Gillespie and I (4 page)

I cannot tell you how fervent was my hope that this display of ill temper was not caused by an impatience to be fed in the same manner as her sister.

‘Shh,' said Annie. ‘Don't cry, Sibyl.'

But the girl continued to wail. Since her mother seemed content to ignore me, I was obliged to make conversation, and had to raise my voice over Sibyl's din.

‘Will anyone be joining us?' I called out brightly.

‘I don't expect so,' said Annie, vaguely. ‘Shhh, Sibyl—please, be quiet.'

‘What about your husband?' I enquired, in the hope of kindling at least an ember of conversation. ‘I suppose he is out at work?'

However, Annie did not answer, perhaps because she was once again preoccupied with her younger daughter, chatting to her whilst switching her from one side to the other. It was hard to tell whether she was being rude, or not. I glanced away, and my gaze fell upon the older girl who was now merely snivelling. To be honest, even on this first acquaintance, I found Sibyl's feverish intensity somewhat unnerving. She was a pretty little thing, although her top lip might be considered a shade too thin, and her complexion a shade too sallow. She scrutinised me, sulkily.

‘
You've
got a big nose,' she said. ‘Like a
witch
.'

I laughed, gaily. ‘Why yes—I dare say I do.'

‘Si-byl,' said Annie wearily.

In response, Sibyl leapt off the couch and began to skip noisily around the room, darting between the furnishings in a frantic way that looked most hazardous.

Annie turned to me. ‘I do apologise for Sibyl. She's awful tired.'

‘Indeed,' said I, watching the child whirl around the table like an agitated Dervish. ‘Poor mite.'

At that moment, a slender young woman entered the room, bearing a heavily laden tea tray. She wore an elegant lace blouse and slim-fitting skirt and her chestnut-coloured hair was piled on her head. I smiled, ready to greet this newcomer, but she failed to return my gaze. From certain angles, she might have been considered a great beauty. The neck was graceful; the features fine. Her eyes were deep blue, almost violet. But there was a hard quality in her face—and something in the breadth and tilt of her jaw—that (unfortunately) put one in mind of a frying pan. She set the tray on the table, and then flitted across to the window, where she proceeded to fold her arms and frown out at the clouds as though they had offended her. Assuming that this person must be another member of the family, I turned to Annie, expecting some sort of introduction, but Annie gave no sign that she had even noticed the woman's entrance. Instead, she busied herself by setting Rose on the floor and encouraging her to play with a small wooden horse, just as Elspeth sailed back into the room, bearing a teapot, and a plate of little pastries.

‘Here we are!' cried Elspeth, then shrieked with laughter, for reasons that I could not, at the time, fathom. (However, I came to realise that Elspeth preferred her entrances and exits to be accompanied by the sound of merriment.)

‘Elspeth, please—shh,' pleaded Annie, and gestured at the ceiling.

Still laughing gleefully, Elspeth crossed to the table, narrowly avoiding a collision, as Sibyl darted past her. The child skipped on and, arriving at the battered old piano, threw up its lid and began to bang on the keys. Annie leapt to her feet, saying again: ‘Shh—remember Papa,' and she closed the parlour door, whilst Elspeth set down the plate and teapot and turned to me.

‘Sibyl is learning a new song,' she cried. ‘A Negro Spiritual. She'll play it for the Reverend Johnson once it's perfected. Wouldn't it be very
fine
, Herriet, if she were to sing it for us, as practice?'

Annie wrung her hands together, saying: ‘But perhaps, Elspeth, not until later—please. We don't want to make too much noise with the piano, do we?'

‘Och now,' said Elspeth. ‘She'll play quietly—won't you, dear?' Sibyl nodded, and Annie sank back down, with a sigh. ‘Well, I suppose—'

Elspeth beamed at her granddaughter who, in need of no encouragement, had already begun to fumble and peep her way through a rudimentary hymn. I do not claim to know its title, but like most of its kind it expressed, over and over, naught but patience for this life and triumph in the next. From time to time, amongst the wrong notes, Sibyl cast intense glances at us, over her shoulder, to check that we were paying heed. Annie appeared to be listening with her head on one side, as she rebuttoned her bodice. Rose leaned against her mother's skirts, watching her older sister, wide-eyed, as though she were a specimen. The young woman at the window had taken out a mirror and was rearranging her hair, while Elspeth smiled proudly at her granddaughter and hummed along, here and there, with the melody.

As the hymn progressed, I took the opportunity to glance around the room. This was not exactly a household of paupers, but judging from the shabby, faded look of the furnishings, the Gillespie family was not, by any means, flourishing. The children's clothes were clean, but ill-fitting, and oft-mended; the oilcloth on the table was worn thin in places; the cups and saucers were chipped and cracked. Atop the piano, next to the stack of sheet music, I noticed, for the first time, a gentleman's straw boater, with a narrow brim, and the low crown wrapped around with a glossy striped ribbon in shades of blue and green: a rather lovely hat, which, presumably, belonged to Annie's husband. He had left it there the last time he had been in this room, perhaps. Had he removed it in order to sit down and play? Or had he set it on top of the piano only in passing?

Such were the idle thoughts that occupied my mind until—at last—the hymn came to a faltering conclusion. We applauded, and Sibyl grinned, baring recently acquired little teeth so gap-ridden and misaligned that the effect was somewhat eerie and vampirish.

‘Bravo!' cried Elspeth. I braced myself against the possibility that she might suggest we hear another but, thankfully, she began to lay out cups and saucers, saying: ‘That's enough now, Sibyl, Granny's tea will be stewed.' The child continued to tinkle at the keys, while Elspeth picked up the teapot and addressed me. ‘Now, dear Herriet! You must tell us all about yourself. I want to know
every single detail
about the person who
saved my life
. Milk? Sugar?'

‘Yes, milk please. And sugar.'

‘Ah—a sweet tooth, like myself. But you are so slender, Herriet, so elegant. Do you avoid starchy foods at all? They are
my
downfall. Rock cake? Shortbread?'

‘Shortbread, if you please. As for starchy foods, I certainly don't avoid them. If the truth were known, just between ourselves, I practically
exist
on biscuits.'

Elspeth admonished me with a wag of her finger. ‘That sweet tooth of yours! Now, in that case, I do hope you'll have a lemon-curd tart. Rose and I baked them
especially
for your visit.'

Something must have gone amiss in the preparation, because the tarts were so blistered and misshapen that they bore closer resemblance to a cluster of purulent sores than to a selection of
pâtisserie
. However, since I had no desire to hurt anyone's feelings, I selected the least alarming tart, and pronounced it ‘delicious'.

Elspeth smiled at the young woman, who had approached the table, and was helping to serve tea. ‘You and Mabel have been introduced, I presume? This is Mabel, my daughter, recently returned from America.'

‘Ah—America,' I said and—quickly grasping this straw before it could be whisked away in Elspeth's beak—I turned to Mabel. ‘How fascinating. Do tell me all about it. What was the climate like over there?'

Mabel smiled at me with what seemed like pity and then explained: ‘Well, it can be hot, of course, but if you stay in the shade it doesn't matter. And I'd rather have the heat than twelve full months of rain, as happens here in Scotland.'

‘Och, shtoosh-shtoosh,' said Elspeth, with a smile at me, as she sank down into her chair. ‘Not quite twelve months, dear.'

‘Well,
practically
twelve months!' cried Mabel—and when Annie motioned her to lower her voice, she continued, in a mutter: ‘I don't see why you have to contradict every
single
thing I say.'

Elspeth took a breath, but before she could speak—and in order to forestall what looked like a disagreement—I leapt in with the first question that came to mind: ‘Have you all been enjoying the International Exhibition?'

‘Ah—our wonderful Ex!' cried Elspeth. ‘We are season-ticket holders, of course, and I'm partial to a real Indian curry, and they do a marvellous one at the General Gordon Buffet. You'll have been round the Palace yourself, then, Herriet?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘In fact, that's one of the reasons I came to Glasgow—to see the Exhibition and take my mind off … well … recent events.'

‘I know, dear,' said Elspeth, with a sympathetic look. ‘Annie told me you'd lost your aunt. I'm so sorry.'

‘Well, Aunt Miriam was terribly kind—like a mother to me, really. My own mother passed away some years ago.'

Elspeth nodded. ‘I know
exactly
what you're going through.'

‘You do?'

‘Well, I'm a widow, you see, and Our Heavenly Father took my own dear mother to himself many years ago. And Annie's mother was taken when she was quite young. We've all been through the passing of our mothers, you know.'

‘Not all of us,' said Mabel. ‘Not yet.'

Elspeth blinked, once, but gave no other sign that she had heard, or been wounded, by this comment. In hindsight, there was a reason for Mabel's prickly demeanour: I later learned that her fiancé, an American, had recently broken off their engagement, resulting in her unexpected and solitary return to Scotland. Dear Mabel was never one to conceal her moods, and, for the time being, the family was treating her with kid gloves, tolerating her more melodramatic outbursts, and ignoring any bad-tempered remarks.

To dispel this moment of awkwardness, I spoke up again: ‘Mabel, I've heard it said that America is a very vibrant country. Did you find it so?'

With a shrug of her shoulders, she sat down at the table.

‘Well, naturally—that goes without saying. Everything is so much better over there than it is here. American coffee, for instance, is wonderful. Do you prefer tea or coffee, Miss Baxter?'

‘Usually, I have tea.'

‘Really?' Once again, she gave me the look of pity. ‘I prefer coffee. But you can't get decent coffee in Glasgow. It's tea rooms, everywhere you look. Tea rooms!' And she hooted with laughter, at the absurdity of it all.

‘Well they do serve coffee,' muttered Elspeth, and then, turning to me, with a shriek, she banged the table (making Annie wince). ‘Which reminds me, Herriet, I've remembered where I've seen you before.'

‘I have indeed walked along this street many times, it's on my route to the—'

‘No, no—it was outside Assafrey's, last week. I went in, with my son, but the place was full, so we left, and that was when we bumped into you: you were going
in
, as we came
out
.'

‘Goodness, I've been to so many tea rooms—I'm afraid I don't recall seeing you, Elspeth. Although, who knows—if your son joins us, I might recognise him.'

I smiled at Mabel, who had been eyeing the cakes, without taking one. Now, she fixed me with a regretful, pained expression. ‘My brother is working,' she explained, as though I were a child. ‘I doubt he'll come down. When I left him he said he didn't want to be disturbed.'

Upon hearing this, Sibyl suddenly ceased to tinkle at the piano. She arranged her features into a sugary little smile, then sidled up to Mabel and began to stroke her skirts, with fluttery fingers, in an ingratiating fashion.

‘Did you go into Papa's room?' she lisped.

‘For a wee while,' replied Mabel, lightly, but in a way that suggested that she was rather pleased with herself.

As Sibyl cast a wistful glance at the door, Elspeth leaned towards me. ‘My son is an artist. I don't know if you may have heard of him, down south. Ned Gillespie? He's quite “weel kent” up here, among the art crowd.'

‘Is he a painter?' I asked.

‘Yes, indeed—a very fine one too,' said Elspeth and then there was a pause, as she took a bite from her scone.

I turned to Annie. ‘There's a picture by a Gillespie in the International Exhibition—a little girl, with some ducks.'

Annie nodded. ‘Aye—that's his—
By the Pond
.'

I had seen the painting, a few times. In fact, I was almost certain that I had, albeit briefly, met the man who had painted it.

‘I was forever sketching when I was a girl,' Elspeth announced, having despatched with her scone. ‘And I often came second in the class for my artwork. Such a marvellous teacher I had—I shall
never
forget her. What was her name again? Miss Niven! She was so encouraging to my youthful talent. But Ned, you see, has taken after me in every respect: he is a
genius
.'

Fortunately, it was appropriate to smile. ‘How proud you must be,' I said, and turned to Annie. ‘Has your husband ever been to London? I did meet a Scottish artist named Gillespie, in the autumn, at the Grosvenor Gallery.'

He and I had spoken only for a few moments and I had, more or less, forgotten about him until my arrival in Glasgow when I noticed a Gillespie listed among the artists in the catalogue of the Exhibition, and wondered, vaguely, whether this could be the same man.

Mabel turned to her sister-in-law. ‘He went down to that exhibition, remember?'

Annie nodded.

‘Ah—the Grosvenor!' exclaimed Elspeth. ‘The wonderful Grosvenor—such a fine gallery, I believe. They were extremely enthusiastic in London about his paintings—and quite right too.'

While we had been speaking, I could not help but notice that Sibyl had edged, silently, towards the closed door, and now, she put her hand to the door knob, and turned it slowly. At the creak of the latch, Mabel swivelled in her seat.