NEW SHOES
The shoes were too tight, but she wouldn’t say. Of course they were too tight. The moment the girl showed them to her she knew they were too narrow, the leather too hard to move over. What has possessed her to do this? The girl knows; everyone in the shop knows she doesn’t belong here. A moment, just one second – a glimpse into what might have been once, could have been…perhaps. Her feet look wrong in these shoes, bright mustard patent leather – what was she thinking? Mustard! On the floor beside them, her own brown things, like cast aside beggars. A moment; just one second…But what was it took hold of her and brought her here? A thousand times she has walked past this shop. A thousand times she has sniffed at the idea of glamour. Not for her. For the likes of her. And then, today, she stopped. Saw brightly coloured shoes in the window and like a little girl, stood there wanting them. For a second, maybe ten seconds, nothing else mattered. If she could only have those shoes…everything would change. Like magic a different life would manifest. She stood there still, full of desire. A new feeling. Forgotten. A good feeling? Not sure. Like a child alright, that’s what the feeling brought. Point to them. Want them. She even had her hands – both hands – stuck to the glass, her nose almost pressed to the window. Her own breath fogging up the image, conscious of her lips, almost touching the glass. Now she saw them up close, they weren’t all that beautiful after all. They were mustard for goodness sake! But against their candy coloured cousins, primping themselves in the display, mustard shoes stood out.
The heels brought her back to earth. She could never walk anywhere in those heels. Walk anywhere? What was she thinking now? Did she really think she could actually wear them outside? Outside of this game she was playing. Window playing. Bless me Father for I have sinned, and I did it all in these dandy shoes. But wait, she did see herself, for one foreign moment, she imagined herself wearing them – and for a second there, maybe even just part of a second, they didn’t look half bad. She didn’t look half bad. She was smiling. Yes, that is why she is still here perhaps. She has seen herself smiling. Smiling! Like she has something to be happy about.
Why not?
A memory: she is seven years old and she wears her communion shoes, the only new shoes the child ever stood in. Too tight, pinching her but new! White and bright and leather. When she wasn’t wearing them in she was hugging them to her, drinking in the new smell. The nuns sometimes had that smell, in school, on the corridor sometimes you could smell new leather. But these were her own. She loved them more than the dress. The dress wasn’t hers anyway. That came from someone and would be passed on to many more. Gleaming they were, the shoes. Brilliant white patent leather things. Even after fifty nine years it seems she still carries the little girl’s joy. Simple: new shoes. They would scratch eventually, and scuff and the strap would hang off on one, pinned back with a safety pin. They would end up dirty and over-worn, but underneath, the truth of them was pure white, shiny, delightful. A secret she would carry with her long into her life, incognito until this moment. God, she’s smiling now! Try on the shoes. What harm can it do? Don’t buy them of course, just stand in them and remember.
She has never done this before, or if she has it’s been so long, she can’t remember what to do. Does the girl come up to you or do you go up to her? Does she get the shoes herself? No, of course, ask for your size. What is her size? She looks down. She doesn’t refer to them as feet. For years they have been ‘these lumps’. She hasn’t shown them the slightest respect. These lumps won’t get me far. These lumps have me mithered but they’re all I’ve got. Could be worse, I could be crippled. She thought she was being positive. God, these poor auld lumps. The girl comes, asks if she can help her at all. The yellow shoes, she says. Won’t call them mustard they might laugh at me. I just want to look at them. The girl doesn’t laugh. She says of course Madam (Madam!) and what size are you? It’s mortifying but she’s here now, and no one seems to be minding. She leans on the girl to take off one shoe. The girl smirks, looks mildly disgusted. Shows her to a seat. Asks her again what size. She looks at the shoe in her hand. She is embarrassed of herself, and her shoes. What a traumatic time this is turning out to be. Why is she doing this to herself, why could she not just walk on? But then she would not have remembered her communion shoes. She turns the old shoe over, charity shop worn, and tries to decipher the number on the sole. The girl tells her it looks like a six and she’d get a six and seven. Left alone to wait, she breathes out long and loud. Thanks be to God. Say an act of contrition while you wait, it’ll calm you. Say a decade of the rosary. The girl returns. She says she thinks she’s a six, try the six on first. Taking it she handles it like gold. She wants the girl to go away for a moment, leave her to enjoy the shoes, smell them, stroke them. She doesn’t even really want to try them on. The girl asks if they’re the right ones. She says yes, they’re the ones. Puts her auld lump into one. It brings nothing but pain. She has closed her eyes. She cannot help grimacing against it. The girl asks her if the size is okay. Yes, perfect she says. Could she try on the other? Still sitting she considers her new feet. What the heck do you lumps think you’re at? She asks them. How do they feel? The girl asks. Perfect. Are they a bit tight? No, no, not at all. Would she try on the seven, just to see? The girl has them in her hand, ready. She pulls off one grunting and then, sighs with pleasure. Relief. The girl giggles and says probably the seven. The girl doesn’t mind her auld lumps forcing themselves in and out of these brand new shoes. She has giggled, she is smiling. She is waiting on her, hand and foot.
Something happens when she slips on the seven. It fits. Standing up she stretches out her toes inside. She has to stop herself from holding out the tips of the hem of her skirt; she hasn’t done that since…There’s a mirror over there, the girl says. She walks to it. A memory : That girl from sixth year…her name – Marlene…Marlena? An unusual name anyway. She wore too much make-up. She knew how to walk in heels. At the dance hall, she said walk with your hips forward, shoulders back, tummy in. She watched the younger girls and adjusted their posture. Showed some of the others how to put on lipstick. Smiled like she knew more than everyone else. Once she whispered: think to yourself: I’m beautiful.
There had been a boy too. He even talked of marriage, but then one time he had touched her bare breast. She remembers the rush of excitement to her private place and then the guilt. She wanted so badly to stay with the thrilling sensation, his hand so warm. She had a thought; I’m beautiful. Sister Dominic’s words interrupt: If a man does that, he’s a fornicator, he’ll do it to other women all through your marriage. He couldn’t be ‘the one’. Although, she liked the way he looked; kind, and he smelled like she thought a good father might smell; clean, soap, aftershave, strong. Manly. Capable. Not rough. Present. Said no to him. Broke her heart and his but he was a fornicator. Couldn’t trust him. That feeling sweeps over her.
In the mirror she sees someone vaguely familiar. She realizes she has been scowling for years. She only recognizes herself when she tries on the scowl again. Yes, that’s me alright. God what an auld bag. Her smile eases itself back in place. She likes it there. She admires it with pride, the way she sometimes stands back and acknowledges her own arrangement of flowers on the altar. Notices the shape of her teeth, the slight turn of one as if to say, move over brothers, make some room. Likes her own eyes, the fading blue where once they were almost navy. There is a magic going on here. Sighing with pleasure, she feels the little girl rush back in, clip-clopping in her pretty shoes. Welcome home darling. She has never loved anyone like she loves that child. She closes her eyes for a moment, imagines a warm embrace from…someone – the child? The man with the hands? God? A tear trickles. A tear! And she so happy! She turns to the shop girl. How much?
What?! Some old naggy thing is screaming at her from far away. How much? For the shoes? How will you eat? A quick snap open of her purse and the naggy thing is silenced. The girl bites her lip. Ninety nine euro. She hasn’t enough. Nowhere near enough. It doesn’t matter. The girl says she can hold them for a week. Doesn’t matter. She hands the shoes back. Rewards the girl’s kindness with one of her newest freshest smiles. Thank you, she says and leaves, smiling, hips forward, thinks; I’m beautiful.
The shoes were too tight, but she wouldn’t say. Of course they were too tight. The moment the girl showed them to her she knew they were too narrow, the leather too hard to move over. What has possessed her to do this? The girl knows; everyone in the shop knows she doesn’t belong here. A moment, just one second – a glimpse into what might have been once, could have been…perhaps. Her feet look wrong in these shoes, bright mustard patent leather – what was she thinking? Mustard! On the floor beside them, her own brown things, like cast aside beggars. A moment; just one second…But what was it took hold of her and brought her here? A thousand times she has walked past this shop. A thousand times she has sniffed at the idea of glamour. Not for her. For the likes of her. And then, today, she stopped. Saw brightly coloured shoes in the window and like a little girl, stood there wanting them. For a second, maybe ten seconds, nothing else mattered. If she could only have those shoes…everything would change. Like magic a different life would manifest. She stood there still, full of desire. A new feeling. Forgotten. A good feeling? Not sure. Like a child alright, that’s what the feeling brought. Point to them. Want them. She even had her hands – both hands – stuck to the glass, her nose almost pressed to the window. Her own breath fogging up the image, conscious of her lips, almost touching the glass. Now she saw them up close, they weren’t all that beautiful after all. They were mustard for goodness sake! But against their candy coloured cousins, primping themselves in the display, mustard shoes stood out.
The heels brought her back to earth. She could never walk anywhere in those heels. Walk anywhere? What was she thinking now? Did she really think she could actually wear them outside? Outside of this game she was playing. Window playing. Bless me Father for I have sinned, and I did it all in these dandy shoes. But wait, she did see herself, for one foreign moment, she imagined herself wearing them – and for a second there, maybe even just part of a second, they didn’t look half bad. She didn’t look half bad. She was smiling. Yes, that is why she is still here perhaps. She has seen herself smiling. Smiling! Like she has something to be happy about.
Why not?
A memory: she is seven years old and she wears her communion shoes, the only new shoes the child ever stood in. Too tight, pinching her but new! White and bright and leather. When she wasn’t wearing them in she was hugging them to her, drinking in the new smell. The nuns sometimes had that smell, in school, on the corridor sometimes you could smell new leather. But these were her own. She loved them more than the dress. The dress wasn’t hers anyway. That came from someone and would be passed on to many more. Gleaming they were, the shoes. Brilliant white patent leather things. Even after fifty nine years it seems she still carries the little girl’s joy. Simple: new shoes. They would scratch eventually, and scuff and the strap would hang off on one, pinned back with a safety pin. They would end up dirty and over-worn, but underneath, the truth of them was pure white, shiny, delightful. A secret she would carry with her long into her life, incognito until this moment. God, she’s smiling now! Try on the shoes. What harm can it do? Don’t buy them of course, just stand in them and remember.
She has never done this before, or if she has it’s been so long, she can’t remember what to do. Does the girl come up to you or do you go up to her? Does she get the shoes herself? No, of course, ask for your size. What is her size? She looks down. She doesn’t refer to them as feet. For years they have been ‘these lumps’. She hasn’t shown them the slightest respect. These lumps won’t get me far. These lumps have me mithered but they’re all I’ve got. Could be worse, I could be crippled. She thought she was being positive. God, these poor auld lumps. The girl comes, asks if she can help her at all. The yellow shoes, she says. Won’t call them mustard they might laugh at me. I just want to look at them. The girl doesn’t laugh. She says of course Madam (Madam!) and what size are you? It’s mortifying but she’s here now, and no one seems to be minding. She leans on the girl to take off one shoe. The girl smirks, looks mildly disgusted. Shows her to a seat. Asks her again what size. She looks at the shoe in her hand. She is embarrassed of herself, and her shoes. What a traumatic time this is turning out to be. Why is she doing this to herself, why could she not just walk on? But then she would not have remembered her communion shoes. She turns the old shoe over, charity shop worn, and tries to decipher the number on the sole. The girl tells her it looks like a six and she’d get a six and seven. Left alone to wait, she breathes out long and loud. Thanks be to God. Say an act of contrition while you wait, it’ll calm you. Say a decade of the rosary. The girl returns. She says she thinks she’s a six, try the six on first. Taking it she handles it like gold. She wants the girl to go away for a moment, leave her to enjoy the shoes, smell them, stroke them. She doesn’t even really want to try them on. The girl asks if they’re the right ones. She says yes, they’re the ones. Puts her auld lump into one. It brings nothing but pain. She has closed her eyes. She cannot help grimacing against it. The girl asks her if the size is okay. Yes, perfect she says. Could she try on the other? Still sitting she considers her new feet. What the heck do you lumps think you’re at? She asks them. How do they feel? The girl asks. Perfect. Are they a bit tight? No, no, not at all. Would she try on the seven, just to see? The girl has them in her hand, ready. She pulls off one grunting and then, sighs with pleasure. Relief. The girl giggles and says probably the seven. The girl doesn’t mind her auld lumps forcing themselves in and out of these brand new shoes. She has giggled, she is smiling. She is waiting on her, hand and foot.
Something happens when she slips on the seven. It fits. Standing up she stretches out her toes inside. She has to stop herself from holding out the tips of the hem of her skirt; she hasn’t done that since…There’s a mirror over there, the girl says. She walks to it. A memory : That girl from sixth year…her name – Marlene…Marlena? An unusual name anyway. She wore too much make-up. She knew how to walk in heels. At the dance hall, she said walk with your hips forward, shoulders back, tummy in. She watched the younger girls and adjusted their posture. Showed some of the others how to put on lipstick. Smiled like she knew more than everyone else. Once she whispered: think to yourself: I’m beautiful.
There had been a boy too. He even talked of marriage, but then one time he had touched her bare breast. She remembers the rush of excitement to her private place and then the guilt. She wanted so badly to stay with the thrilling sensation, his hand so warm. She had a thought; I’m beautiful. Sister Dominic’s words interrupt: If a man does that, he’s a fornicator, he’ll do it to other women all through your marriage. He couldn’t be ‘the one’. Although, she liked the way he looked; kind, and he smelled like she thought a good father might smell; clean, soap, aftershave, strong. Manly. Capable. Not rough. Present. Said no to him. Broke her heart and his but he was a fornicator. Couldn’t trust him. That feeling sweeps over her.
In the mirror she sees someone vaguely familiar. She realizes she has been scowling for years. She only recognizes herself when she tries on the scowl again. Yes, that’s me alright. God what an auld bag. Her smile eases itself back in place. She likes it there. She admires it with pride, the way she sometimes stands back and acknowledges her own arrangement of flowers on the altar. Notices the shape of her teeth, the slight turn of one as if to say, move over brothers, make some room. Likes her own eyes, the fading blue where once they were almost navy. There is a magic going on here. Sighing with pleasure, she feels the little girl rush back in, clip-clopping in her pretty shoes. Welcome home darling. She has never loved anyone like she loves that child. She closes her eyes for a moment, imagines a warm embrace from…someone – the child? The man with the hands? God? A tear trickles. A tear! And she so happy! She turns to the shop girl. How much?
What?! Some old naggy thing is screaming at her from far away. How much? For the shoes? How will you eat? A quick snap open of her purse and the naggy thing is silenced. The girl bites her lip. Ninety nine euro. She hasn’t enough. Nowhere near enough. It doesn’t matter. The girl says she can hold them for a week. Doesn’t matter. She hands the shoes back. Rewards the girl’s kindness with one of her newest freshest smiles. Thank you, she says and leaves, smiling, hips forward, thinks; I’m beautiful.
