Strange Desires

by Joe Simpson Walker

  He turned to face her. ‘Sit down while you’re waiting, miss. Take your coat off. Maybe you’d like to make us both a cup of tea?’ A jerk of his thumb directed Victoria’s eyes away from the little cupboard, and towards a kettle and teapot which stood amidst the room’s clutter. ‘Let’s see - UK size 6, narrow...’

  While Victoria put the kettle on, he set to work. He selected one of the shorter of the dummy legs, strapped her broken shoe around its foot, and stood it upside down upon his workbench. The leg was so made as to stand steady that way, with the sole facing skywards. Then he put on spectacles and surgical gloves and from a little tube he applied spots of glue to shoe and heel, before bringing them gently together. From his collection of tools he picked out a tiny vice and very slowly screwed it into place, till it was firm enough to hold the heel while the glue dried but not so tight as to mark the surface of the shoe. Watching him, Victoria was quite amazed at his care in doing the job. She felt obliged not to speak till it was done.

  He looked round from his bench.

  ‘Tea up?’

  The hissing of steam from the kettle sounded loud in the air. ‘Oh - right. I was just fascinated by what you were doing.’

  ‘Were you on your way somewhere special when your heel broke?’

  Victoria nodded, understanding why he asked. She’d removed her raincoat, and underneath it she wore a short evening dress of turquoise silk. ‘To a dinner and reception. I saw a taxi drop someone off and made a run to catch it. My heel snapped, I nearly fell on my face and the taxi driver never even saw me. There was a policeman handy though, and he helped me up. He told me about this place,’ she added. ‘Simply that there was a shoe-shop nearby which might be open.’ She looked at her wristwatch. ‘Will my shoe have to stay fixed up like that for a few minutes?’

  ‘Longer, miss,’ said Mr Keane. ‘About three-quarters of an hour, if you want the job done properly.’

  ‘Oh, shit!’ Victoria exclaimed. ‘I’m late for dinner as it is! I came here because I thought it might be quicker than going home and finding another pair! I - ‘ She broke off. ‘If you can’t mend those shoes in a hurry, can you sell me some? Just a reasonable pair of courts with heels, in black? I’ve got my credit card - ‘

  But Mr Keane was shaking his head again, apologetically. ‘Sorry, miss, but I can’t. We don’t sell shoes here.’

  Victoria was already reaching into her bag for her credit card when her fingers stopped. ‘What the bloody hell are you talking about? This place is called the House of Footwear, but you don’t sell shoes?’

  ‘No, miss,’ Mr Keane said. ‘We don’t.’ He got up from his workbench. ‘Would you like to come with me, upstairs? Then you’ll understand.’

  In mystified surprise, Victoria followed him out of the workroom, back up the passage and up the stairs in the hall. ‘Here on the first floor, miss,’ Mr Keane’s voice came from above. ‘This is our showroom.’

  He opened a door and stood aside, letting her enter first. Victoria stepped through, and found herself in surroundings startlingly different to what she’d seen so far: a very large, high-ceilinged room, taking up perhaps the whole space of the first floor. It was completely windowless, lit softly but brightly with white neon light; its floor covered by thick plush carpeting, into which her stockinged feet sank gently with each step. A large free space was at its centre, surrounded on all four sides by ranks of tall open shelving. And ranked along the shelving and the floor, mounting almost to the ceiling, were boots, and more boots, boot after boot: at least a hundred different pairs of feminine boots. ‘I could sell you any of these, miss,’ Mr Keane’s voice came from behind. ‘This is our line of business, here at the House of Footwear. Exclusive boots for ladies. Our own designs from stock, or your design to order. But no shoes at all.’

  Victoria was still looking about her, taking in the room’s lush design and wealth of contents. There were boots in more styles than the eye could count at first sight, and every boot stood straight and steady in its place; in height they ranged from ankle to thigh, and all points in between. There was a good yard of space between shelving and walls, making it possible to walk around and study all the boots from in front and behind. Every inch of the walls was covered with photographs. Many showed just legs, boots topped by a glimpse of the models’ calves, knees or thighs; others were full-length studies of booted girls and women. The pictures had obviously been taken over years, the collected hairstyles, hemlines and eye makeup representing most of fashion’s changes from the Sixties to the Nineties. ‘I suppose when I started I should have named my shop the House of Boots,’ Mr Keane said. ‘But I thought, make it “Footwear” because you don’t want to turn away business. I wasn’t certain I’d be able to make a living out of doing exclusive boots, you see.’

  ‘Looks like you could,’ Victoria said bemusedly. ‘I was a bit rude to you downstairs, wasn’t I? I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s perfectly all right, miss. Why don’t you have a good look around, while you’re waiting for your repair? Here...’ He swept aside a tall curtain, revealing a deep alcove, almost a room in itself. He stepped into the alcove and came out carrying a metal stepladder. Setting it open, he climbed a few steps, till he was level with an upper shelf. ‘I was just going to suggest - instead of getting your shoes wet in this awful weather, why don’t you put on rubber rainboots? Carry your shoes in a bag, and change when you get there? Here’s some that are very ladylike.’

  He was already coming down the steps, shiny black rubber boots in hand. He placed them on the carpet, beside a chair. ‘Wouldn’t you like to try them on, miss?’

  Victoria looked down at the rainboots. Certainly, they didn’t offend her sense of style: every boot in the showroom was beautifully made, and probably very expensive. And as Mr Keane had said, these boots were perfectly feminine in their design, with pointed toes, a slight heel and slim-fitting legs that ascended to the widest point of the calf. She sat in the chair, picked up the right boot and inserted her foot into its leg, the rubber sliding on to her skin. The boot’s outer surface was glossy to the touch, but inside it was lined with some soft, plush material that seemed to make way for the entrance of the wearer’s foot, and to close snugly back around it as it settled into place. Getting her leg inside the boot took some moments, longer than Victoria had expected and when she’d eased her left foot into its partner, and sat with both feet booted in gleaming rubber, it was with an extraordinary feeling of being pampered and cosseted, of being massaged almost, and in the most sensual manner. ‘I - I - ‘ She hardly knew what to say. ‘They’re lovely.’

  ‘Would you like to see how you look in them?’

  A tall mirror stood a few feet away, beside one of the model portraits. Mr Keane wheeled it in front of Victoria’s chair. She looked at herself: saw her slim figure; her long blonde hair, heavy dark eyebrows, grey eyes and firm chin; her short but elegant dress, worn with a modest string of pearls around her neck; and with all that, the boots. She wasn’t vain, but she knew she had fine legs. Now her shapely calves and kissable feet were hidden, in rubber casings that matched flesh for beauty. Yes, hidden, but somehow, glorified...

  ‘I’ll take them,’ she said abruptly.

  Mr Keane nodded in satisfaction. ‘You’ve made a good choice, miss - Miss...?’

  ‘Martins. You’ll take my card?’

  ‘Of course. But I wonder if you’d mind signing something for me? Won’t be a minute.’

  He went back into the alcove. Victoria wondered for a moment what he was doing in there, out of her sight. Next moment she’d stood up and was walking in right after him to see. She moved confidently, but with a kind of inner surprise. This wasn’t like her. She was curious to see what was in the alcove, so she was going to look. It was as if some part of her normal mind had been bypassed or overridden, causing her to do exactly as she desired, there and then. Also she was struck by
how extraordinarily comfortable the rainboots were to walk in; they were constructed strongly on the outside and gave her feet a sense of weight and solidity, but were warm against her skin.

  Mr Keane gave a slight start. ‘Oh! Er - come in, miss. I’m just fetching my client ledger,’ he said, taking a large-sized manuscript book down from a shelf. ‘A record of everyone I’ve sold boots, in the last...’ - he opened it at the first page, and went on: ‘1989, that’s when my last book ran out of space. Six years ago now.’

  ‘Really?’ Victoria said carelessly.

  She was looking around the alcove, at shelves stacked with box files, with account books, with various brushes, polishes, and other items for the care of boots, and did not feel called upon to hide an expression of faint contempt. But there was something else: a large mural board, its space almost completely covered with pencil sketches, skilfully executed. They were designs for different boots, done at many different times, standing in the midst of a jungle of pencilled notes. Her expression changed. ‘That’s my ideas board, miss. If I’m doing a special order, sometimes I’ll ask a client to tell me what she wants while I try and draw it for her.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’ Victoria said, hardly listening.

  Her attention was drawn to one particular corner of the board. There Mr Keane had been drawing not a boot, but what appeared to be various attempts at designing some kind of logo or insignia. Eagle wings, stars and Maltese crosses were arranged over, under and around various combinations of letters, which might have been shots at inventing an acronym. One letter of the alphabet was common to every attempt, and tended to be written larger than the others: ‘D’.

  Victoria pointed. ‘What’s all this?’

  Mr Keane followed her finger. ‘Oh... That was a commission from Mrs Gardner.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘One of my very best customers, miss. And a personal friend. I’ve just finished a special order for her account,’ Mr Keane explained enthusiastically. ‘I think it’ll give complete satisfaction. I hope so, anyway,’ he said in a different, more subdued tone.

  Victoria turned to him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well... I did her a special order a few months ago now, and we had a bit of trouble over it.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Oh, tell me, please!’ Victoria exclaimed. ‘I’ve got the time to hear it, haven’t I, while I wait? If I’ve got to miss my dinner party and be late for the reception, at least let me have a good story to pass on.’

  Mr Keane shook his head. ‘It’s not a story to be gossiped around, miss.’

  It was on Victoria’s lips to beg him to tell, and promise not to repeat it to another living soul. But she didn’t; instead, quite another idea came to her.

  ‘Well, if you won’t, you won’t,’ she said coldly. Turning her back upon him, she walked out of the alcove. In the showroom, she sat down again in her chair. Mr Keane had hurried out after her. ‘Please don’t take offence, miss...’

  Victoria made no answer. She sat back, her bare arms resting upon the padded wooden arms of the chair. She crossed one knee over the other. She flexed her feet inside the boots, causing the tops to flip gently back and forth against her calves. She stared up at Mr Keane and their eyes met in a long, long moment of silence, until his dropped; not to the floor, but to her boots. She flexed her feet and streaks of reflected light danced and writhed across the surface of the shiny black rubber. At last, she spoke.

  ‘I really want you to tell me the story of Mrs Gardner and her special order. I insist you tell me. In fact, I order you to tell me.’

  With the final words, her voice turned sharp: her dark grey eyes were hard, her lips set. By contrast, Mr Keane’s mouth trembled. ‘If - if you put it like that, Miss Martins...’

  ‘Oh, but I do. Tell me the whole thing, with no more holding back,’ Victoria said, setting her boot down against the plush carpet with a slight stamp; and with a sense of having made her first use of a new and strange power.

  Two

  ‘The problem was my delivery service,’ Mr Keane began. ‘Part of the service of the House of Footwear is that our boots can be delivered by hand to any address. In the early days I used to do the job myself, in the evenings after the shop was closed. I’d drive some tremendous distances, with three or four orders in the back of my car; each pair of boots nicely boxed up, all ready to please her ladyship...’

  ‘Her ladyship?’ Victoria repeated.

  ‘That’s how I think of all my customers,’ Mr Keane said. ‘Not that I haven’t supplied boots to some very superior people over the years.’

  ‘But as I was telling you, time went on and I was doing more orders, and I started wanting to keep the shop open at all hours as you’ve found it tonight, and I didn’t feel like travelling about so much. And it was a step up for the business to have a special courier doing the deliveries - a nice car, and a good-looking young man. I didn’t think of designing a uniform for him,’ he said, as though Victoria had asked if he did. ‘A really well-cut business suit looks better in my opinion, and I think the ladies much prefer to see a man dressed that way...’

  Somewhere behind Victoria’s eyes the word YAWN appeared, written in big black letters. Her mouth opened to its fullest extent, stretching her face and offering a view down her throat. She sucked air in, held it a moment, then let it go, all very noisily.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Keane,’ she said, still yawning. ‘But cut the crap.’

  Even as she spoke, her inner self was amazed and appalled at her own bad manners and boorish tone of voice. Amazed and appalled - or was she amused...? Mr Keane, however, seemed not to take offence; indeed, when he spoke again it was with a note of apology.

  ‘I’ve done a lot of special orders for Mrs Gardner, and when this one was finished I’d just taken on a new courier,’ he said. ‘His name was Roy - Roy Everett - and I didn’t know it, but he had a girlfriend named Angela...’

  ‘Oh, come on, Roy. Let me open them up. Just to have a look.’

  Roy kept his eyes on the road ahead, but he knew that Angie had turned in her seat and was looking down into the back of the car. ‘No!’ he said, and his jaw clenched. ‘How many times...?’

  ‘I only wanna open it up for five minutes,’ Angie said, turning petulant. ‘Just to look at them. I won’t touch them at all, if you don’t want me to. Come on, Roy,’ she said, changing her tone again, this time to one of wheedling appeal. ‘What harm will it do?’

  ‘You’ll get me the sack.’

  ‘Who’ll ever know - ?’ Angie began; but then she gave up the argument in favour of direct action. She was already kneeling on her seat and never having bothered to fasten her safety belt, now she clambered half over it. Wrapped in tight white shorts, her bottom arched upwards, almost touching the car’s roof. Reaching down with both arms, she took hold of a large cardboard box that lay across the back seat.

  ‘Leave that alone!’ Roy shouted.

  She lifted the box and in a few moments more would have had it over the seat and in her lap, but Roy brought the car to a violent halt, braking in the middle of the road with no slow-down. Angie was thrown down from her perch, and landed sprawling across the dashboard with a scream. ‘Roy!’

  ‘I warned you!’

  ‘You could’ve killed me!’

  ‘We weren’t going fast enough!’

  ‘How do you know? Did you have time to work it out? I could’ve broken my back! You didn’t care! I’m getting out!’

  Suiting actions to words, she kicked open the door on her side of the car and scrambled out. Cursing, Roy fumbled with the lock on his seat belt. By the time he’d got loose, Angie was already some distance back down the road the way they’d come and was becoming lost to sight in the summer evening. As she walked she rubbed the small of her back, lifting away her T-shi
rt to massage her skin.

  For a moment Roy hesitated. He looked at the car, standing in the middle of the road with both doors open; but it was a lonely road, and Angie was walking fast. He grabbed the keys out of the ignition and ran after her. ‘Angie!’

  She kept on walking.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ he shouted. ‘I was mad. I shouldn’t have done it.’

  Still she kept on walking.

  ‘I can’t leave you on your own here. It’s miles from anywhere.’

  Still Angie kept on walking, receding into the twilight.

  ‘You can look at them if you want! Don’t go! Please...’

  She stopped. Breathless, his heart pumping hard, Roy caught up with her.

  ‘You mean that?’

  He nodded in surrender.

  Back at the car, she sat sideways in her seat, leaving the door open and allowing her feet to rest upon the ground. ‘Get it out for us, Roy. It dropped down when you braked.’

  Pulling the driver’s seat all the way forward, Roy retrieved the box from where it had fallen on the rear floor. It was long and rectangular in shape, about three feet by one by nine inches. It bore a dispatch label printed with the House of Footwear logo; upon that was written, in old Mr Keane’s fine handwriting: ‘To Mrs DAVINIA GARDNER, Lockwood Lodge’.

  Angie took it from him, all smiles now; indeed, full of childish delight. ‘Here, how do you get it open...? It’s easy, see? Not like there was Sellotape or anything you had to tear...’ With the box laid across her knees, she unfastened its cardboard lid and lifted it open. Sheets of black paper were revealed, wrapped around the contents; crisp yet silky, they rustled and crackled as Angie pulled them away. ‘Isn’t this stuff lovely? You could wrap presents in it.’