The Wisdom of Sally Red Shoes

by Ruth Hogan

  There had been plenty since. But they had not been for herself but for Mattie, and the terrifying realisation of the truth. Finally. If she died what would happen to him? The chemotherapy drugs sucked the life from her, poisoned her in the hope of returning her life to her, clean and polished and cancer free. But it seemed so unlikely. The weariness left her on the brink of comatose, but rarely brought the blessing of peaceful sleep. She kept her eyes closed to save herself the effort of blinking. But the burden of Mattie’s fate made all that she was going through seem like fluff and air. She had known for some time now that she must tell him the truth. But how could she find the words? And what would happen to her most precious son? She gripped the wine-coloured prayer book between cold, bone white fingers. It had once been her Netty’s. On the flyleaf she had written:

  Alice,

  Never be afraid to pray.

  God will always listen,

  Even if he doesn’t answer straight away.

  Love,

  Netty x

  But Alice needed an answer pretty quickly. She had to try something, something to help her find the courage to do what she knew she must, while she still had the strength. She sat up in bed and squeezed her eyes more tightly shut until silver stars burst across the blackness.

  ‘O my good Angel, whom God, by His divine mercy, hath appointed to be my guardian, enlighten and protect me, direct and govern me this night.

  ‘Amen.’

  It was a start. Alice slumped back into the crushed and rumpled pillows. She would speak to God himself tomorrow. And the warm ooze of sleep seeped through her body, finally bringing rest.

  Chapter 38

  ART

  Masha

  Elvis and Kitty Muriel are betrothed. They are standing in the queue ahead of me in the shop. Kitty Muriel is wearing a tight halter-neck top that is perfectly designed to display her formidable décolletage to its best advantage. Her bosoms look like a pair of ripe peaches nestling in a crisp white hammock. She is also wearing a very sparkly engagement ring. Elvis is looking very Errol Flynn in a white frilly pirate shirt, black skinny jeans and red winkle-pickers. And a diamanté hoop earring. When I joined the queue behind them I couldn’t decide whether or not to speak. And I still can’t. I have encountered Kitty Muriel on three previous occasions, very briefly, and each time I grow more and more star-struck. She, however, is completely at ease with herself – her own best friend.

  My encounter with Sally in the cemetery yesterday has unsettled me. I’m not claiming to have had another ‘road to Damascus’ moment, but Sally has stirred my curiosity, like swirling a stick in a stagnant pool. She has tempted me with possibilities that make me uncomfortable, or perhaps excited (I’m not sure, at the moment, that I can tell the difference). And now I am confronted with the very woman I would give almost anything to become. I really want to speak to her, but I have no idea what to say and would be mortified if I said something stupid, which is quite likely because I’m trying far too hard to think of something appropriate. I am glad to be going to lunch with Edward and Marcus, where I can be distracted by their blossoming romance.

  The queue has descended into torpor. The man at the till is waiting for the price of an item without a barcode. The woman attempting to purchase it is convinced that the item is on special offer. The item in question is a packet of winged panty-liners, and the supervisor has been summoned to deliver a definitive answer on the correct price. I’m certain Lady T would not approve of the rather public bandying about of such objects of intimate feminine hygiene; the man at the till is waving them aloft for all to see. But the would-be purchaser is completely unabashed. The rest of the queue languishes behind her, too lethargic even to shuffle or fidget. As I study their profiles (or the backs of their heads, depending on how they are standing) it strikes me that none of them looks very happy. None of them, that is, except Elvis and Kitty Muriel. Elvis has a protective arm around Kitty’s waist, and her hand is resting cheekily on his buttock. It is her left hand, and her engagement ring is clearly visible. Elvis is in love. He’s all shook up. So much so that as Kitty squeezes just a bit too hard, he drops the plastic bottle of fizzy drink he’s holding and its contents spurt out all over the floor, which rather neatly solves my problem of how to start a conversation. I am drenched. Lady T is of the opinion that ‘to some fortunate persons, charming manners are a gift of birth’ and Kitty is clearly one of those persons. She apologises profusely to everyone in the queue, particularly me. She hugs me like a long-lost friend and proffers a minuscule lacy hanky that is about as much help as a sandbag in a tsunami.

  ‘I’m so dreadfully sorry!’ She sounds genuinely concerned. ‘I do hope it doesn’t stain and I insist you let me pay your dry-cleaning bill.’

  I am wearing a 1930s silk tea dress for my lunch date. It’s an old favourite and it always used to make me feel a little bit special when I wore it, but it hasn’t seen the light of day for quite a while. Today, when I saw it skulking forlornly at the back of my wardrobe, I suddenly thought ‘why not?’ This beautiful dress now has vibrant orange splashes on its skirt, but I couldn’t be more delighted. My normal response to an event of this nature would be an overwhelming desire to yell rudely at the person responsible, and flounce off in a huff, while in reality accepting their apologies with a red face and gritted teeth. Despite my admiration for Lady Troubridge, I have no innate talent for graciousness. My attempts at social niceties are often hampered by the brusqueness that is a cover for my insecurities. But Kitty Muriel’s formidable charm rides roughshod over my reticence.

  ‘Oh no, it’s fine [clearly it isn’t]. I’m sure it will wash out easily [any fool can see these are permanent stains]. You can hardly see it [if you’re standing several streets away and have severe visual impairment].’

  I’m even smiling at her. I offer her the hanky back, although it is now wringing wet and bright orange.

  ‘You keep it, my dear. I’m only sorry it isn’t larger. It would be such a pity if your lovely dress were to be ruined. It’s silk, isn’t it? 1930s? I still have some of Mother’s at home in a trunk. There’s even a ballgown somewhere. It’s such an awful shame that they languish in tissue paper when they should be out and about, going to lunches, dinners and balls.’

  My admiration for Kitty Muriel is further inflamed when I hear her talking about vintage clothes in such imaginative terms, attributing them with lives and social calendars of their own and recognising their magical attractions.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d be interested in them, would you? It would give me enormous pleasure to find them a good home, where they will be wined and dined and generally shown a good time. I shall never wear them. Mother was rather less voluptuous than me so they don’t really fit, and my adorable fiancé prefers me in something a little more modern.’

  I now have a serious crush. And speaking of the ‘adorable fiancé’, Elvis finally returns with a replacement bottle of drink and a beaming smile for his beloved Kitty Muriel. She takes his hand and kisses it tenderly as though they have been parted for several weeks and although Elvis’s method of selection when shopping is unarguably rather time-consuming, he has only been gone for five minutes or so. I’m not even embarrassed. Outside the shop Elvis places their shopping in the basket of his bicycle. Kitty Muriel hands me a small pink card with her name, address and telephone number on it, and I promise to call her.

  I go home to get changed. My dress is ruined. But then perhaps I have made a new friend.

  Chapter 39

  ART

  ‘I told her it was a representation of the negative space between two jars of pickled wieners.’

  Marcus has Edward and me in stitches. By the time I have been home and changed out of my orange-splattered frock, Haizum and I are late for Edward’s birthday lunch but our hosts are very forgiving. Edward is delighted with his gift – a 1908 edition of A Midsummer Night’s Dream with illustrations by Arthur Rackham – which I bought from the very kind man in the second-hand bo
okshop, and we are now drinking cocktails in the garden while Marcus entertains us with tales of his working life as the manager of a small but very fashionable art gallery in London.

  ‘She’s an awful woman anyway, with more money than she can count and no taste whatsoever. She even wears that ridiculous fur hat of hers in the summer. She said she was looking for “pieces” to decorate her villa in the south of France.’

  I stare at Marcus in disbelief. This woman sounds horribly familiar and when questioned Marcus confirms that the customer he is describing is indeed Fennel’s own dear Mrs Sweetie. I am then, of course, obliged to relate the episode of Haizum, the hat and the aquarium. Edward is clearly enjoying his birthday. He is wiping tears of laughter from his face by the end of my confession. I cannot remember the last time I saw him so happy and relaxed.

  ‘So, was it really a representation of the negative space between two jars of pickled wieners?’ I ask, as Edward refills my glass.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea. It had only come in that day, and I hadn’t had time to read the accompanying description. But the artist’s a great guy who works really hard and has sold quite a bit of his stuff. He certainly doesn’t deserve to be patronised in any sense of the word by that ghastly woman. So, when she asked me what it was “supposed to be”, I said the first thing that came into my head. Obviously it’s not “supposed to be” anything. It is something. I just didn’t quite know what.’

  Over lunch we discuss the next production that Marcus’s amateur dramatic group will be performing.

  ‘Edward and I so enjoyed the last one that everyone else has promised to come this time.’

  Marcus wags an admonishing finger at me and laughs.

  ‘Seriously, Marcus, it was hilarious, and you were really good. And the rest of the cast were . . . well, they were very entertaining.’

  ‘Lehár will no doubt be spinning in his grave, but I’m pretty sure they’ve settled on The Merry Widow, and Kitty Muriel is straining at the leash to play the lead.’

  Now that I have to see.

  ‘How’s horrid Hugo?’ Edward asks, feeding Haizum and Lord Byron scraps of garlic bread. He knows that I spoke to Epiphany yesterday and is eager for gossip.

  Hugo is now, apparently, Roni’s ex-beloved.

  ‘Hugo has been “let go” by his employers under suspicion of inappropriate conduct during business hours. He was apparently keen to go before said conduct was proven and made public and is currently selling retirement flats in Frinton.’

  ‘Best place for him,’ declares Edward.

  Roni is training to be a belly-dancing teacher.

  Much later, after tea and chocolate birthday cake (and tea and digestive biscuits for Lord Byron and Haizum), Edward is once again walking me home. Haizum strolls contentedly by my side and Marcus is ahead of us with Lord Byron, trying, with scant effect, to persuade the dignified little dog to walk briskly in order to work off the garlic bread and biscuits. Edward keeps glancing at me with a quizzical expression on his face.

  ‘Something has happened to you, hasn’t it?’ he asks.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s as though someone has lit a lamp in the window so that the old you can finally find her way back home.’

  ‘I could say exactly the same about you.’

  He smiles. ‘Marcus.’

  ‘I know. And I’m so pleased for you.’

  ‘So, what happened to you?’

  ‘An old lady in a cemetery taught me how to dance again.’

  Edward shakes his head. ‘Of course. I might have known with you it was hardly going to be anything as mundane as Prozac. But I was rather hoping that there might be some gorgeous man who has piqued your interest and perhaps stirred your slumbering libido!’

  Well, there might be. But I don’t want to give Edward false hope. After all, I still haven’t spoken to him yet. But I’m working up to it.

  Marcus is having a little more success with Lord Byron now, who has broken into a slow trot. I am grateful for the loan of Marcus’s jacket, which is draped round my shoulders. The evenings are growing chillier, and flannel pyjamas and fluffy bed socks will soon replace summer’s silken flimsies.

  Suddenly I remember something that I’ve been meaning to ask Edward.

  ‘The last time we had lunch in the cemetery, you said that you had two favours to ask me. But you only asked one. What was the other?’

  Edward pauses to light a cigarette. He even manages to make smoking in the street look elegant.

  ‘I was going to ask you to stop.’ He pauses for a moment and takes a deep drag on his cigarette. He is obviously uncomfortable, but determined to finish saying what he has started. ‘It’s time to let Gabriel go and get on with your life.’ He puts his hand up to touch my face and I see that there are tears in his eyes. ‘I miss him too. More than I can say. But you didn’t die with him, you know, and I can never be truly happy unless I know that you are too.’

  Once again I am saddened and shamed by the burden my grief has obviously been to the people I love most.

  I smile at him. It’s not the response he was expecting.

  ‘You’re the second person who has said that to me this week.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You’re both right.’

  Edward raises jazz hands to the sky.

  Marcus glances back at us, and then turns back to chivvying Lord Byron. I have a feeling he knows what’s going on.

  ‘So, who was the other person?’ Edward asks.

  ‘Sally. The lady who feeds the crows in the park and dances in the cemetery.’

  ‘Well, she’s got more chutzpah than me. I chickened out the first time. But I was going to ask you tonight anyway.’

  ‘Better late than never.’

  ‘I think that’s my line to you!’

  Chapter 40

  ART

  Mattie

  Mattie stroked the soft white fur and gently caressed the long ears. The rabbit’s nose twitched contentedly, and it seemed unperturbed by the tears that were falling on its back like fat raindrops. Mattie was sitting on the grass with the rabbit in his lap. He had his back to the house. He didn’t want his mum to see him crying. He had to be strong for her sake, but it was so hard. And she had made him promise not to tell anyone, so he had nobody to confide in or ask for help. The rabbit had grown bored of his attentions and hopped out of his lap, but it stayed close to him, nibbling the grass and occasionally kicking out its back legs. Mattie scrubbed the tears from his face with the sleeve of his top and sniffed loudly.

  He was terrified that his mum was going to die and that he would be left alone.

  He picked a daisy from the lawn and ripped the petals from its head one by one.

  ‘She will die, she won’t die. She will die, she won’t die,’ he chanted quietly to himself, but then stopped before all the petals were gone. He didn’t want to know. Mattie lay back on the grass and stared up at the sky where a distant plane was scratching a thin white line onto the bright blue. He wished he was on that plane. He wished he was going on holiday to America; to Florida, or California maybe. A family holiday. He wished he was going with a proper family, his family; a mum, a dad and maybe even a brother or sister. If he had a family he wouldn’t mind settling for Cornwall or even the Norfolk Broads. Mattie longed to be normal, more like the other kids in school. There were plenty who came from single-parent homes, but they usually knew who the absentees were. Mattie knew nothing about his father. He had asked his mum many times, but all she would say was that they were never married and that Mattie’s dad had left her when he found out that she was pregnant.

  ‘We’re better off without him,’ was how the conversation always ended. But Mattie didn’t feel better off. There had been many times in his short life when he would have welcomed a dad; to teach him how to ride a bike, to mend a puncture and fix a broken chain. To fish, build a den and cook things on a bonfire. More recently he would have liked some advice on how to shave and
maybe even about girls. His mum did her best, but there were some things he couldn’t ask her. And he couldn’t help but wonder who his dad was and where he might be living. Perhaps he was married now and had more children? Perhaps Mattie did in fact have a brother or sister – or both?

  Soft whiskers brushed his hand and he sat up to find the rabbit stretching itself out alongside him on the grass. It was pointless dreaming about the things he didn’t have. He had to concentrate on the things that he did have. He had his rabbits, and he had his mum.

  And his mum had cancer.

  Chapter 41

  ART

  Masha

  Today’s pool temperature is 22 degrees and once again I am drowning in the deep end. Not because I want to, or even because I need to. I’m not that Masha any more. Today I’m drowning only because of the Australian.

  That bloody woman is in the pool and she has been watching me like a not-very-undercover cop since I got into the water. She even waved at me! And so I have no choice. I have to practise drowning in order to maintain the whole singing subterfuge. The only problem is that I’m not very good at it any more. I’m out of practice. The best I can manage is just over a minute, and as I break the surface of the water gasping for air, I can feel the glare of her sceptical surveillance from the other end of the pool. I don’t even have the singing book with me to flaunt in the café. I really want to swim now, but that means I’ll have to swim towards her, and when I reach her, she’ll probably talk to me. And that wouldn’t be a good idea. Because what I want to say to her is, ‘I lied. I don’t sing, except in the shower. I used to force myself to stay underwater because my little boy drowned and I needed to know what that felt like. I also did it to punish myself because, whatever anyone told me, I still thought that it was my fault. But now I’m trying to stop. Now I want to swim. And by the way, none of this is any of your business and I really wish that you wouldn’t ask me questions, or even talk to me at all.’ But, of course, I don’t say any of that. I get out of the pool.