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.