On Renfrew Street, Day Seven

Oh, my dear, we do not stand on formalities here. You may call me Norah, if I may call you Ellen.

Are you ready to continue on to Miss Gray’s, Miss Copley?” Henry McCallister asked after a moment. They had just dropped Ellen’s new friend, Letitia Portman, at her hotel and Ellen was feeling a little overwhelmed to be back in Glasgow, with Henry so unexpectedly meeting her at the ship. He was a trustee at the art school where she was going to study, after all.

Ellen turned to him with as bright a smile as she could manage.

“Yes, of course. I am quite looking forward to meeting Miss Gray. Are there any other art students boarding with her, do you know, Mr McCallister?”

“I hope you might call me Henry,” he replied lightly once they were settled back in the carriage, and heading towards Renfrew Street, where the School of Art was located, along with many of the instructors’ homes.

“I . . .” Ellen’s mind spun as she tried to think of a way to respond. Although Henry McCallister had been friendly and solicitous when she had met him in Chicago, she had assumed the difference in their social positions would make any kind of friendship beyond an acquaintance impossible.

“I would be honoured,” she said finally, and Henry’s smile widened.

“I would also hope,” he said, still smiling, “that I might call you Ellen.”

Wordlessly, Ellen nodded. Blushed The carriage rumbled up in front of a neat, narrow home in the middle of a row of respectable terraced houses.

“And here we are,” Henry announced. “Let me help you down from the carriage, Ellen.”

Ellen blushed at the use of her first name, even though she knew she’d just, albeit mutely, given him permission to use it. It felt strange.

“And now I shall introduce you to Miss Gray,” Henry said, and still holding her hand, he drew her to the front step of the house and rapped smartly on the door.

Ellen didn’t think Henry was aware he was still holding her hand. He might be unconventional, but holding hands in public was surely a step too far, even for him. As discreetly as she could, she tugged her hand from his and waited, her heart thumping.

Seconds later the door was opened by a tall, elegant woman with dark hair and soulful eyes, wearing a loose dress and jacket. Ellen had never seen an outfit like it, yet Norah Neilson Gray wore it with glamorous ease.

“Mr McCallister!” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with humour. “How charming to see you. And this must be my boarder, Ellen Copley.”

Ellen bobbed an awkward curtsey and Norah let out a light laugh.

“Oh, my dear, we do not stand on formalities here. You may call me Norah, if I may call you Ellen.” She held out one slender hand which Ellen took as awkwardly as she had curtseyed.

Despite Norah Gray’s easy manner, she continued to feel disconcerted – and rather conservative and prudish in the dress she’d been so proud of when she’d purchased it in New York. Fascinated “Come, we’ll have tea in the sitting-room,” Norah said. “Henry, you must join us.”

Ellen followed Norah into a room that was, at first glance, both overcrowded and interesting.

Canvases cluttered the walls, done in a variety of styles, some with thick splodges of oil paint, others delicate watercolours.

Fascinated, Ellen stepped closer to a painting of young girls playing in a garden, the colours muted and haunting.

“Do you like that one?” Norah asked as she poured tea from a painted teapot. “It was inspired by my childhood in Helensburgh. We had such a lovely garden.”

“You did this?” Ellen exclaimed, and then let out an apologetic laugh because she sounded so incredulous. She was, in fact, quite overwhelmed; she’d never used paint of any kind before. All of her artwork was in charcoal pencil, the only medium she’d ever had the opportunity to work with. Norah seemed to guess the nature of her thoughts. “I am sure you will find so many opportunities here to explore and develop your talent, Ellen. Mr Newbery encourages his art students to try all manner of classes – painting, sculpture, drawing, embroidery, metalwork – but of course you must find your true calling. Every artist, I think, has a medium in which she is the happiest and most creative.”

“And what is yours?” Ellen asked as she sat down on a horsehair sofa and accepted a cup of tea from Norah. The cup had Chinese characters painted in indigo on its side, and no handles. Ellen had never seen anything like it.

“Oils, I think,” Norah answered after a moment’s reflection. Her gaze drifted towards the pale, ghostly painting of the children in the garden. “But I do like watercolours on occasion.”

She turned to Henry, who was sitting on the edge of an ottoman, balancing his cup on his knee.

“And what about you, Henry? What medium do you prefer?” Henry smiled ruefully. “As you know, I am no artist.” “As an observer, then. You have seen most all of the works that have come out of the school.”

Henry reflected for a moment, his blue eyes sparkling above his teacup as he lifted it to his mouth.

“I do have a fondness for charcoal pencil,” he said, and Ellen quickly took a sip of tea to hide yet another blush.

Nora’s mouth had curved in a knowing smile and Ellen could feel the older woman’s gaze upon her.

“Well, I look forward to seeing what you are capable of, Ellen. Henry has certainly vouched for you, and I have seen a few of your charcoal drawings myself. But it will be interesting to see what you do in other mediums.”

“I’ve never used paint before,” Ellen admitted shyly. “I’m afraid I am quite inexperienced, Miss Gray.”

“Norah, remember,” she reminded her. “And inexperience means little, in my opinion. You will get plenty of experience here. It is dedication and creativity that count.” She put her cup down and rose from her chair. “But Henry, you really ought to leave us now. Ellen is no doubt exhausted from her voyage, and I am sure she wishes to settle into her room and rest.” Remarkable She turned to Ellen with a smile.

“Later we can walk to Renfrew Street, and you can see the school building. Charles Mackintosh completed the new addition only a year ago; it is quite remarkable. And perhaps we shall finish the day with tea at Miss Cranston’s tearoom, which is just as remarkable.”

“I can see that I am being dismissed,” Henry said as he rose from the ottoman. “I hope to see both of you ladies again soon.”

“I am sure we will be far too busy,” Norah answered lightly. “An artist cannot be distracted from her work, Henry.” Although her tone was still light, her gaze rested seriously and even sternly on the charming trustee. “You must remember that, you know.”

Ellen watched as colour touched Henry’s cheekbones.

“I shall bear it in mind,” he answered, and with a gallant bow, he took his leave. 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