Pink Boots by Rosanne Rabinowitz

 

Setting: a flat in a Victorian mansion block.

Rooms: the bedroom. Small and dark. A wardrobe is partially open, clothes and unidintifiable objects splling out. There’s a high window, covered with velvet fabric. 

Computer room/study:

Front room:

Kitchen:

 

Start in bedroom:

Janice: She is lying on her stomach on the bed, skirt hiked up. She is kicking her legs back and forth in impatiance. She is watching Yvonne.  

 

Yvonne:

First see only her bottom and legs sticking out from behind the partially open door of the wardrobe. The wardrobe is big and old, taking up a good quarter of the small room. She is tossing stuff out of the wardrobe. 

 

JANICE: “You must be absolutelyruthless. You’re gonna have a lot less space. You have to downsize.” 

 

YVONNE (emerges from behind the wardrobe door, holding up a pair of crimpers) “Look what I found!

 

JANICE: “That should’ve stayed lost.” 

 

Yvonne ignores her, and tries  to wrench the crimperstotally  free of the wardrobe. But the flex is caught on something in the depths of the wardrobe. She gives them another tug, and a whole edifice of shoes loses its foundation. Out they tumble. Khaki basketball shoes, a pair of pointy-toed red pumps adorned with fabric roses; purple eight-eyelet DMs. She picks up a pump and tweaks a rose, which results in a puzzling puff of fine brown grit. She sneezes. 

 

YVONNE: “Where did that dust come from?” She holds a shoe in each hand, looking puzzled as she tries to figure out where she last wore the pumps. 

 

JANICE: “Go on Yvonne, we have a lot to go through.” 

 

YVONNE: “D’you remember these shoes?” 

 

But Janice isn’t looking at the rose-y shoes. She is gazing at the purple Docs with an expression of great fondness and points at them. 

 

JANICE: “I remember those. You were wearing them - along with shiny black leggings and a tutu - when we met at a Bikini Kill gig.” (shakes her head) Christ, the things we used to wear. Even you don’t wear tutus anymore.”

 

YVONNE: But what’s wrong with Docs? They were great. They were comfortable, they last much longer than trainers. Dunno why I stopped wearing them. I might just keep those.”

 

Then she lholds them up for a close look. She sees that the heels worn to non-existence, and one of the soles is split in two. A spatter of deep pink gloss paint at the bulbous end of one toe. 

JANICE (pointing to the the crimpers and the shoes with the wobbly roses): “Out! Into the bin! And what’s that?” She points to a square of faded black fabric carefully folded and placed on top of a pile of things to be moved. “What the hell is that rag for? Out!” She jerks her finger towards the bag for rubbish. 

 

YVONNE: “No! Not that! It’s important! It’s a scarf. I uh, I wore it at the Poll Tax riot.”

 

JANICE: “The Poll Tax riot! How long ago was that? You might as well be talking about the Battle of Hastings. Honestly, Yvonne. And those purple docs, they go too. The soles’ gone, you wouldn’t even be able to walk in them! Let’s put it this way, if you haven’t worn something in the past year - get rid of it.”

 

YVONNE: “So the Docs go then, alright? But it’d be nice if you helped instead of just giving orders.” 

 

JANICE: “I am helping. In an advisory capacity, as well as a dinner-cooking and tea-making one. I can’t pack for you, but I can keep an eye on you. Otherwise, you’d be too soft. Isn’t that what exes are for?”

 

YVONNE: “You’re lucky I don’t regard my exes the same way as old boots. ‘Oh, I haven’t slept with her for ten years. Guess I’ll put ‘er in the rubbish!’” 

 

JANICE: “Yes, I’m lucky.” (grins) “And so are you. And you’re so fucking lucky I’ll pack the computer stuff for you and then I’ll make another cuppa.”

 

Janice leaves the bedroom and goes next door to the computer room. She’s picking up books and putting them in boxes, disconnecting cables. Meanwhile, Yvonne carries on removing things from the wardrobe. Finally she pulls out a pair of bright pink patent-leather knee-high boots. They are smooth and gleaming as she pulls them out, with only a few scuffs near the heel. 

YVONNE (speaking to herself): “How did I forget about these? They’re so bright I’m surprised they didn’t keep me up at night, making the wardrobe glow in the dark!”

She gets up, gets a chair and puts it under the window. She climbs up and tears off the piece of velvet covering it. The window is revealed, which lets in the late afternoon/early evening sunset as it comes in  from the front room on the other side. The glass is painted with flowers, and multi-coloured transclucent fish. She holds up the boots under the light. Glimmers of blue and green merge and dance on the pink patent leather as she turns the boots in waning shafts of sun. Yvonne looks at this for a while, thoughtful. 

 

YVONNE: “Madam will get grumpy if she catches me daydreaming. But it’s too quiet next door. I’d expect a bit of cursing while she untangles the wires and takes things apart to put away. What’s she doing now?”

 

She goes to the tiny study/computer room and finds Janice standing there, stroking the scanner as she looks out the window. There is not much to see, with the window facing straight on to a wall. Only standby lights on the equipment illuminate the room. Yvonne joins her, listening to the flat. Everything sounds different with the place emptied into boxes, even the background hum that is normally called ’silence’. Then Janice puts her arm around Yvonne. 

 

JANICE: “It is sad that you’re moving from this flat. Imagine, we were still together when you first moved here!”

 

YVONNE: “Yes, you helped a lot with the painting.”

 

JANICE: “I thought the purple and turquoise woodwork in the front room looked really good then.”

 

YVONNE: “Nothing beats that good old squattish patchwork! ‘Squatter’, ’short-life tenant’ or ‘licensee’, call it what you will - the paint’s the same. Bits from every tin of paint your mates bring round . And each tin’s got inches of plastic skin you need a pickaxe to get through.”

 

JANICE: “And all that pink in the bathroom and in the corridor. But I actually bought that.”

 

YVONNE: “Better than the tasteful shades of beige that you and XX painted your place - oh excuse me, paid someone else to paint - a few years ago. (needs to be stronger)”  

 

Janice doesn’t rise to the bait, but looks around at the brightly painted room with the same misty eyes inspired by the sight of the purple Docs. She prods Yvonne gently. 

 

JANICE: “Sort out the rest of your things while I put the computer away. But you know, I was just looking at it. It’s a lot of trouble to move and it’s so old. You can’t run any up-to-date software on that. Maybe…”

 

YVONNE: “Janice, don’t even think of it! It’s not like I can afford to get another one. I’ll go to the front room to see if anything’s left in there to pack.” 

Yvonne goes to the front room, which is now dominated by stacks of boxes. A light from the construction site over the road blinks steadily.Through the window you can see that the their are mansion blocks similar to Yvonne’s, covered with scaffolding. There are ‘For Sale’ signs up, advertising newly renovated flats from £300,000. She looks out the window and scowls. “Three hundred grand eh? They’re not gonna sell this flat for three hundred fucking grand! Just ’cause I’ve gone for rehousing doesn’t mean I’m giving up. I’ll leave the windows unlocked, so someone can get in and squat the place and give the council even more grief when it tries to flog my block too!”

 JANICE (shouting from kitchen): “Tea’s ready!”

 

Yvonne joins Janice in the kitchen. The two women are positioning their cups of tea on a kitchen table piled with broccoli and spinach, red onions, fresh tarragon and dill from the Portuguese deli, chillies - long mellow red ones, those small, ivy-green ones that are the most fiery. Olives both green and black. lemons and limes, ripened yellow, black-speckled bananas. 

 

JANICE: “Not much room here. What’s all this in aid of anyway?”

 

YVONNE: “It’s for tonight - and tomorrow. Brunch, remember? I make the food, and you lot help me move.” 

 

JANICE: “You won’t cook all that, Yvonne.”

 

YVONNE: “We’ll take it with us when we move. There’s no good market in Kennington. Or Waterloo. But I’m still not really sure whether I’m moving to Kennington or Waterloo - it’s somewhere between. But in any case, the veg is expensive at Lower Marsh.”

 

JANICE: “Never mind. Brixton market is just a couple of miles down the road on the 159.”

 

YVONNE: “There’s the 3 and the 59 too.”

 

JANICE: “Exactly. You can always come back and shop there. But anyway, I got some things from Borough Market for lunch tomorrow. I might as well give them to you now. You can look forward to walking to Borough Market from your new place. That will put you in a more positive frame of mind.”

 

Janice reaches into a bag and takes her goodies out. “Look at this. This is not just any smoked salmon, not just any old salmon but hot smoked wild salmon caught on a beechwood-smoked organic fishing line. A jar of truffle-infused olive oil! And all that will be just around the corner - well a 20-minute walk - from your new home.”

 

YVONNE: “Thanks Janice, but you know I wouldn’t be able to afford that stuff, so I don’t know what use living closer to Borough Market would be. And when I’ll be paying a ‘proper’ rent, even though it’s a council rent it’s higher than what I pay now.” 

 

JANICE: Of course it is, ‘Cause you pay nothing!

 

YVONNE: Well the council won’t accept rent from us now because it would mean acknowledging that we’re still tenants.”

 

JANICE: “So now you are a real tenant, so deal with it! Get a job.”

 

YVONNE: “I have a job. Three days a week at the shelter. You know that. You were thrilled when I got it.”

 

JANICE: “But how many years ago was that? But you’re right, I stand corrected. You’ve got a job, but you needb more than a job at your age. You need a career.”

 

YVONNE: “What’s the difference? Work is work. Well maybe some work pays more. But it’s not something I want to spend all my time doing or thinking about doing. Oh I know you’re gonna tell me how you get to be both worthy and high-flying being at AIDS Rescue, but look at you. You’re stressed out most of the time, you’ve lost more weight.”

 

JANICE: “And you don’t stress out over lack of money or hassles with the council?”

 

YVONNE: “Look let’s just get back to the subject. I’m moving, and you’ve got us some great grub to fuel the move. We’ll all enjoy it.”

 

JANICE: “Who’s coming tomorrow? Your boyfriends?”

 

YVONNE: “Yeah, both of them. And John’s other girlfriend. And Jenny, and Andy and Jill and… well, a bunch of people”

 

JANICE: (shaking her head) “I first took the piss that you needed two guys to replace me, but it’s lasted a long time. I have to admit to a certain admiration, like you’re last practising non-monogamists left from the ’60s and it’s kind of brave…”

 

YVONNE: “Fuck that! It’s nothing to do with the ’60s. That was even before my time! And what’s more - no one has ever replaced you. It would’ve been a disaster if either John or Richard advised me today. They’d tell me to ditch everything, while you only told me to ditch five-sixths. Maybe John would’ve let me keep the Poll Tax riot scarf. Really, you’ve been pretty patient. Even now, when I was in the frontroom looking over the road at those ‘For sale’ signs I started wondering again if I’m doing the right thing. Maybe I should stay and fight it out, in the courts or behind the barricades or both!”

 

JANICE: “Yvonne, we’ve been through that! You were always so bad at choosing and making decisions. Moving will be good for you. It’ll be step forward.

 

YVONNE: Bollocks! How’s it a step forward when I lived there over 20 years ago? Before I moved to Brixton I was squatting in North Lambeth, in Vauxhall. I used to walk from Bonnington Square to use the council laundry in Lambeth Walk. I’d pass by the City Farm and half-empty blocks on the estate there. There was one block all scaffolded and entirely empty, except for one flat with pink curtains and pots of geraniums. Then I’d get to where the laundry is and I’d see that weird fucking tower block looming over everything. It looks like a bunch of black-and-white Lego pieces were chucked down to make those three towers. What would I have thought if someone told me I’d be living there in 20-odd years?

 

JANICE: So what’s your point?

 

YVONNE: That I’m going back to North Lambeth. Where’s the progress in that?

 

JANICE: I’m not talking about geography! I’m talking about changing your life, moving on. It doesn’t matter where you live, but how you live. After 15 years here you’ve fallen into a rut. And if you move, It could get you out of all your entrenched patterns.”

 

YVONNE: “Oh go make another cup of tea before you start with the psychobabble. And speaking of bad patterns, you’re one of the most stressed-out people I know. How’s the old irritable bowel syndrome doing these days?”

 

JANICE: (sputtering into the last of her tea as she laughs) “What’ll I do with you, Yvonne?”

 

YVONNE: “Make me another cuppa, that’s what!”

 

JANICE: “I’ll just go get my jacket first. It’s getting a bit chilly. I hope your new place is warmer than here.” (She leaves the kitchen, goes to the bedroom. Then there’s a scream and a shriek)

 

YVONNE: “Fuck, what’s her problem now?”

(she rushes to the bedroom, where she finds Janice standing on the bed, backed against a wall, pointing at the pink patent leather boots.

JANICE: “You’re not keeping those! Throw them out!” 

 

YVONNE: “I like them. I’m glad I found them. And they’re in perfect condition. I only wore them a few times.”

 

JANICE: “Have you worn them in the past year?”

 

YVONNE: “No, but that’s only ’cause I forgot about them.”

 

JANICE: “Where would you wear them now?”

 

YVONNE: “I’ll find somewhere.” 

 

Janice: “You promised. If you haven’t worn it, it goes.” 

 

Janice puts on her jacket, then stands there with her arms crossed and waits. 

YVONNE: “Times like this remind me why I left you years ago, but also why I like to have you around annoying me too.” 

 

JANICE: “Flattery will get you nowhere. Go on, put those boots where they belong! Or I will.”

 

YVONNE: “Go ahead then.” Janice picks up the boots, and holds them at arm’s length as if they are made of some noxious and ill-smelling substance until she puts them into the binliner destined for the charity shop (it’s labelled with a big tag saying ‘BERNARDO’S'). With a flourish she twists the top closed and ties a knot in the plastic.

JANICE: “There, now doesn’t that feel bettter!”

 

Stopped here!

 

SCENE 2

*

YVONNE (closing the door) See ya tomorrow. Eleven for brunch!

She goes into the front room, looks out the window and waves to Janice.Then she wander through the rooms, as if she’s a ghost preparing to haunt a scene of desolation. She returns to the frontroom, looks out the window and waves her fist at the ‘For Sale’ sign over the road.

 the block lying empty for months, then gutted before the flats are replaced by expensive broom-cupboards.

 

But if new people squat the emptied flats, it might not have to happen at all. Maybe someone will find a way in here and make it their home - as I had for so many years. I write in marking pen on a big mirror propped against the wall in the front room: “WELCOME”. Then I unscrew the locks at the window that shares a balcony with the flat next door. My neighbour moved in too recently to be rehoused, so she’ll be there to let someone in. 

 

I step back. Now those locks look too open. The housing officer might spot it. So I twist them so they look locked - but are they loose enough so people can still get in from the balcony? I deliberate, screwing and unscrewing the locks to various positions.

 

 

So I better stop faffing because I have too much to do. What’s left? My thoughts turn to the bags in the bedroom. The boots.

 

Janice really is right. I have to get my act together. You must be ruthless. But before I leave, I need to put them on just one more time… 

 

I remove my trainers, take the boots from the bag. When they are released, they light up the evening as it approaches. As I put them on, I already feel less burdened. I still need to lace them, though. There are seven holes, plus twelve hooks. Maybe the hooks go a bit quicker, but it’s still a slow job. The slowness of unlacing them can be even more agonising. 

 

The boots bring memories, but they are becoming new as my feet settle into them. It was such a long time since I wore them, now I might be a different person. I look at reflections of myself on the surfaces as I lace up. My hair is a different colour these days, but it doesn’t matter now because everything becomes a kind of shadow over pink and rose. 

 

I get up and walk. I look down at my feet, bright against a floor now bare of rugs. Though I am already tall, the chunky heels on the boots make me feel even bigger. They urge me to strut. I twirl in front of a mirror, but I’m not pleased with what I see. My boots look garish and unreal with my jeans. That’s not right. I take the them off again, then the jeans. In my t-shirt and knickers I look through the charity and throw-away bags for the outfits I once wore with the boots. There’s that black lace dress. Black lace went so well with them. 

 

The dress is too tight, now worn and frumpy next to the boots. What about the white stretch jeans with a black lattice design on them? I used to wear them rolled up to the tops of the knee-high pink boots. 

 

No, the inner thigh is ripped. That’s why they’re in the throw-away bag.

 

In a bag bound for the new flat there’s a straight black skirt, more jeans, a long green velvet skirt, a denim skirt. No, the shine of my old/new boots will turn all those cloths dull and faded - even the new ones. 

 

I take off my t-shirt. Pause. Then the knickers go - too many washes have turned them that special shade of grey that all old knickers become. 

 

The draught on my bared skin is startling. I walk, then twirl fast to feel more air against me. I squint at my reflection and concentrate on the magenta and rose streaks cut by my boots in the mirror as I move. The motion and colour take over. The room starts to spin too so I lie down on the lumpy futon sofa. 

 

I find a still point at the centre of the whirlwind in the intricate ceiling rose above me. A Celtic knot, an ancient blinking eye. The painted fish on the glass between the rooms swim in a sea lit by a faded red sun and the blinking orange light on the scaffolding over the road. I raise my legs with the pink boots at the end of them. I cross my legs this way and that. A rhythm comes into my mind, made of all the rhythms I used to dance to and a tune I’ve never heard before. Outside the window the sky is deepening to violet.  

 

Something pulls me towards that that sky, as if my edges have softened and peeled back to let me flow up to meet it. The brightness pulls me up, and it travels through me in sparks. A rushing and light, and a pop.

 

I’m looking into the room where a woman wearing nothing but her boots dreams on an old futon. Sudden panic sends shocks after the sparks. My centre isn’t holding, will I pulled apart by the sparks, will I get trapped in the space-between? But then I see I still wear the same boots as the woman sprawled on the futon. I’m safe with my boots on. I can go back, but now that I’ve lost my fear I’m ready to go forward in a running dance past the horizon.

 

Below my pointed patent-leather toes I see mountains. They are distant purple and pink, but this is dusty pink, a night-time pink cut with stones and shadows. Beyond that, a watery expanse, a sea. 

 

I plunge down again, swooping like an evening bird and I’m on my feet. I walk over a hill covered with soft foliage, cushions of undergrowth. My feet sink in and I feel the contrast of their deep pink against shades of green: moss, forest fir, silver-shaded willow. The greens spread on the hillside before me hint at the quieter colours I’ve painted in the new flat. I don’t see an end to the hills and I wonder where I’m going. Then my heels are striking stone beneath the deep growth. 

 

I want to keep exploring, but my feet are starting to hurt. 

 

These boots may be made for walking, but not too far. They may be made for dancing, but not hiking.

 

The meadow thins out. I’m walking on pavement again. I don’t regret it. The city is my home. I’m not sure which city this could be. It is like London, but the angles are different and the colours brighter. 

 

My boots take me further into the city. People rush by on all sides. They don’t notice I’m naked. I’ve had dreams like this. Everyone does. This time I don’t care what people see. I’m not cold. 

 

Now someone is looking. But its only at my feet, and she nods. 

 

I nod back, and walk across a bridge. I know where I am now. Lambeth Bridge. The river is now dark, the wheel of the London Eye bright and spinning. 

 

I have to go home and I’m hovering, confused about where that is. 

 

The road takes me from the bridge straight to where I’ll move tomorrow, 

 

Stainless steel gargoyles grin between the towers. With their smooth, sharp features and elongated eyes, they are not like the gargoyles found in ancient cathedrals. They stare down at the road, with a coldness more forbidding than the old-time demonic scowls and grimaces. One of them has very pointed breasts. 

 

But she seems to be winking at me, so I wave.

 

Where did you come from? I ask her. You weren’t here before.

Neither were you. In fact, you’re not here yet! Go back, there’s something you forgot!

So I keep walking along the road to Brixton, listen to the rustle of the trees clustered around the red-bricked arches of the old estate next door. Despite the busy traffic, it feels peaceful and out-of-the-way so I’m not prepared for the close crush of shoppers as I enter Brixton. Sounds of reggae and rap come out of shops. In the market I’m drawn by the greens of avocados, coriander and dill: the scarlet ranks of capsicums. It’s too late for the market to be open, but very open it is. I reach the road where I’ve lived for fifteen years, and enter the flat the same way that I left. 

 

Soon I’m in the front room, foggy-headed and blinking. 

 

The first thing I do is put the boots into a rucksack I’ll take with me tomorrow. It’s full of the things I treasure the most. 

 

I think of how the boots will warm the place between my shoulder blades as I walk into my new home. I think also of friends and lovers who will come tomorrow to help me make the new flat a home. 

 

You must be absolutely ruthless.

 

I will be. 

 

I’ll keep those boots, and maybe a few other things as well.

 

But I’ll get some new clothes to go with them.