So, instead I found a white pillbox hat made of thick felt, which matched my trench coat and looked stylish. I also bought a leather bag with a good shoulder strap and two stout handles. The kind of thing you might take for a weekend away somewhere. Paris. Bruges. Would Dr Ballater take me to Paris? Would we sit together on a terrace drinking coffee, or a glass of wine, even? If I said yes, I would find out, I supposed. That was the trick of it. I had to give him an answer and things were going to change whatever it might be. The shop girl wanted to wrap my hat and place it in a smart box, but I told her that I would like to wear it. She paused, then said, Of course. I told her I could carry my bag, too, just as it was.
I stepped out of the shop into a different day, the sky slate grey and a sharp wind. My mother would say that I really did need a pair of gloves, but the new leather handles felt good in my bare hand, and a brave face conceals all shivers. Which was something else she might say. I turned the collar up on my coat and adjusted my purse under my arm. If you didn’t know, you might just think that I had arrived in town from parts far flung and sophisticated rather than dumpy old East Lothian forty minutes away. Yet if that was true, and if I were really that person, why on earth would I come here? What would I want to see? Old stones and old folk standing in the rain.
That morning, I’d told my parents about Dr Ballater’s suggestion.
‘Oh,’ said my mother.
‘And how are you going to respond?’ Dad asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘No,’ said Mum. ‘It looks like you don’t.’
‘Do you like him? You do, don’t you?’ Dad asked. ‘I knew his family during the war. Good people. He might be as good a chance at happiness as any.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Mum. ‘He is older, isn’t he?’
‘Felicity has always been an old soul.’
‘Yes,’ she said, and it didn’t sound like encouragement. They didn’t say anything else, just sat together at the kitchen table, over half-cups of tea and the crossword puzzle like every other morning for the last hundred years. I kissed them both and said I’d be home again in the evening in time for tea.
I crossed Princes Street towards the gardens, pushed along by a swift, rushing wind and my mind filled with the words of the old hymn – so wild and strong, high clouds that sail in heaven along – so filled, so full I could almost sing. But best not to. Spring wind or no, Edinburgh might not approve. I kept my peace and walked sedately into the garden. Past the gate, down and down the steps in my pinching shoes, no angel blocked the way, no flaming sword to bar my path, but a gardener walked towards me holding a giant arrow under his arms. He smiled and nodded at me and, looking the other way, I saw another gardener on the slope beside the steps, surrounded by dozens of small potted plants. I wondered if I imagined them, summoned them somehow. Only once I was sitting down did it occur to me that they must have been working on the floral clock. That would have been interesting to watch. Still, it felt so good to sit down and slip my shoes off for a moment.
You are not the kind of girl who wouldn’t.
What the hell did that mean? What kind of girl was I?
Predictable. Suggestible. Polite.
The castle looked down from its rock foundation like Edinburgh’s broken tooth against a threatening sky. I took off my hat and folded it in half, opened it again and set it on my skirt. A sensible skirt my mother had made me in hunter-green tweed with flecks of purple. The kind of material that might be fashioned into an interesting tea cosy.
Then the rain started in earnest. Princes Street was crammed with cars, so I headed east. The North British Hotel has a lovely lobby, and I figured I could loiter there until it dried up a little. Stepping inside, I was surprised to see so many other women standing about. Mostly my age or younger, although also here and there, older women checking their watches and watching the crowd. A woman stepped forward, holding a clipboard. She wore her dark hair in a neat chignon, a serviceable broach pinned to her lapel.
‘Your interview number, please. Do you have it to hand?’
‘No, I—’
‘Did you not receive one by post? With your interview invitation?’
‘No. I didn’t.’
‘Oh dear. Another one. There have been so many slip-ups and confusions today. Some days run smoothly, and others … well, if you give me your name and details, I will add you to the list. Don’t spend a moment on worry, dear. It will come right in the end. Teaching or nursing? Teaching?’
‘No. Nursing.’
‘Ah, my apologies. I’m usually right with my guesses. Clever of you to catch me out. And better luck for you. Not so much of a crowd for nursing here today. Your name?’
‘Felicity. Felicity Hambleton.’
‘Perhaps doubly lucky, then. By name and by nature. It will be your turn soon.’
‘Thank you.’
She smiled and turned to speak to the next girl come in from the rain, a redhead in NHS spectacles clutching a soggy brown envelope to her chest.
So, nursing interviews. I’d never call it answered prayer, but maybe a way forward. I looked more carefully around the room and saw a sandwich board propped up near the reception desk.
Agnew Employment Agency:
Canadian Recruitment
Teachers:
Protestant School Board
of Greater Montreal, Quebec
Nurses and Midwives:
Various – Montreal, Quebec,
the Northern Territories
Near the doors to the hotel ballroom, folding chairs were arranged in a row, and girls sat waiting, shuffling along each time a name was called. Teachers or nurses: so that was the game. For some, it was easy to guess. I looked for wristwatches, writers’ calluses, inky fingers. I could imagine chalk dust brushed out of tweed skirts that morning, shoes polished before bed last night. My own shoes looked the worse for wear, water spots marking the patent leather toes, but you pay a price for glamour in Scotland. And, as the lady said, I might just score a few points for being distinctive. I sat down, opened my handbag and applied more lipstick.
Let’s see. Canada. The frozen north. What did I know about Canada? Cold and snow. Ice hockey. Indians. French. Oh dear. I hadn’t thought of that. Any job in Quebec would require French, wouldn’t it? Proper working French, which was likely a notch or two more advanced than mes lunettes sont sur la table. I tried to remember the other posters that hung on the French room wall at school. Les légumes verts. Les saisons. Chaud. Froid.
When my name was called, I was thinking about imperfect conjugations. What the hell – let it happen, whatever it would be. It was sure to be better than a walk in the rain. I picked up my new bag, smiled at the girl sitting next to me and stepped into the ballroom.
The interview was brief, the interviewer a thin, pale man in heavy glasses, sitting at one of the many small tables in the room, each with another interviewer just like him. He held a red Parker Duofold with a gold nib, but most of the notes were taken by the woman beside him. She sat very straight in her chair, her papers set at an angle on the tabletop, and she was writing with her left hand. She paused at the end of my name.
‘Avec