The first pair.
White leather T-bar shoes with hole-punched
flowers and silver buckles.
In
these shoes she bent like a dining room chair, straight backed, examining
grass, ladybirds, snails and ants that busied themselves around and over the
toes. These shoes would be stored in numerous wardrobes and chests of drawers, brought
out on the odd occasion by her mother. She would look at them through opaque
eyes, brushing them gently removing dust that had crept into the creases,
overtly sighing in an empty room.
‘Mummy
look a snail’
‘Yes
darling,’
‘Mummy,
snail broken.’
‘It’s
not broken darling its dead. Now go and play quietly please, Mummy has a headache.’
Plastic patent purple shoes with sharp buckles.
These
shoes witnessed many a fight and were tight across the toes. Scuffed and
dragged across the ground. These shoes felt her frustration as they were scraped
against hot concrete.
“You
can’t play with us; you don’t play right because you’re a girl.”
Hot
tears splashed the scratched shiny surface while she sat crossed legged under
the teacher’s desk as punishment for talking. Her heels stood guard as she cut
into her purple and brown dress with a found pair of scissors.
Just
a small slit, like the girls on television, higher so they see my legs, then
they will like me.
Black gusset plimsolls.
Too
tight after several hazy summers cutting into the right big toe until the
rubber split. They listened to her many stories and defiant tales.
‘Is
that Jennifer’s sweet? Did you steal it? It’s better that you tell the truth’
‘No
Miss I didn’t steal it I found it.’
‘Go
straight to Miss Hoey’s office young lady!’
Dusty
holed black plimsolls felt the sharp sting of the ruler slapped across the
knuckles. She never once flinched; much to the displeasure of the head teacher
but those plimsolls knew how her toes curled with every slap.
‘I’m
adopted. My real parents are from Mars.’
One pair of Jelly pink sandals.
Worn
to school with an accompanying plastic transparent bag.
‘That
bag is so last year.’
‘It’s
all the rage in Glasgow.’
‘Glasgow!?’
The
pink sandals faded to a murky coral when subjected to climbing sweet chestnut
trees in the park. High above the world with soft blowing breeze tickling her
toes, she gazed upon regal white buildings and the masts of an ancient tea
clipper.
‘Do
you like me Mr Squirrel? I don’t have any nuts but you can share my Curly wurly.’
These
shoes were her only companion when she devoured the children’s play park like a
plague of locust, every swing, slide, climbing frame and roundabout. Jelly
sandals that were buried deep into the sandpit past the ruins of ancient
cities, lost tribes and prehistoric bones, digging deep into the bowels of the
earth.
Cheap
canvas black hessian soled shoes worn only for one summer.
They
never felt the toes curl and were never scraped. They got soaked by tall lady-like
water sprinklers on apple green lawns by the Queens house countless times and
dried off in the blazing sun. They felt the swell of heat trickling down from
the spine caressing the toes while she kissed a boy on the single train
carriage to Margate. The swirling swings of Bembom Brothers white knuckle theme
park and the sticky softness of candyfloss never faded their fabric.
These
shoes squeaked and slid over the polished floors and echoing halls of the Maritime museum watched as she sniffed
at its wizen air, sniggered at the sombre but very vigilant attendants and
gazed ignorantly at pictures of past times, wars famines, gunpowder, shipwrecks
and slavery. They discovered blackberries growing by the Thames.
‘Mum
said it’s not safe to swim in the Thames.’
‘Look
its fine as long as you don’t go too far out.’
They
were sucked off the feet by the strong ebbing currents, lost forever in the
swirling slate river.
Black high boot trainers.
Bought
by Nana in Glasgow who insisted they looked like boy pumps. These shoes
discovered the city of London. They marched around the damp streets and
marvelled at the languages spoken by passersby as she sat high on a butch
bronzed lion.
‘Prendre
mon photo rapide avant qu'il ne vole loin!’
These
shoes were brushed of dirt in the evenings and knew all her secrets all the
while she whispered under Hubba bubba breath and hummed to herself.
‘Just
beat it, beat it, beat it, beat it, no one wants to be defeated.’
They
knew how she sobbed, but not about the dull burrowing ache in her pelvis or the
wave upon wave of period pains in her womb or her mother who would announce to
strangers her imagined condition.
Her
sobs were for the handsome young street performer at Covent Garden who ignored
her sweet innocent stalking and vain attempts to get his attention and the fact
she would probably never get to meet Michael J fox.
With
a needle and thread she stitched heart shapes on each side panel of the boots because
being different was now all the rage. These black high boot trainers tapped an
inconsistent rhythm on the lino school floor, knew all too well that she could
not understand English no more than French much to her mother’s drunken disgust
and her French teacher’s middle class condescending demeanour.
‘I
need to go to the office Miss.’
‘Why
does she get to go out of class Miss when we have a test?’
‘She’s
going to the office to get some old socks!’
‘Period,
Period, PERIOD!’
Black
high boot trainers resisted toe scrunching and begged for new laces but she
ignored everyone under her new black sloping fringe. No one could penetrate
that sullen stare that she practised in the mirror or the sulky roll of her
brown eyes.
Shoes were important now. They played
a role and they camouflaged her soul.
Low
heeled blue court shoes
Polished as part of a
Friday night ritual and stored on a rack in the communal hallway, next to
unloved grey trainers and unworn yellow sling backs. Prim and proper not unlike
their pretending owner whose toe curling tick came back to warn her.
They sizzled and
sparked off the office floor to the amusement of her manager Chantelle whose
brown high heeled shoes were certainly no match.
‘Look
your shoes are almost the same colour as the carpet. You look after your shoes
don’t you. I can never be bothered to polish mine. These are only cheap ones anyway;
I’ll just buy another pair if they fall apart.’
‘My
Nana taught me if I take care of my shoes they take care of me and besides, you
can tell everything about a person by their shoes, don’t you think?’
Court
shoes that put up with her loathing, grumbling, complaining, bitching and
bitten bottom lip till both the heels peeled like drooping tulips.
Grey trainers.
Worn
once at the local gym. Stuck onto the feet at speed when going to get milk,
bending the heel, scraping against the painted door stop and stepping into what
the dog had left behind.
Plastic yellow sling backs.
Worn
once, she hobbled in the park with her new boyfriend Kevin. Winced when peeling
them off her swollen feet because of burst blooded blisters on both heels.
High wedged strappy beige sandals.
Worn
only for one evening.
At
a dinner party at Chantelle’s house with new boyfriend Mark. They matched Mark’s
beige trousers, Chantelle’s beige sofa and their beige mood
White pointy high heels.
Scuffed
on the way to a date with Paul.
He
never liked her or her shoes. He thought the shoes looked cheap. These shoes
did not compliment his balding spot or his beer belly or his visual point of
view. They were never worn again.
High heeled pillar-box red suede
sling backs.
Their
height brought no comfort and their colour never matched a single outfit. She
staggered in and out of bars swaying like the child she still was. She wobbled
into the back of many a black cab insisting her date paid.
‘Oi,
look at the mess you’ve made on the door! I hope you’re gonna wipe that sick
off. Fucking hell!’
She
was in a rush. She ran from bar to bar to club to pub until the right heel
snapped off. She kept this pair of shoes in the loft, not intending to repair them
but just to remember the beginnings of her bunions.
Flat burgundy Velcro strapped
ballerina pumps.
These
poor shoes were unloved. They were chewed by the dog and her daughter. Bounced
against her head in a fight. Never polished or wiped clean. Stained by baby sick
and sticky orange juice. Caught and snagged on kerbs, rolled over by four
different model of stroller till a new pair were bought.
Flat burgundy Velcro strapped
ballerina pumps. (Second pair)
They
saw how she would sigh in the park when she played football with her two sons
and daughter. These shoes didn’t understand how she came to have such bent feet
that warped their shape.
They
were the only witnesses to the punches and slaps across the face that she regularly
took and her sobbing in the toilet privately while rocking her daughter to
sleep. They’d had enough of the sharp flash that shot down each leg whenever he
spoke. They didn’t like him. They didn’t like being on her feet when he
threatened to kill her and the children for the umpteenth time.
In
these shoes plans were made that brought horror, relief, plans that scared her
so much she couldn’t utter them under her breath.
These
shoes hid in the cupboard. They were now more scared of her than of him.
Brown men’s boots. (Bought at an out
of town car boot sale)
The
toes were crammed tight with marbles and old newspaper. Three sizes too big for
her narrow disfigured feet. The earth sucked at the heavy soles while she dug
in darkness by the train track. Tight laces held them to the ankles when she
dragged his body into the shallow grave. They kept her anger her fear her
revulsion when they were dumped into the grey slate river.
The
right boot washed up on the shingle at Chelsea Bridge, inhaled by the mud and
baked by the scorching sun till it became part of the landscape of the bank. The
left boot became part of the Gulf Stream conveyor belt.
Live in your feet and in your toes
otherwise your shoes will resist.
She
sat bare footed in the garden eating cake, crisps, chocolate and cookies.
Feeding away her fears, fighting her night time fury and padding out her guilt.
Too many shoes wasted, too many bought in a rush in the sales, too many to
mention and they were all too tight on her fat pudgy feet.
Flip flops in various colours came
and went until she was ready…
Beautiful black trainers with three
pink stripes.
Now
these trainers were tough. They heard her cries and wails when shin splint held
her hostage demanding that she walk. They were soaked in sweat, saturated in
salty saliva but with every wash and tumble dry they came bouncing back ready
to train with her. They took her weight and squelched on muddy tracks, ignoring
the curling toes.
‘Oi,
fatty go lightly! Try running. Ha, you look like a beetroot. You’re a bit late
for the Marathon love!’
Why
can’t I do this? It used to be so easy. What the hell happened?
Eventually
like all shoes they wore out simply and graciously replaced by a new pair.
Bold black trainers with three
yellow luminous stripes.
These
shoes felt her stride. They felt her strong calves and slim shins power her
steps. No longer power-walking but running. They took note of her increasing
confidence, her application pack and her pre-race GP check up. They begged her
to stop at every water station and at Buckingham palace their laces unravelled but
she kept on till the finishing line. She belted out many a race in these
trainers and when the time came they were lovingly placed in the loft.
Shiny Black leather patent boots
with yellow tags.
Worn
with every outfit come rain or shine these boots stomped over the Meridian line.
Absorbing greedily English root words and English poetry.
These
glossy black boots saw his reflection from the library desk, smiling at her,
whilst she struggled to put on her heaving rucksack. The boots observed his shy
approach and careful design to speak rehearsed words gently, gestures of
kindness he so wanted to bestow.
‘Hi,
can I help you at all? You seem a little lost.’
‘No
I’m fine, thank you.’
‘I’m
James, if you ever need any help just ask, I could do with being distracted.’
‘I
distract you?’
‘Yes
very much.’
James
distracted her from learning anything useful from Shakespeare, Thomas Hardy and
Chaucer.
But
the patent black boots didn’t mind, they were water, oil, petrol and scratch
proof, could out last any apocalyptic disaster
yet love penetrated their polished surface. They took slow walks in the
park under sweet chestnut trees contemplating life and his freckles his golden
curls his blushing playful laugh.
He
taught her the French language she taught him patience. Until the day the
police came to the front door.
These
boots were clever like their owner, they listened to the questioning and
concealed the toes that not only curled but flicked to a very strange beat. The
police asked her so many questions. Had he been in contact since his
disappearance? Was he suffering from depression? What did she know about his
gambling addiction? Had anyone been acting suspicious before his disappearance?
Had he left a note? Reflections of police
waiting rooms and many meetings with her solicitor never misted their
appearance but the boots knew she was hiding something and it was buried by the
railway track.
Shoes have no meaning without free
soul and free toes.
Bare feet in the grass.
Cream
flat vintage ballerina shoes were bought for this occasion and never worn. They
were too big and had to be stuffed with paper so she wrote a message on each
piece placed them in the loft.
Her
soles frolicked on dapper grasses to a chirpy summer song. The earth’s pulses
rejuvenated the bent toes while she danced, counting freckles on James’ face,
the face that never asked her if she knew anything about the whereabouts of her
ex. He noticed her curling toes in an argument and never wanted to make them
look like that ever again.
Designer three buckled bright red
funky heeled shoes.
Her
favourite pair of shoes. She went to a film première in London with these
unique shoes. They were worn with too much pride at many christenings and
weddings.
‘Inappropriate
colour to wear at a funeral. You’d think James would tell her.’
She
swaggered when drunk but they never let her topple. James would always take
them off gently without looking away from her eyes. She grinned at these shoes
while polishing them. The pair she had always wanted but her bunions protested.
And as every runner knows when your
feet tell you something you should listen but she found another way.
Flat embroidered Mojari shoes.
Bought
on a trip to Mumbai, these shoes felt at ease on her veined feet. They walked
quietly by sweet chestnut trees. Their leather softened her feet with each step
her toes flexed when she felt the pain of age clog the joints.
‘You’re
so good at massage James; I should hire you out and make some money.’
Shoes
that listened to the deviant beat of her foot as she watched James play with
the grandchildren in the garden or the dressing up as pirates and parading
around or the quiet times with them reading Roald Dahl books.
‘I
hope you remember me.’
‘I
will always remember you Nanny, who could forget you?’
The last pair.
Black bendable low strapped shoes.
They
had to yield to her every whim, curve when practising yoga, skip when walking
the dog along the Thames. She didn’t mind if the grandchildren dribbled on them
or if James spilt red wine on them, they were purposeful and expendable. Worn
at a protest march on parliament with James proudly by her side. Her grown up
children grasping for the record button on the TV remote when their mother
appeared on the BBC news.
‘I
will not stand by while my government practises violence in other countries. I
know all about violence. We need to practise love; we’re not any good at that,
that’s why we need to practise it.
These
shoes weren’t so flexible when it became time for James to leave. His care at
the hospice was never to standard, never good enough. This pair of shoes felt
her defiant blows as she flung them off her feet every time she came home from visiting
him. Time had run out and her shoes clung to her feet as she sat staring at her
wedding photo.
And
when he forgot her name and forgot the children she knew it was her time too.
She
slipped on her black flexible shoes and put on her coat without any clothes
underneath and walked slowly towards the river.
She
stood by the river’s edge looking down at her twisted feet. They were the shape
of a life, bent by bad shoes, caressed by several lovers, bathed after many a
rainy day and many long runs.
‘Your
feet are like a treasure map of ancient days,’ said James one lazy Sunday
morning. She laughed again at his words as she slid off the edge into the murky
mercury tide.
Months
later her daughter cleared out the loft and came across those antique flat
ballerina shoes. Fighting back the tears she unrolled the paper wedged in the
right toe. It simply read,
Try
all my shoes.
And
in the left foot,
Forgive
me.
