(Loosely based on Hans Christian Andersen’s The Red Shoes)
There was once a little girl who ate gristle and vegetable soup just like all of the fair and dainty little girls who lived in the industrial towns of old, coke-smothered England. Her mother was very poor and in summer the little girl never had shoes to wear on her feet. In winter the girl’s brooding and wretched mama made her wear clogs in the snow and, as a consequence of this, her feet were always cold and terribly sore.
The town where the little girl and her mother lived was dilapidated and failing, locked into the decline that blighted so many of the darkling centres of fading wealth that nestled amongst England’s once satanic hills. Things had come to such a pass that many of the old ways and trades had all but disappeared, and the pinch-faced peoples of that scabbed landscape had to scrimp and scratch out meagre livings as best they could. Typical of this decay was an old shoemaker who sat and sewed big black boots out of scuffed scraps of worn out leather and from strips of almost threadbare felt. The boots that he made were heavy and clumsy, but they were, nonetheless, better than clogs. One Christmas the little girl’s mother took all of her scratched savings to this boot maker and she bought a pair boots as a present for her darling daughter. The little girl in question was called Karen.
Both mother and daughter woke up on Christmas morning with an eager glint in their eyes. Neither of them complained about the cold, the fires were laid and lit, and the presents, such as they were, were given and received with great joy and excitement. Unfortunately, just as the Christmas goose leg was about to be served, the little girl’s mother was suddenly taken very ill and she died that very festive afternoon from the combined effects of absolute poverty and the scabrous pox.
As was the custom in those days, the little girl’s mother was buried that same Christmas evening to prevent any contagion spreading amongst the populace, and although big black leather boots were totally wrong for a funeral they were the only proper shoes that poor little Karen possessed. She walked bare legged behind her mother’s coffin through the spare and bleak snow-dappled streets wearing her Sunday best pinafore and her new Christmas boots.
A rich old woman was driving through the town in a large, black limousine on her way home from Christmas lunch with her cousin. As her leviathan automobile wafted down the street that ran along one side of the cemetery, the old woman caught sight of little Karen through the smoked glass windows and her heart cried out for all of the lost summers that she could never regain. She felt awfully sorry for the little girl who was standing in the cold, cold cemetery on this benighted Christmas evening, so she had her chauffeur stop the car.
The wrinkled but ruthlessly rich spinster then called the parson over and said, “Look here, my good man, let me take that pretty little thing home and I promise to bring her up properly and right”.
Little Karen, confused by the simple delights of the morning and the great sadness of the afternoon, was convinced that the rich old woman had noticed her because of her special Christmas boots, and she could feel the spirit of her departed mother pushing her towards the car, pushing her towards a better life of plenty and comfort.
As Karen climbed into the car the old woman tutted and said, “Well, my dear, let’s see what we can do for you. A new dress and some proper little girl’s shoes are in order, I think. We can’t have you wandering about the house in ugly old boots like that”.
When Karen and her new benefactress got home, the boots were taken away and burned, but despite these initial hardships and misgivings, little Karen was quickly won over by gifts of fine new clothes and several pairs of lovely, well-fitted shoes. Over the next few years Karen learned to cook and to sew. Her school lessons went well and she quickly grasped the rudiments of reading, writing and mathematics, and in no time at all Karen grew up to be a proper young lady. Everyone who met her told her that she was very pretty. When they heard about her lowly start in life and about how she had been saved by the rich old woman they all told her how lucky she was and how happy she must be. Karen believed every word of it except one. She knew, especially when she looked in the mirror, that she was not just pretty. Karen knew in her heart that she was beautiful.
One day, when Karen had grown into her mid teenage years, a famous singer came to Coalminster to perform a concert in the town hall. People crowded outside the singer’s hotel balcony just to try and catch a glimpse of her, and, sure enough, the singer made frequent appearances on her balcony to greet her adoring public. On one of these occasions Karen was there in the crowd. Karen loved the glitz and the glamour that seemed to shine out from the famous singer’s smile. She was doubly overjoyed when she saw that the famous singer was wearing a pair of beautiful, hand-tooled Moroccan leather boots. They were, of course, much prettier than Karen’s old boots, but they reminded Karen of her dearly departed mother and of the boots that she had given to Karen on that fateful morning long ago. Karen decided there and then that there could be nothing finer in the entire world than a pair of lovely, properly hand-stitched big black boots.
The rich old woman who had taken Karen in all of those years ago was a religious sort, in a Methodist way, and she wanted Karen to be confirmed. She sent Karen to Sunday school and when the day of her Confirmation approached Karen and the old woman went shopping at all of the finest stores in town, which meant in reality that they spent most of the afternoon ensconced in the rather threadbare surroundings of the Walter Henry Cheeps department store. They hummed and whispered over racks of chintz and lace, examining every dress and petticoat in close detail until, as dusk started to fall, they set out for home laden with bags and boxes full of the previous year’s fashions and fads.
They had one last call to make at the biggest and most famous shoe shop for miles around. The shop was full of display stands and long, sleek, polished wooden racks full of sling backs and high heels. The assembled pantheon of footwear dazzled and gleamed, but Karen only had eyes for the finest black leather boots. Fortunately for Karen the rich old woman was by now hard of hearing and a little short sighted. She thought that Karen had chosen a lovely but demur pair of cream court shoes and she completely failed to notice Karen and the shop assistant secretly agreeing to substitute them with the most expensive pair of black lace up boots in the whole shop. The boots fitted Karen perfectly and so they were bought with a sly nod and wink towards the old lady’s disabilities and her deep pockets. If the rich old woman had been able to hear, had she been able to see just how big and black these new boots were, she would never have agreed to let Karen wear them to church.
The very next day, when Karen walked up the aisle in her pretty white lace dress and her big black lace up boots, everyone stared at her. It seemed to Karen that the hand-carved figures on the tombs, that the grim portraits of old ancestral parsons and even the alabaster angels that flew above the altar were all staring at her. Her head was awash with the thrill of shocking the good citizens of the parish and when the parson laid his hand upon her head, when he spoke of rituals, meanings and covenants, all that Karen could think about was how grown up she was and how beautiful she must look in her big black leather boots.
By the time Karen and the old woman got home, everyone knew about the boots. The old woman’s friends gleefully told her all about them with the politely but barely disguised relish that the socially superior members of society used to employ so well, and the old dear was furious. She and Karen had a blazing row in the sitting room because Karen, feeling her way into her adult years, answered back, but, after many tears, Karen agreed that she would only ever wear sensible shoes to church.
During the following week, the weather was absolutely stunning and the ground became ever so dusty and dry, which gave Karen a brilliant idea. She decided to wear a long, flowing skirt to church, one that would hide all but the toe caps and the soles of her big black boots. The dust from the parched and dry earth would surely disguise how black they were, and sure enough, as they walked to church, the rich old woman completely failed to notice that Karen was wearing her black boots under her long skirt.
As Karen and her patroness approached the church they saw there, standing by the gate that opened into the churchyard, an old veteran of one too many wars selling matches at sixpence the box. Spotting a chance to do a little business he offered to clean the ladies shoes for them before they entered the house of worship. The rich old woman sniffed a little as he doffed his cap and scraped the dry earth with a creaking bow, but his tone and manner were suitably deferential and so she put out each foot in turn so that the man could wipe the dust from her shoes. Karen, giggling, did so too.
“Good grief”, whispered the old soldier as he set about wiping the dust from Karen’s shoes. “What lovely fighting boots they are, little miss!” He grinned at Karen as he waved his right hand over her feet, muttering in low, wheezy tones, “Stay put in those boots when you fight”.
Then he struck the sole of each boot once with the flat of his right hand before rolling away in a twenty-a-day coughing fit. The rich old woman flipped a shilling into the dirt by the old man’s tray of matches and hurried Karen away and into the church, feeling as though she should wash her hands immediately.
Karen and the old woman sat in the front pew as usual. In the heat of the day the service seemed to drone on forever and when the parson started his sermon Karen could feel her eyelids drooping. She tried to stay awake but as the seconds dripped away she couldn’t resist the urge to stretch her legs out in front of her and slide down a little in her seat. Everyone in the congregation stared at her as her big black boots slid out from under her skirt and the parson nearly choked on his words when he caught sight of the boots from his pulpit. When she knelt down to receive the chalice full of wine all that the congregation could see of her were rubber boot soles as thick as tyre treads. Karen, meanwhile, in her day dreaming state, forgot about everything in the world, imagining herself drinking wine from a crystal goblet fashioned in the shape of a hand tooled Moroccan leather boot.
With the service over the congregation trooped outside and said their genteel farewells. Karen and her doting foster mother, who was not as fit as she had once been, waited for their chauffeur to bring the limousine round to the gate that lead out of the church yard. She felt that in the heat of a glorious late Sunday morning it would be too much to walk home after the service. When the car arrived the old woman climbed into the rear seat with a weary sigh and waited for Karen for join her.
Just as Karen was about to climb into the car she caught sight of the old war veteran, who was leaning against an oak tree, grinning once again.
“See,” he said, “what lovely fighting boots they are”. He clapped his hands three times.
Karen tried to swing her right foot into the car but it refused to obey her. Her left foot also refused to move and suddenly, from nowhere, Karen felt a desperate urge to kick something. She felt an urgent and irresistible need to fight. Her feet started to lash out in every direction, left and right, catching anyone within range on their shins and on their knees. Her boots were thoroughly democratic, aiming kicks at women’s ankles, children’s toes and even one at the parson’s nose. Protest as she might, there was nothing that Karen could do, for her boots were determined to fight.
Karen brawled up the streets and tussled down the lanes; she battered doors and kicked at cars, inflicting cuts and bruises on innocent bystanders wherever she went. In the end, and with the police in hot pursuit, all that the old woman’s chauffeur could do was bundle Karen into the back of the car, with her flailing boots still sticking out of the back window. They made their escape just in the nick of time to avoid any more of a scandal than was absolutely necessary.
Once they judged themselves to be safely out of harms way the chauffer and Karen, both of them suffering many bruises, eventually managed to untie the laces, unhook the eyes and pull the boots off of the poor girl’s battered and desperately tired legs. Only then did her feet stop lashing about in the back of the car. Karen felt exhausted and not a little frightened. She was still out of breath when she got home and then, of course, she had to face the old woman’s anger once again. The terrible boots were thrown out with the garbage, and with good riddance to them as far as the rich old woman was concerned. Karen was made to swear that she would never wear boots again.
Over the next few weeks the old woman grew steadily more pale and ill. She was very old, but her health was made all the worse by having to pay the doctor’s bills for all of Karen’s unfortunate victims, and the general medical situation was made worse by the flood of letters from solicitors demanding compensations. Then, to cap it all, the frail old dowager was summoned to have words with the local chief of police. The threat of an Antisocial Behaviour Order for Karen was probably the straw that broke the camel’s back. It was all too much for the old woman and just before she fainted away at the end of that dreadful day, she insisted that Karen be grounded for at least a year.
The sad truth was that the rich old woman became steadily worse from then on, until the doctors gave up any hope of her ever recovering her old strength. Karen was really very sorry and she promised to be good and to look after the old woman, which she did with great care and love. Karen made bowls of chicken broth for her guardian, sat with her and read to her, gave her bed baths and held her hand as she drifted off to sleep in the evenings. Karen worked every hour of the day keeping the house clean and her patroness as comfortable as she could, which was hard and tiring work, but Karen was well aware that she had a great debt to pay.
One morning, some months later, a parcel arrived for Karen. It lay on the kitchen table all day while Karen cooked and mopped and scrubbed and read to the old woman, and it wasn’t until late into the evening that Karen had the chance to sit down and relax. She poured herself a small sherry, which, although she was under age, she found to be of help after a long day of household duties, chores and cares. Her fringe hung limply across her forehead. As Karen brushed her hair out of her eyes she caught sight of the parcel for the first time since it had been delivered that morning.
It was addressed to her and a card said that it was from ‘Dickie the Dog’. There was a message on the card saying that he had heard about the strange incident of the Sunday boots from an old soldier friend of his one evening down at his local pub, and he wondered whether Karen liked football. If she did, he said, a few of the lads would be meeting down by the gasworks on Tuesday night and she’d be welcome to tag along. According to the note the parcel contained the appropriate clothes for a night out with the gasworks boys. Somewhat disturbed but also intrigued by this strange message, Karen opened the parcel, and was amazed to see that it contained a blue and white scarf, a blue and white knitted bobble hat and those same shining black boots that had caused such mayhem after church service.
Karen immediately put the boots, the scarf and the bobble hat back into their wrappings and placed them on top of the highest cupboard in the kitchen. She dared not wear them again. She had made a promise.
But living a life made up of all work and very little play started to make Karen think. She was desperate to escape the gloom of the old house. She was a teenager, after all, and she felt as though she was missing out. She knew that she should repay her debts to the old woman for this wonderful life and all of the worry that she had caused, but that didn’t mean that she was a prisoner. She could feel the weeks ageing her and she longed for just one night out, for a little bit of excitement. Every time she walked by the cupboard in the kitchen she looked up at the parcel that contained her black boots. She could feel her feet itching to wear them once again and as the days counted down towards the next Tuesday, Karen’s thoughts were entirely taken up by the possibilities that beckoned to her from the top of the kitchen cupboard. She deserved a night out, she thought, and slowly she convinced herself that it would be all right. “After all”, she said to herself over another glass of sherry, “what could possibly happen?”
When Tuesday finally came Karen spent the day in a high state of distracted anticipation. The chicken broth was slightly over cooked, the bed bath a little rough and the afternoon story reading just a little rushed. Eventually she managed to tuck the rich old woman up for the night, gave her a glass of warm milk and hurried downstairs. She pulled a chair up in front of the kitchen cupboard, stood on it and reached up for her boots with trembling hands. Karen put on the left boot, fully expecting havoc to break out, but everything in the kitchen was peaceful and calm. Encouraged, Karen pulled on the right boot and then she walked around the kitchen, but still everything was quiet and decidedly unwarlike. After five full minutes of walking up and down without feeling any urge to maim or disembowel, Karen decided that all of the fuss after the church service had been nothing more than a storm in a teacup.
“It was a hot day, after all”, she said to herself, “and maybe I just had a conniption or something”.
She pulled on her jacket, wrapped the scarf around her neck, put the bobble hat in her pocket and slipped quietly out of the back door. At first everything was just fine and dandy. The boots were lovely and snug and comfortable, obeying Karen’s feet perfectly. She turned a corner and, even as she passed strangers on the night dark streets, there were still no signs of trouble. In fact nothing untoward happened at all on any of the streets or lanes that lead towards Dickie the Dog and the gasworks boys.
As Karen turned the last corner and started to walk along a broken chain link fence beside an old disused factory next to the gasworks, she saw a group of twenty or thirty young boys in front of her. Some of them were wearing blue and white scarves, while others were wearing red and white scarves, and they were all throwing punches and aiming kicks at each other. Karen suddenly felt very, very frightened. Not only was there a fight going on, but try as she might, she couldn’t stop her feet from walking straight towards the bundle of scrapping youths. She knew instinctively, deep in her bones, that she was in desperate trouble.
Karen caught sight of someone leaning against the factory wall and as she drew closer to the turmoil she recognised the grin of the old soldier who’d cleaned her shoes outside the church all those months ago. He held a long, fat cigar in one hand and as he winked at her he blew a series of perfect smoke rings into the air. Then he clapped his hands together three times.
The boots started to tingle, shake and shudder so much that Karen could feel them scratching at the loose stones and the mud beneath her feet like a bull preparing to charge a matador. Suddenly she lurched forward into the thick of the fight and started to lash out in every direction, her booted feet pummelling anything and anybody within range, and it was then that Karen realised that every single boy around her was also wearing a pair of big, black, leather, lace up boots. As she stared at the mass of bodies and faces around her she became only too aware that every one of these madly scrapping boys was screaming and shouting in pure, absolute terror. Their boots were all wildly out of control.
On and on the fighting went, with bodies lying broken on the ground and with blood splattered everywhere. Even the legs of the unconscious boys were still trying to lash out as the magic boots tried desperately to stay in the fight. Gradually the number of the fully conscious and able-bodied combatants dwindled and thinned out, until Karen was one of the last youths standing, but still her boots raged on, lusting for bursting blood and splintered bone. At that moment Karen caught sight of a small and particularly ugly looking man, more hobgoblin than human, laughing and joking with the old soldier. They were both smoking large, fat cigars and the ugly looking troll of a man flashed a gap toothed grin at her and waved to her with long and dirty fingers.
“See you got the parcel, then”, he shouted.
With one last burst of desperate energy, Karen managed to tear her boots away from the fight and she dragged them, kicking and screaming, around to the far side of the gasworks. It was like wading through thick treacle, but she hauled herself away from the fight until there was no more breath left in her lungs. She leaned against the chain link fence, breathed in deeply and looked up the street towards home and peace and safety.
To Karen’s absolute horror she found herself confronted by an advancing line of black clad, helmeted and shielded riot police, who had been called out to deal with the disturbance. Karen’s big black boots suddenly went into overdrive, slashing and beating at anyone in uniform who was unlucky enough to be in range. She attacked with such force that she was completely lifted off the ground. She drove into the police line like a heat seeking missile, laying into every police officer with the greatest of fury. She screamed and screamed for help, bursting her lungs with her wild pleading. Karen begged for mercy and for someone to stop this madness. She beseeched the heavens, wishing that she might wake up at home and in bed. No matter how hard she wished and begged and pleaded with her demonic boots, they simply carried on annihilating each and every member of the town’s Special Patrol Group.
Helmets, truncheons and shields lay scattered across the road. Karen was in a state of total and mad despair when, all of a sudden, there was blinding flash of light. As her booted feet continued to lash out amid the bodies and the bruises, she thought that she could make out the shape of an angel or a spirit silhouetted in the brilliant white light. Slowly, and despite the gyrations of her wildly thrashing legs and the ebb and flow of charging policemen, Karen began to see that the angel’s face was pure and loving. She begged for help, promising to repent her sins and to be good forever and ever and ever.
The creature of the light smiled at her, hearing her desperate plea, and started to say something but Karen didn’t hear a single word. Her world went suddenly very black, indeed. With her attention fixed on the radiant smile of her saviour, and as her boots experienced a momentary sense of unease, she simply didn’t notice the biggest, toughest and burliest member of the police riot squad sneaking up behind her. As she gazed into the bright white light of hope the policeman ended the fighting by crashing his baton down onto poor Karen’s aching head.
When Karen awoke she felt uncomfortably warm. It took a second or two for her to focus properly, but when she could see straight she found herself in a red walled hall, quite alone and friendless. There were no fighting boys, no policemen and no bright lights. Karen untied the scarf that was still hanging around her neck, still feeling groggy after the blow to her head and only slowly did the events of the evening filter back into her memory. As things became clearer she started to whimper a little. Her faint sobs grew into a wholehearted wailing when she looked down at her feet and saw that her boots were gone and in their place she was wearing a pair of soft red ballet shoes. She was confused and scared and desperate for home.
Just then a door opened and Karen watched aghast as the old soldier sidled into the hall. He was still wearing that horrible grin and he was holding Karen’s big black boots. He walked slowly over to where Karen was standing, and with every step his knees and hips cracked and snapped. He wheezed with every breath, and yet Karen saw within his aged frame the shape of something lithe and coiled and ravening. The old man put the boots down on the ground in front of her. Karen could hardly breathe. The adrenaline of fear raced through her veins. The air around her grew hot and fetid.
The old soldier snapped his fingers once. The boots disappeared in a puff of smoke. He snapped his fingers a second time. From somewhere above her Karen could hear the tinny sounds of Strauss waltzes being played as if through elevator speakers. The old man snapped his fingers a third time and leered at the girl. Karen suddenly felt her red ballet shoes begin to dance, and no matter how hard she tried she simply couldn’t stop dancing, dancing up and down the hall. To the left, to the right and twirling round she went in some crazed sort of Irish jig.
The old soldier had swapped Karen’s lovely big black boots for red ballet shoes that would dance and dance from here until the ends of days. He’d done just the same thing to other little girls and boys over the years and always enjoyed that first moment of their panic filled realisation. He watched her spin and pirouette. He watched as she screamed and yelled above the tinny sound of whirling strings and he chuckled to himself, as little devils are wont to do.
“There’s beautiful”, he said to himself, as he lit another cigar and started to blow perfect little smoke rings in time to the rhythm of the dance.