by Oliver Skye
Norman had no idea that the shoes he was examining were made of a unique, advanced material. This multifaceted super-fabric served varied purposes, for instance automatically adjusting to the foot’s size and temperature, as well as appearing as genuine alligator leather – besides a plethora of other functions never before dreamed of in footwear.
Presently he spotted the initials P.R.M, in platinum, worked into the side of each shoe. While dreamily wondering what they stood for, he heard the faint bing-bong of Big Ben tolling nine o’clock in the distance.
Soon he noticed a leather shoe case with rounded silver edges lying on the bench next to him. Not having noticed it there before, and still holding up the shoes, he glanced at it in surprise. Simultaneously, the desire to slip on the alligator-skin shoes was now becoming unbearable. While feeling his toes twitching uncontrollably, he had to fight the impulse to tear off his own shoes and hurl them across the lawn, especially as a number of pedestrians were passing by.
* * *
Not long before Norman arrived at Rotten Row, Professor Percival McCrackenbatten – on a quick visit to London from New York – had left his recently developed super-shoes behind in their special case. He had sat on that very park bench wearing them, consulting them about his pet cosmic theory, Ethereal Celestial Mass. Afterwards he’d replaced them with his ordinary shoes and returned them to their computerised case.
As far as virtual feelings went, the professor’s shoes felt enormously attached to their brilliant but absent-minded owner. Now their priority was to find their way back to him. Yet that would only be possible with the help of a pair of feet. And why they happened to choose Norman Heese’s feet is anyone’s guess.
As the professor’s shoes were extraordinary and in a hurry – and not anything like the ones you and I usually wear – they had made themselves and their case invisible. They achieved this by camouflaging their computerised material with their immediate surroundings, very much as a cuttlefish does. When Norman came into view, they reappeared as attractive-looking as possible, in their alligator-skin default setting, just for his benefit.
(The reason they’d vanished in the first place was to prevent anyone else from snatching them before the time-conscious shopkeeper arrived on the scene.)
Ordinarily, Norman would never interfere with anyone’s property, even if lost. ‘Great clouds of intergalactic stardust!’ he exclaimed, unaware that Percy McCrackenbatten’s shoes were already rapidly influencing his brain waves. ‘I’ll just have to try them on, won’t I?’
‘Intergalactic stardust?’ he wondered aloud, ‘can’t recall ever being interested in astronomy—’
Thrusting the unusual thought aside, and hardly able to control himself, Norman kicked off his own shoes, not giving a hoot what anyone thought of his behaviour ... or his odd socks.
Interestingly, Norman never imagined anything like these startling events could ever happen to him. Perhaps that wasn’t surprising, as he’d until then led an extremely boring life.
Later he recalled the earth having moved beneath him as he slipped on the mysterious shoes.
‘Hey Presto!’ he shouted, bending down to admire them, not caring he was now already ten minutes late. Jumping up he yelled, ‘Bristling porcupines! These things are fantastically comfortable ... and a perfect fit ... and warm too!’
With a walloping leap off the bench, Norman, in mid-air, brought both heels together with a loud clack!
Forgetting all about his own shoes and abandoning his tabloid, he grabbed his umbrella and the shoe case. The next instant, with some energy – finding great difficulty exercising command over his legs and feet – he began to tap dance:
Tip-tap tippety-tap ... top tip tappety-top....
Lively big band accompanying music was emanating from the shoes:
Yippety shooh-dee-doo-daa ... shoodey doopy yippety-doo....
Astonished and his face flushed like a ripe tomato, Norman looked around him. He was so surprised he didn’t notice pedestrians gathering round watching his antics. Among the onlookers, he recognised Ms Pennyfarthing the librarian, as well as a number of shopkeepers he knew quite well.
Still hardly managing to restrain his dancing feet, he heard high-pitched giggling coming from their vicinity, but was too embarrassed to take any notice. Without a word, he forced himself to stop dancing while rapidly heading towards Knightsbridge, leaving the gaping spectators behind.
Skipping along, he immediately felt he should be going in exactly the opposite direction. He stopped and turned round. Perceiving that the pedestrians – most of them looking quite amused – were still staring at him, he clutched the shoe case and his umbrella more tightly. Feeling more in control of his still sporadically twitching limbs, and briefly looking down at the shoes, he nonchalantly strolled back past them, avoiding any eye contact.
‘How ’bout puttin’ on a Punch ’n Judy show, Guv’nor,’ he heard someone comment.
Norman took no notice; he was entirely baffled as to why he was now heading away from his shop, east, towards Mayfair.
* * *
Although the professor’s shoes hadn’t yet achieved sufficient control over Norman’s cerebral cortex to induce him to do anything entirely against his will (the tap dancing had been more of a knee-jerk reaction than real control – real control would have to do with his primary motor cortex), they went into emergency-hyper-turbo-mode in order to trace their beloved maker.
Norman’s initial reaction to trying on the shoes was to all of a sudden feel excessively reckless, adventurous ... and ravenous. He now definitely didn’t want to go to the shop, but an inexplicable desire for coffee and croissants swiftly overcame him.
If Norman had followed the shoes’ urgent impulses instead of his hunger pangs, he would’ve bumped into – even in the fog – the white-haired quaint-looking Professor McCrackenbatten, now only a few hundred yards away. And that meeting would’ve brought about a whole different series of events. The professor, however – not yet aware of leaving his precious shoes behind and whistling Yankee Doodle to himself – was hurriedly heading out of the park towards the London Science Museum.
As Norman’s appetite was now overriding any other impulse, he found himself heading towards a coffee shop, Café Wiener Mischung, not far from Park Lane that Mildred often frequented. She’d on various occasions, without success, tried to rope Norman and Jeremy into going along with her.
Wolfgang Hohlbein was the posh café’s Austrian proprietor, whose surname meant ‘hollow leg’; but his friends simply called him Holby. His affluent establishment – besides serving wonderfully-smelling freshly roasted coffee – offered a wide range of continental confectionery. Holby’s café eventually achieved renown, becoming the most famous coffee shop in all London, all because of what would happen to Norman Heese there.
On reaching Holby’s coffee shop, and politely letting someone else step in before him, Norman sanguinely entered its inviting warmth.
The time was exactly 09h23.
Forgetting to remove his bowler due to the peculiar effects of his lately acquired footwear, Norman allowed a waiter to lead him across the plush wall-to-wall carpeting. He had no idea he was attracting loads of attention. Besides still wearing his hat, the alligator-skin shoes looked simply smashing with his getup. Meanwhile, beneath a chandelier, a pianist was playing a Mozart sonata, perfectly setting the scene for the chaos that was soon to follow.
Scotland Yard, Coffee & Croissants
AT NINE O’ CLOCK sharp, the two shop assistants at Heese & Sons were expecting their employer to make his usual punctual entrance. When they didn’t see his familiar form step in through the shop’s gold-lettered glass doors, they were more than surprised. ‘This is very funny,’ Roger Winter remarked to Wilmot, who was dusting off rows of expensive garments, ‘I can’t remember The Wheeze ever coming in late ... not even ten seconds late!’
Roger Winter didn’t mean this nastily. It’s just that Norman Heese did wheeze, especiall
y after his brisk walk through the park. So even if a little cheeky, that’s what his assistants called him behind his back.
‘He’s most likely having a cuppa somewhere,’ Wilmot replied. ‘Or he’s decided to visit Germany; you know, see how the Teutons are getting along—’
‘Germany! Teutons!’ Roger Winter laughed heartily, holding his rotund belly. ‘You are a funny blighter, Wilmot; I’ve always thought you have an excellent sense of humour.’
‘Seriously, Mr Winter; you know how he’s always dreaming about travelling. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s gone off to Japan. Or what’s that place he’s always on about, the Kirgiz Steppes, somewhere in Asia. And there’s that thing he has with walking on active volcanoes. I mean, that really takes the cake. Can you imagine The Wheeze, in his getup, taking a stroll on a live, smoking volcano?’
‘That’ll be the day!’ Roger Winter retorted. ‘Even though he dreams about it, he’d never actually do it ... you know him as well as I do. And mornings would dawn with a green sky first, and The Wheeze stand on his head in public singing Jerusalem, rather than be late. Anyhow, there must be a really good reason for him not showing up.
‘You know he dislikes me calling him on his mobile phone,’ Mr Winter continued, frowning, ‘no matter what happens. But if he doesn’t arrive soon I’ll just have to, spare me, phone his pompous sister....’
Roger Winter, who often wished he’d never laid eyes on Mildred Heese, was well aware of her overbearing manner; besides that she always talked as though she had a hot potato in her mouth. Taking all this into consideration, and much to Wilmot’s delight, with an imperious tilt to his double chin, the senior assistant launched into a comic impersonation of his employer’s sister. With his pointy nose in the air, he began prancing around as if stripping off a pair of gloves. ‘What utter poppycock!’ he wailed in an exaggerated falsetto. ‘Did you hear me, Winter? I’ve never heard such drivel in all my life. It’s a good thing I don’t run this place, or you’d soon see sparks fly....’
With one hand, Roger Winter deftly swung himself onto the long marble counter. ‘So sorry, ma’am,’ he mumbled, shuffling down the gleaming surface wringing his hands, ‘I mean, Madame ... or rather, your lady ... ssssh ... ship. You see, I was born a nincompoop and I’ll probably always remain one. Yet perhaps your gracious and most elevated personage might overlook this miserable indisposition of mine and—’
At that precise moment the morning’s first customers walked in through the shop’s elegant doorway.
Climbing down from the counter while apologising profusely to the bemused couple, Roger Winter decided to deal with the non-appearance of his employer directly. ‘Step this way, sir, madam! And please do excuse me,’ he said with a bow, ‘I just got slightly carried away. Wilmot here will take care of all your needs. In the meantime, I need to make a ... er ... monumental phone call....
‘Is that ... um ... Madam Mildred Heese?’ Roger Winter enquired nervously, once at his desk behind the counter.
‘This IS Mildred Heese,’ the voice said huffily after a pause. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Begging your pardon, ma’am. This is Roger Winter from Heese & Sons. I just—’
‘Allow me to remind you,’ Mildred snapped, ‘that you’re always to call the establishment by its full name: Heese & Sons for Men ... is that clear? Though, by rights, it should actually be Sons & Daughter....’
‘Of course ... so sorry, ma’am ... I mean, madam. And the ... ah ... reason I’m calling is that your brother, Mr Heese—’
‘Yes, yes, I know that he’s my brother; now get on with it! I haven’t all day, you know.’
‘Certainly,’ the senior assistant spluttered, ‘it’s just that your ... er ... I mean, Mr Heese hasn’t arrived at your shop yet and—’
‘WHAT DID YOU SAY?’ Mildred cried, jolted from her mid-morning reverie. ‘And you’re only telling me NOW! What’s taken you so long, man? It’s almost nine hundred hours ten.’
Mildred always announced the time like this, thinking it sounded very urbane.
Wilmot, still with his customers, trying his best not to laugh aloud, could hear every word due to Mildred’s excruciatingly high-pitched voice. Mildred, meanwhile, was tapping her foot, waiting for the unsettled assistant to offer an explanation, unaware that Roger Winter dreaded speaking to her at all.
By now, the rattled assistant was talking with a note of desperation, the effect any conversation with Mildred Heese had on him. ‘Begging your pa ... pardon, ma’am,’ he said cautiously, ‘but—’
‘But what!’ Mildred yelled. ‘And stop calling me ma’am! How many more times must I tell you?’
Neglecting to pursue the conversation any further and dismissing Roger Winter by slamming the receiver down, Mildred phoned the Jupiter Street police station. There she anxiously informed a constable about her missing brother. After all, nothing like this had ever happened before.
Part of that conversation went like this: ‘Well I’m very sorry, ma’am, but if your brother, Mr ... er ... Peas, was late, that doesn’t mean he’s missing now, does it?’
‘No, no, NO! You don’t understand,’ Mildred responded, her voice rising again. ‘And it’s HEESE ... as in cheese ... but without the c. You see, my brother has never been late, ever since starting at Heese & Sons for Men with our late father Bentley over twenty-two years ago and—’
‘Strike me pink! That’s quite a record then, hey?’ the constable interrupted, not sure what to make of the strange call and even stranger caller. But no one put Mildred off that easily. ‘Listen here!’ she demanded, ‘don’t you dare patronise me! You don’t know to whom you’re speaking. I insist on talking to the station commander this instant!’
‘Well, I’m terribly sorry, madam-whomever-you-are, but he isn’t instant. And he wouldn’t care less if you were the Grand Mufti of Turkmenistan ... he’s having breakfast right now. Anyhow, you can only report someone missing after twenty-four hours. I suggest you call Scotland Yard.’
‘Scotland Yard!’ Mildred echoed, not realising the officer was being sarcastic. Without another word, she put down the receiver. ‘Scotland Yard?’ she wondered again with a questioning wrinkle on her furrowed brow.
* * *
Norman was already sipping his third cup of café crème, though usually he only drank tea. It was almost ten to ten and he’d eaten so many croissants with strawberry jam, he felt they were about to ooze out of his ears.
The café’s regulars were by now regarding him over their cups with raised eyebrows. Norman didn’t notice. Besides guzzling coffee and croissants, he was avidly fantasising about world travel without thinking of his shop at all; absorbed only with how adventurous he felt, while occasionally glancing under the table at the highly-comfortable shoes he was wearing.
‘I say,’ he murmured, ‘they’re absolutely exquisite ... like nothing I’ve ever worn before. Could easily walk round the world in them. Now there’s an idea! But I wonder to whom they belong? Didn’t I see a pair of initials? I’ll have a closer look later ... must somehow get in touch with the lucky fellow. Perhaps he’d be willing to—
‘Hang on! What in the world’s going on now?’
While sitting in Holby’s continental café – with its other than English atmosphere – Norman Heese became aware that the shoes he was wearing were humming. Softly at first, but with an ever-increasing resonant whine.
Just then, his mobile phone rang.
‘Ah, Winter,’ he said cheerfully, answering the call. ‘Top of the morning to you, old chap; I suppose you’re wondering where the dickens I am....’
* * *
‘Scotland Yard. How can we assist you?’
‘Yes, hello! It’s about a missing person,’ Mildred said frantically. ‘My brother, actually. This is Mildred Heese speaking ... Heese as in knees, but without the—’
‘One moment, ma’am,’ the voice interrupted politely. ‘I’ll put you through to Detective Chief Inspector Breeze.’
&
nbsp; ‘Oh, thank you very much,’ Mildred gushed.
‘Inspector Breeze, how can we help you?’ a gruff voice asked after prolonged ringing.
‘Oh yes, Inspector ... I wonder if you can. It’s like this: my brother Norman Englebert didn’t arrive at our exclusive shop in Knightsbridge this morning. You see, he’s never been late before. He’s a dreadful stickler for time and punctual to a pitch of mania. It must be because of our distant Hohenzollern ancestry. He always arrives at exactly nine hundred hours, and—’
Hearing this, Inspector Breeze’s curiosity was immediately aroused. He sensed it unlikely that someone of Mildred’s standing would report anyone missing without good reason. ‘When did you last see your brother, madam?’ he asked.
‘As a matter of fact, earlier this morning. Mr Heese always leaves at seven hundred hours ten on the dot and returns at exactly eighteen hundred hours thirty.’
‘Ah! And how does he travel to Knightsbridge?’
‘Well, he ... er ... takes the bus. You see, he’s not very fond of cars. He in fact can’t drive at all. So he walks the last stretch through Hyde Park.’
‘Is that so? Tell me then, madam, does your brother wear top of the range Italian shoes ... black leather with silver buckles ... made by Lorenzo of Milan?’
‘How do you know that?’ Mildred cried. ‘Yes, he does. Actually, I bought them for him last Christmas. I can assure you they were frightfully expensive. They in fact have his initials engraved on their respective buckles, N.E.H—’
‘Yes, indeed, I was going to mention that,’ Inspector Breeze intoned. ‘So there can be no doubt....’
The Scotland Yard inspector couldn’t help feeling mystified, putting the whole affair down to a possible case of high-class inebriation. Coming to that conclusion, he also might have guessed that Mildred had never worked a day in her life, and that she had two housekeepers who did everything for her.
