Gillespie and I (22 page)

Perhaps I should have seen the fog as an omen. Crossing West Princes Street, I passed a cab that was creeping along at the rate of twenty yards a minute, the driver carrying a torch and leading his horse by its bridle, in case of collisions. Further on, I found a small, sobbing boy clinging to the railings of the Academy: he was lost in the fog, yet probably within a stone's throw of home. As I leaned down to offer assistance, a sharp-visaged girl, a few years his senior, appeared.

‘There ye are!' she cried, scooping up the child and scolding him as they disappeared into the swirling mist: ‘Now, dinnae greet no more, you're found.'

A few workmen loitered at the top of Stanley Street, smoking their pipes, and talking, beneath the sooty yellow light of a lamp-post. Another man passed by, calling out to them: ‘How was the day, lads?', and one of their number spat into the gutter before replying, impassively: ‘Mondayish.' My coat soon grew moist with fog and—despite my
tricot
, scarf, gloves and boots—my feet and face were numb by the time that I reached my destination.

In answer to my ring, Jessie, the maid, came downstairs. She had been with the Gillespies for several weeks by this time and, thus far, gave the impression of being honest enough. I found her rather dour but, as we climbed towards the apartment, I took a stab at conversation:

‘Now, Jessie, did you have a wonderful Christmas?'

‘We don't go in for Christmas, Miss Baxter, as much as you do, down south.'

Ah yes, ‘down south': as far as Jessie was concerned, any person or thing from ‘down south' was to be viewed with suspicion.

‘Of course!' I replied. ‘Well, in that case, a very Happy New Year to you!'

‘It's not even eight o'clock yet,' said Jessie, as she sailed inside the apartment, leaving me to infer that, in addition to being a Sassenach, I had committed the sin of prematurity. When I entered the hall, she was nowhere to be seen, but a clatter of chairs suggested that she had repaired to the dining room. Annie emerged from the kitchen, in her apron, to greet me. Her hair was tumbling down, and there was flour on her face and hands. She looked flustered, but happy.

‘Harriet!' she cried and, careful not to get flour on my clothes, she embraced me, and kissed my cheek. ‘I'm so glad you're here.'

Only a small group of family and friends was expected before midnight. Most of the guests would arrive after the bells: local artists, the younger teaching staff from the Art School, a few well-liked neighbours, the Wool and Hosiery assistants, various of Elspeth's waifs and strays, and several valued customers who used the shop (‘but nobody too stuffy', according to Annie). While she hung up my coat, she explained that Mrs Calthrop from downstairs had taken the children, to allow us to get on with the preparations for the party.

‘No doubt, they'll be back any minute, though,' said Annie. ‘She can only ever thole them for half an hour.'

In the kitchen, a scene of devastation greeted us. All manner of dishes lay scattered about, in various stages of completion, and everything seemed to be coated in a thin layer of flour. I set to clearing some space on the table, so that I could make a start on the shortbread.

‘And how was Co'path?' I enquired.

‘Wonderful! It did miracles for Sibyl, anyway, and that had a good effect on the rest of us. We went on lots of walks and Ned did some sketching. The sea air did us the world of good. None of this reeking smoke! I wish we could live out there.'

‘I believe it's very pretty, with the harbour, and so on.'

‘Yes, it is.' She looked embarrassed. ‘Well, you must—you really must come with us next time. It's just the cottage is so small…'

‘Oh, gracious! That's very kind of you.' Of a sudden, I felt hot. The kitchen was steamy, but also, I had glimpsed something in Annie's expression that I found disconcerting. It had never entered my head that they should have taken me, rather than Mabel. After all, she was a family member—and there was the budding romance to consider.

‘Would you go back again?' I asked, quickly.

‘Och, Ned would live there, if he could—but he's got so much to do here, now, with the Duchess to finish.'

‘Ah yes—Her Grace. How is she progressing? Presumably, he'll soon be able to get back to his own work, at last.'

But before Annie could reply, there was a knock at the front door. She sighed and hurried into the hall, calling out: ‘I'll get it, Jessie! It's probably just the girls.'

So ended our peace and quiet. I heard Annie talking to that Calthrop woman on the doorstep. Meanwhile, Sibyl slipped into the kitchen. Ignoring me, she went straight to the cake box and plucked at its strings.

‘What's this?'

‘It's a cake, dear, for your mother. Did you have a nice holiday?'

She gazed at me, balefully. Perhaps she had gained a little weight in Cockburnspath, though her complexion was still sallow.

‘Can I see the cake?'

‘Not just at the moment.'

Sibyl twisted her arms and hands into little begging gestures, a feverish, beseeching look on her face.

‘Oh, please can I? Let me see it, please, Harriet, please!'

‘No, dear,' I said firmly. ‘Your mother shall see it first, since it is her cake.'

‘Is it a chocolate cake?'

‘No, it is not.'

‘Is it a cherry cake?'

‘No.'

‘Is it a currant cake?'

We might have continued in the same vein, indefinitely, but just then Annie reappeared with Rose, and so I turned away from Sibyl and addressed her mother. I knew that Annie never put up a Christmas tree, but was not exactly sure where she and Ned stood on the subject of giving and receiving festive gifts. ‘I hope you don't mind, Annie, but I've brought you all Christmas presents.'

‘Hurrah!' cried Sibyl. She began to jump up and down, jabbering nonsense, and Rose, who always liked to emulate her sister, joined in.

‘How kind,' said Annie. ‘Don't worry, we gave each other presents this year. I even put some holly on the mantel at the cottage—oh, but don't tell Elspeth that!' For a second, she looked as alarmed as a naughty schoolgirl, and then we both dissolved into laughter. ‘We've got a gift for you as well,' said Annie, recovering.

‘How lovely! Is Ned in? Why don't we open our presents together?'

She gave her head a brief shake. ‘He'll be back later, let's do it then.'

To keep the children out of mischief while we worked, I gave them some flour and water in a bowl, with which to make a paste, and, for a while, they applied themselves to this game with subdued industry. Their mother made punch, by boiling up oranges with wine, sugar, and spices. The air soon filled with the scents of warm cloves and cinnamon, and although the kitchen was still untidy, it occurred to me what a pretty domestic scene we would make for Ned, whenever he returned. Once the punch was ready, Annie set it aside, and began to stuff the vol-au-vents. I rolled out the shortbread, whilst Sibyl, having abandoned her flour paste, stood at the table, staring, as though hypnotised, at the clove-studded oranges, now afloat and gleaming in the pan of red wine.

Not for the first time, I was drawn to wonder what went on in that strange little head of hers. Now, as I watched her, Sibyl passed her hand over the pan of punch and would have poked the oranges with her finger had I not coughed pointedly, and given her a mock-warning look, in response to which she giggled, and scampered out of the room. At the same moment, the front door opened. ‘Papa!' came Sibyl's cry, and then, the sound of a groaning sigh, presumably as Ned lifted her into his arms.

‘There's my lovely girl,' I heard him murmur. Then, silence fell. Although Sibyl had left the door ajar, I could not see them from where I was standing, and, as the silence continued, I began to wonder what they could be doing. I glanced towards the hearth. Annie had sat down and was gazing into the fire, with a faraway expression on her face, while Rose played at her feet. And still, there was no sound from beyond the kitchen door. It occurred to me that, perhaps, Ned was leafing through his mail, at the hallstand, but then I wondered why I had heard no sound of paper rustling, or letter-opening. At any rate, it was time for the shortbread to go into the range. As I stepped around the table, I happened to glance through the doorway, and there, I saw them. Ned stood quietly, holding Sibyl in his arms. She had wrapped her legs around his waist. Her head rested on his shoulder, and he was rocking her, gently, from side to side. Neither of them noticed me; they both simply gazed off into space, with an air of quiet contentment. Here was a private moment, I realised, a moment of tenderness, between father and daughter. I felt that I was witnessing something intimate and strange, something beyond words or understanding. Discomfited, and embarrassed, lest one of them might suddenly turn and see me, I hurried across the kitchen, and bent down to put the petticoat tails in to bake. Against my face, the scorching breath of the range felt as hot as a furnace. I shut the metal door with a clang and, when I turned around, Annie was lifting her youngest daughter to her feet, saying: ‘Why don't you show Harriet your Christmas present, Rosie?'

The child became bashful, as she often did, when thrust into the limelight. With Sibyl acknowledged as the black sheep of the family, Rose tended, these days, to enjoy improved status. She had always been her mother's favourite, of course, and lately, Elspeth—still smarting over the destruction of her newsletters—was prone to ignore Sibyl, whilst lavishing attention on her sister.

No doubt to prevent arguments, the girls had been given exactly the same Christmas present: a silver chain upon which hung a delicate pendant of mother-of-pearl, set in silver. Apart from a few natural ripples, the necklaces were identical, and the girls' names had been engraved on the silver backings, to distinguish them. With some encouragement, Rose very sweetly lifted her chin, and held out her pendant for me to admire.

‘My name on the back, look,' she said, in lilting tones.

‘Aren't you a lucky girl?'

And she nodded. I remember, distinctly, the iridescence of that fragment of nacre, the way it shimmered, blue and pink and green, between her little fingers, and the soft down on her cheek as she gazed at her Christmas gift, a proud smile lifting the corners of her rosebud lips.

And there I must stop, for these recollections have made me rather too upset to continue.

As far as Ned's mother was concerned, Christmas gifts symbolised a reprehensible voluptuousness and wanton display of excess. It was unfortunate, therefore, that when she arrived that night, we had all just opened our presents. I had bought books for the girls, gloves for Annie, and a soft comforter for Ned. They, in turn, gave me a pincushion, which I was in the process of unwrapping when we heard the front door open, and Elspeth let herself in, exclaiming to Jessie about the cold.

At the sound of his mother's voice in the hall, Ned swore softly, under his breath, and shoved his comforter under a cushion. He shooed the girls into a corner with their books, while Annie and I snatched up the discarded wrapping papers, and fed them to the fire, hoping to avoid any awkwardness.

‘Thank you, thank you both,' I murmured, dropping my new pincushion into my bag, just as Elspeth surged across the threshold, with her usual screech of laughter. Glancing at the hearth, I was dismayed to see that the wrapping paper was still smouldering but, mercifully, Ned's mother was oblivious, being very taken up with a description of the fog.

‘You can barely see your hend in front of your face!' she exclaimed. ‘And the cold! When I think of poor Kenneth, out in this weather!'

‘I doubt he's out in the cold,' said Ned, sensible as ever.

‘But where is he?' Elspeth continued. ‘And why has he not written to let us know? There are all these ghestly murders in London. To think of him—he might be wandering the streets of Whitechapel, lost and alone!'

‘Mother, we've no reason to think he's in London,' said Ned. ‘He might be in Timbuktu, for all we know. But wherever he is, I'm sure he's fine.'

‘Well, we can but hope,' said Elspeth, clasping her hands and raising them, in supplication, to the ceiling.

‘Yes, indeed,' I said. ‘And even if he is in London, you needn't worry about those murders. I think you'll find that they're being perpetrated only upon the female sex. Kenneth is in no danger—unless he's taken to wearing skirts.'

What a silly thing to say, but it was out of my mouth before I could stop myself, perhaps because a vision of Findlay's drawing had flashed into my mind: Kenneth in petticoats and rouge. Annie's gaze—a little alarmed—locked with mine, and something passed between us. She had not seen the caricature, of course, but I had described it to her and perhaps she was imagining a similar picture. She raised an eyebrow, and sucked in her cheeks, as though she might be overcome with mirth. Fortunately, nobody else seemed to have noticed, but I, too, had a sudden urge to laugh, and so I stood up and, to give myself time to recover, grabbed the teapot and headed for the kitchen, in search of more hot water.

On my way past the dining room, I glanced in and saw Rose, clutching at the maid's apron strings, and swinging from side to side, whilst Jessie attempted to polish the glasses. The kitchen door was half closed and so I backed in, with the teapot in both hands and turned—just in time to see Sibyl—with a strange, guilty expression on her face—stepping away from the table, where all manner of tempting dishes were laid out, ready to be taken through to the buffet in the dining room.

‘Shoo!' I told her, and she put down her head and ran from the room.

Perhaps I
did
notice her stuff something into her apron pocket—or perhaps the intervening years have simply played tricks with my memory. In any case, I thought little of the incident at the time.