That afternoon, laden with her purchases in Edinburgh’s city centre, Alison took the Number 23 bus from Hanover Street to the start of Fettes Row, where she lived. Her destination was only a few stops away, so she sat on one of the pair of benches at the front of the bus, next to the door. Two fur-clad ladies of a certain age were the only other passengers up there. Probably having lunched up-town and now returning home to Inverleith or Trinity or some other poshland, they were sitting in the middle of each bench, engaged in a conversation across the aisle. The conversation stopped abruptly when Alison arrived on the scene. Without budging an inch to give Alison and her bags more room, the lady she sat down beside gave a dismissive wave towards the rear of the bus. “There are plenty of empty seats up there,” she said in what Muriel Spark often described as “the Edinburgh accent”. It’s the accent of strangulated vowels that drips all-girls’ schools and middle-class privilege, the one that Muriel yearned to hear when she was abroad, the one that she herself spoke with. Ever the mimic, Alison returned the Edinburgh accent. “So there are,” she smiled. “Off you pop, then.” And she, too, gave a dismissive wave in the direction of the empty seats.