Re Tale

It is the first day of November and it still warm enough for the people of South Central Finchley to dine al fresco in the many cafes that line Temple Fortune. After a skinny latte and white chocolate muffin, I take a stroll to the site of the last pub in this part of Finchley, now divided into two retail units.

One remains a bare concrete shell; the only sign of pending life a bright yellow banner announcing “Fireworks 4 U !!” For such a seasonal business they are cutting it mighty fine.

The other unit is open, but it has no sign up. The inside is fitted out in Ben Nicholson tones of brown, from thick gluey tar to soft fudge. In the centre of the shop are three large leather cubes. Along each wall runs a single shelf. On each shelf there are five similar looking objects, each placed rhythmically apart from the next object.

“Can I help you?”

The voice comes from the far end of the shop. I suppose I had not noticed her before because her hair and clothes and complexion were co-ordinated with the tones of the décor.

“Just looking.”

I pick up one of the objects. It is brown and shaped like a large seashell with five ridges running lengthways. The object is solid but soft.

“Those are the ladies'. The men’s are on the other side.”

“Thank you” I say. The shop assistant is leaning in a languid manner against the back wall. Perhaps from embarrassment, or self-consciousness, I glance down. Her feet hover just above the floor; no more than an inch or an inch and a half.

I can see no discernible difference between the men’s and the women’s products. I can feel the woman’s stare on the back of my neck.

“You know what they are?” she says.

“Of course” I say studying the object. There is an opening at the narrower end of the object.

“Would you like to try one on?”

“Erm” I say. “Actually what are they?”

She glides over to me, smiling.

“Hand shoes” she says.

“Oh, of course” I say.

“We import them from Italy. They are hand made by an old cobbler in Venice. His family have been making hand shoes for over three hundred years. He is the last.”

“Do you know your size?”

I shake my head. She grabs my hand and examines it, pressing her fingers hard into my flesh. She lets out an indecipherable “hmmm” as she studies my hand. “Maybe a 5.”

“OK” I say, “although my hands are quite broad.”

“Which style?” she asks.

I look along the row. I think I can discern subtle variations in colour and style.

“How about this one?” she says.

“No” I say.

“How about this one?”

“No” I say.

“How about this one?”

“Ok” I say.

She glides to the back of the shop and disappears through a door. I don’t remember seeing the door before.

She returns with a white box. The hand shoes are wrapped in layers of soft white paper. “Rice paper” she says. She pulls open the aperture and I push my hand in, but it is too tight.

“Try a 6” she says, “but I do recommend buying them on the tight side because they will loosen up.”

“I know” I say “but I have a rule, learnt from many years of bitter experience, that if it doesn’t fit right in the shop, it will never be comfortable.”

The size 6 is too loose.

“Do you do half sizes?”

The woman shakes her head.

“What a shame” I say.

“I think I’d better leave it” I say.

The shop assistant smiles.