Gillespie and I by Jane Harris

talented—and you were just saying that you need practice. I’d be more than happy to sit for you.’
    â€˜Ach, no.’ Annie shook her head. ‘I can’t practise on you . I mean, on somebody who’d be paying for it. That wouldn’t be right.’
    â€˜Well, my stepfather will pay, and he left the choice of artist up to me. Oh, please, do say yes.’
    â€˜I don’t think so,’ she said, shortly. ‘It’s not necessary.’
    Perhaps I had given the wrong impression. She seemed on guard, apparently having decided that I viewed her as a needy case. Ned smiled.
    â€˜Why not, dear?’ he said. ‘It’s an excellent idea, a great opportunity. I really think it would be foolish to turn it down.’
    â€˜Really?’ said his wife, and began to look doubtful. ‘Well, it would be good to do some sustained work with a model.’
    Thus, after a little further discussion, it was decided that my commission should go to Annie. I would sit for her once or twice a week—her household obligations, and art classes, permitting. Fortunately, my time was my own, and I was happy to fit in around the family’s domestic requirements. Once the details were finalised, Annie settled on an old armchair in the corner and, taking needle and thread from her bag, she mended her bonnet, whilst Ned and I looked at his work. The artist paced the floor, pulling out canvases and drawings of various sizes for me to examine, whilst he stood back, puffing on his pipe. From time to time, the children ran in and out of the studio. Christina brought in the tea, and left. At one point, Sibyl marched into the centre of the room, stretched out her arms, and screamed at the top of her lungs, before marching out again. Neither of her parents seemed at all perturbed by this behaviour: Annie simply carried on sewing, while Ned continued to browse through a stack of canvases.
    It seemed that Gillespie spent rather a lot of time painting his relatives, when he could persuade them to sit. Annie featured heavily, as did Sibyl and Mabel. Recalling the picture that I had seen at the Grosvenor, it dawned on me that I was standing at the very spot where it had been painted, and also, that it had been Annie who had posed, veiled, as the woman feeding the canary. I glanced around the attic, in search of a birdcage, but saw none; later, I learned that they had borrowed the cage, to create a focal point for the painting.
    The selection of canvases that Ned showed me that afternoon also included some views of the Exhibition: his unsentimental sketches of Muratti’s girls; a portrait of the two Venetian gondoliers who had been hired to row visitors up and down the River Kelvin; and several vibrant crowd scenes, at the bandstand, beside the Switchback Railway, and outside the Eastern Palace. In the end, however, I chose a small canvas that had nothing to do with the Exhibition, or with his family. Stanley Street was, simply, a view from the parlour window, showing a winter’s day, and a few people hurrying along with umbrellas. Here was a picture with an arresting, urban quality, and it leapt out at me as honest, original and modern. Ned had all but forgotten the canvas, which had been propped against the wall, at the far end of the studio, but, having examined it for a few moments, I lifted it onto the table, saying: ‘I do like this one.’
    The artist laughed. ‘That thing? Just an exercise I set myself one morning. I’m going to use that canvas for something else—scrape it off and paint over it.’
    â€˜Oh no!’ I cried. ‘You mustn’t. This is a wonderful painting.’
    Ned peered at it, sceptically, his head cocked to one side, to avoid the low roof. He was standing not a foot away from me, panting slightly from the exertion of hefting the larger frames (he was, it seemed, a little asthmatic). A few of the canvases were still damp, and the heady scent of