Shoes

Shoes

I ’M LINING UP

dead men’s shoes on a rack.

How strange that for all their lives, the men who wore these shoes walked a path that would lead to me. At any point, through their childhood or in their teenage years, we were destined to be linked. The intersection of our timelines was always to cross here, with me kneeling on a cushion in front of the men’s shoe shelf, sorting their brown brogues and scuffed trainers, hoping that these shoes, now useless for their dead feet, might be of interest to someone still living.

Jake’s shoes are not here, of course. They’re on my Eddie Shelf in a box to keep the dust away. Alongside Mr McGlew’s love letters and his poem, which I can’t quite get out of my head.

Marjie rattles through the bead curtain, crunching on some pork scratchings.

She holds out the packet to me and I shake my head.

‘Would you mind popping those orange bags in the window?’ she asks through a mouthful of scratching.

‘Certainly can, dear.’ I rise, my knee crunching as I go.

The shop window is our constant source of exasperation.

We have no idea what will entice young, stylish people in to browse, so Marjie likes to select a colour to guide us. This week, the mannequin is dressed in various shades of orange. It doesn’t look terrible. But it doesn’t look good. As I stack up some orange bags ready to place beside our poor neon mannequin, Marjie flicks on the radio from Mr McGlew’s donation and a Latin dance song crackles out, as though we have our own samba band with us on the shop floor.

‘Ooh,’ Marjie says, bopping to the music and popping another pork scratching in her mouth. I join in with what I imagine is a salsa step. Taka taka taka

, I dance towards the window, and Marjie twirls, her purple hippy skirt flaring out around her calves. She puts down her scratchings and holds out her hand towards me. I spin her around as the music gains some drums and shakers. The energy of the song rises and Marjie spins me around too, and we are just doing a little two-step when the song stops, rather abruptly. At the very same moment, I spot a face at the shop door. The girl with the pink hair has been watching us dance with an expression I can’t quite place. How odd – I was just thinking about destiny and shoes and there she is.

When our eyes meet, the girl with the pink hair turns and hurries off down Corporation Street.

Marjie, still a sway in her step, heads back behind the counter and resumes her crunching. If she noticed the girl with the pink hair, she doesn’t say.

‘I’m just going to pop out for a minute,’ I tell Marjie, pulling on my hat. I never just pop out

. I usually wait for her to tell me when I can take my break. That’s just what good employees do.

‘Lunch?’ she asks.

‘Er, yes, I’m in search of lunch,’ I tell her, and off I go.

I reach the crossing where New Street intersects with Corporation Street, the people flowing all around me, and look left and right, desperate to see a flash of pink. The shrill alarm of a tram goes off and I realize I’m standing in the road. I step on to the pavement and, as the tram sails by, I ask a few passers-by if they have seen a young lady with pink hair, but they look at me oddly and walk on. Despite my hat, the sun is bright and glaring in my eyes. I put my hand up to shield my face. She might have run down to New Street station, might already be heading to a platform now, getting on to a train. She might have followed Needless Alley up towards the cathedral and Pigeon Park and onwards to the Jewellery Quarter. She could be anywhere, but I have to tell her! I have to tell her that I saved Jake’s things – his crinkly notebook and the photographs and the white shoes that are covered in love.

But she’s gone.