Page 11

Chapter 11

January 1911

Ursula had a Plan with a capital P.

She would go to Robert Maule’s department store at the foot of Lothian Road.

If they didn’t have what she wanted, she would walk along Princes Street to Jenners, and if that failed, she would go to R.W.

Forsyth. Surely there would be something suitable in one of the three biggest stores in the city.

She left the house promptly at half past ten, well wrapped against the cold.

The tram was crowded and she was relieved to get off it and into the fresh air, but despite spending twenty minutes in Maule’s she wasn’t excited by any of their offerings, so she continued along the north side of the street on foot.

Behind the large display in the Singer shop she could see a couple, the man holding forth about something and his wife standing rather unhappily beside him as he pointed at a grand cabinet and gesticulated.

She pulled her scarf around her face against the chill wind that had blown up from the Forth and pushed on to the other end of the street.

There were several bags in Jenners that were vaguely possible, but none that really seemed to be right for Ann.

Ursula was disappointed, but bought a packet of six white handkerchiefs for John.

He didn’t need them, but she enjoyed seeing the overhead pneumatic tubes that took cash and sent it to the cash room in a vacuum system, whooshing back to the servers a few minutes later with the change and a receipt.

She repeated her search in R.W.

Forsyth, but there was nothing suitable there either.

It doesn’t matter, she told herself, it’s more than three months until the big day.

Plenty of time.

She continued her walk to the North British Station Hotel at the eastern end of the street, and promised herself she would come back for afternoon tea another day, before turning right and heading across the North Bridge.

Waverley station sat in the deep cutting below the bridge.

Soot and smoke hung in the air.

Whistles blew, and the carriages bumping over the joins in the rails created the metallic smoky smell of adventures in Ursula’s imagination.

On some days she walked down the long ramps from Waverley Bridge into the station itself and sat on a bench in the ticket hall with no intention of travelling anywhere, just to enjoy the anticipation of a potential journey.

But today was not the day for such musing and she continued to walk, the wind cutting through her coat as she headed towards James Thin the bookseller.

She would look for a gift for John, she decided.

Maybe Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had written a new novel.

*

An hour later, after browsing many of the shelves in the bookshop, she was both hungry and ready to leave.

She tucked her scarf snugly around her neck and headed up towards the theatre, clutching her purchase.

On the opposite side of the road was a café she hadn’t noticed before and despite the fact that she wanted to be home in plenty of time for Ann to get back from school, she crossed over to investigate, dodging an oncoming tram as she did so.

A man encased in a long white apron, with his sleeves held away from his wrists by elasticated metal bracelets around his upper arms, opened the door before she reached it.

A bell rang above her head as she entered, and again as the door closed.

‘Welcome to Café Vegetaria,’ he said, and showed her to an empty table.

‘Thank you. I am in rather a hurry, so could you just bring me tea, please? And maybe a sandwich. Ham and mustard, if you have it?’

‘I can offer you the tea, madam, but not the ham sandwich. This is a vegetarian establishment.’

‘Oh?’ Ursula, normally unflustered, found herself suddenly without a response.

‘We have cheese sandwiches, with or without pickle, or perhaps you would prefer a nice warming bowl of leek and potato soup?’

Ursula had no desire to find somewhere else to have a meal, and she was already seated, so to stand and leave now would be embarrassing.

This would have to suffice.

‘Do you have no meats at all?’

‘None.’ The man glanced up at the clock on the wall.

‘But we are still serving our sixpenny lunch. Soup and bread, and then a hot savoury course, which today is a rather splendid beetroot and carrot crumble with vegetable gravy.’ He paused.

‘All followed by pudding with cream.’

‘That sounds like quite a lot,’ she replied, distracted by the large posters on the walls.

‘If I could just see the menu, that would be helpful.’

‘Of course.’ He left, returning with a folded card which bore the words ‘Café Vegetaria’ on the front.

She scanned it quickly.

‘I’ll have a pot of tea, and some of the beetroot crumble, please.

’ She glanced at the loaded plates of the nearby customers.

‘Just a half portion will be sufficient, I think.’

He brought the food a few minutes later, along with a leaflet headed ‘Vegetarian? Why not?’ and left her to read it in peace.

Ursula was suddenly famished.

She broke up the crumble with her knife and fork, and while she waited for it to cool, she picked up the leaflet and studied it.

A half-memory of something she had read in the past danced around the edge of her thoughts.

Something about suffragettes being vegetarians.

She set the leaflet aside and picked up the menu to look at it properly.

At the bottom, below the details of sixpenny teas and shilling dinners, she read: ‘The promoters of this venture give not less than 50 per cent higher remuneration to their helpers than is paid elsewhere.’ Below this were two more words.

‘No tipping.’

She enjoyed the crumble, and the crusty brown bread and butter that had arrived with it, unrequested, and examined her surroundings.

A poster on the wall beside her declared: ‘Staff wanted. Lowest wages paid 15s a week of 54 hours. All meals and uniform provided.’ A second poster announced: ‘Census Meeting. Bring Your Friends.’ She poured herself a cup of tea and opened her bag to retrieve her diary and a pencil.

The black covers were new-year stiff, and the weekly format was just big enough for her appointments.

She turned to the address section at the back and started to write.

15 shillings x 52 weeks = 780 shillings

780 divided by 20 shillings to the pound = ￡39 a year

9 hours a day for 6 days = 54 hours

She frowned and checked her calculations.

The truth began to slowly dawn on her that Isobel, who was up before six in the morning, and not in bed before ten at night, seven days a week, was working almost twice as many hours as the young women in the café, even after she took account of her half-day off.

Ursula shook her head and checked the figures for a third time.

This surely couldn’t be right.

But her arithmetic seemed to be correct.

How much were they paying Isobel?

She couldn’t remember exactly, but she was sure it wasn’t anything close to thirty-nine pounds a year.

Of course, Isobel lived above the scullery so she didn’t pay rent, but even when Ursula factored this in, she was left with an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach, one she knew would not go away until she had checked the ledgers at 25 Library Terrace and asked John about Isobel’s wages.

When she eventually left the café, the leaflet folded and stowed safely in her bag, she was so preoccupied with everything she had learned that she completely forgot to go to the theatre to enquire about tickets for The Great Lafayette.