Gillespie and I by Jane Harris Read Free Book Online

Art, but who hurtle around in groups, barely glancing at the paintings, in their search for that with the heftiest price tag:
    â€˜ There’s one at forty-two pound! ’
    â€˜ Never mind that, Archie, here’s a six-hundred-pounder! ’
    Eight pounds and ten shillings was the price of By the Pond , the only one of Ned Gillespie’s works to be included in the Exhibition. Now that I had become acquainted with the artist’s family, I paused to examine it with fresh eyes. By the Pond was a large canvas, in the plein-air style of Ned’s contemporaries: a rural, naturalistic scene of a little girl chasing ducks. I realised, now, that he had used his older daughter as a model. However, the child in the picture wore an angelic expression: either Sibyl had stopped glowering for a few minutes, or Ned had used his imagination. The painting had an undeniable charm and was fashionable at the time, which would explain its inclusion in the Exhibition. I cannot pretend to be an expert in Art but, in my opinion, the subject matter was too slight to merit its imposing scale: Sibyl and her ducks would have been far better reduced to half the size. None the less, the composition and use of colour were pleasing, and I believed that I would be able to compliment Annie’s husband on his exhibit, should we happen to meet.
    Regrettably, it was impossible to ignore that By the Pond had been terribly badly hung, in the worst spot in all the Fine Art Section: an ill-lit, lofty position, above a doorway, at the eastern end of the British Sale Room, and at unfortunate proximity to an oft-blocked and malodorous drain. This situation gave rise to much hilarity on the part of visitors, who were wont to hasten beneath Ned’s painting whilst wafting their hands in front of their faces and uttering various ribald comments. I myself was aware of the jokes regarding the picture’s aromatic location—albeit vaguely, as an outsider. The general consensus was that the pond in question must have been a ‘right stinky stank’ (stank being a Scots word for a pool of stagnant water or drain). For a time, there was a danger that this phrase might even become a nickname for the artist himself, when a certain satirical drawing, which caricatured Ned unkindly, and appeared above the name ‘Stinky Stank’, would doubtless—if published, as planned, in an issue of The Thistle —have stoked the flames of mockery. Fortunately, the caricaturist withdrew it at the last moment and thereafter the nickname fell into disuse.
    But I am getting ahead of myself.
    Towards four o’clock, the hour appointed for our meeting, I made my way outside, into the sunshine, and strolled over towards Van Houten’s Cocoa House. The exterior tables were all fully occupied, and so I found a place on the grass, from which vantage point to watch for the approach of Annie and Elspeth.
    From where I stood, I could see Kelvingrove Mansion, and the stream of visitors, emerging—benumbed and replete—having just gorged themselves on the sight of Her Majesty’s many gifts: the silver caskets, battleaxes, bejewelled slippers, and so on; an array of useless, opulent articles which (to my mind) struck a vulgar note when contrasted with the poverty evident elsewhere in Glasgow, a city that teemed with beggars, many of whom were children—an inequity to which these day-trippers seemed oblivious. Is it only me who is tempted, in such circumstances, to shout insults, such as ‘Imbeciles! Fools! Pudding-heads!’? Of course, one resists these urges, and tries not to feel too much in common with the ragged, drunken little men who often seem to crop up in public places, shaking grubby fists at the throng, and uttering oaths and imprecations; I do sometimes wonder whether I myself—by sheer force of will and dint of imagination—have not conjured up these little fellows to berate the multitude on my own behalf: the