The Red Shoes
A Short Story by Bea Turvey
Published by Bea Turvey at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Bea Turvey
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Smashwords
Edition, License Notes
This
ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may
not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to
share this book with another person, please purchase an additional
copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not
purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please
return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the hard work of this author.
It was anger that built the words, anger that flung them so violently from my trembling mouth, anger that followed them with a harsh laugh. It was anger that made me whirl away without apologising.
The apology would remain unuttered, for the next day, the one after our loud altercation which had woken up Mrs Heron, Caleb had a heart attack from which he never recovered. The stony words would remain unchallenged between us, their weight growing heavier and heavier until I thought they would crush me.
The sum total of our relationship. What an end.
I had ignored the mobile phone all of that day. It set my keys and the coins in my purse chattering with the vibration of each persistent call while I walked right round Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park before taking the tube back to Camden. The bitter cold swept up the autumnal leaves into my path as I wandered; hands plunged into the front pockets of my tight jeans, head down, the flame of my hair hidden under a black beret and my breath held frozen in the spaces between the end of one call and the start of the next. My mind was frozen on the argument, my teeth clenched on that last mocking laugh.
Only when I reached my one-bed flat did I relent and finally pull the persistent black-faced sliver from my capacious bag just as it rang again. I nearly dropped it in surprise, expecting, for some unknown reason, for the calls to have stopped now that I was giving it some attention.
The display showed CalebHome. Pressing one cold, bloodless finger to the green button I positioned the phone against my ear and waited, my breath emitting in shallow nervous jerks.
'Jane? Jane, is that you? Answer me child!'
It wasn't Caleb and the air in my lungs whooshed in relief. I felt almost light-headed.
'Yes,' I cleared my throat noisily. 'It-it's me, Aunt Emily.'
'Oh Jane,' her agitated voice halted abruptly as though she'd suddenly run out of words.
'Aunt Emily?'
A soft sigh and what sounded a little sob travelled back to me. 'I - it's Caleb. Jane, I - I don't know what to say.'
It was like stepping into an empty theatre, every pinprick of sound trebled in size; I could have sworn I heard my heart slow down, or maybe it was time that slowed. Each wrenching thump was loud and sluggish. There was a lazy rattle to the left of me and I watched in confusion as a bright red and white flyer for a local pizzeria swayed delicately towards the floor. The distracting sight offended me and, giving it a glare, directing my nauseous emotions towards it, I swept it up and scrunched it tightly.
The action released time from its complacency. Aunt Emily was sobbing openly now, a few fractured words making themselves understood within the stream of mangled hysteria. 'Caleb...no time...sudden...come home...on the...sorry...'
'Please..Aunt Emily,' I interrupted the flow impatiently. The sobs stopped and there was a brief silence.
'Jane? Uncle Ted here,' his normally cheery voice was gruff with unshed tears. 'Now listen carefully, don't panic.'
Of course, once you hear that it is hard to do anything other than panic.
'Caleb's in hospital...Middlesex...Hunter Ward. I want-'
I didn't wait to hear anymore, cutting him off and throwing the phone back into the bag as I whirled to open the door. It was stuck, again, swollen with the incessant rain of a typical November in London. With one more heaving tug the door flew open, startling the young man on the other side who was in the process of checking the address on a small paper parcel.
'Miss Weaite? Miss Jane Weaite?' He pronounced it We-ay-ight and she had no time to correct him.
'Yes?' My edginess turned my frown into a scowl.
'Uh, package for you.'
He thrust the parcel into my hands along with a bulky electronic pad and stylus. Blindly scrawling a signature onto the scratched screen I turned to throw the parcel in the vicinity of the hall table but jerked my hand back at the last second when I noticed the sender's name. Caleb Weston.
Forgetting the door was still open, forgetting my urgent need to get to the hospital, forgetting everything but the parcel, I tore off the green wrapping, noting absent-mindedly that it bore the Harrods' logo, not the Royal Mail stamp. Beneath the green paper was a green box, a shoe box, and I knew instantly what I would find inside.
I broke a nail ripping off the tight lid.
Nestled in pale green and gold tissue was a pair of blood-red ballet slippers, size five. My size.
I dropped the box as though it burned, and it did. It burned the very heart of me. It burned my soul and my last words to Caleb came back to haunt me: I shall dance on your grave.
I didn't mean it my mind screamed and I ran.
By the time I reached the hospital Caleb was gone. Only his body remained in the once-sterile hospital bed. Uncle Ted paced the narrow hall while Aunt Emily held vigil by his bedside along with some other relatives I didn't have the patience to acknowledge.
The flooding pain coursing through me consumed every coherent that bubbled up and I barely noticed the plastic chair someone tried ineffectively to push me into. With stiff legs I walked to his side, nudging past various people, shrugging off compassionate hugs, until I could reach him.
His hands were still warm and I crushed them between my own, willing my pointless life into him. I pressed my fingernails into his palms as though the pain might sting him into opening his eyes and the whole while those hateful last words I'd thrown at him sat like a wedge between us.
With my eyes open all I saw was Caleb's corpse; with them shut all I saw was the blood-red shoes, lying in their bed of pretty tissue. A nightmare either side of my lids and through it all rang those hateful words. There was no escape.
I took him up on his dare. I wore the red shoes as I followed his coffin, the brightest splash of colour after the flowers, my head held high in the face of puzzled looks.
But he had the last laugh. I threaten to dance on his grave...and he decides to be cremated.