or his brother.

I suppose that I should have felt relieved. However, my mind simply leapt to the next possibility: that the caricature might appear in some future issue of
The Thistle
or some other journal. Besides, if Findlay knew about Kenneth's secret, then there was every chance that others might also have heard rumours.

I had arranged to sit for Annie, that afternoon, but was in two minds about honouring the appointment. Whether or not the Gillespies had seen
The Thistle
, there might be speculation about the vignette, and I had no real desire to be present, should there be any discussion of the subject: I knew not whether I would be able to sit through such a conversation without blushing. However, I was disinclined to cancel with so little notice, and so—resolving to say nothing, should Findlay be mentioned—I walked round the corner to number 11, at two o'clock, as planned. It was a warm and sunny afternoon, not a cloud in the sky. I found Annie at home, alone, with the children. Ned had gone to the Art Club to supervise the hanging of his submissions for the private view, which would take place that week, and Christina, the maid, had begged some time off, in order to visit her mother, who (apparently) was unwell.

Someone else was also claiming ill health, that afternoon. When I arrived, Rose was upstairs taking a nap, while Sibyl lay on the parlour sofa, under a blanket, with an empty bowl on the floor beside her. She wore a thin shift, and held a small mirror in her hand. Her face was even paler than usual, and there were dark mauve shadows beneath her eyes. As I entered, she gave me one of her malefic stares, and then turned her back to the room.

‘Poor love,' said Annie. ‘She's been feeling sick again.'

These tummy aches, along with headaches, were the most recent development in Sibyl's disruptive, attention-seeking conduct. Over the past few weeks, she had grown yet more tearful and moody. She no longer reacted with hysterics when faced with evidence of her destructive behaviour; instead, she had become withdrawn, silent and guarded. It was almost as though she was plotting something: watching, and waiting. Little by little, over the course of the summer, this child had become an ever more menacing presence. Even now, as her mother and I crossed the room, Sibyl was observing us: although her back was turned, I noticed that she was holding up her mirror at an angle, in order to capture our reflections. Framed in the oval of silvered glass, I could see one of her eyes, staring at me. Was it my imagination, or did even her flimsy shoulder blades seem to bristle with malice?

In the interim, Annie had turned her easel around to show me my portrait. There I was, displayed, on the canvas. She had painted me in shades of purple and grey. The colours were harmonious, the brushwork fluid and assured. Of course, I would never be beautiful, or even comely, but Annie had made me almost presentable. If nothing else, I was very thin!

‘How close are we to finishing?' I asked her.

‘Oh—I'll be done today. I just want to touch up the hands, but it shouldn't take long. Shall we begin?'

I crossed to the window, and took my seat, the contours of which were, by then, very familiar. I felt rather melancholy and dejected. Our last session! I would miss spending time at Stanley Street, even if Sibyl did make me feel uncomfortable, from time to time. Mercifully, she was not in my line of sight whilst I posed, since our makeshift studio was in a corner of the room. And yet, as we worked, I could not help but be aware of the child's brooding presence, nearby. From time to time, she spied on our reflections, by poking her looking-glass beyond the upholstered arm of the sofa. At least she was quiet, for once.

As for Annie, she seemed even frostier than she had been for the past few weeks. Ever since the day when I had bumped into Ned on the staircase, and she had seen us talking together, from the top landing, her attitude to me had been cold. I wondered whether I had done something to annoy her: she had no reason to feel jealous, of course, but perhaps she disliked that I had been giving her husband advice. It was also possible (I told myself) that she had not yet seen
The Thistle
: she might simply be on edge about the dreaded caricature.

We had been working steadily for about half an hour, when I heard footsteps on the communal stairs, and recognised the sound of Peden, pontificating, his voice reverberating off the walls of the close, as he approached the top landing. My assumption was that he had come in with Ned, until the key turned in the lock, and the front door flew open, accompanied by a burst of female giggling. Nosy as ever, Sibyl sat up on the sofa, and peered into the hall, and Annie glanced towards the door, just as Christina and Peden came into view. The maid was more dishevelled than usual, and as she approached the threshold of the parlour, I had the distinct impression that she was a little unsteady on her feet.

‘That's me back,' she said, shortly, and then pursed her lips.

Annie stared at her maid, without speaking. In response to this silence, Christina's pretty face took on a very serious look. She leaned into the room, and breathed heavily at us, through her nose. ‘My mother isnae well,' said she. ‘Not at all. She's took terrible—very sick. Misser Peden's here—a lemon, s'at right?'

In fact, she was not calling Peden a lemon, as I first thought, but telling Annie that she had ‘let him in'. There could be no doubt that Christina had been drinking. Indeed, the sweet smell of liquor had begun to waft across the room towards us. As far as I could tell, she was not pie-eyed, but she was certainly squiffy. Walter hovered behind her, making a great pantomime of hopping around, biting his fist with anxiety, like a character in a play. Presumably, he hoped not only to over-dramatise the situation, but also to convey that he was not to blame for the maid's condition. Of course, he was being ridiculous, since neither Annie nor I thought for a moment that he was responsible. My hostess was clearly furious with her maid, but it was not in her nature to cause a fuss, in front of guests.

‘Go back to work, Christina,' she said quietly. ‘I'll speak to you later.'

The girl marched off. A moment later, there was the sound of the kitchen door banging shut. Peden came tiptoeing into the parlour, still gnawing at his fist. ‘Yoicks!' cried he, rolling his eyes. ‘I was about to ring the bell when she came up the steps behind me. It's not my fault—I wasn't with her.'

‘Of course not,' said Annie. ‘Now, Walter, Ned's at the Art Club.'

‘Oh, I know,' said Peden, and then he turned and gave me a strange, piercing look. ‘I'm just on my way there myself. Afternoon, Hetty.'

Then, with a flourish, he produced a copy of
The Thistle
from his pocket. Annie gasped and, rushing forwards, she grabbed the journal from him even as he was opening it at the appropriate page. I watched the relief spread across her face, when Peden pointed out Findlay's cartoon of Mr Crawhall.

‘Oh thank goodness!' she cried.

Meanwhile, I was unsettled to realise that Walter was winking at me, in conspiratorial fashion.

‘What a relief,' said Annie. ‘He's not even drawn Ned at all—or Kenneth!'