Old Shoes.

It was January 1993, and Cecelia Hatch was at the end of her life. After ninety-nine years, this was no surprise to anyone, including Cecelia, but even so, her mind still raced, and her forthright spirit burned fiercely as she remembered the day when everything changed. She was determined to stay alive. Besides, something was bothering her. Something she still needed to do. Something important she’d often meant to address but hadn’t got around to.

In two more days, she would hit a full century. One hundred years of glorious life. “Never give up” had served her well as a motto. She couldn’t rest properly until she had tried to sort it out.

Cecelia’s grand house seethed with history. In every room, framed photographs documented a well-lived life. She’d taken opportunities, seized the day, and enjoyed a rich, interesting life. Her surroundings, like their owner, were well preserved, but their beauty had faded. Soft furnishings, so de rigueur in their day, were dusty and threadbare. A favourite armchair still bore the dent of her long-dead husband, imprinted on its plush seat. Ghosts of family pets pounced in dark corners on windy days. Handwritten letters used to regularly fall on the doormat, causing small dogs to yap. Now, there was only junk mail, followed by silence.

Lilian had been Cecelia’s companion for the past fourteen years. A retired nurse in her seventies, the job of a companion suited her. Her duties involved a few light chores, but essentially, she was paid to act as a friend, providing company and keeping a watchful eye on the old lady. This relieved the burden on Cecelia’s two sons and their wives. Perks of the job included occasional, expensive hand-me-downs, and cash in hand which supplemented Lilian’s small NHS pension. The two women were friends as far as an employer and employee can ever be. Lilian was a quiet, patient woman, the antithesis of Cecelia’s outspoken confidence.

Years ago, Cecelia had carefully chosen the parquet floors and French doors opening onto her landscaped gardens. The sensual warmth of the house—real log fires, scented bath times, cosy bedtimes, squabbles, giggles, piano lessons, roast dinners, festivities, annual celebrations—had slowly fallen away as Cecelia’s family either moved or passed away. Now there was only mild-mannered Lilian.

I don’t know where it all went… The noise and the company…the feeling of being needed…the touch of others. This damn house is so hard to heat these days. It’s become so formal, so empty… so lonely.

For the past few days, Cecelia’s family had been staying nearby, as advised by her doctor. The time was near. Lilian hid her sadness by plumping pillows, offering sips of juice, and monitoring Cecelia’s blood pressure.

“Let’s take your pulse, Cecy. Wrist, please.”

Cecelia held out her thin wrist. Lilian held the delicate skin, thin as tracing paper, the knotted joint. Cecelia’s face was still, but her eyes, sunken into yellowed hollows, were as sharp as ever. They caught the black bruising on Lilian’s wrists, partly hidden under her sleeve. It wasn’t the first time.

“Lilian, you can’t go on like this.”

“Like what? There’s nothing wrong.”

Lilian looked away and busied herself tucking Cecelia in against her billowing nest of silk pillows.

What a privileged life her employer had led. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Never a day in her life where she’d suffered true hardship or had to put up with being dependent on others.

Yet, Cecelia’s always been generous. Haughty, bossy, imperious sometimes, but always kind and generous. I wish I had more of her confidence.

As if she could read Lilian’s thoughts, Cecelia grabbed Lilian’s wrist with surprising ferocity. Her hooded eyes opened wide, and she leaned forward.

“Get me up, Lilian. I need to look for something.”

“Oh no, I don’t think….” Lilian said.

With a burst of energy, Cecelia sat bolt upright. The top of her head was a plumb line to the ceiling.

“Pass my stick.”

“Cecelia, please… I really don’t….”

“Pass my gown. Put my slippers there. Quick, Lilian. My stick…”

“But… your family will be back.…”

“Never mind them. Pass my damn stick.”

Cecelia swung her swollen arthritic knees out of bed and planted her feet on the carpet. She paused to let the dizziness pass, then walked to her closet, spine ramrod straight.

“What is it you want, Cecelia? Let me get it for you.”

Cecelia rifled through the rail of clothes with her stick, parting pairs of shoes and scarves. She hobbled to the tallboy, shook her head, one hand tapping the chest impatiently.

“Where could I have put them? Just give me one moment…I’ll remember…”

“What, Cecelia? What is it you’re looking for?”

The invalid made her way along the creaky landing, one hand on the banister. Lilian felt quite ill at the thought of her employers coming back and finding their mother out of bed. In one of the back bedrooms, Cecelia was banging around, opening and closing cupboards, peering into empty suitcases, rifling through drawers. Hat boxes tumbled to the ground as she poked them with her stick, baskets of accessories toppled over until the room looked like it had been burgled. Lilian watched, open-mouthed. Where had this sudden energy come from?

She followed her patient into the upstairs office. Files and books were flung aside, photo albums upturned, ignoring Lilian’s pleas to stop. Then, she stilled.

“I’ve remembered! I need to get in the attic.”

Lilian looked aghast. The family would be back anytime now. Cecelia tapped her companion’s leg lightly with her stick.

“Pull down the ladder, Lilian.”

“Absolutely not. You can’t go up there. You’re on beta blockers… and warfarin.”

“What the hell does that matter now?”

Cecelia’s attention was single-channelled. She fetched the folded metal steps to reach the attic door.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” moaned Lilian, checking her watch.

When the family did return, they’d think the place had been ransacked. Lilian pulled down the attic steps, releasing a sprinkling of dead insects and a blast of icy air.

“I’ll go. There’s no way I’m allowing you to climb the ladder,” said Lilian.

Lilian climbed into the freezing attic and pulled the light cord. Suitcases, boxes, and random sports objects lay scattered across the boards.

“What am I looking for, Cecelia?” she shouted down.

“A shoebox. A cardboard shoebox.”

Lilian edged her way around boxes of Christmas decorations, forgotten toys, old paintings, bundles of papers, and old coats. She opened a few boxes. They were full of children’s artwork.

“What’s inside the box?” she shouted down.

“Shoes, of course.”

Shoes! What could be so desperately important about an old pair of shoes? She’s usually so sharp. She must finally be losing her mind.

“Just a plain old cardboard box, dear,” the thin voice drifted up.

“Yes… I think I’ve found it… Hang on.”

Lilian manoeuvred her plump hips back through the small opening and climbed down. Cecelia clasped the shoebox to her chest gratefully.

Once settled back against her pillows, Cecelia opened the box, and they peered inside. A pair of beautiful navy shoes with block heels and satin straps were weathered, bleached white in places.

“Oh, Lilian! The night I wore these shoes. What a night!” Cecelia’s eyes glittered with emotion.

Is she confused? Maybe I should phone the doctor. Perhaps this is the burst of energy and alertness patients sometimes have before the end. Terminal lucidity—the terrible false hope.

But Cecelia was more animated than she’d been for weeks. She stroked the old shoes lovingly.

“These shoes are my memento of the most terrible night of my life. The night I was shipwrecked.”

“You, Cecelia? You were shipwrecked. I had no idea.”

“Oh yes. Father was going to start a new legal office in New York, and Mother, sister Emily, and I all travelled with him. We were having a glorious time when the klaxon first sounded. Of course, we didn’t pay much attention at first. We just wanted the deafening noise to stop so we could finish our meal. Veal and mashed potatoes. I remember it as clearly as yesterday. We were told to wear lifejackets as a precaution, but of course, we didn’t think it would come to anything.

Then the water started. An icy trickle along the passageway at first, then quite a frightening rush. Then we knew. Mother insisted we stay together. We queued patiently for a lifeboat and were lowered onto the ocean. It was so precarious. Emily thought it was all great high jinks until mother scolded. Then a woman in the lifeboat before us actually fell to her death. That stunned us. Once aboard, the oarsman rowed us a distance away from the ship, and we could only watch in awe, Lilian. Father had to wait. It was women and children first.”

“I had no idea…”

“I can’t begin to tell you all I saw that night. It was unthinkable. A small girl sitting opposite me sobbed continuously. Nothing any of us could say or do would comfort her. The woman sitting next to me wore her shawl pulled tight around her ears and had a man’s overcoat over her dress. She must have kicked off her shoes because she was in stockinged feet and didn’t make eye contact with anyone.

Our lifeboat drifted. We could watch the terrible scene, or we could look away. That was the choice. We silently prayed Father would find a way to get aboard a boat. And oh, the cold.

Cecelia wrapped her arms around her thin ribs, and Lillian pulled a cardigan around her shoulders.

“I’ve never felt cold like it. The sun dropped away, and the sky became another ocean of stars. No cloud cover to protect us at all. The cold was brutal. It got into your bone marrow, froze your blood, and nipped spitefully at ears, fingers, and noses. Sea water sloshed in the bottom of our boat. Freezing, icy water. Our feet went numb, but we couldn’t stand up or the boat would rock. Mother and Emily shivered violently. In that vast expanse of sea, you could hear excruciating shouts from the souls left in the water. That little girl cried louder and louder, and none of us had a clean handkerchief left to offer her.”

Lillian looked at her old friend, wondering how she had never known this.

“We could have taken more in our boat, Lillian. We could have spoken up, rowed back, and rescued more, but we didn’t. We sat in silence. We didn’t speak up.”

“You were a child, Cecelia. You can’t blame yourself.”

“Eighteen…”

“Still, that’s so young…”

“In the early hours, the shouts quietened. An eerie silence fell across the water. We huddled together as best we could, but the pain… it felt like knives, skinning your feet and ankles.

When the sun rose again, everyone was physically shaking. I thought chattering teeth were a joke until that night. Our teeth hurt from knocking together. I thought my feet had died. They turned blue from the dye of my shoes, as well as the cold.

We waited and waited. At first light, the woman next to me in the shawl straightened up. With horror, we noticed an overnight growth of whiskers, a pair of trousers under her dress, and we all knew. She was a man. Emily whispered it, but no one spoke up. Not one of us said aloud how he’d cheated his way onto the boat when good men like Father were missing when bodies were floating all around us. Instead, we sat seething. This dishonourable man had escaped with his life, but how many good men had gone down with the ship?

When RMS Carpathia finally arrived, I couldn’t stand. My feet had lost all feeling, and when I tried to walk, the blood rushed back painfully. Imagine thousands of pins being pushed into the soles of your feet, your ankles, your legs. My shoes were wet through, you see.”

Lillian held the hand of her friend, and together they stroked the old shoes.

“I had no idea, Cecelia. No idea. You’ve never talked about this before.”

“No. It’s not easy for me, dear. Not easy at all. I may not have spoken about it, but I’ve thought about those souls many, many times. Most days, in fact. I’ve often wondered why we were so fortunate when Father and so many others perished. Survivor’s guilt, I’ve heard it called. Anyway, when we got to the city, we were taken to the Junior League house. We must have looked like bedraggled rats. Some survivors fainted; lots of us had trouble walking after being so cold. I remember a woman having convulsions, and there was a small child in a terrible way. Once there, the Jewish women helped us find warm clothes and gave us broth. They were so kind to us, Lillian. Who knew what their own families would face a few decades later?”

“You mean the concentration camps?”

“Exactly. It’s so important to speak up. When we are faced with these things, it’s not easy, but we must speak out.”

Cecelia gently rolled up the sleeve of Lillian’s blouse and stroked the purple mark.

“Take these shoes, Lillian.”

“I couldn’t, Cecelia… your family should…”

“It’s my wish, Lillian. Take them. Let them remind you. Where we allow indifference or silence, we are silent conspirators.”

Two days later, on her one hundredth birthday, Lillian was with the family as her good friend slipped away.

She quietly left the house, head held high, wearing her new blue shoes.