Gillespie and I by Jane Harris Page A

poppy-seed oil rose up and joined with the lingering pipe smoke to envelop us, like a fragrant mist. I ran my fingers down the edge of the stretcher frame, the rough fabric tickling my flesh.
    â€˜This is my favourite,’ I told him.
    Annie glanced up, from her corner, and gave a tinkling little laugh. ‘Who wants to look at a rainy day in Stanley Street?’
    â€˜Oh, I’m no connoisseur,’ I told her. ‘But I think this is a wonderful painting. And it would always be a reminder to me, of my time here, in Glasgow.’ I turned to Ned. ‘Presumably, this isn’t one of the pictures you’re working on for your submission to the Committee?’
    â€˜No-o,’ he chortled.
    â€˜Then—please may I buy it? How much would you want for it?’
    He shook his head. ‘You’re giving us quite enough, already, for the portrait. Take that one, for nothing—please. I’m just glad you like it.’
    I realised that he was looking at me, with a quizzical smile on his face. Perhaps he was just amused at my choice of picture, but I like to think that there was also a certain amount of nascent camaraderie in that gaze.
    The time for departure came all too soon. One moment we were absorbed in our discussion of his work, and the next Ned was glancing at his watch and exclaiming: ‘Dear God! Ten past! Did you not have an appointment, Harriet?’
    â€˜What a pity—I was enjoying myself so much. I suppose I could be late…’
    â€˜Not at all, I won’t hear of it. Now, do you have far to go?’
    â€˜Oh—no—just the park. I’m meeting someone.’
    â€˜Well, you’ll not be wanting to lug that painting with you, will you—but if you’re at home tomorrow, I’ll wrap it up and send it round with the neighbour’s boy—he’s quite reliable.’
    â€˜Oh yes, that might be for the best—thank you, Ned! I’m at number 13.’
    â€˜Don’t forget your hat and basket, there. Annie—are you coming, dear?’
    As I gathered up my belongings, his wife slipped past us onto the landing and headed down. Ned and I followed, and we had just reached the turn of the staircase, when there was a shriek from the hallway, followed by the sound of juvenile lamentation. Ned peered over the banister.
    â€˜What now?’ he muttered.
    The reason for the fracas soon became clear: it was simply a continuation of the children’s squabble about their ferns. The door to the dining room lay open, and Christina and the two girls stood inside the room. Sibyl was weeping, while Rose glared at her, accusingly, her face also begrimed with tears. The cause of their despair lay on the dining-room floor: Rose’s blue pot smashed to smithereens, the earth scattered across the rug, her fern in shreds—while Sibyl’s plant sat, pristine, on the dining table.
    â€˜Sibyl broke my pot!’ cried Rose, as her parents and I came into view.
    â€˜I didn’t!’ shrieked the older girl.
    Annie sighed. ‘Oh, Sibyl—did you drop it by accident?
    The child jumped up and down, wailing: ‘NO! It wasn’t me! I didn’t do it!’
    â€˜Oh dear,’ sighed Annie, putting her head in her hands. ‘Whatever next?’
    Clearly, she found her children—especially Sibyl—difficult to control. Ned went to his wife’s side, and slipped his arm around her. She leaned against him, giving him a grateful, watery smile, and he kissed her, once, on the top of the head, and then on the cheek. After a moment, he gave Sibyl a kindly wink.
    â€˜It doesn’t matter, Sibyl,’ he told her. ‘It’s only a pot.’
    The child ran to him, throwing her arms around his legs, and he swung her up into his arms, to embrace her.
    I turned to little Rose. ‘Your fern is beyond saving, dear. But I’m sure someone can find you another, tomorrow—no need to despair.’ She