Gillespie and I (36 page)

In the same moment, Ned's mother grabbed the bucket of water left over from when she had washed the floor and careened out into the yard, as fast as her legs could carry her. The air was filled with the smell of burning. Her maid was lifting up the child, still wrapped in the cloak. Smoke rose from the scorched material. Sibyl's head lolled back; her eyelids fluttered, then closed. A tin of kitchen matches lay on the grass. All the blood had drained from Jean's face. She turned to her mistress and said something. Her lips moved, but the widow heard not a word, because of a strange rushing sound in her ears. Elspeth threw water over Sibyl, dousing the last of the flames. Then the bucket dropped from her hands and clattered to the ground. Perhaps it was shock, or the unaccustomed burst of physical activity, or a combination of the two, but Elspeth's field of vision shrank to nothing, as darkness closed in. Then she sank to her knees, and fell forwards in a dead faint, landing in a heap in the middle of the back green.

All this took place on the Tuesday. I myself was not in Glasgow on that particular afternoon. I had gone to Bardowie, to oversee the arrangement of some furniture and other household paraphernalia that had been carted out to the house a few weeks previously. However, upon my return to town, I soon heard about what had happened in my absence. Sibyl had been taken to the Royal Infirmary, where she lay on a bed, swathed in bandages and, during the course of several days thereafter, the doctors seemed doubtful that she would survive her injuries and the pneumonia that set in as a result of the accident. We were all very relieved when her eyes opened for a short while, on Friday, and then, again, the following day. For a week, she drifted in and out of consciousness but, thankfully, no further complications ensued. After a further fortnight, the lungs started to heal themselves and, slowly, she began to recover. By some miracle, Elspeth's and Jean's rapid reactions had saved the child. Sadly, Sibyl's burns were extensive, particularly on her arms and shoulders, and the doctors were agreed that she would carry the scars for the rest of her life.

As if that were not tragedy enough, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered, she was taken directly to the Ladies Department of the Royal Lunatic Asylum at Kelvinside, where she was committed for an indefinite period. This time, her actions had been so extreme that even Ned could not deny the truth: the poor girl had completely lost her mind.

It is part of human nature, in such circumstances, to think: ‘If only…' If only Annie had not taken Sibyl across the road to number 14. If only Ned's mother had not chosen that particular afternoon to clean her oil lamps. If only she had kept a closer watch over her granddaughter. If only the girl had not been so indulged by all and sundry—and so on, and so forth. Such thoughts are useless, inutile, no matter how often one thinks them; it is always too late. Sibyl had forever been a needy and unstable child, whose devious quirks of character put too many demands upon her parents and, ultimately, she had descended into a state of twisted self-loathing and despair. Yet, despite her mental problems, none of us could have foreseen that she would carry out such an act of lunacy. When all is said and done, nobody can be held accountable for what became of her.

15

Thankfully, there was only muted public interest in this latest disaster to strike the family because all of Scotland was now obsessed with the forthcoming trial for the Arran murderer. Only a few short items appeared in the press, and Sibyl's injuries were attributed to a simple, but unfortunate, domestic accident. Some weeks later, when she had recovered sufficiently from her burns, and the time came to move her to the Ladies Department of the asylum, this was quietly done, in the middle of the night, in order to avoid alerting any unwanted attention. As far as I am aware, none of the newspapers reported that she had been admitted to the asylum until it became public, a few months later, during the trial.

Soon after her admission, Sibyl began, once again, to refuse food, and I believe that the attendants found it almost impossible to persuade her to eat. She also became increasingly sensitive to any external stimulus: the sound of a voice could make her wince; at the clatter of a dropped teacup she would cover her ears; a ray of sunlight on her face could cause her to turn up her eyes in agony. Any extremes of emotion caused such agitation in her that it could take hours for the attendants to pacify her. Even the anticipation of a meeting with her parents sent her into a state of anxiety, and she was so distraught after having seen them that the physicians restricted their visits. Ned was instructed that he and Annie should come to see Sibyl only once a fortnight, and that each visit could last no longer than an hour.

Other visitors were discouraged altogether, for the time being. I suspect that Ned's mother was secretly relieved. Although she never admitted to any culpability vis-à-vis Sibyl's current predicament, it is my belief that Elspeth was, in private, consumed by feelings of remorse. One can only imagine how wretched the old lady must have felt: the pangs of dread, churning her stomach; the actual physical ache, in the region of the heart; a tremble in the hands; the bitter taste at the back of her throat; and the ever-present sensation of nausea. These are the kind of symptoms, I suppose, that must have plagued her.

I know that Ned and Annie were set reeling by Sibyl's incarceration in the asylum: it was a devastating blow, and delivered so soon after the disappearance of Rose. In hindsight, I believe that I myself may have gone into something of a depression at around this time. Usually, I have a vivid recollection of the past, but the ensuing weeks are not as clear in my memory as other periods in my life. No doubt, the shock of Rose's disappearance, followed by Sibyl's horrific and unexpected attempts on her own life, and the inevitable repercussions on my friends the Gillespies, all had an effect upon my own state of mind.

The first episode that I can recall with any clarity that autumn was when I visited the Gillespies one Friday afternoon, towards the middle of November. I knew that they had been at the asylum on the previous day, and I was keen to hear any news of Sibyl. That morning, I had picked up one or two things in town for Merlinsfield, and, not wishing to arrive at Stanley Street empty-handed, I also bought an apple pie at the baker's.

The entrance to number 11 was now kept locked, as it had been in the past, since the residents' fears about burglars had prevailed, and the stone that had propped open the door during the early weeks of Rose's disappearance was long since gone. On that particular afternoon, I happened to arrive at the same time as Mrs Calthrop, who let me into the building. We got into conversation on the way in and, by coincidence, it turned out that she had just been to the shops, and had bought some tobacco for Ned. I offered to save her a trip upstairs and, since I was encumbered with parcels, she dropped the twist of tobacco into my carpetbag.

Up on the top landing, all was quiet. I knocked, tentatively, and was surprised when the door opened, almost at once, to reveal Ned. Never, in all the time that I had known him, had he answered the door. I must admit that his appearance was startling, even heart-rending. Poor thing: he was unshaven, and his hair stuck up around his head, at all angles. He looked hollow-cheeked and, for the first time, I noticed deep lines around his eyes.

‘Oh!' he said, leaning out to peer over the banister. ‘I thought it was…'

‘I'm terribly sorry—were you expecting someone?'

‘No, just—' He retreated into the doorway. ‘Annie's not here.'

‘What a shame. I brought you this apple pie. Oh, and in the depths of my bag, I have your tobacco. I ran into your neighbour, you see. I'd get it out, only…'

My hands were full, but I was reluctant to set my belongings on the floor: the landing looked as though it had not been swept in some time. Ned seemed so uninterested in the pie that I wondered whether I was mistaken about apple being his favourite. But, presumably, he had no appetite. Usually, he was chivalrous to a fault, but he must have been in some kind of prolonged shock over all the recent calamities because he did not even offer to take the dish from me. He simply stepped back into the apartment, saying: ‘Well, if you want, you can put it on the…'

He gestured towards the kitchen, before wandering off down the hall. I put the pie in the larder, and then sought out Ned. He was standing by the parlour fireplace. As I entered, he held out his pipe.

‘Do you have that, eh…?'

‘Oh, yes, of course.'

I set down all my packages and, now that my hands were free, I was able to reach into my bag and give him the tobacco. He put the twist on the mantelpiece and began to cut it, without a word. I took a moment to glance around the room. Even though the newspapermen were long gone from outside, the curtains at the front of the house remained partially drawn, giving the place a funereal gloom. All the windows were still nailed shut, and the apartment had the stale scent of unaired linens, and something else, a sour smell, like rancid bacon.

‘Where's Annie?' I asked.

‘She's away to Aberdeen for a few days. There was a sighting, of Rose, up there. She's gone to investigate.'

‘Oh? I do hope she's not disappointed.'

My gaze fell upon one of my parcels: a large package of stiff brown paper. Inside, was the boxwood birdcage that I had purchased that very morning, at the
japonais
curio shop in Sauchiehall Street. I thought that it might cheer Ned up to see what I had bought, and so I tore off the wrapping paper, and set the cage on the table, exclaiming: ‘Look—from the Japanese shop! Isn't it enchanting?'

‘What is it?' he asked, with a glance at his watch.

‘It's that birdcage—the one we liked.'

‘I didn't know you had birds, Harriet.'

‘I don't—but I hope to buy some. I was thinking of putting the cage in the studio at Merlinsfield. I've been staying out there some of the time, you know.' I paused, but he made no response, and so I went on: ‘Wouldn't that be wonderful—to hear a couple of songbirds twittering away in the corner, whilst one painted?'

‘Possibly a bit distracting,' he said.

‘Or perhaps not while one worked, but in the evenings, in spring and summer, at sunset. But I wonder what kind of bird? What would you get, Ned?'

‘Och, I don't know a thing about birds. A finch?'

‘Perfect! And there should be two of them, don't you think, then they can keep each other company: two little sweethearts. Isn't there a bird market in town, somewhere near the Fire Station?'

‘I believe so.'

‘Oh good. Well, I must go there, perhaps next week. And you're absolutely right, of course, it would be silly to put birds in the studio—although I haven't done any painting, in a while. Not since your classes, I'm afraid. I just haven't been able to bring myself to pick up a brush. What about you? Have you been able to work?'

‘Not really.'

I took a step towards him, intending to pat him on the shoulder, or make some other comforting gesture but, just at that moment, he turned away in order to set his pipe on the mantelpiece and, once that was done, he began moving towards the door, extending one arm, to guide me along with him.

‘Thank you for calling, Harriet.'

‘Oh, it's a pleasure.'

At the table, I was obliged to pause, in order to pick up the birdcage. Also, in that moment, an idea had occurred to me. Unsure how to broach the subject, initially, I ventured to ask: ‘Don't you find it very gloomy here?'

His only response was to glance around and give a shrug of his shoulders.

‘When's your next visit to the asylum, Ned, if you don't mind me asking?'

‘Not until the end of next week.'

‘Well then! I've had a wonderful idea. Why don't you come out to Bardowie for a few days? It can't be good for you, being here, all alone.'

I could see that the idea tempted him, but he said: ‘Oh, no—I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble.'

‘It's no trouble. You should get out of town. Then, in a few days, you might even feel like painting. The studio is fully equipped you know.' At this mention of work, he looked so despairing that I went on, swiftly: ‘But never mind painting—come out for a rest. It might do you good to focus on something else. I was wondering… I thought we might write a book together, about your life and work.'

‘A book?'

‘Something to inspire young men from similar backgrounds to yourself, struggling artists, to show them that, if they work hard enough, anything is possible. Would that interest you? We could work on it if you come out for a few days.'

He rubbed his face, wearily.

‘It does sound like a good idea, perhaps, at some point. But for the minute, I just need to be near Sibyl, and it takes hours to get out to Bardowie.'

‘Not hours,' I laughed. ‘The train takes no time at all. And believe it or not, there's often a cab to be had, outside the station in Milngavie.'

Ned frowned: of course, he was suspicious of cabs, an attitude that he had inherited from his mother. I did not like to mention that the driver of this particular Clarence was a surly drunk, who drove his horse at such a hair-raising pace that he often overshot the entrance to Merlinsfield.

‘You can stay until it's time for your next visit to the asylum. We can just talk about the book, for now—we don't have to write anything.'

‘Thank you, Harriet. I'd love to—but I can't at the moment.'

‘In a few days, then—or next week? Bring Annie. Bring whoever you like.'

‘Well, we'll see. Can you manage all these parcels?'

As it transpired, he had been glancing at his watch, and so on, simply because he had an imminent appointment in town, and had only a very short time to change his clothes and make himself ready to leave. Apparently, he was going to see Horatio Hamilton. Although Ned refused to be drawn on the purpose of the meeting, I had a feeling that the gallery owner would be eager to know when his protégé intended to resume painting, given that there were over a dozen portrait commissions lined up, all of which would now be long overdue. Hamilton had been sympathetic and supportive during all of the artist's difficulties, but he was also a businessman. I would not have been surprised if he was putting pressure on Gillespie to resume work. At any rate, not wishing to make Ned late for such a meeting, I gathered up my belongings, at once. Ned came with me and opened the front door.