Open Writing

“Third class riding is better than first class walking, you mark my words,” dad intoned one day, as I clambered rather petulantly into his van. “Just you remember that! And you can take that look off your face right now, young lady!”

Usually I was relegated to first class walking. And that meant sensible shoes. Shoes that were made for walking! The heavy leather lace-up brigade with room to wriggle your toes and firm backs which supported the ankle. “Brogues” in dad’s vocabulary. “Clodhoppers” in mine. “Yes, I know what you’re thinking, so don’t say a word. One day you’ll thank me, milady.”

My mother had a wardrobe full of shoes, all shapes, all colours, all chic and fashionable. She also had a toeful of corns dating back to her pre-courting days. Her father had obviously not put his foot down. “You’re definitely not going to end up like your mother, splattered with corn plasters. So it’s no pumps, no peep toes, no sling backs, no wedge heels and no slip-ons -- and definitely no high heels until I say so!”

There were only two shops on dad’s approved footwear list, Shaw and Hallas and Thomas Walker’s, where he purchased his Sir Herbert Barker’s size elevens. My feet were measured this way and that way on metal-scaled footplates. They were sort of X-rayed in machines with green lights…and they were awarded a double A fitting. A double first measurement which definitely pleased dad.

After the purchase of yet another pair of Clarke’s Birthday Sandals for the summer, mum would endeavour to placate and humour me with tales of her sister, my Auntie Phyllis. In order to dance the night away to the Charleston or the Black Bottom she would secure her ill-fitting footwear to her feet with a large dollop of treacle.

“Your shoes say a lot about you, so watch and take note! If you take care of your shoes, your shoes will take care of you.” Such was the prelude to my first lessons in shoe cleaning. To dad shoe cleaning was an art, executed like a military operation.

Line up shoes. Fetch box. Open lid. Brushes out. Brown wax. Spit and polish. Close tin. Return to wardrobe.

There were regular shoe kit inspections. The heavy cast iron last was brought from the pantry to deal with any emergency repair. Serious cases of holey soles or severe down-at-heel meant a visit to Frank Atkinson the cobbler.

On Saturdays rugby boots were gently caressed and tenderly fondled. Their cleaning was no regimental exercise. It was an unadulterated labour of love.

Aged sixteen during a visit to my pen friend in Germany I dared to purchase my first pair of high heeled shoes with pointed toes. When dad clapped eyes on them, he advised my mother to take me down to Shaw and Hallas and see if Van Dal could provide me with something more suitable, a more rounded toe and a more substantial heel. We found a pair to this specification in moleskin with a leather edging. They were smart and comfortable and met with dad’s approval. They were my first real court shoes, well almost my first. The German ones were binned!

As a student I experimented with Cuban heels and teetered in stiletto heels and pinched my toes in winkle-pickers. Inside my digs I was “the barefoot contessa”, slippers were left under the bed. A college friend on a non-existent grant like myself used to remove drawing pins from bulletin boards and stick them on the soles and heels of his shoes to save the leather. The only trouble was you could always hear him tap-dancing down the corridor.

Today I retain my mother’s passion for mules, my summer footwear. But in winter it’s a pair of suede or leather lace-ups. They’re much lighter nowadays, no longer “clodhoppers”, more like “grasshoppers“.

Yes, dad, I’m sure you’d approve and yes, I do thank you. Good advice. I have remembered that!