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the most expensive things on the menu. Now do be careful—I tried to sound a warning—yet it was a four-star hotel and I had a real feeling of being on holiday. Afterwards I again wandered round the city centre, cautious to keep only to its main thoroughfares, and came across a small arts cinema where they were showing
A Streetcar Named Desire
, one of my favourite pictures. All my life I had searched for pointers. Today I felt that everything was telling me how right I’d been: simply to trust my instincts.
    As usual (this was my third time of seeing it) I loved that bit where Blanche sings in her bath,
Oh, it’s only a paper moon,
    Floating over a paper sea,
    But it wouldn’t be make-believe,
    If you believed in me...
    and I was very much moved once more by her pathetically brave declaration: “I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers.” Many years ago I had been told
I
looked like Vivien Leigh. This was the only meaningful compliment anyone had ever paid me and I had tried to savour it sparingly. Over the years, though, it had gradually turned sour. But that night in Bristol I again derived from it a gentle satisfaction.
    The following morning I went and bought the dress.
    It fitted perfectly. A further confirmation.
    “I saw this frock last night. Half of me was petrified it wouldn’t be here this morning. The other half knew perfectly well it would—that it would wait for me, if necessary, for ever.”
    The assistant was fortyish and svelte. “Yes, madam, it’s very lovely, isn’t it?”
    “I don’t imagine anyone could call it dull?” I turned admiringly before the mirror.
    “Good gracious, no!”
    I told her I couldn’t bear to change back into my skirt and jumper, happy though I’d always been with them, and she very sweetly stowed these into one of her smart carrier bags and added my receipt and the card of the establishment—“What,” I said, “no tissue?”—we had quite a little laugh. Fortunately my elegant black shoes were exactly right for the dress. As were my hat and coat and handbag. I felt like a model.
    It was another mild morning and even with my coat buttons undone I didn’t feel at all cold. I went back to the chemist’s to buy a bar of soap but my friend of the previous evening wasn’t there: merely a podgy adolescent who had mild acne and a shiny nose and wore a too-tight overall.
    A slightly jarring note. But there was bound to be a reason for it. I didn’t let it throw me.

7
    In the train I sat opposite a man who had a biography of William Wallace lying unopened on the table. I felt so sorry for poor William Wallace; but for some while I attempted not to think of him, tried solely to think about my own book. I couldn’t. At last (though not wanting to reveal either my straining curiosity—the title had been upside-down and difficult—or to give away a possibly surprise ending) I said to the gentleman—who was old enough to make me feel I wasn’t being in the least bit forward—“Do you mind if I talk to you for a moment? I’ve just read the most frightful description of a hanging, drawing and quartering and I’m afraid I can’t stop reliving it.”
    I had to repeat my request but he didn’t appear at all put out. He’d only been looking through the window.
    “Really,” I said, “we have no right—ever—any of us—to complain or get depressed, do we? Not about a thing.”
    “What’s that? I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch the last part?” He had leant forward.
    I again repeated what I’d said. “Not about bills or the things that people say to us or even illness. Not even cancer when you come to think of it.”
    “That’s probably true, my dear, but—”
    “Just
imagine
: waking up in the morning, possibly from some rather pleasant dream, and suddenly remembering... ”
    “I’m sorry?” He had now cupped his hand to his ear and I raised my voice yet further.
    “Not that I honestly suppose you’d have managed to get much