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 one wall. Everything is painted in tasteful neutrals. The hallway is bigger than my whole flat.
‘I’m glad to see the recent snowfall didn’t hinder your journey,’ she says stiffly, almost regretfully, as though she’d hoped I wouldn’t make the interview.
I have to stop myself apologizing for showing up. ‘The main roads are clear. And luckily my bus was running.’
‘Yes. What luck.’ She turns on her sensible low-heeled shoes towards a closed door on the left. I shove my soggy gloves into my coat pocket, then follow her. My nerves crank up a notch at the thought of meeting Mrs McKenzie, especially if she’s anything like her daughter.
‘You can go in.’ Kathryn doesn’t try to hide her irritation, which shows in her voice. Up close, I can tell she’s attractive. Her eyes are hazel behind her large glasses and she has the type of skin that looks as though it tans easily. Her hair is thick and a rich chestnut. But she’s wearing such a pinched expression that I don’t warm to her.
She tuts under her breath when I don’t move, and leans across me, engulfing me in a wave of musky perfume, to open the door.
Come on, get a grip. This is my chance to start over and get away from that awful care home, although I will miss the residents.
Tentatively I move into the room. It has high ceilings, with mismatched high-backed chairs and an inky blue velvet button-backed sofa. There’s a mahogany writing desk in the corner, next to the sash window. A well-dressed woman in a tweed pencil skirt and a pale blue jumper, pearls at her throat, sits on a chair by a huge marble fireplace, her legs crossed elegantly at the ankles. Her hair is completely white and gathered in some kind of fancy updo. She has a clipboard on her knee with what looks like notes attached, which she’s flicking through.