Gillespie and I Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.
    â€˜Did you go into Papa’s room?’ she lisped.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Is he a painter?’ I asked.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Sibyl? Where are you going?’
    The girl tittered, guiltily. ‘Nowhere,’ she piped, sidling out of the room.
    â€˜You see?’ Mabel admonished Annie. ‘Yesterday I had to bring her down about six times. She simply won’t leave him alone.’
    With a sigh, Annie rose to her feet. One of her plaits had come undone, and she had fastened up her bodice wrongly, leaving a spare button at the top. She trailed out of the room, calling wearily: ‘Sibyl—please come back!’
    But Sibyl, it seemed, had no intention of returning. Footsteps thudded up the stairs; there was the sound of a brief scuffle, and then the child began to scream. The screaming grew louder—and more disturbed—until one might have thought that she was being murdered. Moments later, Annie reappeared, dragging her daughter by the hand. The child scrabbled and clutched at the door jamb, but she lost her grip when Annie prised her fingers free. We all leapt to our feet, and Mabel slammed the door shut, then tried to