Violet
The Laurels
12 Corstorphine Gardens
Edinburgh
Sunday, 28th August, 1927
Dearest Hetty,
Tomorrow is the day when at long last I can call myself a student of the Edinburgh School of Gardening for Women! And I admit to feeling more than a little trepidation this morning as I sit writing this to you. How I wish you were here to distract me with the latest news from home, to make me laugh at myself for these last-minute qualms, when we both know how much I’ve wanted this and been looking forward to making a start.
After all the years of pleading with Ma and Pa to allow me to apply to the school, my stomach is now a-churn with equal measures of excitement and worry at the prospect of actually beginning the two-year course. The hard physical work every day doesn’t alarm me, but will I be up to the evening classes in bookkeeping and agricultural chemistry? Two years is a long time to study when there’s no assurance of a career at the end of it. I hope all those hours spent working for Mrs Hanbury will stand me in good stead. Without her encouragement and her trust in letting me loose on her beloved gardens at Inverewe, I wouldn’t be here. I don’t want to let her down, nor do I want to prove our parents right when – like so many others – they’ve made it so very clear they heartily disapprove of my ambitions and think horticulture an entirely unsuitable occupation for a young lady. ‘If you really must turn yourself into an unkempt harridan with dirt engrained beneath her fingernails, then I suppose I can’t stop you’ were Ma’s parting words to me when she bade me goodbye at the station. She may be right. But at least I’ll be a happy unkempt harridan!
Fortunately, I have a sister-in-arms as a roommate. Her name is Marjorie Howard and she too starts at the gardening school tomorrow. The other lodgers at The Laurels are what I’m sure our parents would consider suitable young ladies, pursuing careers of a secretarial nature in the city’s law firms and financial institutions. I sense they rather look down their well-powdered noses at the strange pair of cuckoos who’ve invaded the nest, ruffling feathers with our ambition to ruin our complexions, out in all weathers wielding trowels and grubbing about in the mud. We are watched over by our landlady, the formidable Mrs MacDougall, who runs her establishment with an iron fist. ‘There will be no gentlemen callers and I expect my lodgers to make their beds every morning and not outstay their welcome in the bathroom’ were her words of greeting when I arrived yesterday. There’s no danger on either of those fronts, as far as I’m concerned: I’ve already overheard the other girls complaining of the lack of young men in Edinburgh, as in all other corners of this land where the Great War has taken such a toll, as you and I are only too well aware; and the bathroom is even draughtier and less welcoming than those at home at Ardtuath, where at least one could run a hot bath when needed. Here at The Laurels guesthouse, we are ordered to make do with a bath containing only an inch of lukewarm water on our allocated evening of the week (mine is a Thursday, so I will have to jolly well make sure I don’t get too dirty on Fridays, when all that will be available to me is a cold washcloth at the basin in the chilly room Marjorie and I share).
We are at the very top of the house and Marjorie, who is a good few inches taller than I am, has already given herself a good crack on the head standing up too quickly where the ceiling slopes beneath the eaves as she was unpacking. We have a chest of drawers each and a shared cupboard in which to hang our gardening smocks and skirts. The sink in one corner at least saves us the ordeal of tramping down a steep flight of stairs to wash our faces and brush our teeth before turning in. From the dormer window of this hilltop perch, when the smoggy haze allows it, I can see all the way across to where the castle stands proudly on its rocky crag, with Arthur’s Seat crouching like a lion beyond it, reminding me of our hills back at home. If I crane my head as far to the right as is humanly possible and peer over the thick laurel hedge that surrounds the property (no doubt another deterrent to any potential gentlemen callers), I can just make out the gates of the gardening school. So we are very conveniently placed, unlike the secretaries, who have to catch the tram into town to reach their own places of work.
When I first stuck my head out of the window, I heard the strangest noises – a sort of jabbering, high-pitched babble of voices, reminiscent of a madhouse. Marjorie laughed at my expression of astonishment and explained that it was only the sound of the monkeys in the ape house at the zoo, which is just a few hundred yards away. I suppose I’ll get used to it, although last night I fell asleep imagining I was in some tropical jungle rather than suburban Edinburgh. It made my feet itch with an instant longing to travel and see such exotic places in real life!
Yesterday, Marjorie and I ventured into the city and strolled through Princes Street Gardens, admiring the floral clock and the neat squares of bedding plants. The design is certainly a far cry from the more natural approach we take at Inverewe and Ardtuath, and far too regulated for my taste, but I suppose it’s appropriate for a city centre park. The bright colours of begonias and pansies certainly cheer up the grime of the surrounding buildings: Auld Reekie is aptly nicknamed. After our walk, we decided to treat ourselves to tea at Jenners and splashed out on a shared currant bun as well. Luxury indeed!
I shall finish now, dear Hetty, and walk down the hill to the postbox so this will catch the mail tomorrow. I’ll write with more news soon. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy picturing this letter chugging its way to you across the country on the mail train and then meandering in Colin McTavish’s post van from Achnasheen to Aultbea and Ardtuath.
Pass on best love to Ma and Pa for me, and I hope Charles’s headaches have abated a bit. And I’m sending lots more love to you, of course.
Your sister,
.