Shoes. I must have seen hundreds of pairs of shoes. It is said that you can judge people by appearances, most people judge me by my appearance. I don’t blame them, but they are probably wrong.
So far today I have had four coffees and three packs of sandwiches handed to me – beef, ham and chicken. Nobody checks to see if I might be vegetarian. I’m not, but they could at least ask.
Shoes. I mentioned shoes because you see a lot of them when you’re sat on the pavement all day. I used to be a bit knowledgeable about history, and shoes feature in history more often than you might think. I know it sounds weird, and you probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you, but I used to be a teacher. Why would you believe anything I told you? I live on the street. I look grubby. I’m not, but I look it, I’ll give you that much.
Trainers. They cost a small fortune. It’s not even like anyone trains in them. The more expensive they are, the less often they stop. Polished brogues and trainers, much the same at least as far as I’m concerned. Nobody wearing either of them are likely to break their stride for me.
Mind you, I’m wearing Converse Trainers myself, but that’s not the same. Mine have a hole in one sole and they’re too old to be seen on the feet of a celebrity posing for a publicity shot.
It’s wise to be careful in my situation. I learned the hard way. When someone asks if you have anywhere to stay it’s best to be vague, but always with a positive intention. If I have enough money, I might take a low budget hotel room for a night or two. Unlikely, but possible. I can usually tell if someone wants to help me or take advantage of me. Plato nailed it, and he didn’t even know me. You wouldn’t expect me to quote Plato, but there’s so much of me you don’t see, and therefore you don’t know.
He said that kindness is more than deeds. It is an attitude, an expression, a look, a touch. It is anything that lifts another person.
I don’t always need a drink, food or money – which you probably assume I’d spend on drugs. I don’t do drugs. Sometimes it would be good if you simply asked me what my name is. And anyway, you’re probably going to open a bottle of wine tonight, a legalised narcotic, so you shouldn’t be so quick to judge me. My name, if you are wondering, used to be Julie. Now I’m known as Jules.
Shoes. I was telling you about shoes, wasn’t I? High heels, pale colours, they are the most likely to be generous. Obviously not good for your feet, they can cripple you. But high heels stop surprisingly often, or at least pause long enough to drop a few coins in my hat.
It’s felt, my hat is felt. I love that bloody hat. From the first day I saw it on a market stall I knew it was a keeper. Not like Tom. Moss green with a cream ribbon tied round it. The hat, not Tom. Not sure what happened to the ribbon, but at least I still have the hat.
Pumps. I mean nobody does ballet in them, not the ones that you wear outdoors. Women in pumps are always in a bloody hurry. Maybe that’s why they wear them. But who am I to judge. The last time I was in a hurry was to get out that bloody house. That’s the truth you see, I chose this life over the one I had. I had friends, family, of a sort, but there’s stuff you don’t really want to talk about with family, or friends. I suppose I was ashamed, felt guilty, wanted to pretend it would all stop.
When I think back to that day, not the day I left, but the day I said yes, I don’t understand what I was thinking. Maybe I thought I could change him, maybe I just didn’t see or didn’t want to admit what I knew.
Desert boots. He always wore desert boots. When I see desert boots now, I feel my body tighten, my feet pull back towards me, I want to grab my hat and hide, disappear completely.
That’s why I had to give it all up, that life, my job, the house, everything. He would always have been able to find me.
“Thank you. Have a good day.”
A pound. Not a word to me though. I have a name. It’s Jules, just in case you’re wondering. Sorry, I know I should be grateful, and I am. Will she tell anyone that she gave a beggar something today. Will that be the word that defines me now. It’s no worse than ‘homeless’ I suppose, not as cruel as ‘social outcast’. I wonder how she will label me. Maybe she’ll just refer to me as that poor young woman in the doorway of the department store, more likely she’ll think of me as a sponger, scrounger, dropout, mendicant? Will she tell people exactly how much she gave me? Or maybe inflate her generosity?
Wellington boots. Proper ones, mud splattered, cord trousers stuffed in them. I like them. They’re real people, not posers.
Someone sat next to me yesterday. They asked me if I was okay. What do you say? Me? Okay? Yeah sure. I never liked clean sheets, a mug of earl grey in the morning, the smell of fresh bread. And then I find myself asking why are they asking? What do they want? Living like this makes you suspicious. And they were wearing walking boots.
Walking boots are a bit unpredictable. They might belong to real walkers, eco-warriors, or people who don’t want to be seen as fashionistas. They are difficult to judge unless they have that crust of dirt around the sole. That shows they have been somewhere other than pavements.
They’re back now. Those same walking boots. A bit of dirt on them today. They have a brown paper carrier bag with them. He sits down beside me like we’re mates. I don’t have mates.
“I made you a sandwich,” he says.
Why am I shivering? Is it fear? There are lots of people walking past, all the time, it’s not like I’m in some dangerous, isolated place. I make sure I’m safe. But could it be that I’m now scared of kindness? He holds the bag out to me.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I remember a time when that question was nothing to worry about. But now a tightness grows, somewhere in my stomach, it makes me cold, shivery, vulnerable. I can smell the bread. I think I can smell the flour that has dusted the crust. There’s a sharp tang of raw onion too. I take the bag, hold it as though it might explode. There is cheese. It was my go-to sandwich when I was studying at college, my whole life ahead of me. Is it chance? How would he know to bring me that?
I ease the sandwich out of the bag. Dark yellow cheese, white onion, fresh white bread. When I take a bite, I travel back in my memory. Strange how flavours and smells can do that. A world without Tom. My throat won’t let me swallow. I want to scream and cry at the same time. Crazy woman. Druggy. Scrounger. I know that’s what people would think if I screamed.
“I remember how you always used to be eating cheese and onion sarnies, all the time.”
He was still next to me. His body a bookend to mine, elbows resting on his knees. He knows me. We are both looking straight ahead. I’ve forgotten how to look at someone, maybe he doesn’t want to look at me, not how I am now. I have to ask.
“Do you know me?”
He doesn’t answer. I turn to look at him as he turns to look at me. He has a beard, I didn’t notice that before, and pale blue eyes.
“Mark?” I ask.
He laughs. Not unkindly. “Didn’t know if you’d remember me.”
“Your shoes are muddy.” It was the only thing I could think to say. In my head it was an acknowledgement of trust.
“Yep. They’re muddy. You’re right there.”
I looked back at my sandwich, trying to make a connection between it, and Mark, and where I was.
“I run an outdoor education centre now,” he said. “Never really slotted into that whole classroom thing.”
He comes from so far in my past that I’d almost forgotten I was the person who was friends with Mark. She was one who studied because she enjoyed it. She had ambition, maybe even a vocation. She got married, was thinking about a family. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. That was when it all crumbled. He didn’t want a family.
“Thanks for the sandwich.”
I had to say something, but I’m not used to kindness, not genuine kindness.
“I heard you left Tom. Nobody knew why.”
When someone punches you in the stomach, causing a miscarriage, it doesn’t make sense to hang around.
“What are you doing now?” he asks.
I want to swear at him, ask him what the fuck it looks like I’m doing. I don’t. I think. Maybe for the first time in seven months I allow myself to think.
“Waiting.” I say, after a time.
He doesn’t ask any more personal questions, just sits with me for a while. It’s good not feeling alone, but I don’t want him to stay, I’m out of practice with people.
“Will you be here tomorrow?” He asks.
I shrug. I don’t have plans.
From what I remember, Mark was a bit of a loner at college, never part of the crowd. We spoke a often. But I couldn’t say I knew him well. But how well do you know anyone? I married Tom. I thought I knew him.
“I’ll stop by. Hope to see you.”
I’ve come back to the same spot today, not sure why, maybe just habit. Do I really want to see Mark again or am I simply incapable of making changes. By mid-morning I find myself examining walking boots as they approach, looking for ones with a thin green line just above the sole, two-tone laces done up in a double knot.
They stop beside me, and I feel my body tense up, ready to run, but I’m not sure I could if I tried. My life has been lived at a slow pace for months. He has sat down again, offered me a carrier bag.
“Thought you might be able to use these.”
I don’t want to look in the bag. Will it be some token of a new beginning. This life suits me fine for now, no baggage, quite literally, no commitments, nobody to shit on me.
Desert boots. He’s brought me bloody desert boots. I manage to mumble my thanks. He talks for a while. I have no idea what about.
Somewhere inside my head I recognise that I’m living in a kind of never-ending loop. There was a time when I had plans that stretched years ahead. By the time I walked out on Tom, I was down to just days ahead, planning meals, making sure everything in the house was how he liked it. Now it’s only hours or minutes ahead. I need to escape the loop.
It was time to move on, a new street, in a new town, and a plan. I know there are people who will help me if I need them. And I probably do need help. I swapped the boots for a watch. It has a calendar function. Today is Wednesday, the 16th of October. Someone asked me if I needed anything today, and I said a small notebook and a pen. They looked surprised but returned with both items a few minutes later. Now I can write out a plan.
It rained today and I wish I didn’t have that hole in my shoe. But I could never have worn those desert boots.