A Shoe Story or A Second Chance by Mari Phillips, a third of a pint of milk - with a straw

You walked in clasping your mother’s hand. She was in charge. Definitely in charge. The assistant fetched the measuring gauge and settled her ample bottom on a stool. She removed your worn sandals and fussed about checking the length and width of your feet. My laces shivered when she announced the size. I was on the counter, the lid of my box removed, tissue paper peeled back, ready for action. Not yet consigned to the stockroom.

 

‘These are new,’ the assistant said, reaching her fleshy hand towards me. ‘A lovely dark tan. A good choice for school. They should last you the whole year. Shall we try them on?’ She coaxed your feet, one at a time, into my crinkly leather uppers. She tightened my laces and pressed her thumbs over your toes. Then she sat back and waited.

 

You said you liked me, as you paced the length of the shop - noiseless on the brownish carpet. My uppers sang. ‘Serviceable,’ your mother said. ‘We’ll take them.’

 

You wore me immediately, and then every day until the first day of the new term. You paraded me proudly in the schoolyard. My soles clacked on the concrete ground and then on the stone steps that led up to the classroom. New class and new shoes.

 

Your classmates laughed and teased you. ‘Ha ha ha - cloggy!’ one said. ‘Why are you wearing those clodhoppers?’ said another. They wore pretty Mary-Janes or still sported their summer Start-Rites. I felt your toes clench inside my shoulders, and then pain when you dragged your feet and scuffed my forehead on the pavement. Your silent tears plopped onto my shiny face.

 

As soon as you reached home, you pulled me off your feet, ran to your bedroom, and tossed me into the cupboard. I found myself amongst your old shoes and slippers. Not even on a shelf.

‘Who are you?’ asked worn sandals.

‘I’m school shoes,’ I replied.

‘Well, what are you doing here? You should be at school, or under the chair, ready for tomorrow.’

‘Don’t know…I don’t know what I’ve done.’

‘Hmmm, it was the same last year. Better make yourself comfortable. Maybe some of us will get a second chance.’

About the author

 Mari lives in Leeds, writes mostly flash fiction, with several published in Café Lit, and is working on a couple of ‘longer’ short stories. She also occasionally dabbles in poetry. She is a keen singer and sometime traveller. 

 

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