I wondered if she already had an overflowing shoe cupboard at home, perhaps there simply wasn’t room for more. Or maybe she was trying to restrict herself, get control over her habit like a dieter refusing chocolate while secretly craving huge slabs of it.
‘It’s my Jim,’ she said as she put the last box back on the shelf. ‘He wouldn’t approve. They’re not his sort of thing, shoes like these.’ She let out a long sigh, then patted her poodle ears into place. Tapping the silver brooch with her finger, she said, ‘Still, never mind, he’s a good man. He just doesn’t want anything to do with my hobby; he’s more of a slipper man, Jim is.’
I asked if her husband would change his mind once he saw how well Mo wore the shoes.
‘Who Jim?’ she said. ‘He’d hit the roof. Just wouldn’t allow it. No, I couldn’t go through all that again. She tipped her head forward slightly so her chin touched the stiff collar, put her hands on her hips, and in a deep voice, said, “What have you got on your bloody feet, woman? You look like a bloody tart. Who the bloody hell do you think you bloody are?” He checks my feet every evening. He never says anything, just looks. And he thinks I don’t notice but I see him having a look, making sure I’ve got my clodhoppers on, as usual. Then we sit together in our tartan slippers, watching the telly – well, me watching and him snoring in his armchair, more often than not.’ Then she shrugged, sighed again, and smiled her sad smile. ‘At least I’ve got my collection. We can’t have everything, can we? I get a lot out of this job – meeting people, seeing all the new stock come in, having a bit of fun with the other girls, and passing on advice – after all, I get to know a lot about some of the shoes.’ She winked and carried on. ‘That can be worthwhile if someone’s going to a wedding or a big do and they need to know their shoes won’t let them down.’
When I paid for my shoes Mo insisted I had the extra reduction on the boots, but I would have bought them anyway. After spending that time with her in the stock room, I would have bought them even if they hadn’t been in the sale. I knew I would look and feel ridiculous in any of the other shoes from Mo’s collection, but these boots are special. I can visualise other versions of me when I put them on. I’m even beginning to understand how Mo got started on her hobby. When I’m cleaning the boots, rubbing polish into the soft leather with a nice fluffy cloth, I can’t help thinking of Mo. It makes me feel a mixture of happy and sad – the dancing she never did, the glamorous dresses she never wore, and the nightclubs she never set foot inside. Her story always takes me back to the big magic box gathering dust in the stock room. The way, years ago, my chunky childish feet in sturdy school shoes had been transformed into delicate, green bones. And the way Mo, unseen at the back of the shop, steps into fantasy lives with her collection of shoes, while cars stop and then go again at the traffic lights outside
* Menu *
I’d expected it to be raining when my car finally packed up. I knew it was coming but the last time he’d looked at it, the local mechanic had told me it was fine. He laughed off my concerns with the knowledge of an expert.
‘Nah,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Good year of motoring left in this little beauty. You won’t get no trouble yet, love.’
That was six weeks ago and I’ve driven to the Lake District on the strength of his reassuring prognosis. At least it’s not raining – we were both wrong. For the middle of October, it is warmer and sunnier than it should be and my three-day camping trip has been a real treat. Well, it had until I got to those traffic lights, less than an hour into my journey home. Then there’s this huge clunking noise as I try to pull away.
I let the dead car roll down the slight incline and round a corner to get off the main road. There is no other traffic. I get out and lean against the door, the reality of what’s happened making my heart sink. This isn’t part of my plan. A few days of walking and unwinding on the hills and soaking up the wild, rugged landscape of Langdale – that’s all I’d wanted. Then there’d be the downside of course – that long, uneventful journey home. I’d give a lot for uneventful now, I think and get back in the car to search for my breakdown membership card. Of course, there’s no signal on my mobile phone, so I walk to the end of the road and find an old red telephone box. I expect it to be out of order, but it works. A nice man tells me to wait with the car and he’ll come and tow it to his garage.
‘Your clutch has gone, Miss,’ the man tells me at the garage. ‘You’ll need a new one.’
He makes it sound personal and I want to tell him how fit I am after my walking trip, but I just ask if he can do the work.
‘It’ll take about three days,’ he says. ‘I’ll have to order the part and then get the work done. It’s a big job.’ He goes on to tell me how it’s always a bugger to get the old clutch out of this particular make and model of car. ‘Don’t know why they make them like this,’ he says.
I feel responsible for choosing such a badly designed car, and agree to leave it in his capable hands. I ask where I will find a hotel to stay while he does the work.
‘You won’t, Miss.’ he says. ‘Not round here.’ He scratches his head and pushes his thick brown hair back off his forehead. He is good looking in a domesticated sort of way; looks well cared for – fed, ironed and nicely turned out. Even his mid-blue overalls are clean and pressed, with creases down the front of the legs, and his shoes are shiny. For a mechanic, he’s very presentable.
‘Tell you what though,’ he says, ‘there’s plenty of B&B’s in the village, although …’ He pauses, looks away for a long while. I start to feel uncomfortable with the silence. Then he shrugs and continues. ‘I’ll run you in if you like. It’s not far.’
He drops me in a pretty market square, waves goodbye and drives off. I look at the card he’s given me. Blake’s Garage, it says. I tuck it in the pocket on my backpack so I can ring in a couple of days. He’s given me directions for the Tourist Information office and I head across the square towards it. It’s closed but there is a list in the window of local addresses that offer accommodation. I’m not choosy and decide to go to the first one, and repeat the address to myself to memorise it. Then I look at the map they’ve also got in the window. You are here, it says, and has a big red arrow. I find Bridge Street on the index and trace a route with my finger. It looks straightforward and I set off.
Number thirty three is on a hill and has been built slanted to fit in with the slope, with one side of the house higher than the other. The lopsided effect is so pronounced that I expect the dark green front-door to be at an angle, but of course it isn’t. It is very shiny though and I can see my blurred reflection standing in front of me. I run my fingers through my hair to give it a quick tidy, and wait for the door to open. But it doesn’t. I think I can hear faint music inside – a radio perhaps – but no-one answers when I knock again, so I head back to the market square.
This time, the Tourist Information office is open. A woman behind the counter looks surprised when I walk in.
‘I didn’t think you’d need any more help,’ she says.
I raise my eyebrows; have no idea what she means.
‘It’s just that I saw you earlier,’ she says. ‘Looking at the list.’ She nods towards the window.
‘Oh, yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I was. I’m looking for somewhere to stay, and — ’
She interrupts me. ‘Didn’t get an answer in Bridge Street, did you?’ she says.
‘No,’ I say. ‘No, I didn’t, but never mind, I’ll try one of the others.’ I feel slightly irritated – she seems to be telling me that she knew I wouldn’t get a reply at number thirty three. Still, I’m not used to life in a small place like this and suppose they all know each other’s comings and goings. They are bound to be even more aware of a stranger. I ask if she has a copy of the list that I can take with me.
‘Good luck,’ she says as she hands me a sheet of paper with grainy, faint print. ‘You’ll need it.’
I raise my eyebrows again. I am genuinely puzzled. It’s the end of th
e holiday season and I’ve seen no-one that looks like a tourist. Is she really saying all the rooms are full?
She responds to my questioning look with a forced smile, and looks at her watch. ‘Nearly half past four,’ she says. ‘Time I was locking up.’ She makes her way to the door and holds it open for me.
‘Well, thank you so much for all your help.’ I say it sarcastically, adding a smile that I hope will make her uncomfortable. She locks the door as soon as I’m through it, and I look at the display of their opening times. Ten until five every day except Sunday. Cow, I think.
The next address I try has a highly polished doorstep. It is a deep, shiny red and I avoid stepping on it when I reach for the brass knocker and give it a couple of taps. A woman in a pale lemon cardigan opens the door immediately. She is not much older than me but is dressed like my mother. Her slippers are sensible, brown moccasins and could pass for outdoor shoes if they didn’t have that roll of creamy sheep fur round the tops. She looks at me, doesn’t smile. Her face muscles must ache with the effort of keeping her mouth in such a tight line.
‘Yes?’ she says, clipping it into an even shorter word.
I point to the Bed and Breakfast sign on the wall next to her front-door and ask if she has any vacancies. She continues to look at me, her white lips pressed together, and says nothing.
‘Only, my car’s broken down and I just need somewhere to stay while it’s being repaired,’ I tell her.
‘You on your own?’ she says.
I tell her I am, and get ready to pick up my backpack and go inside. But she shakes her head.
‘We don’t accept women on their own,’ she says.
‘I — ’ is as far as I get when she closes the door. Just like that. I think about knocking again to ask where else she can recommend, decide it will be a waste of time. I am tired and deeply fed up about my car, and feel cheated at this ending to the lovely time I’ve had walking on the hills. All I want is to be at home and when I look at my watch, I think how far along the way I would have been. I’m resentful about the unfriendly, unsupportive rule in Mrs Cardigan’s house and walk away from her shiny red step to find the next address on the list.
It isn’t far from the first place I tried – just round the corner in Bridge Lane. It’s another very clean front-door and polished step. A woman opens the door and I start to tell her my story about the car and everything.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘No vacancies.’
I don’t believe her but what can I say? I picture her having just put the phone down, seconds before I knocked. Mrs Cardigan has probably just rang her with a tip-off and I stand no chance of sleeping in her back bedroom tonight, or any other night judging by the pinched look on her face. Perhaps they are related.
I go back to the market square, find a bench and have another look at the list. It includes details of a pub called The Red Dragon. I don’t really fancy staying there. I’ve never liked going in pubs on my own – I hate the way all the men stop talking and stare. I’ll try another address, I think. There must be someone with a vacant room. First though, I could do with a cup of tea and something to eat. I’m tired and hungry, and my backpack is making my shoulders ache, stuffed as it is with all my gear from the car. I look along the row of shops facing me. There is a teashop, very quaint and touristy although I still seem to be the only tourist. Still, it is a bit late to be having this break – I bet this place was packed all through the summer. I go in the teashop, head for a table and pull out a chair. The woman at the till comes over to me immediately.
‘We’re just about to close,’ she says.
There are two elderly women sitting at a corner table, handbags and scarves on the backs of their chairs. They are deep in conversation over cups of tea; there’s a plate of cakes between them on the table. They look like they won’t be leaving for quite a while. I ask the woman if there is time for me to just have one cup of tea. She shakes her head and tells me again that they are about to close.
‘It’s not only that,’ she says, looking at the backpack next to my feet. ‘We don’t serve walkers, you see. It upsets our proper customers.’
I pat the backpack and smile; tell her I’m not a walker, not really, not at the moment anyway. I explain about my car breaking down, how I need to find somewhere to stay and that’s why I’m lugging all this stuff around with me. I feel nervous and edgy and wonder why I’m trying to justify myself to this stranger. She shakes her head again, looks at me as if the matter is out of her hands. So I heave the bloody backpack up onto my shoulder again and leave.
I need to pee and go in search of the public toilets. I find a sign pointing to the far end of the market square. Relieved, I quickly enter the small stone building. It is pristine inside, clean as anything. There’s a piece of carpet on the floor and plastic flowers in a vase on the high windowsill. There are cheap, framed prints of plants and fruits on the pink painted walls. I feel as if I am using someone’s private bathroom, and hurry to wash my hands so I can leave. There is a new bar of scented soap and a real, fluffy clean towel hanging near the door. I wonder if the gents is kept as nicely as this and imagine it all done out in blue, with something masculine instead of the plastic flowers – a ship in a bottle perhaps. When I leave, I glance round for a gents toilet block but can’t see one. They’ve probably built them a decent distance apart. It’s that sort of place.
I decide to give the pub a try after all, partly because I’ve had enough of wandering from door to door and partly because it’s just opposite, on the other side of the square. In the middle of the empty square there’s an octagonal shelter with wooden slatted seats inside. I imagine it filled with noisy teenagers, their only place to gather. Or a small group of old men telling each other worn, familiar stories – none of them listening to each other. Now though, it shows no signs of ever being used. The seats are shiny, there’s no litter or graffiti or anything. It looks like a picture on a postcard. I feel a bit uneasy – as if I’m trespassing. I quicken my pace towards the Red Dragon.
As I get there an overweight young woman is dragging a large, sandwich-board sign out onto the pavement. She looks in my direction but doesn’t acknowledge me, then waddles back inside. The sign gives details of the food on offer for the evening. Meat pie, meat stew, meat this and meat that – the menu doesn’t say a word about vegetarian dishes, but that’s nothing unusual. Under the meaty meals, there’s a chalky invitation to stay in one of their comfortable rooms. Reasonable rates, it says. It’ll do, I think and try the door. It’s locked and when I check my watch there is almost an hour to go before opening time. My aching shoulders slump and I hear my stomach growl with hunger.
‘Shit,’ I say out loud, not meaning to.
I hear the lock being turned as I move away from the door, and a different woman comes out. She looks at me, her hands on her hips.
‘No need for that sort of language,’ she says.
‘No,’ I say, wishing she would sod off and mind her own business. ‘Sorry.’
‘Just not very ladylike, that’s all,’ she says. I wait for the rest of the lecture but she steps to one side and holds the door open. ‘You’ll want somewhere to stay,’ she says.
Inside the pub, everything is dark and the effect is claustrophobic. The deep red walls, brown carpet and dark oak bar absorb any remnant of early evening sunshine that might have tried to filter through the small windows. I have gone from day to night just by walking through the door and I wait near the bar for my eyes to adjust.
‘I can’t serve you drinks yet,’ the woman says. ‘We’re not officially open yet.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t want a drink. I’m just grateful to you for letting me in early.’
‘Well it is early – we don’t normally get anyone in for at least another two or three hours,’ she says. ‘They’ll all be at home, with the ovens on. There’s always a lot of cooking to be done.’
I feel that I am putting her out, being a nuisance. I start to explain about th
e car but she interrupts.
‘You’re the walker,’ she says. ‘Got your car up at Blakey’s garage, being fixed. We’ve got five rooms, all empty. You can take your pick.’ She stares at me, waiting for my answer.
‘Word gets round,’ I say.
She shrugs. ‘Small place,’ she says. Then she asks me again which room I want.
I’m worried how much my car is going to cost and don’t want to add unnecessarily to what I suspect will be a large bill. I ask about the prices.
‘They’re all the same,’ she says. ‘Some rooms are small, some are bigger but they all cost the same. You get breakfast as well, and all the rooms have tea-making facilities. Do you want to be at the front, overlooking the square or at the back, where it’s quiet?’
I choose the back although from what I’ve seen, I can’t imagine the front being noisy. I follow her up the red stair carpet, and we stop on the second floor. She points to the only door on the small landing.
‘That’s your room,’ she says.
I turn the loose, old fashioned doorknob and push the door open. The room is just as dark as the pub. I turn to see if the woman is coming in with me, but she’s gone. I struggle out of my backpack, let it fall onto the bed and lay next to it for a while. I drift off into a light doze but hunger stops me from falling properly asleep and my stomach makes loud growling noises, so I go back downstairs to see if I can order some food.
Luckily the bar is still empty – there are no men gawping or making whispered but audible comments to make me feel self conscious. I ask the woman if I can order a sandwich and some soup – there’s nothing else on the menu apart from all the meat. She seems irritated but writes my order on a small pad and tells me the food will be brought up to my room soon. It feels like an instruction for me to go back upstairs but I don’t mind – I wouldn’t have wanted to eat in the pub anyway. It’s too gloomy. And there is a strange smell.
Grave Misgivings Page 12