The Peppermint Tea Chronicles, page 16
40
Brogue Boots for Women, and Others
The premises of Stewart Christie & Co, Outfitters, were at the west end of Queen Street—the far end, as Domenica described it, since Scotland Street, and her world, were at the east end of the New Town. That geographical orientation was a matter of more than mere compass bearings: Domenica was sensitive to social geography, and in the eastern end of the New Town there had survived more of the original nature of Edinburgh’s Georgian quarter. Edinburgh had always enjoyed a lively social mix, in which people of all backgrounds, or even none, lived cheek by jowl. This had also been the case in the Old Town, until its malodorous nature had caused flight to the other side of the Nor’ Loch. But it was not just the gentry who fled the dank tenements, the winding closes and miasmic passages of High Street and its neighboring warrens; this flight involved others of more modest station in life, who found their own place in the interstices of the grander new quarters that sprang up on the other side of the city. Only much later did the social mix change, and the more prosperous streets of the New Town become the preserve of the well off. Scotland Street, and other streets in the east, continued to provide a roof for all sorts: it was no Moray Place, the grand, towering circle that cast its haughty frown over the Dean Valley below.
Now, as she stood before the tailor’s window, her eye was drawn to a pair of fine brogue boots, displayed alongside a selection of green waxed jackets—the sort of jackets favoured by people who enjoyed standing about on expanses of moorland being buffeted by the wind. These boots had a small label under them, a card that said Joseph Cheaney, for men and women (since 1886). Her eye lingered on them, and then fell to her own footwear, a pair of now rather aging black shoes that were of no particular style, no particular provenance, and, she felt, no particular comfort. She tried to remember when she had last bought herself a pair of shoes. It was certainly not within the last year, and if she were to treat herself to a pair of Joseph Cheaney boots it would not be too much of a self-indulgence. And at that moment, she felt that extraordinary sense of excitement that comes with the decision to buy yourself a new pair of shoes. Of course, she was here for Angus, and she must not lose sight of the purpose of her visit, but that did not mean that she could not be here for herself too.
She went inside. Domenica had first been in the shop with Angus when she had brought him in for an adjustment to his kilt, but over the years she had got to know the staff. Now she saw Trevor and Andrew busy with customers while the owners, Daniel and Vixy, were conferring amongst the jackets and waistcoats to the rear. Vixy caught Domenica’s eye and came over to greet her. As she did so, she spotted Domenica’s bag. “Your husband’s kilt?” she inquired.
Domenica shook her head. “No. That still fits.”
“Kilts have such a distressing habit of shrinking as their owners go through life,” said Vixy. “Or is it that men get a little bit…how should one put it? Stouter?”
They both laughed. “Angus is relatively low-carb these days,” said Domenica. “His waistline remains unchanged. I have to watch him, though.” She paused. “Those boots in the window?”
“The Joseph Cheaney ankle boots?”
“Yes.”
“They’re downstairs,” said Vixy. “Would you like to…”
Domenica opened her bag. “Later. First, my real errand. You know how men are with their clothes? You know how they like to keep them too long?”
Vixy nodded. “Men have their little ways.”
“Well,” continued Domenica. “I’ve decided that I simply have to get some new stuff for Angus. I could bring him in, but you know how he is. He spends so much time in his studio and I don’t like to drag him out. Or he has to take Cyril for a walk. Or there are always excuses.”
Vixy nodded again.
“So,” Domenica went on, “I’ve brought in a pair of his trousers, a jacket, and one of his shirts. I apologise in advance for the state of these things, but I wondered if we could measure them and then choose something new.”
“Of course,” said Vixy. “Let’s take a look.”
A tape measure was produced and the measuring took place, the results being noted on sheet of paper. Angus, it transpired, had a forty-inch chest, a thirty-six inch waist, and a sixteen-inch neck. “Very nice measurements,” said Vixy. “And let’s start with the jacket. Something in tweed, I take it. Brown? Greenish?”
A selection of jackets was produced. This was followed by trousers, and finally a couple of shirts. Everything matched; everything sat perfectly with the garment with which it would be worn. The choice made, Vixy folded the clothing carefully and tucked it into Domenica’s bag. As she did so, Domenica explained her plan to remove Angus’s old clothes from the chair on which he placed them at night, and substitute the new ones. “The idea is that he won’t notice,” she said. “He’ll simply get dressed in the morning, same as usual, but in the new clothes. I got it from a Walter Scott novel.”
“What a brilliant idea,” exclaimed Vixy.
Looking about her, Domenica noticed a display of colorful waistcoats. “Those are lovely,” she said. “Look at that red. So many men would be improved by a red waistcoat. Just like that. Miraculous transformation.”
Vixy smiled. “There are other colors. Distressed oatmeal is popular these days.”
“Men need to be more colorful,” said Domenica. “And look at those trousers.”
She pointed to a section on the trouser rail devoted to trousers in varying shades of red, and even pink.
“Those pink ones look good,” she said.
“They’re very popular. Engaged strawberry,” said Vixy. “Although you could call them pink, I suppose.”
The clothing purchased, they went down to the lower floor, where Domenica chose a pair of Joseph Cheaney boots. She felt immediately at home in them, and decided to wear them out of the shop. It had been a most satisfactory outing in every respect.
She went out onto the street and took her first step in her new boots. The sensation was extraordinary. It was empowering. Good footwear somehow gave purpose. The steps we take in new shoes, or boots, thought Domenica, are somehow different. It was strange. But they were. They just were. And she thought: How is it that the things with which we clothe ourselves make such a difference to what is inside?
41
The Reading of Shoes
Well shod in her new pair of Joseph Cheaney boots, with all the security and assurance—not to mention support—that ankle-length footwear can give, Domenica made her way down Dundas Street. As she approached the corner of Heriot Row, she glanced down at her feet, conscious of the pristine look of the fine brown leather—so subtle and yet so strong, and brogue too. Brogue boots to boot, she thought, and smiled. There were some who thought of brogue as a statement, a political or social pinning of colors to the mast. But it was not that at all, Domenica felt, or not inevitably so. Some people might think brogue a bit…what? Old-fashioned? Domenica, though, knew several people who wore brogue shoes who were not in the slightest bit conservative in their outlook. Brogue shoes had nothing to do with how you viewed the world. Brogue was an aesthetic issue, and you should not judge people by their shoes’ aesthetic qualities. Except sometimes…
She found herself thinking of two-tone black-and-white shoes—the sort of shoes once known as co-respondents’ shoes, because they were the classic wear of those who went off with other men’s wives. That was absurd, and old-fashioned too—the stuff of a Nöel Coward song or a Somerset Maugham short story. Yet black-and-white shoes were relatively unusual and must clearly be a matter of deliberate choice. One would not just happen to have a pair of two-tone shoes—wearing such shoes involved the conscious embracing of shoes that were striking, were obvious: shoes that were the opposite of discreet or diffident. Shoes such as that said, with shamelessness, often with braggadocio: Look at me.
There were other shoes that made a statement. Sensible shoes—that odd, pejorative category of women’s shoes—told you that their wearer was not concerned with fashion; that she preferred comfort to elegance. There was nothing wrong with that, of course, and yet there were limits. There was no reason why attractive shoes should not also be comfortable, even practical. Frumpish shoes, though, shoes that made no effort at all, signalled more than an attachment to comfort. They signalled a lack of interest in the whole idea of looking attractive.
Boots, thought Domenica, were a special case. One had to make distinctions when it came to boots, as there were different rules for men and women. And there were also different issues with ankle- and calf-length boots, at least as far as men were concerned. Domenica had not given much thought to this in the past, but now, as she continued on her walk home, a taxonomy of boots came to mind.
Ankle boots for men raised no issues at all. Chelsea boots and the like were practical footgear for men who wanted to avoid sprained ankles. They were also useful for those who had a certain level of exposure to mud. They made no statement at all—about anything. Calf-length boots—when worn by men—involved more complex issues. These were very practical for those who lived on farms or in the country. They were good for use in fields and on hillsides, and on the banks of rivers. But could you wear them in an urban setting without making some sort of statement? The answer was probably no. Calf-length boots for men, worn where there was no practical need for them, were indicative of an authoritarian personality. Domenica was sure about that. A man in calf-length boots in a town or city would almost certainly be on his way to a meeting of like-minded authoritarians; the sort of people who drove Land Rovers without really needing to. In Domenica’s mind, that was beyond doubt. She would never be comfortable in the presence of a man in calf-length boots unless he could come up with a good reason for wearing them.
Women could wear calf-length boots with impunity, and such boots signified nothing, whether worn in town or in the country. As long as they were calf-length; boots that went higher than that were a sign of…well, she did not need to spell that out to herself. Similarly, workmen’s boots—rough, clunky boots with reinforced toecaps—when worn by a woman were intended to send a very clear signal that the wearer had no truck with femininity. The wearers of such boots would, in general, not wish to be misunderstood.
But these marvelous boots that Domenica was wearing—they went with everything, and spoke to nothing other than their wearer’s good taste. And they made Domenica glow with pleasure, even as she thought: When did I last glow with pleasure?
She paused. She had drawn level with Big Lou’s café, and she could see the light on inside, and a shadow against a blind that must have been Big Lou herself. Domenica hesitated—she did not really want a cup of coffee, but, slightly elated by the success of her mission, she thought that a conversation with Big Lou was just what she wanted to complete the day.
Big Lou, standing behind her stainless-steel counter, a cloth in her hand, noticed Domenica’s boots immediately.
“Your boots!” she said, a strong note of admiration in her voice. “Those are definitely the boots, Domenica.”
Domenica looked down, as if noticing them for the first time. “Oh, these? Yes, I must admit I rather like them.”
“Like them?” said Big Lou, with mock incredulity. “Those are boots to die for, Domenica. Those are…” Big Lou searched for the right word. And it came to her—an old Scots word, the only one in the Scots lexicon, she thought, that could do justice to boots such as Domenica’s.
“They’re fantoosh,” Big Lou continued. “Pure fantoosh.”
Domenica beamed. “That’s good of you, Lou. I do rather like them, I must say.”
“I would have loved to have boots like that when I was back on the farm.”
Domenica smiled. “They might be a bit too good for the farm, Lou.”
“Oh, I know that,” said Big Lou. “Everything was too good for our place. We just had the basics.”
Domenica was struck by the note of wistfulness in Big Lou’s voice. Big Lou was not one to engage in self-pity, but what she had just said sounded rather close to that.
“Are you all right, Lou?” she asked. “Is everything…”
She did not get the chance to finish. Big Lou was shaking her head. “It’s not so good, Domenica,” she said. “It was—or it used to be—all right, but no longer. Sorry.”
Domenica stared at her friend. Everybody was so used to relying on Big Lou, to taking her cheerfulness and robustness to heart. This was something quite unusual—a sort of defeatism that she had never seen Big Lou display before.
“Tell me, Lou,” said Domenica.
Big Lou sighed. “I’m selling the business. This is it. The end.”
Domenica drew in her breath. “But, Lou, we all…we all love you. Nobody wants you to go. Nobody.”
“Aye, well,” said Lou. “That may be so, and it’s good to hear it. But I’ve made up my mind. I need to raise some money and I’ve had an offer on this place. I’m going to take it.”
42
Questions about Bags
“Well, well!” said Angus, when Domenica returned to the flat. “What have we here? Those boots…”
Domenica had not expected to find Angus in. He had told her that he would be spending the entire afternoon in his studio, and when he did that he never returned before six, which was the time that Cyril was given his late-afternoon walk in Drummond Place Garden. A further reason why she would not have come home early was the fact that he had his current subject in for a sitting that afternoon, and that usually meant that he would be late.
“Like them?” asked Domenica.
Angus whistled. “Very fetching indeed.”
“I know they’re a bit of an indulgence,” said Domenica. “But…”
He brushed her apologia aside. “Nonsense. If there were ever anybody who deserved boots like that, it’s you.”
Domenica smiled, and blew him a kiss; dear Angus, whose sense of when a compliment was needed was so pitch-perfect. Bless you, she thought; that I should find you at this stage in life, when there are so few people left to find—and hardly any of them men; bless you, for I have found myself in you.
But then she remembered what she was carrying. He had not noticed the large bag of clothing yet, and she did not want him to see it. “Would you mind putting the kettle on?” she asked. That would get him safely out of the hall and into the kitchen, giving her time to conceal her other purchases. But she was too late; Angus now spotted the bag and pointed at it quizzically.
“What’s in the bag?” he asked.
It was the question that Antonia and Sister Maria-Fiore dei Fiori di Montagna had put so pointedly, but whereas they had no right to do so, Angus was perfectly entitled to ask the same thing. Were Angus to come into the flat with a bulging bag, she would naturally feel keen to find out what it contained. That, in a sense, was what marriage was all about: marry somebody and you lost the right to carry large bags about in private. You gained many other things, but you certainly lost that.
She played for time. “Bag?”
He pointed to the bag, with its impossible-to-miss Stewart Christie lettering emblazoned, gold on green. “That one.”
And then he answered his own question, giving her time to recover. “Oh, of course,” he said. “That’s where you bought the boots.”
She grasped the straw. “Yes. I bought them at Stewart Christie.” And then, as quickly as she could, she added, “And be an angel, Angus, and make tea. I’m parched.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll do that.”
With that, he disappeared into the kitchen, giving Domenica the opportunity to go into their bedroom. There she took the new clothes out of their bag and stuffed them into her wardrobe. She knew that they would not be found, as Angus never looked in there. “I respect cupboards,” he had once said to her. “It’s something to do with being at boarding school.”
Angus had been a boarder at a boys’ school in Perthshire, a place tucked away in a glen, where he had, for the most part, been happy enough, but where privacy had been in short supply. “The only private place we had was our cupboard,” he said. “Everything else was shared. Shared basins, baths, everything. Shared meals, shared studies, shared sports kit. Sometimes you found yourself wearing somebody else’s socks because the labels had come off or names had been mixed up. You grew used to it. But your cupboard was always private.”
Domenica, who had never had that experience, found it hard to imagine what it would be like.
“You don’t mind too much,” said Angus. “And I suppose it makes you more tolerant of others. It’s difficult to be selfish if you’ve been brought up like that.”
“You have a different sense of self,” Domenica remarked. “The boundaries of the self are socially dictated. If you’ve been brought up cheek by jowl with a lot of others, then you’re less likely to see yourself as separate from them. Radical individualism does not go well with the communal life.”
“If you say so,” said Angus.
“I do,” she said. “Not that I want to be didactic, but I think we’re losing sight of that. I’ve been reading a book about the Gorbals. Colin MacFarlane. About what it was like.”
The Gorbals was a slum area of Glasgow, erased in the fit of construction that remade the city from the 1960s onwards. But before the cranes with their wrecking balls moved in, it had been a living, breathing hive of life. People shared their cludgies; they took their weekly baths in communal municipal bathhouses; there was little insulation from the ordinary sounds of life—the coughing, the yelling, the domestic battles, the moments of intimacy: there would be too many people sharing too few rooms for any of that to be private. And yet people knew one another, and loved one another, and nobody was anonymous. Later, filed vertically in tower blocks, living in the air, away from ordinary human landmarks, people sickened and grew sad, but had to live that disjointed life for decades, until the grossness of the original mistake could be admitted and these great towers of unhappiness began to be brought down, blown up in seconds, collapsing in clouds of dust. Squalor and deprivation had been exchanged for unhappiness and anomie—a complicated and double-edged bargain.
