The Wisdom of Sally Red Shoes

by Ruth Hogan

  Mrs Sweetie has found Marion on one of the maiden aunts. Hurrah!

  Chapter 26

  ART

  The fragile scrap of flesh and feathers cradled in my hands is still warm. But the body is limp and there is not the faintest tremor of life.

  I had been crossing the park towards the café when I saw a horribly familiar group heading in my direction. Haizum was not with me today to act as bodyguard and it was obvious that Deliverance Boy had something to say. I kept my eyes on his, trying to control the anger that was welling up inside me like bile in my throat. The sight of his dead-fish eyes and arrogant grin as he swaggered across the grass were reason enough to make me want to punch him.

  I kept my hands pushed deeply into my pockets.

  Until he gave me the dead duckling.

  ‘I’ve got something for you. It belongs to your friend – that fucking retard who feeds the birds. Thought you could give it back to her.’

  It took me by surprise. A split second before my brain kicked in, my hand reached out. At the first brush of feathers on my skin I knew exactly what he had done, and exactly what was in my hand. His rabble of defective delinquents jeered and laughed, but Deliverance Boy was silent and grinning like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. In that moment he was a vessel for everything I hate. I didn’t touch him. I said nothing. But I drew so close to him that I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face. Close enough to register just a flicker of apprehension in those cadaverous eyes. I truly wanted to kill him, but instead, I spat in his face and walked away.

  I have brought the duckling to the cemetery, but now I don’t know what to do. I sit on a bench staring at the tiny corpse nestled in my palm, sobbing hot, angry, embarrassing tears. The wound that has never properly healed is torn a little further open. I could not save the duckling any more than I could save my Gabriel. I cry until my face is red and ugly, and my nose is sore and my head hurts. And then I stop and yell ‘Fuck!’ at the top of my voice until I feel a bit better (and one of the cemetery workers has heard me and is beginning to look worried). Eventually I take the duckling to the special angel and place it in her hands. I know that it will be eaten by a fox tonight, or even by the crows, but I am doing it for me; it’s somehow kinder and more respectful than leaving it on the ground or putting it in a rubbish bin. The cemetery is almost deserted and two squirrels are chasing each other round the gravestones near the iron gate. Their fat bushy tails are twitching with excitement and one of them darts up a tree and the other follows. Their claws scratch across the bark as they helter-skelter up and down; racing and jumping and swinging; just for fun, just because they can.

  As I cross the park towards home, Sally’s crows are gathering on the grass in anticipation of their tea and suddenly I have a desperate need to see her. Even if, today, she is incoherent, I want to stand beside her. I want to bask in the reassurance that her corporeal presence brings. Haizum and I may have rescued her from Deliverance Boy, but she is certainly not one of life’s victims. I have a feeling that she has fought far more formidable demons single-handedly and triumphs over them daily. I know nothing about her, but I know how she makes me feel. Safe. But at the same time strangely daring. It’s as though, somehow, she gives me strength.

  I hear her before I see her. She is singing ‘Amazing Grace’. The crows jump and jostle at my feet as they watch her approach. It is too warm for her capacious coat, and today she is wearing a striped blazer over a blue velvet dress and her customary red shoes. She smiles when she sees me and hands me the bag of bread.

  ‘You feed the buggers while I finish songing my sing,’ she says. And so the crows and I are serenaded, while I scatter bread onto the grass. Sally doesn’t sing quietly, to herself, or even just to me and her crows. She sings out to the world – or at least the park – launching the music into the air with unashamed pleasure and no trace of coyness. People stare as they pass us by and some even point and snigger, but Sally doesn’t care. And neither do I. I’m not even angry with them. I feel sorry for them that they see a weirdo where I can see a wonder woman. And I’m proud and grateful that I’m with her.

  Chapter 27

  ART

  Alice

  Alice resisted the temptation to pick up the radio and hurl it across the room. But only just. The sound of it smashing against the hard floor and the sight of it fracturing and haemorrhaging its tinny innards would have been momentarily very satisfying, but she barely had the strength to lift it. That perky little theme tune that introduced The Archers had today become as intensely irritating as a persistent car alarm. She was trying to cook Mattie’s tea, but it seemed a gargantuan task simply to pierce the plastic lid and place it in the microwave. The cardboard box said that it was tuna and tomato pasta bake, but the contents looked more like vomit. And she ought to know, she thought ruefully. She’d seen enough of it recently. She stared at the cooking instructions printed on the side of the box in tiny white letters. ‘Cooking’ was a rather overblown description for what was essentially simply ‘making hot’, she thought, wandering mentally away from the task in hand as she so often did these days.

  A hungry Mattie came into the kitchen to find her stranded in the middle of the room, staring at the cardboard box. His stomach heaved with something other than hunger. Fear?

  She hadn’t even bothered to dress that day and was still wearing her pyjamas and an old cardigan.

  ‘Mum?’

  She looked at him with a mildly puzzled expression, as though she recognised his face but couldn’t put a name to it.

  ‘Are you okay, Mum?’

  The sound of his voice seemingly jolted her back into their common reality. Back into their kitchen where tea was late again.

  ‘Of course I am,’ she snapped guiltily, as though she had been caught doing something she shouldn’t.

  ‘Shall I lay the table?’

  Mattie’s voice was quiet and deliberately patient; a treading-on-eggshells voice.

  Alice nodded as she closed the microwave door and jabbed at the timer buttons with her finger. Exhausted by this simple task, she collapsed into the nearest chair and watched as Mattie set out plates and cutlery. Alice had no intention of eating anything, but she couldn’t face Mattie’s protests if she admitted it. He was watching the microwave and his mother as though they were both grenades that had lost their pins. The food had been in the microwave far longer than it should have been and Alice appeared to have forgotten it completely. The ping of the timer jogged her memory and she struggled to her feet.

  ‘Sit down then, love,’ she said to Mattie with a weary smile. ‘Your tea’s ready.’

  But as Alice opened the microwave door a billow of smoke belched into the kitchen, setting off the alarm on the ceiling. The congealed contents of the carton were topped with a brittle, bubbled, inedible crust. She pulled at the hot plastic with her bare fingers, but, unable to hold it, sent it flying onto the kitchen floor where the plastic split and its contents oozed out into a puddle on the grubby lino. Alice howled, and kicked the remains of the carton, splattering globules of fish and tomato onto the nearby surfaces, and then sank to the floor where, hugging her knees, she began to rock and weep.

  Half an hour later Mattie had cleaned up the mess, made his own meal and settled Alice in front of the television with a mug of peppermint tea. He sat down next to her with a tray, and as he tucked into beans on toast, he nudged her gently with his elbow and when she turned to him he grinned.

  ‘Never mind, Mum. I didn’t fancy that tuna thing anyway. It looked a bit like sick to me.’

  Chapter 28

  ART

  Masha

  Elvis is sitting in the front row wearing a white tuxedo jacket, a pink silk scarf, his usual hat and, unless I’m very much mistaken, a sweep of sparkly eyeshadow. The big night has finally arrived, and Edward and I are sitting several rows behind Elvis and slightly to his right in the rather uncomfortable wooden seats of our local theatre. The building is stuffy in the summer and
draughty in winter. The parking is dreadful and the bar is tiny, but nonetheless we love it, and we also know that in this age where television is God and monstrous flatscreens rule, provincial theatres are closing as regularly as village post offices, and we are bloody lucky to have it.

  According to the programme, which I made Edward buy, the role of Ko-Ko, Lord High Executioner of Titipu, is to be played by Marcus McMinn. So – this is Edward’s ‘good friend’. I am genuinely excited. This is a strictly amateur production and The Mikado is the perfect vehicle for every kind of glorious catastrophe that amateur dramatics can produce. I am intensely curious about the mysterious Marcus, and mildly intrigued as to what exactly Elvis is doing here. I didn’t have him down as a Gilbert and Sullivan fan. Edward, who is looking particularly handsome tonight, is also looking a little nervous. I take his hand and squeeze it and he gives me a grateful smile. I have no idea what is going on here, but, as ever, when in doubt I think of Lady T and decide upon the all-round discretion and graciousness option for tonight, so I smile and don’t ask any questions. Whatever it is, it is important to Edward, and Edward is important to me.

  The lights go down and there is an expectant hush in the audience, punctuated by a couple of nervous giggles. The orchestra starts up – a couple of dodgy violins, a clarinet, a piano, some drums, a triangle, and wonderfully, unbelievably but unmistakably, a didgeridoo. If I start giggling now I shall have lost control of my bladder before the end of act one, so I dig my nails into my arm, bite my lip and stare straight ahead. I think ‘graciousness’ may have been setting the bar too high. Right now I’d settle for not embarrassing myself completely. The lights come up to reveal what looks like a reception area in a Chinese restaurant. There is a plain backdrop with a wooden screen on either side painted with rather odd-shaped pagodas, and men and women wearing coolie hats and waving chopsticks.

  Two middle-aged Japanese ladies with very black slanted eyes and very red rosebud lips shuffle onto the stage in shoes that look like wooden platform flip-flops. They are wearing voluminous kimonos made of cheap, chintzy curtain material and black wigs that look like hats made of hair. They carry various items of scenery and props onto the stage, including a tree, a bush and a seat, and as they set each one down, they face the audience and motion to the item with both hands in the manner of a magician’s assistant. I keep expecting them to exclaim, ‘Ta-dah!’ The director obviously thought that this was a clever theatrical device for setting the scene. In reality it just looks like someone forgot to put the scenery and props out before the audience arrived, and this is a last-minute solution.

  Finally the stage is set and the Gentlemen’s Chorus enters. These men are wearing brightly coloured nylon dressing gowns holding enough static to power the national grid, Smurf hats and Velcro-strapped sandals. They perform what looks like a clog dance (but without the clogs, obviously) and have a bit of a sing, but I hardly dare look as I am already struggling not to laugh. Some can apparently only sing or dance at one time, so the performance is a little disjointed. Edward is faring slightly better on the self-control front, but I can see the corners of his mouth beginning to twitch, and his hands are gripping the arms of his seat so tightly that his knuckles are turning white.

  At the end of their song and dance routine, the audience applauds rather over-enthusiastically. In her guidance for appropriate conduct at the theatre, Lady T advises that ‘indiscriminate hand-clapping is not only annoying but is a sign that the offender has poor judgement’; however, I suspect many members of this audience have been desperately suppressing hysterical laughter, and are taking the opportunity to release the tension and gird their loins for the next scene. I am now praying that for Edward’s sake – and for mine, my graciousness hanging by a thread – his friend makes a better fist of Ko-Ko than the performances we have seen so far. The arrival on stage of the chorus of School-Girls certainly does nothing to restore my composure. The ages of these ‘girls’ range from post-menopausal to one poor old dear who’s almost post-mortem. She needs to be discreetly helped around the stage by two more sprightly members of the chorus. These ladies are also wearing chintzy curtain-material kimonos, hair hats and platform flip-flops (except the really old one who is wearing tartan slippers). There is one ‘girl’ who is wearing slightly more lipstick than the others and whose kimono has a rather raunchy side split. She seems to be taking every opportunity to sashay and shimmy at Elvis in the front row. It’s the scintillating sex-siren from the corner shop, and by the look of things, she and Elvis are now an item.

  Chapter 29

  ART

  ‘Never mind Yum Yum, looks more like Big Bum to me.’

  We are drinking wine in the courtyard outside the theatre during the interval, and reviewing the performance so far. Edward is clearly enjoying himself.

  ‘Now, Edward, I think you’re being a tad uncharitable. All the kimonos have got some sort of bustle affair at the back.’

  ‘More like the back end of a bus in her case, don’t you think?’

  I can’t help laughing. The production has been highly entertaining so far, for all the wrong reasons: the home-made costumes, created by a retired needlework teacher with a surplus of curtain material and a Smurf fetish; the wonderfully strange orchestra, and, most memorably, Elvis’s latest flame. I have checked the programme for the names of those in the School-Girls’ chorus. There is only one possibility. She has to be Kitty Muriel Peachey.

  ‘Ko-Ko’s rather good. Quite dishy, too.’

  ‘Mmm . . .’

  Edward seems to be occupied with fixing a cigarette into his holder, and is blushing ever so slightly. Ko-Ko has in fact been a revelation. Not only is he very handsome, but as a performer he is both talented and charismatic. He is certainly carrying this production virtually single-handed (with a little help from Kitty). Edward lights his cigarette and inhales deeply. He blows two perfect smoke rings and then smiles, and as I look into his sparkling eyes, the penny – in fact the whole purse of loose change – drops. Edward is in love.

  Suddenly I feel rather hot and then, embarrassingly, my eyes fill with tears, so I pretend to look for something in my handbag. It’s sheer relief that makes me want to cry, and as it hits me in a second wave I hiccup with the strain of trying to keep my emotions under control. I take a gulp of wine and blame Edward’s cigarette smoke. He looks at me quizzically but says nothing.

  I have always worried that Gabriel may have been the initial crack in Rupert’s relationship with Edward. Not the sole cause of his flight to Hay-on-Wye with the reiki rake but the catalyst that precipitated its eventuality. Edward so adored Gabriel, but Rupert didn’t share his enthusiasm. I think he may have been jealous. Even after Gabriel died. Since Rupert, Edward has had no significant other, which adds to my already considerable tally of things that I feel responsible for and therefore guilty about. But recently he has seemed more skittish. I thought he might be overdoing the espressos, but now it seems that Edward has been rejuvenated by romance and I couldn’t be happier for him.

  In the second half, the Mikado himself arrives, played by a rather handsome and imposing-looking man with all the stage presence of a brick. But on the positive side, he can walk unaided, sing almost in tune, and remembers most of his lines. Kitty Muriel continues to flirt outrageously with Elvis whenever she’s on stage. And Edward is besotted. Each time Ko-Ko appears (tall, slim, dark hair and liquid brown eyes) Edward is transfixed. He is of course pretending not to be, and when he catches me watching him, he does the eyebrow thing and then points out something funny to distract me. But I can tell.

  The performance ends with a rousing chorus including the shuffling School-Girls (the really old one is now using a Zimmer frame), the clog-dancing Smurfs, and a final drone of the didgeridoo. The audience forces the cast to take several curtain calls with its enthusiastic clapping and cheering. Lady T is of the opinion that ‘the stamping of feet, whistling or noisy acclamation of any kind is bad form’; however I’m pretty sure she never s
aw the like of this astonishing version of The Mikado, and Edward and I indulge in all three rapturously and in genuine appreciation of the entertainment that has been afforded, despite the fact that most of it was unintentional. I have tears of laughter running down my face, and my cheeks ache. And after two hours on a hard wooden seat, so does my bum; apologies, Lady T – bottom.

  We retire to the pub where we are soon joined by Marcus, who in real life is an art curator from New York rather than a terminator from Titipu. He is every bit as charming, funny and kind as he looks. Well, as far as I can tell after five minutes in his company. I finish my drink, make my excuses and say my goodbyes. I recognise the role of first gooseberry on the left when I see it, and it’s not one I’m going to play. Edward may just have found his leading man.

  Chapter 30

  ART

  On 13 January 1884 Dr William Price set fire to baby Jesus on a hill in Glamorgan. William was a Druid, a vegetarian, a believer in free love and an opponent of vivisection. He sounds like an interesting man. At the age of eighty-three he fathered a love child with his housekeeper and they called him Jesus Christ. Sadly, Jesus only lived for a few months, and William, reluctant to release the remains of his precious boy to the care of strangers and keen to honour his Druid beliefs, decided on the do-it-yourself funeral option, including a rather homespun cremation that was only partially successful. William’s chapel-going neighbours were dreadfully put out (they perhaps had clean washing on the line that ended up smelling of bonfire) and insisted that his paediatric pyrotechnics be punished. However, Sir James Stephen of the Cardiff assizes judged that cremation was not an offence provided no nuisance was caused thereby to others. Sir James was a very forward-thinking man who clearly did not do his own laundry.