Read by Carrie Cohen
The boot gleams in the firelight, its worn leather restored to black. Not dull black, like seaweed baked too long in the sun; no, today the boot’s blackness is rich and deep. Margaret lifts it closer to her face; inspects one side, then the other. That’ll do.
She sets it gently on the newspaper sheets in front of her — rows of type talking of politics and people she cares nothing for — and tightens the lid on the polish. Kiwi: the distinctive tang couples with the scent of men whose boots have lined the hallways of her life. Grandfer, Dad, her own Sid. This boot, one of Sid’s finest, is now the only one that calls on her labour, and she’s not done badly with it at all.
Resting her hand on the fireplace, Margaret eases herself up from her wooden dining chair and shuffles the few steps to the window. Away from the coals’ warmth, her breath causes the glass to mist: outside, spring is still tussling with the end of winter, and evening darkness has brought a crisp chill. At the end of the street, the gaudy lights that mark out the Ship and Swan sway wildly. The shrub they cling to strains in the wind.
Margaret checks her watch. Eight thirty: she should be heading over soon. She thinks momentarily of her grandchildren, 300 miles away in London; Andrew and Joanne will be trying to get them off to bed. Or at least, Andrew will. Her daughter-in-law, she has long suspected, is more after her own heart: holidays, Easter included, are a time for rules to be broken, clocks to be stopped.