The bus conductor lifted me out of the seat so Mum didn't have to be woken up. He put me down on the pavement and Mrs Black held my hand as she took me in to play in her garden, next door to ours. I liked playing in there – it was overgrown at the far end, behind their sheds, and I used to pretend I was in the jungle. I was worried about the ducks though. Dad would be really cross that they'd been stolen, and I felt guilty for not keeping an eye on them properly while Mum was asleep. But I would keep my promise not to tell our secret.
It was years later when I came to understand what killed Mum – when Uncle Wally went the same way. It was just like with Mum – all silent and gentle, when he was sitting there after dinner one day. He’d let the newspaper fall to the floor like he always did when he fell asleep in his armchair. Auntie Hilda said we'd get the dishes done and wake him up with a nice cup of tea. I'd taken to spending Sunday afternoons with them since Dad had stopped talking altogether.
Our house was filled with a thick layer of quietness, like dust, without Mum's busy bustling and her daily routine. Being with Mum's brother and big, cheerful Auntie Hilda was one way I could shake off some of Dad's gloom. And his unspoken accusations – his dark stare was still filled with them, all that time later. I was sure he’d never forgiven me for those ducks getting stolen in all the commotion after Mum died on that bus.
And now, since Uncle Wally's heart stopped without fuss or warning, just like Mum's – now I can understand what happened on that journey home. I can make more sense now of the theft that took place right under my nose. It wasn't just that I was paying too much attention to my humbug, or breathing hot huffs on the window instead of watching what was going on. It wasn't even that I was just a little boy, my head filled with conker fights and my pockets filled with marbles. It was the deftness of that robbery. The way your Mother can be stolen from you while she sits next to you on a bus. And you just carry on thinking about what's going to happen next. About the cakes for tea, and about the eggs, and not having to run in case they break. And all the things that will just keep on happening for the rest of that day – the washing on the line, Dad coming home from work, the new kittens in the shed, the toy car at the bottom of the water butt.
Death had sneaked his way onto the bus, had a look round and chosen Mum. Like a pickpocket in a busy street, he'd quietly snatched what he wanted, and disappeared without a trace. There were no clues and no witnesses. And while I sucked that humbug and made smudges on the window with my finger, Mum sat there with her stopped heart. Just like her brother in his comfy armchair, years later. Waiting for the cup of tea he would never drink. Mum had sat there, dead, not knowing we’d come to our stop. And then someone took the ducks. Two thieves on the same bus, and I didn't notice either of them
*The Collection*
It wasn’t a high street shop, and it wasn’t one of those big out-of-town places either. That might be what gave it an old fashioned feel, the sort of shoe shop you don’t come across these days. It must have relied on regular customers and the odd passer-by, but it was hard to see how the place kept going.
I was the only passer-by there that morning. I’d gone in on an impulse – just because the lights were green. It was right on that corner, by the traffic lights, and it caught my eye that day, though it never had before. There were sale signs in the window, big red stickers with white lettering. I thought it was worth a quick look, but I was half expecting old ladies’ beige sandals, sturdy orthopaedics, and expensive starter-shoes for children, with specially trained staff to measure and assess the fit.
The inside was bigger than it looked from the road, and felt quite light and airy. An assistant welcomed me with a friendly hello then left me to browse along the racks of shoes. There were hundreds. They were arranged by size and stacked head high. Single right shoes from scores of pairs were displayed for inspection, while their left partners waited to be reunited, somewhere out of sight. The range was enormous, they had something to suit all tastes, and the quality was high. My chance visit started to feel like a lucky discovery.
The assistant busied herself with tidying and rearranging the size five section. Every now and then she would glance over to see if I needed any help. It puts me off when they pounce as soon as you walk in the door.
‘Would you like some help?’ they say, almost before you’ve had a chance to see what sort of shop it is.
‘Were you looking for anything in particular?’ is another one they spring on you. On a good day I smile, thank them, and say I’m just looking. On a bad day I get the urge to say things they probably wouldn’t want to hear.
‘Yes I am looking for something in particular,’ I want to say. ‘Eternal youth, the perfect partner, world peace…’ I don’t though. I’m a well-behaved and timid shopper. Sometimes I’m so timid, I have a struggle saying no to pushy sales assistants. I don’t like to hurt their feelings or appear to criticise their judgement when they insist something is just right for me. I felt perfectly at ease with this assistant, though. In fact, I forgot about her completely for a while as I studied the shoes, trying on the ones I liked. I made a little pile of the styles I really took a shine to. I knew she was keeping a watch on me, but it didn’t make me feel hurried or uncomfortable like some of them do. She just seemed to be taking an interest, perhaps making a mental note of the shoes she’d have to match up for me to try. I saw her nod slightly to herself every so often as I added a shoe to my pile, or put one back on the rack. Like she was approving – just to herself – of my choice. There was one boot I wanted as soon as I saw it. It was beautifully made from very soft leather. It looked comfortable and elegant and expensive all at the same time. I couldn’t see the assistant’s face as I added it to my reserve pile, so I didn’t know at that stage if she shared my taste. There was a good reduction on the price but it was still a bit more than I usually pay for footwear. They are such a functional part of the wardrobe – I’ve always seen shoes as a dull but necessary purchase. These boots were in a different league from the sort of thing I would normally choose.
The assistant seemed to sense that I was ready to be approached. I had put six single shoes aside. And the boot. I was about to gather them all up and take them over to her, but she was already making her way towards me. ‘Ready to try them on properly?’ she asked pleasantly. I said I was and she gestured for me to sit down while she took three shoes off to find their matching partners. I sat with the boot in my hand. It was lovely to touch, and had that new leather smell. I tried to imagine what I would wear with these boots. I hadn’t got far when the assistant returned. She lined up the shoes for me then disappeared again to collect the remaining shoes I wanted to try.
I had eliminated two pairs of black shoes by the time she came back. Both of them were a bit too formal once they were on my feet.
‘How are you getting on?’ she said, standing carefully to one side of the mirror so my view wasn’t blocked. She was talking to the reflection of my feet and had a thoughtful look on her face. Now she was closer, I could see she was a bit older than I had first thought. A woman in her late fifties, I would guess. She had shoulder length hair that she’d had permed into one of those tight, almost frizzy styles. It looked like poodle’s ears. She wore a neat but poorly fitting uniform in silver grey, with primary colour swirls printed at random. It looked like she had leaned on some sticky sweets and they’d stuck to her. I looked at her name badge. She was called Mo. She had pinned a little brooch next to it, a tiny silver shoe. I wondered if that was her own idea or if the company gave them to all the staff as a sort of trademark. Mo saw me looking and smiled as she touched the little silver stiletto.
‘My hobby I’m afraid,’ she said.
What I noticed most of all was the sadness in her face as she smiled.
I walked self-consciously up and down the green carpet, trying out the different shoes. I didn’t really know what I was testing them for, apart from fit and comfort. They all fitted well enough – no pinching or rubbing that I
was aware of, and they were equally comfortable. I never know what else to think about shoes really. I don’t like them to be too noticeable, but other than that, they are just protective containers for my feet. I suppose my preference is for unobtrusive shoes – shoes people aren’t going to point at or comment on. For those purposes, these seemed perfectly adequate and I made up my mind to buy a couple of pairs from my selection.
Mo was paying close attention to my feet as I compared the different shoes. Her head was tilted to one side, and I noticed the change of colour at her jaw where her make up stopped. Her pale neck looked scrawny as it disappeared inside the uniform’s rigid collar. I saw that she had tried to match her eye shadow with the blue of her blouse. One dab on each lid gave her the appearance of a chilled parrot, her wrinkled bluish-grey eyelids blinking against the cold weather. She smiled again, and the wistful look returned.
‘Could I try the boots on before I finally decide, please?’ I looked down to find the soft leather shape among the sprawling collection at my feet. It was gone. I thought she hesitated, just a fraction. There was a minute pause and a stillness in her. Then it was as if something clicked and she carried on.
‘The boots,’ she said. ‘Oh yes, the boots. You liked them as well, didn’t you? I knew you would. I’ll go and get them for you.’
I thought how different Mo was from a lot of shop assistants. There was no hard sell; no persuasion or going overboard about this or that style being absolutely perfect when all the time you knew it looked awful. I wondered if this was her natural approach or if it was company policy to avoid pressuring the customer. I pondered this while Mo searched for the other boot. Perhaps it was stored on a high shelf. She was gone for longer this time. The shop was completely silent during her absence. It was like being there after closing time, as if I’d been locked in. Just the shoes and me. I pictured Mo in the stock room, manoeuvring a ladder, then making a cautious ascent. I imagined her stiff uniform moving upwards just ahead of her so that she bobbed out of it like a tortoise at the top of the ladder.
The silence started to worry me. What if she had fallen off her ladder? I decided to check she was all right, just in case. I put my head round the opening at the back of the shop. There was no door, but a curtain had been pulled to one side and there were shoe boxes stacked from the floor to the ceiling. It was cold and cramped but well organised. Pushed into one corner was one of those big wooden constructions they used to have in shoe shops years ago – they always made me think of coffins, with the dark shiny wood, but they were high and square, with a step to stand on. This one was dusty but the wood was unmarked and in good condition. Memories came flooding back and I was returned instantly to childhood ordeals in dimly lit shoe shops, my mother prodding at the toe of tightly buckled shoes to check the fit. Then I’d have to step onto the platform and place in the recess at the bottom. Both of us would peer down through the little window on the top of the box into the eerie green glow – my feet were transformed into skeletal specimens by the magic wooden X-ray box. This dormant memory had been lodged in my mind all these years – a long lost dream-like event. Now here it was, confirmed as real. I had a strange sense of familiarity, of returning, even though I had never been in this place before.
I shook myself back to the present and called out a tentative hello. ‘Are you there?’ I said, and took a few more steps into the stock room. Mo was standing in front of a mirror, her back to me. The fabric of her uniform swished slightly as she turned from side to side, admiring her feet. She suddenly caught sight of my reflection and stood still. I could see she was grinning broadly and her eyes were sparkling.
‘I hope you won’t mind,’ she said. ‘It’s just this one last time, and I’ve only walked on the carpet strip.’ She spoke without turning round.
‘No, it’s all right,’ I said. ‘I just … well, I just came to see if you needed a hand or anything.’ I felt awkward, intrusive. ‘I’ll go back and wait.’
‘Oh, don’t go,’ Mo said. ‘Look, tell me what you think. I love these. Do they suit me?’ She stared down at the boots, holding each foot out in turn. Until then, I’d taken no notice of her shoes. Now I saw them, kicked off and lying next to the mirror. They were plain, flat heeled, and quite clumpy. They were well looked after though, and in good repair.
‘They’re not really me at all.’ She pointed at the discarded shoes.‘But these – I’d love to take these boots home. Last pair, this is. D’you know, I had a feeling you were going to buy them as soon as you walked in.’
I apologised, but Mo shook her head.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m pleased for you. Really I am. Got a good ankle, you have – they could have been made for you. I’m just envious. Ever since we got them in, I’ve had my eye on them.’ She looked sad again, then added, ‘Still, they’re going to a good home. Let’s get them boxed up for you.’
I made my way back to the main part of the shop as Mo bent down to take off the soft leather boots. Something made me hesitate when I got to the old wooden contraption in the corner, and I turned back. Mo was tucking the boots into their box with crisp white tissue paper. The careful way she did it reminded me of a child putting her favourite doll to bed. She glanced up and said, ‘Nearly done, sorry to keep you.’
Again, I felt like an intruder, but I stumbled on, ‘No, no it’s all right. There’s no hurry. I just wondered …’ Mo’s hands stopped moving as my words trailed away.
‘Oh, silly me,’ she said, ‘did you want to wear them now? Here, I’ll thread the laces for you.’
I shook my head and cleared my throat. It’s not my usual way to speak out or ask questions and I wasn’t sure if I should be saying anything. There was just something about Mo, and about the place, that made me want to know more. I tried again.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I was just wondering – I hope you don’t mind me asking – but I was wondering about the boots – ’
She interrupted. ‘How about another five pounds off the sale price? You know, because they’ve been tried on a little bit more than some of the others – will that help?’
This was getting harder, but I couldn’t leave it there. ‘No, it’s not that,’ I said, fiddling with my lucky penny in my coat pocket. ‘It’s just that you seem to be very fond of the boots yourself and I wondered, well, why you don’t have them.’ I felt my face go from amber to red like the traffic lights outside.
‘Oh, that’s kind of you to notice,’ Mo said, and gave me her sad smile again. ‘You’re right, I do love these.’ She patted the lid of the box. ‘They’ve been one of my favourites, but there are lots more I’d buy if I had my way. It’s the same story with all of them though.’ She paused, and seemed to run something through her mind. Then she said, ‘Come with me, I’ll show you.’
Her clumpy, dull shoes were kicked to one side again, as Mo paraded along the strip of carpet wearing one pair of shoes after another from her collection. She gave me a detailed description of each pair. She told me where they were made, gave them marks out of ten for style, comfort and quality; told me the full price and the sale price, knew how many the shop had ordered and whether they had sold well. Then she told me where and when she would wear the shoes and with what clothes.
‘These,’ she said, lifting up a pointed toe and spiked heel, ‘would go with my red dress, the one with a split up the back. Oh, I’d dance the night away in these.’
I watched as she changed from glamorous, strappy high heels into sophisticated black stilettos, then shiny patent leather pumps, and red suede evening shoes with little gold beads across the front. She was in her element. No heel was too high or toe too pointed for Mo’s feet. Her taste in footwear extended to the exotic, and I had to imagine the clothes she would wear with these flimsy, impractical, even dangerous, shoes – her uniform did them no justice at all. Watching Mo’s shoe-focused fashion show, I was swept along with her footwear fantasy. The narrow shapes, the fake leopard skin, glued-on feathers, and diamante buckles were so conv
incing on her feet. She wore them with style. It was only when I took in the overall picture of Mo that they looked so unlikely. In my head, I kept repeating to myself who’d have thought?
Mo saved her best for last. She glowed when she put them on – a pair of snakeskin ankle boots with a heel like a six-inch nail. She stroked them lovingly before she stood up and strutted along the frayed strip of carpet.
‘This is me in my night-club gear,’ she said over her shoulder.
I couldn’t remove the image of the uniform with its stiff padded shoulders and synthetic fabric, but I could see that Mo was relishing an inner vision of herself dressed to kill. She gave a final spin, sat down, and flapped her hand in front of her face.
‘Phew,’ she said, her poodle ears rising and falling as she fanned herself. ‘That was lovely.’ As she cooled down, she told me about her collection. ‘I hold back one pair of anything I take a fancy to until we sell the last pair in my size. Sometimes it takes ages and I have loads of time to try them on. I usually do it in my break, or if I get here before the others. And on quiet days, when there’s only me in the shop. The other two are part time.’
Mo was packing the collection away as fast as she talked. The melancholy air had evaporated and her blue-lidded eyes shone. ‘I’m lucky really,’ she said. Having so many to choose from.’
Grave Misgivings Page 11