Free Gillespie and I by Jane Harris Page A

early. I managed to control myself until we arrived at Helensburgh, where I made haste to the sea-front, and breathed in fresh air for ten minutes or so. Then I hired a man with a pony trap for the afternoon. I did fear for my stomach on the ride to the estate, but the road was excellent and, thankfully, I was not bounced around too much.
    My stepfather’s house—which I saw, that day, for the first time—can be described only as a fortress: a castellated mansion, grim and grey, which overlooked the Gare Loch (grimmer, greyer). Upon arrival, I was shown into a drawing room to wait. The room was cavernous and chilly. In one corner stood a familiar display cabinet: I did not even need to glance inside to know that it was full of my stepfather’s kaleidoscope collection. Nearby, on a dusty plinth, lay what might have been a gyroscope. A sewing machine sat on a table and, propped against an open crate, was a strange-looking contraption: a low, wooden box, on wheels, with a long broom-like handle. Clearly, my stepfather’s obsessions had not changed. He had always been fanatical about the acquisition of new gadgets, perhaps because he was suspicious of the modern world and its exigencies, and, therefore, terrified of being left behind. As a child, I can remember him scanning the news papers and periodicals for any reference to recent inventions, and he bought all the newfangled devices as soon as they became available. Alas, when these purchases arrived, he often found that he had no idea how to operate them, and his horror of appearing ill-informed made him far too proud to request further instruction from the manufacturer, with the result that the rooms of our house in Eaton Square were always littered with the carcases of useless contraptions that nobody could work. Indeed, Ramsay would not permit us or the servants even to touch the machines until he had used them himself, and if he was unable to work them, then he insisted that nobody could.
    There were no fires in any of the grates and, since movement seemed to quell my nausea, I began to walk around the room to keep warm. After about ten minutes, the door flew open, and my stepfather strode in, rubbing his hands together in an athletic fashion. He looked me up and down, with a tight grin on his face.
    â€˜Aye, lassie! You’ve hardly changed—I’d know that beak anywhere!’
    For some reason, I cannot remember what exactly was said in the next few minutes. Perhaps I was shocked to see how much he had aged since I had last seen him, over ten years previously, at a family funeral—although, in truth, I should not have been surprised: after all, by then, he was almost seventy years old. Physically, he seemed robust enough, but his hair and whiskers had turned silvery white, and his skin was as pale as tallow. He had always possessed a ghostly complexion—but, in my memory, his hair and beard were black, and only lightly flecked with grey.
    Eager to engage him in conversation and, noticing that his gaze kept straying to the contraption beside the crate, I asked: ‘Is this a recent acquisition, sir? What is it?’
    â€˜A carpet sweeper,’ he replied, then asked, idly: ‘Any idea how it works?’ When I informed him that I had not the slightest notion how to operate such a thing, he frowned, and prodded the box with his foot. ‘Ach, I think it’s broke, in any case,’ he said. ‘These rods won’t turn. Had it shipped all the way from America, too, at great expense—typical!’
    While our tea was being made, we undertook a tour of the mansion, at my request. It seemed that my stepfather was greatly exercised by the notion of burglars, for the premises were fastened up with more padlocks than a bridewell. I noticed a watchman patrolling the grounds, with dogs; all the windows appeared to be nailed shut; the outer doors were secured with iron bars at top and bottom; and every internal door