Dead Man's Shoes

The task was to write a piece to include ‘naked bouncy fun times'.  I couldn’t do it, so came up with;

DEAD  MAN’S  SHOES.

The bright yellow shop front failed to stand out from its posh high street neighbours.  A banner-flapping travel agent, a huge boot-shaped sculpture over the accessories store, the jewellery splashed pawn shop , and a fragrant  patisserie all competed to draw the passers-by away from Matthew’s charity window display.  It might be argued his window could only ever be as good as the donations but he prided himself on the interest and impact he created from the stuff he took in.

The yellow paint was the charity’s idea of street presence but Matthew found it a challenge to arrange things against that corporate colour clash.  He wasn’t that much of an aesthetic but it was important to him that this job as store manager, his first role out of uni, was something he could use on his CV to progress.   He had been given an empty shop and told to set it up.  Nothing in his arts/business degree had prepared him for such a blank directive and it seemed sales targets and turnover were a nicety as far as the charity were concerned.  Most income was gained from bequeaths and the store received little focus from the charity management.  He did often wonder what he would do next but at least for now he had an easy sort of a job. 

There were other rewards , the staff of volunteers, if you could call them staff, were nothing if not interesting and varied. Some so varied he was now wondering how to stop them volunteering.  How do you sack someone who you didn’t hire and don’t pay?  Anyway that was only a part of it.  There were the people who came and donated, some just wanted to drop and dash, some to explain why , some needed comfort.

It was Joyce Haden today again, she arrived smiling but with tear-reddened eyes.  Colin, a robust and cheery fellow well known in town for his own charity works had died in his chair about four months ago.  Since then, slowly, she had been parting with his clothes and bits and pieces.  Every visit she braced herself for the task, dressed for the occasion and bravely came to the shop to explain again why she thought Matthew would get a good price for Colin’s items which she could no longer bear to have at home.  Matthew had learned more about their marriage than he knew of his own family but she was a dear lady and he was happy to provide comfort by simply listening.

Today there were four pairs of shoes, DocMartin walking shoes, a pair of patents, some unworn brogues and a much polished and resoled pair of black shoes. 

‘He hardly wore any of these you know.  You’lll get a good price for them I’m sure, you see these?  They are Doctor Martins very expensive and he only wore them around town and in the car. You see?’  She held the soles up so Matthew could rub his finger over the still sharp pattern of the crystallised sole. 

‘Yes Joyce, I am sure the charity will benefit from these.  It is very nice of you to be so generous.’

‘Oh that’s alright dear, I can’t use them can I?  I am sorry about these old black ones but they were expensive and Colin did love them .  He got them delivered to our Paris Hotel on our honeymoon, he used to wear them for every work trip he took back to France, best shoes ever, he said… I used to catch him every now and then sitting on our bed and just softly buffing them.   Sort of like a pet he loved you know?

‘I am sure I don’t Joyce, but they do look very comfortable, ‘  Matthew guessed she didn’t expect them displayed for sale, she just couldn’t come at throwing them away.  ‘Thank you so much for bringing these all in.’ 

‘Oh that’s quite alright dear, it’s a bit of therapy for me I suppose.   I get to remember all our, our  wonderful times,  you know….?

‘I’m sure Joyce, its grand that you have so many lovely memories.’  Her eyes began to fill and she made her wishes for good profit and shyly turned and left the shop.

Matthew’s gaze followed her wistfully, and he found himself smiling gently at the thought of such a long and happy partnership.  She was a sweet lady.

He threw the shoes into the sorting basket and turned to take a sale from a girl holding a 1950’s poppy print dress and a pair of red sun glasses.  Retro was in and the £35 price tags were no deterrent to fashionistas hunting the high street.   Another lady held a couple of jigsaws and four plastic dinosaurs picked from the 50p each basket,  behind her a guy with a bin-liner full of old jeans waited to donate.  The day went on.

Just after the lunch hour rush Matthew grabbed the full sorting basket to take it upstairs but before he did he delved in to find the old black shoes and throw them in the wheelie bin.  He grabbed them and paused for a moment, the worn and polished leather was beautifully soft and, for shoes that were over fifty years old, Matthew was surprised.  He looked inside to see if he could find a brand and noticed the innersole lifting at the heel.  It moved to his touch and there was a plastic wrapped page tucked beneath.  Intrigued, he slid it out, checked the other shoe and finding no brand, pocketed the paper and threw the shoes away.  He gathered up the donated clothes, flipped the open sign, closed the door and lugged the donations upstairs for a sit, a coffee, and a look at that piece of paper.

The smell of coffee was a reward in itself, Matthew had spent most of his first week’s pay on that espresso machine and he sat now surrounded by donations and opened the plastic bag to read the page inside.  It was dated about a year ago and written in a woman’s flowing hand;

‘Mon doux loup,’  it said. ‘My sweet wolf’ translated Matthew automatically. ‘I thank you so much for another wondrous weekend.  Even since 53 years I am slave to the (naked bouncy fun) times we share in our pied-à-terre.  I lose breath waiting for your return to my side.  Hurry back to me, I long to lie spent and content beside my little wolf pup.  

Je t'aime

ta Michele-Louise.