Herman Melville, Typee Jean Brash leant back and let an envious wind blow through her hair so that it flew like a standard trailing behind as the coach clattered noisily in the Sabbath silence. They had gone hell for leather through Leith Links, found their way to Bonnington Road, and then hammered along Henderson Row, as she revelled in the freedom a wee blink of sun could grant a woman in sore need. Angus had been instructed to haul back the top of the carriage, give the cuddies a good skelp, and off they went. ‘Whee-hee!’ shouted the owner of the Just Land in a most unladylike fashion, causing her companion Hannah Semple to shake her head in a nae good will come of this manner, a phrase she often thought might look well on her tombstone. In contrast to Jean’s vivid lavender dress ensconced inside a cream coat, Hannah was dressed in dowdy hues, with a hat shaped not unlike a dropped scone, that she clung onto grimly as the wind pegged wickedly at her body.
