The Red Shoes by Josephine Tarling

Read a runner-up entry in our 2007 short story competition

Josephine, 46, a part-time administrator. She lives in London with her husband Malcolm and daughter Hannah, ten.

The Red Shoes
Lillian sat on the bench in the centre of the square and watched the world go by. It was only just nine o'clock and people were bustling around, on their way to school or work, like little worker bees. The shops were beginning to open up: the man from the pound shop had started to pull his stock out onto the pavement; the hardware shop manager was opening the shutters; the pharmacist was unlocking the door of the chemist.

Lillian liked this time of day best: the beginning of everything. Even though her own time of bustle was long gone, she enjoyed the reassurance that for others life was still vibrant.

She looked across to the charity shop, where the assistant was moving stock in and out of the window. She took out a doll's house, three hatboxes and a set of non-matching china cups and saucers so that the window was completely empty. Then she placed a stool in the centre and, almost lovingly, set down a pair of scarlet shoes upon it. After a moment she came out of the shop to stand in front of the window and admire her handiwork, crossing her arms and nodding at the shoes, before returning inside.

A young man eating a hamburger sat down next to her, forcing Lillian to shift herself and her trolley slightly. She pursed her lips and tutted, wondering for the thousandth time how anyone could eat something so disgusting, especially so early in the day. He leaned forward as he ate so that she had to crane her neck to continue looking at the shoes, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the hamburger. But she couldn't see them properly so she stood up, straightened her coat and moved towards the shop window.

The shoes were made of kid leather and had peep toes and high heels. They were beautiful. She looked through the window to see is anyone else was in the shop, but the assistant seemed to be alone and was leaning on the counter turning pages of a magazine. With an unfamiliar flutter in her heart she took a deep breath and was about to move to the door when two women of about twenty came and stood beside her. They were wearing the same uniform, which Lillian recognised as being from the nearby bank.
“Look at those shoes!” The taller one pointed.
“The.Are.Gorgeous.”
“And they'd be great with that dress you bought for Saturday night.” The second girl looked at her friend with amazement.
“They would, wouldn't they. But a charity shop! I mean you don't know who's been wearing them!”
“Don't be ridiculous; you can see they've hardly been worn. Anyway, no one will know- just say you found them in a little local designer shop.” They both laughed.

Lillian watched them go into the shop, oblivious to her and still giggling and chattering. She felt foolish. They were young people's shoes, of course. She was just a silly old woman. The fluttering heart replaced by a painful and lumpy throat, she took the handle of her trolley and moved off across to the other side of the square.

The sun had broken through the clouds and the temperature was rising, so that Lillian was beginning to feel hot. It was only April and had felt cool that morning. Ever conscious never to “cast a clout” until May was out, she was wearing her tweed coat. It was an old coat- Frank had bought it for her before he retired-and wasn't as thick as it had once been, but was still too hot. She wanted to remove it but knew that the seams in the linings had become to come apart so that she didn't want to take it off or even undo the buttons. The supermarket, she though, at least it will be cool in there and I can collect my thoughts.

She was right: the supermarket was cool- almost cold. She rested a basket on top of her trolley and took a list from her pocket as she carefully chose the food she wanted for the weekend. She didn't need much: she shopped every day. But Cassie, her daughter, was coming to visit on Saturday so she needed extra bread and some flour to bake a cake. Cassie had a very busy life and wasn't able to come very often, so Lillian liked to make a fuss when she did and make sure that everything was right. She took her time as she wandered up and down the aisles, looking for anything that might make their dinner party a little more fun.

When she reached the checkout she saw they had reduced the price on a bottle of sherry. Cassie didn't drink, but Lillian had liked the odd glass when Frank was alive. They'd often had one before Sunday lunch and sometimes he'd suggest a glass in the evening. She looked in her purse and made a few mental calculations before asking the assistant to pass the bottle to her. Money wasn't that tight- Frank had paid into a pension for years- but old habits die hard, and she wasn't inclined to throw money away, especially now that Frank couldn't enjoy it with her.

When she left the shop she looked at her watch. She didn't want to go straight home. Not that it felt like home. Shortly before Frank had died, Cassie had persuaded them to move into some new retirement flats. Neither of them had wanted to move- they'd spent most of their married life in that house- but Frank thought that they should do it for Cassie as she was worried about them and eventually Lillian had agreed. And then, only six months later, she'd lost Frank and she'd been left alone in the poky little thing, most of her things gone and little left to remind her of happier times.

More awful than the size of the place, was the way the other residents wanted to know your business. The woman in the flat nest door had already started commenting on the amount of time Lillian spent indoors alone. And the man downstairs kept talking to her about whist drives and bridges. She hadn't realised that people still played those games- she and Frank had never been card players- as she'd only ever read about them in novels. When she'd complained to Cassie about them, she sounded cross, and said they were probably just trying to be friendly, and said perhaps she should join them for their cards. But Lillian didn't like people commenting on her life. She and Frank had always kept themselves to themselves and she intended to carry on that way.

To avoid the unwelcome attention of her neighbours, and as she hadn't bought anything that needed to go into the fridge, she decided to go to the café for a cup of tea. She always budgeted for tea at the café at least once a week. When she reached the counter she chose a Danish pastry to go with it and the young man who served her offered to carry it to her seat while she pulled her trolley.

She was quite happy to sit alone by the window, watching the passers by, nibbling at her pastry and sipping the hot tea. It was quieter than when she'd sat on the bench, but there was still plenty to watch. She'd felt a little uncomfortable the first time she'd gone in alone, but once she'd got over the questions about Frank, she found it a relaxing place to be, the staff pleasant without being too friendly, and nobody bothered her.

They'd started to come here after they moved into the flat. Frank would say, “Let's have a cuppa in the greasy spoon.” And so they'd taken to going in a couple of times a week. It was hard to think about Frank in the flat- it hadn't been theirs long enough- and she wanted to think about him. Somehow it was easier to think about him here. Not just recent memories, but thoughts of times long gone: when they first met; their wedding day; Cassie's childhood. And she needed to do that because there didn't seem to be anyone to talk to about Frank. She'd tried to speak to Jean, Frank's sister, but they'd never been close and it was difficult for either of them to open up.

And it was impossible to talk to Cassie and that worried, hurt and angered Lillian in equal measure. Cassie would talk about bills and shopping and any other practical things, but if Lillian tried to reminisce or talk about how much she missed Frank, Cassie would change the subject or say she had to go. It was hard.

If she was honest with herself, it had always been hard with Cassie. She and Frank had been thrilled to find a baby on the way and at first everything was wonderful. As a small child, Cassie was everything they could have wanted- pretty, clever, popular- and they basked in her glory. But when she reached her teens Lillian had realised that they disappointed Cassie. Their small, modest, quiet life was irritating to her. She wanted a different world and was determined to get it. It was the only time that she and Frank had argued, as he wouldn't hear a word against their only daughter and eventually Lillian had realised it was better to pretend that everything was well.

Once she left home she'd rarely visited. She'd found herself a good job, a nice house and, eventually, the right “partner”. And Patrick was nice Lillian had to admit, although she'd only met him a few times. He hadn't seemed to find them as irritating as Cassie did, but they weren't often invited to Cassie's house and when she came to visit them, she was usually alone. Lillian had known that Cassie was embarrassed to bring Patrick to their house and had realised that was the real reason she'd wanted them to move. But even after that, Patrick had only visited once apart from the funeral. And Lillian had finally accepted that Cassie was ashamed of them. She was just glad that Frank hadn't ever realised it.

When she looked at her watch, she realised it was nearly eleven o'clock. She got up from the table and thanked the young man who'd served her before slipping out into the square.

As she passed the charity shop she glanced towards the window to see what had taken the place of the red shoes and saw that they were still there. Peering through the window she could see that the shop was empty, apart from the assistant, and, her fluttering heart returning, she decided to venture in, after all.

Hearing the bell that rang as she struggled to push the door open while pulling her trolley behind her, the assistant came over.
“Let me help you with that,” she smiled as she held the door open, “it's terribly stiff.” Lillian thanked her and parked her trolley by a bookcase. “Was there anything in particular you wanted, or was it just a browser?” Lillian could feel herself reddening, and cleared her throat.
“It was the shoes, actually. The red shoes.”
“Oh yes. They're beautiful, aren't they.” The woman went to the window to get them, “a young woman tried them on earlier, but her feet were too big. They're only a size three.” She looked down at Lillian's feet. “That shouldn't be a problem for you, though.” The woman went over to the counter and pulled out a chair. “Here you are. Try them on.”

Lillian slipped off her little court shoes, trying to hide the hole she'd sewn in the toe of her left stocking. Unexpectedly, she remembered Frank helping her on with her shoes when she'd been pregnant with Cassie. He'd made some joke about Cindrella and glass slippers at the time and she found herself smiling.
“Are you OK?” The woman sounded concerned.
“I was just remembering something. My husband.” Unable to stop smiling, she slipped on the other shoe. They looked as lovely as she'd known they would. She started to walk around the shop. The assistant was kneeling on the floor, leaning back on her heels.
“There's a mirror over there.” She pointed to the back of the shop by a row of coats.

Lillian looked at herself in the mirror. She knew she looked ridiculous: a small seventy-year-old woman in threadbare tweed coat and a pair of high-heeled shoes. But she still wanted to buy them. She looked back at the assistant and felt the need to explain. “I've always loved shoes and these remind me of a blue pair I had once that I used to wear when I went dancing.”
“Were you a good dancer?”
“Oh not a professional or anything, but Frank, my late husband, and I met at a dance and we used to go a lot when we were first married. But you don't want to hear about that.”
“Why not? I'm not exactly run off my feet.” The woman looked around the shop. Lillian relaxed a little,
“Well, Frank liked dancing but after Cassie, our daughter, came along we didn't go out so much. But he'd still twirl me around the floor sometimes if a nice tune came on the radio. I miss that.” And then, because for some reason she could say it to this stranger, “I miss him. So much.”
“Of course you do. When did he die?”
“Six months ago. My daughter seems to think I should be over it now, but how do you ever get over it. He was my world.”
“I suppose you just learn to cope.” They sat in silence for a short while, alone with their thoughts. “Was the blue pair of shoes special?”
“They were the pair I wore when I met Frank. He always said I should have had a red pair because he had red hair. I know it doesn't sound very funny now, but we used to laugh about it then.”
“Perhaps you should have them now.”
“No. I'm just being silly. It was lovely to try them on but they're a young person's shoe.”
“They won't fit many people.” Lillian took the shoe off and held them on her lap. They felt so soft. “And you could wear them when you're alone, if you prefer. Wear them and think of Frank.”
“Yes, dear, I could, couldn't I.”
As she waited while the assistant put the shoes into a bag she saw six sherry glasses on the shelf behind the counter. “How much are the glasses?”
“One pound fifty but as you're buying the shoes I could make it a pount.”
“All right, dear, I'll take them as well.”

Placing the shoes and glasses carefully in the trolley, she took off her coat, folded it inside out and laid it on top of the trolley. The assistant held the door open as Lillian wheeled her trolley towards it. “Enjoy the shoes.”
“I will, dear, I will.”

She walked home in a dream, humming any dance tune that came into her mind. As she neared the flat she saw the man who lived downstairs coming towards her. He tipped his trilby tentatively, and she smiled at him, “Lovely day,” she said.
“Indeed” he answered, not stopping but slowing down enough for her to notice he smelt of a mixture of stewed tea and tobacco. She'd noticed that before and stared. Frank had given up smoking years before because Cassie had nagged him, but there was something familiar about the smell that she found strangely comforting.

Once inside the flat, she put the shopping from the supermarket away in the kitchen, and washed the glasses. Then she put the sherry on the sideboard and unwrapped the shoes. She felt giddy, desperate to put the shoes on straightaway. But first she mixed up the cake for Cassie.

While it was cooking, she rearranged the photos on the mantelpiece moving her favourite one of Frank to the top of the television. In the bedroom, she rummaged in a box at the bottom of the wardrobe until she found an old record player in the corner, and put the record on. Humming along, she took the cake from the oven to cool, poured herself a glass of sherry in one of her new glasses, and only then did she allow herself to put on the new shoes.

Sitting in her armchair, she toasted Frank and sang to him as she admired her feet, turning them this way and that.


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