Remember Me (24 page)

My God! she says, staring at my feet, Don’t tell me you’re going to work in them things? That’ll never do. Us girls, we’ve got to stick together.

The following day, Noreen corners me on the stairwell, insists I follow her into the kitchen. Emily is sitting, head down, in front of the fire.

These are just beauty, Noreen says, pulling a bag out from under her arm, Got them from a chap I know on the market. Owed me a favour.

Not much of a favour, was it? You don’t need coupons for those, says Emily, pointedly. Noreen ignores her.

That’s right, she says, Just you try them on, see if they do the job.

She’s brought me a pair of clogs. Wooden, with a scarlet trim.

They’re lovely, I say, How much are they?

On me, she says, Think of it as a
gift
. Only don’t tell Mrs Philips. I won’t say anything, if you won’t. She gives me a bright-eyed, knowing look. Nothing is ever free,
not even a stranger’s kindness. Her face tells me everything. Noreen knows who I am – the person I used to be. I accept the clogs. I thank her. I pack my case, and when the two square
windows go black, I begin to walk.

I’m eating the sky, eating it up. Walking straight, in through day and out through night, light falling on my shoulder, sinking low behind. My shadow grows long and thin.
Best is when it’s clear, with the moon cutting over my head like a scythe. On the ground, everything turns to silver. Stars sharp as pins. Often the sky is like that; going into it is like
meeting your lover. I tell myself he could be any one of those points of light up there: that one, hanging like a sapphire on invisible thread. The walking is always best in the dark, when no one
else is about. In the daytime, the distance is too near: a man a mile away can see you clearly. I rest when it comes light, spending the hours against the fencepost of a farmer’s field, or
the warming stone of a bridge. I get heat from the sun, a windless corner of a barn. I’m heading for the sea.

The spirits have left me now. I can no longer see them. But I see ordinary things, and wonder at Bernard, for whom the ordinary wasn’t enough. A heron lifting off a lake, a cloud of golden
midges hanging in the half-light, frost spangling the grass; these things are so much better than wearing fancy clothes, learning the language. Better than a blue spirit and a widow’s tears.
I see other blues now: trapped in a web on a windless morning, still as glass on flooded field, and all around me, the simple, open blue of the sky.

I think I can walk a straight line, but then the road will turn to water under my feet. There’s nothing to be done but to go back, join another road, and hope that it will last. The wind
becomes unexpectedly brisk, metallic on the tongue. I imagine it blowing off the sea, mineral blue. I follow the scent, turning round on myself, breathing the air through my mouth, as if taste
alone will find it. It feels like I won’t ever get there, so when I come up over a field, find a road, see the tower of St Giles in the distance, I have to bite the tears away: it’s
then I know I never will.

There was plenty of other stuff in my case. You don’t last as long as I have and not accumulate. There was a woollen scarf I found outside Tesco’s, yellow and green
striped, very long; and lots of gloves. I’m partial to gloves – pity they never come as a pair. Usually, they’re stuck on a railing, waving at the world. It’s more often the
right glove that’s left behind. I know my right from left, Mr Stadnik taught me. My first glove came from him; I think that’s why I adore them. My favourite is a pair of tiny mittens.
Pure white, knitted, with little cartoon faces on them. I like plastic bags, too. They’re everywhere, blowing down the road with nothing but the wind inside them, caught on the bushes,
hanging from the trees like witches’ knickers. I like the ones that have my grandfather’s face on – they say KFC, the chicken place. He never wore a tie like that, and his beard
needs trimming, but it’s him.

I had Joseph’s golden feather, the heart-shaped locket from my father, the brooch from Mr Stadnik and the hair from Bernard’s dead wife (not strictly inside my case, but stolen all
the same). The divine wooden foot – well, that was a late addition. I never did get my shoes from Hewitt, despite his promises.

I left the teashop and walked out into the street. Hope is an affliction, all right, and I had it bad: of finding the girl who stole from me, of getting back everything that I’d lost. I
should have known; the moment I made that decision – the first proper decision for years – trouble leapt up and bit me in the face.

There’s a paved area above the market, directly in front of the city hall. Everyone knows it. All sorts of people go to sit outside and have their lunch: council workers
in their neat shirts and ties, mums out with their pushchairs, girls and boys, pretending not to notice each other. Then there’s the rest of us, sitting where it’s free, killing the
day. I know some of them by sight: the Roofless girls, baiting a middle-aged man in a suit; the woman who keeps a dog in a pram, lifting the lid off a leftover burger; that lad that sings all the
time. You can sit, eat, pass the day, use the public toilets when the attendant’s got her back turned and get a wash if that’s what you want, but mostly it’s like a market
over
the market. People come to buy all sorts: drugs mostly, and knock-off, as they call it. You can get anything really, depending on who you ask. The benches are always full, but
there’s a long low wall to sit on. You have to eat your chips with the pigeons purring round your feet; their droppings spack the ground like stars. I sat for a while and watched them, waited
for the words to come back. It was part of my plan to ask around, and I needed the language to do it. Thinking of Mr Stadnik put the idea in my head: perhaps the girl was trying to sell my stuff
on. She would come here. I was just working out how to go about it, feeling the breeze pick up, skying the chip papers, when I heard a shout from the steps. It was Robin. He’d grown a little
beard since he’d left Hewitt’s place, had his hair in knots and a wide grin on his face.

Hey, Win! Cool hat, very chic, my dear! How’ve you been? he asked, sitting himself down beside me. I turned to face him.

Christ! he went, screwing his eyes up at the sight of my cheek, You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you?

Have I? I said, not giving anything away.

What have you gone and done?

Dog bit me, I said.

Bugger. Let’s hope she don’t want a photograph, he said.

A photograph of what? I asked. I wasn’t really paying attention. Robin was often on what he called a ‘mystery tour’; and he had the opposite problem to me when it came to
words. He had busloads of them.

Of you, he grinned, The big celebrity.

The big
what
?

He pursed his lips, drew hard on the roll-up between his fingers.

There’s a lady been asking about you, he said, blowing out a ring of smoke, Asking all over.

What sort of lady?

He grinned again,

A pretty sort of lady, now you ask. Quite professional-looking, I’d say. Maybe you’ve come into money, Win! Someone might’ve left you a fortune.

That even made me smile, for a second. The lads used to like to talk about that, while they burned everything in sight, what they’d do if they came into money. The wind
was circling our feet, swirling around us; in my chest, the tight feeling was creeping back. Like a bird’s wings, fluttering.

What did she want? I asked.

Wouldn’t say. Something about a long time ago. Trying to trace you. I tell you, Win, it’s money! She’ll be a private detective, wanting to reunite you with your great
granny’s fortune.

What ‘something a long time ago’? I asked, Did she say? The bird’s wings inside my ribcage, beating harder now.

Only that it was personal. I’ve seen her again this morning. No joy, she said, so I told her she might catch you at that place on The Parade.

I was never there.

You were there last time I saw you, he said, giving me a funny look.

I put my hand to my head, afraid the wind would take my beret.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

The cobbler’s – you know, your old boyfriend’s place – what was he called? Hewson?

I wouldn’t say his name, but Robin wasn’t giving up: clicking his fingers, tapping his tongue against his teeth. Grit in the wind, stinging my eyes.

It was painted on the window, he was saying, Big gold letters, come on, Win. Howlett? I was willing him not to say it.

He was never my boyfriend, I said, And I was never there. Robin put his hands up, laughing, clapped them in the blurt air.

Hewitt, that was it! I see it now: big gold letters. Hewitt’s Shoe Repairs and Fittings!

Hewitt sits in the room above his shop, working at what he describes as his Design Table. It’s a just a bench, the sort they have in church, with a long wooden table in
front and drawers underneath. There’s a box at the end, full of tools, and a whetstone for sharpening them. His Patterning Device is simply a sewing machine, the exact same model as
Jean’s. He likes the language of his trade – his Art, he calls it – but I like the objects. While he works, I sit and look at his tools, the awl blades different sizes and the
handles worn; the wooden feet of his customers, each in their own compartment, going all the way up the wall. Some of them are shiny and new, others are covered with leather pieces, stuck here and
there about the shape of the foot.

Amendments, Hewitt says, when I ask him what the pieces are for, Never tell the customer that their foot has got bigger, and never mention bunions – just say that some small adjustment
must be made.

I’m in hiding. Hewitt is hiding me. I came to the shop on a Sunday; I knew he wouldn’t be going to any church. I was desperate. The clogs Noreen gave me had made my feet bleed, and
despite wrapping them in paper, my toes were so sore and bloody and swollen, I couldn’t walk without crying. If he was delighted to see me, which is what he said when he finally opened the
door, he didn’t let on; just took me upstairs to his workroom, sat me on the bench, and told me to remove my stockings. He left me alone while I pretended to do it. In truth, my legs were
bare. He returned with an enamel basin of milky water, a towel slung over his shoulder.

Feet in here, he said, Soak them. The blisters had broken, and the skin had rolled back in strips, sticky with blood and black with dirt from the road. They didn’t look as if they belonged
to me. He was calm until he picked up my clogs.

Cheap rubbish! Vile! he shouted, throwing them into the wastebasket under the bench, Never wear cheap shoes, Winifred!

Beggars can’t be Choosers, I said.

You are no beggar. You could have come to me. I started to tell him about leaving Jean and Bernard, but he flapped his fingers at me.

I know all that. Do you think I care? Do you think I – of all people – would believe what they’re saying about you? My mouth was dry. I could barely get the words out.

What are they saying?

Hewitt smiled, a small ducking of his head.

That you are a thief, of course, he said, as if that would be a natural assumption. I could tell from the enjoyment on his face that being accused of theft wasn’t the worst of it.

And that you made . . . improper, shall we say, yes, that would be a good word for it, improper suggestions to Bernard.

I’m no thief.

I would have denied the other part, too, but Hewitt was in full song.

I know Mr Foy very well. He was in love with you. And Jean is a jealous woman.

But she’s his sister!

His smile was growing.

And you’re their niece, that’s right, isn’t it? You’re their niece from the country, with a marvellous gift.

Hewitt gave a little shake of the towel and laid it at my feet.

Jean is Bernard’s Companion, he continued, His Spiritual Assistant. Bernard doesn’t need to say what else she is – people make assumptions, my dear. As they will about you. Not
everything is as it seems in this world, Winifred. He went over to the bench, opened a drawer underneath the work table, pulled out a length of linen and wrapped it slowly round his hand.

Life is full of assumptions. Take me, for instance, he said, narrowing the gap, whispering,

I
assumed
that you despised me. And yet, where do you turn for help? You come here. Any port in a storm, isn’t that how it goes? Well, you’re safe enough with me. And
you’re welcome to stay for as long as you like. He looked hard at me in the silence that followed. I wouldn’t answer him. I wouldn’t tell him that I wasn’t planning to stay.
He knelt down, smoothing the towel out as if it were a prayer mat.

I won’t take advantage, if that’s your concern, he said, And I won’t tell them. I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be our secret. Cupping his hand round my ankle, raising
my foot in the air.

It’ll have to be, he continued, Don’t want anyone finding out. It all counts against you. All of it. Looking up at me, blissful,

Now. Let’s see if we can’t do something about these poor little creatures.

~ ~ ~

I do stay; I have nowhere else, and Noreen’s gift has hobbled me. I hide away upstairs, sleep in the workroom on a low couch Hewitt has made up, with a bolster at one end
to keep my legs raised. He’s left the blackout on the windows; he says that sunshine is bad for leather. The air is breathless. I have a few things to do: make tea, toast, sometimes sew a
little by hand – pieces for him, a frayed cuff, a patch on a shirt where the elbow has worn. He doesn’t trust me with the machine, and never lets me work on the leather. Mostly, he just
likes me to lie in the corner, while he cuts and stitches and hammers in nails. Occasionally he’ll tell me who owns the shoe, who needs something special for their wedding day, who has
inherited a lovely pair of boots that need new soles, but often he hums tunelessly under his breath, the lamp above him turning his hair into a glowing frizz of copper wire. He works late into the
night. I fall asleep, and when I wake again, it’s morning, and he’s still there, working at the bench, the blade against the whetstone buzzing like a wasp.