The Wisdom of Sally Red Shoes

by Ruth Hogan

  Dried and dressed, I make my way to the café. Today is Flo’s birthday and I have made her a cake. It’s not an exemplar of its type, but then it was always a risk to attempt a lemon drizzle, of which Flo is an accomplished exponent. The cake in the tin I am holding is a little burnt around the edges and its rise is undulatory rather than uniform. I used both lemons and limes, and I can’t guarantee absolutely that it won’t contain one of Haizum’s hairs. But it was made with another key ingredient – genuine affection for its intended recipient. A few weeks ago while she was preparing my order, Flo was chatting to me, and I remarked that she must get fed up with cake, working with it all day as she does. But she told me that she loves it and that lemon drizzle is her favourite, and what she would really like is for someone to make it for her. Nobody ever does, because it is her signature cake (she is an avid The Great British Bake Off fan), but what she longs for is one that she hasn’t had to bake herself.

  ‘And I don’t mean a shop-bought lump of stodge, sweating in cellophane. I mean a proper, home-made job!’

  And so that is what I have made for Flo. It even has a candle.

  It’s quiet in the café, and only a few of the tables are occupied. Flo is standing behind the counter, drying cups. She grins broadly when she sees me approaching and before she can say anything, I whip the lid from the tin.

  ‘Happy birthday, Flo!’

  It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her blush. She looks genuinely astonished.

  ‘It’s probably not that good, and the edges are a bit burnt . . .’

  Flo flaps away my reservations with a tea towel.

  ‘Stone the bleedin’ crows! It’s the most beautiful cake I’ve ever seen!’

  It absolutely is not, but I’m delighted that Flo is so pleased.

  ‘And now, you have to sing,’ she commands, nodding towards the candle. How can I refuse? Flo lights the candle. I take a deep breath and begin quietly, so as not to attract the attention of the other customers, and hoping that my rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ is at least recognisable as such. As Flo blows out the flame with an enthusiastic puff, a cheery voice behind me pipes up with an unmistakable twang.

  ‘Good to hear that all those breathing exercises are beginning to pay off.’

  It is, of course, the Australian.

  After a cup of coffee and a slice of cake with Flo (it was, surprisingly, quite nice, and there were no dog hairs in mine), I am now in the car park apologising to Edith Piaf. Lady T would not be impressed. I have said ‘Fuck’ twice and kicked Edith. I kicked her because she is refusing to start and I’m now going to be late for my visit to Kitty Muriel’s. And what’s worse, the Olympian pulled in to the car park just in time to see me do it. He even came over and asked me if everything was okay. Of course I said that everything was fine, but I know I was blushing like a teenager, and now he probably thinks I’m a complete madwoman. And, yes, that does matter, because yes, I do fancy him. And even though he’s probably got a very lovely girlfriend called Annabel, who is annoyingly poised and elegant, doesn’t swear and certainly doesn’t kick cars, I still want him to like me. Or at least not think I’m a total head-case.

  When I was a teenager, mooning over Scott Harvey, who dumped me at the school disco for a willowy Wendy with big boobs whose father drove a Mercedes (not sure the car influenced his decision, but pretty sure the cup size did), I consoled myself with the thought that when I was a grown woman I would be able to handle relationships so much more competently. I would be cool and sophisticated, and I would do the dumping, rather than be dumped. That hasn’t quite gone to plan. I blame Edith for my latest embarrassment. She has a lot to answer for. She’s recently been serviced. She has petrol in her tank, a newish battery and no excuse whatsoever for her obdurate inertia. But she is also a temperamental diva, and I really need her to start, so now I’m trying a different tack. I’m apologising. I promise her a new air freshener – her favourite, rose-scented – and turn the key in the ignition. She splutters, clears her throat and then her engine begins to sing. Merci mille fois!

  Chapter 42

  ART

  The black skirt of the nun’s habit is slightly fuller than is customary, in order to accommodate the spare roll of lavatory paper upon which the nun is seated. The cloakroom in Kitty Muriel’s flat has cream-coloured walls, black-painted skirting boards and, curiously incongruous with the nun, a splendid collection of erotic prints by Aubrey Beardsley. The hand basin is spotlessly white, the hand towel is soft and black, and the liquid soap smells of vetiver. As a notoriously reluctant user of other people’s toilets, I am once again won over by the extraordinary charm of Kitty Muriel, which clearly extends to the decor of her home. The sitting room is a stylish confection of marshmallow pink walls and dark chocolate woodwork, comfortably furnished with a velvet-covered sofa and chairs and an art deco cocktail cabinet. A large rug in matching colours is a luscious island on the pale parquet floor. Above the 1930s fireplace hangs a large black and white lithograph of two rather earnest-looking young men, dressed in suits and ties, standing next to a wooden bench under a tree that is foaming with flowers. It is Gilbert and George by Gilbert and George, entitled A Touch of Blossom, and it is the perfect choice for this elegant room. I must admit that I’m intrigued by the contrast between Kitty Muriel’s rather rococo sense of fashion and her still flamboyant, but tastefully chic, interior design. I am even more intrigued by the nun.

  ‘Oh, that’s Sister Mercy,’ Kitty laughs, ‘although I always called her Sister Shona Mercy because she was such a cruel and detestable shrew.’

  It took a moment for the penny to drop, but I got there in the end.

  ‘Believe it or not,’ Kitty continued, ‘I was a convent girl. Daddy was in the Army, and Mummy travelled with him, and so did I until I was eleven, when they thought it would be better for me to stop in one place for the sake of my education. I dare say they felt they were doing the best thing for me, but the truth is I was utterly miserable.’

  Kitty pauses to pour tea into two pale pink and silver china teacups from an elegant matching art deco teapot.

  ‘I’ve never been someone who blends in particularly well. Daddy always used to say that in a field of buttercups and daisies, I’d be a gladiolus. It was never a conscious choice; it’s just who I am. But individuality in a convent is certainly not encouraged and nor was it considered very seemly. To Sister Shona Mercy it was a cardinal sin at least akin to attending Holy Communion without wearing knickers and pouting at the priest as you received the holy wafer.’

  Kitty Muriel hands me a cup of tea, and offers me the milk jug. Her engagement ring twinkles on her finger as she sets down her own cup of tea in front of her and adds one lump of sugar with a pair of silver tongs. Lady T would be delighted.

  ‘The convent aimed to transform a pick and mix of little schoolgirls into a homogeneous class of young women suitable for marriage, childbearing, a good Catholic life and very little else. Sister Shona took great pleasure in baiting me relentlessly about my perceived shortcomings: the waywardness of my hair (slovenly); my dancing in the corridors (provocative); and my inability to produce a satisfactory Victoria sponge cake (“you’ll never find a husband, Kitty Muriel Emmanuel, if you can’t even bake a simple cake”). She made everything I saw as sparkling and magical and precious seem tarnished and tawdry and cheap. Frankly, my dear, none of the men I’ve ever cared about has shown more than a passing interest in my cake-baking abilities, and as a punishment for her abominable cruelty, Sister Shona Mercy is relegated for eternity, symbolically at least, to a place where she must not only endure pictures of God’s children engaging in what she would call “filty, dirty devil-riding”, but also the sight of real, live bare derrieres and basic bodily functions. I feel I owe it to the little girl I was.’

  Perhaps this is also the explanation I am seeking for the way she dresses – part fairy princess, part hooker. Perhaps she has spent her life railing against the strict convent regime that chafed her l
ively spirit until she could escape.

  Kitty Muriel has invited me, as she promised she would, to look at her mother’s dresses, and after we have finished our tea, she leads me through to her bedroom. This is a sumptuous boudoir of berry-coloured velvets, silver mirrors, silk negligees and frothy feather boas. Her dressing table is strung with pearls and beads, and on its polished surface stands an array of cut-glass perfume bottles and a little silver music box. There are also two photographs in ornately worked frames. One is of a dapper-looking man in his thirties, with dark eyes and a rather fetching moustache, wearing a smart suit and a trilby. He is looking straight at the camera and grinning broadly, full of life and confidence. The other shows a little girl about five years old. She is a picture-perfect combination of fair curls, peachy cheeks and a winsome smile. But her eyes have the promise of something altogether more extraordinary – more exciting, less safe. She is wearing a ballet outfit and was clearly dancing at the very moment that the camera’s shutter snapped. Kitty Muriel has followed my gaze and senses my hesitation.

  ‘It’s perfectly fine for you to ask,’ she says, except that now, obviously, there is no need.

  ‘Valentine was my husband.’

  Kitty picks up the photograph of the handsome young man. She sits down on the edge of the bed and pats the space beside her, indicating that I should join her, and as I do, I catch a whisper of her perfume – Joy by Jean Patou. She hands me the photograph.

  ‘When I was nineteen Mummy and Daddy took me to Brighton for a summer holiday. I should have much preferred the south of France or Italy, but they were tired of travelling abroad, and Mummy had an inclination to see the Pavilion. We stayed at The Grand, and we walked along the promenade watching the sideshows and poking around in the little souvenir shops. Mummy wasn’t over-keen. She tried to sustain a semblance of enjoyment because she knew that Daddy and I were having such fun, but after a few days she’d had enough. She said it was all too “tuppence ha’penny” for her, and she insisted that Daddy take her to visit some of the more refined attractions that Brighton had to offer. Fortunately, by this time I had made friends with a girl called Josie, who was also staying at The Grand with her family. She was a little older than me, and I was permitted to go for walks with her in the mornings, whilst Daddy sought to satisfy Mummy’s yearning for “haute culture”. Josie was nice enough at first, but it quickly became apparent that I was little more than her alibi. She was conducting a clandestine romance with a young man whom her family considered to be entirely inappropriate, and her walks with me were simply a ruse so she could meet him on the promenade, where they would stroll, arm in arm, talking and laughing and completely ignoring me. It was easy enough to persuade Josie to let me go off on my own and meet up again later, so that we could return to the hotel together.

  ‘I had never had so much freedom and I took full advantage of it. I chatted to all the traders and stall keepers; ate fresh cockles and winkles from a cardboard punnet and dripped vinegar on my gloves and second-best frock; and took off my stockings and skipped and hopped across the grey pebbles to paddle in the breaking waves. One day, walking along the seafront, swinging my hat in my hand, I met Valentine, or rather “The Great Mercurio – Thaumaturge Extraordinaire”. He was demonstrating magic tricks to entice people to come and see his show that played nightly on the West Pier, and he was the handsomest man I had ever seen. He called me over and took my hat, which he set down on an empty table, and when he lifted it seconds later a plump white dove was sitting underneath it. He was truly a magical man; larger than life and full of charm and excitement, and I fell completely under his spell. All of my qualities that Sister Shona had belittled, he cherished and encouraged. By the end of our three-week holiday we were secretly engaged to be married, and on the last evening we eloped.’

  ‘Blimey! I bet your mother was less than delighted.’

  ‘She was absolutely apoplectic. But to their eternal credit – or at least, to Daddy’s – they made the best of it. They helped us find a flat in Brighton and even came to the show once. Daddy grew to like Valentine very much indeed once he knew him better, but Mummy could never get past what he did, to see who he really was. You see, people are often so very much more than they seem to be.’

  I hand the photograph back to Kitty, who smiles at the man in the frame before replacing him on her dressing table. Her hand hovers over the other photograph but instead of picking it up she turns to me and asks, ‘Would you like a dry Martini, my dear?’

  Kitty clearly would, and I get the impression that she would like me to join her. She has the look of someone steeling herself to plunge into water that she knows will be cold and dark and deep, and the fragile smile that plays on her lips is bittersweet.

  ‘I’d love one.’

  My mouth has gone dry in trepidation. I suspect that this story will not end in a Happy Ever After. Kitty returns with the drinks and hands me a glass. She sits down again and takes a sip from her Martini, gazing at the second photograph on her dressing table.

  ‘The little girl is Joy, our daughter.’

  Bugger. I had a feeling that this is where we were going.

  ‘We called her Bunny Joy, because she was always hopping and skipping about. She loved to dance and I encouraged her. After all my years at that hateful convent I wanted her to feel free to dance whenever she liked. I had a silver music box with a dancing ballerina inside. It was the first gift Valentine gave me. It was Bunny’s favourite thing, and she would always ask for it to be wound up and then waltz round the room to the music. She used to say that one day she would be like the dancing lady in the box. Valentine worshipped her. He always said she was the best magic trick that we had ever performed.’

  She pauses and I wait. I don’t need to ask what happened to her little girl, I just need to give her time to tell me. The hand that holds her glass trembles slightly as Kitty takes another sip and then she continues.

  ‘It was a beautiful spring day, warm and sunny, and Valentine went to meet Bunny Joy from her ballet class. His act had become very successful and we had a little motor car by then, but because it was so lovely outside he decided to walk. Bunny Joy was bubbling with excitement because she had been chosen to dance in the end of term show. She was so thrilled that she insisted on walking home in her ballet outfit, although Valentine was able to persuade her to change her shoes. On the way home she chattered non-stop about the dance she would have to do, demonstrating her steps with skips and twirls, whilst holding on to her daddy’s hand. A street vendor was selling balloons and, knowing how much she adored them, Valentine stopped to buy one for her. She wanted a red one. He took the balloon from the vendor and slipped his other hand free for a second to pull some change from his pocket. Free for a second, she danced off the kerb and straight into the road.’

  Bugger.

  ‘When I got to the hospital and found him sitting alone in an empty corridor, he was still holding the balloon.’

  Kitty sips her Martini once again. ‘He never came back. The man I met and married, so full of life and afraid of nothing, disappeared that day forever. He said that he made his living by sleight of hand, and lost his life by one slip of the hand. He just gave up. One year later to the day, he finished his show as usual, drank a bottle of whisky, and threw himself off the end of the pier.’

  Double bugger. Now that one I didn’t see coming. If I were at work I would be able to deal with this; I would find something neutral to say, and encourage my client to continue talking. But the off-duty Masha is utterly hopeless at knowing what to say to a person whose young daughter was tragically killed, and whose husband subsequently committed suicide. I know from personal experience the trite and sentimental sympathies that are normally trotted out on such occasions, and I know how hollow they sound when spoken aloud. I struggle to gather together some words that will show her how sorry I am, and that I understand what it’s like to lose a child, but before they can get from my head to my mouth they slip away. It’s lik
e trying to win a prize on those wretched slot machines where you pick up a toy with a remote-controlled grabber, and then direct it to the chute. No matter how firm your grip on the prize appears to be, just as it reaches the chute the claws on the grabber inexplicably slacken and the prize is lost. The best I can manage is, ‘Bugger.’

  I fear at this point Lady T will have disowned me forever, but Kitty Muriel looks at me, amused in spite of everything.

  ‘Yes, it was. An absolute 24-carat-gold bugger.’

  ‘How on earth did you carry on?’

  Kitty Muriel seems completely unfazed by my question. She puts down her glass, turns to face me and takes my hand in hers. I can feel my cheeks burning although I have no idea why. She knows nothing about Gabriel. Kitty looks me straight in the eyes and answers my question.

  ‘Because I believed that one day, the joy of being alive would be brighter than the despair that my Joy was dead.’

  ‘And were you right?’

  ‘Yes, my dear, I was. It took a while, but yes, I was right.’

  The tears that I have fought so desperately to keep pooled in my eyes spill down my cheeks, and a strangled sob catches in my throat. Once I’ve started I can’t stop. After years of holding back, holding in and grinding on, the dam has finally burst. Kitty Muriel’s story has taught me the lesson that I have so desperately needed to learn. The pernicious fear that if I live, fall in love and laugh again it will somehow dishonour the memory of my son and diminish his death, has been soundly debunked by Kitty Muriel’s life. Unlike Valentine, she found the courage to carry on and has been following the advice that Sally gave me. She has been dancing for Joy ever since.

  She pats my hand and waits. Her child is dead and so is mine, but she still loves her life and she doesn’t need Lady T to tell her how to live it. I want that too. But there’s something I need to do before I can truly let go of the past. So I do the thing that I haven’t done for twelve years. I tell someone what happened. I say the words out loud to a living person instead of a dead one. And not just the broad facts, but every speckle, every semi-quaver, every comma, every full stop, every breath, every whisper. Every single detail that I can remember about that day that I can never, ever forget. I tell her that it was a glorious spring day, full of new life and fresh, green leaves. I tell her what a gorgeous boy my Gabriel was and how he loved to feed the ducks and snatch tiny white feathers from the air because I told him that they were angels. How, in the car that day, on the way to the river, we sang, and Gabriel did the actions to the song with his chubby pink hands and arms.