Ellen was conscious of speculative looks from the people around them

Over the next few weeks Ellen travelled to Springburn as often as she could and made sketches of various scenes she saw enacted on the busy streets: two boys scuffling over a tin can they were kicking, a skinny cat glaring suspiciously from a window ledge, several men coming from the railway works, their faces soot-stained.

She did them all in pencil, on paper; she wanted to show life in Springburn with all its joys and sorrows in the simplest and purest form.

She also spent time with Ruby and met her new friend’s brother Dougie, who was ill with what Ellen suspected was tuberculosis. Once she brought oranges, to the young boy’s delight and Ruby’s silent gratitude.

Sitting in the kitchen of their two-room flat, Ellen felt more at home than she ever would in the ballrooms of Dowanhill or the studios on Renfrew Street. She’d been afraid she hadn’t changed from her Springburn days and then she’d tried to convince herself she had. But maybe true confidence came from knowing where you’d come from and who you now were.

Revealing

When she had a dozen drawings she was happy with, she intended to show them to Norah for inclusion in the winter exhibition, a prospect which made her heart tremble inside her.

Showing Norah these drawings felt far more frightening, more revealing, than displaying one of her still lifes from her lessons. This would be showing someone her heart.

One evening after supper she drew Norah aside and asked if she could show her something. “Of course,” Norah said, and Ellen handed her the sketchbook of drawings.

“Sketches, in pencil?” Norah asked, scepticism in her voice, but she opened the book and began to look through the drawings, her fingers slowing as she turned the pages, studying each drawing in turn.

Ellen waited, her heart thudding. If Norah told her they were no good she didn’t know what she would do, or even if she could continue at the school. Finally Norah looked up.

“These are good, Ellen,” she said quietly. “They possess both heart and wisdom, a compelling combination. They are the only things you’ve done where I feel as if I’ve seen a glimpse of your soul.”

“Thank you,” Ellen whispered. She felt, strangely, almost as if she could burst into tears. Norah closed the book. “I think these are good enough to be included in the winter exhibition,” she said. “I’ll show them to the committee tomorrow. Well done, Ellen.”

A month later, in the beginning of March, Ellen donned her smartest gown for the Glasgow Society of Lady Artists’ winter exhibition.

Her sketches had been framed and displayed in the building’s long gallery, titled simply Sketches From Springburn, and while their placement was far from prominent, Ellen was proud to be included.

Brilliant

Ellen saw Henry amidst the guests and realised she hadn’t seen him in over a month. She’d been spending her Saturdays in Springburn, rather than taking tea with him. “Ellen!” He came towards her, his hands outstretched, so Ellen had no choice but to let him clasp her hands in his. “It has been far too long since I’ve seen you.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been busy.” She nodded towards the sketches on the wall behind them. “As you can see.”

“I do see!” Henry cried. “Your sketches are brilliant. So deceptively simple. It’s the genius I saw you possessed back on that train to Chicago.”

“That’s kind of you to say. I think I lost my spark when I came to Glasgow. I was so intimidated by everything. It took going back to Springburn to remember who I am, and why I love to draw.”

“I’m glad,” Henry said, and squeezed her hands. Ellen was conscious of a few speculative looks from the people around them and she withdrew her hands from his. “Thank you, Henry.”

His gaze glowed with warmth as he looked at her, so much so that Ellen could feel the beginnings of a blush. She and Henry had had an acceptable friendship since she’d come to Glasgow, but she had a suspicion that Henry was about to change that.

“I should speak to the other guests,” she began, and Henry reached for her hand once more. “Wait. I want to speak with you privately, Ellen. If I may.”

Ellen swallowed, wanting to postpone this moment, yet knowing she could not. “Very well,” she said, and she allowed Henry to draw her away from the guests. “I know this is neither the time or place for a declaration,” Henry said wryly as he nervously ran a hand over his hair. “But I fear I may never be granted the opportunity, especially since I have seen you so little of late.”

“I am sorry, Henry –”

“Ellen, I love you.”

Ellen blinked. Even though she’d suspected Henry had developed an affection for her, the stated fact still possessed the power to render her speechless.

“I suspect you’ve known I had feelings for you,” he continued, and she nodded. “I don’t think you love me back,” he said with a rueful smile. “Yet.”

Conflicted

“Henry,” she began helplessly, for she had no idea what she could say. “All I ask is that you think about it,” he said. “The possibility that in time we might make a good partnership, because I think we could.”

“Maybe so,” Ellen allowed. Her head was spinning, and she pressed one hand to her flushed cheek. Henry cupped her other cheek with his palm, making Ellen’s skin tingle. “Will you promise that you’ll think about it?” he asked, his voice low. “We have time. I’m not in a rush, although I’d marry you tomorrow if I could.” “Henry!”

“Just keep your heart open to me a little.” He smiled as he dropped his hand from her face. “Do you think you could do that, Ellen?”

Ellen stared at him, amazed at how conflicted she felt. She’d assured herself that she had no romantic interest in Henry Mccallister. Yet when he’d touched her face so gently, love shining in his eyes, she’d known that wasn’t quite true. She didn’t know what she felt for Henry, but it was something.

“I could,” she whispered and Henry beamed. “Thank you, Ellen,” he said, and took her hand in his own and kissed it. Ellen nodded wordlessly. “I’m going to America for several months,” Henry continued, “so you will have plenty of time to think.” “America? But why?”

“I’m helping to curate an exhibition at a museum on Scottish artists.” Henry smiled. “I sail next month for New York, on that fabulous new ship, the Titanic.”

More tomorrow.

On Renfrew Street was previously a serial in The People’s Friend. For more great fiction, get The People’s Friend every week, £1.30 from newsagents and supermarkets.

Artwork: Dave Young