From the Millennial Star, December 1949 –

One Pair of Shoes

By Patricia Roache

He looked at the clock; the hour was nine-fifteen. It was a comparatively mild evening now that the rains had ceased, and it was Christmas Eve. He knew that his quarry would be turning the corner of East Street. He smiled. Soon he would be in possession of the shoes; he would get them tonight. The plan was laid. He had watched the man now for two weeks and his habits had not changed.

Apparently the contemplated deed had no effect upon his conscience. Nor did he seem worried about action his parole board might take. True, he had only been out of prison for three months after having been released for good behaviour. And it was also true that his sojourn in one of His Majesty’s prisons had not been the first. But from the moment he saw those shoes he knew that he must get them.

He wasn’t going to attack his victim. Everything was going to be done with the utmost finesse. He had a keen mind and his plan of action was flawless. He would greet the old man, wish him a happy Christmas, and then invite him in for a bite of supper which he had prepared beforehand. There wasn’t much, but a pan of thick Scotch broth was simmering on the hob and there was plenty of bread.

The clock started to chime the half hour, his reminder that the man would be coming down his own street. He must go to the door and be in readiness for him. Yes, he could hear the footsteps now.

Old Tom was breathless; he had been hurrying home from the Old Men’s Domino Club. He hadn’t enjoyed himself as much tonight as he usually did, for most of his friends were spending the evening with their wives and children. Quite a number of them were in the company of their grandchildren, too. Sometimes Old Tom felt a little bitter. He too had a wife, but he had left her in the tiny English churchyard in Kenya, and his grandchildren were all with their parents scattered around the globe. Still, he had a lot to be thankful for; he had memories that would be with him always. He smiled now as he thought of his loved ones. Young Timmy who would be thirteen years old tomorrow. He would soon be coming to England; for he was to attend Dartmouth College before becoming a naval man like his father. And sweet Jenny who never failed to write to him once a week from the hospital where she was Sister in charge. And the baby, young Pudding, whose scrawling letters always made him laugh until he cried. So engrossed was he in his thoughts that he was somewhat startled when a voice said, “Good evening, Grandpop.”

He looked up without speaking, and saw that the man who greeted him was a pleasant-faced person about thirty years of age. He returned the greeting; then something about the man’s expression compelled him to stop. He felt that he must talk to him. The young man smiled. “Come and have a bite of something; you’ll be a bit of company for me.” Yes, Old Tom was right. This person was lonely. Hadn’t he himself been lonely so many times that he could tell at a glance what was wrong?

As they went into the house Rodney felt an insane desire to laugh outright. It had been easier than he had dared to anticipate. Here was the owner of the shoes walking into his kitchen without the least persuasion. It was almost too good to be true. Quickly his mind formed another plan. To allay the old man’s suspicions he would ask him to stay the night. He knew that he usually slept at the Old Men’s hostel.

After a large basin of broth and a cup of steaming cocoa Old Tom began to feel drowsy. The meal had been good and the fire had warmed him through. After all the years he had spent in the tropics, he felt cold even in the mildest of winters in England.

“I say, Grandpop, how about taking off your shoes and bedding down here for the night?” said Rodney.

“Aye, I think I will,” replied Tom. “There’s no one waiting up for me.”

Rodney led the way upstairs and turned down the rather grubby blankets from the bed. The old man slowly undressed and was soon sound asleep. Rodney crept to his room about an hour later and took the shoes from under the bed. He smiled triumphantly, for his plan had gone according to his desires.

Christmas morning dawned, and Rodney was up and making breakfast when the old man came down in his stocking-feet. “Sleep well, Grandpop?” asked Rodney. “Aye, but I can’t find my shoes,” whimpered the old man. “They are under the sofa,” said Rodney with a strange look.

The old man bent down and gathered up his possessions. As he did so, tears welled in his faded blue eyes, for the shoes which had badly needed a repair were beautifully mended and polished.