What follows is the
beginning of a short story – Desert Island DMs - I wrote not long after my mum
died in January 2012. It is a story
but there are many connections with my own life and the shoes are all ones I
have owned and worn. The piece has appeared online previously as it was
shortlisted for the then publication FiveStop Story:
Have you seen
that advert for shoes? Clarks I think. Looking down, actors chant, ‘New Shoes,’
as if in a trance. When I’m famous and
asked to chart my life, I’ll do it through shoes.
*
I’m two (my
mum has told me this story and I’ve seen the photo) and sitting on the step of
our house. The front door is red, like my shoes. They have shiny buckles and
are probably Clarks, or maybe Start-Rite. I’m dressed in a pink knitted outfit
- a coat and hat with kitten ears – lovingly made by my grandmother. I’m
squinting in the spring sunshine and looking sweet enough to eat. Soon after
the picture was taken I fell into a puddle, staining my lovely pink suit and
scuffing my shoes.
Lying on a
trolley in the Accident and Emergency Department of our local hospital I wonder
why I’ve still got my shoes on. I’m six and bang heads with an eight year old
as I run from the classroom following the going-home bell. It wasn’t the first
time I’d run out of school. After the first day I decided that I’d rather stay
at home. The headmistress had to shut the school gates to stop me escaping. I
don’t remember much about the hospital visit, except for my shoes; brown
lace-ups. It must have been winter; no buckles this time.
I’m 16 and
wearing a pair of platform shoes (usually I wear gym shoes or desert boots) for
a night out. They’re candy striped and pretty, but pinch my toes. From O’ Level
Biology I know that foot bones don’t fully harden until we’re in our mid 20s.
So the shoes we wear in previous years determine our future likelihood of
bunions, corns and other nasties. My platforms hurt all the way through the The
Towering Inferno and distract me from fighting off my date’s wandering hands.
That evening I dump the platforms and the boyfriend; both I and my feet feel
happier as a result.
White
high-heeled wedding shoes mean I am lucky not to trip over my dress and fall on
my face. I cling to my new husband walking down the aisle. At 21 and 22 we are
both fairly wet behind the ears. I dye the shoes blue after the honeymoon, but
never wear them again. Mum told me I wouldn’t. Simon, my husband, is promoted
four times in as many years and I buy court shoes in a variety of colours to
wear to works’ events and dinners with the boss. At my job in the local garden
centre I stick to my desert boots, or flip flops.
Our years
together are tempestuous. During one loud, hot argument in a Greek supermarket
I throw a large red juicy tomato at him. He apologises to the bemused, shop
owner, pays for the tomato and our other purchases and grabs my hand. We run
back to our holiday apartment so that we can ‘make up’. I look at the tomato
seeds in his hair as he simultaneously tugs down my shorts and kisses the sand
off my toes. I’m still wearing my flip-flops. We grow up together and grow
apart. After eight years of marriage we part.
To be continued . . .
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