On her toes(Simon Willis) They were black. They were shiny. The toes were pointed. The stiletto heels were four inches high. Sophie wanted them. She so wanted to slip them on and clip-clop into womanhood.
‘I haven’t finished with that yet!’ warned Sophie’s mother, who was referring to the magazine Flashy Fashions. Sophie handed the magazine obediently to her mother, who snatched it back. On the front cover was a half-page photo of an A-list celebrity and her daughter, stepping out of a Manhattan restaurant. The model’s daughter was only ten and she was wearing shiny black heels like her mother’s. Sophie wanted a pair like those for parties. She might even risk going downtown in them. Who would notice? Who would care?
On Saturday afternoon, her parents had gone out. Sophie had the house to herself. Still in her night clothes she entered her parents’ bedroom heading for the wardrobe. She inspected her mother’s footwear. Wedges. (Ugh!) High-heeled strappy sandals! (Interesting.) High-heeled mules. How on earth did her mother keep those on her feet? Then, bingo! They were not as shiny as the model’s daughter’s and the heels were considerably higher. She lifted the shoes out and placed them almost reverently on the mat by her parents’ bed. Sitting on the bed, she eased her bare feet into the shoes, which were half a size too big for her. Then she attempted to stand in the shoes. She fell over back onto the bed. She stood up again and with very careful steps positioned herself in front of the full-length mirror and admired herself. Her ankles were as shapely as those of the celebrity’s daughter’s. She gingerly stepped across the bedroom steadying herself on furniture. She wondered how the celebrity daughter seemed so confident in her heels. Well, she was only ten, whereas Sophie was coming up to 12, so she was invincible. She kicked off the shoes and went to her room to dress.

She did not wear the heels to the bus stop because someone like Mrs Grimshaw, the nosiest person in their street, would be bound to notice and blab to her mother. She wore denims and trainers, and carried her mother’s shoes in a carrier bag. She rode the bus as far as the park a mile from the town centre. On a bench in the park, Sophie took off her trainers and peeled off her socks. She looked around to make sure that no one was watching her. an old lady was by the edge of the duck pond and feeding the ducks. She was oblivious to the girl who was sliding her left foot into her mother’s shoe. A white cairn terrier came up to her and sniffed the right shoe. The dog snorted with disgust. The old lady whistled and the dog trotted across the grass towards the pond. The creature let out a jealous bark that frightened the ducks, sending them up in the air with a clatter of wings.
Sophie hastily put her trainers and socks in the carrier bag. She looked around again and then carefully stood up. She took a few steps. The noise of the metal tips on the heels seemed to ring out across the park. She suddenly remembered to fold her trouser bottoms to cover her feet, leaving only the pointed toes and part of the heels exposed. She walked out of the park with tiny steps. She came to the gate and realized how silly her gait was. She imagined her mother’s confident striding in these heels and aimed to follow that example. She seemed so self-assured for the next three hundred yards that she almost forgot about her flashy footwear. Then disaster struck. One of the heels was caught in a crack in the pavement. A shoe detached itself from her foot and was sent skittering off towards the entrance of a large department store. A crowd of shoppers were leaving as Sophie desperately tried to retrieve the shoe and put in back on. She felt as if everyone was looking at her. Confidence regained, she straightened herself and strode purposefully towards her favourite shop where she might buy some colour for her toes. Then she might try on her mother’s high heeled strappy sandals for another foray into town. Her daydream was broken by a pair of middle-aged women smelling of mothballs and indignation as they heard the sound of the girl’s shoes on the pavement.
‘Some parents have no idea, do they?’ said one of the cardiganed crones.
‘The very idea!’ the other tutted.
Sophie looked at their boring brogues and went ‘tsk’. However, the shoes were beginning to hurt. Blisters were beginning to form on the balls of her feet. Now she was staggering awkwardly into knock-kneed womanhood. She heard a bus pull up on the other side of the high street. She tried to kick off the shoes. Only one came off. She lost balance. She fell over. The shoe was in the path of an oncoming car. Horrified, Sophie watched the front wheel of the car roll over the shoe. The heel crunched off. The car disappeared towards the end of the high street. Tearfully, she picked up the wrecked shoe and made her way barefoot towards the bus. She felt she was being observed. She looked up and caught sight of Mrs Grimshaw, the nosiest person in her street. Mrs Grimshaw must have seen everything. Sophie would not be allowed to go out ever again, or at least until she was married. She thought it best to get on the next bus and leave Mr Grimshaw to formulate the story she would tell Sophie’s mother.
Sophie hoisted herself onto the plastic posterior holder in the bus shelter and watched Mrs Grimshaw’s bus shrink in the homeward distance. Sophie considered her options regarding her mother’s shoes. Throw them away? No. Her mother would notice them missing from her wardrobe. She passed two scenarios past herself. Either, she could hide the broken shoes in her room and say nothing. But her mother might decide to tidy up her bedroom. No, she could not live with the constant worry. Or, she could confess. Her mother would explode, threaten to cut off her pocket money until she was married.
Sophie brushed the dust off her left foot with her right and vice versa. She felt she had forgotten something. Then she noticed the shoe repair shop across the road. They could stick the heel back on. She felt a bound of excitement in her stomach. Then her heart sank. She only had 30 pence left from her pocket money, which would not cover the cost of repair. Pocket money day would not be for another week. Even so, she could hide the shoes in her room and smuggle them to the repair shop next week.
The bus shelter was beginning to fill up as the time for the next bus came near. Middle-aged and retired shoppers festooned with polythene bags full of cheap frozen foods and sundry items from pound- and charity shops, jostled for position. Sophie’s bare feet drew a few stares, some curious, others disapproving. Finally the bus arrived and Sophie was the last to board.
‘It’s 45 pence to Cambridge Road since last Monday, Lulu,’ the driver-conductor said. Without thinking, she re-pocketed her money and alighted. The folding doors of the bus clumped shut and the bus pulled away smugly. Sophie decided to buy some sweets to cheer herself up a bit after that awful high-heeled expedition. She walked back towards the park she suddenly remembered that she had left her socks and trainers on the bench. The bag was no longer there.

Her feet sensed every crack in the pavement. Carrying the damaged pumps in her hand, she popped into a newsagent’s where a woman who reeked of disinfectant sorted out newspapers into fluorescent bags for the delivery boys and girls. She did not look up when Sophie approached the counter.
‘A quarter of sherbet lemons, please.’
‘Can’t you see I’m a bit busy?’ snapped the woman as she tussled with a women’s magazine. The front cover tore. The woman swore. She hoped that the girl had not heard.
‘Oi! Hand me that magazine off the rack there, will you?’
A couple of seconds passed before Sophie realized that the woman was addressing her.
‘Give us a copy of Flashy Fashions.’
Sophie turned around and found the required publication. On the front cover was the high-heeled A-list celebrity and her ten-year-old daughter leaving a Manhattan restaurant. Sophie almost spat on the cover. The newsagent snatched the magazine from her and spirited it away in the fluorescent bag. Sophie chose a couple of crispy chocolate bars, paid for them and left the shop.
As she unwrapped a chocolate bar a juicy raindrop plopped on the wrapping paper. Within minutes the air took on its characteristic odour as the water struck the paving stones. She resumed her journey home. Her trouser bottoms were dark blue with dampness. She grizzled. She felt lonely and foolish. She loose heel rattled in the wrecked shoe.
Eventually she reached home. She felt less lonely and less foolish after she had dried her hair. Then she had a fantastic idea. She would repair the shoe herself. She had watched her grandfather often as he insisted on hammering studs into his old army boots, which he swore were the most comfortable items of footwear he possessed. She imagined herself wielding a hammer and nailing the heel from the inside of the shoe. Easy-peasy, she thought. She was excited at the prospect of salving her (guilty) conscious by her own physical skill. Such astuteness would be rewarded with a kiss and a cuddle under normal circumstances. Borrowing her mother’s shoes without her permission and trashing them were not normal circumstances.
She found a claw hammer in her father’s tool box and rested the shoe on the heel. She found it hard to hold the little nail in position since the back area of the shoe was too small to accommodate her hand. Several times the nail fell out of the grip of her forefinger and thumb. Finally, the nail was in place, ready for the first hammer blow. The nail popped out. She screamed with frustration as she tossed the hammer and the shoe across the workbench.
Twenty minutes later the first few taps were successful. And a second. And a…oops!...the nail bent 80 degrees... Sophie smiled as she folded the insole back over the nails. The heel still wobbled like a milk tooth about to fall out of a young gum. No sooner had she place the shoes back where they belonged between the wedges (Ugh!) and the high-heeled strappy sandals (No fear!), the front door opened. There was a loud crackling of tall hold-alls containing and evening tress and a patent leather handbag.
‘Get me a cup of tea, will you?’ Sophie’s mother said as she pushed the front door closed behind her with her foot. Sophie looked sheepishly down at her from the top of the stairs. Minutes later she brought her mother tea on a tray with two digestive biscuits on a doily on a plate. Her mother had kicked off her shoes and was flexing her toes. Sophie went back up to her bedroom, took out her drawing book and coloured pencils. Soon her mother ascended the stairs with the crackling carrier bags and went into her bedroom. Sophie heard a key in the front door. Her father stepped in.
‘Up here!’ called out her mother.
Heavier footfalls came up the stairs. Sophie was colouring a girl’s dress in her drawing book. She heard the noise of a kiss from her parents’ bedroom. Then she heard her father say, ‘Very nice.’
‘Ha! You’d say that even if I was wearing a sack!’
‘Very nice as well.’
‘What about this to go with it?’
‘Very nice.’
Sophie heard the unpopping of a handbag and a rustling as the tissue paper was removed from inside it. Someone rummaged in the lower part of the wardrobe.
‘Shorten that strap, will you?’
The wardrobe door creaked open with a moan.
‘What’s happened to this shoe?’
Sophie froze. The red pencil stopped mid-stroke.
‘Bit loose,’ said her father, who seemed quite concerned.
‘Seen these nails?’
‘Can’t wear those, then.’
Someone rummaged in the wardrobe again.
‘Where’s that other pair?’
‘Got another pair like those?’
‘S’pose these’ll have to do.’
‘Very nice.’
‘Mystery about that shoe, though.’
Sophie unfroze but the red pencil did not resume its work. She anticipated an interrogation. She would deny everything. She could imagine her mother’s hard features searching her daughter’s face and tones for the slightest hint of a lie. But the interrogation never came.
Instead, Sophie heard a comb being pulled through hair. Twice her mother said ‘ouch!’ and mumbled something about “that useless conditioner”. A lipstick was opened, then its top was snapped shut. An aerosol spray was used liberally. A sickly sweet-smelling vapour wafted onto the landing and into Sophie’s room. A zip was fastened. Fabric was smoothed and patted down. Feet were forced into shoes. Her parents left the bedroom. Her mother looked in on Sophie.
‘Bye! Expect you’ll be asleep by the time I’m back, so night-night,’ her mother chirruped.
Sophie was dismayed by the slight smile that sketched itself on her mother’s freshly lipsticked mouth. Or was it a smile? Sophie could not be sure because a split second later her parents were going down the stairs, leaving a trail of pungent perfume behind them.
‘Don’t go talking to any strange men’ her father joked as they approached the bottom of the stairs.
‘Chance’d be a fine thing. Lunatics the lot of them!’
‘Well, you’re the boss, aren’t you? Go on! At least once a year you can be nice to those lunatics in your department.’
‘Nice? Ha!’
Her mother clattered to the front door, which her father opened for her. He hoped she would have fun. She rejoined that she would not. The front door closed, her mother click-clacked to the car. Seconds later the car engine noise faded to the end of the cul-de-sac.
Sophie was unsure as to whether she could breathe a sigh of relief or not. She was, however, prepared to stay on her toes for the next few days, but not with the help of her mother’s now dodgy stilettos.

PHOTO: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-essex-33146115

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