Gillespie and I by Jane Harris Page A

there, Mother, since it’s on sale, not on loan, and it’s classified as British.’
    Elspeth dismissed these trifling details with a wave of her arm. ‘But it hasn’t sold, dear, because it’s in such a terrible location. They should put it next to that picture of Balaclava! Everybody stops to look at that one. If your pond painting were beside it, then all the visitors queuing to see Balaclava would be forced to stare at your picture while they waited in line!’
    â€˜How gratifying,’ said Ned, evenly, ‘to think of them being forced .’
    â€˜Or—what about the main hall? It could be hung there. Then it would be the very first thing that visitors saw as they entered the building.’
    â€˜Now, Mother dear, that would be neither feasible, nor permitted.’
    His words made excellent sense, and yet Elspeth persisted. Her cheerful loyalty to her son was to be admired, even if her suggestions were impractical.
    â€˜Could they not construct another gallery,’ she continued, ‘to display just a few of the best paintings? And your work could be given a prominent position.’
    Ned appeared to consider this.
    â€˜Perhaps they could call it “The Gillespie Wing”,’ he said, drily.
    â€˜Ebbsolutely!’ squawked Elspeth, having failed to note the twinkle in his eye. She clapped her hands together. ‘What a brilliant, brilliant idea.’
    Suddenly, just to my right, Sibyl tripped and tumbled to the ground, landing on her hands and knees. There was a hiatus, for a few seconds, while she took in what had happened, and then, unsurprisingly, she began to wail. Elspeth swooped in to the rescue, and Annie hurried over to comfort her daughter, and thus it was that—by a quirk of fate—the artist and I ended up walking ahead together, just the two of us, alone. Ned was clearly preoccupied: he kept looking this way and that, scanning the groups of visitors, presumably in search of Hamilton. Hoping to distract him from his anxiety, I broke the silence.
    â€˜Your mother has recovered very well, it seems.’
    He gave me a puzzled smile. ‘Recovered?’ he said. ‘Forgive me, but—recovered from what?’
    I stared at him, surprised. Surely they had told him what had happened? ‘From her accident, last week, in town—when she fainted.’
    â€˜Oh aye—that. Aye, yes, she has indeed. You’re quite right.’
    Another moment passed. Ned scrutinised the queue outside Kelvingrove Mansion as we approached. Presently, since he said nothing further, I spoke again: ‘Thank goodness I happened to be passing, in town that day, and saw her.’
    He peered at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Oh, so you’re the lady. I do beg your pardon. Yes, thank you . Thank you very much. We’re most grateful for what you did.’ He smiled at me, warmly. ‘It’s turned out a lovely day, has it not?’
    It was, indeed, a beautiful afternoon. There was not a cloud in the sky but, thanks to a light breeze, the air was not too hot. The trees were in their best and freshest garniture, and all around us the grass grew, lush and green. We might almost have been two figures promenading in a verdant landscape painting. The Blue Hungarians were playing at the bandstand, and the boisterous sound of their music floated across the park. I felt, suddenly, elated. Perhaps it was this jubilation that caused me to be rather impertinent in my next remarks. I felt carefree and bold: what did it matter if I showed an interest?
    â€˜I believe you’re an artist, sir. Pray tell what you’ve been working on of late.’
    Ned gestured, rather bashfully, at the landscape. ‘Well—this,’ he said. ‘The Exhibition, artisans. That sort of thing.’
    â€˜Artisans—how fascinating,’ I said, and then added (a little mischievously perhaps): ‘Quite a departure from your painting The Studio