Day: June 16, 2013

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So I went home and tested my theory.

A few factors had to be taken into consideration prior to analysis. First of all I didn’t possess a pair of glass slippers. I only had the leather ankle boots Mother bought us each and every September, to last the winter. Each and every September we were led out, like ducks in a row, to Coen’s shoe shop. ‘Twas in town so we were all dressed in our Sunday best, including Mother.
Mr Coen was a thousand years old, as bald as an American eagle and he wore two pairs of glasses. One were always on his nose, the other hung on a chain around his neck. He called Mother ‘Lily’ which I thought a bit impertinent, considering he wasn’t married to her. Only daddy called her ‘Lily’ and that was only sometimes. Most times he called her Mother, like we did. But Mr Coen was nice so I forgave him that indiscretion.

He would start by greeting Mother and putting out a nice soft chair for her by the window. That way she could watch the street and us at the same time. Then he would set to measuring our feet. One by one we’d have to stand in a metal picture of a shoe and he’d narrow it down until it touched our toes. Then he’d pull it back, just a bit, to give us room for growth. Then he’d tell Mother how big we’d got since last year and pat us on the head. After that, out would come the footwear. God there were millions of shoes in that shop, mostly in boxes. Mr Coen had boxes lined from wall to wall and from ceiling to floor. He had to use the ladder he kept near the till to get to some of them. I always wanted to climb it and so whenever he went within an asses’ roar of the thing I’d offer to help him.

He always said, “no, thank you” and followed it by telling me that I was a credit to my mother for my manners, offering to help an old man. And he always said it loud enough for Mother to hear. I was glad of that. I’d look at Mother in the hope there might be a ice cream in it for me, on account of my goodness and all, but she knew I was only a chancer. ‘Twasn’t help I was offering but an opportunity to climb Mr Coen’s ladder. She’d acknowledge Mr Coen’s judgement with a polite nod and a soft murmur and throw me the stare, the one with the raised eyebrow and the half smile that said it all. You could nearly hear her thinking,“I’m up to your tricks daughter of mine”.
Mothers are smart.
Most of the shoeboxes were white. Mr Coen had written the size of the shoes inside with black marker on the edge of every single one of them. No wonder he looked so old. It must have taken him years. Here and there, like currants in a cake, you’d get the odd fancy box. Some were brown with squiggles around the rim, a couple were blue, but there was one red one, right up high, all on its own. I always wondered what it held.

Our shoes, or ankle boots rather, always came in white boxes. They were always ankle boots, and they were always lace ups. Mother never varied from that. Best of all, they were always lined with fur. I don’t think it was real fur but it was soft and warm and beige. When you put the boot on for a try it was like your foot was being hugged. I loved the feeling and I always said ‘perfect Mr Coen, thank you’ when Mr Coen asked if it fitted.
The fecker was never happy with the answer.
You’d have to spend the next ten minutes walking up and down the room while he stared at your feet. Then you’d have to stand still as a statue and straight as a tack while he tried to crush your big toe through the top of the boot, then you’d have to walk again. After that you’d have to sit while he tried to pull it off and it laced. In my mind there was no logic to that element of the procedure at all. The whole process took forever. You’d lose the will to live waiting for him to finish.
And all the while Mother would sit in the chair by the window, in her best hat and her best coat and her brown handbag that she only used for business, and she would watch quietly. And by gum, when Mother was watching you did what you were told, without question. Mr Coen could have set the boots and myself on fire to test them and I wouldn’t have uttered a word. But fair play to him, those boots always lasted the winter or until we grew out of them. He knew his job. He sold Mother footwear that went the distance. Of strong and durable leather, not glass.

Because of that, when I undertook my Cinderella tests I had to take into account the strength of my boots. I decided that ‘twas the landing more than the fall I had to concentrate on. If the boot stayed on the step, there was hope for the slipper. If it fell off the step it was bound to chip or break. That being the case the real truth behind the Grimm Brothers would be exposed. They were only a pair of chancers with black spots on their tongues from lying.