Ice crunches underfoot and I have to tread carefully in my boots, made for fashion and not for Arctic conditions. Even so, I slip and save myself from falling on my arse by grabbing on to the iron railings for dear life, my legs splaying as I try to regain my footing. Two teenage lads stroll past and one lets out a bark of laughter. I resist flicking the finger at them just in case my would-be employer witnesses me and decides I’m too uncouth for the job. Instead I try to get my legs under control and gingerly continue down the pavement, stooped like an old lady, until I reach the McKenzie house. I stop, my hands still clutching the railings, ice seeping through my woollen gloves, and stare up at it in awe.
It’s the colour of strawberry milkshake, curve-fronted, with four floors and Georgian sash windows that overlook the suspension bridge. There is a balcony on the first floor and a black-and-white-striped canopy that has been pulled back. For a brief moment I consider turning and legging it – which would actually be impossible in this snow and ice. Why did I ever think I’d get a job like this? I’ll be working at the care home with Randy Roger and Surly Cynthia until my dying days.
I dust snowflakes from the front of my best – my only – coat. It’s maroon with a black velvet collar. It makes me look younger than my twenty-two years, but it was my mum’s favourite. She bought it for my eighteenth birthday from a vintage shop in Camden Town. We used to love our trips to the market there. We made it an annual event, travelling back late at night in Mum’s clapped-out Alfa because it was cheaper than getting the train. This coat had cost her nearly a whole week’s wages. I still remember how her silver eyes lit up as she watched me unwrap it.
I swallow the lump in my throat. I can’t be sentimental today. Where will that get me? Mum would want this for me. I have to do my best. I’ve only ever had one interview before and that was just after I finished college.
The gate sticks against the snow, and I have to shove it hard to open it. Salt has been scattered on the pathway leading up to the house but I still tread carefully, scarred by my earlier slip. I notice a movement at the huge sash window and swallow again, my throat dry.
There is a slate sign on the house, partly covered by snow. I swipe it away with my gloved hand to read ‘The Cuckoo’s Nest’. A strange name for a house like this. It’s kind of creepy. I knock loudly on the front door (which is four times the size of my own) and feel like I’ve wandered out of Lilliput and into Gulliver’s world. It has stained-glass panels and glossy black paint. I stand back expectantly.
To my surprise, a woman in her late forties answers. I was imagining someone much older. She’s what my mum would call frumpy, in an unflattering shapeless skirt, high-necked blouse and oversized cardigan. But then my mum was still pretty cool in her late forties, with her bleached-blonde crop and leather biker jacket. I’m doing it again. I shake thoughts of her from my head and try to concentrate on the woman standing in front of me.
‘Hi. Mrs McKenzie? I’m here for the interview.’ I take off my gloves and thrust out my hand enthusiastically. ‘My name is Una Richardson.’
The woman stares at my proffered hand as though there’s dog shit in the palm. ‘I’m not Mrs McKenzie. I’m her daughter, Kathryn.’
I blush at my mistake and retract my hand. She must think I’m stupid as well as rude. Not a great first impression. She purses her thin lips as she surveys me, her face radiating disapproval as she takes in my not-warm-enough coat and my cheap New Look skirt. Then, without speaking, she stands aside to allow me in.
I step over the threshold, trying to prevent my mouth from falling open. I’ve never been in a home so … well, so grand. I feel like I’ve stumbled into a giant doll’s house. There are ornate brown and blue Victorian tiles on the floor, an arched wall with pillars either side, and beyond that, a sweeping staircase with a blue-and-cream-striped runner. A grandfather clock stands proudly against