On Renfrew Street, Day Nine

She’d been exposed to so many different artistic styles and mediums, and in just two short weeks had learned and experienced more than she’d ever dreamed of

Ellen replied, “I fear I am meant to take it to heart.” She was still mortified by the acerbic teasing her new art teacher, Maurice Grieffenhagen, had given her at the start of her first art class. It was because she had been shy, reluctant to pick up her paintbrush. She had never worked with paint before, charcoal was her sole medium.

“It seems very serious here,” she added, taking in the friendly, well-dressed fellow pupil who had struck up a conversation with her.

“Oh, it is,” the woman assured her. “Fra Newbery has tried to roust all the dilettantes from the school, but he hasn’t managed to get rid of me yet.”

Ellen smiled; the woman’s friendliness and lack of pretension was refreshing.

“Would you really call yourself a dilettante?” she said, and the woman laughed.

“I am Francis Newbery’s nemesis. The socialite who dabbles in art. But he allows me to attend classes because my father gives a large amount of money to the school.” She shrugged, smiling. “And it suits me, because I like to dabble.” She held out a hand which Ellen took. “Amy McPhee.” “Ellen Copley.” “Well, Ellen, that’s an odd accent I hear. You sound both Scottish and American.”

“I suppose I am,” Ellen answered, and with a lighter heart she walked out of the studio, explaining to Amy just how she’d come to arrive at the Glasgow School of Art. Out of place A fortnight into term, Ellen was both exhausted and invigorated. She’d been exposed to so many different artistic styles and mediums, and in just two short weeks had learned and experienced more than she’d ever dreamed of.

But she still felt, on occasion, out of place. So much of what the instructors said, while seeming to resonate with the other students, went right over Ellen’s head.

She poured her fears and frustrations into the letters she wrote to Lucas, knowing that he, more than anyone else from the island she called home, would understand what she meant.

“I always thought it would be invigorating to be among so many like-minded people, and yet I fear we are not as like-minded as I had hoped to be!,” she wrote.

“I suppose, even as a child, I knew I was not an artist; I simply liked to draw. Perhaps that is what kept me from pursuing that path all these years, and now that I have, I fear the distinction is all the more obvious...”

When her first letter from Canada arrived, Ellen was overjoyed. It was from dear Rose, and Ellen sat curled up in the armchair in her room, reading her aunt’s descriptions of her beloved Amherst Island.

In her mind’s eye Ellen could picture the way the maples lining the shore turned russet and gold; how the waters of Lake Ontario were slate-coloured under an autumn sky. She could smell the hint of frost in the air, and the fragrant, mulchy scent of apples being pressed into cider.

Sitting there with Glasgow’s sea of chimneys and slate roofs visible from her windows, her fingers inkstained from a drawing class and one of the new smocks she’d had to purchase hanging on her door, she felt an almost unbearable wave of homesickness – not just for the island, which she missed dearly, but for a life that was familiar and comfortable.

Sighing, Ellen continued to read Aunt Rose’s letter, tensing when she came to the last paragraph:

“Jed and Louisa seem to have settled into married life. They are living, of course, in the Lymans’ farmhouse, but Louisa has hopes, I believe, to build a new place on the side of the pond. I am not sure Jed sees the need. Lucas has left for Toronto to study, and there is plenty of space for just the three of them there. However, Louisa most often has her way! Churning butter “She has made an effort, I am happy to report, of being a good wife to Jed. She asked me the other day how to churn butter, but when I showed her the calluses on my hands she was quite horrified! Still, I wish them happy, and I know you do as well.”

Ellen put the letter down once more, gazing out the window as she pictured Jed and Louisa together, turning the farmhouse into their marital home. She tried to picture Louisa churning butter, and failed.

Aunt Rose believed the best of everybody, Ellen knew; it was what she loved most about her. Yet how much would Louisa try to fit into island life, especially if she nurtured hopes of moving to Seaton, where Jed would work for her father at the bank?

Ellen knew it was not her concern where Jed and Louisa lived, or how their married life progressed.

Even though she knew she could never allow herself to entertain tender feelings for Jed again, she still cared about him and she knew he wouldn’t be happy in Seaton, working behind a desk.

“But he’s happy with Louisa,” she told herself. “He chose her, not you.”

Even now, over a year since he’d made that choice, the knowledge stung.

It also made her more determined than ever to embrace her new life in Glasgow. Perhaps, with time, Glasgow and her life at the art school would become familiar, even beloved.

She’d made a good friend in Amy McPhee, but Amy was not the typical art student, as she’d explained herself. Still, Ellen hoped she would start to settle in.

The other art students were serious-minded, but some of them had made friendly overtures. A young gentleman in her drawing class had admired her sketch of a hand, claiming she had managed to capture the wrinkles on the palm perfectly.

Her mouth twitched in a smile as she imagined writing such a thing to anyone from the island: “I have drawn a remarkable hand, and another pupil says the wrinkles in the skin are quite perfect.”

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